The White Peril 白禍

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That's the sight that greeted me when I went, on rising this morning, into my parents' kitchen to see whether any of my father's first pot of coffee was still stewing. (It was. The man can't ride a roller coaster without going green, but his stomach can handle coffee that's been on the hot plate so long it's turned to crankcase oil.)

Good morning, Kitty. If you're going to ambush me from up there, could you please at least wait until I and put on my eye gel? I have this vague idea that well-hydrated skin heals more quickly when torn.

You all know about my ability to charm small pure-bred animals by this point. My parents' cats are no exception. Bear in mind, Ludwig, above, is the friendly one. Romeo, his father, is more beige and more crabby. Whenever I come home, he spends my entire visit--no joke--glaring at me with undisguised antipathy, as if I were going to make off with the silver unless under continuous surveillance.

Thanks to everyone who's asked after me since I haven't posted for a month; I'm grateful. Yes, things are fine. I doubt that I'm entirely adjusted to life back in New York even now, but coming home was the right decision. Without really planning it, I kind of took a rest from following news--either here or in Japan--to closely. I imagine I'll be posting more regularly soon.

For now, I'm being true to my Lehigh Valley roots and eating cake for breakfast. (How do people do this every day?) Tomorrow, I'm seeing some friends from high school for dinner and drinks--the sort of invitation I would have flung myself headlong in the opposite direction from up to a few years ago. Now, I'm kind of looking forward to it. Everyone seems well, and for the first time in twelve years, I'm not going to be the person coming from farthest away to the gathering.

In between, it's Christmas. Have a happy one, everyone.

Wow. Looks like a fire behind our building--on 39th, I think, just east of Park. There's been smoke pouring out of a building for the last twenty minutes. Murray Hill's mostly residential, especially on the Streets (as opposed to the Aves.), so the probability is well over 50% that it's someone's house or apartments...though it's close enough to 100 Park that I can't tell. Here's hoping there are no injuries and that property damage is minimized. FDNY seems to be there.

I spent part of the Memorial Day weekend going to a college friend's wedding outside Harrisburg. Most of us from the old group gathered, so I got to see everyone and meet the latest babies. Very exciting. Funniest moment: four of us were from small-town Pennsylvania, and we all--independently of one another--looked the venue up and down and said, "A wedding at the fire hall--we're so totally home!"

*******

I am in love with Dunkin Donuts. No, not the coffee--I know everyone loves that--the doughnuts themselves. I grew up with Pennsylvania Dutch sweets, so there was no shortage of real sticky buns and tender homemade kieffels and glorious pies--those transplanted Krauts make the best pies ever--but I went into Dunkin Donuts for a half-dozen on a whim a few weeks ago, and now I can't stop. They're so greasy they stick to the roof of the mouth, the cream filling tastes like chalk, and the crumb is about as tender as a Nerf ball. But I have two with a cup of coffee, and I feel American all over. Bonus points for the would-be sleek new box and stylized logos and tag line: "America runs on Dunkin." Right, Dunkin Donuts provides fuel for, like, an active life. Didn't you know that?

*******

The buddy I'm staying with has a few early seasons of The Simpsons on DVD. This is good. One of them includes that classic episode in which Sideshow Bob gets out of jail and marries Aunt Selma. Also good.

Now I have Selma and Bob's karaoke version of "Somethin' Stupid" going through my head non-stop. This is bad. Very, very bad.

Happy birthday to Atsushi. (I won't specify which particular milestone it is.) We're no longer partners, but he's a true gentleman and has remained a friend and a real rock in time of need. I'm sorry I'm not there for the celebration, but his love of sweets is well known among our friends, so I'm assuming he's happily chomping his way out from under a pile of cake as we speak.

Everyone keeps asking whether the culture shock has set in. The question is delivered with a gleam in the eye and an eagerness in the tone that I can't quite pin down; I hope my friends aren't running about thinking, Won't it be fun when Sean encounters some sassy-rude salesperson and just totally cracks? I make a practice of not cracking, thank you very much. And the adjustments I've had to make so far have mostly been pleasant ones.

