Calling a bento a “lunch box” doesn’t do it justice. It is a lunch box in the sense that sometimes it comes in the shape of a box (and sometimes not), it often has the picture of a cultural icon on the lid (My Little Pony, Ultra-man, He-Man, Hamutaro, and Mr. T. come immediately to mind), and it contains a lunch inside. However, lunch boxes are typically comparatively massive, rectangular in shape, and have a hinged door that clasps tightly shut by two levered latches, located next to the handle of the lunch box. Examples of typical contents found in a lunch boxes include a thermos (usually full of milk or soup), a sandwich, some vegetable sticks, a bag of chips or cookies, a box of juice, and a stick of string cheese. It is also interesting to note that most people stop using lunch boxes after leaving elementary school and switch to the brown paper bag as the vessel of choice for their midday meals. I fondly remember my lunch box, but its contents were always predictable and partly pre-packaged. Opening a bento is more of a mini-adventure.
If you are lucky there may be treasures under the lid of the bento bako, just waiting for you to uncover them at lunch time. Geisha Asobi has some interesting glimpses Japanese culture, including a link to some few highly stylized bento designs. As for a bento that emphasizes equality in form and function, I like these bento made by Mizuko Ito, who examines the question “Are bento an artistic form of motherly love, or are they just another oppresive tool used to shape Japanese society?”. Anyhow, you may notice that these bento pictures have been snapped from a cellular phone camera (she also studies the effects that cellphones have on society- pretty interesting stuff), like the ones on Justin’s moblog, or the smaller pictures that I was posting up until the demise of the camera on my D251. This is diverging from the bento theme of this post but still related, in the sense that if your bento contained some undercooked meat or fish you might grow a 28 foot-long friend in your intestines.
The Japanese educational system is so frusterating sometimes. It seems that the head honchos on one side and the grunts on the other are working with very different agendas, completely seperated while working on the very same projects. They call the shots based on inferences, deductions, hypothesis, research, and other forms of information processing yet keep themselves pretty well insulated from the body of the operation.
You would think that they (the kencho, the kyoikuinkai, and the other people who call the shots) would want to get to know what the grunts on the frontline think of the decisions, kind of like an engineer physically examining the physical incarnation of their sketches and talking to the test pilots who come to know the capabilities of their aircraft based on intimate knowledge as well as study of the designs. It may be the engineer who designs the plane, but it’s really the asses of the pilots and planes that are on the line should anything go wrong. You would think that these people would know how valuable direct input from the teachers, who know their classes and the materials and their plans better than anyone else, really is because these same people were probably also teachers before they got appointed to their lofty positions. With great powers come great responsibility, you would think…
See, that’s where you’re wrong. They don’t seem to care what you think. Independent thinking and any form of dissent is discouraged among the same peer groups and especially from those belonging to the lower castes, even if it may be painfully clear that a change would be greatly beneficial. The nerves may scream out in pain from being cut and rubbed in salt and lime juice, but the synapses are being jammed, the attention is directed elsewhere.
To be fair, sometimes they get things right. Sometimes they implement good, well thought out policies that work really well. Sometimes. But wouldn’t it be better if they could do it faster, more efficiently, and more democratically? Keeping things the same may be orderly and produce consistent results, but how many of us would prefer a perfect McClone cheeseburger over a Fatburger (they taste a bit different at the different locations and depending on who is making them, especially when you order them with more toppings and condiments)?
The words above could be in used a myriad of contexts, by many people that you know, and probably by you too. I just wonder if any of the people who are in positions of greater power and responsibility used to feel this way, and if they still do. Have there been any significant changes recently in the infrastructure of the Japanese educational system, and will it eventually change for the better any time in the foreseeable future? I truly hope so, but I have my doubts.
Visiting Little Saigon, unlike other designated ethnic areas, gives me the feeling that I’m in a place that lives up to its namesake. Short of a trip to the real Saigon, it is as authentic an experience that you will ever get, smack in the middle of the O.C.. It’s an island made up mostly of people with black hair and brown eyes and names like Nguyen, Pham, Trung and Minh (and some guy named Dr. Phouck) within the homogenous racial mix of Southern California. You know this place is legit Southeast Asia style, as 90% of the cars in Little Saigon have, at the very least, one obvious dent or scratch. If you’re looking for cheap imported goods, look no further than the Asian Garden Mall, full of all sorts of strange smells, cheap knockoffs, and stuff you can’t find anywhere else. When you walk in a Vietnamese supermarket, you can see black patches where the linoleum has peeled off. If you order a catfish from the tank, the butcher will grab one by the tail and smash its head into the concrete, wrapping its still quivering body (now that’s a fresh piece of fish!) in a pink sheet of butcher paper. And it smells of Southeast Asia: lychee, rotting detritus, urine, etc…
But the main reason to go to L.S. is for the food, namely the Pho Restaraunts. For all of you wondering what type of sauce is in the green capped bottle in front of Justin, that is called Shiracha and is arguably as versatile a condiment as ketchup is. Now look at the bowl in the bottom of the frame. This is the infamous bowl of Pho (no. 10), the prime suspect for causing my bout of projectile vomiting and diarrhea on Christmas Eve. However, I like the pho so much that I plan on eating it again on my next visit. After all, whats a little projectile vomit and diarrhea now and again. A fair trade-off for eating great food, I say.
