Recent Comments
yoko (Book review: Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama) | lakshman (Book review: Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama) | lakshman (Low Information Diet) | kayoko (Book review: Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama) | kayoko (Book review: Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama) | yoko (Low Information Diet) | yoko (Book review: Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama) | kayoko (Book review: Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama) | kayoko (Low Information Diet) | yoko (Low Information Diet)

Book review: Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama
:: 2 July 2008, 07:55

Confession: until I read Dreams from my Father, I was mourning the loss of the potential of a woman becoming the next president of America.

I had read Living History by Clinton four years ago and felt connected to her – but knew that since her post as First Lady, her positions had dramatically shifted. Still, as a woman, I was proud of the fact that America had accepted her to go as far as she did. Women and girls can now plan, not just dream.

Present reality: the mourning has been replaced by an incredible surge of pride and hope.

Barack Obama’s book Dreams from my Father is a treasure that I hope some people read. Of course, I would love for the whole country to read and accept it. But, I have a feeling that if everyone who was planning on voting for him now were to read this book, they might run in the other direction. Cussing, cigarettes, drinking, inhaling, are nothing new in politics, but writing about it in Holden Caulfield honesty is new. Obama reveals it all.

But forget such trivialities as the above, what really moved me (and what might set people running in the other direction) was just how much Obama questions his identity as an American. With a rich international, multi-racial, multi-lingual background, Obama grapples with what it is to be American, what it is to be African, what it is to be a human. I have only seen a handful of speeches by him, and I hear from everyone how phenomenal his speaking is. I am sure this gift for speaking has been borne by his exceptional ability to observe and listen. This is perhaps what I find most hopeful about Obama. This book that he wrote 13 years ago so closely correlates to our lives today – and tomorrow. It’s not about the trendy political topic of the moment, it’s about reflection and finding what’s best for ourselves and our families. It’s about the search of why things happen, not about a race to the store to see who can buy a band-aid first.

There’s been all this bullshit talk about “likability” during this campaign. Candidates adjusting themselves to be humorous or “the kind of guy/gal you’d want to have a drink with.” So premeditated, so staged. Indeed, I am afraid that Obama may become staged, out of necessity to take on the role that will come to him.

But he has not staged his past. That’s a wonderful start.

Comment [6]

---

Low Information Diet
:: 1 July 2008, 11:47

In April, after reading the Four Hour Workweek, I had incorporated what the author calls “the low information diet.” Which means, cutting out all unnecessary internet surfing, TV, talk radio, etc. that does not directly benefit your current goal or deliberately chosen interests. This was probably one of the most valuable things I took from the book, because from this “diet” I have learned to: 1) not check my email constantly 2) delete msn.com as my home URL and 3) love books for their portability, humor, and ability to escape.
Prior to taking on this challenge I had desperately pleaded with myself “But what about my daily dose of ‘All things considered’ or Terry? What about the weather? Won’t I feel clueless when people at work start talking about the latest gadget that has already found its way into the hands of 15 year-olds standing by me on the subway?”
Turns out, NPR is static just the same as FOX, I can figure out the weather by hearing people talk about it in the elevator, and gadget turnover is so fast that keeping track just takes time away from living my life. Lifting the burden of being “in-the-know” off my shoulders, was liberating.
I want to emphasize here that the key here is “low” not “zero.” We still need to fulfill our informational needs. The revolution is in filtering using Pareto principle (80% of the effects come from 20% of the causes). Being proactive and choosing my own media (like the Chinese government does for its people, like Rupert Murdoch does for Americans) has brought me to understand the true power of the Information Age. Rich versus more. Concentrated versus fluffy. Revelation versus instant gratification.
And after a while, everything else is just like the sound of a fly buzzing around much too close to my ear.

Comment [6]

---

Gay Marriage
:: 14 June 2008, 07:39

I love California, it restores my faith in America. It also makes me believe in a bright future full of bright families.

Comment

---

Valley Girl Koan
:: 18 April 2008, 17:59

it’s like, I can have chocolate for dinner if I want
but if I tell someone that I won’t, I won’t

That was my epiphany for the day today while having a conversation with a friend.

Comment

---

Beginning to see the light
:: 4 March 2008, 07:55

I grew these in a box, and now they are allowed to see the light. Comment [2]

---

Soften the cynic, be touched: Dual movie review of Megane (2007) and Die Hard 4.0 (2007)
:: 20 February 2008, 08:23

If I were to try really hard to think of the two most polar opposite movies I have seen in my entire film-major life, it’d be an amazing coincidence if I realized I saw them on the same weekend of my entire film-major life. For the sake of coincidental miracles, let’s just assume so.