I do somewhat miss the Japanese cleanliness fetish. Back offices and kitchens and hospital rooms may be as grimy as they are anywhere else, but rare is the office or shop in Japan that doesn't work overtime to ensure that no customer has to deal with so much as a dust mote. Grittiness on the street in New York is welcome and invigorating; grittiness in the produce section is less so. I also got my hair cut in New York for the first time in a decade today. It wasn't a particularly exclusive place, but it wasn't a dump, either. And yet, there was stray hair everywhere (including stuck inside the lid of the jar from which my cutter guy retrieved a good six cc's of hair goop and plunked it on my crown before I had the chance to protest. New York moves quickly).

On the other hand, the City, with its old brick buildings and stone and concrete detailing, has a much more earthy built environment. It feels like a place built by people for people. Tokyo's steel-and-glass, its tiles, its molded HDP, give it a moon-colony quality that can be a lot of fun; but it can also be draining to navigate through, especially in the rain or snow.

And of course, New York is noisy. We're Americans, and we're boisterous. I grooved to Tokyo's brittle, reined-in, well-behaved hum, but of course the flip side is that people need to explode, forcefully, when they're off the chain. You get used to being surrounded by people so drunk as to be near alcohol poisoning: hanging from straps on the train, roly-poly-ing down the sidewalk, tenderly placed face-down over storm grates by friends (who perch jauntily on a nearby curb and chat) so they don't drown in their own vomit. No one will ever accuse New York of not drinking, but after-work life doesn't feel like a 180-degree change from the business day.

People do start drinking here earlier, though. In Tokyo, it's still kind of a sign that you're not important if you actually get out of the office at 5:00 or not much after. I'm not going to an office at the moment, of course, but everyone I know is, and I don't think I've gone to an after-work gathering that started after 6:00 in the two weeks I've been back.

Speaking of things that go down the hatch: there's no point in my repeating in its entirety my rant about American food portions, but sheesh! You know things are cockeyed when even your flippin' arugula salad is too big to finish. Arugula salad! Who gorges on that?

Last night a friend asked me to go to the symphony at Carnegie Hall, and it turned out to be a charming confluence of things Philadelphia, Tokyo, and New York. It was the Philadelphia Orchestra doing its annual series, and last night's piece was Mahler's Eighth. (The Tokyo tie-in is that the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra is known for its Mahler performances.) Much classical music in Asia is very good, but there's something nice about sitting in a Western audience, which shouts cheers and goes a bit over the edge when genuinely moved by a performance. The Philadelphia Sound had been put to good use.

Thanks to everyone who wished me a good trip. The flight was uneventful, and here I am in New York.

Jet lag. Luckily for me, Atsushi's going-away present was two sets of DVDs--the first and last series of「古畑任三郎」, the Japanese detective show modeled on Columbo that we used to watch together. I'm through six episodes already!

[Added on 29 April: Since I was talking about product design in the next post, I might mention that 「古畑任三郎」has some of the coolest titles I've ever seen. The Japanese are known for their sleek design, but to a degree that's because what we see in the West is selected by other Western visitors, who bring back the most striking artifacts. Lots of graphic and industrial design in Japan is as clunky and unprepossessing as it is anywhere else. That's especially true where words are concerned. Print media, web pages, and movie credits often have cutesy visual themes and are crammed with text. For a culture so renowned for maximizing the impact of spare design, Japan goes in for the clutter an awful lot.

Fuji TV doesn't seem to have streaming video of the opening credit sequence up on its page, which is a shame because the music is pretty cool, too. You can still can get a sense of the way it flows by clicking on some of the links:



If you click around on the site, actually, you may see what I mean by clutter. Even if you can read the Japanese, the page is hard to navigate.]

Speaking of jet lag, a word to American Airlines: When your flight is landing at JFK at 6 p.m., it's flat-out cruel to keep the cabin lights off and serve breakfast an hour before beginning descent. I mean, seriously? As if my sense of time weren't already screwed up enough.

Happy birthday to my father and my little brother. Yes, both of them. When my parents converted to Sabbatarian Christianity when I was little, they went full-on into Nature: avoiding doctors in favor of anointings from the ministry, growing their own vegetables. My mother baked all our bread until I was in high school. (That's why the reception of Rod Dreher's Crunchy Con thing as if it were NEW! and EXCITING! made me giggle a while back.) And they decided on a home birth for my brother, so my father spent the morning of his own birthday delivering him. Dad tied off the umbilical cord with new white shoelaces. I read him (my brother, not my father) his first story. My mother, I'm assuming, rested. I have this feeling massive doses of painkillers were not part of the natural birthing plan.

Now he (again, my brother, not my father) is thirty. Thirty.

