Confessions (not about my apparent inability to post regularly)

Madonna. 48 years old, but still one of THE hottest women on the planet. And all it takes is presence, attitude and a body that's been whittled and beaten into muscular perfection. Oh, and Guy Ritchie. And the ability to command a riding crop. A monogrammed riding crop no less - we would expect no less from the Material Girl.

The Confessions Tour is apparently the most profitable tour of any artist, ever. The Japanese shows in Tokyo and Osaka sold out in 5 minutes. 5 minutes!

2 hours of an audio-visual spectactular, quite unlike anything I've ever seen before. I've been to an awful lot of concerts and performances, but nothing quite came to the level of grandiosity, and budget too, I guess, of The Confessions Tour. Most of the songs were from the new album, Confessions From The Dance Floor, and while musically, none of Madonna's new stuff is even remotely pushing any boundaries, it certainly sounds amazing when pumped through speaker stacks three stories high. The mix was good, and she's not so over-produced so that you want to jam your fingers in your ears, she actually performs very very well. I will admit that I was surprised that she could sing as well as she does. I always thought that Madonna would be more visually based, but musically she stands in her own right too.

Which is not to say that visually, the show wasn't entertaining. It was impressive and combined with the music and the fact that I WAS ACTUALLY SEEING MADONNA LIVE, I had constant waves of goosebumps and mini fits as I tried to come to terms with someone who's music I've been listening to since I was about 10 (is it embarrassing that I just admitted that?). The costumes were ever-so-stylish, the dancers had amazing bodies and did amazing things with a scaffolding-type frame. Admittedly I was a little disappointed that she relied so heavily on the video presentation as opposed to just being an outrageous spectacle. There were three video intermissions where basically a video of a song was played while the back-up dancers provided live movement.

My only other criticism is the apparent need for almost all celebrities these days to push their political and social standing in a public arena. The much-criticised cruxifixition was almost a non-entity - it was intended as a powerful image against the video streaming of children living in poverty-stricken countries and the fact that 12 million children will be without parents. Combine this with the usual 'fuck Bush, Blair and Saddam' mentality, and a woman who is known for being intensely individualistic, merely becomes yet another media-whoring star who is jumping on the socially vocal bandwagon. Now before I'm accused of being completely insensitive, I'm all for activism, provided that it's done effectively and not like in Madonna's case, which seemed to be purely for appearances. I object to being made to feel guilty for my apparent wealth and freedom and privelege, as it's not something that I take for granted. As the cheapest ticket to Madonna was 140,000 yen (roughly $A150), and tour shirts were around 7000 yen, I'm not about to listen closely to someone preaching about excess. And isn't Madonna someone that we all associate with excess?



I would have loved to have seen Madonna ten years ago, probably during the Music tour, just after Erotica came out, before she was a mother, before she married Guy Ritchie, before she decided she'd try and appease British sensibilities, and I'm almost inclined to say, before she got old. Back when she didn't give a fuck, when she courted contreversy and loved to be hated, when she was edgy and dramatic and volatile. When sex sold, and Madonna wasn't just a business, but a convincing, influential artist as well.

Unhurried

The perfect weekend consists of a fine balance of doing just enough to stay entertained and little enough to feel indulgently lazy.

So for example say, cups of tea, tv, phone calls, walking in the sunshine, more cups of tea, reading, finding the perfect spot in the sun and delighting in being able to lie about, another cup of tea. Then not waking up the next morning with a hangover either.

Wash, rinse, repeat as desired.

Throw in the perfect pair of pink Asics for only 5000 yen, a comedy show that had pretend trannies, Wendy the Weathergirl, things you never want to hear in a beauticians and a tourette's sufferer in a dating show and THEN as we were walking through Shinsaibashi, two of the sweetest, most nonchalant, real sequined-up trannies on a Sunday evening and right there, you have the almost perfect weekend.

See It Now

I love watching movies by myself. There's an allowed space and time and stillness after that you can sit back and think, muse and digest what you've just seen, subconsiously filing away small parts to potentially be used again. No-one interupts and you're able to meander through with your thoughts undisturbed.

For me, the depth of what I retain comes mainly from the degree in which I'm able to be lost within a story. It's not often that I can be completely captivated for two hours and not notice the time going past. And unlike the numerous hours of my life that I have squandered watching America's Next Top Model (happily, vappidly, vacuously, mind you), I won't be wishing back the time I spent watching Crash.

