Noriko Mourns Michael Jackson

Last night I came home tired after practicing aikido. I grabbed my dinner and flopped in front of the TV. Instantly the Michael Jackson thing came on – his memorial service in Staples Center, Los Angeles. I groaned with displeasure. “How long is this media frenzy going to continue?” I asked. If the media were an individual, we would call it “obsessive-compulsive” and put it on medication. Instead, we call it “democratic free press!” I was starting to roll.

“Don’t complain!” Noriko cut me short with a withering look. “I like. It vedy entuhtaining. If you complain, I go watch in my cave!” With that, Noriko exited for the cable TV set up in her cave, with our three little poodles following. How nice – I was free in my exhaustion to watch my OWN idiotic programming instead of worshipping Michael Jackson!

To some extent I forgot about Noriko’s “grieving process” for Michael as I lounged in the living room, but once in awhile a nice audio clue would wave in. “He was the greatest entertainer of ALL TIME!” bellowed a voice from the cave. “He was a wondeful human being!” cried another. Such grand statements punctuated my evening, the ghost of Michael Jackson invading my space, until, mercifully, I fell asleep….

And I remained happily oblivious of the memorial frenzy until, fading into consciousness, I heard from the cave, the off-tune singing: “We are duh wohld; we are duh children….” Noriko was singing along to Michael’s old tear-jerker. Christ! It was 10:30, and I had been out for awhile; it felt as if I had been on that drug Jackson purportedly used to “go under.” As I came to, I realized that Noriko was STILL tuned into the orgy.

“Jesus, Norichan – how long are you going to watch that junk!” I yelled from the livingroom to the cave. In an instant Noriko emerged, now in her PJs. “It wonderful. I cry!” she pronounced as she came in and threw herself on the futon. The dogs immediately piled on. “Michael duh greatest entuhtainuh of all time!” Noriko declared, not knowing I had already heard the tired quote from the TV. “I relived my youth dis evening. Michael vedy entuhtaining!”

“Ugh! I can’t wait for the orgy to end. This must be the climax, right? This memorial thing?”

“Probably,” Noriko conceded. “Dis probably climax, and it was good. Tonight I mourned vedy happily.”

“Well, I am glad you enjoyed your ‘mourning”, honey, but I am more glad to hear that this drama is over.”

“Oh, no, ” Noriko replied. “It not ovuh yet. Yes, tonight duh climax. But we still waiting for toxicology report. Dat mean dehr more. Fan all ovuh duh world can anticipate more!”

I sighed with resignation, the irony of my situation fully revealing itself: I was an active critic of the media madness of the Jackson coverage, but my wife was now fully enrolled in the program.

“Maybe so, ” I said as I got up from the futon, but I have had enough of this storyline, so you just moon-walk your little butt to the bedroom – enough about Michael Jackson!” I said as commandingly as possible.

“I just started!” Noriko replied laughing as she ran to the bedroom, dogs at her heels.

Mercifully, I clicked off the television….

Lost in Translation: Novel Japanese Expressions

Noriko was cooking lunch in the kitchen when I walked in. As usual, she began addressing a topic with little introduction. “I out of market,” she said. “Market too scary dese days. Too volatile for my taste. I not speculatuh; I swing traduh.”

“It’s up to you, honey. Whatever you want.” My chief interest, frankly, was lunch.

“It just too much,” Noriko continued, ignoring me. “Too volatile for me. I chicken. I thought I had guts, but I don’t. I just don’t have duh guts for dis market….”

“‘Don’t have the guts,’ huh? You know every English idiom in the book, don’t you?” I commented.

“Luhned from you. You teach me all duh silly ones. You my teachuh!” Noriko replied.

Out of curiousity I asked “Do you say ‘he doesn’t have the guts’ in Japanese?” Noriko reflected on my question. “Uh, I don’t tink so. I can’t remembuh. I don’t speakuh Japanese for so long, I forget dese ting….”

Fortunately, the chicken was ready and I got what I had been looking for – lunch!

A few minutes later, as I was eating, Noriko came out of the kitchen. “You have a small butthole!” she said excitedly.

I looked at her, dumbfounded. “Excuse me….?”