"You're turning thirty! That makes me--"

"Past it."

"Try waiting until the next time I visit home and saying that to my face, buddy."

"Sure. I'm taller than you now."

So happy birthday, guys.

It would also have been my last remaining grandfather's birthday this week.

Three of my grandparents died in their early sixties, in rapid succession, between 1981 and 1984. My father's father was the only one left. He remarried after my grandmother died; his second wife died, too, a decade ago. After that, he lived alone. His hearing was always bad, and he was in his own little world, but he lived in his own house until the end. His woodworking shop was in the basement. (Contemporary safety Nazis would have a coronary if they saw the way we used to play with Dad's and Pop-Pop's tools when we were little.) He used to make furniture for people in need at church--bedsteads and things like that. He was a regular churchgoer and made a Bible stand for the congregation that was much beloved. His income was limited, but he gave to charity regularly. He spoke with benevolence about the new neighbors--noisy, the other old-timers on the block complained, but they were polite and kept their property tidy and didn't cause trouble.

My father's sister checked on him and helped him out every week. My father gretzed that if he kept insisting on doing woodwork, he was going to kill himself with the circular saw at his age one of these days. I visited most times I went home. (No, not every time, to my discredit.) He was kind of abstracted in later years but always happy to hear that I was still enjoying Japan. He wasn't totally out of touch with the talk of the day, either. Once not too long ago, I gave him a bag of rather frou-frou green tea, and he said, "Thanks! Full of antioxidants, they say, huh?"

He wasn't the story-telling type of grandfather. He never talked about his childhood in England, or about being in Europe during the war, or about how Allentown had changed over his lifetime. He'd outlived both his wives and had trouble getting around. When he died in November, I think he was ready. My mother hadn't even had time to get word to me that he'd been taken to the hospital. He would have turned 93 on Tuesday.

Cab drivers in Taipei don't like taking you to an intersection. Ask for "Zhongxiao East Road where it crosses Dunhua South Road," and you frequently get a blank look. "Which section?" the driver asks. (As in, "Do you mean the 300 block, or the 400 block, or what?") Once I didn't remember, and since I can write Chinese street names but can't speak Chinese, I drew a little diagram: See? These two streets. They cross here. Take me to the intersection...any old corner will do by this point. I stabbed conclusively with the pen. No reaction. Finally, I remembered I wanted Section 4. Scrawled it down. The driver beamed. Oh, okay. Zhongxiao East Road Section 4. Why didn't you just say so? Well, I gave you the intersecting street. We're not talking about Moebius Avenue and Tesseract Boulevard--they're two major arteries, and they only cross in one place!

Another time I was in a speeding cab with a few guys who do, in fact, speak Chinese. They asked for the intersection of Something and Something. "Which section?" An exchange of looks among the passengers--did anyone remember? "Section 2!" the guy next to me said, in clear confident tones. Then he turned to the rest of us. "It probably isn't Section 2, so when we get there, we'll just ask him to keep going to the next section until we get to the right intersection."

I've lived in Japan for twelve years and am used to being baffled by cultural differences. I have to say, though, I'm stumped by this one. Maybe it's because the cities I'm used to are New York (where the address numbers can't be divined from the street numbers) and Tokyo (where half the streets don't even have names), but most of the cabs I've been in in my lifetime refuse to move for you unless you pinpoint the intersection you're going to. No one has been able to explain to me how Taipei ended up developing the other way, though I can see why passengers would use addresses more often, since the address-numbering system here is very intuitive.

*******

You can be openly gay and get the benefits (nothing to hide), or you can be closeted and get the benefits (acceptance into the mainstream at all levels). You cannot do both. Those who want to be vociferously gay and simultaneously demand that people accept and adore them for it are insufferable, but it's people with the opposite problem who've been inflicting themselves on me lately, so they're the ones I'm going to grouse about.

You want to get married and have children? Good for you. It's none of my business. Whether you really feel affection for your wife or just want your family elders to get off your case or think you'll look more socially stable when it's promotion time at work, I don't care. However, sweetie, if you're going to sit in a gay bar (run by someone who's not afraid to show his face to the licensers and beer distributors and everyone else as the manager of a known gay bar), drinking whisky (served by guys who are not afraid to work at a known gay bar), talking to me (gay, for those who haven't noticed), then do not expect sympathy when you launch into a monologue about how hard it is to lead a double life, how you hate sneaking around, how you feel lonely all the time, and how you're really scared you'll run into a colleague in the wrong place someday. What exactly is the reaction you're expecting? We all make our trade-offs, and by definition, that means we're not going to get some things we want. News flash: If you hide what you are, you're going to feel like you're hiding all the time. Part of taking grown-up responsibility for your own choices is accepting that and not taking every opportunity to whine about it. Sheesh.

