tadbolt

The most creative Yuko ever gets is when she talks about what Pei Yon Ju does with her, going into detail about the way he takes off his glasses when she gives him a haircut, how he sneezes and causes her to accidentally nip his ear with the scissors. She dabs the dew of type A blood with the tissue packet from her handbag. Like a wounded yet seductive red panda, he looks in her eyes and she melts down. They have ecstatic panda sex in a rooftop pigeon coop.

Pei Yon Ju is a Korean soap star who looks like a grown-up Harry Potter.

His face is so closely shorn you could chew on his cheeks and not sink a tooth in. Like biting a lubricated condom. He’s had every pore on his face seared shut by a Mongolian acupuncturist with superfine hummingbird-bone needles soaked in hydrochloric acid. His television show, Winter Sonata, hit the Japanese airwaves and hardened the pliant tissues of millions of middle-aged housewives.

Yuko Tomogawa, 36 and 2 months old, Blood Type O, likes Shiatsu, likes Dolce and Gabana, likes Disney’s Goofy, likes sea blue, likes high school yearbook photos. Her hobbies are ikebana, shopping, and skiing. She lives in Saitama city by herself. Her apartment is 4DK, three minutes from the nearest station. Nantoka line. Office Lady, office is in Sendagaya. She looks 36 and 2 months old. When she’s had a little to drink, she looks 34. She’s never had a venereal disease.

Until she turned 31, she always looked like she was 24. But on that year, she was fully embraced by her company. To be lovingly embraced this way means to finally get job security, to be toasted gaily at a party, and to become so overworked that every smidgen of your old lifestyle gets utterly suppressed. No more early evenings. No more evenings. No more Saturdays. No more trips to the country. Even the time it takes to reminisce about such things is bussed off the schedule. Free time is only there for catching up with leftover paperwork, or if lucky, repairing the hole-punched mind with rejuvenating zombie states of life; sleep, drunkenness, or manga reading.

Once the minimum amount of selfhood needed to function is reconstituted, it’s back to plugging away stats in excel on the gritty office keyboard. Yuko was so efficiently utilized in those first few years that all of her dreams were in powerpoint presentations. The lines in her face came, her cuticles wrinkled, varicose veins blossomed on her heels like little spring vines, and she suddenly looked 31 - her true age pulled out of a magician`s hat.

Stress made her periods so irregular that after sneaking a bottle of bourbon down her throat late at work one night, she crammed every white pair of panties she owned into the paper shredder in the office. She had been camping out in a business hotel nearby because the commute to Saitama left her no time to sleep before she had to work again. The next morning, revulsed, she rushed back to the office, afraid someone might find out what she had done. She was the last person there yesterday, the only person who could have done it. But by 7 AM, the shredder had been emptied. She worried for months that everyone was hiding the fact that they knew about it. Only one man knew, and he declined to share it with anyone. The letch thought it much better to take the panty ribbons home and re-stuff the pillows on his bed. 15 years later he would die in his sleep with his head a block on those pillows full of panties, dreaming fragments of a dream about cheese.

Yuko was too busy to be creative, or even happy. But today something had gotten into her.
“My trip almost made me forget all about the office” she said, carefully removing photos from their crushed-leaf designer envelope. It had a little bouquet of pink flowers on it and the curling cursive words “Memories - Isn’t the soothing taste good now“. She picked the flimsy photo book from a set of six. It was the pinkest and bluest.

I would have liked to have seen the other envelopes. The clumsy English on this one was not queer enough. It came too close to accomplishing its goal of sentimentalizing its contents. Maybe `Memories - the pipes are made from corregating metal” would have been more ill-fitting and pleasing. “Soothing taste” would barely perform on the Ebay Engrish circuit. I have an eye for this. After five years, I gauge the novelty value of poor English with the judicial finesse of a terrier breeder.

