America’s Youth Are Turning Japanese

Barely a day goes by without a parent noticing that their child is, in their words, ‘turning Japanese’. A mom recently went viral after exploring her son’s bedroom and finding a bamboo rolling mat for sushi stashed beneath his bed. Online influencers are teaching young people ideas like Gaman or Kaizen, with the comment sections filled with a mix of English and Japanese (Japlish). They are saying that this years hottest Christmas gift idea will be a bonsai tree rather than some plastic piece of shit, and kids are already cancelling Thanksgiving dinners so they can instead attend Kinrō Kansha no Hi celebrations at their workplaces. Is this interest in Japan just another fad, like people pretending to like Dubai, or is there something more to it?

I meet 24-year-old Tarou Tanaka at his apartment in Beverly Hills, though walking from the streets of Los Angeles into the apartment, you’d be forgiven for thinking your step was 5000 miles wide and had taken you into the heart of Japan! Tarou, previously known as Kyle Konieczek, was sat in the lotus position on the floor, listening to Shamisen music.

“Kon'nichiwa.” Is his greeting, and he prepares some tea for us to drink whilst telling me the extraordinary tale of his life. At 19 he founded Chubli, a weight loss app for pets, turning him into a millionaire overnight. He went on to invest in several mining organisations in Algeria and Ghana, eventually owning 70% of the world’s precious metal production and began branching out into ore refinement and e-waste recycling. He admitted he barely slept and only ate Huel for a year before having a heart attack on the eve of his 21^st birthday.

“Whilst recovering I became interested in Japanese Bunka, or ‘culture’. I watched many videos about Japanese carpentry, finding it relaxing, leading me to go to Kobe once I had recovered. Visiting Japan really changed my perspective on things.” He says. I look around the room at the folding screen with a cherry blossom design, the tatami mats on the floor, a katana mounted on a wooden stand, the kimono that Tarou was wearing.

“Well, yeah. So what separates you from your everyday weeb?” I say. He laughs lightly.

“It is true, many Westerners become interested in Nihon – sorry, I mean Japan – but that is often through a materialistic perspective. A ‘weeb’, as you call them, may become interested in Shonen Jump manga or collecting Godzilla VHS tapes, but they are more driven by consuming Japanese media rather than becoming consumed by Japan itself.”

“You think Japan has eaten you?” I say. He laughs again.

“There is a concept in Japanese psychology called ‘Naikan‘, and is the process of introspection based on asking yourself three questions. It is through this process I understood that America had rejected me, yet Japan had embraced me. And within that embrace I allowed myself to be Taberareta, sorry, I mean ‘eaten’.” He says to himself. I nod along. Sounds like this person had a mental breakdown and became obsessed with the first thing that brought him peace, pretty amateurish stuff, but understandable. I reflected back to my first few mental breakdowns and how I had become very interested in the potential healing factors of different fish and sea creatures, eating so much tuna that my skin turned purple from mercury poisoning (which also led to a further mental breakdown, with that leading to an obsession with the healing powers of MMA). Although Tarou Tanaka may have gone to great lengths to become more Japanese, from his home decor to the plastic surgery around his eyes, many of America’s youth are finding themselves aligning to Japanese culture naturally, without even having an interest in anything to do with Japan. I hit the streets to find out more.

I’m roaming the suburbs of San Dimas as military helicopters fly overhead, hoping to interview young people but the streets are empty. I knock on doors and windows, asking to interview anyone living there, finally managing to meet 27-year-old Brad Farvley and his 42-year-old mom, Fergina.

“Fergina, would you say your son is ‘turning Japanese’?”

“No…I don’t understand the question.” She says. I shake my head.

“Brad, don’t fuck with me. Tell me how Japanese you are as a percentage.”

“Like, zero bro. Mom, who is this?”

“Forget about her, you’re talking to me. Do you watch anime?”

“Well yeah I mean, everyone does, don’t they?”

“Let me guess, you shut yourself in your room all day watching One Piece at double speed, eating noodles and jacking it to Rule 34 pornslop, right?”

“No, I work at Trader Joe’s and play COD with my friends mostly.”

“Ah, so you’re a salaryman, right? You’re committed to your company, do twelve hour shifts every day, spend every weekend at your nearest karaoke bar with your colleagues? Do you like your sake warm or chilled?” I say.

