Chapter Eight

Since we last spoke, a lot of things have happened. The biggest of these things, of course, was a Norwegian psychopath snuffing out about 100 bright and optimistic futures. Travesty of travesties, evil of evils, there aren't any words to describe a sin like that, and I won't try. All I can do is send my lamenting love across the way to the families and the friends and hope that the bad guy wastes to nothing, a forgotten footnote to a lexicon of lost potential. And that's all I'll say about that.

In fact, it's a rare thing for me to speak about current events at all. Or rather, a rare thing for me to speak about them in the context of my internet journal. But seeing as there are some happenings, some very inspiring and wonderful happenings in addition to the obvious awful ones, taking place in one or two spots on our little planet, I thought I'd chime in.

Gay marriage is legal in New York now! I've been browsing through photo collections of couples tying the knot, most with expressions of disbelieving wonder mixing it up with utter joy, and have been fighting off the happy tears again and again. My sincerest congratulations and best wishes to all of the New York newlyweds, and to the cause of marriage equality in general. Love is a powerful conqueror.

Meanwhile, the Tour de France wrapped up on Sunday, and event which many of you know has dominated the last, what, 12 of my Julys. I don't think, in all of those years of watching, I've ever been as happy with the result. When Cadel came second in 2008, I thought his final chance at an overall Tour victory had come and gone. But a combination of his own fortitude and, I believe, a general cleaning up of the sport has landed him on top of the cycling world. He's one of the sports real good guys, and I couldn't be more delighted for him. Well done Mr Evans. And well done as well, of course, to Ryder Hesjedal, once again proving himself to be a real force in the big mountains and providing Canada with their first strong stage racer since the legendary Steve Bauer.

this isn't so much Cadel as Laurens ten Dam, but the man's a warrior and this is a great pic

What else is new? I went to a baseball game last week! It was a real delight, and ended in an unprecedented tie, 2-2. After a Tokyo Swallows flurry in the top of the ninth to even things up, and an offensively anemic inning from the almost always inept Yokohama BayStars, it was announced that the game would end in a draw in an effort to save energy. The fans, who after nine full innings of chanting, singing, dancing, screaming, and generally showing more gusto and spirit than Jays fans could muster through all 600 home games per year, filtered quietly out, completely content with the result. It was a great experience. Sitting in the Swallows cheering section (the game was played in Yokohama), I joined in with the cheering and rhythmic clapping and dancing, even if I couldn't really contribute to the chanting, thus proving that, surrounded by enough inspiration, I can hold my ground amongst some of the most die hard fans in sports. Now if only Sens fans could show the same enthusiasm. We need songs and chants beyond just "Go Sens Go" and "Alfie! Alfie! Alfie!" although those are both great as well. Anyway, it's something to work towards.

Humm humm what else to report... I've been working pretty consistently, and it looks as though I'll continue to do so up until my departure date of August 7. There's an outside chance that I'll stay a little bit longer, but unless I'm confirmed for jobs after that date, I don't plan on sticking around. I'll be heading to Osaka for work on the 4th and 5th of August, which means riding the Bullet Train, which I am very much looking forward to. I'm also still planning to climb Mt Fuji, but I may have left it to late, and will really need to get my act together.

And that's about it for now. Lots of love to you all.

CK

Chapter Seven

Just a quick one today, while I'm in the mood to type some thoughts into existence.

