“The customer can watch the making and baking. That is very attractive,” says Koji Tsuda, general manager in the international division of Muginoho Co., Ltd., the Osaka-based restaurant company that created the Beard Papa brand. A feeling that the puffs are being made “just for you,” the customer, as opposed to any faceless person is the intention, he emphasizes.

The brand’s policy is to ensure high quality ingredients are served at the peak of freshness. Even though the staff are Japanese, the company is not about is not pushing its origin. Rather, it’s entirely about pushing cream puffs, and since its opening in March, Beard Papa’s new shop in New York has had tens of thousands of cream puffs exit its doors as a part of the latest New York food fad.

The cream puffs are unique in composition. The shell is double-layered, including an outer piecrust and an inner choux pastry. Custard, made from handpicked vanilla beans, is mixed with whipped cream to form the filling. A dash of powdered sugar tops it off.

“The concept is high quality at a low price,” beams public relations representative Eiko Takada of the $1.25 price and Beard Papa’s insistence on using only natural ingredients.

Ensuring high quality at all times is vital yet not simple. For example, even though the price of vanilla beans, which Beard Papa culls from Madagascar, has quintupled in the past five years, Beard Papa has refused to make compromises. Competitors, however, apparently do. “Some competitors use the less expensive outer skin of the vanilla bean - instead of the inside - to impart vanilla smell,” scoffs Tsuda of these misleading tactics. “The taste is totally different.”

Shell quality posed a problem in the early days. “We wasted so many shells; they kept collapsing,” says Tsuda, cupping his hands together in the shape of a sphere and then simulating an implosion. Not wanting to add artificial ingredients for shell support, slight modifications to oven temperature and the dough’s water content were made to result in the rivuleted and round pastries of today.

This concept is different from many of the Japanese pastry business models, which often utilize a brand name to justify a price much higher than that of Beard Papa’s. Sweets Forest, a pastry park in Tokyo’s Jiyugaoka district, has twelve famous pastry shops from all around Japan, many of which offer their wares at four times that of Beard Papa.

Positioning stores near areas of high foot traffic, like train stations, is seen as highly desirable in attracting office workers and people out shopping, according to Muginoho’s 2003 Outline and Strategy report. Tsuda says that for the New York store 5,000 puffs on average were sold each day during March and April - sales figures which roughly coincide with Beard Papa’s very popular store outside Tokyo’s Shibuya Station.

Beard Papa’s scruffy, fatherly logo, complete with watchman’s cap and pipe, acts as a greeter, silently encouraging customers strolling past the shops to pay a visit. “The cap, pipe, and whiskers are supposed to remind one of Santa Claus,” relates Tsuda. “He is loved by everybody. We want our stores to be loved in the same way.”

Competition from new and unique sweet creations, such as Krispy Kreme’s dense donuts, does not worry Tsuda, nor does being a flash-in-the-pan. “These new items are new and not usual,” he explains. “But cream puffs have existed for a long history. It is not going to fade out. We want New Yorkers to know that we have the best taste. After they know that, then we are going to bring a new menu.”

That menu will include some mango desserts later this month. Other items, not even included on the Japanese menu, are also being considered for later this year.

Since the opening of its first store five years ago, expansion has been swift. By the time Beard Papa opens its first shop on the West Coast in August or September - as Tsuda expects - the total in existence will number around 300, an admirable amount considering only 170 existed in 2002.

Expanding into the American market at a time when the average American’s waist is expanding is not a deterrent for Beard Papa.

Tsuda, who boasts having eaten five puffs during his first Beard Papa experience, samples at least one puff per day. His job requires him to travel to various stores around Japan and the rest of Asia as a means of quality control. “But look,” he exclaims, reaching under his coat and patting both sides of his stomach, “I am still slim.”

Note: This article originally appeared in June 2004 on the Sake-Drenched Postcards Web page.

Flashbulbs popped and cameras rolled for Muneo Suzuki’s speech entitled “Ethics In The Japanese Political World” on April 1st at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club of Japan.

“I actually thought that I was being set up for a joke,” said the Diet member from Hokkaido of the fact that he asked his secretary to confirm that he was indeed invited to speak on April Fool’s Day. He didn’t mention the irony within the speech’s title.

Politics and ethics make for a sizeable contradiction in Japan, and former ruling Liberal Democratic Party member Muneo Suzuki ought to know. Once the ultimate symbol of greed within Japan’s political world, he is now set for a comeback. His speech was light on political morality, but it made two things clear: He has done nothing wrong and Japan hasn’t seen the last of the man with the eternal smile.

