Sunday, June 7, 2009
Japan's 'herbivore men' - less interested in sex, money
Former CNN intern Junichiro Hori is a self-described 'herbivore.'
Author and pop culture columnist Maki Fukasawa coined the term in 2006 in a series of articles on marketing to a younger generation of Japanese men. She used it to describe some men who she said were changing the country's ideas about just what is -- and isn't -- masculine.
"In Japan, sex is translated as 'relationship in flesh,'" she said, "so I named those boys 'herbivorous boys' since they are not interested in flesh."
Typically, "herbivore men" are in their 20s and 30s, and believe that friendship without sex can exist between men and women, Fukasawa said.
The term has become a buzzword in Japan. Many people in Tokyo's Harajuku neighborhood were familiar with "herbivore men" -- and had opinions about them.
Shigeyuki Nagayama said such men were not eager to find girlfriends and tend to be clumsy in love, and he admitted he seemed to fit the mold himself.
"My father always asks me if I got a girlfriend. He tells me I'm no good because I can't get a girlfriend."
Midori Saida, a 24-year-old woman sporting oversized aviators and her dyed brown hair in long ringlets, said "herbivore men" were "flaky and weak."
"We like manly men," she said. "We are not interested in those boys -- at all."
Takahito Kaji, 21, said he has been told he is "totally herbivorous."
"Herbivorous boys are fragile, do not have a stocky body -- skinny."
Fukasawa said Japanese men from the baby boomer generation were typically aggressive and proactive when it came to romance and sex. But as a result of growing up during Japan's troubled economy in the 1990s, their children's generation was not as assertive and goal-oriented. Their outlook came, in part, from seeing their fathers' model of masculinity falter even as Japanese women gained more lifestyle options.
Former CNN intern Junichiro Hori, a self-described herbivore, said the idea goes beyond looks and attitudes toward sex.
"Some guys still try to be manly and try to be like strong and stuff, but you know personally I'm not afraid to show my vulnerability because being vulnerable or being sensitive is not a weakness."
Older generations of Japanese men are not happy about the changes. At a bar frequented by businessmen after work, one man said: "You need to be carnivorous when you make decisions in your life. You should be proactive, not passive."
Fukasawa said the group does not care so much about making money -- a quality tied to the fact that there are fewer jobs available during the current global economic recession.
Japan's economy recently saw its largest-ever recorded contraction and has shrunk for four straight quarters. Blue chip companies Sony, Panasonic, Toyota and Nissan all reported losses in May, and most are forecasting the same for the current fiscal year. Though still low by international standards, Japan's reported 5 percent unemployment is the highest since 2003.
Hori agreed economics has played a role. When he finished university, "a lot of my friends were trying to work for a big company that pays well and I wasn't interested in that. I am kind of struggling financially and my father is not very happy about it," he said.
Fukasawa estimated some 20 percent of men are what she would call "herbivorous" and said their attitudes were influencing others. Indeed, she said, it was a return to the norm for Japanese men, rather than a departure.
"It was after World War II and the post-war economic growth that Japanese men gained the reputation as a sex animal through the competition with the West. Looking back beyond that time, older literature talks a lot about men with the kind of character we see in the herbivorous boys."
Will these men simply grow out of this? Fukasawa said it was anyone's guess.
Some of them may, but Japan's image of masculinity is nonetheless changing.
"The men in dark suits are changing, too," she said. "Today's young people in dark suits are different from the baby boomers in dark suits. They are evolving, too."
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Knew those heated toilets were dangerous!
Toilet fire in Nagoya
A toilet seat caught fire at a junior high school in Nagoya the other day:
The fire caused the noxious smell of burning plastic to fill much of the school building, and 28 students were taken to the hospital after falling ill due to the fumes.
Interracial dating article and marriage data for USA
How to cope with four common obstacles in interracial dating
By dating editor Arnold Chao Exclusive to Yahoo! Personals Updated: Jun 5, 2009Humourous Honne and Tatamae
A look at the outside and the in
"Honne and tatemae" are terms that many feel are linchpinned to the Japanese psyche.
The first — honne — refers to the intimate truth of the soul, one's uttermost honest feelings, the rough skin under all the powder and rouge.
The second — tatemae — is the face one shows to the world. That toothy grin that perhaps hides one's desire to bite. Analogous to the aluminum siding that helps the house gleam on the surface, while the inside bursts with termites.