“You have a tiny little butthole!” Noriko repeated, as if she were making a critical point.

“And the need to discuss my butthole while I have lunch is….?” I was in no mood for Japanese riddles.

“No, not YOUR butthole. It what we say. We say dat “he has small butthole.”

I chewed my chicken in silence, still confused.

“We talk about it uhlier. Instead of ‘he don’t have guts’, we say ‘he gotta small butthole.’”

I finally got the connection. “Oh, I get it – if you want to say that someone isn’t bold enough, or brave enough, you say he has a small butthole…?”

“Oh, yes, we vedy mattuh-of-fact about it: He simply have small butthole.” Noriko shrugged as if this point were self-evident. I started laughing.

“What so funny?” Noriko asked.

“Well, it is funny to hear how different cultures have such different ways to convey the same idea,” I said.

“Not so different, really,” she replied.

“How so?” I asked.

“Well it all the same system. Different quadrant, dat all. One uppuh quadrant, udduh lowuh quadrant, but same system.” Noriko shrugged her shoulders.

“Maybe you are right about that,” I conceded. “But let me ask you this: To say that he is brave, do you say ‘he has a big butthole?’”

Noriko laughed disparagingly. “Ha! Of course not! You don’t say he has big butthole. You can only say he haveuh small one. Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Oh, so I am the one who is being ridiculous? Well, then why don’t you get back to your investing and let me eat my lunch in peace?” I suggested.

“Sure, you eat, fine, But I don’t go back to investing. My butthole simply too small for it!” Noriko grinned at me as she walked back toward her executive suite…..

Rodents 101

The front door slammed open as Noriko entered the house. “Dehr MOUSE in my car!” she said indignantly. “Not just in ahr conditionuh, but in car propuh!” I calmed her down, and this story slowly emerged:

Noriko had gone to the Honda dealer because her air conditioning wasn’t working. “I spend TWO HOUR at Honda because dehr was THREE mouse in aihr conditionuh. Me and dogs finally lie on sofa in waiting room and sleep.” But the worst of it was still to come: After she came home, Noriko thoroughly vacuumed the interior of her car. The next time she checked it – “I can’t believe – dehr mouse poop all ovuh back of car! I hate mouse!” Noriko’s displeasure for mice and cockroaches is a theme introduced in an earlier Tale, which I am now finally expounding upon.

“But don’t worry,” she said, assuringly. “I have solution….” Noriko related this as if she were sharing some sort of secret or inside story with me. She paused dramatically. ” I have…. mouse zappuh!”

That’s right – rather than an old-fashioned mouse trap, Noriko has spent $50 on a special new product called “The Rat Zapper”. “It small box. You put bait inside and mouse entuh little door. When it do, it get ELECTROCUTED!” Noriko momentarily shook back and forth, conveying the experience.

“But what about the poor mouse? Won’t PETA’s mouse lovers come after you?” I asked.

“Nice thing about zappuh is you don’t even need to SEE mouse.” She paused as she prepared to recount some of the Zapper’s finer features. It was then that I noticed a little brochure on the dining room table entitled “Rodents 101″. “Light go on here when mouse entuh little house,” Noriko told me excitedly. Denn you just turn it over like dis and you can shake out mouse and not even look at it.”

“Gee, that is a wonderful feature,” I replied, taking in the exciting visuals of Noriko’s show-and-tell. “That’s worth $50, dear!” Noriko didn’t pick up my facetious tone. “Yes, it electrocute mouse. He look like dis….” Again Noriko portrayed what the mouse purportedly looked like. “Honey,” I asked, as I considered what Noriko had said. “If you didn’t look at the mouse, per this wonderful feature you are promoting, then HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE MOUSE LOOKED LIKE?”

Noriko looked momentarily stunned, like a mouse caught in the proverbial trap. “You got me on dat. I peeked at mouse when I emptied zappuh. But important thing is you have OPTION not to look!”

“But what about the poor mouse? Isn’t this inhumane treatment?” I pressed my point.