I'm returning to Taipei today, and my company has booked me on China Airlines; but that's fine, since I don't think CI has had a fatal incident for...hell, it must be six or so years. So we're all cool! I just hope they remember to close all the doors before we take off.

Back in Tokyo for a half-week stay to attend to a few things before going back for my last few weeks in Taipei. This time, it's the clear weather that's following me around, which is nice. Not even I, with my English genes and sense of dramatic melancholy, like rain and overcast skies that don't stop for weeks at a time.

Japan appears not to have undergone any major changes, though I have to say I loved this item from the other way (which I was too busy to post about at the time):

Cutting bureaucratic fat may be a lot tougher than anticipated.

A government advisory panel's proposal to reduce branch offices of central ministries and agencies is expected to meet with fierce opposition.

While terms such as branch office and regional bureau may conjure up images of "outposts" of central government ministries, those venues are considered by entrenched bureaucrats as comprising the "core" of their ministries.

...

Past developments do not bode for fast progress. Last year, the decentralization committee asked for suggestions on possible mergers of branch offices.

Not a single central ministry came up with a positive proposal.

"Tougher than anticipated"? Asking central ministries whether they have any bright ideas about how to shrink their own territory and limit their own authority? The degree of ingenuousness on display here is touching. Every battle over restructuring federal ministries--from the game of musical chairs finalized in 2001 to the Koizumi administration's "trinity reforms"--has amply demonstrated that bureaucrats do not willingly look for ways to give themselves less power. And they know how to work the system to get their way, largely because they pretty much are the system.

*******

It's confirmed that Toshiro Muto is the candidate whose name has been submitted to committee as the next head of the Bank of Japan. (Toshihiko Fukui's chances for a second term were scotched by his involvement in the Murakami Fund/Livedoor maelstrom.)

*******

I'm starting to get the new Janet album, which makes me happy. It's been a while since a celeb put out an album that actually grew on me instead of provoking an immediate and unshifting love it/hate it/enh reaction. The single seems to have gone nowhere except in dance clubs, of course.

*******

Happy belated birthday to Rondi, who was born on 5 March.

*******

Happy on-time birthday to Lynn Swann, Taylor Dayne, and Tammy Faye (wherever she is), who were born on 7 March like me. This is apparently the day Apple was granted the patent for the iPod two years ago, too, which is very cool.

*******

Eric has a good post about maneuvering in the Pennsylvania primaries. I agree that those who think goosing Clinton's campaign in order to help McCain along later are playing with fire:

Unless that is, I do something about it, and fast. The way I see it, Hillary is going to win this state, and the forces of Rush Limbaugh are going to do their damnedest to increase her margin of victory. This, it is believed, will help John McCain. Not only do I disagree with this approach, but I distrust it. Almost without exception, Limbaugh and the other major Hillary promoters hate John McCain and make no secret of it. So I am deeply suspicious of their claim that they are "helping" John McCain by helping Hillary at the polls.

I think this might very well have the opposite effect. Yesterday's election results demonstrated the fragility of Obama's house of cards, because the Obamamania is already starting to wear off. I predicted that in the long term, he would be the weaker of the two candidates for this very reason, and that he, not Hillary, would be the easier of the two for McCain to beat.

Divisiveness in the Democratic Party seems to be building just fine without trying to foment it...with the side effect of reinforcing HRC's renewed viability. I don't think I'm misunderstanding the argument, but I really don't think it's a good idea.

*******

Remember when Janet used to sing songs like "He Doesn't Know I'm Alive"? As often happens, the release of the new album has reminded me how much I love her old stuff, so I've been on a real Janet kick, and I was just thinking, you know, if she did a song with a similar storyline today, she'd be all like "He doesn't even know that I'm alive...so I hired a private detective to find out his address, put on my studded lilac pleather catsuit, got into my SUV, plowed it through the facade of his McMansion, stepped grandly out into his now open-air foyer, and introduced myself as Miss Janet Robo-Damita." I mean, rhyming and stuff, of course.

