hedgehog in the fog.

Classic animation from an old Russian folk tale.

Oita charity bike ride (or why my legs don't really work this week)

Last Friday was the vernal equinox, the first day of Spring. In keeping with the well justified Japanese reverence for the season it was a national holiday, and thus a three day weekend. Another Kumamoto JET named Nick connected me to the Oita charity ride that spanned the weekend, and around 300 km of roads through Oita prefecture (2 hours east of Kumamoto prefecture where I live). Thank you to the relatives who are donating money toward the Indian village where I'll be working in a month for this trip. To make a long story short, it was both awesome and tough. To make a short story long, here's a more detailed account:

I put 3 pairs of underwear, 3 pairs of socks, a small towel, a pocketknife, flashlight, mp3 player, compact book (Battlestar Galactica), sunscreen, toothbrush and toothpaste into my backpack and headed down the bike path to Kumamoto after dinner Thursday evening. Made it to the bike shop before closing and got a tune-up for the ride, and bought special bike shorts for the trip and a water bottle holder to mount on the frame. Turns out you ride commando in bike shorts, so more than one pair of underwear wasn't really necessary. Met up with Nick after that, he dismantled my bike and somehow fit it in his K-car along with the two of us, his girlfriend Mari and his own bike. On the two hour drive east through the mountains to Oita we celebrated our shared nerd heritage by discussing Starcraft battle strategies. Arrived in Oita late that night and met Joe, our leader for the trip, and the other people in our biking party (there were nine of us altogether). Joe has the coziest feeling house I've stayed in for a while, it felt like being back in a real American home. Well insulated and warm, made mostly from logs, lots of personal style touches from an Alaskan native that immediately separated it from the more sparse Japanese style homes one grows accustomed to.

Early the next morning (Friday) we headed out of Joe's in cars, and met with the rest of the 40+ group of riders at a park. Re-assembled the bikes, discussed the routes (I determined to just stay as close to Joe as possible) and started riding. I didn't realize until after we started that there were volunteer cars that would take our bags to the evening's destination while we rode, so spent the first day with my pack on my back. Immediately discovered that the people I was riding with were far stronger than me. The day proved to be sunny and beautiful, despite less optimistic forecasts from the weather report. We started climbing into the mountains, while I realized my time spent riding on the level bike path and suburban roads around Ueki hadn't prepared me for this trip. But the group kept a moderate pace, the scenery was beautiful and riding down the other side of a hill after climbing it on a warm day is one of the greatest joys in life. Plus the trees were starting to bloom everywhere.

Everyone ended up at a campground in northern Oita that night and slept in two large cabins, trading stories with the other volunteers, only two of whom I had ever met before since I was in a different prefecture.

Second day, Saturday, was clear blue skies and balmy weather, and a long but relatively level route. Stopped in a charming village with an open onsen underneath a bridge, then our team took a buffet restaurant for all it was worth. The place would be out of business in a day with more visitors like us. After hitting the roads again, our team of nine practiced riding in a tight line, keeping a steady pace, cutting the wind for each other and rotating out the leader to the back of the line. Got to know the other members of my biking team better as we rode for kilometers next to each other talking. Guy traveled the world for years, Jemma was pursuing her PhD in ergonomics, Joe was a former world-champion Shotokan karate tournament fighter.

In the Spring farmers burn the dead residue from the winter to prepare for a new season of growth, so the air was filled with ash and the hills were literally on fire. We breathed through our noses and were fine. A mountaintop view of miles and miles of burning fields bordering flowering trees and green valleys made for a striking image. The longest uphill climb I had yet known (where beastial cries of victory welled up inside me and escaped my chapped lips at the crest of the hill) was followed by the most exhilarating downhill coast that took me to the end of the day's route. Dipped into the nearby onsen with the other dudes, letting the cold bath work its magic on sore muscles. That night we all stayed in a collection of smaller cabins, wolfing down curry rice and a few beers, recounting the days' struggles and scenery, sharing exhaustion and the satisfaction of finishing another days' ride