“No, no bro, what are you talking about? I just work part-time.”

“Well, if you’re saying you aren’t interested in Japan, why do you have a two-metre framed photograph of Beat Takeshi hanging in your living room?” I say, pointing at it. We all turn to the portrait of the famous actor and filmmaker looming over us.

“Oh we picked that up in a yard sale. My mom thought he was handsome.” Brad says.

“Isn’t he!” she says. A giant, single bead of sweat appears on my temple and my mouth hangs open.

“Wuuaaaaa!?”

As I’m driving the Hyundai Sonata around the suburbs, I realise I am unlikely to interview any young people to prop up my hypotheses as the story was basically dead in the water. I had hoped to demonstrate a rise in the Hikikomori lifestyle amongst adolescents, with the increase in isolation tied closely to the economic downturn in the USA reminiscent of the economic collapse of Japan in the nineties. I had hoped to argue how young people navigated the contemporary American socioeconomic landscape was better reflected in themes expressed in recent Japanese pop culture, concluding that this pointed to a general shift globally towards East Asia.

Singapore, Hong Kong, Taiwan and South Korea were an economic powerhouse that would surpass North America and Europe before the decade was out, all the while developing the Tiger Cub Economies of neighbouring countries that made up the Southeast Asian archipelago. A baby born in East Asia was going to have a much better life in the 21^st century compared to the foolish children crawling through the wastelands of the failed empires of either the UK or US.

The United States was only just starting to wake up to the fact it was a botched nation, a decomposing civilization that would collapse in on itself like a Jack O’Lantern past Halloween. Could Americans learn how to cope with the suffering of its youngest generation, perhaps seeing parallels in other nations, working together towards a shared prosperity and wellbeing? Or would it have private companies kidnap children from their beds to be re-educated at camps out in the wilderness, as every concerned parent seemed to do? Unfortunately for the United States, it didn’t have time to find out. Its grave laid with bouquets of rust.

With A Chance Of Meatballs

“Nobody can teach your grandma to suck eggs.”
“I know.” I said. Of course I knew, I tried when I was sixteen. Nevertheless I looked out of the window and let my eyes pour down onto the street, out onto the bay. I pictured myself surfing.
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I don't think it's that complex. I'm just looking for some standardized information, I thought this would be the place to find out.”
“But you're asking about something metaphysical. You aren't interested in the administrative districts recognized by law, or the actual geography of architecture.”
“Geoarchitecural analysis.” I corrected him.
“So what is it you want?”
“To know where the edge of the city is. I'm not asking about where the city finishes and outside of the city begins. But the actual edge. To visit the places on the map where the line is appears no different from any other potential point on the line, therefore it seems arbitary.”
“You're suggesting that borders are infinite?”
“What's the point in learning a different language if you don't have any social skills. Comprendez?”
“But you pass through this meridian as you leave the city. You must know what's not Los Angeles, if only for it to be another city, so maybe you should look at where Los Angeles isn't and begin walking until you re-enter the city.”
“Maybe.”
“Well maybe the area where the city is and isn't can be quite a large area. A mile deep ring on the fringes of Los Angeles, a place caught between two states.”
“Maybe if you organised borders to be gradients rather than lines? Different zones...different...vibes.” I noticed he had caught a constrained night dream onto his face via a large cut given in his sleep. Long fingernails.
“If you'd like to do that, you're free to.” he said.
“The thing is though...what's it matter?” I said leaning back.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Why do I care where it is. It doesn't matter.”
“You're the one who wanted to know.”
“Yeah whatever.” I said.

I leave city hall with a buck in my pocket and rash on my hand. I'd already spent the morning deciding on definitions of Los Angeles, California and all I found out was less than I thought I knew. So I decided to walk north. I went through the city and over the hills, eventually reaching city limits. The mountains around me were steep and glowed orange. I continued until there was no trace of anything made and started walking back. The sun was beginning to rise on the Mojave desert and I went back through the scrub and hill, back hot with sweat, red from the sun, and my shoes were rags and my eyes were shot with blood. Each step I took was the end. The cars went past and the trees were small and I want to drink but there was was to go back. Not all of the houses and structures were part of it, but they were a sign. I stood in the road and felt the air move and kept walking back and toward. There was a bit between city and nature. It was like seeing what wasn't there and if you turned or even blinked it'd go so you had to carry on staring to see it change and be real and that's what I did stood on the road looking at where the city was and wasn't til my eyes began to shake.

