Jumping up and down, the young and the old alike partake in the wonderfulness that is yet another report from teaching English. You have been warned.

So there’s this kid I teach. His name is Al. He’s probably the only Japanese kid in the greater Tokyo area with that name. Also, he’s demented.

The class of mine in which he graces his presence, there’re three girls. They’re smart kids, they listen well for a bunch of four- and five-year-olds. Al’s smart, too, but he has the attention span of Bart Simpson on crack.

Recently, he’s taken to running around the class ass first. I don’t really know what to make of this, whether the authorities should be notified or something. He stands up and touches his toes, peers between his legs and then somehow – moving with speed and not much grace – runs around the class with his butt in the lead.

The girls are smart. They scream.

I just sit there and wonder at what point teaching turned into baby-sitting for a five-year-old with a twisted ass fetish.

That’s a mighty fine question. Sadly, the photo server seems to have a bad case of death. I don’t know when things will be back to normal, but y’all will be the first to know.

Really.

Also known as, the return of Quentin Tarantino.

My first exposure to The Man with The Chin was in high school. Pulp Fiction was out, people went nuts for the whole retro vibe – the score, the acting and That Other Guy with The Chin, John Trevolta.

I got into an argument with a classmate over the movie in photography class. Claiming that it had a point, but then not saying what it was, I successfully derailed what would’ve been a good start to my favorite class.

Don’t ask. Teenagers are freaks.

Anyway, I saw PF. I loved it. I saw Resevoir Dogs. I loved it, too. I saw True Romance. I loved that.

I saw From Dusk Till Dawn, and loved Selma Hayek and Cheech Marin’s speech. The luster on Tarantino’s impenetrable coat of arms faded. I saw Four Rooms, and detected perhaps a chink in The Chinned One’s armor.

I couldn’t pinpoint why, but His magic was gone. That odd mix of homage and rip-off, tribute and pastiche and piss-take and plagiarism had left the building, leaving no forwarding address.

I rented Jackie Brown on video, and fell asleep.

I just saw Kill Bill vol. 1, and was mightily impressed. Riffing on his own work, adapting the story from a mostly-unknown book, throwing in lots of homages and deep bows followed by “Honto ni arigato gozaimasu!” to the Holy Trinity of Japanese B-grade films. Anime, yakuza and samurai flicks all get their nods here; Tarantino seems to be back in force.

Lots of blood, terse dialogue and a retro score that makes you almost want to run to Shimokitazawa and buy back those bell bottoms you finally sold last week, Kill Bill follows the unusual, convoluted and yet formulaic storytelling and gore that Tarantino established in the early 90s. Who knows why he abandoned it? Still, ten years on, it makes for fun and enjoyable filmmaking.

Can’t wait for KB2.

Yesterday morning, just before Eric left, we went to Tsukiji. I feel like I’ve run out of things to say about the place, but I could stand there at the foundry of Tokyo’s foodie culture and watch the chaos for hours.

There’s something so natural, so unforced and unpretentious about the place. I’m sure there are controls that I’m just not seeing, but at times it seems like one of those old educational videos about the body.

The time-lapse cinematography sped up or slowed down the pulsing cells and growing tissues. Synchronized to music, it was all very 1980s. Tsukiji lacks the cliched backbeats, but watching it all is just as hypnotizing.

Monday evening came to a pounding, thumping end as we caught a peformance by Kodo. It was the first time I had seen them since the Earth Celebration back in August. I knew from speaking with a long-time Kodo fan that this show would be much more formal, more traditional, but I really didn’t know what to expect.

A famous kabuki actor was the art director for this performance, guiding the minimalist set design and the traditionally-inspired yet modern costumes. These touches are important, but really, it’s about the music.

Kodo could be performing naked for all I care – and when they play the giant Odaiko drum, all the drummer is wearing is a traditional-style Japanese loincloth – it’s the music that’s the most important.

The pounding, the rhythm that is so low it reverberates through the floor and up into your chest, into your soul. It surrounds you, sometimes as quiet as the night. The stage dark, the percussion or the flute so low that it is utterly inaudible, the spot follows a lone woman gently but deliberately moving across the stage.

It surrounds you, fills your cells, is a 1.16 megawatt jolt to your mitochondria. The pounding of the drum, so overwhelming you want to cover your ears, but so compelling it’s all you can do to not get up and dance.

If Kodo is the future of traditional Japanese music, then the nationalistic freakazoids at Yasukuni Shrine shouldn’t worry about their country losing its identity.

Visiting Yasukuni Shrine was an eye-opener.

That’s not nearly as obvious as proclaiming to all that the sky is blue. (Except, of course, in Tokyo, where’s it’s usually some variety of gray, thanks to winter clouds and summer haze. But I’m digressing, badly…)

The shrine was built as a tribute to Japanese victims of World War I. It was part of the then-new Shinto dogma that involved subjugating East Asia as part of its doctrine.

It’s the place where Japanese politicians go when they have a yen for pissing off Korea and China, or a burning need to pander to their right-wing constituents. It’s not quite as bad as the President attending a KKK rally. It’s more like if the Prez gave a speech at a Christian fundamentalist university. (Oh wait… He did that. Oh wait… he’s not really the president, anyhow.)

Architecturally, Yasukuni is interesting because the giant torii at its entrance are unique among Japanese shrines. They’re made of metal. Everywhere else, the torii gates are made from wood inder or stone. It’s a stark remof how unique this place is. Where other shrines invite calm, this one invokes controversy.

In America, it’s not hard to find a Confederate flag. Even in uber-progressive and left-wing San Francisco, you could find somebody flapping one around somewhere.

In my year here, I had yet to see a Rising Sun flag. Until I went to Yasukuni. It’s a very strange feeling, looking at a symbol that you intellectually know the meaning of, that thousands of people have a damn good reason to hate, and yet… has no impact on you. It’s a symbol, my left brain kept saying, it has no intrinsic meaning beyond what we place on it

It’s a piece of colored cloth, nothing more. Still, I was shocked; or at least my brain was.

The Imperial Garden was a bust, since it’s closed on Mondays, but monjayaki and okanomiyaki for lunch were extremely tasty – as always. After lunch, we meandered around Tsukishima, catching a beautiful sunset.

Sunsets might be cliched, but they’re still beautiful. Sunsets in Tokyo are always amazing, partially because of the pollutants in the air, but also because the sky is rarely clear. You don’t catch them often, whether it’s uncoopoerative weather or being stuck in the office, but when you do, it’s hard not to pause and lose yourself in the deep reds and oranges for a few moments.