“Mouse cute,” Noriko admitted. “Not gray, but two-toned, white and kinda calico. Look like little hamstuh. He cute,” she conceded, paused, and then regained her commitment. “But I cannot afford luxury of mouse in my car. Poo-poo everywhere; carry disease. And what if mouse chew electrical wiuh? Cause problem. Cute or not, NO mouse in MY car!”

“Couldn’t you just catch them and let them go?” I was relentless.

“No, no I resuched dat. Mouse vedy clevuh. You let him go, he just come right back. Resuch say you have to take mouse a least FIVE MILE from house or he just return. And why is electrocution so inhumane?” she asked. In American society, we electrocute HUMAN, so why you give me trouble over dis mouse control technique? Huh?” Her tone was triumphant.

Noriko had me on that one. End of dialogue – the mouse zapper had prevailed against my ethical challenges and it would rule on against the mice on (or in) our property. Believe it or not, (honest) as I wrote this Tale here in my studio, to my astonishment a little mouse casually walked by me and then hid under a table. Bring on the Zapper!

At a Santa Fe Pizza Joint: Japanese Girls Are Dainty Eaters?

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in early fall, so much so that Noriko and I had decided to go to one of Santa Fe’s endless seasonal street festivals. Noriko was highly motivated to take in some of the local “culture” in the form of the local food street vendors. But by the time we got down to the plaza it was too late; thundershowers threatened, and the vendors had begun to tear down. Yet Noriko was unperturbed. “When it come to food, I always have Plan B”, she declared. “Round the corner is gourmet pizza joint!” So we proceeded to “Rooftop Pizza”, arriving just as the summer thunderstorm rolled in.

Once seated we surveyed the menu. “Dis menu a bit pretentious”, Noriko whispered, “with all sort of fancy vegetarian extra – ar’choke, pinenut, spinach, blah, blah. Pizza simply vulguh food, so why pretend? Pizza should be cheesy and straightforward indulgent; odduhwise, why bodduh?” I had no quarrels with her philosophy, so we ordered cheap and old-school – lots of cheese and pepperoni. We also got some wine.

“You used to be a drinker in your youth, no?” I asked.

“Yes,” Noriko said. “I was buhbon drinkuh. I loved buhbon. I say ‘give me Jack Daniel, onduhrock…’”

“Do you guys really say ‘on the rocks’? I asked because I knew from previous discussions how many phrases the Japanese borrow from English.

“Yes, of course. We say ‘onduhrock’”.

“Do you drop the plural like that?

“What plural?”

“Rock-S, honey”, I clarified.

Noriko shrugged. “We say ‘onduhrock….’

The pizza came, and it was indeed self-indulgent and cheesy. We dug in. About half way into it Noriko’s face began to sweat profusely. “See, I sweat. From spice. We Japanese not equipped for westuhn spice.”

“What spices?” I asked sincerely.

“You don’t know? Dehr chili or someting in pizza sauce.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but she was sweating and everything in Santa Fe has chili in it, so I figured that she knew. And in any case, I was stuffed. “Uh, now I see why I don’t eat pizza. Too much for me,” I said.

“Now time for dessuht…” Noriko said, eyeballing the menu as she continued to labor at the remaining pizza.

“Dessert? You can’t be serious – I’m full!” I protested.

“In Japan we say dat we have second stomach for dessuht,” Noriko replied, continuing to scan the dessert menu.

“I am curious, honey – given what a little thing you are, you certainly are a food lover. Have you always been so, uh, single-minded when it comes to eating?” I inquired.

“Oh yes”, she indicated, mouth too full to talk. Finally she spat out “Back to womb!”

“Huh?”

“Dat right. Muddah say, when she pregant with me, she could tell what I want because it not what she normally like. (And not what she like when pregnant with olduh sistuh.) When she get dis particulah Chinese food, muddah say, ” Baby Noriko want dis and won’t be satisfied until!”

Incredulously, I said “So you mean to say that this unyielding fixation on food goes back to before your birth?”

“Of COURSE!” she managed to get out, her cheeks puffed up like a squirrel. Her eyes were momentarily vacant, her attention fully consumed by the act of chewing her pizza. Then, as she swallowed Noriko said “Where waituh? I want chocolate pie!”

Noriko’s Cave: The Way of the Dragon?

