Cheers, Mike

I just received an e-mail notification that an old friend, Mike Marklew,  has passed away.

I first met Mike when he was managing the now-defunct Tokyo British Club in Ebisu. I was a member for the last year of its existence, and spent a lot of time talking and drinking with Mike both in the members' bar upstairs and in the public bar, the Barley Mow, on the ground floor. It was he who gave me my "Big Mike" nickname, because there were so many other Mikes among the regulars there; it could get complicated to figure out which of us was being discussed  in some of the ale-fueled conversations.  Toward the end of the club's existence, when money for wages was tight, I did some pro bono bar tending in the Barley Mow to help provide some time off for the depleted staff. Mike was always quick with a clever quip or a well-poured pint, whichever side of his bar I was on.

Shortly after  the British Club closed its doors for the last time, Mike oversaw the construction and opening of The Black Lion Pub in Meguro. I was a regular visitor there even when the pub was still a construction site in what had been a parking lot and small office, before they had their operating license, when--since they weren't yet legally allowed to sell drinks--the "bar" was an ice chest filled with bottled beer, and there was a bucket for "building fund donations" in lieu of a cash register, and I've been a regular there since. Mike ran the place for a few years before moving to other places, and eventually moving to the UK to care for his elderly mother.

We've kept in touch by e-mail since then, with much of the volume of our correspondence being a constant flow of jokes and amusing pictures or videos from him to me and a huge collection of his friends, interspersed with a few more serious messages and updates on what he was up to. Once in a while he'd ask for help or advice on some computer problem, which I was always happy to give if possible. More often he'd pass along information about mutual acquaintances in various parts of the world--and even in Japan after he left--with whom he kept in touch far more diligently than I have.

I'll miss Mike's loyalty to his friends, and his witty observations on just about anyone and anything. I'll miss his inexhaustible stock of anecdotes, many from his extensive travels and numerous jobs throughout his life. I'll miss seeing his name in my e-mail inbox and wondering what odd bit of humor, wit, or clever observation I could look forward to seeing. I'll miss the feeling that, even though he's far away, an old friend is--or soon will be--enjoying a pint and observing, with an amused twinkle in his eye, the human condition.

I'm pretty sure that Mike had a firmer belief in an afterlife than I do. I hope he was right, because I'd like to think that he's sitting at the corner of some celestial pub's bar, where the pints are always perfectly poured, and it's always Happy Hour.

Cheers, Mike.

Happy Birthday, Colonel!

Harland David Sanders, "Colonel Sanders", the founder of the Kentucky Fried Chicken chain, and arguably the inventor of the modern restaurant franchise system, was born on September 9, 1890.

Although the first KFC store I visited was in Japan (the same is true for McDonald's, Wendy's, and Burger King, none of which were particularly prominent in San Francisco before I left in '70), I've made up for it over the years with considerable consumption. I still remember how excited my Navy buddies were when  the KFC shop opened in Enoshima, and the chicken-buying expedition that we mounted from our home in Akiya/Tateishi. If memory serves, this was the first shop opened after the initial introduction at Expo '70 in Osaka.
 
I remember a lot of parties and a lot of late-night pit stops on the way home from wild revelry in which the Colonel's chicken took a starring role as the only solid sustenance.
 
So, Happy Birthday, Colonel, and thanks for the memories!


Edited to fix the Akiya link

Over 35 but After the First

Although there's a tentative but welcome breeze blowing through the Tokyo area today (apparently brought by a typhoon approaching slowly from the south and west), the heat wave persists and is expected to do so for at least another week or so. Several records have been broken around the country, and the unusually fierce and long summer heat  has been a constant news item for many weeks. In fact, it has become even more newsworthy now that it's September, and we should theoretically be experiencing the beginning of autumn weather. Except for that breeze, no such luck: the nights continue to stay above 25 degrees Celsius, and the daytime highs are above 35--and sometimes close to 40--all across the country.

Thus, I was somewhat surprised to see, in a TV  news story last weekend, that the still numerous visitors to Shonan beaches were complaining about the umi no ie (literally "ocean house(s)" or "house(s) at the sea") having stopped operation and indeed being dismantled. These temporary but sturdy structures house restaurants/bars and often offer showers, changing rooms, and a place to rest, along with rentals of beach chairs, umbrellas, inflatable boats, and the like.

