Pooping in Japan is a continuing essay series. To start from the first post, click here: https://steemit.com/travel/@jeunebug/pooping-in-japan
Twelve.
That’s how many buttons my toilet has.
Twelve.
For those of you wondering what that looks like in practice, refer to figure 1.2:
Yes, the Japanese approach toilets like your financial consultant approaches a stock portfolio: lots of options.
Now, like any even moderately-traveled person, I’ve pooped in a wide variety of environments in my life. There have been the bad: the days of working with my father and using construction site porta-potties turned fecal-scented plastic saunas, due to the bog of excrement slow cooking in their bowels (as an added bonus, their walls offered an intimate study of America’s very lowest form of culture, expressed via poorly-spelled, racist graffiti); there was the outdoor Mongolian shit pit I squatted and shivered over during one very cold February week; and lest we forget the spider-infested outhouse/composting bucket housed within four pieces of repurposed roofing I used that summer I stayed on a mountain commune (to all of you posting memes complaining about Mondays, I ask: you ever wake up on a Monday when it’s your week to clean the bucket? Count your blessings). There have also been the good: and… you know, I was going to start talking about some really nice bathrooms- resort hotels, great lighting, high ceilings, granite counters and adjoining bidet, but… they no longer make the impact they once did. Japan has totally changed the game; as ultraviolet light is to the visible spectrum, so Japanese toilets are to the spectrum of pooping experiences: an addition to that spectrum, unperceived by those who lack proper equipment. If I had grown up here, I’m sure I’d disregard the toilets as simply another banal aspect of modern existence. But in a life that’s known open-aired shitting in the Mongolian winter, these toilets shimmer at its porcelain zenith.
Consider The Greatest Generation, who lived through unimaginable hardship. The result: people like my grandparents have such a genuine appreciation for the luxuries of modern life, because they have known the depths of privation.
Similarly, as amazing as this toilet objectively may be, I also bring to it a genuine appreciation, because I have known the depths of privy(eh?)tion.
At this, the grave of every dead World War II veteran finds them rolling like they’ve just heard Chuck Berry again for the first time. Comparing your poops to the Great Depression? Where do you get the nerve?
To which I answer: From Little Mexico Restaurant’s Dollar Taco Mondays. Talk about a Black Tuesday…
(This joke brought to you by Little Mexico Restaurant; Little Mexico Restaurant, for when you’re craving just a little bit of Mexico, with just a little bit of authenticity)
(For those interested in director’s cuts versions, here is just a little bit of WWII bonus material left on the editing room floor:
To which I answer: Hey, I was at the bombing of Porcelain Harbor. A day that will live in feces…
I don’t need to pay Christopher Nolan $12 for an admission to Dunkirk. I once ate 4 bratwursts at a cookout. Let me tell you about being trapped on the water by the Germans…
I may not have made a baby boom, but I did just make a boom boom.)
(For any who felt last month’s entry was too short on toilet humor, I hope those helped even the score. That certainly was a butt load of jokes…)
Whatever the background experience, sitting on one of these hallmarks of luxury is enough to cause the Bernie Sanders supporter in me to hurl political epithets at myself- because I’ve officially joined the one percent.
And to think, I used to poo like a peasant.
Or in other words- started at the bottom, and now we’re here.
Okay, so, actually started at the top, chewed, swallowed, and digested to the bottom. But you get what I mean.
It’s a pooping experience so good, I’ve had it categorized as an RPG, because it certainly makes me feel like I’m role playing a fantasy come to life. Now if you’ll excuse me, that’s my butler Jeeves with an ornate rotary phone on a silver platter. I’m going to have to take this. “Hello, Mr. Vanderbilt. Hrmm, yes, yes, I suppose I could lend you a bit of pocket change so you can build your little railroad. Yes, yes, indubitably.” I hand the phone back to Jeeves, who gingerly receives it in white-gloved hand.
“Jeeves, I’m filling a bit famished. Be a dear and fetch a platter of oysters.”
“Oysters Rockefeller, sir?”
“Of course! Good god, man, I didn’t amass such staggering wealth to not have my meals properly Rockefellered! And put on some Jay-Z while you’re at it.”
“Sorry sir, but we don’t have any Jay-Z.”
“What? Since when does Ask Jeeves fail to deliver on a request?”