A summary of Muneo Suzuki’s last two years reads like a manual on political graft. In 2002, he was charged in two separate cases of taking bribes from lumber and construction companies in exchange for his influence in lucrative local contracts. As well, that same year top aides of his were arrested for participating in bid-rigging incidents for housing and power plant construction projects. Today he is on trial at the Tokyo District Court for the bribe charges.

Suzuki never confessed to any wrongdoing or apologized for his actions. That is because, according to him, he’s innocent. (He maintained that one sum of money he received was a congratulatory “gift” after an election and not a bribe.)

“I would like to make it very clear,” he said, “as a politician, I can declare unequivocally I have not done anything wrong. And because of this stance, I spent 437 days in detention.”

Suzuki was held while he was being investigated at the Tokyo Detention Center until it was determined by the Tokyo District Court that he would not be able tamper with any evidence in the cases against him. It was August of last year that he posted a 50 million yen bail and was released.

Detention is not for the weary, he said. He suffered physically and psychologically in his 6.6-square-meter confines of concrete-block walls and limited access to radio and newspapers.

During the second month of the investigation, the pain was the greatest. Seeing that he was suffering, the prosecutors began torturing him with, as he said, “the sweet whispering of the demon.” They wanted to weaken him further so they started to prod him: “Take off your diet Member pin, give up being a politician.” He lost 5 kilograms during the whole ordeal.

In spite of this experience, Suzuki was sharp. Not only was he smartly attired in a suit and blue tie, but he delivered his words at a rapid-fire pace, with dates, times and places all easily recollected. And rarely did he ever miss a chance to flash those white teeth between his cheek-to-cheek smile.

Through the support of his wife, who he said “saved” him, and the strength of his family ties, he fought the prosecutors. And all this in the face of ongoing rumors that “I was a full department store of suspicious activities, I was a full trading company of suspicious activities.”

To him, the reason for his arrest and detention was not clear. “During this time I felt that a great and powerful force was moving in this country around me,” he said. “It felt very strange.”

This “strange” feeling came about by the influence of the mass media and was bolstered by, Suzuki said, the prosecutor’s interest in Suzuki’s involvement in the bid-rigging of the diesel power plant project.

The project had been organized by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs through Japan’s Official Development Assistance program. Suzuki said he didn’t know why they wanted to implicate him. He did, however, provide a hint.

He described in great length a period when he was Deputy Chief Cabinet Secretary, relating an incident concerning a potential policy shift with regards to Japan’s treatment of Chechnya in 1999. As a patriot, Suzuki feared that if Japan recognized the Chechnya situation as an international human rights issue (as the then Obuchi cabinet was proposing) - instead of maintaining the domestic stance the previous Hashimoto cabinet had taken - then Japan might be subject to terrorism.

Did the Ministry of Foreign Affairs then have it in for Suzuki because of his opposition to this policy change? He didn’t say.

In mentioning this situation, and on nearly all issues, Suzuki was like a boxer, circling and waiting to land a blow, but refraining each time. He wanted to criticize Prime Minister Koizumi, whose cuts in public works projects have hurt the economy of Suzuki’s Hokkaido area greatly, but he said there wasn’t time.

A stomach cancer operation prevented him from running in the Lower House elections late last year. But after a portion of his stomach was removed, he completed a 10K marathon in Tokyo in March of this year.

Will Suzuki be able to show similar guts with his candidacy for the Upper House elections this summer?

“I am receiving a lot of warm messages from around the country, telling me not to give up and that I should announce my candidacy for the election,” the politician said. “I appreciate these words and when the time is right I will make a decision.”

Note: This article originally appeared in April 2004 on the Sake-Drenched Postcards Web page.

Often attired in well-worn black suits and sporting wavy dyed hair, these “scouts” repeatedly scan the oncoming crowd. Tokyo’s Shibuya district is the ultimate gathering point for young, fashionable females dressed for attention in remarkably short skirts and snug tops, and it is this demographic that comprises these scouts’ prime target.

If one spots a particular look or set of measurements that meets his company’s needs, he will quickly moves up beside and smoothly inquire as to whether she wants a part-time job. Should she stop, utter a peep, or acknowledge him in the slightest (all very rare occurrences), he will get down to brass tacks: “Do you like sex?”