Pho is not a complicated dish, and that’s one of the reasons why it tastes so good. Its a simple rice noodle soup with a light beef broth, some meat, and assorted vegetables and herbs. I have eaten pho in Japan, Santa Barbara, Seattle, and other random places, but the best pho I have eaten so far is in Little Saigon.
Pho should be eaten with an order of cha gio and a glass full Vietnamese style iced coffee. If your cha gio arrive cold, with old vegetables and no fish sauce, you should be very worried. If they come still sputtering out steam with ample freshly washed vegetables and a bowl full of fish sauce, be prepared to cry (from burning your tongue AND from the sublime flavors that your olfactory system will eventually register after the pain fades away).
The egg rolls above are known as cha gio. The filling is usually seasoned pork and rice vermicelli. They taste great by themselves, but the taste awesome if you wrap them in a fresh leaf of lettuce, along with some Vietnamese pickled daikon and carrot slices, and dip them in the nuoc mam (badass stinky fish sauce- don’t be scared!). Eat them right when they come out of the frier if possible, when they are still capable of causing third degree burns. Bite off a piece and use the lettuce to shield your tongue from the intense heat as you inhale and exhale rapidly in an attempt to cool down the morsel. Trust me on this. A Vietnamese meal would not be complete without a cup of Vietnamese coffee. The coffee comes dripping from a cheap metal aparatus, into a small mug holding a generous amount of condensed milk. By the time you are half-way finished with your meal, the coffee should be completely filtered and ready to pour into the ice-filled cup.. I love this coffee because it is as thick as a cappuccino, and creamy and sweet due to the condensed milk. Iced coffee is the only way to go, and the caffeine counter-balances the urge to siesta.
There are many other mysterious, often delicious foods to be eaten in Little Saigon. The sandwitches are cheap and kick major ass (picture a sub sandwitch with butter, pate, roasted pork, vietnamese pickled vegetables, jalapenos, and lettuce), the deserts look like they were taken from the set of Star Trek, and their take on French cuisine is truly refreshing.
So if you do end up coming to Orange County, don’t wuss out and go to El Torito, Applebees, or P.F. Chang’s after spending all of your time and money at Disneyland. Go to the beach instead and after that get your ass down to Little Saigon, experience an adrenaline rush from almost getting into an accident, and enjoy some truly interesting and delicious food!
As for pronouncing Vietnamese words, good luck. I just point at the pictures in the menu and ask for things politely in English. This may be unfounded, but I get the feeling that these dudes are more likely to spit in your food if they think that you are a prick. At least they’re not sneaky about it, like the clowns over at El Torrito.
A jump in front of Kaimon-dake, Kagoshima. Props to Kaori Tanaka, the photographer.
Taking good jump pictures requires a few things including but not limited to a steady hand, good timing, interesting locations, and a willing partner or group. The jumper must be willing to jump off of whatever will make the picture look its best. The photographer should be ready to place themselves in the location which provides the best angle to shoot from, framing a shot so that the captured environment will complement the jump. Both of these roles can be dangerous, and in the case of the photographer the danger may come from the jumper smashing into them. The photographer and jumper should change roles occasionally, depending on whose turn it is.
A few years back, I took part in a collaborative project with Justin, Sayaka, and Taro in taking various jump pictures. On our Kyushu roadtrip we stopped at various scenic areas and shot up countless rolls of film, a good portion of which involved us jumping. We jumped off of high places, took running jumps, flip jumps, jumped into things, onto things, etc… Some of the jumps were foolish to try and invited injury, but taking chances is how one takes part in greatness.
So now I think I will try and revive the project, maybe make it an interblog project with Justin and possibly Taro (if he should ever start writing again). Of course feel free to send in your own jump pics, and I will post any good ones that I see. Just don’t cry to me if you hurt yourself or someone else in pursuit of a jump picture. That’s just part of the price for such high-stakes photography.
Me playing with fire. Picture courtesy of Ben Colbridge.
This is the last picture that I will post, for now. I can not stress how much I love this particular festival. For those interested in participating, it takes place every year in mid March (at Aso Shrine, located in Japan, Kumamoto-ken, Aso-gun, Ichinomiya-machi). Though not as dangerous as some of the more famous matsuris, such as the one where a hundred people ride a huge log down a hill (people get crushed under the log) or the festivals in which massive floats are carried or pulled through busy streets lined with spectators (even more people get crushed to death by crashes and trampling) or drunken horse festivals where you can get kicked in the face (death by severe head wounds or other internal injuries), the fire swinging festival feels very dangerous in comparison.
Everyone is a pyro at heart, except for those with unfortunate phobias dealing with fire. We all love to play with fire. Fireworks, flammable liquids, matches, barbecues, campfires, blowtorches, the kitchen stove, the bunsen burner in Chem. We have all melted action figures and Barbie dolls, disposed of incriminating report cards, exterminated pesky insects, shot bottle rockets at dear friends, watched meat sizzle on the grill, and just stared into the flames in a hypnotized state. These are no less fun experiences than the fire festival, but a religious ceremony that invites anyone to take part in such a wild and seemingly dangerous activity makes the experience more profound. Hell, if there was fire swinging after Mass, I would probably go to church occasionally with my Catholic friends.