When the weather is good, these places do a lot of business, particularly--but not only--on weekends and public holidays. They're often the only practical place for beach-goers to get a cold drink, a bowl of flavored shaved ice, or something to eat. Unless you bring your own umbrella, they can be the only place to get a little shade, too. They set up each year at the landward edge of the beach, quite a few of them on any reasonably large and popular beach, and operate throughout the summer season.

The tricky term is "summer season". The report I saw, with thirsty bikini-clad girls complaining in the foreground and umi no ie being rapidly dismantled in the background, was filmed on the fourth or fifth of September. The temperature was 37 or 38 officially in the area, which means probably at least three degrees higher at the beach in the sun. But it was after the first of September, so the summer season was over.

I don't know just what sort of financial arrangements these establishments make with the local government (and probably the local yakuza as well) for permission to set up shop on the beach. Their existence is beneficial in providing a service to the visitors and in doing a lot to prevent heat stroke cases, and the local government gains financially as well.

It's not unreasonable to imagine that someone would have thought to arrange for a couple of weeks' extension, since the sun, the heat, and the beach goers are still very much around.

Someday maybe I'll look into just what sorts of permissions and charges are involved in operating an umi no ie, but for now I'll just remain bemused that they are being taken down even though the only indication of the end of summer is gradually shortening days and the numbers on a calendar.

I am bemused, but I can't honestly say that I'm surprised. I spent several years early in my stay in Japan living near the beach. In those days, I found it odd that virtually nobody--except for a few surfers, anglers, and die-hard sailboaters--went to the beach until the first of July, and they all disappeared at the end of August. The local Shinto priests would have a beach opening ceremony (they do such rites on popular mountains and hiking trails, too), and the next day the beach would be covered with glistening, reddening people. Come September, the crowds would melt away. This was pretty much regardless of the weather, although in then-typical years it used to start to become noticeably brisk toward the beginning of September, especially in the morning and evening. Typhoons would start to proliferate around then, too.

Recently, however, both the weather and people's leisure patterns have changed considerably. It's hot--very hot--earlier in the year, and it stays that way later in the year. People tend to do things in smaller groups and travel a lot more by car than by train. And, for various socio-economic reasons, many people--especially young ones--have more spare time on their hands whether on weekdays or weekends.

It no longer makes much sense to close down your beach-side business at the beginning of September, particularly when there are still hordes of potential customers watching you do it.

Survival Unaffordable

Recently a 76-year-old man was found dead in his home in Saitama, having perished from heat stroke. In the continuing heat wave, such news has become all too common. Indeed, with 31,579 people having been rushed to hospitals with heat stroke between June 1st and August 15th this year, individual heat stroke cases rarely make the news these days unless there is something unusual about them.

Nearly an entire school baseball team having to be hospitalized for heat stroke after practice games that began around seven in the morning was, for example, sufficiently bizarre--or at least unexpected--to merit special media attention. Ordinarily, starting in the cool early hours should have been enough to avoid such severe dehydration, but lately the early hours haven't been that cool: temperatures as high as 35 degrees by 10:30 in the morning have been registered, because nights don't cool off as much as they used to. In the Tokyo area, for instance, there have been 36 excessively muggy nights this summer so far, when the average had been 16 for the same period.
 
The heat stroke deaths of four people in their 20s last month also got media attention, because except for people engaged in strenuous activity heat stroke is thought of as being particularly likely to strike the elderly.

In the central Tokyo area (i.e., the 23 wards), there were 104 deaths from heat stroke in the last month as of yesterday.  Over 90% of those Tokyo deaths were people aged 65 or over. Somewhat surprisingly, over 95% of those people died at home, rather than out in the sun as one might expect. Indeed, 40% of them died at night.

Various reasons have been advanced for this, including older people not noticing the heat as much, or not drinking enough perhaps because they don't feel as thirsty as younger people might. Reduced overall stamina may be a cause, too. Reluctance to leave air conditioners on all night also seems to contribute: assuming that it will become cooler late at night, and setting the air conditioner to turn off after a couple of hours can be deadly if the temperature stays high.

The poor fellow in Saitama was a grimmer case. Investigation showed that he had lived for the last 10 years without electricity or gas; he couldn't afford to pay the bills, and used a flashlight at night when he used light at all. His son (the Japanese reports call him "the oldest son", but it's not clear whether there are any other children) is injured and unable to work, and it appears that the father either couldn't or wouldn't apply for government assistance, most likely the latter.