One minor negative to living in Shibuya-ku is the cockroaches. CounchSurfer Dan described them as being like the Tokyo version of houseflies. They are an always type of inevitability. They scuttle across your path as you walk down the streets, drunken many-legged zigzagging their way to a freshly spoiled meal or dark crevice. Not the most adept flying insects, they more hover around streetlamps, droning and loitering and wavering, as large as Snickers bite-sized, like demonized bumblebees. Last night, as I had my door briefly propped open to welcome in an astonishing breath of fresh breeze, one of these little villains creeped inside my apartment. I caught a glimpse of him as he tried to stealth his way from the balcony to the shadow of the boot standing beside my feet, and I flinched with surprise. If I knew where it's eyes were located (or whether it even has eyes), I'm sure there would have been some contact made. Noticing my noticing him, he turned tale and darted to a space beneath my curtains. I shoved a little dust bin full of Asahi cans in his direction, hoping he would be spooked and take advantage of the open doorway right beside him to make his escape. Instead, he bolted along my wall towards the space under the refrigerator. I grabbed the aforementioned boot and gave chase, catching up with him about three quarters of the way to his destination and bashing him into a couple pieces. I then pulled the door shut, not wanting to invite any of his allies into the fray, and began disposing of the body, scooping the larger pieces of his carcass onto a loose piece of paper and into the trash, which I immediately brought down to the dust room. Sophus informed me that cockroaches are of a cannibalistic inclination, and that when one dies in your apartment, others immediately pick up the scent and make inroads. So I also gave the exact spot on the floor where he'd caught his last glimpse of boot heel a proper wipe down with a damp rag, and sat back satisfied.

Of course, once I'd had a moment to contemplate the killing of the cunning cockroach, I felt pretty bad about it. Those things, as far as I know, aren't actually dangerous. They don't bite, they won't hurt you, will just give you a shivery feeling. So basically I killed him because he caused me brief and mild psychological discomfort. The punishment doesn't really seem to fit the crime. I'm sorry to end your life, cockroach, I shall think twice before my next to-the-death encounter with one of your kin.

On Friday, I walked in the most rediculous fashion show. I don't even want to talk about it. There were lots of screaming people in the audience, and the catwalk lit up in bizarre patterns, and I was wearing handcuffs. That about sums it up.

Tomorrow I may or may not be going to see a baseball game!! Tokyo Swallows versus Hanshin Tigers. This is still not a confirmed outing, but I've got my fingers crossed. The Swallows fans do a strange umbrella based danced in synchronization with their chanting, and I'd very much like to join in, and get involved in the game at a level that does not befit my total ignorance of the competing teams. Also, beer at Japanese ballparks is apparently quite a bit cheaper than the arm-and-a-leg priced Blue Jays brews.

Erm, what else? I don't know what sort of a week I've got on the horizon. I think I've got a fitting for Comme des Garcons confirmed for Friday, but beyond that no jobs are booked, so it'll be plenty of castings and hopefully some gigs thrown into the mix. I will do my best to keep you updated!

Lots of love to you all!


CK

Chapter Six

I know, I know, I've been slacking big time. Composing blog posts in the garbled jungle of my mind, whispering the better sentences to the humidity and then forgetting them the moment a flashing light or disorienting advertisement crosses my path does not constitute putting actual words onto my actual electro-journal and unleashing them to prey upon the faltering innocence of my actual friends. And I've got no good excuse for not writing. As the man says "what I am is nothing, when I am is never. I guess I'm something."

But on the other hand, man, Tokyo likes to dispute even that most irrational arguments for existence. To be so different here, and at the same time so incapable of altering the landscape, is to be reminded that beautifully, actually, honestly, we almost don't exist. I mean, we do, but by literally no margin. If I can not be in the context of Tokyo's modest technicolor expansiveness, than imagine how easily I can not be in the world at large! I think we can all agree that this is a comforting situation. No matter how badly our attempts at righteousness and good-living spiral flaming and screaming off of their moral course, our failures won't affect too many people, hurt too many tender feelings. Perfection, as I discussed with Emski several days ago now, is a mercifully unattainable concept. Most of each person knows that it isn't to be found, even as some whimsical impulse steers us in it's pursuit, in ourselves mostly, but also in others. So to come to the steadfast conclusion that nobody expects me to perfect and would, in fact, find me to be a bit of a bore and a bother if I was, is a magnificent liberation! We all try to be good people, we all mess it up. That's okay.