I guess that's not as interesting as it seemed a few minutes ago. Uh, have a good weekend, everyone.

Disconnected thoughts that may prove to have been better left unexpressed:

Am I the only one who's afraid the new Janet album is going to suck? I actually liked 20 Y.O. She sounded relaxed. She seemed to be having fun. Yeah, she was ripping off herself and everyone else, but the proof of the pudding is in the eating. "Feedback" sounds great while you're listening to it, but I forgot I'd even downloaded it a day or two after it was released.

I'm enjoying Taipei, but it's a very...intimately-scaled place. Over the first few weeks I was here, I was introduced to three or four guys in the Family ("Ooh...I have a friend you'll just LOVE! He's gay, too!") and met a few others separately out and about. When I got back last Saturday, I was invited to a party. They were all there and all knew each other. It was kind of cute. Good thing I live a simple life, or the moment of realization might have been a little sticky.

And the weather in this place! Rain, sunshine (briefly) smog, mist, more rain, the temperature going up and down wildly. The friend I'm staying with lives part-way up a mountain. It's still officially Taipei City, but it's not urban at all. There are hot springs. The wind howls constantly, often flinging rain at you. Going for a run is great; the steepness of the roads makes it feel like you're doing stadiums. It's all nicely primordial...and she has cable! So yeah, things are going fine. Just busy.

Added 25 February: Another thing that's struck me since I've been here: Taiwan is full of South Africans. Canadians, too. In Japan, you get used to every third foreigner you meet's being Australian. Australia and Japan (touchingly, considering their war history) have very good relations nowadays, they're comparatively close together, and Australians like to knock around other places. In Taiwan, I think I've met one Australian in six weeks. Just about everyone from North America here seems to be Canadian. Handful of English. And lots of South Africans. This appears to be one of the places it's easy for the young and adventurous to make money away from home.

No, I'm not dead--thanks to those who've asked. I'm forcing myself to follow the primaries, mirthlessly, and I have little to say about pesticide-laced gyoza or the latest alleged criminal behavior by our military personnel in Japan--not because there's nothing to say about them, but because my attention is distracted by other things. My project in Taipei requires a lot of attention. That's mostly a good thing, but it means that at the end of the day, I'm not exactly champing at the bit to spend more time at the computer. I may have more breathing room next week. Until then, I hope everyone enjoys the weekend.

It's Chinese New Year's Eve, if that's the word for it. I'm about to leave for a party that I'm hoping is going to be pretty non-traditional--my experience in Asia has led me to the conclusion that when food is described as "auspicious," you can reliably substitute "tastes bad." (Well, soba noodles are good for longevity, and they're pretty toothsome, but that's about it.) I plan to spend the evening hoping that its being the Year of the Rat doesn't portend anything for this year's presidential election (not that you'll be able to tell anyway). For others celebrating, have a happy new year. I'm back in Tokyo for a week starting tomorrow.

Since I don't have Larry Craig tendencies, I was startled to use a train station toilet in Taipei for the first time last night and discover that it appeared to be hitting on me:



I beg your pardon! Here? I'm not that kind of man, buddy.

If you know Japanese, Taipei can be a really frustrating city. Reading literature, all the way up to the beginning of the Showa Period, generally requires you to know the traditional forms of kanji--at least at first. But modern pocket additions*, while not otherwise abridged or bowdlerized, frequently use the official Japanese simplified forms, so you get used to not having to recognize the older characters. Taiwan still uses them, though, so even though I can't pronounce them here, I've been using the writing to get my bearings.

It took me several days to remember that 點 is, in fact, 点. (Well, I didn't remember so much as realize that a crawl inside a subway car that said 終點 wasn't likely to mean anything else.) Amritas used to tell me that you didn't really know an Asian language with a Chinese-derived script until you'd started with the traditional stroke-choked characters. He was right, I suppose, at least in terms of transferrable skills.

Something you notice right away traveling around Taipei: it's a very pious city. I'm not referring to the people (though they may be as devout as they come for all I know). I mean the place names. Streets in Japan don't usually have names--don't get me started on the resulting headaches involved in trying to get somewhere for the first time--and blocks, train stations, and intersections are often named for a nearby landmark. Otherwise, they tend to be named for things in nature: Greenleaf, Middle River, Wisteria Mountain, and the like.

