The business of a typical winter's end in Losersville,"Hey Rube! Whaddaya like?!?", forever young, and the remote perils of four more years of spray tanned American fascism and douchebaggery.

Plum blossoms photographed by Mina out on the south side of Jingu Higashi Park on a chilly 8C equinox afternoon.

The last kindergarten classes of fiscal 2024-25 this morning, and I bade a final farewell to my 29th group of outgoing six year olds. For the last couple of years, there have been no thank-you cards, touching final moments from the kids, or tearful good-byes from teachers that are either getting married or moving on to other endeavours from April. I guess that's fine, but I can't help but feel that it's all become a bit cold, flat and impersonal. I wonder if this is just a sign of the times, or if there's a more sinister move underway to gradually marginalize me as I approach sixty, and become 'disposable'?

While I haven't heard anything from Insecthead about being set out to pasture in a couple of years, I've also been kind of afraid to ask.

The kid's final class was all 'fun and games', and wound down with the same screaming, laughing and chaos they all do (albeit a few minutes over time). The two Japanese teachers waited patiently as I thanked the kids, and wished them good luck in both English and my trademark ramshackle Japanese, and that was it. When my brief 'farewell' spiel was done, the kids promptly scrambled out the doors to go get fed lunch in the other room. I don't think anyone even looked back.

Of my twenty-nine season finales thus far, this was a first.

Every other year there seemed to be at least a couple of kids who'd follow me to the office, then hang around the door and get all pouty. While I don't dig watching kids blubber, it's kind of touching to know I made an impression. On the whole, teaching is a pretty thankless job, and it's a rare thing to get any display of emotion from the punters, let alone a 'thank you' or compliment - hence it's memorable, and gratifying if it happens. This year, t'was not to be.

I think the worst part was that I actually kind of liked this group of kids.

Disappointing.

From the second week of April it will be my thirtieth year doing a weekly stint over there. My first class of five year olds from back in 1995 will be firmly planted in middle age now.

Watching the local evening news yesterday, the thirtieth anniversary of Aum Shinrikyo's sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway system was the top item. I vividly remember sitting at the kotatsu (heated low coffee table) in Mme Lord Vader's parent's living room watching that nightmare unfold on TV. I'd only been back in the country for two weeks at that point, and was starting from scratch yet again. It all seems like yesterday.

I can't believe that I'm still here. Thirty years forward, it's fairly sure I won't be anywhere at all. The issue of my encroaching mortality has started freaking me out a bit these days.

Wednesday morning we were off to the university hospital for my quarterly skin cancer screening. My neck has healed up well... for the most part. There are still a couple of small lumps on either side of the lengthly scar, where the surgeon folded the skin over into what they call 'dog ears'. While they've shrunken up, one in particular is still visible. I'm hoping that it'll gradually go away, but Mina's not so sure, and reminds me that living with a couple a little lumps is, "better than being dead". True enough. The doctor looked and said that they 'should' gradually just kind of disappear 'over time', though if the one in particular bothered me, she could arrange for a follow up surgery to remove it.

No thanks.

We'll see where it's at in June...but I don't feel like going under the knife again if I don't have to. Happily, there doesn't seem to be anything new in the cancer area just now. It's all a bit like 'whack-a-mole', really.

After that business was done, we hopped on to a toll highway and drove out to the Costco near Centrair, in Chita. It's a forty five minute road trip, give or take, and there was a frigid gale force wind blowing across the expressway, shaking the van around and stressing Mina out. The last calendar day of winter, before the equinox.

Costco is like a seasonal thing for us. We usually buy a bunch of Kirkland paper towels and toilet rolls (there aren't any decent domestically produced paper towels), then some shit that we really don't need. We go out there four or five times a year. With Mina's salary taking a 40% hit as of April, we talked about letting our ¥4,500 per year family membership lapse in May when it expires. At checkout, the cashier suddenly asked Mina if she wanted to renew early, as the fee is slated to go up by ¥500 in April. Shrewd move on their part, as Mina is always up for a chance to save some cash. We'd already kind of decided that we'd renew for at least another year, so that's what we ended up doing.

