John has been DJing at a local radio station, KFJC. It is one of the original college radio stations of the Bay Area, and is kind of famous for its experimental music. There have been times where we are trying to tune in to 89.7 on our tuner, which has an analog dial, and we can't seem to get anything but static no matter what we do. And then, it turns out that the static was the music.
If you listen to the tail end of the show he did yesterday (7/16's Stone Cold Lampin'), as I did from my car on my way to work, you will hear – the final track John played is a little experimental, sure, but good for listening to at 6am. "I wonder what the next DJ will play to transition to his or her show?" I thought. Literally, it was a sine wave. I gave it 60 full seconds before it was too much. I switched to NPR. I did check in at 2 minutes, 5 minutes, 8 minutes past the hour. Still just the single sine wave piercing my head via my ear canal. Out of morbid curiosity, I checked back in at 22 minutes and it was still the sine wave, but coupled with some other instrument and the DJ was reading a PSA over it all. I gave up after that. Maybe it was the sine wave for his entire show - I'll never know and frankly don't care. We have always been huge listeners of KFJC at our house - either it or the jazz station is on if we aren't listening to records. I'd like to think that my tolerance for grating sounds has grown broader, but there is a limit and I will turn off anything that causes distress. Like, forget about the 8am hour on Sunday, but at 9am is Sunday Morning Coming Down, which is a show I enjoy.
At dinner last night, we had KFJC on quietly in the background. The DJ was playing inoffensive techno - not my favorite thing but not causing any psychological trauma either. Plus it was turned down low.
We were eating burgers w/coleslaw – John made it all, even the mayo for the slaw and burger condiment. It was magnificent. My mom's second American meal of the day (she'd had a sandwich for lunch, something she deems to be strictly American, like burgers).
At a lull in the conversation, my mom cocks her head and says, "What's that I'm hearing?" We listened. It was some low pulsating techno beat.
"Some call it music," said John.
"Well, I don't."
I can't say I disagree.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Still surprising herself at 73
My mom is visiting the frijolito (and, incidentally, us parents, too) and just arrived from SoCal where she is teaching kids in San Juan Capistrano. This past weekend, the friends with whom she was staying threw a surprise party for her.
A historical note: One time, in the early 70s before I was born, someone attempted to throw my mom a surprise birthday party. She said it wasn't a surprise because people would come up to her and say, "I can't come to your party," and other things like that ruining the crucial element.
I guess she found the experience disappointing enough that she thought she would spare her offspring such awful letdowns. In grade school, friends would have surprise parties. I remember begging for one, but I might as well have asked for a pony for the kind of resounding NO that came back every time. The NO was always followed by this same one story.
End result was that I never had a surprise party until one was kindly thrown for me by the family I nannied for, when I was in my late 20s. I don't know in what context I would have mentioned the sad affair of being a child without a surprise party at my job, but clearly this emotional scar was deep. Deep enough for me to apparently tell my boss, and enough for her to want to make it right by throwing me a little surprise birthday party with the kids.
The surprise was not ruined, even by a seven-year-old who had the responsibility of getting me to take him straight home from school – not out to a playground as was our normal routine – without arousing suspicion. Guess seven-year-olds can keep a secret better than adults in the 70s, though somehow that makes sense to me.
Anyway, so back to 2015: My mom had this surprise party thrown for her. It's a roaring good time. She excitedly showed us a photo montage someone made: of the food, and people, and my mom and Masako playing shamisen, and another Japanese lady dancing awaodori. Clearly everyone was having so much fun.
"It was so much fun!" my mom enthused.
"I thought you hated surprise parties," I countered, with just the tiniest hint of bitterness, because how can one ever truly fully let go of the crushed spirit of one's eight-year-old self who was denied her one true dream?
"Well," she said thoughtfully, "I thought I did, but apparently I didn't."
...
Looks like surprise parties are back on the menu.
A historical note: One time, in the early 70s before I was born, someone attempted to throw my mom a surprise birthday party. She said it wasn't a surprise because people would come up to her and say, "I can't come to your party," and other things like that ruining the crucial element.
I guess she found the experience disappointing enough that she thought she would spare her offspring such awful letdowns. In grade school, friends would have surprise parties. I remember begging for one, but I might as well have asked for a pony for the kind of resounding NO that came back every time. The NO was always followed by this same one story.
End result was that I never had a surprise party until one was kindly thrown for me by the family I nannied for, when I was in my late 20s. I don't know in what context I would have mentioned the sad affair of being a child without a surprise party at my job, but clearly this emotional scar was deep. Deep enough for me to apparently tell my boss, and enough for her to want to make it right by throwing me a little surprise birthday party with the kids.