It took her a few seconds to open it. The Japanese are very careful with wrapping paper, envelopes, and packaging stuff-its. They are tender with the creases in the paper, keeping it taut and natural as the fingers pry and tease the glued lips, the tight hearts of ribboned knots.
She splayed out an arc of stacked photos across the tabletop. They resembled pantone color samples heavy on the sahara brown. I had never expected much creativity from Yuko. Not usually. She never added retro accessories to her wardrobe, not even a pinky ring. She did not try new things with her hair, not once. One morning in 2003 she had tiny tacky platinum stars painted on her fingernails as was the style. She had hoped to prove she was younger, stupider, therefore more fertile. It did’nt last a week - she imagined people in the office were joking about it even though she was never given the faintest hint that they were. Only once, she caught Koni-chan’s face reflected in the spreadsheet on her screen, checking her out.

She was sure they were talking about it. Yuko could be paranoid that way, and she never bothered to ask anyone what they thought. For a woman in her thirties, unmarried, uncertain, in an office where everyone is amiable but none close, gossip haunts the imagination. Eventually, she could not help but believe it was true, and she felt as humiliated as a puppy kicked during a doody on the living room carpet.

Still, she had overheard no talk, nothing. No sign made. No evidence whatsoever. Everyone was as polite and unassuming as they were they first day they met her.

She stripped her fingernails bare, and promised herself to never try that again

The truth is that her co-workers were still joking about it two years later if you believe what Raschid says. And how can anyone not believe what he says.

to be continued….before the year 3000

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Elijah Willits is an eikaiwa teacher. He likes blogging.

“Don`t mess with Texas. Texas is bigger than you. It`s bigger than me. “

Jacob Davis is an Alabamian ex-pat who studied English, Art and Philosophy and then came to Japan in order to get a fresh perspective before he continued his education.

When he got here, he learned what America was; but still does not know a whole lot about Japan. He decided after the first few years that he would eventually return to University and become some kind of blabbering intellectual like all of his heroes, but an extra two years of living in Japan humbled him and now he just wants to have an island - He thinks that there is something lucrative brewing in the borders between continents and cultures, present and future, and hopes to do something cool in the next ten years. Or maybe do something different. After that, he can more safely become some kind of blabbering pseudo-intellectual like all of his heroes. Or at least comfortably play at it.

” I think most of what I am happened after I left America, so I will stick to that. I came from Alabama many years ago, was toxic, myself not Alabama, came to, what is this place, Japan, and stayed in a bucolic fishing town in the middle of nowhere for two years, Japan, cracking at languages and very painful sitting positions, guys with sticks, zen, all very worthless maybe. During that time, I played in Cambodia too. Jungles, grimy airports, very big stones. I was in Thailand when this big wave hit it, dreadful, I was very lucky, to tell the truth, very very lucky, the bunagalow I reserved disappeared into the sea, not cool, man, not cool. Came back to Japan and packed up my home in the fishing villiage, left for where I am, what is this place, Tokyo, the biggest metro on the planet, started building cheesy mini studio, frequenting stuff, hitting the izakayas and the museums, stuff. Had these fun mess-ups, squeezing out the last few neurotic bits I carried away from America with me - what a relief! What a funny little man I had been! Now I tittle about this-that, music, and so on and so on. Time goes by, and I still have not returned to America - seems like I only imagined it. I certainly know I was only imagining it while I was there. I like hot and spicy curry, wabisabi textures, healthy aloe vera plants in the sun. “

Jimmy “Jimbo” Willits is a marketing student from Florida currently studying in Japan and preparing for his doctoral thesis. Previously, he wanted to be a plumber and make a racket off wealthy retirees in the wild American southeast. After two years of apprenticing in a dirty shop off I-15, he realized the blind pursuit of money and land was going to cage him in a town dedicated to dying fatcats and evangelical paupers. He`d have nothing to show for it but a room full of rust-eaze cans and busted toilet bowls.

The elderly flock to Florida to die. Jimbo was repeatedly called to the rows of rotting concrete condos to negotiate their leaky-pipe fees and to prepare them for their Last Thousand Shits. He became familiar with their curdled scent, their collections of kitsch, their fumbling footsteps, their nosy passive-aggressive chatter. Why did they come to Florida? They were not salmon. It was not instinct. The Florida panhandle is a hot bed of poorly practiced thrash metal bands and placard wearing pentacostal fundies. What could twist people enough to send them to Florida in the autumn of their lives? This question haunted Jimbo, who began to wonder more and more often why he was in Florida himself, and whether he might prematurely be in the midst of his final thousand shits too. Why Florida?