Years ago, back in California, Noriko and I were preparing to live together for the first time. While looking at potential rentals she said to me “I must have my own room, my own space. It way of dragon.” I thought she must be kidding. “‘Way of dragon’? What is this, a Bruce Lee movie?”

“Don’t be silly,” Noriko said solemnly. “Dragon brave creature, bold and outgoing, but at times she need to retreat. She have solitude and DEN she emuhge into duh wohld as her enterprising self. I little Dragon….”

So the place we got back then had a room for the little Dragon to retreat to, and thus when we moved to Santa Fe and decided to buy a house, duplicating this feature was a prime consideration. When we first visited the house which we would eventually buy as our home here, Noriko looked with great interest at one peculiar room that lay off the living room: it was long and narrow, and because it was built into the ground on several sides, it was relatively dark. “Ah, we get dis place. Dis room my cave,” Noriko pronounced with satisfaction.

“‘Your cave’? Huh?” I was stressed from house hunting and not in the mood for riddles.

“Dragon love cave. You will see,” Noriko said confidently. And indeed, we ended up buying the house. The first thing Noriko did was put blinds up in her cave, so she could regulate the minimal light that came into it. And then she single-handedly painted the whole room and redid the floor. “I can see it now”, Noriko said, paintbrush in hand, as she envisioned how her cave would be. “Ovuh here will be for storage, here for hobby, and here be my lounging station, right here, in the dark.”

“‘Lounging station?’” I inquired innocently.

“Dis spot when dragon need solitude, or when I punish you for being snotty, by sulking in cave.”

“You think you punish ME by crawling into your cave? You punish yourself, don’t you think?”

“You say what you will. When I retreat, I punish you!” I shrugged it off, since the primary matter was that Noriko was happy with the potential of the new room to fulfill her vision of “the cave of the dragon.” And within a few months, it was set up just as she had indicated, fulfilling the threefold need for storage, hobby space, and lounging/sulking station (including her own cable TV set-up, of course.) Besides her other room, her “executive suite” described in earlier Tales, Noriko found fulfillment by retreating periodically to her cave.

Then one day, less than a year later, I noticed Noriko bustling back and forth from her cave. “What’s up?” I asked, peeking my head in. “You stay out. I busy – I tell you latuh!” she said, shushing me from the cave. I shrugged and forgot about it, taking off for a few hours. When I returned, Noriko said proudly “Come look…” I followed her into the cave and to my astonishment, found the whole thing rearranged -
where storage had been, now was hobby space, and where hobby space had been, now was the lounging station.

“What the heck happened?” I asked, disoriented. You had your cave all set up. Why did you jerk it around like this?”

“Dat what dragon do. She retreat to cave, but once in awhile, in cuhtain mood, she seized to rearrange whole ting. And dat she do. Don’t cave look wonderful like dis?” Noriko was clearly very pleased with herself, having spent the bulk of a day unnecessarily rearranging what had been a perfectly functional setup. “Ah, it so fresh now!” she beamed.

“This is what you did today?” I asked, still disoriented. “You rearranged your cave for no reason?”

“Yes, ain’t it wonduhful?” Noriko spun in a circle so as to take it all in. And within six month I do it again. Dat just what Dragon do!”

Me personally – I would rather jump off a cliff than spend a day rearranging a room that I had already set up. So it made no sense at all to me, but then who am I to argue with an Eastern tradition? Who am I to argue with “the way of the dragon?” : )

A Japanese Repo Girl?

Noriko and I live in the mountains outside of Santa Fe, NM. I had taken our dogs for a walk and returned to find her diligently cleaning my car. “You see what good wife I am? You too lazy to clean your car, so I do for you!” Indeed, I am too slovenly to wash my own car. In fact I hardly notice that it is dirty, so the poor thing goes neglected until Noriko has enough of looking at it. “She filthy!” Noriko declared in mock disgust. “But I do vedy good job.” She looked at me expectantly; I had received my cue.

“You are doing a WONDERFUL job, honey. I hardly recognize my own car – it looks BEAUTIFUL!” I knew Noriko was seeking proper praise, and I was more than happy to provide it to her, as it was a small price to pay for getting my car washed. Noriko nodded her head. “You gotta do it just right,” she said, applying the wax with a flourish. “Wax on, wax off…” she emulated Mr. Myagi from “The Karate Kid.”