One wrinkle to these terms is that many Japanese feel that theirs is the only culture to be so Jekyll-and-Hyde-ish.
Some Japanese can be goofy that way. Like those who believe Japan is the only land with four seasons. Or those that claim the Japanese language is so tough that not even Japanese can speak it well. A claim they always communicate in sparkling Japanese.
But every culture has honne and tatemae. It's as human as flatulence. Which could mean that some people are more human than others.
I, for example, have a lot of . . . honne and tatemae. It waltzes through my life like a New York debutant, smiling while her partner tromps upon her foot. Tatemae cancels out the honne. At least from the outside.
But oh if only someone could peek on the inside . . .
I stand picking at stale munchies as the only foreigner at the party, when I notice this troll of a fellow edging my way and fidgeting with his plate. I catch the body language at once. He's going to trap me in the corner and practice his English.
So I gaze the other way and pray for rescue. Or that perhaps some construction crane will topple in the wind and rip the building in half. Maybe if I focus my willpower, the wind will blow and a crane will fall and this man will be sucked into the chasm. Or I will. Anything to get away. Maybe . . .
Yes? Oh, how do you do? Nice to meet you. Why, yes, it's a splendid party. Just delightful. I agree. Have you tried the rice crackers? Superb, aren't they? Good napkins too. Oh, no, I don't mind. Not at all. And your English sounds quite fluent to me. As clear as crystal.
But if the letter "L" had life, you'd be wanted for murder. And are those vowels in your mouth? Or marbles? I've heard better sounds from forks jammed in the disposal. Yet I enjoy the way you spit when you speak. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I am on a distant beach being sprayed by surf. And not caught in this corner.
My hometown? Chicago, kind of. Oh yes, that's right. Chicago was home to Al Capone. You know well. No, I never met him. Not once. Unfortunately. That's been a while ago. Oh? You have been to Vancouver? For 10 days? No wonder you speak English so well.
And it's a wonder the Canadians let you escape. They are sensitive people and don't care to see any language butchered, let alone one of their own. If you'd been there any longer, I am sure they would have fed you to the bears. Bears are not sensitive, you see. They will eat anyone. Even someone with a necktie as bright as yours.
Oh, you teach English. I should have guessed. At your home. To small children. It sounds fascinating. Well . . . I am busy. But sure. Sometime, if it worked out, I'd enjoy meeting your students. I bet they're cute. And, yes, I'd love to speak with them and let them practice.
Just about as much as I'd love to take a power drill to my knee. I can't believe people pay you money to teach. Are you sure the money's real? Maybe the entire neighborhood is playing you for a joke. I'd check if I were you.
What? You have to go? So soon? Oh, too bad! I'll just have to eat all this great food myself. Uh, sorry, I don't have a name card. But thanks for yours. I'll be sure to get in touch. I'm glad we met. It was nice talking to you.
What luck! I was just about to throw myself on my chopsticks. I'll just drop h is card on the table. Who knows? Maybe someone will eat it. It looks better than the crackers. Probably is too. Now, how to get out of here?
Oh, you're back! You misread your wristwatch! Ha, ha. Yes, I do that all the time. You have another hour? Wonderful. No, wait! I'll get you more crackers myself. You just stay here. No, no. It's my pleasure. Honest. . . .
Or as honest as my tatemae will allow.
My honne, on the other hand, hopes the only thing I have to kill is an hour.
Amazing Japanese vocab and expressions about relationships
Back to basics: The choice of seihin or kinben
"You're up very late," says Reiko.
What time is it?"
"Past 2."
"Really. I no longer know what time of day or night it is."
"Let's talk, Stu." Reiko sits down in the chair across the desk from me. We are in my room, my office, my study (shosai, 書斎), my hermitage (iori, 庵) — what I call it depends on my mood. "Let's talk — without anger, without sarcasm (ikari nashi, hiniku nashi, 怒りなし、皮肉なし). We haven't done very much of that lately, have we?"
"No, we haven't."
"What's that you're reading?"
I show her the book — a slim volume of poems by the Edo Period (江戸時代) hermit-monk (inja, 隠者) Ryokan (良寛) (1758-1831). "I'm thinking of taking a vow of poverty (seihin no chikai, 清貧の誓い)."
"I'm trying not to smile."
Listen: " 'Kusa no iori ni ashi sashinobete . . . (In my grass hermitage, stretching out my legs . . . 草の庵に足差し伸べて . . . )' "
"You're not the ascetic type (kinyokushugisha no taipu de wa nai, 禁欲主義者のタイプではない)."