He studiously interviewed and observed the lemmings who hired him until he answered this question. They were here because of advertising. They had been led for decades by soaps and cars and colas, nudged this way and that to the Best of Goals. They copied the Imago, comparing themselves reflexively to the model citizens in radio dramas, magazines, billboards, and T.V. shows. Their lives had been constructed and directed out of packaged desires, and everywhere they went they were welcomed by packaged satisfactions. By a circuitous route, they were directed to a final must-have. Florida.

Life in Florida was the drain around which American marketing swirled, drawing down the frail and the exhausted. As an up and coming plumber, Jimbo was a kind of ferryman, plucking coins from their drowsy eyes sending them on their way down the pipe with the tapeworm carcasses and undigested corn. Upon realizing this, he abandoned his post and began studying marketing. If marketing can make Florida seem like paradise, then there is no greater power in this world.

Dr. Hamster is our cuddly webmaster.He sorts out the stylesheet voodoo from a cage full of woodchips and newspaper scraps somewhere in Kansai. We are not sure why he’s gifted with a human-like intelligence or even how he manipulates the trackpad with his fat little paws, but we hope that the irksome task of managing the tadbolt site gives his misplaced intellect some much needed stimulation.

Jaku Paja is a Nahamda flying squirrel from the banks of the Noa Dihing river near the border of India and Mynamar. He began on a journey nearly four thousand years ago and has been reborn more than one hundred times.He has been a Nahamda squirrel in all of his incarnations, save for the first. 4000 years ago, a few hundred years before the old rig vedas were commited to Sanskrit, there was a divided kingdom in what is now the wilderness of Arunachal Pradesh. The armies of two mighty princes clashed. On a devestated pavilion, by chance, the two princes themselves encountered each another decked out for battle. Their sabres sang for five nights night and six days, delivering numerous fatal wounds.Whoever died victorious would be reincarnated in the heavens of Parinirmita-vaśavartin high above the Sumeru World Mountain.

Yet this would not come to pass, for a restless Hoolock Gibbon had become annoyed by the clang and clamor of warfare. So he decided to play a trick on the two princes. He told the princes that he knew a way they could both escape the wheel of Samsara. Why settle for a mere heaven when the formless realms of the non-returners awaited them? Nirvana. The princes had never heard such eloqouent speech come from a beast. They halted their martial contest and begged the Hoolock gibbon to tell them about this third way. All it required, claimed the gibbon, is that they renounce their human form completely and permenantly assume that of a squirrel. As rodents, they would only have to answer a very simple question to which all living things know the answer.

Upon doing this, they would be transfigured. Convinced, the Princes fell upon their own swords. They spiraled downward through the spokes on the wheel of samsara, through the fog of worlds, past the bemused djinn and puzzled lesser gods, and fell flat, reborn as Nahamda squirrels.

The squirrels returned to the Hoolock Gibbon. “What is the simple question? We have slain ourselves, debased ourselves, and taken this lower form. We are ready.” The Gibbon laughed. “I do not know the question. If I had known what the question was, I might have done the same as you, would’nt I? Why in the nine hells would I still be running around with these monkey feet if I could reach nirvana so easily. Foolish princes. “

Since that time, Jaku Paja has been wandering the world on a quest to find the question that will free him. He has learned a great deal, and forgotten even more. He is running out of time. The Nahamda flying squirrel is critically endangered, and in a few generations it may become impossible for him to be reborn. He may become trapped in the fog between worlds, chained eternally to the wheel of samsara.

Currently, Jaku Paja lives in Japan where he spends his summers in the forests around Yakuo temple on Mt. Takao, and his winters among the rooftops above bustling fashionable Shibuya. He likes reggae music, macro photography, and hello panda candy buscuits. He`s has extensive work experience. He worked as a print manager, a rubber nozzle inspector, and he even did a stint as a cop in American Samoa. Now he gets a salary as a top shelf manicurist in Harajuku. If you have a job offer, you can contact him through the site. He is our photographer. Almost everything is in macro mode because he likes macro. Also he is small. Also his camera is small.

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