Recent Publications
The Softer Side

Artist: Tomoko Ikeda
Title: Pensive Traveler
Owner: moi

I'm a total fan of her work. I even made it to one of her Exhibitions in Ginza, Tokyo—I was the only dude who didn't speak Japanese (well, I speak some, but not enough). Check out her website. 


In 2009, she published a beautiful photographic book of her doll art collection, Scenery of Time.

DEBTOR NATION

National Debt 1960-2011

MY NEW BOOK....

How I lost my moorings in Tokyo. Read Chapters 1 & 2.

@Ronnie_Baker: Genuinely funny, entertaining & well written. Highly recommended.

@lothisoft: Great read, got very sad towards the end but what a fantastic finish. Are you writing a sequel?

Buy it at Amazon.com

 

 

Chapter 1 ♦ AIRMAIL FROM AFTERLIFE

1976

One rainy summer day, I packed my backpack and went to America. I was seventeen. I knew what I was doing: I was escaping from the debacle at home. And I was looking for something. For what exactly, I didn’t know, but I’d go look for it in America. There, the heat burned in my nostrils. Lawns were brown. Cars were big and air-conditioned. Girls went gaga over my accent. Guys thought I was cool. And I fell in love with it all.
          Three years later, I was paying my way through college in Texas when the notion of home, distant and convoluted as it had become, blew up with gratuitous violence. A Boeing had crashed into a mountain in Turkey, killing all 155 people aboard. I heard about it on the radio. But I didn’t connect the dots.
          A few days later, I found a message from the operator in my campus PO Box. Telegram, call Western Union, it said. I called from one of the pay phones. My heart was pounding in my temples, and I had trouble hearing the lady on the other end.
          “I’d read it to you,” she said. “But it’s in German. I think you better come by and get it.”
          “I’m fixing to go to work. Can’t you try to read it to me?”
          “Oh dear.”
          “Is it long?”
          “Two lines.”
          “Can you spell it?”
          “Well, I guess I could. Are you ready?”
          I pulled out a notepad and pen. “Ready,” I said, though I knew that I wasn’t ready, that I’d never be ready for whatever she was about to spell.
          “E-L-T-E-R-N new word,” she said, “A-M new word M-O-N-T-A-G new word M-I-T new word F-L-U-G-Z-E-U-G new word I-N new word D-E-R new word T-U-R-K-E-I—”
          “Stop! Please.” I couldn’t write anymore. Parents on Monday with plane in Turkey.... German sentences, even in abbreviated telegram style, had the main verb at the end, but I didn’t want to hear the main verb, didn’t want to hear it spelled out letter by torturous letter. “Thank you. That’s enough.”
          I’d escaped the debacle at home and had gone as far away as possible. But this wasn’t what I’d had in mind. I stood there in a daze, brain deadlocked, numb, clutching the receiver, drowning in abysmal emotions.
          Then I went to work. It was just a part-time job, but now I needed the money more than ever. Afterward, I drove to the Western Union office and picked up the yellow slip of paper with twelve lines of all-caps alphanumeric gibberish and two lines of readable text. It was from my sister, sent from the town where she was staying with friends. But it didn’t include their phone number. And my brother was on vacation somewhere. So there was no way to reach him either.

Next....

TESTOSTERONE PIT, the novel

Wolf Richter

Chapter 1    Circle Jerk

It was Saturday, the biggest day of the week, and everyone was working bell to bell, over forty salesmen, though Ferronickel didn’t know exactly how many he had because some hadn’t shown up and might have started selling cars some other place, and because he’d hired a bunch of new guys an hour ago.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he sang in a basso profundo voice as he marched across the showroom in his asymmetric gait. He was the general sales manager at the Ford Superstore. His Tabasco Sauce tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned. His gut that hung over his belt strained his shirt. He had puffy eyes and was full of mean energy, ready to explode, ready to force things to happen. He blew out the door, came to a halt on the porch that surrounded the showroom on three sides, and lit a cigarette.

Al Millikin, one of his four sales managers and perhaps the best closer in town, was watching Mad Boxer work a customer on the truck lot. Potential deal.

“Why can’t he bring that guy inside and write him up?” Ferronickel said.

“He ought to tell him we got free pussy on the showroom,” Millikin said.

“Don’t give me any ideas for our next live remote.”

“Come to think of it, that would be a hell of a lot more effective than the classical rock-and-roll shit we’ve been doing.”

“For our male customers.”

“We could alternate. Free pussy one day, free Godiva chocolates the next. We’d have both ends of the spectrum covered.”

“You’re a fucking Einstein, Millikin.”

Reginald Pierce, another sales manager, a big guy with a shortish Afro, was jumpy and his eyes darted about. He fretted about Whacker Packer, Hackman Jones, JoAnn Delouche, and several other salesmen who’d formed a dope ring by the plate-glass window. If left alone, they’d make up rumors, complain about dealership coffee, and infect each other with morale problems. He singled out a young guy.

“Freddie T, are you going to participate in a circle jerk?” he growled. They called him Freddie T because of his unpronounceable Greek last name. “Or are you going to sell something?”