"No? But you know, I think deep down (naishin de wa, 内心では) I am the ascetic type. 'Hachi no ko ni sumire tampopo ... (In my begging bowl, violets and dandelions, 鉢のこにスミレタンポポ ...)' Hmm. To change the subject slightly (wadai wo kaeru, 話題を変える) — shall I tell you where I was today?"
"If it's fit for a prim matron (katakurushii fujin, かたくるしい婦人) to hear."
"I went to see a magazine editor who's interested in having me write a column."
"Oh, Stu, that's ..."
"Wait. It's not settled yet (mada kimatte inai, まだ決まっていない). There are a few things we don't quite see eye to eye on (iken ga icchi shite inai, 意見が — 致していない). It's a monthly magazine called Varya. Here, have a look."
There's a copy on the desk, and I push it toward her.
"It's quite good, actually. You'll notice it has an article on seihin (清貧, literally "clean poverty"), which is what got me started on Ryokan. You say I'm not the 禁欲主義者 type, but did I ever tell you what got me interested in Japan in the first place? It wasn't 'Japan Inc.,' or all this high-tech gadgetry, or bubble economies, or any of that. It was precisely 清貧 — back then of course it was called wabi (侘, beauty found in poverty and simplicity). What this article is saying is that this recession (fukeiki, 不景気) we're mired in is maybe a good chance to return to some good old Japanese traditions (dentō, 伝統) that got swamped in the headlong rush to material prosperity (busshitsuteki na yutakasa, 物質的な豊かさ) and utilitarianism (jitsurishugi, 実利主義)."
"I enjoy Ryokan's poetry too — but I wouldn't want to live like him, and I doubt you would either."
"What you're saying is that you know me better than I know myself."
"Why does everything I say make you angry (okoraseru, 怒らせる)?"
"I'm sorry — oh, sit down! Don't get offended (hara wo tatenai de, 腹を立てないで) at every stupid little thing I say!"
"How did you meet this editor?"
"A former student introduced me. She's his niece."
"And what is it you don't see eye to eye on?"
"Well, maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill (sasai na koto wo ō gesa ni iu, 些細なことを大げさに言う), but the guy's politics are, shall we say, just a little rightwing (uyokuteki, 右翼的). I mean, there's nothing wrong with patriotism (aikokushugi, 愛国主義), and I myself tend to be a bit conservative (hoshuteki, 保守的), at least in the sense of wanting to conserve (tamotsu, 保つ) the old outmoded traditions like wabi, but . . . well, in a word, he's a bit of a creep (zotto saseru, ぞっとさせる)."
"It's better than doing nothing, isn't it?"
"You know, honestly, I'm not sure about that. There's a lot to be said for doing nothing. How did Ryokan put it? 'Ukiyo wo koko ni kado sashite . . . (浮世をここに門さして, I shut my gate on the floating world) . . . ' "
"Ryokan didn't have a family. You have two children. It's up to you to set an example (tehon wo shimesu, 手本を示す) of diligence (kinben, 勤勉), don't you think?"
"Not really. What for? You're diligent enough for the both of us."
Calligraphy and studyng kanji
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Appreciating kanji can unleash your inner art critic
As exotic as kanji (Sino-Japanese logographs) may appear to the uninitiated, most of those we encounter in everyday situations are intended to convey notices and other mundane or essential information, such as 禁煙 kin'en (no smoking) or 駅長室 (ekichō-shitsu, stationmaster's office).
But as one's comprehension of kanji grows, so does awareness of the historical and cultural baggage its characters bring with them.
From a character's style, some readers will know at a glance the era in which it was created and its purpose. And from that point, you become not only a reader but a history buff and art critic.
The oldest known examples of ideographs are those excavated in China's Henan Province, which are believed to date from the 11th to 14th centuries B.C. About 2,000 of these 亀甲獣骨文字 (kikko jūkotsu moji, tortoise-shell and animal-bone characters), which were used for divination, are known to exist, although not all of them have been deciphered. While crudely inscribed, they are amazingly readable, and it is indisputable that these are the lineal ancestors of today's kanji.
What was to become the predominant form of kanji in use today, the semi-cursive 楷書 (kaisho) style evolved between A.D. 200 and 600. This also coincides with the period when the Chinese writing system was introduced to Japan.