I guess we'll see where we're at next March. Nobody knows which way the venal Trump tariffs will swing from one day to the next, and when Japan gets clobbered and decides to rightfully levy retaliatory tariffs on incoming American goods, a lot of the stuff in there will become far too expensive for the likes of us.

As it is, we give them way too much cash for over-priced shit that we mostly don't need, anyways.

To be honest, anything to do with the United States is a bit off putting these days. I prefer not sending any business their way, if at all possible.

As Deadbeat City's coldest winter in years slowly starts easing into spring, I was mulling over potential content for the first proper dispatch of 2025. Of course, there will be a continuation of the usual grand cud chew, but I feel like there also needs to be something fresh and (gasp!) positive to offset all my usual grousing and bellyaching.

While I typically go into plenty of detail chronicling the travails and shortcomings of my day to day life here in Deadbeat City, I rarely mention the things that I like.

Here's the thing - I think it would be self indulgent and a bit presumptive to suddenly just go off on a tangent about the things I'm in to. I just assume that most people are like myself, and prefer to revel in the misery of others, not hear what kind of instant ramen they like. As far as the myriad stuff that I groove on, it's quite likely that no one really cares. In the worst case, this type of thing could actually seed prejudice and put people off the main blog entirely (bloody hell - he really likes THAT...?) .

In my estimation, what I'm currently into generally has little or nothing to do with life in 'Olde Nagoyaland', anyways.

Or maybe it does?

After mulling over how to do this, it occurred to me that I've always had a thing for ranking lists. The old 14 CFUN Top 40 bulletins from the very dawn of my pop culture awareness back in the 70's, and weekly or monthly ranking lists for movies, books, TV shows, restaurants...you name it. For some reason I found this shit fascinating.

Back in my teens and twenties. I liked to peruse media ranking lists in the backs of magazines while killing time at the shops. I'd always check the lists in Rolling Stone, Thrasher, High Times Magazine, and Maximum Rock and Roll (if I could get my hands on a copy).

Lists are minimalist info-tainmernt. They're undemanding, and easy to skim over, or simply disregard. You either concur or disagree with the choices, and they generally sit comfortably separate from the main body of the periodical's content.

Idea...

Why not create a short seasonal list of my own, and make it a regular feature. Something fresh and light to add to our quarterly proceedings. It'll pop up at some point in each dispatch, as a sort of intermission, or stop gap between running narratives.

Let's call it "Hey Rube! Whaddaya Like?!?" - a tally of five things that - for whatever reason - strike me as good, with maybe just a short accompanying comment or link. Whatever seems appropriate, without too much overthinking or self censoring. As usual, comments and feedback are always welcome, but I'm not holding my breath or anything. With the exception of a few stalwart regulars, my readers gallery is generally pretty reserved (non participatory).

So, without any further adieu I give you...

Volume 1 - Spring 2025

5) Lopia Supermarket fresh deli section 'Napolitan Spaghetti and Meatballs'

Looking to add some needed variety to our weekly shopping itinerary, we recently started going to the Lopia out in Minato- ku on Sunday afternoons. This place has been all the rage on prime-time TV over the last year or so, with branches in Tokyo, Osaka and Kyoto. Until fairly recently you had to queue up to get in, but since they opened a second branch over in Chikusa, the perennial line up is gone.

According to Mina, Lopia used to be a chain butcher shop, but expanded into the specialty supermarket business a few years back. My first impression was that their fresh deli section (the store's big draw for a lot of punters) set up seemed pretty similar to the one at Costco, albeit on a smaller scale. While their portion sizes are generally less voluminous, the quality and prices are actually borderline reasonable. Though the ever-popular Japanese 'Napolitan' variety of spaghetti has never appealed to me in the slightest (spaghetti sauteed in thin basil sprinkled ketchup with vegetable scraps and sliced mini wieners veers a bit too close to something I would have eaten as a broke college student) the Lopia take is light on said gruesome 'sauce' and weenies (which are both notably absent), and features six pretty generous sized meatballs, front and centre.

