By Kirsten Phillips (Niigata-ken, 2005-08)
This rant is in reaction to yet another Gaijin in a Strangeland vehicle starring Brittany Murphy. Ramen Girl. The mythicization of Japanese culture or should I say, Tokyo. “Put tears in the broth.” Augh!
I suppose there is some part of us that wants it to be true. After all, we don’t want the Japanese to be “just like us”. Noooo. That’s buzzkill for the exotic hard on. Barred behind a wall of cultural differences, a needy bitch of a language barrier and a society oft coined as “repressed”, it’s downright fucking magical to buy into the wax on/wax off charms of the Floating Kingdom. Where there are question marks, there are bound to be intrigue and lies and after all, what is Hollywood for?
Ohhh, Mr. Keisuke (yes, you have a first name) Miyagi:
You have forever damned your race with your awesomeness! Your humble janitorial exterior and invincible hidden dragon have created fantastical expectations for Japanese everywhere in cinema. Japanese people must all have two identities now. Every ramenya san must be a tough yet secretly kindhearted sage, every high school girl a porn star, every businessman a casual ninja, every sushi artist a contraband swordsmith for the likes of vengeful blondes. Come now. Let us stop making a fetish out of the entire nation. I propose some indie film maker focus on the truly lethal demographic of Japanese society:
Obaasans.
These dames are not. fucking. around.
For a comedic yet WTF? flick about just how extreme aging women in Japan can get, I recommend the film: 昭和歌謠大全集/Showa Kayou Daizenshu. The soundtrack alone kept me in rapt attention to say nothing of Matsuda Ryuhei’s Duran Duran-esque glossy pink pout.
But back to Japanese old ladies…
The status quo has, for the majority of their lives, demanded of them superhuman feats of domesticity, beauty, breeding and silence. After a certain age, they do not answer to fucking anyone. Once the uterus goes on permanent leave, it’s all about the MEproduction! Sex, drugs, and enka all night every night, motherfucker.
They know more than you so just shut the F up.
They notice EVERYTHING. They catch things God and the FBI don’t. They also harness full control of the grape vines so tread lightly when you meet them and know they are discussing you via mental telepathy behind their sweet smiles.
Your reputation is as good as a snowball in Hell should you cross them. Be warned, they network. One wrongly sorted trash, one missed laundry day and kiss your sacred anonymity goodbye.
They know how to make and use a doily.
When you see this phrase 割引, just step aside or they’ll gouge you in the kidneys with their elbows in their mission to pick, prod and examine every flaw in every 大根 in the pile. Just wait your turn, 坊や。
Quite often they rock out to Axl Rose or the Bee Gees in their car and if you have a problem with that best keep it to yourself.
They have no need for shame. If they decide you need a hokkairo strapped to your back this instant, they will rip the shirt right off you with an insincere ごめん！ and you may consider yourself hokkairo-ed.
Do NOT dispute them. Let them talk. For all you know, the world IS flat and Yon-sama is the most desirable creature ever to grace the earth.
They are ALWAYS up for the next round. While you lay numb and comatose from your 3rd can of syrupy chu-hai, they have already cleared their 9th bottle of sake and are ready to sing the Greatest Hits of Akiko Wada until they close the goddam Maneki Neko.
They are HELLCATS on wheels. Oh my god, have you ever witnessed an obaasan on a motorbike, sun hat flapping in the breeze? (helmets are for law abiders). They are on a schedule, mofo! Can’t feed a family of 8.2 if all the bargain konbu sells out by 1:00!
While you were studying for finals/working night shift/playing X-box, THEY were studying for finals while working night shift AND playing X-box.
They know the classics. By heart. Every move, every flinch, every obscure nuance and they are keeping it preserved and alive for the rest of you ungrateful snot-nosed brats.
(especially up north) They can break an entire kabocha with their bare hands.
For those that need a domestic reminder, may I cite one Ono Yoko? She told the world where they could stick it in the 60’s, she took her art where it felt like going, she is 90 and rocking out with Yo La Tengo and she eloquently thanks every one of the millions who despise her. I know. We can’t all blow John Lennon.
So celebrate your moms/grandmas, Japan. Call them today. Send them a card/e-mail/virtual shameless hug. Without them, Japan would be less cool.
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