Revelations shouldn't be so obvious as that, but it was, and it's made me glad, as have several other things. Let me list them for you:

1. Two nights out, one Sunday and one yesterday, which I can only describe as smashing successes! The first was a shindig at a pleasantly populated night spot where I met some new friends and danced to mediocre music until the sun yawned across the Pacific threshold and over Shibuya. The second was an agency dinner, arranged by Bobby the brilliant head of the agency, at a subterranean restaurant called Beef Kitchen. All the staff wore t-shirts embroidered with the name, and brought plates of glistening assorted beef bits out to where we sat, and cooked them (usually for no more than a few seconds) on little grills installed in the table. I had stomach, heart, tongue (sincerest apologies to the vegetarian readers), and they were all chewy slippery delicious. None of the Japanese nationals amongst us would allow anyone at the table to sit unaccompanied by a full glass of beer or whiskey and soda, and were constantly yelping at the waiters to provide for us. They played Jamie XX and The Weeknd on the sound system, but nobody knew who they were. A really fun evening.

2. I had four gigs this week, two on Tuesday and then one each on Wednesday and Thursday. It meant early mornings and long days, but it's been a while since I've felt such a powerful surge of productivity. The shoots were for, chronologically; Engine Magazine, featuring me as a sort of secondary accessory to a gleaming black Lamborghini with big dark wheels and a confident grin of a front grill; John Bull clothing, a Japanese brand which overtook the lobby of a snappy hotel to shoot their lookbook; Tomorrowland, which is either a store or a brand name, and whose clothes made me think of Max Fisher, of moneyed adventurers that dress in sailors' navy, of eccentric movie stars looking to make a red carpet splash with denim smoking jacket and red cummerbund; and Popeye, a Japanese magazine that I have no real explanation for. Good thing that one came last.

The Tomorrowland shoot produced some interesting moments. Japanese photoshoot sets are densely populated, with every key player (photographer, stylist, make-up, hair) having at least one assistant, often more, studio employees dashing back and forth, bowing subservient to the photographer's imperial judgement, and clients hovering in the background, spooky overseers. The result of this crew size is a crazy discombobulation recollecting minnows darting from a freshly humaned area of their water. Yet when the proper shooting gets underway, movement and conversation come to a general standstill, unnecessary lights around the set are dimmed, and the world evaporates to me and the photographer, actors communicating through coordinated soliloquies on a sparsely lit stage. Snap, move, snap, move, snap, move, snap, over and over in a surprisingly rhythmic pattern.

3. I've opened my floor to CouchSurfers! Tonight, and for the next couple nights, I'm hosting a Brit named Dan who was in need of last minute accommodations and felt brave enough to find a bare patch on my minute floor. We've only actually spent about 10 minutes in the same place as of yet, but he seems a nice guy, quiet and smart, so I'm looking forward to getting to know him.

4. Tour de France, with the strangest first week set-up I've ever seen. Nuff said.

5. The weather's been silly hot during the day, but it really cools down in the evening, to a more than comfortable place. A couple nights ago, Sophus and Kenji and I were on the roof of the building, and the two of them started walking handstands, upside down stumbling into alien silhouettes against the gooey skyline. Such a wonderful, surreal moment. I think it's a good spot to stop this post.

Hearts!

CK

Chapter Five

Despite the fact that I try to be a nonjudgmental person, there are times when my reactionary trigger finger becomes a little aggravated, and I blast some quite undeserving people with some quite undeserved ire. 'Bros' are, of course, the most commonly caught between my critical crosshairs, even if I haven't a stable definition of the subculture at my disposal or a definitive scale of bro-ness to condescend by. Large, testosterone filled white people frighten me, that's all I know.

Another portion of the population I make a habit of victimizing is teenagers. I've never been a fan of teenagers (particularly when I was one), and I very much doubt that I ever will be. Let's be honest with ourselves; they are an obnoxious, dim-witted, and aesthetically unappealing sliver of humanity, and they aren't real people. But over the past couple of days, my new friend Sophus has done a good job of dulling my brow-furrowing disapproval of teenagers. From Denmark and only 16 years old, he's once again proven to me that it's unacceptable to dismiss people according to my pre-existing biases (but I will continue to hate bros). Coming from an absurdly wealthy family, kid's seen much, much more of the world than me, is easily as well read, possibly better, speaks several languages with stern command, and lives on his own in Copenhagen working several jobs and more than making ends meat. In several ways, he reminds me of my other teenage friend, Jesse of London, who's already bought himself a 300,000 pound house in one of the city's smart neighbourhoods. Both of these chappies are strictly decent cats by any standards, and are more grown up than a number of middle aged folks in my mind's Rolodex. So, well done Sophus and Jesse! While I will not yet disown my prejudice against those aged between 13 and 19, I will readily admit that there several barrels of good apples among the angsty orchards, and will remind my fellow teen-bashers of this fact if I'm given the chance.