Third day, Sunday. Brutal day. As forecasted the day turned cold and heavy rain fell from 9am onward, to accompany the most grueling ride of the weekend. Within minutes we were soaked to the bone, commando-style bike shorts clinging and chafing with each pedal stroke, shoes filled like squishy buckets with cold, heavy water, squinting through rain-streaked sunglasses to see the gray road as passing trucks splashed us and wet grates threatened to introduce us to the pavement at 40 km/hr. After climbing innumerable switchbacks of a mountain and losing the rest of our body heat from the wet wind coasting down the opposite side, we stopped for lunch at a deliciously warm noodle shop. Poured the water out of our shoes, wrung out our socks, gloves and clothes, dried as much as we could with newspaper and sat our soggy butts down on additional newspaper sheets. All the while making quite the gaijin spectacle in the small-town shop

After refueling with a big bowl loaded with hot Champon (noodles, vegetables and tons of pork and seafood), donned our damp gear and got back out in the rain. Shortly it became clear that the ladies of our party were done riding for the day, so Joe (our leader) led the group to a nearby onsen where they could warm up and relax, while the five guys pushed on to finish the last leg of the journey. Of these five I was far and away the slowest, and soon fell behind as we climbed in our lowest gear up a constant grade 8 road winding up a forest ridge. This hill made yesterday's climbs look almost cute. Trying to catch up with the other four superhumans, I kept pedaling up the path until my legs quit about three quarters of the way up and I sort of fell over. Drank some water, threw back a pack of fruit snacks, and got back on, feeling a slightly worrisome sharp pain in my right knee. Just as I got going a white k-truck coming the other way stopped and an old lady got out, handing me two hard candies shaped like cartoon feet. Maybe it was karma from helping clear that tree out of the road for a similar lady so many months ago. The candies tasted like some curious mixture of ginger and brown tea and filled me with magical energy, and I strained onward.

It was near the top (though I didn't yet know it because of the tree cover) when I started talking to myself, mixtures of muttered cursings and self-encouragement, with a few snatches of old soul songs ("Ooh Lord, I've traveled so far...") thrown in. Then suddenly I turned a corner and the road disappeared over a crest, no longer rising. The feeling was probably comparable to finally reaching heaven after an eternity spent in limbo rolling a boulder up an endless hill. This epic quest within my mind was a fun little race up a hill to the other four, of course. Nick and Guy were in the distance riding back to check on me, and the three of us went back to Joe's house, got changed into warm, ridiculous clothes (tiny pink shorts and a suave white button-up for me, a spandex wrestlers' uniform for Guy, and a flannel coat with surfing shorts for Nick). After wiping the grit and mud off the bikes, the three of us headed toward the nearby thatch-roofed onsen and lowered ourselves tenderly into the healing waters, turning curious Japanese patrons' heads with sharp gasps of pain and unabashed moans of pleasure.

Thank you to the friends and family who supported the trip! It was incredibly challenging and equally rewarding, but I can't wait to get in better shape and go on more of these tours. Joe leads similar trips around Kyushu for a living these days, so he's a good man to know. And some of the kids looked at me like a lesser Lance Armstrong when I told them my tale at lunch on Monday, though most just made fun of the fact that I couldn't really walk straight for a few days.

"I just want to create something meaningful."

We can work with our hands, shaping metal or picking dead leaves off a growing plant. Operate heavy machinery, pour cement into a foundation, wash and peel potatoes, put new steel strings on a used guitar or scrape muck out of gutters.


We can write words that trigger sympathetic reactions in diverse minds, channel a melody that swims through the air and into a million tiny bones in a million different ear canals, reverberating tiny membranes and resonating through hearts and bodies, make beats that bob heads and tap toes. Capture wildlife in watercolors or generate timeless children's folktales.


We can coordinate a public university's internet network, develop and edit underground films, analyze the mechanics of plane engines, teach kids a foreign language, preside over elementary schools, administrate a medical research lab, or tirelessly study law in the joint pursuits of making money and promoting justice.


We can come late to work, cheat on tests, cheat on spouses, take drugs, lie to parents, manipulate friends, steal until we get caught. We can feel purposeless, scrape our chins through the grit of depression, doubt our relationships and withdraw, brooding behind walls and sliding doors. Alone in the dark, we can question our own worth.


We can see from a new perspective. We can regard a good choice in retrospect with complete satisfaction. Lay for hours under a flowering tree reading for pleasure in the spring sun. Draw warmth and comfort from one good friendship. We can forgive ourselves, even for the big things. As long as we don't repeat those mistakes. We can accept what changes as time passes. We can practice the cello, push our limits on marathon bike trips, focus on a new project and see it through. Handwrite a letter to an old friend, send a text message to a new friend, roll the dice and pursue a romantic spark to see where it might lead.