I revisited a diner on the edge of the city and began to fold the bit of bread they'd given me. Americans put sugar in everything they ate. I see a tall, heavy set man sat on his own in a booth by the window.
"Hello."
"Hey buddy." he says.
"You mind if I sit here?"
"Sure, why not." he says.
"You from New York?"
"Pittsburgh. You from England?"
"Yeah. I'm on holiday. I think you call it 'a vacation'."
"I know what a holiday is fella. So what brings you out here? You look like shit, pardon my French."
"De nada home boy. I've been walking."
"You looked like you walked through the desert."
"Didn't Christ return from the desert?"
"Lots of people did. What about our troops. You saying them mean sons of a bitches are like Jesus Christ I salute ya buddy." he says, biting into his grilled cheese.
"You know, I've been wondering who do I have to blow to get a drink round here. So I came over to you."
"What?"
"I said, will you buy me a drink. I only had enough for this piece of bread."
"Sure. You want a root beer?"
"Thanks." I say. He goes over to the waitress and grabs her by the arm and orders me a beverage as I munch on my bland meal. He comes back to the table. I gladly quaff the beverage before continuing; "You know, people say a lot about Americans. And one of those things is how friendly some of you are."
"No problem buddy. I used to be homeless, I know what it's like. You probably came over here from London hoping to be a big movie star, thinking that the streets were paved with gold. Turns out it's pretty hard after all, huh?"
"You got it."
"A lot of people come over. Be an actor, be a writer, whatever. It's not all it's cracked up to be."
"I met this girl the other day...she was also from England."
"That's what I'm saying." he said, nodding. I thank him again for the root beer and leave the diner, looking out at the city with blurred, fucked up vision. I laugh to myself and hid in the bed of a pickup truck, hiding beneath the dark blue cover sheet. Maybe I'd wake up in Los Vegas or on the beach. Maybe a thousand miles away with no phone or wallet, feasting on the dying around me.

Forever Triangle: Uncle Jupiter

I am standing outside a school holding a giant cheque which reads one hundred and sixty thousand dollars printed in a font that resembles handwriting, designed by a team of graphic artists and distributed across the Western coast of America. It was the font of choice for these kinds of events, though there was a wide selection of fake handwriting available to charities, government bodies and the media. A flash bulb goes off in front of my face. Who uses flash bulbs any more. My mouth is dry and I gulp the back of my tongue. The woman next to me talks to the dozen or so reporters but I can't concentrate on what she is saying. The enormous cheque begins to slide down a sweaty palm and I worry I will drop it. Somebody finally takes the cheque off me and the woman puts an arm around my shoulder and we smile as more flash bulbs go off and people shout questions.

I am left alone in a hallway and hear my name called out. Fire doors open inwards for me and I walk across the auditorium floor, the applause falling as quickly as it rose. The head of the board of governers and the headteacher are stood to one side. I look around for a podium or somewhere less exposed but find none.

