Freaks and Ghouls
First 'proper' interview today. Slightly nervous, couldn't sleep and typically disorganised. I printed a shoddy resume just before I had to dash for the station, swept up my passport sized photo (meant to have two) and my alien registration card (or letter promising I would have one). A boring train ride (wonder gone to boredom very quickly) resulted in me wandering through the frenetic splendor of Yodoyobashi station, bumping into terse Japanese, looking for my connecting subway. No matter how much of an inconvienience you make yourself, no one grunts or says anything. It's quite amusing, really. Anyway, I arrived to discover it was a group interview, information previously kept secret, and that my fellow group members a) had better suits, b) had better ties, c) had more impressive resumes, and crushingly, d) all had those wanky business document holders that zip and unzip impressively. This contrasted with my subway-crumpled inferior resume, single photo and passport, all kept in my trusty pocketses. Oh fuck, quoth I (mentally). Tis harder to get a job than anticipated. What happened to the rivers of English teaching gold I was promised? But then the interviewer arrived and set my mind at rest. He was tall, American and marginally competent, with a temper to match. Better, he had a ponytail. Never trust a man over the age of 10 with a ponytail. Still less a redhead. (God, Japan is turning me into a bitch. But seriously, these people deserve to be scathed, anonymously and wimpishly from this blog. It'll teach them Important Lessons). He made an instantly forgettable quip and made us fill out forms. I peeked at the hard-facd, winner type to my left. Fuck, again. His language competencies were high. His resume, impressive. His tie, loud and abrasive. How on earth would I compete? Ponyboy returned after photocopying our documents (I balanced my single photo near the edge of the folder, hoping to make it look like the other one had fallen out). It appeared that the group interview consisted of filling out the forms and watching him talk about the company for about a minute. He did say one interesting thing - a ten thousand yen 'administration fee' was required, and after the contract was signed, the company would pay us fifty thousand in return, for unspecified services. All of our shitmeters poinked simultaneously. Any questions, wondered Ponyboy, before I allocate individual interviews? We shook our heads, groupthink style. I had two hours before my interview, as did most of the others, so we headed to a cafe and drank expensive coffee and sized each other up for the first minute, before their appearances of professionalism collapsed in a heap. "I really need this job", confesses one Canadian guy with sharp glasses. "I don't have much money left. Japan is too expensive." Others agreed. Loud and abrasive tie man took charge and conducted the conversation. As the longest resident (6 months) he decided to confer some wisdom, telling us not to settle for bad jobs (like this one) or jobs with 'administration' fees. A small uproar started, and we found that none of us trusted Ponyboy with any kind of fee. But then a note of rueful poverty crept back in. Another Canadian left for his interview and returned, shaking his head. "Most informal interview I've been in." Abrasive Tie turned the conversation to martial arts, and bragged. Canadian Two counterbragged, and soon it was my turn for the one on one with Ponyboy. He showed me to a seat, and flicked casually through my folder. "Only one photo, Doug?" My heart sank. Damn. "Sorry." "No matter," he beamed, and flicked faster between the two pages. "University of Melbourne, eh?". Yes. "Did you know Katie W, by any chance? Half Japanese, doing chemistry?" Er, no. Why? He looked a little sheepish. "Oh, my ex-girlfriend. She broke my heart." Conversation moved to more conventional matters. He kept saying Excellent! Excellent! about things which weren't particularly excellent. The shitmeter poinked again. Then back, with no apparent link, to Katie W. "How about Susie F? Did you know her? Biochem?" No. Why? "She was one of Katie's friends." I give up any pretence that this is a normal interview and pursue it - she got to you, hey, I ask. He looks down for a fraction of a second, then up, a broad grin, a confiding grin. "Sure did. God - when was it, 1999, 2000. Geez, I'm married with a kid now. You'd think I'd be over it." He shakes his head. "I guess I'm messed up, hey?" I don't dare a reply. The interview meanders on, across which sports I follow, to what counselling is like, to what school I went to, to how broad my brother's shoulders are. Eventually, our mutual whiteness runs out of puff and he ends quickly, a rush of words. Tuesday, nine am, for training? I can't make it, citing other job interviews. His eyebrows rise. Who? Erm, Interac and Berlitz, I say. "Oh, Evilac." He grimaces. "Why would you want to go there?" His ponytail flicks greasily and the interview ends. Weird, weird, weird. Freaks and ghouls, say I.
Oh - the work could very well include daycare of kiddies, daycare of the hands on, wiping kids asses and noses variety. Unglamorous, but it's money. If it happens, I'll lie about it here, believe me.
----
The Canadian contingent warned me of ass pinching on crowded subways. This hasn't happened to me yet. Evidently, I'm not worth groping, which means I'm not attractive to either sex here. Fuck. Maybe I haven't given it enough time.
------
Watching MTV, I realised that one of the reasons punk and rock bands dress bizarrely and let their hair shag out wildly is effectively telling the world that they've made it, because they're completely unemployable by any other industry.
------
Japanese television is so startlingly bizarre that I can't begin to describe it. I spent a satisfying Saturday night channel surfing from WWE wrestling, Japan style, with little bird and clown masks, to card trick shows, to tsunami mockups, to Korean melodramas. The anime channel features shows like 'Buzzer Beaters', which employs every trick in the cartoonist's book to stylise basketball games. The players move in that vertical-line kinda way, the dunks are improbable, and the storylines usually involve at least ten solid minutes (total) of male faces straining to control themselves, demonstrated by tiny bursts of sweat. There's also a delightful homoerotic, genderbending high school drama - at least, that's what I think it is about - and a kids cartoon channel that features cutesy bears performing enemas on each other. It is an infallible cure for depression. Usually, television makes it worse, but not here.