What else to report? On Saturday night, I made the bold move of attempting a proper night on the town. It started off well enough; a couple beers at the base before getting slammed into forced intimacy on the Yamanote Line, enroute to Rippongi. Unfortunately, the novelty ended there. Rippongi is a sort of strange pocket of over-emphasized Western-ness, where Americans and Brits and such come to experience Tokyo nightlife without realizing that they could experience the exact same thing in their respective homelands. We went to F. Bar, where models are given free drinks and admittance, which means that for much of the evening pale, gaunt young faces dominated the crowd, most of them hungrily eyeing one another while being hungrily eyed by the few locals who gathered along the bar front. I recall at least three different 50 Cent songs being played. I stuck it out for a couple hours, trying to be a good sport, but couldn't last any longer. I got up and jetted, enjoying the hour long walk home much better than the club.

I think I've got four jobs next week. I'm a little unclear as to what exactly Emi and Ken were trying to tell me, but I think it was that. Which would be excellent! With any luck, that would completely pay off my expenses. Besides being ground zero for claustrophobic alienation, Tokyo's a land of opportunity. I'm sorry this post isn't as pleasing a read as some of the others have been, but I just felt I needed to toss out an update, and am now going to prepare myself a delicious little pasta with avocados and mushrooms and broccoli and such. I'll wash it all done with a low malt, good-throated, South Korean made beverage of an alcoholic nature and let the evening hours slink by with House and Wilson and the gang.

Also, I'd like to profile one of my favourite types of people in Japan; the manga-reading business man. There are many of these fellows, and I feel a real and deep affinity with them. I squeeze past them in corner store aisles, freshly shed tie stuffed carelessly into their pant pockets, top two shirt buttons loosed, totally engrossed in their latest issue, escaping the tedium of the 9-to-whenever with curiously illustrated fantastical heroism. Or, even better, I'll be sliding by one of the innumerable tiny restaurants that the working boys jam into directly from the office, and at the bar there'll be a serene manga-reader with a fresh and largely ignored pint before him, chopsticks stuffed with rice and stir-fry, frozen in the space between bowl and mouth, quivering with not-yet-noticed finger strain and fatalistic anticipation. I've been these dudes before, just under different circumstances. The kid in the sports bar fixated on the one tiny TV showing the Memphis/Oklahoma game while the Leafs are playing. The basketball player who spends his time doodling ugly men in a crammed notebook on team trips to out of town games. Or, most recently, the model with his face hidden by Haruki Murakami or Jonathan Lethem while his counterparts are reciting their epic Rippongi exploits or bartering for cigarettes or appraising the girls. I love the manga-reading business men. They aren't afraid of what they are, they've got heroes and magic and an indisputable good on their side.

Lots of love,

CK

Chapter Four

It's time for another installment!

The sun has graced Tokyo with her maternal presence. Three times this week she's been out to observe the daily details, the first three times I've seen her since my arrival. With her has come a heat which adds to the usual oppression of daytime life in the big city. In general, the people don't let it distract them. They put on their slim black suits and ties, or layer their baggy t-shirts two and three deep, or wear intricate secular head wrappings piling skywards. They hardly ever wear sunglasses, which I find strange.

The models go about things differently. Being generally western, they seem to have an inborn slight disregard for the ritualistic conformism of Japanese life. As the afternoon hours wander gradually by, and as the city slowly warms to a sizzling boil, they shed their button-ups, their tees, their caps, and end up sporting flimsy tank tops or shredded undershirts or nothing at all. The girl models are no more modest. The skirts travel farther and farther up the thighs, the tops getting lighter and looser to the point of becoming almost theoretical, the notion of a shirt rather than an honest garment.