I want to challenge myself, feel content with the results. I want to be consistently honest, achieve a balance of personality where I know who I am and don't struggle to reveal a cohesive self to strangers or friends. I want to earn people's trust and mislead no one. I want to show friends and family how much I care about the abstract things they think about and what they choose to do on a daily basis. I want to create a satisfying lifestyle for myself while helping with all the smaller and greater things connected to me.


I want to look back when it's all said and done and feel like I've created something meaningful. That's about as much as I can ask for, really.

Reassembled in Japan

This is my entry for the 2009 JET essay competition. It's okay, I guess.

Starting something from nothing ain't easy. Just writing the first sentence of an essay others will read is surprisingly daunting, like being thrust into a room full of strangers and told to introduce myself in six short words. As nerve-racking as performing a strict and unfamiliar martial arts routine alone in front of a stone-still hall of black-belted masters. As onerous as attempting to control, lead, and teach a classroom of rebellious adolescents without any formal experience behind me. As formidable as the prospect of starting a new life in an alien country and living alone, cooking and cleaning and caring for myself, paying bills covered in indecipherable pictographs, ultimately relying on myself for survival.

Of course when I take a deep breath and get started, things only get easier from there. Obstacles and anxieties fade, replaced by experience and confidence. Eventually I realize how much stronger I've become, how glad I am to have made that choice to throw myself into the unknown, into an entirely new world; to have strapped myself into a catapult set to launch over the horizon, far past my line of sight with only a vague idea where I might land. That's what it's been like coming to Japan.

Throughout life my surroundings have tended to change frequently. I moved a lot growing up, from house to house, apartment to condo, condo to college. The last four years I changed rooms every semester out of habit more than necessity. When the reality of life after Whitman College reared its head, offering a seat in the same cubicle with no window view for an indeterminate number of future hours, I decided to apply to the JET program instead. Completely new surroundings, new people, new food, new culture. A wonderful prospect. A certain hunger for the unfamiliar flows deeply through me and (I believe) the rest of the JET community. Something impelled us to move across the world, after all.

My expectations were admittedly high coming in. An older friend from Whitman working near Shizuoka would enthusiastically relate stories about the kindness and generosity of the Japanese people, how the rich culture and well-balanced society was evident throughout the country. It was clear the JET program offered an incredibly wide variety of opportunities to experience a new reality. I expected things to be different, of course. But I failed to guess how much seven months in Japan would change me after twenty-two years in America.

Japan is renowned for its ability to import rough, unfinished materials from abroad and meticulously combine them with other elements, replacing the superfluous with the practical. The result is a compound product whose functionality and overall value to society is greater than the sum of its original parts. It's how a small island nation with few natural resources developed into the world's second largest economy. A year ago I marveled at the 'economic miracle' of Japanese growth from behind textbooks and lecture notes. Now I'm physically becoming a part of that process- I'm being reassembled in Japan. My body and mind are composed of the same raw stuff, and yet I am constantly being reformed into a new, more productive, more punctual, more thoughtful member of society as I make efforts to adapt to this environment.

The best advice I got before coming here (from a Tarot-card reader at my college's annual medieval fair), was to "keep an open mind" toward the multitude of new experiences headed my way. Simple advice, humorously received and cynically disregarded. Simple advice that has since become a personal mantra. On the very first evening in my home town of Ueki (なつかしい / it takes me back), my supervisor took me to the renowned local Izakaya restaurant I would come to know and love after a dozen more えんかい parties. It took an open mind to try the Kumamoto prefectural specialty- ばさし, or raw horse meat. It was crazy delicious.

It took an open mind to rationalize why everything is written in the complex 3,000+ character set of kanji, when two other syllabaries capable of depicting any word or phrase already exist. Now, as I continue to study, the ubiquitous literary puzzles around me slowly unravel and reveal unique forms of expression. The kanji themselves become strikingly beautiful works of art, rich in meaning and steeped in cultural significance.