The jobs he has are in the AV (adult video) industry. If she is interested, he will take her to his associate’s nearby office where her breast size, sexual preferences, and various other information will be recorded. As well, multiple photos of her stripped to her underwear will be snapped and eventually be shopped to AV media production companies.

“A photo ID card is always needed. Without that the photos cannot be taken,” explains Mr. A, a scout who wishes to remain anonymous, of the necessity that the girls not be minors.

Though employing girls under 18 in the porn industry was already illegal, a revision to a Tokyo Municipal Government ordinance now prohibits scouts from even soliciting such ladies in an effort intended to make Tokyo a safer place for young people. The measure has come as a result of less scrupulous practices by other recruitment companies. For scouts like Mr. A, this means that an already demanding job just got more difficult.

Mr. A says the area around Shibuya Station is patrolled by three types of scouts: fuzoku scouts recruit lively lovelies to work in establishments that provide sexual services; hostess and kabakura (cabaret) girls are sought by scouts catering to the mizushobai trade; and AV scouts, such as Mr. A, hire for blue movies, porn rags, Web sites, and cable television programs.

Standard scout strategy is simple. For one, girls in pairs are untouchable. And, he insists, “make sure to choose the ones who are cute. A baby face and big boobs are the keys for AV. The gorgeous women are more for mizushobai, but we’ll talk to them, too.”

On the street a scout’s honor is always certain. “You never try to trick her or soften the description of the work,” Mr. A says. “You are always talk straight after the opening. Competitors often try to trick girls by lying. They might say, ‘Do you want to be a celebrity on TV?’”

Patience is a virtue as well. “The time it takes depends on the girl,” Mr. A explains. “It is case-by-case. Sometimes we can get an answer in 10 minutes, sometimes several days. Others will agree in 5 minutes and change their mind 10 minutes later after talking to a friend. It is difficult to build trust.”

Girls who do indeed enlist generally make between 100,000 and 1 million yen per AV movie, with wages for the various other media opportunities being much less. But Mr. A warns that this range depends on a number of factors, such as, experience, the activities she is willing to perform, and whether she will allow her face to be shown.

AV scouts work on a commission basis that typically amounts to 15 to 20% of his girls’ revenue. Spring, when new students arrive in Tokyo to begin the school year, is seen as the best time for pulling prime talent.

Drawbacks to the profession, which Mr. A has been engaged in for eight years, include the occasional punch, odd scream, and the relentless rejection. “I get blue,” says the scout, who indicates that he is very lucky if he can secure three catches during a month of working Monday through Saturday. “I talk to some of the other guys in the same business for encouragement.”

Such commiseration may be fine during breaks, but working atop Shibuya’s muck-covered streets is like engaging in battle. Stiff competition, maintains Mr. A, demands that a scout possess effort, a samurai soul, guts, and a hungry spirit. “We are all enemies on the street,” he says of his fellow hounds. “The first guy in has the chance to talk to her. We have to fight for that first chance.”

Getting started is as easy as getting a mobile phone, the tool of communication with the girls and the scout’s contacts back at the office. Getting territory in which to tout is another issue entirely.

“For a freelancer, it is tough to get a prime spot,” Mr. A explains. “The areas around Shibuya, Shinjuku, and Ikebukuro are all maintained by yakuza. So it is better to belong to a scout company that has mob ties because they will take care of access.”

On evenings and weekends the steady streams of humanity can be daunting. After the girls disappear across the intersection and into Shibuya’s jungle of shoppers and traffic-snarled streets, the scouts turn in the opposite direction, hoping to catch any prospective prey crossing back to the station. When the crossing light changes to red, he pivots and moves toward the station exits to repeat the process. “It’s like the ocean, and you roll with the wave,” Mr. A says of his surveying cycle.

The revised Tokyo Metropolitan Government ordinance, which began on June 1, levies a maximum fine of 300,000 yen and three years’ imprisonment for the solicitation (knowingly or unknowingly) of minors for sex-related businesses. This is making fishing in this sultry sea a much more difficult proposition, with the obvious problem being that one can’t tell who is under 18 just by looking.

The need to verify ages during the pitch, as was Mr. A’s standard practice even before regulation took hold, has always been an issue for him. “It (the scouting) doesn’t run smoothly,” he complains, “it is tough in the first place because you are on a street corner talking about money and talking about being naked. Asking about age just complicates things.”

Still, nothing has changed in Shibuya since implementation of the law’s revision, Mr. A claims. “Shibuya is always the one place in Tokyo where the scout business is done in front of the police,” he says, referring the police box typically staffed by two officers and situated next to the station building.