(This joke brought to you by an increasingly older guy who remembers an increasingly older internet)
So. What does a toilet with twelve buttons actually do?
Good question. I’ll now answer from experience. Because when you can’t read the Japanese instructions, the only thing to do pull down your pants, hit that button with the picture of butt cheeks, and see what happens.
That’s also probably a deep and insightful metaphor for how to live a fulfilling life. Keep an eye on Bartlett’s; I have a feeling you’ll see it there one of these days.
“Life: when you can’t read the Japanese instructions, the only thing to do is pull down your pants, hit that button with the picture of butt cheeks, and see what happens.”
-Brandon Jeune, kindergarten teacher/philosopher
That’s what I did. And after an interminable, breathless wait, I realized nothing was happening.
(Also a metaphor for life)
Turns out I had started with the stop button. It’s good to sometimes pause, and simply appreciate these small gifts of happenstance, because knowing where that stop button was became hugely important when I hit the next button, which unleashed a bidet jet so powerful, it’s essentially what German police used earlier this summer to combat protestors outside the G20. Seriously, if I invest in a few leather straps, I basically have the equivalent of a new BDSM partner (dangerously, the safe word is in Japanese, which I still can’t speak). I’ve heard of buttchugging, but this setting is essentially butt waterboarding; it propelled water so far up my ass, I burped (silver lining: I was hydrated for the rest of the day). I haven’t been here long, and have only caught a glimpse of Japan’s vast and historic culture. Maybe it’s tradition to start your day with a refreshing and stimulating dihydrogen monoxide enema. Or perhaps it’s simply an automated colon cleanse for those lacking the willpower to cut red meat out of their diet. Whatever the case, after a very surprised yelp (followed by an intrigued maybe?) (followed by a pained no, ouch, NO, definitely not), I bumbled my way through the assorted buttons, experiencing variations in intensity, oscillations in trajectory, and fluctuations in temperature. None unleashed the torrent of that first option, and the rest of the ride grew exponentially better from “mm, that fountain setting is quite lovely” to “HOLY SHIT, I’M SPENDING THE ENTIRE WINTER ON THIS HEATED TOILET SEAT.”
Until.
Tucked away at the back of the control panel is a small, unassuming button. Featuring only text, it lacks the attention-grabbing depictions of butts and faucets on the big-brother buttons displayed up front. It was my last stop on my journey, and served as a bit of an anti-climax, for it offered no answers, only questions.
I’d say the button was broken, or decommissioned, as its pressing led to no observable operation. However, when I pressed it, something definitely happened. A whirring of circuits. A groaning in the bowels of the beast. I could feel the vibrations within; machinations were afoot. Yet thirty seconds later, no spray, no change in temperature, nothing. A full minute after that, still nothing- other than the strange, enigmatic sounds of the toilet’s internal workings.
I know there’s something to this. That button has a purpose. It contains the potential to make something take place, but something is causing that something to stall. There’s obviously some additional action I need to perform to help the toilet complete its task.
My (admittedly considerable) time spent playing adventure video games has me believing there is a clue just beyond my perception. If only this were Resident Evil, and said clue could flash noticeably in the darkness; a few crate-pushes later and I’d have my answer! Unfortunately, Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Raccoon City anymore; we’ve likewise passed Silent Hill and Hyrule’s Water Temple and are solidly on The Longest Journey towards Riven.
Perhaps there’s a code I need to input. Have I tried other combinations in the order of button presses? What about the order of the books on the shelf? Is there a secret message waiting in a certain arrangement of their spines? Is that enigmatic poem found in the desk the key to solving this toilet riddle? PLEASE, GOD, GIVE ME THE ANSWER!
If you don’t hear from me again, its because I’ve fully descended into a Lovecraftian nightmare, and am busy standing at my open window, staring wide-eyed into the night, desperately listening for clues in the music of Erich Zann.
But for now, to simply summarize: my toilet is awesome, despite a couple of questionable functions.
That said, let’s talk about marriage!
(That segue brought to you by a Bachelor’s in English; Bachelor’s in English, for when you’re self-assured you know everything, and have no interest in pursuing a degree that would help you realize you don’t)
I have a relatively cynical outlook on marriage. My good friends Beau and Kaylen probably weren’t aware of this when they asked me to officiate their wedding. But the fact that no one was the wiser post-address really bolstered my artistic ambition; why not try to make it as a writer? I obviously have the potential to lie for a living!