For a movie that's merely about how people interact with one another and their preconcieved stereotypes, it's also surprising in how it's able to challenge the viewer's own stereotypes. It's voyeurisitc and captivating and leaves you questioning yourself for quite sometime after it's finished.

For me, the fact that it's moved me beyond my usual state of apathy, that I'm still thinking about it, makes me want to explore and question interesting things further. And that's what I liked about Crash.

Babelfish: Anti-Douglas Adams Style

"I thought but the thougt that the friend whom I would become helped was wrong somehow since I went... However, I cannot be able to just come back because I was at a loss"
Courtesy of class 2-8 who are a business English class (ie. they only study English that may be applicable in a business travel field - kind of a last resort language class).

Good grief. This is taken from the opening paragraph of essay number one. And on a quick flick through, it appears Babelfish or some other equally shite translator has mutilated previously understandable Japanese and turned it into the carnage above. Fantastic. Only another 39 to enjoy completely defacing with a tightly gripped red pen.

And the opening sentence of the next essay?
"Koshien of this summer was contiunation of an impression, too."

Babelfish. Responsible for intense gaijin frustration all over Japan.

Dancing on Sun Road

Occasionally, while walking through Ono, I encouter some ... peculiar... things. Such as the store called Dorkus, that sells massive beetles.

Tonight's little dose of What The Fuck comes courtesy of whoever decides that random elevator music is not good enough for the wretched citizens of Ono who may happen to be casually strolling down Sun Road, the covered shopping street. As I was coming home this evening, I was sans iPod, and happened to notice that not only was it western music, but it just happened to be the latest Scissor Sister's single I Don't Feel Like Dancing.

Rockstar awesome.

Summer. September. Time for sports day.

this isn't a recent post. It's been sitting in my 'to do' files...


When I first arrived in Japan, sports day was the beginning of the realization that Japanese schools are 'different'. Now, a year on, the similarites to every other high school are apparent. You just have to be prepared to look a little harder. Everyone's still enthusiastic, the smiles, the laughter is just as apparent. On my first sports day, I was horrified that the kids were having to spend so much time marching in the sun (admittedly summer is biding us a hasty farewell at moment, instead of hanging on for grim death like it did last year), but they seem to enjoy it, it's something for them to be proud of and present themselves as a single unit, as a representative of their school. Sure, it's a little different to the freedom that I was allowed as a student, but it doesn't mean that it's any less enjoyable for the kids that I was watching today.

The focus of the day seems to be more about the culmination of an awful lot of hard work and preparation and down to the minute, split second timing and arganisation. I shit you not, the program for today not only had obscure times like 10.47, but had the second times written as well.

There's still events like the running and relay races, and my god, those kids can run fast. There's the tug-of-war that seems a bit unfair to me as the ichi-nenseis (first years) have to compete against the ni-nenseis and san-nenseis, but still, despite the apparent inevitability of it all, they still give it everything they've got. Occasionally, like the first year girls today, they'll surprise themselves and overcome the size and strength disparities and be just as amazed as everyone else. The screaming and jumping around may well have depleted their new found wee muscles, as they were then convincingly thumped by the third years as though it was retribution for even daring to beat a year group older than them. En-masse jump rope - 20 kids in one large rope, all trying to jump as many times as possible, in a limited time.

The obstacle course was one of the funniest things I have seen in school yet. It involved sack racing, commando crawling through a tunnel of netting, two-legged skipping, leap frog and then, in pairs, having to make a giant tube of cardboard (imagine a mouse wheel) move for about 50 metres by doing summersaults. Poor little poppets were so dizzy when they finally got out of it, but most of them couldn't breathe for laughing so hard, so standing up straight wasn't really much of problem. Then we had the class dances, of which I was an esteemed judge, and is one of the most popular events of the day. Each home room class has about 1 minute to do quick dance that has a story and a conclusion and some point of wonder which typically each of the teachers used as their personal opportunity to show off. Topics ranged from The Pirates of the Carribean to Doraemon, a few Chinese interperative dances, a small buddha which sprouted water, and most disturbingly, one of the male teachers dressed as a cheerleader amd with his posse of boys also dressed as cheerleader, they proceeded to bump and grind to rapturous applause and wolf whistles. Creativity at it's finest...