All doubts were pretty quickly cast aside when we dug in. The pasta is of a thicker variety than I usually like, but thankfully not over-done (and only slightly coloured by the 'sauce'). The meatballs were actually really good. Big enough, and unmistakable meaty - not packed with the 'mystery filler' they usually use to stretch ground pork/beef amalgams for bento box things over here.

The single portion size is actually more than enough for me. Like something I would make at home, were I so inclined. At ¥666 for the 6 meatball size, it's actually a killer deal.

4) Bauerfeind Sports Compression Sleeves

I became acquainted with these after I partially tore my left quadricep at the beginning of last summer, then had to lay out for a second set when I buggered my right calf on the canal course at the end of of January. Made in Germany, they are definitely a bit expensive (¥7000 per pair), but lightweight, durable, easy to wear, and indispensable if you're troubled by sprains, ligament pulls/tears, or general muscle fatigue. They're also great for recurring pain from legacy injuries, and recovery. Unlike the bulkier, more awkward velcro-strap supporters, these are breathable, sweat wicking, easy to wash (just pop into a mesh laundry bag and put in a cold water cycle), and quick to dry on a hanger. I've been stuck inside on the spin bike for the last month while my calf sorts itself out, and have taken to wearing both upper and lower leg pairs for my 45 minute sessions. They make a huge difference. Big thumbs up on these, they're definitely worth it. https://www.bauerfeind.us/running/

3) Daredevil Born Again (Marvel Television)

Though I picked up on this show a bit late in the game (just before the third season debut, I believe), I quickly became a big fan of the Marvel/Netflix Daredevil series (2015-2018). I'd enthusiastically followed writer/penciller Frank Miller's iconic run on the titular character's comic book back in the early 80's, and was blown away at how deftly the Netflix collaboration managed to nail not only the characters, but the street level grit and brutality of the stories. This was not your typical superhero fare back in the day, and Miller's run on the title was something of a game changer for the genre.

When I learned that Marvel Television (currently a subsidiary of Disney) had picked up the rights to make a fourth season a few years ago, I had serious reservations. While they had managed to secure the principle actors to reprise their roles, the studio's recent output has been decidedly less than stellar, and prospects that flagging Marvel Studios' head Kevin Feige could actually get this one right looked dim, at best.

Four episodes in, and I'm pleased to say that my concerns appear to have been allayed. If you're among the uninitiated, I highly recommend going back and checking out the previous three season run before you start in. They were all moved from Netflix to Disney Plus a couple of years ago, so they're easy to find.

2) Sakura, five to seven days past their peak

To me, the spring cherry trees are most beautiful when the first verdant green shoots of fresh leaf start showing through the declining, yet still abundant light pink blossoms. I love that contrast. Around this time, all of the plants and flowers are starting to come to life, and the colours are gorgeous. From mid-April straight through May, everything in the park and up the Horikawa is so fresh, vibrant and lush. This is our small reward for making it through the crap weather of January, February and most of March. A brief respite before the humid misery of rainy season and the hellish cauldron of Japanese summer.

1) The The - Ensoulment

The first studio album of new material in a quarter century from English singer songwriter Matt Johnson's 'band' manages to equal or even surpass its legacy releases with this shockingly good comeback.

Somehow it managed to slip under my radar upon release in early September last year, and I only happened across it by chance when I was streaming an anthology of the band's early records in January. I'd loved their first three albums back in my art college days, and thought it would be cool to revisit them while doing my Monday morning house work. I'm quite sure that I hadn't listened to them in close to thirty years, and wondered if they would still hold any appeal, almost a lifetime later.

Aside from some of the 'dated' sounding production (I actually enjoy that cheesy 80's gloss to a degree), I was surprised how well they had stood the test of time. Sometimes revisiting lost favourites from decades past can be a bit of a bummer, but this was like a revelation of sorts. While I was adding said anthology and a couple of other things to my playlist, I noticed an unfamiliar cover icon under the group's heading.