The surprise was not ruined, even by a seven-year-old who had the responsibility of getting me to take him straight home from school – not out to a playground as was our normal routine – without arousing suspicion. Guess seven-year-olds can keep a secret better than adults in the 70s, though somehow that makes sense to me.
Anyway, so back to 2015: My mom had this surprise party thrown for her. It's a roaring good time. She excitedly showed us a photo montage someone made: of the food, and people, and my mom and Masako playing shamisen, and another Japanese lady dancing awaodori. Clearly everyone was having so much fun.
"It was so much fun!" my mom enthused.
"I thought you hated surprise parties," I countered, with just the tiniest hint of bitterness, because how can one ever truly fully let go of the crushed spirit of one's eight-year-old self who was denied her one true dream?
"Well," she said thoughtfully, "I thought I did, but apparently I didn't."
...
Looks like surprise parties are back on the menu.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
A discerning taste
We arrived to Tokyo with an 11pm touch down. I won't say that the 11 hour flight, the first international flight with the frijolito, was harrowing, but that would only be because I wish to forget it all together.
Exhausted, sleep deprived, I was so glad to see my mom upon exiting customs in Haneda.
On the drive home, she was telling us about this special wagu beef that is the highest classification of quality, called A5. She had gone to this butcher and was going to get the second to highest grade because the price differential between A5 and, assumedly, A4 was so vast that she didn't think it was worth the difference. But the butcher told her that it was worth the price. So she did - and used this A5 beef to make sukiyaki. "It really tasted amazing!" she said.
"I wonder what makes A5 beef so different?" I mused in my sleep deprived, manic mind set.
"The taste," she said definitavely.
"I mean, what makes makes the taste different?" I clarified.
"The flavor is better," she answered.
I am returned to the land of my forefathers. Let the hilarity begin.
Exhausted, sleep deprived, I was so glad to see my mom upon exiting customs in Haneda.
On the drive home, she was telling us about this special wagu beef that is the highest classification of quality, called A5. She had gone to this butcher and was going to get the second to highest grade because the price differential between A5 and, assumedly, A4 was so vast that she didn't think it was worth the difference. But the butcher told her that it was worth the price. So she did - and used this A5 beef to make sukiyaki. "It really tasted amazing!" she said.
"I wonder what makes A5 beef so different?" I mused in my sleep deprived, manic mind set.
"The taste," she said definitavely.
"I mean, what makes makes the taste different?" I clarified.
"The flavor is better," she answered.
I am returned to the land of my forefathers. Let the hilarity begin.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
I'm less literal than I thought
I just sent my mom an email to follow up on a situation, and to ask her to "let me know where things are with regard to (this certain ongoing situation)."
Her reply: "I will show you where things are and your things (kimono etc.) are together in the attic. Your Kabuki is on 21st at 4pm."
It took me a second but then I laughed. And in case you were wondering about that last part, I hadn't asked about Kabuki, but it's good to know.
Her reply: "I will show you where things are and your things (kimono etc.) are together in the attic. Your Kabuki is on 21st at 4pm."
It took me a second but then I laughed. And in case you were wondering about that last part, I hadn't asked about Kabuki, but it's good to know.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Historic tale #1: ca. 1993
It was finals time at my high school. I remember because my room had never been cleaner or my desk more organized – always the first steps to a studious bout (or the final steps of procrastination) – and I sat there with a pile of books and a pile of notes, a stressed out person hoping that cramming all of that English, history, math, science, and French would stick long enough to get me through the ensuing week. I'm sure I was sighing up a storm, not that I remember doing that, but it seems like something I would have done, since I still do. My mom had just come up the stairs in our house; my room was just at the top of the staircase. She popped her head around to answer my distressed sounds.
"What can I do to help?" she asked in an unusual show of compassion for my distress.
"I don't know! Nothing! I'm stressed out!" I'm sure I retorted in a tirade of teenage angst. "I'm so tired from studying all this stuff!"
"Maybe I can make you some coffee," she offered.
Or maybe I demanded, "Just make me some coffee!!"
But in either case, moments later she brought up a steaming cup of coffee which I took and drank – thankful for some understanding/pity/help from my mom, whom I felt so alienated from so often in those awkward teenage times. She may have even brought me a second cup when she saw how serious I was in my studying.
But my eyelids drooped – I was loosing to the sandman. I'd had two cups of coffee and I didn't understand.
"What is this," I asked her on her next pass by my door, "Like, decaf or something?" It was like a rhetorical question with zero seriousness attached, my attempt to be joking and poking fun at my own inability to focus and stay awake.
