There hasn’t been much to say recently, because I haven’t done much recently. Why? Because I’ve worked every day I’ve been back from America, except for one. More than 20 days in a row, with one day off, plus moving after work.

Without a doubt, it was the best move I’ve ever made. Meaning: it was quick, painless and inexpensive, pretty much only because of my friend Kaz and a buddy of hers who drove from way, way far away to help some random guy he didn’t even know. Friends are indeed the family that you choose.

Another friend of mine recently recommended that I “flip the script on this shit.” Although I’ll probably never forgive her for quoting Eminem to me, that rhyming reject does have a point. You can’t wait for life to change, you’ve gotta grab on and steer it yourself.

So right now, it’s time to shower. Forcefully.

For those who care, my address has changed. My phone number has not. Instead of mail-bombing peoples, just send me a private email if you want it.

One of the world’s greatest comic strip characters is returning!

I guess with a Bush and a Gropinator in office, the time has come. The Dark Penguin Returns!

Oh dear. Can you tell I’ve been working too hard recently?

Otaku.

It’s a Japanese word that roughly means, “obsessed to the point of mental instability.”

Yesterday, at the behest of a friend who is a Gundam otaku, I went to the brand-spankin’ new Bandai Museum in Matsudo, Chiba. (Bandai are those lovable folks who brought the world the gift of the Power Ranger.)

I’m not a huge Gundam fan, but I figured it might be culo to look at. It was, too.

For about 10 minutes. And then I realized that looking at a replica of an imaginary robot – sorry, “mobile suit” – that I just didn’t care so much about in the first place was getting real boring, real fast.

It’s a great place if you’re 10, I imagine. Japanese kids seem obsessed (there’s that word again!) with robots the way that American kids have their dinosaur phase.

The day wasn’t a total wash, though. I found a great little ramen joint, cheap as a California burrito and with a side of four-inch-long pot stickers.

But until we start seeing real mobile suits, I’ll be giving Matsudo a pass.

There are some people who have to work hard at their calling, and then there are those who have sushi thrusted upon them.

Why, oh why, did I not have projects like this thrusted upon me in my font-of-useless-information days? (Okay, so those days never left…)

The Cliff Notes of the above link are as follows: a New York paralegal is requested to find a better sushi joint in midtown Manhattan. Being a good little doobie, she opens up her personal can of Campbell’s Kick-Ass and writes a three-page memo that puts to shame any previously recorded recommendations on Midtown sushi.

If this effort of hers doesn’t get her a raise, it’s time to turn the towel in. There simply is no justice, otherwise.

Tokyo sushi is a-whole-nother kettle of fish.

Sushi here is not merely a high-class delicacy; it’s a way of life. Except at the most expensive sushi restaurants, you won’t find much in the way of California- or Western-style sushi creativity.

What you will find, at any quality shop from a quickie kaitzen-zushi shop to a class joint, is good, fresh fish. In general, no frills, no spills, and no rubbery fish. Tasty cuts, older Japanese men as the chefs, younger men as their helpers, and women of all ages serving drinks and cleaning counter-tops.

Sushi is different in so many ways, it’s almost not the same thing. But then, realize that a quality cut of tuna is a quality cut of tuna. Pop that scrumptious toro in your mouth and sava da flava.

Variations on Hell, as a place and a state of mind, are damn intriguing. We walk around in our lives, the smart ones of us, at any rate, and we wonder to ourselves, “Can it get any worse?”

And it can, and we know it can. Detailing the grotesqueries of how life can take really nasty, unpleasant turns for the “Holy Shit does that suck” is inane. You have an active imagination, use it. If yours is damaged, I recommend reading some vinatge Harlan Ellison or Poe or James Ellery to help you out. Or email me privately, and we’ll see what we can do for you.

But a friend of Dear Friend Fee has sent on a website that deserves publicity, because while asking for forgiveness from someone you’ve wounded is a difficult and needful thing, anonymously confessing to the Internet is a thinly veiled cry for attention. And draping it in a costume of sincerity is frickin’ pathetic, as if these people are comparing the battle scars of life.

Mostly, it’s like watching a young child repeatedly hit himself in the face, over and over again.

This started out as an attempt to catalogue the minutae of my life. How many steps I climb up, down, how many paces to the office from the station and from the station to the apartment.

The answer is, it’s about 50 to 60 steps down to the platform at Hiroo Station, and about the same going up at Ebisu Station. It’s about twice as many paces from Eidan Ebisu to JR Ebisu, and then the same up the stairs to the JR platform.

It’s about 10 paces to the other side of the JR platform in Shinjuku to catch the Sobu line, 50 to 60 steps down at Nakano and then twice that across the street to the office, in either direction. (I work at schools on both sides of Nakano Station.)

What really inspired this, I realized only after stretching my meager math abilities to their breaking point, is that the Japanese lifestyle has exercise built in so subtly that most Japanese, I suspect, don’t even notice it.

Here, you walk or bike to the station. You walk up or down the stairs, because you’re aware of the exercise or the escalator is just too crowded. You the walk back up or down at your exit station and continue walking to your exalted place of employment. And even then, your building just might not have an elevator.

This continued public shallow inspection of my first year in Japan means a whole lotta nuthin’ as I’m moving next week. But hey, thanks for reading this far.