Hmmm. Click in or pass over?

At my age, there's always that sort of sad tendency to stick to known quantities instead of rolling the dice on something 'new' - but herein is the inherent beauty of subscription media streaming services. We've already paid for the privilege of checking it out...or not. It isn't like the old days, when we'd have to shell out for an album that mightn't meet our expectations. In other words, 'what the fuck'? Still, I clicked in with some trepidation.

The verdict?

Brilliant. It's been on heavy rotation ever since. It checks all the boxes. Johnson's long standing band members are all present and accounted for, his voice and deadpan delivery are virtually unchanged, and his lyrical acumen is as dead-on impressive as it was 35 years ago. Musically, it's a natural progression from the band's legacy work. It's seamless. Nothing sounds contrived or forced.

Highly recommended.

I decided to add the whole bloody album, because it all flows together so beautifully.

A few weeks ago, I received a short text from my dear old friend Ms. T.

We go way back to the halcyon days of mid - late 80's Vancouver, when we had been a couple, and inseparable. After graduating from our respective schools back '89, I decided to tag along with Ms. T on her planned odyssey to go join her intrepid aunt in Kyoto, and get a job teaching English.

Back then, going to teach English in Japan was all the rage. Word was that there was big money to made - if you could deal with the cultural transition and stick it out. In a way, it had become like going tree planting for people who couldn't hack months of living like animals in the great outdoors.

Eight years our senior, Ms. T's aunt was pretty inspiring, and a fearless liver of life. She had trail blazed her way over to Kyoto the year before, and got work at one of the bigger English schools on the mainstream eikaiwa (conversation school) circuit. She encouraged us both to come, insisting that there was plenty of gainful employment to go around for those with a mind to come - even for a simple art college graduate like myself.

When all was said and done, we had what can only be described as a grand, life altering adventure.

In 1991, less than a year after reconvening in Vancouver, Ms. T and I finally parted ways.

She ultimately ended up decamping and going off to join her intrepid aunt in Turkey (which had become something of an E.S.L. teaching hotspot in the mid- 90's). I lost touch with both of them for many years.

Through an odd set of circumstances back in Vancouver, I ultimately found my singleness in the company of the charming and winsome young Mme Lord Vader, a native of the Japanese archipelago on working holiday in our fair city. We seemed to click well, and less than a year later, I was here in Nagoya, meeting her family. The rest is history, as the saying goes.

Anyways, I digress....

While Ms. T and I haven't seen one another in over three decades, we eventually re-connected on social media several years into the millennium, which was really nice. Every once in awhile we exchange messages, or birthday greetings. She sent some supportive texts through my first bout with skin cancer a couple of years ago, and it was much appreciated.

This time around, it seems that I'd cropped up in one of her dreams. Apparently, we were attending a Turkish wedding, of all things. Dreams are so mysterious. Like random glimpses into alternate timelines.

I told her that it was nice hear that I still had a little corner staked out in her sub-conscious after all these years, and added that I'd hoped it was "the younger, more fun version of me".*

*(admittedly, I haven't been feeling much of either lately)

After a bit of a pause, she replied,

"You are forever young to me".

In said dream, she relayed that I had been teaching everyone at the wedding how to slam dance (?!?), and the Turks had been "absolutely loving" my energy. 'Slam dancing'. Holy shit. Apparently a substantially more youthful and vibrant version of yours truly has made a home for himself in her 'gallery of suspects'.

The early to mid-twenties, Shaun - minus the unfortunate patina of time, fresh out of art college, and full of piss and vinegar. Slam dancing, guzzling beer and doing all the lovely stuff that rarefied version of Shaun used to do.

It's flattering to be remembered after so many years. To be allowed that little patch of real estate in someone's subconscious mind. To be 'flash frozen' and preserved in one's prime. Eternally youthful. To be aware that a version of me is somehow living on, completely independent of my own physical boundaries and limitations is kind of trippy.