It took an open mind, when autumn faded to winter, to accept that despite Japan's status as a world leader in both standard of living and per-capita GDP, my apartment had no insulation and my schools weren't heated. I was going to have to steel myself and spend the next few months wearing sweaters and long underwear beneath my slacks and dress shirts, while my fingers grew accustomed to operating without the sense of touch. Now I appreciate how this practice engenders a basic hardiness and respect for nature in all of those forced to endure it, as well as the sheer amount of energy a cold building saves over the long course of a winter. At night I learned to sleep with a hot water bottle clutched to my chest and another between my feet, like a cold-blooded lizard warming its bones on rocks still warm from the day's heat. It's all about adaptation.

The JET program challenges us, essentially forces us to fit into a foreign environment. The key to the program's success is that it also provides us with relative freedom and opportunities to explore our surroundings, to expand our abilities and lifestyles in a brand-new context. Every time we encounter one new person, two introductions are made. Two exchanges are invested in, and two social bridges are better paved for future interactions. A lucrative potential for cultural profit exists in that formula. So in the enduring spirit of maintaining an open mind, I resolved to get out there and try something new, to fulfill an enduring dream. I decided to start training in a martial art. One hot September day, as we sat fanning ourselves at our desks, I asked my ALT sempai if there were any options in the immediate area. “You want to study karate in Japan, huh?” He smiled knowingly, made a few phone calls, and then led me to Kimura dojo.

I still remember my first meeting with Kimura Sensei. The quiet strength and dignity with which he carried himself, the way his presence effortlessly dominated the room. His wife Keiko, whom I now fondly call Oba-chan (Auntie), poured us tea as we discussed a training schedule. Monday and Wednesday evenings starting the following day, and Sensei refused to accept more than 2,000 yen each month. I consume at least that much in tea, coffee, and snacks in a four-week period. With my ALT sempai generously translating, Sensei proceeded to explain that we would be studying traditional Okinawan karate, not modernized tournament-style karate. His teachings would be deeply infused with Japanese-Buddhist philosophy, progressing strictly and slowly. Requiring patience and sustained effort from both master and pupil. I honestly didn't know if I was up to the task. Taking a deep breath, I agreed to give it a shot.

Six months later I still don a white belt every Monday and Wednesday night. I'm only just beginning to verbally communicate with Sensei in basic Japanese, and any one of the three children studying at the dojo could easily whip me blindfolded with both hands tied behind their back. Probably with a swift kick to the crotch- I've seen them demonstrate the technique. But I have learned more about discipline, respect, patience, and the true nature of strength and power from karate than I could have imagined in my pre-pubescent dreams of street fighting and kung-fu movies. Thanks, of course, to my teacher.

A proud warmth extends from Kimura Sensei's eyes if I correctly demonstrate a difficult kata or employ a new Japanese phrase after training. Meanwhile, the stern and intimidating master always observes me from beneath that white crown of hair and those thick, expressive black eyebrows. When that master instructs me to place my shoes neatly pointing toward the door in proper Japanese-style; to remove my coat and fold it with precision in the corner; to keep my hands by my side unconditionally when bowing; to continue pushing my body until my limbs no longer cooperate; when that master gives me a command, I have no choice but to listen and obey.

Outwardly, Japan can be a rigid and formal society. But the hard exterior hides a core glowing with warmth and vitality. Warmth which emanates from Kimura Sensei and Oba-chan as we chat around the kotatsu table after training, vitality which they have imbued in their son Nari. Nari is one of the four black belts still practicing at Kimura dojo, who presides as Sempai over our recent Sunday morning trainings and is becoming a good friend of mine. He spent eighteen months studying karate in Canada and has been yearning to speak English since returning home, helping generate the kind of mutually beneficial relationship common between JETs and Japanese friends. 'Mutual' being the operative word. The people who selflessly help us are often people we help in return. Through reciprocated generosity in the future, by providing an opportunity to learn something new, or from generating the simple satisfaction of guiding a lost stranger. The more we give each other the more we weave ourselves together, and into the greater social fabric that constitutes our environment.

Strange as it may seem, I have yet to feel a deep sense of homesickness since coming to Japan. I miss my parents, my brother, my best friends. I miss them deeply and consistently. But more than a desire to hurry and get back to them in the States, I'd rather try to help them climb into their own catapult. Fly across the ocean and be introduced to this world. Mid-winter nabe parties, mid-summer fireworks festivals, late autumn こうよう viewing (when the trees burst into brilliant red and orange), the legendary glory of cherry blossom season. I want to hand my Mom the giant mikans (Japanese oranges) Oba-chan makes me take home if I'm catching a cold, show my Dad how I set up my apartment to make it my own, describe to friends what it's been like to gradually feel welcome in a society where I began as an outsider. Such things make Japan, and my little town of Ueki, comfortable and familiar.