In Milan, during the winter, it was a different case. You could spot models down the street by their silhouettes against the weak European light, spindly black clad apparitions stretching away from you like shadows at sundown, impossibly long, impossibly lean, more untouchable and precariously graceful than real life.

Four castings yesterday, five the day before, not sure how many today. It's fun to have so many, and fun to get some good responses from them as well. Still, the weekend will be warmly received. Once again, I'm toying with the idea of going dancing. I know that I should, if just to report on the experience, but I have strong doubts that I will find anything very appealing. Everyone with whom I've made any sort of friendly contact has tried to convince me that the place to be at on Friday or Saturday night is a district called Rippongi. There are some positives to it, like the fact that models can get in to some places for free, and be given drinks and such, but it sounds ominously like a John St.-esque club district, and I'm not down for that. However I've heard rumblings of some interesting neighbourhoods in Shimokitazawa and in Yokohoma that I plan on scoping out. There's also a culture of hidden bars here, with no websites, no phones, no publicized address, and they are apparently absurdly cool. That's what I'm gunning for.

I got caught up searching the internet service for cool Tokyo bars, and now have lost my train of thought, so I'm going to leave it here and go play basketball before work. I'll write more soon, I promise. Thanks for telling me that you like what I write, all of you who have done that.

Lots of love,

CK

Chapter Three

 A one yen coin, when placed with ample care, can float on water. They weigh a single gram and cost two yen each to produce. Being someone who wouldn't blink twice at the elimination of the Canadian penny, my animosity towards these useless aluminium slices of currency is great. I have a slender stack of them slowly growing beside my laptop. As of right now, it's about half as tall as a can of beer.

And speaking of beer, I have found my brand of choice. My initial plan had been to stick to Sapporo, or perhaps Asahi, both of which I can more than tolerate. But a six pack of either would cost me around twelve bucks, and with cheaper options aplenty, a decided I'd better do some experimenting. A company called Kirin produces a seemingly endless variety of cheap beers, all with dragons on the cans (nature's alcoholics, as a dear friend so astutely observed), and I've been slowly working through them, six pack at a time. Finally, yesterday or the day before, I chanced upon a winner. At least as tasty as Sapporo and half the price, I've no idea what it's called. There is no English label, but beneath the dragon and the Japanese characters is written; “Kirin's brewing technology elaborates the “Nodogoshi.”” Thanks Kirin, you've earned yourself another invaluable customer! And a Canadian, no less, which is worth, like, three Japanese!

I've been taking a whole bunch of photos, both on disposables and on a 1980s relic that I picked up at VV before I left, but I haven't yet summoned the courage to try getting them developed. I want them put on CDs, but very much doubt my ability to communicate this desire. It is a bridge still in need of crossing.

...so here's a picture of the Admiral, who has been in my thoughts, what with the hockey and all. Love you Martha!

The castings have been coming full tilt since my last update. About half of them are for international companies (Gucci, Costume National, Burberry etc.), while the other half are domestic brands, which are generally far more interesting. My first job, which was, I think, on Wednesday, was for a company called Vanquish. I'd never heard of them before this week, but they're a big enough deal in Japan to do an exclusive collaboration with Converse, the results of which I was able to briefly strut around in. The shoot was for their upcoming season's look book, and went reasonably well. My counterpart, Ethan, a formerly evangelical Michigan native, is one of the top 50 male models in the world, according to the deistic Models.com, and he managed to outshine me a bit, as is to be expected. In front of the camera, surrounded by a buzzing wreath of people and the twisting smoke from their cigarettes, I found the language barrier to be a bit stressful. Not knowing the subject or content of the general conversation, any laughter felt a bit biting, whispered comments a little conspiratorial. But before long I was finished and will have a bunch of new tear sheets for my book, and will be paid.