Mr. A, however, has heard of some scouts in other areas, like Ikebukuro and Shinjuku, who have quit since the beginning of June. But he views such a retreat as more a reflection of the critical gaze society may now cast upon scouts, who before the law more easily melted into the backdrop of typical Tokyo train station cacophony, rather than any real police clampdown. “Even though the general content of the job hasn’t changed,” he says, “the eyes of the people have changed.”

As a result, the revision will likely cause a disruption in the market’s economics, as opposed to a halt in the recruiting of minors, Mr. A predicts. “The demand for girls is always there,” he says, “and we supply girls. If this law results in us not being able to do that, then the market will get driven underground with the demand and price of the girls, including minors, increasing.”

Note: This article originally appeared in June 2004 on the Sake-Drenched Postcards Web page.

Just before he advances the drawing stylus down to work on her lower half, the bespectacled 49-year old explains that most of his fans don’t like looking at simply a muscled woman. He then grins and taps the stylus once more. The screen regenerates with a large phallic protrusion from her crotch area. “So I like doing something different,” he says.

For decades in Japan, the detective, romance, sci-fi, and sports stories typically found in manga serials have simply been a means of enduring a long train commute or passing time on a lunch break. But today the twists and turns that take place in these surreal worlds are gaining a following overseas, a trend that makes Maeda very pleased.

Maeda’s work, whether it be a 20-page manga or an anime video, is classified in the genre known as hentai, or perverted. Though there is a certain level of perversion in many forms of manga, in hentai perversion is the point. Storylines are secondary, or, perhaps more realistically, tertiary.

Hentai content concerns sexual situations in nearly any grotesque or violent possibility imaginable. The average piece begins with the action being akin to standard AV movie fare and then slowly morphs into a smoky sea of mayhem featuring busty young girls being sucked, fondled, bound, and penetrated by any of a dozen various appendages emanating from an alien, samurai, schoolmate, or any other living creature that might happen into the scene.

Nearly two decades ago, Maeda’s landmark comic book series “Urotsuki Doji,” featuring the first modern use of the tentacle as a tool for female molestation - a point of great pride for Maeda - cemented his place in history as the contemporary pioneer of the craft. Sales for the series totaled over 2 million volumes.

The tentacle master’s opus was subsequently made into the anime feature “Urotsuki Doji: Legend of the Overfiend.” With this release in English, Maeda’s legend grew around the world. The Erotic Anime Movie Guide claims, “No other title apart from ‘Akira’ has been so influential in the English-language market.”

Mainstream forms are undergoing a similar trend. This month Shonen Jump launched an English version of its best-selling weekly Japanese manga in the U.S. Publisher Shueisha has joined Viz Communications, Inc. to deliver such popular ongoing series as “Yu-Gi-Oh!,” “Slam Dunk,” and “Dragon Ball Z” in a monthly volume for American readers, primarily teenage boys. Initial runs will number 250,000 copies - an unprecedented circulation for such a publication.

This comes fresh on the heels of such recently successful Japanese anime features as “Pokemon” (and its seemingly endless marketing in trading cards and action figures) and Hayao Miyazaki’s “Princess Mononoke.” The latter gained accolades from Hollywood with its unique animation being seen as a true innovation in filmmaking. This year Miyazaki’s “Spirited Away” took the coveted Golden Bear at the 52nd Berlin International Film Festival Award.

For Maeda, his international audience is much more select. The artist’s latest anime home video series “La Blue Girl,” where young female superheroes band together to fend off the continual advances of man and beast, appears in a half-dozen languages.

Even though some manga has been available in the U.S. for over 10 years, Maeda sees Shonen Jump’s arrival as a potential introduction of his work to a wider audience.

“I think it’s great,” the artist says of the move overseas by the mainstream publisher. “After the audience in the U.S. reads Shonen Jump-type of manga, when they grow up, they can read our style of manga, X-rated manga, or manga stories for adults.”

Should Shonen Jump be a success, the potential market could be huge. Roughly 3,000 manga artists in Japan put ink to paper to crank out nearly 50 weeklies, bi-weeklies, and monthlies. Of these, about 10 can claim a circulation of over one million for each issue. The total annual sales of 600 billion yen amount to one quarter of Japan’s entire book market.