First 'proper' interview today. Slightly nervous, couldn't sleep and typically disorganised. I printed a shoddy resume just before I had to dash for the station, swept up my passport sized photo (meant to have two) and my alien registration card (or letter promising I would have one). A boring train ride (wonder gone to boredom very quickly) resulted in me wandering through the frenetic splendor of Yodoyobashi station, bumping into terse Japanese, looking for my connecting subway. No matter how much of an inconvienience you make yourself, no one grunts or says anything. It's quite amusing, really. Anyway, I arrived to discover it was a group interview, information previously kept secret, and that my fellow group members a) had better suits, b) had better ties, c) had more impressive resumes, and crushingly, d) all had those wanky business document holders that zip and unzip impressively. This contrasted with my subway-crumpled inferior resume, single photo and passport, all kept in my trusty pocketses. Oh fuck, quoth I (mentally). Tis harder to get a job than anticipated. What happened to the rivers of English teaching gold I was promised? But then the interviewer arrived and set my mind at rest. He was tall, American and marginally competent, with a temper to match. Better, he had a ponytail. Never trust a man over the age of 10 with a ponytail. Still less a redhead. (God, Japan is turning me into a bitch. But seriously, these people deserve to be scathed, anonymously and wimpishly from this blog. It'll teach them Important Lessons). He made an instantly forgettable quip and made us fill out forms. I peeked at the hard-facd, winner type to my left. Fuck, again. His language competencies were high. His resume, impressive. His tie, loud and abrasive. How on earth would I compete? Ponyboy returned after photocopying our documents (I balanced my single photo near the edge of the folder, hoping to make it look like the other one had fallen out). It appeared that the group interview consisted of filling out the forms and watching him talk about the company for about a minute. He did say one interesting thing - a ten thousand yen 'administration fee' was required, and after the contract was signed, the company would pay us fifty thousand in return, for unspecified services. All of our shitmeters poinked simultaneously. Any questions, wondered Ponyboy, before I allocate individual interviews? We shook our heads, groupthink style. I had two hours before my interview, as did most of the others, so we headed to a cafe and drank expensive coffee and sized each other up for the first minute, before their appearances of professionalism collapsed in a heap. "I really need this job", confesses one Canadian guy with sharp glasses. "I don't have much money left. Japan is too expensive." Others agreed. Loud and abrasive tie man took charge and conducted the conversation. As the longest resident (6 months) he decided to confer some wisdom, telling us not to settle for bad jobs (like this one) or jobs with 'administration' fees. A small uproar started, and we found that none of us trusted Ponyboy with any kind of fee. But then a note of rueful poverty crept back in. Another Canadian left for his interview and returned, shaking his head. "Most informal interview I've been in." Abrasive Tie turned the conversation to martial arts, and bragged. Canadian Two counterbragged, and soon it was my turn for the one on one with Ponyboy. He showed me to a seat, and flicked casually through my folder. "Only one photo, Doug?" My heart sank. Damn. "Sorry." "No matter," he beamed, and flicked faster between the two pages. "University of Melbourne, eh?". Yes. "Did you know Katie W, by any chance? Half Japanese, doing chemistry?" Er, no. Why? He looked a little sheepish. "Oh, my ex-girlfriend. She broke my heart." Conversation moved to more conventional matters. He kept saying Excellent! Excellent! about things which weren't particularly excellent. The shitmeter poinked again. Then back, with no apparent link, to Katie W. "How about Susie F? Did you know her? Biochem?" No. Why? "She was one of Katie's friends." I give up any pretence that this is a normal interview and pursue it - she got to you, hey, I ask. He looks down for a fraction of a second, then up, a broad grin, a confiding grin. "Sure did. God - when was it, 1999, 2000. Geez, I'm married with a kid now. You'd think I'd be over it." He shakes his head. "I guess I'm messed up, hey?" I don't dare a reply. The interview meanders on, across which sports I follow, to what counselling is like, to what school I went to, to how broad my brother's shoulders are. Eventually, our mutual whiteness runs out of puff and he ends quickly, a rush of words. Tuesday, nine am, for training? I can't make it, citing other job interviews. His eyebrows rise. Who? Erm, Interac and Berlitz, I say. "Oh, Evilac." He grimaces. "Why would you want to go there?" His ponytail flicks greasily and the interview ends. Weird, weird, weird. Freaks and ghouls, say I.
Oh - the work could very well include daycare of kiddies, daycare of the hands on, wiping kids asses and noses variety. Unglamorous, but it's money. If it happens, I'll lie about it here, believe me.
----
The Canadian contingent warned me of ass pinching on crowded subways. This hasn't happened to me yet. Evidently, I'm not worth groping, which means I'm not attractive to either sex here. Fuck. Maybe I haven't given it enough time.
------
Watching MTV, I realised that one of the reasons punk and rock bands dress bizarrely and let their hair shag out wildly is effectively telling the world that they've made it, because they're completely unemployable by any other industry.
------
Japanese television is so startlingly bizarre that I can't begin to describe it. I spent a satisfying Saturday night channel surfing from WWE wrestling, Japan style, with little bird and clown masks, to card trick shows, to tsunami mockups, to Korean melodramas. The anime channel features shows like 'Buzzer Beaters', which employs every trick in the cartoonist's book to stylise basketball games. The players move in that vertical-line kinda way, the dunks are improbable, and the storylines usually involve at least ten solid minutes (total) of male faces straining to control themselves, demonstrated by tiny bursts of sweat. There's also a delightful homoerotic, genderbending high school drama - at least, that's what I think it is about - and a kids cartoon channel that features cutesy bears performing enemas on each other. It is an infallible cure for depression. Usually, television makes it worse, but not here.
posted by Doug @ 2/28/2005 09:12:00 pm
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