(Beau and Kaylen, my opinions predate your union, and if anything, yours is one that serves as a beautiful anomaly and calls my curmudgeonly opinions back into question).
It’s not one of those deeply-entrenched, unchangeable personal philosophies, like Raiders is the best Spielberg movie, or lacing Dixie Outfitters-brand textiles with chemicals known by the state of California to cause sterility would raise the academic performance index of succeeding generations of American kids. It’s simply another sad case of what happens when one pairs hard data with the anecdotal to reach a conclusion: the 40-something% divorce rate in America (I was having trouble finding an exact and credible statistic on my Google searches, and after a few minutes realized I just didn’t care enough) combined with the six failed marriages of my collective parents to create one hulking Megazord of “FUCK that… most likely?” (as I said, relatively cynical).
All that to say the following: take my views on honeymoons with a grain of salt.
In fact, get a few grains.
In fact… how much salt do you imagine sustains Jimmy Buffet through a single margarita-soaked afternoon? Get that.
So as a relative cynic and single fella at that age when most of my friends and acquaintances have married off into statistic-stymying bliss, I’ve seen my fair share of honeymoons. These honeymoons seem to share one or all of the following three characteristics, in various combinations; think of them less as mutually-exclusive categories, and more as a set of interlocking rings that can be unlocked from one another under certain circumstances, like some magician switched out the wedding bands with a base-level trick.
She and he
They will be
In a world of
Comfy fabrication
Passport books
Island beach
Offer some elaboration
Buying things
Sleeping in
Uniting
In resort spa elation
Where they’ll be
Will defy
Authentication
They were destined for paradise
Simply took an airplane to it
Ugly realities removed
It’s another world
When you take
A cruise
Album liner notes: When I was younger, my parents took us on vacation to a resort in Mexico. It was one of those all-inclusive resorts that allow you to eat, swim, and shop without ever leaving the safety and convenience of your lavish little compound! And aside from family fun, it was equally popular as a wedding and honeymoon destination (I realized this quite suddenly, as I looked up from the pages of Heir to the Empire and discovered that I was sprawled out on my chair directly behind a wedding party, and unintentionally photo bombing a set of beachfront photos (I imagine later on, when the bride got a chance to review them, she was ecstatic (“Oh my Gooood, there’s an actual whale in the background! So romantic!”))).
There was a point during that trip, though- perhaps when we were going “out” to dinner at the tiki torchlit cottage of kitsch that was the Mexican resort’s Asian fusion restaurant- where I stopped and allowed myself a moment of self-criticism. What the hell are we doing here, ignoring the actual local culture and eating (admittedly delicious) pot stickers in our own private little world? Like a subway station souvenir stand in Shanghai, nothing here is real!
Speaking of that last joke, though- if you’re ever in the market for a Preda bag or a pair of Coverse sneakers, there’s really not a better deal anywhere.
So at the risk of sounding ungrateful, when people ask me if I’ve ever been to Mexico, I generally tell them no.
Similarly, if I ask a newlywed couple where they’re going on their honeymoon, and they reply, “Sandals, Jamaica,” there’s a part of me that thinks, “Oh, so… not Jamaica, then.” Like my little stint in the resort, most honeymoons (and let’s just be honest, most vacations) operate on this idea of, again, Pure Imagination- to manufacture a salad days experience, because reclining back in the pod and plugging into a faux reality is the only escape from that nightmarish wasteland of murderous sentinels outside, not to mention the two abominable sequels yet to come.
Er- sorry, I think I lapsed into my review of The Matrix trilogy.
Some of you are no doubt burring your lips and saying, “Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Just another snide blogger spreading shit online, like some Paleolithic human who shouldn’t have made the evolutionary cut painting with their feces on the cave walls.” And why do it? Why derail this month’s essay with a diatribe so elaborately negative and critical that it likely just alienated 2/3 of the potential reader base? What the fuck do I know, anyway? I’ve never been married!
That may be true. I am, however, on a honeymoon.