In Taipei, several of the major east-west arteries are named for Confucian virtues. My office is on 忠孝路 ("Loyalty and Filial Piety Avenue"). On the way, we pass 仁愛路 ("Humaneness and Love Avenue"). There's a place between my friend's apartment and our office called 明徳 ("limpid moral probity," though as in Japan I guess it may refer to an era or exalted personage or something). I'm not sure I can handle quite that much uplift so early in the day, even after my second cup of coffee.

And I'm pretty certain that having a Catholic mother disqualifies me from working on a street called "Filial Piety."

Taipei is also significantly slower-paced than Tokyo. I was listening to Roisin Murphy the other day on a run. Perfect soundtrack to Tokyo but all wrong here. Taipei isn't brittle and frantic and electronic. It's not a mountain hamlet, either, but even the center of the city doesn't press in on you. I'm not sure how well that suits me; I like my cities to be cities. On the other hand, my friend's apartment (where I'm staying) is in the north of the city on a mountain road, so hiking and hot springs and things are right out the door. That part's not bad at all, and it's helpful given all the bulky Western food I've been hoovering up since I got here. (American food is much better in Taipei than in Tokyo.)

Ack. Time to hie myself to the Straight Path of Loyalty and Filial Piety for the day.


* Nice malapropism, huh? Apparently, I can't write in my native language anymore after two cups of coffee, either. editions/additions...affect/effect...mucus/mucous...okay, I think I'm all right now.

Previous times in Taipei, I haven't really talked to anyone about Taipei 101 much. It's an impressive building--distinctive without being aggressively ugly, which is a balance many super-skyscrapers don't manage. I don't think it looks much like a stalk of bamboo, but it has its own personality.

Unfortunately, that apparently isn't its only distinguishing characteristic. The building's nowhere near capacity with tenants. "Bad timing on the rental market?" I asked. "No, bad feng shui," I was told.

Wang Chung-ping, vice chairman of C.Y. Lee and Partners, which designed Taipei 101, is often asked to accommodate feng shui concerns, but sees little science in it. "To me, it's very much a psychological thing," he says. "We don't encourage building owners to hire feng shui masters, but most seem to."

In many cases, it is the richer building owners who pay more attention to feng shui, and as a result, architects have picked up some feng shui knowledge to avoid problems later in the design process. "We have some very basic knowledge of feng shui: back to a hill; face to an open area; no street running in your face. It's common knowledge in our culture. Usually what we do is OK," Wang says.

Even so, architects trained in western design methods frequently ignore the finer points of feng shui. In design, for example, straight lines are seen as attractive, capable of producing an eye-catching sense of symmetry. Feng shui, however, views straight lines with suspicion, as they transmit chi too quickly. China's first railway, constructed by Europeans, so disturbed those living near it that it was ripped up and thrown into the sea.

Wang ran into the problem of straight lines while designing Taipei 101. An alley ran straight into the side of the building, so he was advised to place a fountain containing a marble ball at that entrance to slow the chi entering the building.

For some feng shui masters, Taipei 101 has many other problems. Zhang Hsu-chu, one of the feng shui masters who worked on the project, acknowledges the site is not that good. He says the building's foundations destroyed one of the dragon lines flowing through Taipei, and the site used to be a place of execution, meaning there are a lot of ghosts in the area. These ghosts, he says, were responsible for the deaths of three men working on the building during an earthquake in 2003. He told the owner that praying to the ghosts would placate them, and there were no further problems. "The chi for this area has been drained," he says, "but it'll return."

Apparently, one of Taiwan's most successful pop stars had an apartment with a view of Taipei 101, and she didn't release an album for years after it went up. Maybe we could convince Mariah to move in?

Hope everyone had a great holiday. I stayed in Tokyo this year, as did more of my friends than usual--a good thing, since I'll be out of town for the next two months.

For eleven years, I've lived in a country vulnerable to earthquakes and typhoons that sits a missile's-throw from a nuke-hungry enemy. What could be more exciting? Hmm...how about a country vulnerable to earthquakes and typhoons that sits a missile's throw from a super-huge country that already has nukes AND regards it as a renegade province? So I accepted an invitation from an old friend who owns the Taiwan branch of my former company to spend a few months in her office as a consultant. I leave at the end of this week, and I'm looking forward to it. To judge from my visits to Taipei, it's not somewhere I'd want to live long-term, but I've always wanted more time to explore the place. Seven or so weeks seems like a good length of time, with some time back when the country shuts down for Chinese New Year.