Summer, fall, and winter have now passed, and my process of cultural adaption is developing into cultural evolution. Actions now complement reactions. I find myself contributing to the small world around me, endlessly sharing stories and games with the local えいかいわ (adult conversation class), or organizing community Easter egg hunts and Fourth of July celebrations. Creating sports-themed English lessons capable of engaging teenage students. Finally, I am beginning to fulfill my role as a member of society by giving back. Finally, I’ve settled in a place where I’m thinking about how much I can change, not how soon I can move on. Finally, Japan is starting to feel like home.

a day in the life

if you happened to read the "day in the sei" tale of yesteryear, this is more or less what that scene looked like, now etched on paper as it has been indelibly etched in my memory.

p.s. a big thank you to the two lovely ladies of Kumamoto who created the magazine that motivated this sketch.

workplace dynamics

Beyond the occasional poop-related anecdote I haven't written much about my actual job here yet, and today is a good day to start. It's been a special day.

To begin with I shaved my head on Saturday, which startled some people when I came in this morning. I did the same thing shortly after coming here seven months ago, but since then I think the kids and my coworkers have grown accustomed to a reasonable amount of hair covering my dome. Frank appraisals of physical appearance are surprisingly common and acceptable in Japan, and the reactions have varied. They have included a girl screaming in terror and dropping her books when I came around a corner, a vague comment about the visibility of my skull shape from a teacher who never said a word to me before today, and random combinations of outright mocking and shouted compliments from the students. “Bald man! Beckham! Britney Spears!” At least 'bald' is pretty high level English vocabularly, I was impressed.

The change has also inspired some new camaraderie in a few of my students sporting the same “ぼうず”(Buddhist monk) style, netting me some more conversation and an extra milk at lunch today. Every day at lunchtime a small ritual takes place- two students will enter the teacher's room and formally ask me to accompany them back to their classroom, an offer I have yet to refuse, then take my lunch tray and walk by my side through the school as I ask them about their weekend. Then I sit down among them, ostensibly to converse in English. Since this is usually impossible, we instead talk in extremely basic Japanese, about my height or relationship status, my pick for the most handsome boy and girl in the class, or which Smash Brothers character is our favorite (we both liked Captain Falcon).

Anyway, today is also special because it's the last day of official classes for the year. The third years will all graduate next Monday, several teachers will rotate to other schools, and we'll get a whole new third of the student body fresh out of elementary in a couple weeks. I was pleasantly surprised with two goodbye notes today, one collectively from a third year class and another one from a student who I helped prepare for the English recitation contest last fall. It makes all the blood sweat and tears I've poured out to these children worthwhile.

The final reason today stands out is that I realized my responsibilities as a teacher are gradually expanding. Reading words and sentences aloud and walking around correcting written assignments with a red pen are still the bread and butter of my job, but a few teachers are starting to ask for more. Japan is captivated by Barack Obama and his speeches, and many of my teachers are extremely interested in the history of civil rights in America. While often wary of foreigners, Japan has remained a homogeneous society for thousands of years and can't really relate to the concept of discrimination (though some might disagree). So in the last few weeks I've given a handful of Powerpoint presentations outlining the work and significance of MLK, Rosa Parks, Kennedy and Obama, and read King's “I Have a Dream” speech and Obama's “Yes We Can” victory speech many, many times. To try and engage the students I've taken to doing over-the-top dramatic readings of most everything, and I'm sure at least a few second years had their teenage hearts moved and souls stirred by King's powerful words as I raised my hands gloriously to the sky proclaiming a dream and made sweeping gestures to illustrate the red hills of Georgia where everyone will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

The topics vary. Last week at Goryou J.H. a teacher asked me to make a presentation on anything I thought might be interesting, and after soliciting some student input I taught them all about sports in America. It's not a bad job that leads you to reviewing sports highlights on Youtube well into the early morning hours on a Thursday night. And damned if they didn't finally listen. The nice thing about rotating between three different Junior Highs using the same textbook and a nearly identical teaching system is that everything has the potential to do triple duty, so tomorrow I'll be giving the same presentation, projecting Michael Jordan flying from the free throw line in '93 and Babe Ruth's legendary 60th home run set to "Final Countdown" and "We are the Champions" on the pull-down classroom screens at Kanan Junior High.