Although the Kanto Plains area doesn't get as cold as it does in, say, Hokkaido or Niigata, the Saitama winters over the last decade must still have been terribly harsh for an elderly man with no electricity or gas. I suppose that he survived the cold with many layers of clothes or blankets. The recent heat wave, with no air conditioning, no fan, little or no breeze, and relatively little relief from the heat even in the middle of the night, seems to have been just too much for him.

While I have plenty of sympathy for people who collapse from heat stroke while working in their fields or gardens, or while walking over the heat-softened asphalt on sales visits to their customers, I feel particularly sad when I think about this poor senior citizen who stuck it out for 10 years without basic utilities, before finally succumbing to the heat, because he couldn't afford the means to survive.

Respected or Forgotten?

Recently the  mummified corpse of a man who, were he still alive, would be 111 years old and Tokyo's oldest man, was discovered. His immediate family had apparently followed his orders to leave him alone in his room so that he could "become a living Buddha"...in the style of legendary monks, apparently by starving to death or dying of dehydration, and he's thought to have died 30-odd years ago. Until he was finally found, the ward officials had believed him to be their oldest living resident.

This was followed shortly by the realization that a woman who is--or would be--113, and Tokyo's oldest resident,  can not be located.  Her daughter, with whom she is registered as living,  apparently thought she was living with a younger brother in another city. The daughter has had no contact with either relative for years, and a check of the brother's address has shown it to be a vacant lot on its way to becoming part of a new road. The last news I heard about this case was that the police had finally located the brother, who informed them that his mother had died years ago. The news story I heard implied that further investigation was proceeding.

These two cases caught so much media attention that not only investigative reporters but even the various ward and city offices involved have begun to try to determine the whereabouts of the elderly...at least those 100 or over. As I write this, the total nationwide whose location (or even current existence) cannot be verified has risen to 56. Tokyo had 5 so far, Osaka 18, Hokkaido and a couple of other prefectures 4 each, and several other prefectures one each, the last time I saw a breakdown.

I imagine that the number will rise, across the nation, as people are belatedly checked on more aggressively. There are (probably) over 40,000 centenarians in Japan, after all. If the confirmation parameters were expanded to include those over, say, 80, the total would no doubt be surprisingly high. If all those over 65, the basic starting age for pensioners, were investigated, the total of citizens for whose location or current condition (i.e., whether they are still alive) cannot be confirmed would probably be astounding.

In some countries, this wouldn't be too surprising. Not all countries, or cultures, are highly focused on actively keeping track of their citizens' whereabouts and health conditions. At the risk of sounding cynical, I'd say that this is particularly true of those citizens who are old enough not to be taxpayers any more. To be fair, many societies are not willing to put up with too much government checking into their lives. Not a few people resent even regular census efforts as an invasion of privacy and an unacceptable level of meddling in their lives. Many countries lack the resources even if they have the desire.

Japan, however, requires every resident to register with his or her local government office, and to update the records when they move. Citizens need a current copy of the juminhyo (residence registration) for all sorts of things, such as buying or selling or renting property, acquiring a driver's license, making credit or other contracts, applying for jobs, buying a vehicle, and pretty much anything else that requires more than very simple proof of identity.

For foreign residents, some of them centenarians who are also "missing", this essential document's purpose is served by the infamous  gaikokujin toroku shomeisho (proof of foreigner's registration), which we are all required to carry at all times. A document verifying the registration can be acquired from one's local government office and used in place of the juminhyo.

Note that the juminhyo, or its foreigner equivalent, can only be procured from the local government office in which one is registered. If you move to another administrative area (generally speaking, to another ward or city), you are obligated to transfer your residence registration to the new locale.

So, theoretically, the government has a record of where each of its residents resides. There are further records (family registers) by household and/or family, with a smaller version for individuals, wherein births, deaths, and marriages are recorded along with information about who the head of the household is, and who has left the household/family. Copies of these rather more detailed records are also sometimes required by, for example, prospective employers, or for registering a marriage or the paternity of a child.