I’ve moved quite a few times now. Different cities, different states, different countries. Each move to a new place has brought its own honeymoon phase. Generally the honeymoon phase oscillates between the following, though to return to that insipid metaphor of the magician’s rings, they are not mutually exclusive:
Now just-married folks and families escaping the 9-5 grind for a few days don’t always want to take a cramped 13-hour bus ride through the heat and dust to sleep in a roach-filled hostel and get food poisoning from the farmhouse doubling as a restaurant, just because some self-important asshole like me has deemed it “authentic.” Sometimes you just wanna take a water slide down to the pool bar, order another pina colada, and relax. And that’s awesome! For me to say that the resort vacations aren’t real isn’t to say they’re without merit. Synthetic shit is everywhere, and can be really great. I totally prefer the synthetic beads in my pillow to those nightmarish feather pillows I slept on while visiting my grandparents as a child. And what would the 1980’s be without synth? No Tears for Fears, though also no shoulder-padded polyester suits. That’s actually kind of a tough one, but in the end good tunes are worth the cost. My point in all this wasn’t to say that honeymoon experiences are wrong; it’s simply to name them for what they are. And what they are is the reigning ethos: have fun, enjoy your time, see and do awesome stuff.
And all that merely to contrast it with what happens over the longer term: just good ol’ fashioned getting to know a place. It’s different from traveling, which by its very nature generally denotes quick, busy trips through a destination. You understandably try to pack in as much as possible, because your time in a place is so limited. And just like that, it’s off to the next destination.
Hey, I like hiking mountains up to giant Buddha shrines as much as anyone. That said, I’m also kind of a homebody, and mainly an introvert, so sometimes I also just like to slow down, and notice. People watching is a popular pastime for many of us waiting at train stations or sitting at café tables. To me, traveling is like people watching. You experience a moment, you capture a glimpse, and then it’s another town for another moment, another glimpse. They’re gesture drawings. But living on a street, and knowing the street... it’s the equivalent of a painting. It’s a long, slow process, every brushstoke an observation. The way neighbors maintain their gardens through the seasons. How the cashier at the local farmer’s market speaks to repeat customers. The content of the junk mail coupons and ads shoved into the mail slot every afternoon.
(At this point you read back over that last batch of thoughts and can’t help but wonder, “these… sound like the ruminations of a developing stalker.” To which I… suddenly drop my binoculars and nervously readjust my perch on the tree branch, blurting out “nothing! Meteor shower. Just, I, I’m looking for my cat. Er, bird. Catbird. Seat. Which I’m certainly not sitting in now…”)
It isn’t until you stick around a place awhile that the honeymoon feeling starts to subside, and allows you to gain a bit of clarity in seeing it for what it is. Sure, procrastination may still rear its ugly head, but the effects of Everything is Awesome and Pure Imagination begin to subside. That doesn’t mean Awesome things become UnAwesome; they simply become normal. I’m currently going through this transition myself, as the intoxicating feeling of living in Japan, I’m actually living in Japan!!!, is starting to become yep, living in Japan! Still great, but not making me stop and pinch myself every few hours like it did that first month. The best sushi I’ve ever had in my life! has become that one really great place I like to hit when I’m on that side of town. The idea that wow, everyone here is so polite and considerate of the community, it’s almost like they’ve found the solution to the tragedy of the commons! has morphed into yeah, most people are polite, but those street racers woke me up at 3 a.m. again this morning, and… yep, that’s a used condom in the parking lot. This is what it’s like achieving a life not fueled by tourist economies, but subsumed into the local one: you develop a schedule, you become a sheep in the fold, you start to notice used condoms in parking lots.
When I was spending that first semester abroad in Shanghai years ago, I Skyped my then-girlfriend. I was in the full-on fiery passions of my honeymoon with China, and having been better-traveled than me, she immediately recognized them for what they were.
“In awhile it wont feel exciting anymore. It’ll just feel normal,” she said.
And I thought: whoa, what a buzzkill!
But now I get it. Like new love, the intensity eventually begins to wane.
It’s like Sir Isaac Newton laid out in his little-known treatise on relationships, The Laws of Erosdynamics. “When romantic energy passes between two individuals, the system’s internal energy changes in accord with the law of conservation of energy.
Equivalently, perpetual passion of the initial degree is impossible.”
Ahh, the wisdom of bitter experience.
But is it a universal truth? Is it possible to make the honeymoon last? Is it possible to make that feeling of new love stay?
