Monthly cutting practice today. Finally go to try out my new cutter. Niina-gosoke took one look at it and commented: "sushi knife." As in, it's wide and thin and made to cut. And DAMN does it cut. Problem is cutting from the draw. The thing is so wide (mihaba: width from edge to back) that it's a pain to draw as it gets caught up. I need to take it in to a polisher and get a millimeter or so trimmed of the top third, then it will be just right.
Miyazawa-kun was hung over from last night, so he was in bad form and stopped after a couple of rolls. Urabe-san has a great sword, but he needs to work on his angles and targeting. Ishiguro-san was cutting for the first time with an old sword that's been in his house for a few generations. It cut well, and he cut well.
Just goes to show you, a great cutting sword doesn't do any good if you can't wield it, and decent form will more than make up for a bad sword.
After cutting we cleaned the dojo top-to-bottom. Did the windows and mirrors, vacuumed and mopped the floor, cleaned the office, and I did the nasty-nasty bathroom.
When we were done Gosoke was really psyched, and I decided that we'll do a proper cleaning every month after cutting, since we have to clean anyway.
bye-bye miyazawa
Miyazawa-kun is getting transferred to Osaka as of April, so we had a going away party for him. I showed up late because of some last minute insanity at work, so when I arrived everyone was well and good drunk.
Like all typical salarymen, Miyazaza-kun works hard and does what his company tells him. So, when they tell him to move to the other side of Japan for who knows how many years, he goes. 32 years old, and this will be the first time he'll be living on his own. Ever. I was giving him crap like "You do know how to wash clothes right?" but honestly, I'm worried. He's not a mama's boy or anything, but he's been living at home in the sticks for his entire life, commuting to school, commuting to work, commuting to the dojo, and he doesn't know a soul in Osaka. At least the people at his company seem cool so they'll help him out, and if he has any money he can come up to Tokyo every now and then. But damn, if my company told me one day to leave my family, my dojo, my life in Tokyo and go to Osaka for who knows how many years...well I guess I'm not Japanese after all.
Like all typical salarymen, Miyazaza-kun works hard and does what his company tells him. So, when they tell him to move to the other side of Japan for who knows how many years, he goes. 32 years old, and this will be the first time he'll be living on his own. Ever. I was giving him crap like "You do know how to wash clothes right?" but honestly, I'm worried. He's not a mama's boy or anything, but he's been living at home in the sticks for his entire life, commuting to school, commuting to work, commuting to the dojo, and he doesn't know a soul in Osaka. At least the people at his company seem cool so they'll help him out, and if he has any money he can come up to Tokyo every now and then. But damn, if my company told me one day to leave my family, my dojo, my life in Tokyo and go to Osaka for who knows how many years...well I guess I'm not Japanese after all.
kumitachi
Been busting hard at work, and finally got a lull, so managed to get to the dojo for kumitachi practice. Haven't done kumitachi in a while, but felt good to shake off the cobwebs and crack some wood. Gosoke showed everyone the basics of taking the centerline; watch your opponent's right fist, move after he's committed, slide up, over, and down the centerline. Once you get it, keep it, and don't slop alot of muscle into it. We demonstrated a couple of times, and then he left me to teach a couple of the kata. There were six so we made three pairs and ran through the first three kumitachi: hokuto, taihaku, and inazuma.
Toughest part for everyone, besides clashing swords like a bad samurai movie, is getting the distance right. You have to cut your opponent where he is (or will be as he moves towards you), and knowing that, you have to lead your opponent in to cut you, say by giving him your forehead so that he comes in high, and sliding out and through it and taking his side. Distance is critical; it's hard enough to hit something that isn't moving, but when you're faced off with a partner...they were all having a time of it. At least they get the idea, even if they can't do it. I showed a couple more times how to take the centerline by moving in late, and the difference in sound from clashing (BANG!) to deflecting (ZIP!) They got it, even though they don't get it. Now all they have to do is work on it, but everyone just wants to hurry up and play samurai, smacking sticks together, instead of slowing down, watching distance, timing, taking and guarding the centerline, moving with intent, and paying attention to your opponent.
Toughest part for everyone, besides clashing swords like a bad samurai movie, is getting the distance right. You have to cut your opponent where he is (or will be as he moves towards you), and knowing that, you have to lead your opponent in to cut you, say by giving him your forehead so that he comes in high, and sliding out and through it and taking his side. Distance is critical; it's hard enough to hit something that isn't moving, but when you're faced off with a partner...they were all having a time of it. At least they get the idea, even if they can't do it. I showed a couple more times how to take the centerline by moving in late, and the difference in sound from clashing (BANG!) to deflecting (ZIP!) They got it, even though they don't get it. Now all they have to do is work on it, but everyone just wants to hurry up and play samurai, smacking sticks together, instead of slowing down, watching distance, timing, taking and guarding the centerline, moving with intent, and paying attention to your opponent.
suits you
Let's talk about clothes. Not about fashion, that thing that happens with skinny women and ugly clothing in Paris, I mean style.