“So, aside from your brilliant car treatment, what’s new?” I asked as she continued her labor of love. “I watchuhrepoguhl,” Noriko said.

“What?”

“Repoguhl,” she repeated matter-of-factly.

“Huh?” After several give-and-takes, I figured out the riddle: Noriko had watched a TV show about a woman in the field of “repossession”, a quasi-police kind of thing.

“So it was called ‘Repo Girl’?” I asked.

“No, it not”, Noriko corrected me. “It general show on repo, and dis guhl just one of professional team.” She paused for a second. “I tink I could be repo guhl,” Noriko said, turning her attention back to the car.

“You a repo girl? Don’t you think you are a bit small for that kind of work?”

“I ain’t dat small!” Noriko said, intensifying her attack on the hood of my Honda Accord.

“Hmmm, how big was the repo girl you saw?” I asked discreetly.

“She hefty guhl. She vedy big,” Noriko gestured toward her middle, suggesting that the featured repo professional was indeed beefy. “But she not beat nobody up. Just had authoritative presence with dat big gut of hers. She demand key, you give it to her!”

“I see. Do you think you could pull off that sort of presence?” I asked diplomatically.

Noriko was silent as she reflected on the matter, stroking away at the car. Finally she laughed and said “Maybe not. Maybe I just stun dem because it such a silly idea – little Japanese woman repoguhl. It so silly dat my vedy presence be like stun gun!”

“It could take them off guard; that’s for sure. But would it be enough?” I could smell a Tale developing, so I egged her further on.

“I could sing. Dat would shock ‘em.” Noriko suddenly began singing the melody to “Glory Hallaleuah”, but with indecipherable Japanese words. As she sang she began to march around the car.

I laughed. “What the heck is that? That is the melody to a patriotic American song, so what lyrics you are singing?”

Noriko translated: “The tadpole is the child of a frog. It is not the grandchild of a catfish…”

“WHAT? What sense does that make?” We both were laughing now.

“I tink it ‘catfish’, my Japanese so bad now. Catfish one wit whiskuh, right?

“Whiskers or not, it makes no sense!”

“It Japanese nuhsery rhyme. Of course it don’t make sense! Dat what make it stunning. I sing dat song and denn I politely ask target for key to car. Dey so stunned dat dey just give me key.”

“I guess it could work, if your clients understand Japanese….” I said dubiously.

“Or how about dis one…” Noriko began another song, to a vaguely familar melody, again in Japanese, except, once in awhile you heard the words “Tom and Jerry”.

“Dat theme song to ‘Tom and Jeddy’, cartoon about smart mouse and stupid cat. Mouse always beat up cat. I likeuh vedy much.”

“Honey, I know who Tom and Jerry” are, but the question is, how do YOU know about them?”

“Oh, when we kid in Japan, we watch all kind of American stuff. We know all about your silly cuture!”

“Well, if you sing ‘Tom and Jerry’ for your repro clients, that would certainly disorient them,” I said. Noriko had resumed her treatment of the car, apparently giving further thought to the notion of her hazarding into the field of property repossession.

“Dese cute idea, but maybe you right. Maybe I too small for repo line of work… Instead, I takeuh break and denn I waxuh your car.”

“What? I thought you were waxing it?”

“No,” Noriko said dismissively. “Dis just PREP work. I take dis stuff off, and DEN I waxuh car. Dehr my buffuh, waiting.” Noriko pointed to a professional looking tool which I didn’t know that we possessed. “You see, whatevuh work I do, I do job vedy propuh. It Japanese way!”

Japanese Women: Submissive or Passive-Aggressive?

One theme that I have written about at the Noriko’s Tales blog site is apparently titillating to American readers – the notion that Japanese women may be “submissive”. Through satire I have done my best to show different perspectives regarding this belief, both affirming it and challenging it, while pointing to a cultural reality perhaps too complex to capture in a single cultural handle. Are Japanese women “submissive”? The answer, appropriately mysterious, would seem to be both “yes” and “no”.

