Aftermath

 

At last, I got my laptop back.  When I called home a couple of days ago, in an effort to come up with an alibi for not having called since two weeks ago, I told my mom that I was busy fixing my laptop.  "Who fixed it?" she asked.  "I did."  "All by yourself?"  Without seeing her face, I knew just what sort of expression she was wearing.  Skepticism, surprise, and that mixture of amusement and sarcasm that only mothers could bare and suppress at the same time.  From the end of the line, I could tell she was stifling a nasty laugh.  "Hey, it’s not like I had to pry the laptop open with screwdrivers and stuff.  The problem was with the soft—  the problem was more on the INside."  Sigh.  Mothers.

 

So, as everything else, my suffering, too, came to an end.  Of course I lost all the data in my laptop.  But come to think of it, what have I lost really?  Folders of pictures I barely opened after I had them downloaded from my camera?  Music and videos I hadn’t had the chance to organize?  No, I didn’t lose any research-related program or journal paper; I hardly did research at home.  So far, I have yet to feel the need of looking at a particular picture or listening to a specific music, realize that it’s gone and feel sorry for its loss.

 

I guess I’m actually relieved that it happened.  Maybe I’ve been wanting it to happen all along.  It’s true, I’ve lost everything.  But in the process, wasn’t I saved from going through all the trouble of organizing, backing up and filing?  Would it have been worth it had I done those things before my laptop cracked up?  Would it have made any difference with the way I feel right now?

 

Music, they’re available at the video and music rental shop nearby.  Journal papers, I can always access them through my computer in the lab.  Pictures, I have them all, along with the memories, vividly preserved and neatly organized in my mind.

 

Why, with a fresher, faster computer, I guess I should be celebrating right now!

To Recover or Not

 

It’s official.  My Toshiba Satellite 2410 died, two months short of its third birthday.  The principle of equivalent trade in alchemy states that in order to gain one thing, something of equal value must be lost.  I believe that the converse of this principle is true and that this law applies to other things in life besides alchemy.  I have lost one thing.  It is but rightful that I gain something in return.

 

Now, I’m not going to go look for that stupid recovery disk until something good happens.  I wonder, though.  What if indeed I gained something from all this.  Would I have to give that something up so I could have my laptop back?

Hisashiburi!

 

Hisashiburi!  It has been ages since I last made an entry.  Oh well.

 

Lately, I’ve been doing practically nothing.  Summer break has started; no zemi, no presentations, hence no reason to go to school.  Well, I’ve gone out with friends a couple of times and for several weekends now, I’ve been doing some sightseeing around Kyoto.  And of course, there was this baito thing, temporarily held off for the month of August, which had kept me busy, or at least feeling busy, for the past few Tuesdays.  Still, I feel like I’ve turned into a useless being.  And without so much as a baito to keep me occupied next month, I wonder just what will become of me.  Sigh.

Tuesdays With the Obaasans

 

For two weeks now, every Tuesday, I would wake up at 8 A.M. and take a quick breakfast, which usually consists of the previous night’s leftovers or a piece of sweet bread and cold lemon tea.  Afterwards, I would enjoy my thirty-five-minute warm shower and by the time I finish, I would then have barely enough time to catch the 9:49 train for Demachiyanagi, where I would get off and hurriedly switch, after buying a pack of cigarettes from one of the vending machines, to the 10 o’clock express train heading for Tambabashi.

 

Seven minutes on foot from Tambabashi station is the Fushimi Youth Action Center, where in one of the conference rooms on the second floor, my four lovely obaasans would patiently wait in their respective seats, chatting in hushed, excited murmurs.  Upon my arrival, we would exchange pleasantries and sometimes talk idly about the weather.  Then at exactly 10:30, we would get down to business – our one-and-a-half-hour English class would officially begin.

 

When Hideo, a half-Japanese, half-Swiss friend, was talking about this arubaito that he was passing on to me, he particularly warned me about the obaasans.  They’re not beginners anymore.  Instead of the usual grammar and sentence construction lessons, Hideo advised me to bring to class newspaper articles for group discussion and analysis.

 

Indeed, my obaasans are way beyond your usual "Noh, noh… noh Ingrish" obaasans.  Meg, who studies English to relearn long-forgotten expressions, speaks with almost impeccable grammar.  She has lived in Belgium for four years and having been unable to speak French, she would converse in English to neighbors and non-Japanese friends throughout her stay, which explains her considerable fluency and distinct pronunciation.  Plump and jolly Iku, on the other hand, attends the class "to keep my brain active and stimulated."  For quiet yet genial Anne, who likes to be called after the main character of her favorite novel, Anne of Green Gables, little English expressions she picks from class usually come in handy whenever she’s playing host to her husband’s business partners from abroad.  The fourth obaasan, whose name escapes me, is currently enjoying her holiday in Switzerland.  She skipped this week’s class but promised to be back for the next one.