Tom Robbins tackled the question in his truly great novel Still Life with Woodpecker. In it, he wrote:
“Who knows how to make love stay?
Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if loves stays, it can have half. It will stay.
Tell love you want a memento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a moustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.
Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning.”
So there’s one strategy. But I think these things simply aren’t meant to last. Like the beauty of a bouquet of flowers, or the planned obsolescence of most electronics, the fleeting nature may be its greatest appeal. What’s the iPhone 6 without the promise of the iPhone 7? Would a rose with an immunity to senescence smell as sweet?
Besides, after the honeymoon? That’s when the marriage really begins.
And all that cynical shit I said about marriages before? It’s like the hate for traveling- not really true. A bit of posturing to make a point I can subvert. I actually have a lot of faith in marriages, though the stats may argue otherwise. Here’s an institution that has broken free of (most of) the patriarchy that created and shackled it for millennia (vestigial structures remain of course, like pronouncing couples Mr. and Mrs. Man’s Name), and evolved into this beautiful ritual of not just declaring love, but committing to tending that love for a lifetime. It’s one of the highest ideals humanity can strive for. Sure, sometimes it fails. But think of all our other high ideals: art and music and philosophy and scientific pursuit… At their best, these enrich the human experience, and failed experiments and bad poetry can’t refute that fact. In other words, there’s no reason to throw the baby out with the bath water.
And anyway… even if marriage is discarded like bath water, the babies tend to stick around.
Okay, so here’s a paragraph written a good week after most of the rest. I’ve been going through the editing process, which is basically the equivalent of polishing a turd (as opposed to Polishing a turd, which is when you cook it in the smoker and serve it with pierogi), and I’m having a little trouble with this one. My brain has this nasty habit of making messes it can’t clean up; I tend to outwit myself, but not, like, Deep Blue the chess computer outwitting Garry Kasparov. More like Wile E. Coyote repeatedly tricked into self-destruction by the roadrunner, if Chuck Palahniuk wrote Looney Tunes and the Roadrunner was just a figment of Wile E.’s own imagination.
I had this idea to talk about the honeymoon stage of living in a new culture, briefly explain what I think that means in terms of broad-level trends in experience, and then jump into, you know, some actual experiences to go with my own concepts: what I’m actually procrastinating on here in Japan, or finding awesome in Japan these days.
Anyway, once I started elaborating on said idea, it kind of got out of hand. Looking back over this, I’m still not sure it makes sense. I definitely wouldn’t stake any money on that claim, at the very least.
Here’s what I do stand by: this is an essay, not a novella. Not only that, but it’s 2017. There’s more than a lifetime’s-worth of media out there, ready to be consumed; I mean, you could spend the next three weeks devoted to just the E! Network, and still feel like you haven’t really kept up with the Kardashians. Time is a scarce commodity, and keeping these posts ten pages or under is kinda essential to getting anyone to pay attention. Even then, I literally cannot believe there’s anyone else reading these words. You’re reading this on the internet. You do know you could be Netflixing or watching porn right now, right?
And as I hit page ten here, I find myself recapping what it took me that long to say:
My toilet is awesome!
Marriage stinks.
Just kidding. Marriage is pretty cool.
Honeymoons, though. Sometimes you put them off. Sometimes you don’t, and spend a lot of money doing kinda fake shit. That’s cool though; it’s fun!
Moving to a new place is kinda the same thing! You might do some fake shit, but it’s fun! But then you stick around awhile and your feelings change!
And…
Okay! That’s all!
For a minute, I thought: people need more than that, don’t they?
Then I realized: nah. Not as long as I promise there’s going to be more than that, next time. Next time’s going to be way more awesome and cool! Really! You’re going to love it!
Here’s a sneak peek to prove it:
I sit down in the waiting room of the hospital. The doctor calls me in, and motions for me to sit down. Then, he retrieves a ruler from a drawer, and asks me to take off my pants.
Why am I in the hospital? Who is this mysterious doctor? What does he need a ruler for? Shit, whatever it’s for, he’s going to give me the reading in metric. That means I’m going to have to convert it.
BUT
will I complete the equation in time?
Cut to black.
(That teaser brought to you by the Marvel Cinematic Universe; Marvel Cinematic Universe, for when the whole point of your movie is to drive excitement and speculation about your next movie!)
BYE.