Were I to expire today, that flash frozen 'version' of me would persist in Ms. T's subconscious as long as she continues to push oxygen. That curious 'print' of me in living in her may continue to emerge on occasion, and make new memories with her in the same way people that I've known that are long passed occasionally present and interact in my dreams, as real as if they were still here in the flesh.

'Forever young'.

Of course. The people holed up in my subconscious 'gallery of suspects' never age a day beyond the strongest impression they left on me, either. Cameos and guest shots in dreams are always 'as they were', and almost never 'as they are'. It takes quite a bit of doing to update someone in that gallery to the point that they appear in your dreams in their most recent incarnation.

After two consecutive years of visiting us in Japan, my sister Amber is finally presenting in my 'gallery of suspects' as who she is now. For the longest time, she was flash frozen in one of her past incarnations. Were she to never visit again, I imagine she would persist as she is now. Perpetually in her early fifties, and in what finally seems to be a pretty happy place.

Ms. T, on the hand, will forever remain to me as she was in her mid twenties. Smart and glamorous. Not a bad place to be, really.

I figure that this is how people persist after they die. Not in some 'eternal afterlife' scenario...but for a fixed period of time in the minds of those on whom they made a lasting impression. If you are remembered for good and positive things, I suppose that could translate as a sort of 'heaven', whereas if you conjure dread and negativity...well, that must be 'hell'. I guess it's all subjective.

As for the issue of the massive spray tanned elephant in the corner of the world's collective china shop....

one question just keeps nagging at me in regards to all this 'Make America Great Again' horseshit.

When was it ever great...and for whom?

It certainly hasn't been great in my lifetime. It strikes me that maybe, apart from playing a key role in the liberation of Europe from Nazi Occupation in the closing days of WW2, it's never actually been great at all. The historical list of war crimes and atrocities committed by American forces at home and abroad is as extensive as it is shocking. There is a reason that neither the United States or Israel are a signatories of the I.C.C. (International Criminal Court) in The Hague. By remaining outside of the court's jurisdiction, perpetrator's of war crimes and human rights abuses cannot be prosecuted. The inequality and misery visited upon the peoples resident within America's own borders from the nation's inception don't strike me as particularly great, either.

'Make America Great Again'. That's a tall, tall order when said past greatness seems elusive to non-existent, at best.

As I type this closing diatribe, the United States is undergoing a transformation, and embracing no holds barred, straight-up fascism. Consider the fall of Germany's Weimar Republic in 1933 as a sort of parallel. The United States of America, a soon-to-be former 'constitutional republic' that is often mistaken for a democracy, is quickly transitioning to something between a corporate oligarchy and an autocratic, authoritarian state - along the lines of what we currently see in countries like Hungary and Turkey.

Perhaps this has been coming for a very long time. No one is innocent. Not the former Republican administrations, and certainly not the Democrats. Post World War Two, the belligerence of each successive U.S. administration in the international arena has been problematic, at best. In the last century, no other country has been at the centre of so many military conflicts abroad for such an extended period.

How many innocent lives have been snuffed out in the country's pursuit of global economic and military dominance - a so-called 'American hegemony', if you will - since the end of hostilities in 1945...or the collapse of the Soviet Union, in 1989.

From it's inception, the United States has subsisted on a steady diet of war and subjugation. It has only known peace for 21 of it's 248 years. I guess that's 'American Exceptionalism'.

Considering the latter, it's wholly unsurprising that instead of honouring promises to refrain from taking advantage of the post Soviet-era chaos in the former Eastern Bloc, the Americans directed and undertook an unprecedented expansion of the NATO alliance from the mid 1990's on. In a relatively short period of time, they ultimately pushed said alliance up to the very borders of Russia proper, all under the red nose of perpetually drunk and addled puppet leader, Boris Yeltsin.

Needless to say, this did not go un-noticed by certain ambitious parties in the Kremlin.

Remember how the Americans reacted when the Soviets set up missile installations in Cuba back in 1964? Is it any surprise that the Russians are pushing back?