As opposed to Chinese, which is written entirely in kanji, Japanese writing began to combine kanji with its hiragana and/or katakana phonetic script. To make the mixed text appear more attractive, the style of written Japanese gradually began to diverge from Chinese.
During the Edo Period (1603-1867), a uniquely Japanese style with exaggerated, heavy "wormlike" strokes known as 江戸文字 (Edo moji, Edo characters) made its appearance. Written in several different styles, Edo moji can still be seen in kabuki theater programs and on sumo banzuke (ranking lists).
Japanese designers have created a tremendous variety of 書体 (shotai, typefaces), from playful juvenile ones used in comic books to those shouting from the neon signs that illuminate Ginza. They can be found in gothic, ornate and baroque styles. They can appear to be dripping blood — conveying horror or the bizarre and grotesque as manically as the works of Spanish surrealist painter Salvador Dali.
While the general trend in recent years has been for corporate logos and product names to adopt the Roman alphabet, kanji still hold their own, thanks to the work of innovative designers such as Katsuichi Ito.
Ito, author of "漢字の感じ" ("Kanji no Kanji" ["The Feeling of Kanji"]), is brilliant at modifying characters to graphically convey both their meaning and spirit. His work can be found on the walls and shopping bags at 食遊館 (Shokuyūkan), the food sections in Marui department stores.
Even more exotic are the characters created by design firm Zetuei, which developed a "cyborg" typeface. Zetuei even produced a four-page newspaper, the "鼎國経済新聞" ("Teikoku Keizai Shimbun" ["Tripod Country Economic News"]) written entirely in these characters; reading it is like trying to decipher the Rosetta Stone.
The most perceptive and readable critique I have encountered about kanji is "Chinese Calligraphy," published in 1938 by Chiang Yee (1903-77). The book was reissued in 1974 by Harvard University Press. It is lavishly illustrated with useful examples throughout its 230 pages, and Chiang not only explains the principles of good calligraphy but also demonstrates, equally instructively, what constitutes "bad" calligraphy.
Hitch-hiking in Japan part 2
Hitching through Japan with friends at every turn
Second in a two-part series
Tottori, Yonago, Matsue, Izumo: I had passed through four cities in a flash and hitchhiking seemed even easier than I had imagined — until Izumo in Shimane Prefecture.
Beauty beheld: A visitor admires the cherry blossom at Kozan-ji Temple (top), a National Treasure in Shimonoseki, Yamaguchi Prefecture, on the southwestern tip of Honshu. Others may prefer to feast their eyes on the prefecture's famed Hagi pottery (above). In times past these cannon at Shimonoseki (below) aimed to stop foreigners from entering from Kyushu to do that or more. PERRIN LINDELAUF |
"Do you know a good place to get a ride around here?" I asked the kind old man who'd treated me to lunch once we were done eating.
"Sure,I do."
Hitchhiking problem No. 4 (see last week's installment for Nos. 1, 2 and 3): People who don't hitchhike don't know what a "good place" looks like. The well-intentioned old guy let me off on a new bypass of Route 9 that goes around much of downtown Izumo.
In fairness, I didn't realize what a bad spot it was until I had waited for 10 minutes. Although there was a large lane for cars to pull over, traffic was dense and fast. To make matters worse, I was standing near an intersection, so cars bunched up and couldn't see past each other — let alone me. I was breaking the rules of Will Ferguson's "The Hitchhiker's Guide to Japan": This road wasn't slow, quiet, or rural. After 25 minutes on my timer I gave up and started looking at my map.
I decided to go to the station and ride the train until I cleared Izumo's suburban sprawl. I got directions from a shop, but as I started walking another customer came out and stopped me: "Want a ride to the train station?" My shortest lift, less than 10 minutes, was one of my most welcome, as it saved me a 30-minute walk across town.
Two stations from Izumo and a whopping ¥190 later, I caught a lift from a convenience store forecourt. Two men in work coveralls waved me over to their company car in the parking lot and asked me my plans for the day. I had hoped to make it to Oda City in Shimane, location of the Iwami Silver Mine World Heritage site (see Weekend Scene, May 23, 2008), but it was close and still early in the day.
"Do you know Yunotsu Hot Spring?" asked one of the men, in between a long series of jokes. "We'll take you there."