Recently Noriko and I worked through an experience together which seems worthwhile to present, for once without satire and verbal cartoon-like images. Like most husbands and wives, we went through a period of conflict, of being inter-personally at odds with each other, more intensively that what we are used to. Briefly, I experienced Noriko as being angry, passive-aggressive, looking to blame. When I brought this up, she invariably denied it, pointing to issue X, Y, or Z as the real cause of our conflict of the moment.

Over a course of days, my frustration mounted and my own anger came out.(And mine ain’t passive; it is old-fashioned aggressive!) Isn’t the worse moment for a couple, regardless of cultural backgrounds, when the shadow material of both parties comes out, directed at each other? Isn’t this the ultimate relationship buster?

Fortunately, Noriko and I have been together for 14 years, and we have developed a means to “hold the center” when such human fireworks go off. It isn’t easy, and to describe it would exceed the intention of this post, but somehow we hold things together until each of us can sufficiently decompress, “own our stuff”, and gain insight into ourselves and our relationship dynamics. Then we can each pledge to be more conscious of ourselves (and each other) next time.

When we were finally able to find this “clearing”, Noriko was able to see that in fact she had been behaving passive-aggressively. She was able to tell me things that she was angry about which she had not been able to tell me before, things which had been overlooked and which were gaining a disproportionate emotional charge. As this realization arose, Noriko said that in many ways, she doesn’t feel comfortable asserting herself, as if it is the “wrong” thing to do. And she attributed this very much to the conditioning of the Japanese culture. She acknowledged that it is a pattern so culturally ingrained that at times she can’t see when it governs her actions.

Essentially what she said was that Japanese people are strongly conditioned NOT to voice their needs or feelings, not to speak up when they are uneasy. Instead, they learn to nod, to blend, to go along with, not necessarily fully aware of the described interpersonal/human process. There is a strong cultural taboo against speaking up in the moment if it might risk disharmony with others.

Of course, this is not uniquely Japanese. Many Americans have this conditioning as well, and thus decades ago “assertiveness training” emerged as a fashion. But I think it is fair to say that the Japanese culture is UNIQUELY oriented toward repression of the will of the individual self (male and female), of denial of feelings in the moment. This is no doubt a major contributor to the notion of Japanese women being “submissive”, and as such there is an element of truth to this point of view. And yet at the same time, “submissive” may turn into “passive-aggressive” in a heartbeat. Whereas “submissive” may sound charming to some who fantasize about Japanese lovers, the flip side, “passive-aggressive” is a different matter!

I want to finish by saying that it was Noriko who suggested that I write this post, in a tone of sincerity rather than satire. She was willing to share of our private lives in order to genuinely illuminate this feature of the Japanese society and corresponding nature of the individual. It was her suggestion to raise the question as to whether “submissive” and “passive-aggressive” are really flip sides of the same cultural coin.

If so, then beware to those who long for a “submissive” partner. In the context of fantasy, this feature may appeal, but within the context of a real relationship, we should all wish that our partners – straight or gay, man or woman – grow to where they can artfully express their needs and feelings in the moment. Otherwise beware of the consequences when the coin flips over! : )

Japanese Girl Watches Boxing? (or “De La Hoya Go Down on Golden Ass”)

How is this for a stereotype buster – my Japanese wife Noriko likes to watch boxing with me.  Okay, maybe “likes” is an overstatement, but at least she tolerates my eccentric habit.  “I used to watch wrestling wit my fadduh when I was little guhl, so I watch boxing wit you…”  Whatever the explanation, I can tell you this:  In order to like a fight, Noriko has to humanly relate to one of the boxers.  She has to like (or dislike) one of them as a person.  This Tale will illustrate exactly what I mean…

Last night Noriko and I watched a recording of HBO’s “24/7″ regarding the upcoming fight between Oscar De La Hoya and Manny Pacquaio.  I knew it would work her up, given Noriko’s distaste for the ever dandy De La Hoya.  We had hardly gotten started when she shouted “stop it!”  I patiently put the recording on hold. “He so goofy.  I hate dat Oscah!”

“Okay, honey, we know you don’t like Oscar.  Let’s continue.”