 

One thing I like about my obaasans, they don’t easily give up.  Meg, for example, though fluent, is given to taking her time in choosing the right words and always trying to come up with grammatically correct sentences.  Whenever Iku comes across a difficult expression, she would never let it go until a sufficient explanation has been given.  When asked, Anne’s voice would sometimes trail off in the middle of her reply and just when I would begin to finish her sentence for her, she would start all over again and make her own revisions. 

 

Sometimes I wonder where these obaasans get all their energy and motivation.  What factors drive them to excel in something that many would shrug off as merely a pastime?  Are there reasons beyond supposed sentimental recollection and so-called brain stimulation?  Or is it just that as we get older, we tend to take things in earnest, trivial as they may seem?

Losing From the Sidelines

 

Phew, what a “sportful” weekend!  Friday night was the Rafael Nadal-Marcos Baghdatis semifinal match, which I got to watch at a coffee shop twenty minutes in high gear from my dorm.  In the middle of the game, I e-mailed Shinya, a Japanese friend who lived nearby.  Fifteen minutes later, he came by car and having no interest in tennis, he started talking as soon as he settled down across the table while I half-listened, one eye on him and the other fixed on the television behind him.  At about four A.M., long after Nadal once again did his trademark fist pump in victory, Shin-chan suggested that we go for a drive.  So, on Saturday morning, at daybreak, I was at Lake Biwa, watching the beautiful summer sun rise, listening to Shin-chan’s Mr. Children MD, having the time of my life.

 

On Saturday night, once again, I biked all the way to the coffee shop, only to find that they had tuned in to a different channel, “preparing” the tv five hours in advance for the battle for third World Cup match between Germany and Portugal.  So, braving the rain, I biked back and listened to the uninterrupted live coverage of the women’s finals between Mauresmo and [H]enin-[H]ardenne on Radio Wimbledon, in the comfort of my own room.  I was cheering for [H]enin-[H]ardenne but the top seed Mauresmo just played better this time, preventing [H]ardenne from becoming the 10^th woman in history to win all four grand slam titles.

 

The match on Sunday night had all the makings of a perfect ending, both for the Wimbledon and my long weekend, with Nadal and Federer in the men’s finals.

 

© Getty Images

 

Oh, I was so rooting for the twenty-year-old Nadal to win over the three-time defending Wimbledon champion.  However, the grass-court master was just too good for the king of clay this time.  Sigh.  Oh well, Nadal had shown that he has improved so much on grass.  I’m sure his time will come soon.

 

With [H]ardenne and Rafa lost, I went to bed feeling a little bit sad over my almost-perfect weekend.  For consolation, I hoped for France to win the World Cup over Italy.  Monday morning, I eagerly checked the internet, right after I woke up, only to get disappointed.

 

Phew, what a weekend.  Now I feel like a total loser.

What Next, Charlie Brown?

 

Look what 7-11 is having – a Snoopy Fair!

 

Each 7-11 original food product (bread, sushi, bento, onigiri, etc.) comes with a Snoopy sticker that looks like either of these:

What you do, you simply collect these stickers and paste them on a leaflet that you can get from any 7-11 convenience store or even online!  At the end of July, take your sticker-filled leaflet to the store and – voila! – for every 30 points, you’ll get a one-of-a-kind Snoopy plate, made of the finest porcelain, imprinted with an image of the world’s most loved beagle himself!

 

It’s been three days since I started collecting.  At first, I wanted to gather at least sixty points so I’d get two plates.  But now, I’m feeling like one more bento and I’m gonna throw up.  So, I’ll settle for thirty points.  So far, I’ve got nine points.  Twenty-one more to go.

 

Next month, the cute bowl will be up for grabs.  Then in September, it will be the mug.  That means, three months of onigiri, yakisoba, and bento.  Good grief! 

Tylenol™ Overdose

 

I’ve been sick since Thursday.  Inexplicable body heat, intermittent headaches, runny nose, a cough that’s neither dry nor wet.

 

I’ve tried everything.  A pain reliever from Bahrain, orange juice, cassis and grape juice, cranberry juice, red wine, draft beer.  Nothing worked.  I’ve even switched to Mild Seven Extra Lights!  Still, nothing happened.  And so, Friday evening, I wobbled my way to the university co-op and demanded something for my headache.  The lady behind the counter offered an aspirin, a drug that just doesn’t work for me.  With fingers crossed, I asked for a paracetamol, hoping that paracetamol is still paracetamol in Japanese, unlike say, sodium, which the Japanese fondly refer to as natrium.  Fortunately, she nodded, strode off, and came back with a box of Tylenol™, which could be taken three times a day at the most, even on an empty stomach.

 

Since then, I’ve pinned my hopes on the box of Tylenol™, faithfully taking a tablet once every six hours.  I’ve even skipped a meal on purpose, just to see if it indeed works even on an empty stomach.  I’ve already taken half of the tablets in the box.  But why, oh why, do I still have this stupid headache?  I’m still "in heat" and my nose still runs.  My cough has gone drier, no thanks to the Extra Lights.