For the moment, I'm gearing up for the jump and watching the Clinton-Obama numbers in New Hampshire.

Dave Barry's class-clown humor doesn't always do it for me, but his year-in-review column always has a few passages that make you laugh out loud. I think this is my favorite part for 2007:

Abroad, the six-party talks in Beijing conclude on an optimistic note as North Korea's leader, Insane Lunatic Liar Il, announces that his country will dismantle its nuclear-weapons program just as soon as it receives the nuclear dismantler that it ordered on eBay. All six parties agree that this sounds reasonable; they resume partying. On a more ominous nuclear note, President Bush warns Iran that it is, quote, "awfully close to Iraq, if you look at a map, which I have." In another increasingly tense international arena, the U.N. Security Council sends 1,000 peacekeeping troops to New York City in an effort to quell Rosie O'Donnell, who repels them by shouting.

But the big news in February is the death and subsequent wacky adventures of Anna Nicole Smith, whose body remains in a refrigerator in the Broward County medical examiner's office while her infant child is embroiled in a paternity dispute that eventually comes to involve pretty much every adult male resident of the United States except Richard Simmons. The news media cover this story with their usual taste and restraint, keeping the public informed of important developments via such journalistic innovations as the Refrigerator Cam; Greta Van Susteren jets to Aruba in case there is a Natalee Holloway link. The dramatic finale takes place in a Florida courtroom presided over by Judge Weeping Twit, who, in a display of Solomonic wisdom, rules that everyone involved will get a TV show.

Scary how much of an improvement over reality that would actually have been, huh?

Happy New Year, everyone.

There really is nothing you can't find on the Internet nowadays. I think I've mentioned, albeit only glancingly, that I was brought up in a super-conservative sabbatarian Christian sect that some viewed as a cult...yeah? Well, if not, I was. I figured out that I no longer believed in God's existence about the same time I figured out that I no longer believed in Sean's heterosexuality. The initial transition was rough, but I got things together, stopped going to church, was up-front with my parents, and really haven't thought much about it since. One or two people I knew from my abortive semester at the affiliated Bible college contacted me a while ago--they comment here occasionally--but otherwise, the whole experience felt like a distant relic of childhood.

Then a few days ago, someone I grew up with in church found my blog while Googling for something..."cynical Japan bitch postrel kylie libertarian," presumably. She wrote very politely to say she'd like to get back in touch and indicated that there's a website (of quite long standing, it turns out) for people who used to belong to the Worldwide Church of God and left. Who knew?

I followed her link and was struck by a few things. For one thing, a lot of these people are really, really bitter about the effects of church teachings on their lives. I'm not sure what to make of that. My parents had financial difficulties at times--the '80s weren't kind to the families of PA steelworkers--and my little brother and I could be something of a handful. But they handled life fine without calling the ministers or elders in to put them on a budget or tell them point-by-point how to bring us up. Those writing in to The Painful Truth with horror stories about idiotic counsel that broke up families, turned parents into undemonstrative martinets, and destroyed relationships with non-believing family members are surely expressing bias. How could they not? But even if what they write is somewhat embellished, it's plenty bad in the essentials.

People in the church certainly noticed Herbert W. Armstrong's (even all these years later, I feel bizarrely disrespectful for not typing "Mr. Armstrong's") naked social-climb-y streak and preference for a tacky, rube-ishly ostentatious version of the good life. My parents and their friends were all very devout, but they had a healthy sense of mischief and would joke about the Gulf Stream and the Mercedes at times. Their view of things was that even the highest living servant of God was only human, that he worked hard flying all over the place trying to get the gospel out, and that he'd earned a little understanding from laymembers about his creature comforts. (Having been reared Catholic, my mother found those working in the higher echelons at headquarters to be relatively abstemious.) There seem to be a lot of charges out there that Armstrong was not a mere pious fraud but a thoroughgoing huckster. I don't know how true that is. Frankly, it doesn't interest me much at this late date.

