Kobe License Plates

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Today I changed my car’s registration from Nara to Kobe. I don’t like the new number plates as much as the old ones – Kobe plates are a kind of status symbol in Kansai, much as Shinagawa plates are in Kanto. I have this nagging feeling that these plates might get me pulled over more often than the old Nara ones, although I can’t really explain why, it’s just a feeling I have (that I hope is never proved).
A few months ago I heard that Kobe plates illicitly exported from Japan were selling in LA for a pretty sum, mostly because of the Kobe Bryant case. In retrospect, I think the high price is justified; the process to get new plates in Japan is a colossal pain in the ass if you do it yourself (Most people just pay to have car shops do it for them; I did it by myself partly just to see if it was as a big a hassle as I imagined and I was not disappointed.)

Shakoshomei

Even though I’ve lived here on Awaji Island for nearly five years, I was registered at my friend’s house in Nara until last month. Basically, there was no reason to change my address officially until this year, when the immigration laws got stricter, plus I fucking hate having to tell the government where I live just on principle…
Just one of the many pains in the ass involves re-registering my car out here (in Kobe, actually), and in order to do that, I need a shakoshomei, which is proof that you have an approved place to park. If you live in a house, this might be your driveway or garage, but if you rent an apartment, like I do, you have to provide proof that you are renting a space somewhere.
This is an incredibly irritating process that takes a trip down to the local police station at least twice, once to apply and once to pick up the actual document, which is issued after an inspector goes to visit the parking space you have specified in the application (you actually have to provide two maps, one of the parking space in relation to your home, and another, more detailed map of the parking area with dimensions, etc. Most people hand-draw this stuff, but I, uber-nerd, did the work in Illustrator – may post it later so you can come egg my Silvia).
Anyway, after this long, drawn out process had gotten to its final stage, I was ready to pick up the document late last week. Before work, I went to the police station (cue: oh happy day) with my trusty hanko (personal seal used in place of signature) only to be told that the guy in charge wasn’t in. The fact that just speaking to the police in Japan – about just about anything, really – always puts me in the foulest of moods, only compounded my irritation at being brushed off because the designated desk jockey (and public fucking servant I might add) decided to make a run for the bento shop during normal operating hours. Whatever. I decided to jump through all the hoops when I decided to make the move out here official, so I sucked it up and went to work.
I didn’t have time to go again until yesterday. I walked into the police station all pimped out in my spiffy work uniform (complete with nametag; this is a Japanese white-collar job, thankyouverymuch) and requested service at the desk. This time, the balding desk sergeant in charge was there (oh joy), fat ass parked firmly in a seat with a bead cushion draped over it. He looks over my approval forms, sees they’re all in order, then announces to no one in general, “the window for processing shakoshomei is from 3 to 5 PM, please come back then.”
Me: “fuck, as in what the?”
Cop: “3 to 5”
Me: “But there ain’t nobody else here now! C’mon! ”
Cop: “Morning hours are reserved for driver’s license-related issues only – COME BACK BETWEEN 3 AND 5!”
Me: “THERE AIN’T NOBODY ELSE HERE – c’mon, cut me a break already. Pleeeeeease. Pretty please with azuki on the top.”
Cop: “Ungh.” (loosely translated: “wutevaaaa”)
Grrrrr. So I had to take off work early and got back to the police station just before 5. As I approach the desk sergeant, who I swear has not moved a single fucking inch since I last saw him several hours before and is now half-heartedly playing with pencils and rubber bands, looks up at me, then glances at the clock, gathers the approval papers again and says, “hehheh, you made it just in time.”
Motherfucker!
And as he stamps my hanko in the logbook and gives me the magic papers, he replies “I wouldn’t have minded if you came in a little later. I’m here until 7:00 anyway.”
I bit down on my lower lip, hard, and concentrated on quietly exiting the building.
As a good friend once put it, “why are cops such fucking cunts?”
UPDATE:
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Daihatsu Microbus

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In Japan, there is a micro-subcompact class of cars known as “keijidosha,” or simply, “K.” Under current regulations their engine size is restricted to 660cc, and their appeal in this land of super expensive gasoline and narrow roads is fairly obvious. They are also cheaper than standard size cars, so it cracks me up when I see a lot of money put into their modification. This microbus mod has been getting more and more popular recently, and on my island alone, I have seen red, orange, yellow, black, tan, and lime green versions of it.

Unleashing Your Inner Loser

This proves that just about anybody can publish a book these days:
How to Date a White Woman: A Practical Guide for Asian Men
This is so pathetic on so many levels, I don’t know where to start. I think the publisher can sum it up for us best:

Perfect to use as a reference, for dating, and for romantics everywhere, this book contains over 200 pages how to guide, on love, dating and relationship for the Asian man with a Caucasian woman.

You know what Asian men need to be successful with chicks? I’ll give you a hint: It sure ain’t another book to stick their noses in, Einstein. Hell, you might as well sell the online version only so Mr. Long Duck can reference his PDA in between dinner courses!
Of course, what Asian men really need is a role model, like Rick James (I’m Ricky Yin, bitch!). But I’m not sure I wanna go there today…
Under the “Customers who viewed this book also viewed” section, one of my favorite books is listed: Hello My Big Big Honey!. Basically, this is the best title for any book I have ever seen, and the fact that I accidentally found this gem at a musty secondhand store in the dogshit slums of Bangkok only endears it further. I don’t remember much about the story except that it was sad, but Adam wrote about it in a bit more depth here.

I, Mexican’t

This weekend, when asked to describe a burrito to a SE Asian man (probably my future father-in-law, if such things matter), I described it as a “Mexican springroll.” Sometimes I just have my moments.
That got me hungry, so I made fajitas for us all.
In the age of Teflon-coated, feng shui-infused, drop-forged-in-space cookware, cast iron griddles still kick ass. However, my newly-purchased titanium wok (purchased at Jusco, 2000 yen) positively 0wnzz0rs for black bean sauce stir fry, garlic chicken, and the assorted curry dishes I have tried cooking in it. It heats faster than steel and is light enough to perform street tricks with (I’ve tried the Jive Nelly and an inverse limp-wrist 720 sinkgrind-to-deadfish ollie fazer and although splattering myself with excess olive oil, actually managed to land both tricks! Don’t try this at home, kids.). I also suspect it could be used as a conveyance back in time if one could be bothered to hook up some spare power lines to the clock tower one stormy night…
Fresh limes are the fulcrum of a kick-ass grilled meat dish.
Fresh limes often cost a dollar each in Japan, and are sometimes smaller than a “D” battery (“D motherfucker, D!”).
The first person who correctly guesses the origin of the quote above gets a fajita in the mail; leave a mailing address in the comments as well as your meat preference (chicken, pork, or fugu).
*If you live outside of Japan, I’m sending it by surface.
**If you live in Japan, just come by the house sometime.