“Now waitaminute.  I ain’t done.”  She stared me down, asserting her right to speak.  “I always hateuh Oscah.  From beginning.  Through my entiuh career as boxing fan I not like him.”

“Got it honey, you hate Oscar.  Now let’s watch the show.”  I flicked the button and the handsome “Golden Boy” was grinning in our face.  Climbing the desolate hills of Big Bear; heroically sparring in the gym; clowning with his entourage.  Playfully declaring how his new trainer Nacho is the “world’s best trainer….”

“Stop it! right dehr!”  Noriko demanded.

“Come on, honey, just watch the show!”

“No, I say ’stop it’!”  I sighed and stopped the recording again.

“Look at him.  He say his trainuh  ‘best in duh wohld’.  Why?  Simply because he Oscah’s trainuh?  Everyrting Oscah best in wohld?  He fiuh old trainuh; now new guy, because he’s Oscah’s trainuh – now he best in whole wohld?  Dat little narcissist!  Dat little worm!”

I had to admit that Noriko had a point.  Oscar had “forgotten” to tell his former “best trainer in the world”, Floyd Mayweather, Sr., to reserve his calendar for this fight – a passive way to dump the “best trainer in the world”? And now, to be discussed in a moment, Oscar is badmouthing his other former “best trainer in the world”, Freddy Roach?  Yes, Noriko had a point….

Back to the show, the subject of Pacquaio’s trainer Freddy Roach came up, how Freddy purported to know Oscar (from previously training him), and how this was an advantage for Manny.   “He thinks he knows me?”  Oscar asked with incredulity.  “From one fight?  Anyone who saw that fight knows that THAT WAS THE WRONG GAME PLAN!”

“Stop duh tape!”  Noriko insisted again.  “Wrong game plan?  What wrong wit game plan?  He blame Freddy for loss because he too dumb to jab. He forget to jab in dat fight.  He always blameuh someone.  HE nevuh responsible for loss!”  Noriko made a little fist and punched the air.  “We watch dis fight.  We pay for dis fight.  Why?  Because I want to see Oscah go down.  I want to see him go down on golden ass.  Little Pacquaio put him down on golden ass!  Dat dat!”

So that’s that.  HBO’s promotion worked; we will incur the PPV fee. Are they smart enough to know that it’s because we DISLIKE their star??

Japanese Girls Speak Funny English!

Readers may wonder – what is it like to live with someone who speaks English as a second language, especially when the language is as different as English is from Japanese?  Hopefully the Tales here have documented one side of it – the richness of linguistic and cultural nuance that is shared.  But what about when you are in a bad mood, when you are prone to feel irritable?  Keep in mind that there is a huge divide between English and Japanese, so much so that even when a Japanese person speaks English quite well, there can still be challenges to understanding her.  The joy and richness of a good mood turns to annoyance very quickly.  Mutual annoyance….

What has made this more challenging for me, is that though Noriko is very dedicated to learning new vocabulary, she has shown at times an indifference to grammatical aspects of English. “I was him, I not do dat”, for example.

“Honey, what you want to say is ‘If I were him, I wouldn’t have done that.’  Isn’t that what you meant?”

“Don’t mattuh…”

“Honey, it DO mattuh.  It matters if you want people to UNDERSTAND you!”

“People unduhstand me fine.  It only you who don’t….”   And so it goes; we would squabble back and forth, the bottom line being that Noriko wouldn’t internalize the potential improvements to her English.  This was baffling to me.  But then  it took on a new dimension.  One day, during a discussion, Noriko said “But nobody do dat.”  I chuckled a bit.  “What so funny?” she asked.  I explained that the correct English was “nobody DOES that” rather than “nobody do that”, and that it sounded funny.  Once she understood the mistake, Noriko began to laugh at in with appreciation.  “‘Nobody DO dat!’   Ha! Dat cute.  Dat vedy cute!”  Somehow I didn’t like the sound of her comment.

Later that evening we were with a friend, and Noriko suddenly said “Nobody do dat…”  The friend politely chuckled and Noriko winked at me and began laughing.  “Dat right – nobody DO dat,”  she said, beaming at her new found line.