It startled them; they’d forgotten all about selling. And they drifted apart.

Lou Massago gesticulated on the phone in one of the closing booths. He wore a white button-down shirt, a red and blue tie, slacks, and ostrich-skin boots. A scar curved upward from the right corner of his mouth, giving him a lopsided grin even when he was serious. His eyes were set close together and peered out from under his bushy eyebrows with ferocious intensity. But he had a soft voice when he wanted to, and now he wanted to because he was talking to a customer about a 15-passenger van that had come out of the rental fleet. There were ten of them. They were scratched and dented and had too many miles on them, and they were overpriced, and no one could sell them, but he was king of sales, and if he could sell them, it would prove he could sell anything.

He hated working the phone. He needed his customers in front of him, needed to stare into the whites of their eyes. But no one had sold any of those vans yet, and to prove he was king of sales and could sell anything, he’d decided to sell them all. Besides, the Saturday rush hadn’t begun yet, and calling old customers was more productive than standing around waiting for something to happen.

Next....

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Thursday
Sep012011

Yakuza: 'We Have To Evolve Our Business Model'

"We have to evolve our business model," said Masatoshi Kumagai, one of the bosses of the Inagawa-kai syndicate of the Japanese yakuza, in an interview with reporters of the French magazine L'Expansion. In the media, yakuza are portrayed as getting stronger and richer, but the opposite is actually true, he said. They're on decline, and if they don't change their business model, they might cease to exist.

Yakuza are an economic force in Japan with over 100,000 members in 22 syndicates, grouped into three families. An ambiguous relationship between them and the government contributed to their prosperity. After World War II, the government used the yakuza to fight Chinese and Korean gangs rampaging in the country. In the 60s, with the encouragement of the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) that ran Japan essentially from 1955 to 2009, yakuza broke up massive strikes. As the relationship solidified, their influence spread: Rackets, pachinko, drug trafficking, consumer loans, prostitution—and they got rich. They showed up at parties of the jet-set and threw around money and had so much power that even the anti-gang law, passed in 1992 to control their influence and visibility, wasn't put into effect until six years later.

Yakuza show off their status at the Sanja Matsuri festival, in Senso-ji shrine in Asakusa, Tokyo

The slow and lacking response by the government to the horrible earthquake in Kobe in 1995 didn't help. Yakuza swooped in, even using a helicopter, and provided disaster relief while the authorities were dillydallying around. This was played up in the media and added to their aura of semi-legitimacy.

But when a yakuza assassinated the Mayor of Nagasaki, Iccho Ito, in 2007 outside his campaign office, everything changed. Considered an attack against democracy, the assassination caused the government to declare war on the yakuza. And crackdowns began. Then the financial crisis hit, and the LDP was losing its grip on power. In a desperate effort to prop up its popularity, it cracked down even harder.

As a consequence, said Masatoshi Kumagai, yakuza are weakened by repression and can no longer run their businesses as they see fit. The protection racket, for example. If caught by police, a shopkeeper can get in trouble for cooperation with a criminal enterprise. Same thing in construction, which used to be dominated by yakuza. Their influence is diminishing, and they have to make themselves more and more invisible. While there remain some big business opportunities, like drug trafficking, they don't make as much money as before. And what you read in the media about their profits, he said, is exaggerated.

Even in finance, they're weakened. For a long time, they flourished with insider trading because they got the information before anyone else. That's no longer the case. As the recent scandals have shown, everybody engages in insider trading, and yakuza have lost their edge. In fact, he says, there is no longer any dividing line between the legal financial world and yakuza.

According to police estimates, already half of the revenues are derived from legal activities that were acquired or built up with illegal gains, such as construction, finance, and real estate. Many of these legal activities are performed by "associates" who are experts in finance, law, etc., but don't have the signs of true yakuza, such as tattoos.

It's time to look for a new business model, he said. Yakuza operate locally, but they need to expand overseas, which is hard because they've never tried to build relationships with other mafia organizations. Focused on Asia, he's making deals in China and South Korea and recently invested in a casino in Macao. It's difficult to do for a Japanese, he said, and he is the only Japanese so far who has been able to do it, thanks to his contacts in these countries.

"And we have to improve our image," he said. The Japanese people and the government are no longer afraid of yakuza and might reject them entirely. It's already difficult to recruit young talent. To join is less attractive for them than it was before, when they were showered with money, girls, and cars. Young people are different today. They no longer observe the rules. When they screw up, they run away (instead of cutting off part of a finger, wrapping it in cloth, and offering it to their boss as sign of contrition). "When we catch them and beat them up to put them back on the right track, they denounce us at the police," he added. "We used to say 'thank you' at the end."

And prison sentences have become longer, he lamented. Instead of 15 years, someone might get 30 years or life. Back in the day, yakuza were promised a higher position in the organization once they came out of prison. Today with the crisis, it's no longer possible to promise that "when we don't even know if we'll still exist."

The undergarment of the yakuza in the photo above? Tokyo Tidbit: Yakuza Undergarments 

 

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