So while I may ponder (ie. bitch and moan) whether or not I made the right decision about staying for another year, it will prove interesting to see what my take is on events and opinions as I'm able to observe them for the second time around.

My lungs are black.

The teacher who sits next to me has obviously just come back from a sneaky cigarette outside the school gates - he's sat down completely oblivious to the cartoon cloud that's currently assaulting the olfactories with a vicious right hook of anyone around him. Having just spent the previous week in Perth, often accompanied by either a glass of wine or a cigarette or quite regularly both, I've unconsciously found myself hoovering up the stench, while trying not to infringe upon the rigorous personal space boundaries that are bound in concrete over here and wishing that I wasn't such a conformist to Japan's sexist attitudes towards women who smoke.

Tomorrow, while I'm in Akashi, I think it's definitely time I went and bought myself a copy of Allan Carr's Easy Way To Stop Smoking.

Smiling on the inside.

Occasionally I notice I'm frowning for no apparent reason whatsoever and have to make a conscious effort to release my furrowed brow into what I hope comes across as approachable as opposed to looking just plain pissed off. Having recently been told that I should smile more (a backhanded compliment?), it concerns me - which makes me frown again - that are times when I'm looking annoyed unnecessarily and being completely oblivious of it, there's little I can do to fix this.
On the upside, I guess I'm not looking like some complete gimp with a slightly psychotic grin permanently plastered across my gob.

Star-crossed Lovers

nervous violent colours


The recent dash back to Perth was all for the wedding of my fabulous friends Amanda and Liam. Dash it was, as I was only in Perth for 10 days, most of which was spent on the back porch of their house drinking red wine and champagne, curled up on the cosiest pink couch on the face of the earth. (Let me tell you another time how many times my mother made snide remarks about the number of nights I spent at Palmerston St versus the nights I spent at home). In the past year that I've been in Japan, I've had the misfortune (or good timing, depending on which way you want to look at it) of missing the weddings and associtated hen's nights and other such frivolties of 3 friends from school, the birth of one baby, and the announcement of the impending births of another two babies. It takes a fair bit to prise me from Japan, and there's very few people that I would spend 40 hours total in transit for, so hopefully, I've managed to make my point that I think they're very special people.

It was a simple ceremony, held at the Wedding Registry in Westralia Square on St. George's Terrace. After a minor wardrobe mishap involving a strapless top and darting through the traffic in the rain, trying not to let straight hair get wet so that it would curl furiously (note: it was not the bride), the ceremony was quick, not unlike being processed as efficiently as possible. It felt a little sombre, which may have been more to do with the grey, rainy day and the windowless room, but was also helped by a lengthy period of the celebrant making sure that neither the bride nor the groom were currently married, and that they were aware that marriage is a legally binding agreement. Annie did manage to lighten the moment by announcing, when she handed over the wedding rings that she lived with them and that she was just like their kid, but she wasn't really, she was just a friend, and then finished it perfectly by blushing a stunning shade of red.
The reception was held at The Secret Garden in Murray Street, where we'd spent a good portion of the previous afternoon setting up and prepping food - well, I just faffed about, but I figure that by doing that, I saved everyone else the trouble of wasting their time. I'm good at faffing. The food was amazing, mainly because both Rizza and Amanda are brilliant, the wine was exactly what I'd been missing, and there was bottles and bottles of it (which we drank much quicker over the next few days than any of us expected) and we had the luxury of being able to lock the doors and come back the next day and clean up. Wonderfully relaxed and comfortable - like having a long, lazy lunch with fabulous friends - perfect.
I was unorganised and slack and I didn't get around to getting them a card or a present that I could write soppy sentiments in (but I flew back from Japan, so I figure the lack of a present was justified), so instead this wonderful public arena that's called the internet is going to suffice. Yes, I could just send them a card, but it's more fun this way.

So, dearest Amanda and Liam, these are the things that I wish for you to be able to offer the other:
challenges and intrigue; care and nurturing; trust and safety; strength and vulnerability; care and nourishment; dependency and space; flowers, sunshine and fast cars; spontenaity and serenity; solidarity and togetherness; love, laughter and a closeness that trancends all others.
You have all my love and hope for the future. You'll make fantastic, crazy faux-godparents.