The challenges, however, will likely be numerous. For one, the storylines are different. Standard American comics, like Batman, Spiderman, and Mighty Mouse, have a hero - it is good versus evil. Manga stories are more complex, and, aside from exaggerated scenes of fantasy, violence, and sex, tend to not be too dissimilar from everyday life. Many of the most popular comics are made into evening television dramas.

Capturing the imaginations of American readers will also be a difficulty for Shonen Jump, which generates a readership of 3.4 million each week in Japan. The cultural mindset in the U.S. dictates that comic books are for children. In Japan, there is a manga title for nearly every age group.

“It is letting off steam,” Maeda says of why adults can be found in nearly every public setting in Japan leafing through page after page of their favorite manga. “We read it as a regular book.”

The reason for this can be traced to the work of Tezuka Osamu and the environment in Japan immediately following the Occupation in the 1950s. At that time, there were very few televisions. Adults, as well as children, demanded to be entertained at a reasonable level of sophistication, and Osamu delivered with the adventures of the tremendously popular Mighty Atom.

Hentai’s roots date back much further. “The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife,” an Edo Period (1603-1867) ukiyo-e woodcut by Hokusai, shows a reclining and unclothed woman being wrapped and violated by octopus tentacles.

Though a motorbike accident a year and a half ago left him with a limited ability in his drawing hand to apply the proper pressure needed to draw with ink, Maeda can use his computer to create various characters and the script for his next anime feature, likely to be completed next year.

No matter what happens with Shonen Jump the content of Maeda’s work will not be compromised. The cutting edge will always be his drawing board. Like most artists, he believes his best work is ahead of him, and scoffs at any suggestion that “Urotsuki Doji” is his masterpiece.

In spite of requests from fans for samurai or ninja warriors to be included in his stories, Maeda says that his work will always focus on his concept of art. “Over the hill” is how he describes any artist who changes his style to meet the trends of the day.

“I have a priority to my taste,” Maeda explains. “I just want to do what I want to do. You must understand that Shonen Jump is only a seed. It is up to manga artists to cultivate it in our own way.”

That might mean a world that will one day find itself at the mercy of a tentacle embrace.

Note: This article originally appeared in November 2002 on the Sake-Drenched Postcards Web page.

Coming from a Christian background and having gone through many years of Bible training in the United States, Aaron knew that there are certain acts which are simply not acceptable in, as he says, “God’s house.” Wearing sunglasses and a hat are indeed two of them, and this applies to yakuza members the same as everyone else.

A standoff ensued. Aaron announced that he wouldn’t begin until everyone was appropriately attired. After a few awkward minutes, one gentleman in the front stood, removed his offending items, and the rest of the audience slowly followed.

“That was stupid of me,” recalls Aaron, 35, who estimates that he has presided over thousands of weddings in chapels, churches, and wedding halls over the past nine years. “That was naive as a young pastor. The Japanese don’t know - it’s not their culture. I don’t need a showdown of authority. Now I’m more mature - I just let it go.”

Adapting to cultural differences is indeed a key to success in the foreign wedding pastor business in Japan. And what a business it is. Though Christians represent only 1% of the population, Christian-style weddings have increased in recent years to comprise over 60% of all nuptials. Be it for reasons of mere fashion or an increasing desire on the part of women to rise above their diminished standing in traditional Shinto ceremonies, this translates into a huge demand for these 20-minute ceremonies.

Prior religious training for the role of wedding pastor is usually nil. After studying a ceremony script and observing a few real weddings, prospective pastors with reasonable Japanese skills can be trying on their robe inside of two weeks. Though the language of the ceremonies is usually Japanese, the nearly identical scripts - from the opening salvos to the singing of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” - are in romaji (roman letters) to allow for easier pronunciation.

Generally, these rent-a-pastors are white foreigners, maybe English teachers or bartenders, who are looking to pad their income on weekends. Atheists are recruited as eagerly as evangelists. In Japan, it is entirely appearance that counts.

“Christianity is a foreign religion in Japan,” says Todd Thicksten, a 36-year old missionary from California who performs ceremonies at the Cerulean Tower Tokyu Hotel in Tokyo’s Shibuya Ward. “To the Japanese if you want it done right, you have to have a foreigner do it. It is an image thing. It is similar to thinking: If you want your pipes fixed, you get a plumber and not a trash collector.”

The look of choice that is preferred is perhaps a Sean Connery-type; one who possesses grace and dignity without being bombastic. A talent for delivering ample eye contact in a slow, even manner is a plus as well.