Last Saturday, I went to a nearby second-run theater to watch Megane (English title: Glasses, dir. Naoko Ogigami). The story follows a woman (most probably from the city) vacationing alone on a remote island with the intention of being left alone – only to find herself surrounded by a handful of slow-paced-local town folk. With one relevation quietly following the next, I left the theater thinking “there was something so right about that.” And I am still thinking about why I think it was so right… and it’s Wednesday already. I have no clear answers and I don’t think it is applicable to come up with a clear-cut answer. But I will say this, I was completely engrossed – seduced by the rhythm of the characters and landscape. I was more than willing to soften the inner cynic in me without losing my identity.

Megane trailer

The business of cynicism brings me to my Sunday viewing of Die Hard 4.0. John Maclaine returns with his smart-mouthed comments™ and rippling muscles (with a little extra in the gut, it’s been almost 20 years…). Plot description is unnecessary as the overall format is mimicked in most action movies of today. That is the genius of Die Hard, it is a classic to be studied. But what many of the more recent action/disaster movies lack is John Maclaine. As bad and stinky as the lines are in the latest DH installment, we care about John’s struggle up until this point. Us and him, we go way back. And even in 1988, he touched us (before Apple did) and refuses to adapt and abandon his independent ways. He always comes out ahead in the end with his identity intact. It’s like McDonald’s – we know what’s going to be served when we order. And that is what is missing from Hollywood films these days – the operation seems confused, scrambling for something… and preoccupied (Blu-ray or HD DVD?).

Die Hard 4.0 trailer

Comment [1]

---

First snow in two years
:: 23 January 2008, 10:53

Sick in bed, looking out the window at the first snow in Tokyo this season.

Comment [2]

---

The Meeting
:: 15 January 2008, 16:26

My dad called a meeting. He had ressurected himself into health and arranged for me, Cindy, my mom and him to talk. The meeting place was set, and from there we piled into the 1981 Toyota Corona blue station wagon. He had stopped the progression of what I refer to as the “melting liver.” It actually wasn’t even midway melted – he was his self before all the melting.

He was wearing the same faded red and blue ski-vest jacket thing he wore in the picture taken of him in 1986, sitting on a Coke bench in front of the MacDonalds in Omotesando, Tokyo. So, it was even before (x2) the melting liver – he was his 1986 body self. Concerned as a passenger of a recently ressurected driver would be, I watched how he was driving. It was normal, steady and probably four or five miles over the speed limit.

For a few seconds, Washi was in the car and they said “hi” to each other – they met for the first time. That was supposed to happen. Then Washi was gone.

My dad continued driving and talked about all the things he wanted to say, do and finish as we headed to a place where Cindy or my mom presumably lived. The discussion subjects were mundane in tone – and I don’t remember the specifics. I couldn’t quite hear what he was saying to my mom or my sister. I also wasn’t really interested. But I was sure the point of the meeting wasn’t to listen to what he had to say. Then or now. Besides, watching him drive was enough to deal with.

We got to our destination and it was a bit drab – like the apartment the “Friends” live in, but now occupied by Sweeney Todd. Cloudy windows. Walls sweating blue. A Hollywood hand-me-down.

The three of them went into the main room, where there were some wicker chairs – from what I could see. But before being able to see the whole room, which one had to walk around a partition, I swung right (“right” as in direction, “right” as in directly, “right” not as in correctly) into the bathroom to wash my hands. The bathroom matched the rest of the apartment in tone – with a porcelin sink yellowing at the cracks and a faucet with a calcified base. My hands were turning red and sausagey because the water was cold.

And I remember looking at myself in the mirror. I was happy with how my hair looked. Unusually shiny and black but so ordinary, with no intention other than to be what it was supposed to be. My face looked opaque compared to the perspirating windows and I was pleased. It was like solid cow’s milk and not like its substitute soy version. Sausage hands. Hair’s hair. Cow’s milk.

There was a knock at the door. The time of ressurection had expired and my dad had checked out while I was making sausage hands.

Comment

---

Irony is so 90s, but it happened to me last weekend.
:: 13 November 2007, 16:42

It was the one of those situations where my shoddy Japanese had failed me. A trip to the obgyn.