"Yes, it is," she replied.
"are you SERIOUS?! YOU GAVE ME DECAF WHEN I'M TRYING TO WAKE UP?! SO I CAN STUDY AND NOT FAIL MY FINALS?!" is my best guess at how I responded.
"Well," she said matter-of-factly, "It's the smell that wakes you up."
"What can I do to help?" she asked in an unusual show of compassion for my distress.
"I don't know! Nothing! I'm stressed out!" I'm sure I retorted in a tirade of teenage angst. "I'm so tired from studying all this stuff!"
"Maybe I can make you some coffee," she offered.
Or maybe I demanded, "Just make me some coffee!!"
But in either case, moments later she brought up a steaming cup of coffee which I took and drank – thankful for some understanding/pity/help from my mom, whom I felt so alienated from so often in those awkward teenage times. She may have even brought me a second cup when she saw how serious I was in my studying.
But my eyelids drooped – I was loosing to the sandman. I'd had two cups of coffee and I didn't understand.
"What is this," I asked her on her next pass by my door, "Like, decaf or something?" It was like a rhetorical question with zero seriousness attached, my attempt to be joking and poking fun at my own inability to focus and stay awake.
"Yes, it is," she replied.
"are you SERIOUS?! YOU GAVE ME DECAF WHEN I'M TRYING TO WAKE UP?! SO I CAN STUDY AND NOT FAIL MY FINALS?!" is my best guess at how I responded.
"Well," she said matter-of-factly, "It's the smell that wakes you up."
Friday, December 19, 2014
It's still better than $5 in a freshly laundered pair of jeans, or even change in the couch cushions...
I wrote this god-knows-when. I think last time my mom was visiting, as I vaguely recall the moment and I picture her sitting at our dining table. Saying, with some effort (and this below is what I just discovered in my drafts with no further explanation):
I love to find these forgotten treasures.
And, in case you were wondering, she was trying to say Bulgaria.
Booger-y.
BURRgury.
I love to find these forgotten treasures.
And, in case you were wondering, she was trying to say Bulgaria.
Monday, May 12, 2014
This is what a mother's nightmares are made of...
We were chatting via Skype, catching up on the news du jour and listening to my mom make all manner of ridiculous noises at the frijolito as he crawled about. He is always happy to see her - amazing that he can recognize his baba-chan on an iphone screen!
She often calls at this time, which is Saturday morning in Japan just before her student arrives for her lesson. It's never a long call but I know they both like it - these calls have certainly replaced her checking in on me, her kid!
Maybe it's not that harsh and in a way I should be happy about this change but in either case I digress...
As we finished up this call, my mom suddenly jumps up from her seat and says, "I have to go put on coffee - my student likes it."
This would seem fine except that once this student arrived while we were still online together and my mother introduced us over Skype. And she is 5.
"What? Isn't your student five? You are giving a five-year-old coffee??!!"
"She likes it - she doesn't even take any milk or sugar. Just black," my mom informs me, as if that makes it any better. "Besides, I'm making decaf."
I launch in to my spiel about how caffeine isn't good for kids but in Japan who knows how much green tea or even coca cola this child consumes. Maybe a weekly black coffee isn't the end of the world. Though I did have a nightmare this morning where my mom was attempting to feed the frijolito copious amounts of cake telling me he likes it! I woke up with a racing pulse, my screaming protestations still fresh in my head.
She often calls at this time, which is Saturday morning in Japan just before her student arrives for her lesson. It's never a long call but I know they both like it - these calls have certainly replaced her checking in on me, her kid!
*ring, ring* me: "Hello?" her: "Is he awake?" me: "Not yet." her: "Okay, call me when he gets up. Bye." *click and dial tone*
Maybe it's not that harsh and in a way I should be happy about this change but in either case I digress...
As we finished up this call, my mom suddenly jumps up from her seat and says, "I have to go put on coffee - my student likes it."
This would seem fine except that once this student arrived while we were still online together and my mother introduced us over Skype. And she is 5.
"What? Isn't your student five? You are giving a five-year-old coffee??!!"
"She likes it - she doesn't even take any milk or sugar. Just black," my mom informs me, as if that makes it any better. "Besides, I'm making decaf."
I launch in to my spiel about how caffeine isn't good for kids but in Japan who knows how much green tea or even coca cola this child consumes. Maybe a weekly black coffee isn't the end of the world. Though I did have a nightmare this morning where my mom was attempting to feed the frijolito copious amounts of cake telling me he likes it! I woke up with a racing pulse, my screaming protestations still fresh in my head.
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