My dad has a closet full of suits. Awesome. Italian. Suits.
See, we used to live in Italy. And my dad, being American and having moved to Milan from England, found the best-dressed Italian guy at work (head of advertising, of course) and asked him where to buy clothes. My dad proceeded to learn the Golden Rules of men's clothing, and he handed them down to me. Some I agree with, some I do not.
And that's the first rule: you wear your clothes. You should feel comfortable in your own clothing, physically and mentally and socially. I simply do not understand women who wear shoes that they think look great, causing them so much pain that they walk like crippled infants. Not attractive.
My dad dropped some coin on clothes. Still does.
And that's rule the second: your clothes should look at least as expensive as they are. My parents were friends with a couple, rich, who liked to show horses. The wife wore dresses that looked absolutely stunning. You looked at her and thought "DAMN that thing musta cost ten grand!" And therefore, if she paid $10,000 for it, she got her money's worth. Note the corollary: spending lots of money on a brand name does not guarantee quality. I see plenty of leather purses that looks ten times cheaper than their made-up prices. I dropped a grand on a black, double-breasted Armani because when I wear it people go "Dude! That suit musta cost you two thousand bucks!" A bargain at twice the price. And the Armani label is on the inside, where it counts.
There's all kinds of suit styles. British, French, Italian...I prefer a more Italian cut, which basically means that liquid mercury should flow uninterruptedly from neck to ankle. That means clean lines from shoulder to wrist, neck to hip, waist to foot. No pocket flaps, no pants leg cuffs, no air vents. Lose the button-down shirt collars, too. What, you afraid your tie will try to fly away? Brass collar stays, please. No one can see them, but you know they're there.
Rule the Third is about accessories and jewelry: match your leathers, don't mix gold and silver. Brown shoes, brown belt. Platinum watch, platinum ring, platinum cufflinks.
There's a bunch of other little things I'm anal about (wide collars, different colored cuffs/collars on shirts, tie pins, suspenders) but most of that is just me being Not British.
Now I just have to wait for my dad to get old and decrepit, and then I can raid his closet and inherit his wardrobe.
My dad has a closet full of suits. Awesome. Italian. Suits.
See, we used to live in Italy. And my dad, being American and having moved to Milan from England, found the best-dressed Italian guy at work (head of advertising, of course) and asked him where to buy clothes. My dad proceeded to learn the Golden Rules of men's clothing, and he handed them down to me. Some I agree with, some I do not.
And that's the first rule: you wear your clothes. You should feel comfortable in your own clothing, physically and mentally and socially. I simply do not understand women who wear shoes that they think look great, causing them so much pain that they walk like crippled infants. Not attractive.
My dad dropped some coin on clothes. Still does.
And that's rule the second: your clothes should look at least as expensive as they are. My parents were friends with a couple, rich, who liked to show horses. The wife wore dresses that looked absolutely stunning. You looked at her and thought "DAMN that thing musta cost ten grand!" And therefore, if she paid $10,000 for it, she got her money's worth. Note the corollary: spending lots of money on a brand name does not guarantee quality. I see plenty of leather purses that looks ten times cheaper than their made-up prices. I dropped a grand on a black, double-breasted Armani because when I wear it people go "Dude! That suit musta cost you two thousand bucks!" A bargain at twice the price. And the Armani label is on the inside, where it counts.
There's all kinds of suit styles. British, French, Italian...I prefer a more Italian cut, which basically means that liquid mercury should flow uninterruptedly from neck to ankle. That means clean lines from shoulder to wrist, neck to hip, waist to foot. No pocket flaps, no pants leg cuffs, no air vents. Lose the button-down shirt collars, too. What, you afraid your tie will try to fly away? Brass collar stays, please. No one can see them, but you know they're there.
Rule the Third is about accessories and jewelry: match your leathers, don't mix gold and silver. Brown shoes, brown belt. Platinum watch, platinum ring, platinum cufflinks.
There's a bunch of other little things I'm anal about (wide collars, different colored cuffs/collars on shirts, tie pins, suspenders) but most of that is just me being Not British.
Now I just have to wait for my dad to get old and decrepit, and then I can raid his closet and inherit his wardrobe.
bucks with douglas
Aala Wi Jamaican Jerk Pork
In Ebisu, damn fine Jamaican jerk pork and chicken, with banana chips, rice and beans. Damn. Fine. Eats.
(un)exceptional
ex·cep·tion·al adj.
- Being an exception; uncommon.
- Well above average; extraordinary
me: I need you to do X.I think it is fair to say that he is, with no exaggeration, totally and completely unexceptional.
him: Standard policy is that we do not do X. We do A,B, and C.
me: Understood. But this is a special situation; high priority, rarely happens but when it does we really, really need X.
him: I understand that as well. But we have policies for a reason. We can't just go responding to every random request, can we? We'd never get anything done, stability would decrease, and we would be at serious risk.
me: Yes, of course, you should not just do any random request. But this is an exception. It is an extraordinary situation, of utmost importance.
him: Sorry, can't do it.
snow
OK, we're well into March and it is DUMPING snow. We have more snow now then we did at the end of December.