Housed in a brand spanking, swanky, new building just four minutes away from my apartment, I was very much looking forward to my adventure. When I got there, I was given a card with my name and a number on it to stick into a machine that connects to an automated calling system involving a screen with revolving images of cherry blossoms, patient numbers and pleasant music. Once this system displays your number, you are to proceed into the deeper atrium of the waiting room. Contrary to my experiences in the states of going to the obgyn, I was only one of the very few non-pregnant women (and, I suspect there were women who weren’t showing among the few that I considered – plus the others who were probaby there to get In Vitro).

The place was immaculately FEMININE – like you were in a really Pledge®’d-out ovary. With pink tones and gold accents. Coffee and tea abound, I felt more like I was there for a luxury spa treatment than my annual obgyn exam.

After being called into a less feminine, familiar exam room, the nurse asked me what I was there for. I said an annual exam… I was met with no response. Sensing that perhaps there was NO such thing as an annual exam in Japan, I proceeded to explain – “you know, checking for cancer, bacteria, pap smears, etc.” After listing a bunch of things, she whipped out a pamphlet with the words “Bridal Check” on it while informing me “This package is 30,000 yen (close to $300). Are you getting married?!” I was a bit shocked and frustrated and blurted out “No, no! I am NOT getting married and I just want a normal check.”

I caught myself. I was being Eurocentric…

I had used the word normal.

While trying to get over the fact that perhaps Japanese women only get a complete exam of their reproductive organs if they get married and that my Japanese SUCKS, I was politely herded back out to the waiting area. Nervously contemplating what weird notes she had made on my file, I was called back into another room, this time, with a doctor waiting.

With my inability to describe my concerns surrounding my reproductive organs, I had mentioned that I used to get annual exams. And the following conversation ensued:

Doctor: “Where?” (in Japanese)
Me: “America.” (in Japanese)
Doctor: “Are you American?” (in Japanese)
Me: (fearing complications with insurance) “Yes… I mean… I have both citizenships. Japanese and American.” (in Japanese)
Doctor: “Are your parents Japanese?” (in Japanese)
Me: “Yes.” (in Japanese)
Doctor: Not satisfied with my answer, asks, “What language do you feel most comfortable speaking?” (in Japanese)
Me: “English.” (in Japanese)
Doctor: “OK. I can speak English. Please tell me what you are here for today.” (in English)

And with this breakthrough, I had learned from him, that people do not commonly get check-ups at obgyns. However, pap smears, tests to check for bacterial and sexually transmitted diseases and a sonogram to detect any unusual growths or cancers are all covered by insurance. Out of my pocket, he said it should all cost 4,700 yen (about $45). In the states, lab fees would easily surpass this rate twice over.

I want to grab a hold of every woman on the train and tell her to take advantage of this.

Irony is so 90s, but it happened to me last weekend.

In a country where cultural taboos prevent women from getting regular checkups, insurance is fact.
In a country where culture demands its citizens to be aware of their sexual health, insurance is (often) fiction.

Comment [3]

---

Someone I would NOT want to hang out with.
:: 12 November 2007, 17:27

I realize that I hate Japanese dramas in the morning. Everyday from 8:15 to 8:30 on NHK – they run a 15-minute drama which lasts for a few months at a time. The main character is always a young woman – trying to make it in the world. The premise is usually quite full of potential – woman takes up career, woman is awkward and has an interest in something creative, etc. But then a love-triangle premise enters the picture and the general pattern is that I stop watching it once I sense this conflict. Ultimately, she obtains a husband, exalts her love interest by translating her success into his or “finally” kicks her awkward charm once she is deemed worthy of his presence. Fin. No overture. No reprise. No vibrato. No rubato. No septet… or tap dance encore.

These dramas make women look:

Needy
Insecure
Humorless
Immaculate
Boring
Emo
Neurotic
Annoying
Indecisive

in other words, someone I would NOT want to hang out with.

I’m not saying that American soaps are all high and mighty. But, at least Sammy is a crazy bitch who speaks her mind, Marlena still has fantasies that a queen bee is entitled to and Kristen is always brimming with new ideas to better her situation – even if it involves secret cellars and an evil twin. I would SO rather hang out with them. (For those of you who lost me, these are characters from Days of our Lives circa 1996 – the year meaning nothing… another awesome aspect of daytime soaps… when they mean opera, they mean operatically long.)

Comment

---

Yoko Kumano © 2006