Beyond that kind of stuff, the time I spend outside the classroom is usually occupied by studying kanji and Japanese vocab at my desk in the teachers' lounge, and more rarely by correcting a recent quiz or typing out the bones of a blog entry.

In short, I'm really starting to enjoy the relative day to day diversity of teaching along with the room it provides for creativity and initiative, and things only get better as I gradually get to know my students and coworkers better. Being able to talk to them helps speed up the process, as do little things like playing basketball or music with the kids during lunch breaks and participating in teachers' soccer tournaments. Only music and sports can transcend otherwise insurmountable language and cultural barriers. And every day presents enough unique challenges to keep life interesting, like being given 30 seconds at the end of class to explain in the most basic possible English the progression from Martin Luther King's work in the fifties to Obama's presidency today, and what all this means in the hearts of the American people. I can't even remember what spilled out of my mouth, but I remember the teacher writing “Change” several times on the board so I think that was the theme I went with.

So, while I'm not planning on pursuing a lifelong career in middle-school education or anything like that, I'm having a good time with it right now.

wise words from the sea

(on the risks of extreme water skiing)

"I feel you can buy more skis, but... you can't buy more people"

-surfer guy on "Step Into Liquid" (recommended)

running with ghosts

The two clocks in my apartment steadily tick and talk away increments of time, debating the finer points in low, measured voices, but ultimately agreeing on a singular truth. As I listen the dialogue crescendos and fades, the cadence shifts ever so slightly then pauses to emphasize a point, but I know that's just my own second-to-second take on reality.

Strange how that small tock can become deafening in a silent room when you lie in bed. I used to have to take the battery out of my clock at night in high school to fall asleep. Though I never really wanted to fall asleep yet anyway.

Why- why am I so deeply, so fiercely in love with this time of night? The early a.m. hours draw a serene veil of dark, electric mystery/possibility over the slumbering earth, all of its appointments suspended, its anxieties forgotten. This is a time for creativity, a time for solitude and introspection, a time to step outside and run with ghosts. Only a few other living souls roam about- though you seldom see a face you'll hear them driving down the highway, engaged in secret agendas, destinations unknown.

Mind ablaze you set out alone to jog through the still suburban backstreets, down the deserted bike paths and into the inky bamboo forest that exists for only a few unobserved hours each day. Focusing on the rhythm of your breath, suddenly a twig snaps loudly in the darkness to your left and squeezes a trigger deep in your brainstem, surging an involuntary shotgun blast of adrenaline through your blood that simultaneously shuts down the capacity for abstract thought and inverts all your instincts to Prey like the broad edge of a finger flipping off a row of light switches. Other nocturnal animals greet your newly sharpened senses; hidden jungle creatures that holler challenges from the treetops as you pass; dogs hoarsely asserting their respective jurisdictions in the distance; roosters who cry a siren's herald for the imminent dawn.

Through swirling clouds of breath I glimpsed a small Buddhist graveyard crowning a hill to the left, nestled against the crouching skeleton of an empty greenhouse. So I climbed up to sit among the polished marble and granite monuments, crafted with the harsh elegance of simple geometric figures, all angles and planes carved from smooth stone that gleams with a modest, understated luster in the faint moonlight, providing sanctuary for the spirits and earthly remains produced by generations of the same bloodline.

And I found a spot that felt right and sat there for a long time- clearing my head, listening to the wind combing the ricefields and the distant roar of the superhighway, jarred by the rooster crowing again and again- thinking about graves and my future and the last time I watched the sun rise, considering what it would feel like to become a ghost.

the noontime blogger

this is a quote from noon, made during a discussion between three friends shooting a movie, regarding two of them swapping their proposed characters.

Ken: "Yeah, it might work well that way-"
Holly: "Right! I just... I just think Taylor's a little more, you know, terrifying."
Ken: [nodding] "Probably, yeah."
Taylor: "Oh!.. I just thought Ken would make a better hermit living in the mountains, because of the beard, and the Karate, but all right..."

maybe he didn't realize how happy it made me to hear that.