In any case, this 'betrayal 'set the stage for the meteoric rise of former low ranking KGB operative and budding mafioso extraordinaire Vladimir Putin. Washington ultimately bears responsibility for everything that is happening in Eastern Europe today. Of course, I despise Putin. He is a fascist, a gangster and criminal.

Trump is a convicted felon, misogynist, grifter, sociopath, liar, narcissist and budding despot. The two seem made for each other.

I have never supported either side of the American government. They are equally steeped in guilt. Both wings of the same diseased vulture. If I speak against the phony and corrupt Democrats, I am labelled a 'Russian bot'. If I rail against the Republicans, I'm chucked in with the fake, counter productive SJW identity politics brigade. There doesn't seem to be room for any third position.

This brings us to where we are today. Upon writing this, Canada is on what's being referred to as 'wartime footing' for the first time in 80 years. Travel advisories have been issued recommending that Canadians seriously re-think any plans to travel south of the border. American goods are under a broad and voluntary boycott across the country.

Trump's strategy appears to entail tariffing the Canadian economy into collapse as a prelude to physical annexation, which 'may' happen at the same time he moves to seize Greenland from Denmark, sometime before mid-terms, in 2027.

This tips the scales. It is unacceptable, and beyond any of the standard transgressions of Washington, at least within the last century and a quarter. We would have to turn the clock back to the 19th century and America's post Civil War period of flag waving belligerence and expansionism to see any close precedent.

I was born in Los Angeles, California, and arrived in Vancouver with my Canadian mother in March, 1970 at the age of three. I called Canada home until I relocated to Japan in 1994. Looking back, I regret not having acquired a dual citizenship before quite suddenly leaving for Nagoya thirty one years ago. I honestly didn't think that I wouldn't be going back at some point.

Over three decades later, I'm still here, and a permanent resident of Japan...saddled with an American passport and nationality.

There isn't a day that passes that I don't desperately want to renounce, and be done with it. It is a burden, and source of shame and embarrassment. It is a status without benefit. An albatross.

This pretty much says it all. Pity what happened to John Lydon, but no matter what kind of MAGA hat wearing arsehole he is now, the Sex Pistols record and first clutch of PIL albums are classics.

Every morning I turn on the international news streaming app, and feel sick to my stomach. The source of my perpetual acid reflux is always Donald Trump and his minions. Every day it's a new low. It's hard to articulate how much I despise these people. I resent having to be subject to this nauseating display every fucking day, for four more years of my life. The non-stop petulance, narcissism, lying, grandstanding, gaslighting, bullying, and unhinged rambling is already wearing me down. Do I really have to listen to this until I'm sixty two fucking years old? Left unchecked, what kind of world will we be living in then? Someone over there needs to do something. Soon.

Seriously.

Alas, that's enough blathering and rambling out of me for now. The last few days have been warmer than I'd have expected after the frigid winds of last week. No sakura yet...they're expected to start coming out next week, just after April Fool's. Today is the first day of 'kosa' (clouds of 'yellow sand' from the Gobi Desert in China, carried across the Sea of Japan by seasonal winds) this spring. This is particularly bad news for anyone who suffers from seasonal allergies or respiratory ailments, and I check both boxes there. As I don't have any outside obligations, I'll be following the health advisories, staying in and hitting the bike yet again. A bit disappointing, as it will be sunny (through the brown yellow haze of sand and imported industrial pollution), and should get up to 24C this afternoon. I'm glad I got out to the park for an hour's walk after finishing the housework yesterday. If all goes well with my healing calf sprain, I should be back up the Horikawa doing my usual runs in a few weeks. Easy does it, I guess. Such are the travails of aging.

Until the next turn of seasons (or sometime thereaboutsI), 'elbows up' as the Canadians say.

Oh...and you'd do well to remember that no matter where you go...there you fucking are.

There and nowhere else.

to hear I have a little corner staked out in your sub conscious. Hope it’s the younger and more fun version of me.