The hissing swoosh, the flaming orbit of a fiery body in motion. Yes, that sillhouetted object in the background, just under the flame, is someone’s leg.
The booming thunder of Taiko drums. Unorganized, erratic swinging of massive fireballs, participation available to all who dare enter the fiery grounds of hell. Orange flames gnawing free of their tethers of smouldering rope, smashing into people, to whom I am telling stories of this very same scenario from last year to, at this very moment. Smoke in the eyes, and stepping in piles of combusting combustibles. Braving all of this to take pictures. Me and my friends and many more strangers in a strange land. More to follow…
I saw this and I pictured James Bond looking at the Man with the Golden Gun as he says “Bond, I’m gonna bust a cap in yo’ ass, Cracka! Any last words?”, with the Golden Barrel pointed steadily in the middle of Bond’s head. Bond chews on some grape flavored Bubblicious, blows a huge bubble, pops it, and repeats. The Man, in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, shows his anger and disgust by hastily cocking the Golden Hammer. With a smile on his face, Bond spits the gum out into his thumb and forefinger, and sticks the purple wad into the glinting barrel. The man is so completely and utterly shocked that he merely stares while this is happening, with his jaw dropped in disbelief that the Golden Gun could be violated in such a casual and sacreligious manner.
As you can see, these words on a simple can of “gum” put a really bizarre picture into my head, and it its not even a Japanese product. Holt’s is a British company. Ah, those crazy Brits! To us Americans, “Lorry” is a girl’s name , a boot is something that a cowboy wears instead of a shoe, and “I’m dying to smoke a fag!” has an entirely different meaning. Also, for the record, a windshield is the window that shields the occupants of a vehicle from the wind. If it was a real windscreen (a screen, such as is used to keep insects from passing through an open window), it would allow the wind and rain and anything small enough to pass through the small holes to smack everyone in the face. While this screen would filter out most insects, the momentum of their impact would pulverize and scatter their dismembered body parts all over everyone.
So back to the picture at the top; what is this product from the U.K.?
The Answer.
Hint: it is not what James Bond uses to patch up the silencer on his Walther P.P.K. after he uses it to deflect a laser beam.
It seems that 3 of my relatives of whom I have never heard of before, a Mr. Douglas Yoshida and family (of my country), have passed away in a car accident far off in Nigeria. I was contacted by a “barrister” (that’s foreigner English for “lawyer”, for all of us proper English-speaking Americans) who is most likely a partner of a certain Mr. Ahmed Saleh. This is clearly the work of fate, as I have recently been working on a genealogy project with the rest of my family in order to find out more about my roots.
Dear Yoshida,
I am Barrister FUNMI FOLORUNSO,a solicitor at law.I am the personal attorney to Mr Douglas Yoshida,national of your country, who used to work with a National Petroleum company (NPC)in Nigeria.Here in after shall be referred to as my client.On the 21st of April 2000,my lient, his wife and their only daughter were involved in a car accident along sagbama express road.
All occupants of the vehicle unfortunately lost there lives. Since then I have made several enquiries to your embassy here to locate any of my clients extended relatives,this has also proved unsuccessful.After these several unsuccessful attempts,I decided to track his last name over the Internet,to locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.
I have contacted you to assist in repartrating the fund valued at US$13 million Left behind by my client before it gets Confisicated or declared unserviceable by the Security Finance Firm where this huge amount were deposited. The said Security Finance company has issued me a notice to provide the next of kin or have the account confisicated within the next fourteen official working days.
For the fact that I have been unsuccesfull in locating the relatives for over 3 years now, I seek the consent to present you as the next of kin to the deceased,since you have the same last name with my client, so that the proceeds of this account can be paid to you. Therefore, on receipt of your positive response, we shall then discuss the sharing ratio and modalities for transfer.
I have all necessary information and legal documents needed to back you up for claim. All I require from you is your honest cooperation to enable us see this transaction through.I guarantee that this will be executed under legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law.
Please get in touch with me through this email: [excelchambers8@yahoo.com]or through my direct telephone number 234-1-474-1584 as for more tails.
Best regards,
BARRISTER FUNMI FOLORUNSO
EXCEL CHAMBERS AND PARTNERS
BARRISTER FUNMI FOLORUNSO
DIRECT TEL: 234-1-474-1584
Hmmmm… Thats a lot of money. I feel so special to have been picked by Mr. Folorunso over my parents and kin.
On a serious note, the way that “Mr. Folorunso” (the official looking website is a nice touch, but a strong reminder that the internet is a dubious source of information and. Research that cites internet sources should always be double-checked at the very least to verify its validity.
This Nigerian scam is pretty low. Although fictional, I feel an inexplicable sense of loss for Mr. D. Yoshida and family, even though they died almost 4 years ago and also because I have never heard of them until today. I wonder if the D. Yoshida he speaks of is from the U.S. or Japan…