After checking into a cheap inn, I climbed into a very ancient and crusty-looking hot-spring bath that scorched the dust and sweat of the day off of my body. While the local geezers and I were groaning like half-revived zombies in the hot water, I reviewed my day: 200 km in 6 hours, ¥190 for the train, ¥5,200 for the inn. The express trains would do it in 2 1/2 hours, for ¥6,390, so I had saved ¥1,000 for three extra travel hours. I would do better tomorrow, I vowed.
Would I ever. Despite trying to hitchhike on a busy, narrow road the next day, I was picked up after about 20 minutes by a young Filipino man living and working in the area. He was headed to work in nearby Goetsu and dropped me off at another convenience store after 20 minutes of blissfully easy, standard Japanese conversation.
I stood in the rain for five minutes until a man approached me from the store and asked me where I was going. He said he could take me as far as Hamada, the next big city, so within an hour of starting I had hopped two lengths of countryside.
During the previous day, whenever a large truck drove past I lowered my arm to give my shoulder a break. I figured their companies forbade passengers, so I didn't bother trying to flag them down. Because of this assumption, I was taken by surprise when a large freight truck screeched to a halt behind me. A scruffy- looking driver with wild, graying hair and a beard waved me in. "South? To Hagi? I'm headed to home, to Fukuoka," said the driver through a cloud of smoke and a thick Kyushu accent. "So I can drop you off there, no problem." He pushed a pile of ropes off the seat for me and put the rig into gear.
As we drove through the rain we covered nearly every topic of conversation that I had vocabulary to express, from Japanese politics to religion to explaining (after grumbling into his mobile phone) a recent argument he had with his wife. I rode with him for more than two hours, and the temptation to go all the way to Shimonoseki with him was great. Instead, though, I decided to check out the old castle town of Hagi.
Knight of the road: Thumb magic yielded "the best ride of the trip" when Susumu (left) pulled up, saying "Sorry if you fall off" before roaring 120 km through wind and rain and sunshine all the way to journey's end at Shimonoseki in Yamaguchi Prefecture. PERRIN LINDELAUF |
Hagi is a quiet little place on a small peninsula, hemmed in by mountains. In its pre-Meiji Era heyday (before the Meiji Restoration of 1868) it was a fortified burg, but now only ruins, old temples and the traces of revolutionaries remain from that time. The best place to learn about its role in the restoration of Imperial rule and the modernization of Japan is at the Hagi Museum, where English guides are present to conduct exhaustive tours of the region's history.
Of most interest are the biographies of Shoin Yoshida and Shinsaku Takasugi. The former was one of Japan's first advocates of an international, democratic nation, a teacher whose failed attempts at revolution got him executed; the latter was one of his students who formed a militia with the support of Western weapons and fought against the Shogun's armies for the restoration of the Emperor.
After seeing some temples, poking around shops to see Hagi's famous pottery and visiting the museum, I decided to try to catch one more lift south. I hung out at a convenience store near the entrance to the highway until a police car parked there drove off, and then worked some thumb magic.
Ancient ways: A path between the walled grounds of houses in Shimonoseki's old samurai district of Chofu, which was once home to revolutionary foment. PERRIN LINDELAUF |
A man called Susumu pulled up and revealed the best ride of the trip: a big black scooter. I couldn't resist. "Sorry if you fall off, eh," said the young guy as I climbed on, backpack and all.
"I'm just going to pretend that I misheard that," I said to myself as we shot off. For the next two hours we whipped through mountain passes and tunnels, into sun, wind and a spattering of rain, past blooming cherry trees that looked like fuzzy pink clouds through my teary eyes. We shouted at each other about movies and life plans, or lapsed into silence as we admired the ocean views that opened up between the peaks.
Around 120 km later I arrived in Shimonoseki in southwestern Yamaguchi Prefecture, weak at the knees but elated. I had covered 260 km in six hours of hitchhiking and had only taken my wallet out for snacks. The 460-km trip had taken 13 hours of hitching, nine rides, and ¥5,290 for the train and a place to stay one night.
In comparison, the train on the same seaside route costs ¥9,960 and takes 7 1/2 hours, so for a slower pace I cut my costs in half and had a lot more fun.
As I wandered around Chofu, Shimonoseki's old samurai district, poking into Kozan-ji Temple (a National Treasure) and the Mori estate, where Emperor Meiji once stayed, I couldn't believe how easy hitchhiking had been, and how friendly my drivers were.
That evening, I boarded the ferry to Busan in South Korea. I was undoubtedly sad to go — but confident that I had ended my stay in Japan with an affirmation of everything I loved about the country. I would be back.