 

Sigh.  I don’t wanna die yet.  No, not now, when I still haven’t published a single journal paper.

Bowling With the Senseis

 

Finals

 

I still can’t decide whether my ending up in one team with super sensei after the practice game did me good or bad.  One thing I’m sure of, I was conscious of his presence all the time.  And I mean, ALL the time.  I could feel his eyes looking intently the moment I stepped on the lane, perhaps judging my every move.  He would shake his head everytime I missed but be the first one to nod and smile whenever I threw a good one.

Bowling With the Senseis

 

Preliminaries

 

When Takaki, the labmate in charge of scheduling our lab’s recreational nonscholastic activities, announced that for this spring semester, we would revive the bowling tournaments, a lab tradition mysteriously ignored and forgotten since the series of semi-annual tournaments ended six years ago, I was pretty sure I heard "Hallelujah" playing in the background.  Not only was I excited to participate in my first "real" bowling tournament, the prospect of playing against my labmates and senseis also aroused my dormant combative tendencies.  Two weeks before the competition, I eagerly made plans of doing a lot of biking and stretching, practising my footwork and follow-through, and making clandestine trips to the nearby bowling alleys.  Naturally, as with my other undertakings, these were put off for a day, then a week, and were eventually abandoned.  Not one was realised, unless of course you’d count the few trips to the Irish pub downtown as exercise.

 

First, let it be known that we have two senseis – "super sensei," and his associate, "associate sensei."  Although the left-handed associate sensei is quite good himself and has actually finished at the top in previous tournaments, it was super sensei who was most feared and was the favorite to win before the games began.

 

The eighteen participants in The 7^th Bowling Optimization Problem [Optimize the bowling!] were randomly divided into four groups – two groups of four and two groups of five – for the first game.  The first game, initially meant to be a practice game, doubled as the basis for determining the final grouping.  The foreigners – me, Mend, Rhoda, Dashan and Hedar – started in one group.  The senseis also started in the same group, together with the Japanese post docs.

 

Practice games have always been crucial to my actual performance.  It would be the time for me to decide on which ball to use, experiment with the four-step and the three-step approaches, try spins and possibly, hooks, and determine where and when to release the ball.  Having been forewarned that there would only be one practice game, however, I decided to go less on the experimenting and focus more on the getting used to.

 

To say that I did bad on the practice game would be an understatement.  Despite my effort and concentration, the ball kept going way off to the left.  After four frames, I realized that the problem was with the ball so I switched from ten pounds to eleven.  Yet the problem persisted.  As I stepped on the lane to begin my seventh frame, however, I experienced an epiphany.  All the while, I’ve been throwing straight balls from the second dot from the right, right before the foul line.  Willing the ball to go left, I must have been giving it too much direction.  I assumed my stance and decided to release the ball between the second and the third dots from the right, giving it just enough direction to hit the right pocket.  The moment the ball left my hand, I knew I was getting a strike.  I did, and the spares that followed salvaged my pathetic score and helped me finish on the sixth spot, surprisingly two notches ahead of associate sensei, who might have had similar adjustment troubles, but way behind super sensei, who placed among the top.

An E-mail to Theang, Who Had to Go Away*

 

From: Me

To: Theang

Sent: Thursday, June 15, 2006 1:44 AM

Subject: Hey…

 

Theang,

 

I know it’s sad for you to leave Japan.  As for me, I thought I would be okay.  I didn’t expect it to be this sad for me, too!

 

Maybe we shouldn’t have spent so much time together.  It was your fault, you had to do a lot of shopping.  And see, what did I get from it?  Nothing but sadness, now that you’re leaving and I’m left without a shopping partner anymore.

 

Soon after you left the lab, I left too and because I was feeling sad, I thought of writing you a long e-mail.  But don’t you think that would be corny?  So, no, this won’t be long.  And besides, I have a baito at 8am tomorrow.  I need to sleep and gain much energy so that I would be able to face tomorrow’s stupid questions from stupid fourteen-year-olds.

 

I didn’t want to say goodbye.  I hate goodbyes.  I didn’t want to see you sad, I didn’t want you to see me sad, either.  For the rest of the year, I want to remember you as this jolly, smiling kid, always joking and laughing, and most of the time feeling so full of himself, claiming that he’s the eighth wonder of the world.  I hope you’ll remember me as a cheerful friend, too, not one whom you’ve made sad because of your leaving.

 

I wanted to write a little bit more, but this e-mail is making me even sadder.  So I guess I’ll just let you go on with your packing.  I wish you a pleasant trip and an eventful stay in Belgium, so you wouldn’t think too much about Japan.

 

As for me, I’m going to sleep and hope that I’d feel better tomorrow.

 

Take care of yourself.  Goodbye.  See you next year.

 

Me

 

---

 *posted with permission from the eighth wonder of the world himself