In addition, many if not most local police forces have traditionally made rather concerted efforts to canvass neighborhoods to determine who lives where. Pretty much every time I've moved in Japan (about a dozen times), a local cop appeared at my door within a week or so, politely inquiring about who I am and whom I'm living with. The downside of this is that the police may know more about you than some people might be comfortable with, the upside is that visitors who get lost trying to find your house in Japan's semi-chaotic house numbering system can ask at the local police box with a strong chance of getting precise directions, sometimes even a police escort. If a catastrophe befalls one's house--say a fire, earthquake, or meteor strike--the police have a pretty good idea of at least who might have been expected to be there when the disaster struck.

With all this interest in and record-keeping for residents' locations, it has become a (belated, in my opinion) source of surprise that the government can't locate so many of its senior citizens...or even confirm whether they're alive or dead. It has also become a source of embarrassment for the local governments who are supposed to be keeping track of their residents (not least because there are sometimes issues with where pension payments have been going, and who might have been spending them).

Of course, if you don't do anything that requires a copy of your residence documents, you're pretty much "off the radar".

The reasons I've seen given so far by government officials for why they've lost track of their citizens have centered on right-to-privacy issues. This may lead to a change in the law governing protection of personal information. In at least some cases, government workers who have inquired about the elderly in their areas have been turned away by relatives, or been unwilling to go beyond pressing ineffectually at unanswered doorbells. In more urban areas, the decades-long trend of people not really knowing much if anything about their neighbors has contributed to the difficulty of getting information about unresponsive residents.

Nobody has mentioned it yet, at least in the national media that I've seen, but there may also be a problem with a lack of coordination between government departments:  most people's deaths are reported to the local government office, either by relatives or by the police, and I suspect that the reports haven't been circulated to everyone who ought to know, so that one department may know that someone has passed away, while another department in the same office may still have them on their resident rolls. Of course, this may not be the case, and as I say I haven't heard it mentioned, but it wouldn't surprise me much.

I imagine that at least some of the people may have quietly disappeared--with or without the knowledge of and/or reports from any relatives--and become homeless, or wandered off into the woods, either way perhaps eventually to have become unidentified corpses. If there's no landlord worrying about unpaid rent, and no concerned relatives or friends, that's not at all inconceivable. There are even more disappearances--95,989 in 2004, for example--than suicides in Japan every year (about 30,000), and I don't think that anyone is systematically correlating disappearances, found missing people, and unidentified corpses. As far as I can determine, there doesn't even seem to be any systematic correlation between disappearances and suicides, at least at a national level.

I doubt that anything that looks like a natural death of someone not immediately identifiable inspires much  effort from the police to determine who they might have been, unless there's a local missing person report, and probably one that's pretty recent. I suppose that there is, unfortunately, not much reason for the police to spend limited resources on them if nobody else seems to be concerned.

When the annual national holiday, Respect for the Aged Day, comes around, there are always plenty of human interest stories in the news about people who have managed to live to 100 or beyond.  Reporters interview them, local government people visit them and present them with small gifts, and so on. Some of them may even become media celebrities, for a while at least.

In Japan, as in most of Asia, in principle the elderly have traditionally been respected, even revered, for their experience and presumed wisdom.

It's a pity that nobody seems to know where so many of them are, or indeed even whether they're alive.

Flashes in the Windows

After days of sizzling, muggy weather, the utterly still air suddenly began to move yesterday evening, accompanied by a definite drop in temperature. I was looking forward to a little rain, for relief from the mind-numbing heat, so the distant muttering of thunder would have pleased me even if I weren't a thunderstorm fan.

"Cool!" I thought to myself, and cool it soon became. I should have listened to the little inner voice saying "Be careful what you ask for".

Up in  the Saitama/Gunma border country, thunderstorms can be pretty dramatic. That's fine with me, since I really enjoy the flashing and crashing and booming. Down in the largely rural flood plain at the base of mountains to the west and north, with few tall buildings and virtually no hills, the view of lightning bolts striking all around the horizon is spectacular, too.

After a sweltering day punctuated with PA system public service announcements urging citizens to avoid "entenka"--"being under the burning sky"...very poetic and very accurate--I was looking forward to a short, violent, squall-like summer shower.

I wasn't looking forward to the multiple brief power outages caused by some apparently very close lightning strikes. I definitely wasn't expecting to be unable to reboot my computer after the first blackout. The prospect of losing all kinds of data and applications was a shock, and when I tried to recover, the operating system's helpful suggestion that I repartition my hard drive (accompanied by the diffident comment that this would destroy any data on the drive) quite ruined the great mood that the thunderstorm had brought.