On Tuesday or Wednesday I bought a basketball. Partner of mine, partner in crime, partner sublime, all basketballs inherit the essence of their forgotten ancestors. The one nestled between my feet at the moment shares a consciousness with the one I know lounges in front of the pink chair at 554 Lansdowne. They both are direct descendants of my several Halifax basketballs, now stalking some new pavement in and out of new hands, which were in turn related to my Ottawa ones, stripped clean of leather, black rubber tumours squeezing through the seems, traces of Kingsbury blood from jammed fingernails, elbowed noses, rim-tattered wrists smeared thin across their rugged surfaces. I love basketball. When I talk to my ball, I'm talking to the sport, pleading for consistency in my jump shot and confidence in my handle and maybe, please just maybe, a return of the lift that used to pull gasps from unwilling mouths. Probably not that last one, though. Tomahawk jams are a thing of the past.

I think that's enough for the moment.

Lots of love,

CK

Chapter Two

I have to admit, the lingering effects of severe jet lag combined with working long hours day in and out has me pretty much bushed by the time I get home in the evening. As such, I've had trouble completing the sort of lavish, sprawling posts I was hoping to produce on the semi-regular for this wee little blog. So I think I'll switch to almost a daily dose of something more concise than originally planned.

As of today, the castings have been coming furious and with great velocity. I had five and a fitting this afternoon, which is fantastic. The fitting was aces, and I think that I'm working the job to which it was affiliated tomorrow morning. One of the castings was really very good, one was okay, and three were write-offs. Not bad at all. I'm unsure as to tomorrow's schedule, besides the somewhat nameless job in the morning.

My first few days here were filled with a twitchy sort of trepidation. One in particular was spent cloistered in my room, watching Avater: The Last Airbender. Over and over I told myself that I ought to be outside, roaming the roads and skipping through the riotous streets. But each time I made it to the door I was gripped by a sudden foreigner's anxiety at being so very outlandish, so incommunicable, so noticeably disoriented as I dodge cars coming from the wrong direction. So I sat and I watched and I let Tokyo pass me by. I shall never know what course-altering adventures I could have seized that day.

And then the next day, Sunday, started off holding very much the same complexion. By noon (which is quite a ways into the day when you're waking up before 5), I had yet to make any great strides towards weaving myself into the bloodstream of Shibuya. Eventually, wracked by an overwhelming guilt, I tip-toed through my little door, down my stunted hallway, into the coffin of an elevator, and through the fleeting foyer onto the streets, beneath whatever sunlight had gotten trapped in the nearly impenetrable spider's web of rainy season haze. After a moment's hyperventilation, I struck out in the general direction of Yoyogi Park, one of Tokyo's bigger green spaces. It took me less time than I had bargained for to locate it, and I spent an hour or so trying my very best to become enraptured by it's splendor, and care free by extension. But I couldn't shake a feeling of forcing myself, a trepidatious compilation of jitters and nerves, upon a perfectly enjoyable, and in some cases serene, afternoon. When this sentiment overwhelmed all flashing hints of enjoyment I may have found in the park, I hightailed it outta there.

But on Sunday night, my temperament towards Tokyo underwent a total reversal. Kenji, booker brand new at Exiles Model Management, invited me out for a little soiree on the town. I took some convincing, but eventually consented to the affair, and happier for that decision I could not be. There were Russians and Aussies and Spaniards and Yanks, not to mention a whole slew of folks from France and from Japan, and I glad-handed them all, making pleasant, bare bones small talk and slugging back a few glasses of beer on Exiles' tab. It was a truly pleasant endeavor, and the moment Kenji and I re-emerged from the bar, back into The Void, the city was smiling. I have no real explanation for the sudden change of opinion towards me, but my confusion is now bemusing rather than offensive, and my height a pleasant spectacle rather than a inconvenient eyesore among the more sensibly sized.

Muggin', as per

And yesterday, more good news! My main man Franklin, pictured above with yours truly, has recently landed in town, on a contract of two to three months like me! He's a Brazilian, and smart as all hell, and areally stellar cat. I ran into him today as I came out of a casting and was nothing short of delighted to see him. We'll be doing some hanging for sure, not to mention finding our way to a party or two.

And that's that for tonight. Well done Dirk and the Mavs! At the beginning of the series, I honestly didn't think you'd have a chance, but I couldn't be happier with your victory. Now the Canucks just need a big game seven...

Lots of love,

CK