But maybe it would still interest me, even twenty-odd years after his death, if my parents had gotten divorced or hit me with a belt or forbidden me to have friends at school under the orders of ministers in the church he ran. My first instinct, when reading some of these accounts, is to say that some people need to get a life and move on. After all, no one was coerced into buying into the cult of personality of Herbert W. Armstrong the way people were coerced into buying into the cult of Kim Il-sung. Maybe that's too harsh, though. I recognize that my happy life has been enabled to a degree by unearned good fortune rather than by my own strong-mindedness. Having a homosexual atheist who lives in Tokyo as an elder son is not what my parents would have chosen, but they love me and have always recognized that adults are free to make their own way in life. When I got to college, my friends were mostly from comfortable, intact families (like mine, only far more prosperous). We all did our age-appropriate chafing against our parents' expectations, and despite the occasionally major difficulties, we all got through fine. I don't remember feeling that the religious-ness of some of my adjustment problems made them special. Everyone had things to work out with the family.

The guy who runs this site (and this more current blog), who apparently ended up an atheist like me, says he feels a special kinship with people who went through the experience of being brought up in the church. Do I? To a degree, I guess I must. I attended services from ages three to twenty-three. That's a long time. I just wonder whether the church was seriously screwing up the lives of people we knew closely in our congregation and I just didn't recognize it.

Perhaps this is even more disturbing than the result of that serial killer test, though I did answer the questions as accurately as possible (via Internet Ronin):



I didn't know I even had a shadow self.

Added later: "Emaciated do-gooder"? WTF?

What does it say about me that I knew every answer on the first clue (via Rondi)?


NameThatSerialKiller.com - Test your serial killer knowledge

(Just to be pedantic, I think it should be pointed out that Cho Seung-hui was a spree killer, not a serial killer.)

Virginia Postrel slides into the end of an otherwise-lite post that she has breast cancer and is beginning treatment soon. I wish her the best.

or "Deliciously sinful," if you prefer.

Via Eric, the latest Blogthings quiz: What kind of sandwich are you?

You Are a Ham Sandwich

You are quiet, understated, and a great comfort to all of your friends. Over time, you have proven yourself as loyal and steadfast. And you are by no means boring. You do well in any situation - from fancy to laid back. Your best friend: The Turkey Sandwich Your mortal enemy: The Grilled Cheese Sandwich

Nice that Eric and I have compatible sandwich identities. Funny that I was designated ham, of all things, since I was brought up in a Sabbatarian Christian sect that didn't eat meats deemed unclean in the Old Testament. In fact, I still don't, largely out of habit but also because they give me a tummyache. (My mother memorably said a few years ago, "Out of all the rules your father and I taught you from the Bible, the prohibition against pork and shellfish is the only one you decided to keep?!")

My laptop is at the Toshiba repair center getting its poor dead hard drive replaced, so posting will probably continue to be pretty light until the middle or so of next week. Hope everyone has a good weekend.

Unlike some of my more popular blog friends, I don't get more mail than I can handle, and the overwhelming majority of messages I get are thoughtful and mannerly, even if their writers disagree with me.

But then, presumably in an effort to provide a stimulating foil of some kind, there are the hate mailers. Just had my first strafing from one of these characters in a while, and in a few days we have the A-bomb anniversaries, on which I plan to post much the same thing as I always do. Therefore, just so we're all clear, please bear the following in mind before you hit the contact button there to the left:

I am unfazed by any and all messages that consist of nothing more than…

1. "You're stupid."
   
2. "You're self-loathing."
   
3. "You're an asshole."
   
4. "You suck."
   
5. "I bet your mother engages in exceedingly untoward behavior."
   
6. "I BET YOUR MOTHER ENGAGES IN EXCEEDINGLY UNTOWARD BEHAVIOR, YOU STUPID, SELF-LOATHING ASSHOLE! YOU SUCK!"

I've euphemized the last two, failed to make any spelling errors, and been sparing with the exclamation points, but I'm assuming you can imagine the real versions.

Half the time, these people don't even tell me which post got them worked into a lather. Is it too much to ask that those who think they can wreck my sense of self-worth with a one-line e-mail at least let me know what the problem is? "Self-loathing" generally limits it to something about gay issues; but otherwise, I usually can't determine whether my correspondent considers me too leftist, too rightist, too pro-Japan, too anti-Japan, too atheist, too soft on religion, too American, or too brunet. I like a rough-and-tumble argument as much as the next guy, but spasmodic little outbursts like these only convince me that the writers are badly in need of a hobby. My faith in the critical thinking skills of the general population is badly eroded as it is. Please don't make it worse.

See also posts on this subject by Connie and Rondi. Vitriol-spewers all seem to lean toward the same locutions. (And when, BTW, will people learn that it is no longer either clever or incisive to respond to a straight-talking woman by calling her a bitch?)