“Honey, I take the time to correct you so that you can improve your English.  Instead, you are using my corrections as an opportunity to ‘emulate yourself’, to fortify your mistakes…..?”

“It vedy charming, don’t you think?  You teach me  seriously, but secretly I use to cutesify my English.  Every time you point out mistake, if it cute one, I denn practice mistake to make sure I got it.”  She started laughing uncontrollably.  “You silly boy – it part of my charm!”

I looked over at our friend who was clearly taken by the whole thing.  What could I say?

But it DO mattuh!

Are Japanese Women Really Submissive?

Since I started writing “Noriko’s Tales”, I have been motivated to look on-line at related subjects.  One thing is for sure – Americans have a fascination with Asian women, along with the belief that they are “submissive”.  This is a rich and fascinating topic, one which I have attempted to address before (see earlier Tale, “Submissive Japanese Housewives?”  Because it is a complex cultural topic, it is hard to address all angles in one post.  The Tale below is another effort at shedding light on this subject.

Noriko and I were having dinner with a couple we had just met (”John and Debra”), at a Thai restaurant in Los Angeles.  As the four of us settled around our table,  a very attractive Thai waitress walked by.  Instinctively we looked at her, taken by her beauty.  “Sure.  Go right ahead and stare at her.  Be real discreet about it!”  Debra said derisively, chiding John as if he had been the only one to look.  There was an awkward moment.

“She WAS vedy pretty,” said Noriko.  “I lookuh too!”  She laughed innocently, and after an instant of hestitation, everyone, including Debra, laughed.  Social crisis averted!

Later during dinner, the conversation turned to politics.  Having had some wine, I spoke relatively freely.  “I am not a big Hillary lover.  I like this guy Obama better, and the notion that we should vote for Hillary because she is a woman – to me, that is as goofy-headed as saying that you SHOULDN’T vote for her because she is a woman.  It takes a biased position and just flips it on its head.”

“How can you say that?”  Debra’s voice jumped considerably in pitch and volume.  “Women in this country have been sold short for CENTURIES.  It is only fair now to turn it around, and there is nothing we can do to even BEGIN to make up for the hardship that women have suffered in this country.  Voting for Hillary is the ONLY way to go!”

Gulp.  It was clear that any sort of meaningful exchange on this subject was prohibited by Debra’s emotional reaction.  She looked to Noriko for womanly support, but Noriko glanced away.  It was one of those “uh, where is the waiter…?” kind of moments.

Later, as we drove home, Noriko and I were free to process the evening’s encounter.  “American women – dey so militant about everyting.  Dey vedy bull-headed, I tink.”  “How so?”  I asked.  I wanted to hear more of Noriko’s point of view on this as a Japanese woman.

“Always someting to fight ovuh.  Need to ‘liberate’ demself, to powuh-struggle over every little ting.  What wrong with man look at pretty guhl?  American women don’t seem to know what  powuh all about…”

“What do you mean?”

Vedy simple, when it come to powuh.  Fuhst, Japanese wife control money in household.  Husband makeuh money but wife manage.  She give him allowance.  Dat powuh!”  Noriko paused for a moment to laugh with appreciation at her own presentation.  Then she continued.   “But more important – Japanese society matriarchal: Japanese women have power because dey women.  Women women, period.  Don’t have to act ‘assertive’ all the time, put on big show.  You men love us; you want us.  You have to have us, and DAT true powuh of woman.  No need to fight ovuh bullshit.  American women are so ‘liberated’ dat dey FORGOT dehr real power!”

We both laughed, although at the same time I was thinking about what she was saying, wondering how American women would hear such coments.  “I own you because I your wife!”  Noriko declared.

“Truer words were never spoken!” I said and we laughed again.  “Honey, may I have my allowance for next week?”  I asked with mock-meekness.

“Yes, you may, deah, now dat you have propuh attitude!”  Noriko snuggled close to me for the rest of the drive home….

What do readers think?  Are Japanese women “submissive” and American women “liberated”?  Though they may not appear interpersonally assertive per American culture, Japanese women  seem to know how to get their way in  relationships.  Readers comments welcomed!