Since I didn't like that advice, and since although I couldn't get Windows to boot in any mode at all, I did get a very brief Windows splash screen and a too-fast-for-the human-eye-to-follow error message with the infamous blue background, I decided that maybe there was still hope for the data on the drive, so I tried other alternatives instead. It took a while, during which I said some pretty vile things about both the OS and my so-called surge protector.

I did finally get the system back up and functioning, though, with no significant damage that I can see. An unexpectedly happy ending, and an educational one: when lightning flashes started illuminating my windows again this evening, and the artillery of the gods began to rumble, I shut down the PC. Some Windows are better shut during storms.

"Raining pretty hard, isn't it?"

Every time there are floods and landslides, whether from an unusually heavy rainy season or from a typhoon, the TV news programs of course show lots of video footage of the destruction and of the disruption of people's daily lives. The impact of scenes of collapsed hillsides, washed-away roads, buried houses, and engulfed streets and shops is undeniable. It's grimly fascinating to see rushing rivers--carrying trees and maybe even cars or parts of houses--surging perilously close to bridges, or to see people paddling rubber boats above drowned streets and parking lots.

For those of us living in eastern Japan, these sensational reports can even serve a practical purpose: since such weather generally moves from west to east and south to north, we can see what may be in store for us in the near future and--to some extent--prepare for it.

Unfortunately, reporters--or more accurately the directors and producers who tell them where to go and what to say--can't leave well enough alone.  For some reason it is deemed necessary to have endless live reports from areas where there really isn't anything useful to say, and in the case of night-time programs, nothing useful to see, either. I actually feel sorry for the poor reporters who gamely try--but invariably fail--to say something intelligent about the height or ferocity of rivers next to which they are standing, but which their cameras are unable to show because of insufficient light.

Similarly pointless live reports are done from, for example, in front of police stations after suspects in major crimes have been arrested, with comments limited to "so-and-so has been arrested and is being questioned in this police station but there is no further news at this time". At least they have a police station to show, and it's sufficiently well-lit.

That's very different from showing a square meter or so of water surface, the maximum that can be lit by the film crew's best efforts, and trying to make dramatic observations about something that, from the viewers' point of view, might just as well be a swimming pool.

I feel less sympathy for the media people who decide that it's not enough to show and describe the effects of flooding and landslides, so they try to inject some "human interest". The idea isn't bad; the implementation is almost invariably dire, largely due to the ridiculous questions they ask.

For example, following a shot of water cascading down the stairs to a basement bar, a reporter was shown interviewing the owner the next day. The poor proprietor is standing in the water-logged wreckage of his business, shoveling sludge and looking forlornly at the soaked and muddy furniture, carpets, and walls. The reporter asks, "Is this going to be difficult to clean up?" and "Will there be much impact on your business?". It's a tribute to the patience of the bar owner that he didn't chase the news crew out of the place with blows of his shovel, screaming "What kind of stupid questions are those, you morons?".

My leading candidate so far this season for egregious stupidity in reporting is a film sequence I've seen repeated maybe 30 times in the last week. Two guys, trouser legs rolled up, soaked to the skin in the torrential rain, are trying to push a pickup truck through knee-high rushing water. The reporter asks, "Did your engine stop?".

That's beyond banal. It's beyond stupid. What possible answer could be expected? "No, we turned the engine off and are pushing the vehicle in a downpour because we are masochists", perhaps?

Then there's the old standard "How do you feel?" which I recently saw a reporter ask a guy whose home had been crushed by a landslide and washed, with all of his possessions, down a raging river. To me, the only reasonable response would be, "I feel like throwing you and your camera crew into the river".

Every year, the various TV networks run what they call "NG prize" programs...what would be called, I guess, "blooper awards" in the US. These "outtakes" are mostly misspoken lines in dramas or news programs, sometimes they're physical goofs like breaking sets, falling on news locations, and the like.

I'd quite like to see a similar program based on a collection of clueless reporters' questions, perhaps with a suitably ironic-voiced narrator offering possible suitable responses.

I admit that it could be difficult to come up with appropriate answers to some of the more outrageously idiotic questions. Questions like that of this post's title, which is a quote from a reporter in the middle of a record-breaking downpour, surrounded by cars only a few centimeters from being completely submerged.