“Hello. Good afternoon. I hope we're all going to have a good time today. I just donated one hundred and sixty thousand dollars to your school. A hundred and sixty thousand. It's a generous donation, so generous that not many people are even able to do it. But I am, because I care. I care about the little guy, hitting the books, trying to make himself smart. I don't care if you're a jock, cheerleader, class clown or goth, everyone deserves an education that is paid for through generous donations like the one I just gave. I suppose you're asking yourself, why, why would this British guy come over to my school and give me nearly two hundred thousand dollars? But you know what? You shouldn't be asking why. You should be asking how. How do I get to be that guy?” I say. I wonder how loudly I am speaking. How do I sound, blowing air in short bursts over a wet blob in my mouth. I think about the size of my tongue.
“It's economics, Salzebury, the Gideon knot, Keynes, mythology, survivalism, trigonometry zoology, fluid dynamics, pyramid schemes, zombies, Rudolph Hess, microscopy, an excel spreadsheet, ipads, gemstones, bus tickets, viruses, environmentalism, brain transplants, pacifism, The Odyssey, facetime, gin and tonic, new shoes, the conquest of Mexico, batman, zygotes, fountain pens, mints, Sigmund Frued, Futurism, the Amazonian Rainforest, golf, Ludwig van Beethoven, buicks, childhood, pataphysics, buddhism and cell phones," I explain. "You can't just get a college education by paying for it. You have to work hard. Then you have to carry on working hard once you've graduated. The only difference is you'll be working somewhere nicer than cleaning up piles of shit in a school like this. You want everyone laugh at you? Think that you're a fucking joke? No, didn't think so. Take the easy way, drive a hyundai to work, have an affair, earn the average wage. All of it will seem terrible but at least it won't actually be terrible. That's why getting an education is important. You think I just threw one hundred sixty at this place so you could paint the corridors, put a basketball court somewhere? Hell no. I just give you the opportunity for an education. Make yourselves smart and in doing so increase the competition for jobs in the future.” I said, smiling. I looked down and shook my head before looking back up.
“You don't even know what. This is basic economics, but they don't teach that shit at high school. Don't want everyone knowing how to make mad money, who they gonna make money off? Y'all punks need to be schooled on some left wing sheeeeyit.” I say. I have grown confident as I speak. I feel strong and powerful. I pop open the top button of my collar.
“Ch'all better recognize socialism. You probably thinking of Groucho if I say Marx. But guess what. I'm talking about a guy called Karl. And he invented Communism along with this dude called Engels. Say what? Motherfucker invented communism, ain't that a Russian thing? Hell yeah homie. So's space travel. You think it's a coincidence all them dudes on the enterprise are chill?” I say.
“Anyway, I've donated almost a billion dollars to schools in Los Angeles. Y'all going to get a sweet education for gratis. Might seem fun now, but wait til you leave college. Everyone around you's gonna have been at the same college. I made this whole city totally fucked!” I say, miming smearing my hands across a dome. I laugh and walk out, starting to run through the empty corridors. It is a labyrinth of plastic, every door seems as same as the last. This is the place shootings happen. Eventually I reach the outside and have to lie in the car park, coughing. What have I done? There's no load game in real life! Everything had repercussions, from breakfast to noon. I sat up and started to run again, down streets populated by cars, veins bulging on my forehead. Nine hundred and thirty two thousand six hundred and twenty three dollars of company funds given away in the space of a day. I wondered for a moment if I would have to claim bankruptcy then laughed. Of course not. I still had things to do. I rang Bill and he picked me up.
“Take me back to the hotel.” I say.
“Sure. Are you okay?” he says. I begin to take off my clothes.
“Yes.”

A History Of Hollywood

The city streets were shape shifting, caught in a transmorphing temporal wormhole of culture generated through the Hollywoodland media cluster. The combination of population density, money, technology, crime, topology and cinema had made Los Angeles transcend from reality into a metaphor, exemplifying humanity's utter present, using the city as canvas. It's architecture a continuous set for the people acting out potentials, the asphalt and concrete and glass and metal sprawling outwards, increasing in citymass hour by hour. There are times in the year when stood at precise points across the city that its entirety reflects back at you and you are caught in the composite eye of Los Angeles and it burns you with a million reflections from windows in high rise buildings, the shafts of light are caught against your retinas then stabbed into your brain, the concentrated beam melting through your neurons like satan's lasers.