Uh, spring anyone? Maybe? Somewhere?
The photo above is my front yard (on the left) and walkway up to my front door (on the right.) No, the walkway isn't whited out from a flash or bright sunlight; it's cover in 2 centimeters of snow.
this place sucks
Superfriends animation + Office Space soundtrack = T.P.S. mashup: Absolutely. Brilliant.
my new sword
Been waiting since summer 2004, and it has finally arrived; my new sword.
2.3.5 (72.2 cm), 2 mekugi-ana, 1.8 cm sori, forged the first day of October, 16th year of Heisei by Takaba Hiroshi (signed Nyoshu Hiromune) in Gifu Prefecture.
eulogy
I couldn't get to my grandpa's funeral, but my dad read my blog about grandpa at the memorial service. Eulogy-by-blog. That's really cool, because it's almost like I was there.
test your travel iq
from my bro:
Monograms by Globus has a cool travel IQ test in nifty flash. I got 2 outta 5 correct, but my excuse is that none of the questions were about Japan.
Monograms by Globus has a cool travel IQ test in nifty flash. I got 2 outta 5 correct, but my excuse is that none of the questions were about Japan.
grandpa
Grandpa died. He'd been fighting Parkinson's for a while.
He died with a full head of salt & pepper hair, his harmonica in the drawer next to his bed.
I did my 6th grade family history project centered around him and all his WW2 adventures. Not sure how many of the stories I remember are true, but it doesn't matter.
He was the drummer in a band in high school, and he taught me how to play snare.
He was a grocer, and used to comment on the proper way to stack apples whenever we went to the supermarket.
He was a freedom fighter with the underground in occupied France, for the simple fact that he studied French in high school.
He stormed the beaches in Normandy. As soon as he hit land, a shell exploded right next to him, knocking him unconscious, stripping him naked, and leaving him for dead. He lay on the beach for a while, until the Red Cross started collecting bodies. When they got to him, they didn't know if he was German or American. They put him in a US hospital, and when he awoke, they asked him in German "Do you speak German?" Of course he spoke German, so he answered "Yes."
He couldn't remember his name or anything, so for a while they thought he was German, until they confirmed his identity as an American.
Another time on patrol in a field, he was checking in with the rest of the unit via radio. The other radio crackled and he heard: "All cl- ...[shuffle tumble rumble clang]..." and then a distinctly German accent said "All clear." Grandpa put his radio down and crawled 2 miles back to base. When he got there he was told that photos taken from an overhead spy plane showed an entire battalion of German troops not 100 meters in front of his position.
Another time he and some guys were eating, sitting around a tree. A random shell hit the tree, splitting it in two. The explosion killed one guy, the two halves of the tree killed the other two. Grandpa was ok.
He explained to me the superiority of German machine guns (snap in/out barrels, easier to change when overheated than the US screw in/out barrels) and how you always carry a piece of pipe so when you capture an enemy, you stick the pipe in his back and hold your pistol with your back hand. That way if he turns around and knocks your lead hand (which holds the pipe that he thinks is your sidearm) you still got him.
He was awareded two purple hearts and an oak-leaf cluster.
Most of his war stories are probably just a combination of him telling them when I was little, and my imagination spinning them over and over until he became the super war hero that I think he is. It doesn't matter. That's how I remember him.
He and grandma lived in the same apartment in Jackson Heights forever. They painted the walls the same color. They have all the original appliances.
The funeral is today. It's some annoying Jewish thing; you must bury the dead immediately. So of course I can't possibly make it in time.
Bye-bye grandpa.
amazon arbitrage
This is totally brilliant. Amazon has six websites globally, all in local currencies. I often bounce between .com and .jp trying to find the best price on a CD or book.
Pricenoia does all the heavy lifting for you. Search by author/title/etc., select the item, and then compare the prices, including shipping, from whatever locale you want, in your currency.
Pricenoia does all the heavy lifting for you. Search by author/title/etc., select the item, and then compare the prices, including shipping, from whatever locale you want, in your currency.
breakin' in the rain
From willnolan:
Gotta say one thing about Volkswagon; they got some badass advertising.
Low-tech explanation: no CG, just an actor who looks familiar and a rebuilt set.
Hi-tech explanation: seemless CG mapping of motion-captured body, original footage, facial scan.
Truth? Who cares!
Gotta say one thing about Volkswagon; they got some badass advertising.
Low-tech explanation: no CG, just an actor who looks familiar and a rebuilt set.
Hi-tech explanation: seemless CG mapping of motion-captured body, original footage, facial scan.
Truth? Who cares!
mama at the gates
Mama went to check out The Gates in Central Park. She is now officially a Patron o' The Arts.
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