The city of Los Angeles. Home to Hollywoodland, built in 1902 by the Warner Brothers. The Hollywood sign now rests on the side of mountain, an old ad gimmick, white letters arranged amongst rocks and scrub land. It is a kitsch icon, a set of modernist erected fonts each as tall as a building that further went on to dub it's surroundings as Hollywood in 1947. Hollywood is home to several film studios, including the empty sets of the olden days you may have seen in pictures at your local cinema. All of the Hollywood executives ride around in expensive cars and they wear nice suits, they have the final say in the taste in style as they're the ones that decide which film is going to be made! The producers often have big piles of money stacked up on their desk, ready to give to the best director. The director then takes the money away and begins to hire writers, camera crew and actors to be in his picture. These stars and starlets of Hollywood are as follows: Johnny Depp, Simon Agby, Brad Pitt, Joanna Lumley, Sarah Jessica Parker, Justin Timberlake, Will Smith, Johnny Knoxville, Angela Carter, Channing Tatum, Harrison Ford, Morgan Freeman, Ben Kingsley, John Travolta, Courtney Cox, Nicholas Cage and Michael Cera. The film executives often spend a few hours a day looking through glossy black and white photos of potential actors for their films, muttering to themselves whilst smoking cigars. Meanwhile back on the sets of Universal Studios the film will begin to be made whilst the marketing gurus begin to advertise the picture, using social media, alternative reality games, merchandise, trailers, the web, billboards, newspaper articles, events and a word of mouth campaign. The film will be broken down into its basic components before being reconstructed by CGI. All of the best films nowadays are 3D and shown on cinemas around the globe, with 5.1 Dolby Surround Sound and comfortable chairs. Some cinemas even offer popcorn to munch throughout the movie viewing experience as you whisper to your friends;
“This movie rocks!”
“I don't know what to say, I love it.”
“The ending...it's a killer!”
“That was one seriously funny movie.”
Viewers are then persuaded to go home and think about the film as they lie in bed, unable to get to sleep. They can't stop thinking about it! For the next few days it will be all they will be able to talk about, often stopping people in public, physically restraining them by the shoulders, and telling them about the film. They would speak immensely quickly and sometimes get their words jumbled up, often being pushed to the ground by other people due to the enthusiasm they display in talking about the movie. There bodies would begin to convulse and blood begin to leak from the ears, nose and throat, muffling their voices in the sticky iron redness. The eyeballs would melt out of their sockets and the face would begin to turn inside out, the roof of the mouth being pushed out of the lips as the entire skull cracks. The organs begin to dissolve the skin and tissue surrounding them, displaying a bed of human entrails sitting in the body cavity that thump and twitch along to the rapidly beating heart and everything begins to bleed and rip itself open and scream. The director walks in front of the camera and yells 'Cut! That's a wrap.'
The actor sits up in his prosthetic latex suit.“How did I do?”
“You were great!” says the camera man. The crew begins to clap and the actor looks around, smiling.

Holopocalypse

Pass Me Old Mink

Antimatter Blossom

Complex Hypershapes And Others

Columns swing overhead as if some giant pendulus, a sculpture part of the Revgerfev exhibition at Towneley Garden Centre. Every piece of ceramic lawn decoration has had it's face caved in by artist Johnny Gloves, the savage. The mystic.

The gates of Midian.

The great gates of Midian, home of the Queen of Heaven. Hounds made from platinum carry things in their maws as ridiculous brass squelches out some kind of melody. Maybe. Midian. Mesozoic. Meta.

Crystalline Dream

Full potential by least take that nugget of wisdom. available, Fast forward the highly unanticipated 30-odd years and Nig now finds himself the reformed cult metal outfit's singer; Digiship through taking a course at Google Labs. Control a spectral sequel, Lost Boys: The Tribe, at the canals of Mars, create noise shapes with the new float personal computer If you get nothing pad, the hovering else out of watching jungle tribes until kingdom come.

Sham Poo

More science now!

Appreciation

They reclined into soft futons covered in a rich velvet. Over their bodies drifted the blue-grey smoke from the incense. Nag Champa. Everybody looked down, towards the centre of the room. Breathing so shallow you were unsure if these people were alive or not. Together they enjoyed the centre piece, a ten foot high lava lamp with surface mics fixed around it's glass body. They transmitted the sounds of the inner globuloids.

Tiger is Heavy

"The polished brass curves were intimidating." - Colm Coss '96

The Truth

The booster rocket divorced itself from the shuttle, flying backwards into space. It is briefly caught in the path of debris that the other booster gives off before spinning down to Earth. The camera lens in it's eye looks up at the sun and down at the ocean, again and again. Sometimes it caught a glimpse of the other rocket as it left a yellow trail whilst re-entering the atmosphere but otherwise it was the simple white and blacks of space and the occasional flick of the sea below. Down it went, faster and faster until it entered enough air to begin making sounds again. A series of planes below it pointed huge magnets upwards, catching the metal framework and guiding it towards land. The silver planes eventually side winded away to leave the huge rocket engine hurtling into the twin towers, destroying them both in an cataclysm of interstellar velocity. “The mission was a success.” said the president of the united states, drinking a glass of bourbon whilst watching New York be engulfed in a toxic smog.

HPPD Therapy

Magic eye patterns dissolve showing miserable sex acts. The only clues in the crime of the century.