Increased competition in the last 5 years has dropped the standard wedding pastor pay rate from roughly 18,000 yen per ceremony to less than 15,000 yen. (Yet rumors abound of pastors garnering upwards of 30,000 yen in isolated areas or under special arrangements.) Still, this can amount to a tidy sum given that wedding pastors are known to perform roughly three to six back-to-back weddings a day with a short break in between each.

Though it is not uncommon to hear of makeshift wedding halls or chapels being carved out of three adjoining hotel rooms, most locations for the ceremonies go to great pains to recreate the palatial atmosphere of the best Europe has to offer.

The Maria Chapel, where Aaron performs the majority of his ceremonies, in Kashiwa, Chiba Prefecture has pulled out all the stops. The chapel’s pipe organ is from Germany, the stained glass is from France, and the hired gospel singers are from some of Tokyo’s top schools. Victorian furniture fills the lounge with stone cherubs frolicking in the numerous fountains scattered in between the sculpted greenery fanning out through the compound.

Aaron and Todd are both relative anomalies in the business given that their motivations are not monetary; rather, they are here to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ. They are both employed by the Christian Bridal Mission, a company of 1,000 pastors (40% of whom are foreigners) with offices throughout Japan that began operating about 25 years ago. Unlike nearly all of the other estimated 40 companies in Tokyo that employ foreigners without an accredited religious education to simply run through the ceremonies, the Christian Bridal Mission recruits real missionaries and ordained pastors.

The rapid-fire style of the weddings and the fact that the audience is composed almost entirely of non-Christians makes for a perfect combination to spread such a message.

“I have a captive audience,” Aaron says of his lack of need to pound the pavement in a traditional missionary sense. “In 20 minutes, I can make Christianity approachable. You get the whole gospel message out - it’s the best. That’s the goal.”

But critics have condemned the practice in Japan because the majority of the wedding pastors are not accredited priests or missionaries. Calls of blasphemy are misdirected, says Reverend Kenny Joseph, the founder of the Japan Association of Preachers and Ministers (JAPAM).

“They are pinch hitters,” he says of the void in Japan for wedding pastors that these foreigners fill. To him, the biggest problem lies with foreigners who work as wedding pastors without a proper working visa and fake pastor credentials obtained overseas. His group is attempting to “clean the stable floor” of such unqualified wedding pastors by offering a 10-step certification program that gives wedding companies peace of mind in the knowledge that JAPAM certificate-bearing wedding pastors are not imposters. The current rate of passage for the program is only 40%.

“It is not a real church,” emphasizes Aaron, who says that the official wedding takes place with the signing of the marriage documents at the local city hall. “It is an assemblyline of people waiting to hear the gospel of Jesus Christ. They sit down, they are quiet, they listen to gospel messages - and that’s it.”

This assemblyline nature of the proceedings and the unique position occupied by the pastors has necessitated a few rules of wedding pastor etiquette: don’t leave the clip-on microphone turned on when using the bathroom between ceremonies; don’t speak Japanese too well (the Japanese prefer a foreigner who struggles a bit); don’t bow too low (maintaining a degree of authority is important); and be sure to get the couple’s names right.

“Basically, if you get the names wrong, that’s big time - the biggest mistake a pastor can make,” warns Todd. Should this happen, a complaint will be filed, and the wedding pastor’s company will have to pay for the wedding and offer numerous apologies and gifts.

Awkward moments are never in short supply, as any veteran wedding pastor will explain. The lack of understanding of church protocol on the part of the Japanese audience and fact that pastors can get nervous will often result in some interesting situations.

Todd explains: “Pastors have fainted. The audience thinks it is part of the show. They sit and wait for him to come to and finish the ceremony. Pastors have vomited in the plants. They think it is part of the blessing ceremony. Wedding pastors are humans. Things happen.”

The origin of the boom is often traced to the Christian-style ceremony in 1980 for Japan’s pop princess of the ’70s, Momoe Yamaguchi. Then, after Princess Diana’s lavish affair in 1981, phones in Tokyo area hotels were ringing off the hook with requests for fashionable Christian-style extravaganzas.

Reverend Joseph, though, sees this bonanza as being more than a Japanese woman’s wont to wear a white dress. It is instead a rejection of her place in the Shinto ceremony.

“She is like a head of cattle,” he says of the bride’s role in a traditional Shinto ceremony where she maintains a subservient position to her husband at all times. “She’s no moron. The popularity of Christian weddings is not a passing fad.”

Yet isn’t it a bit sad in that the intended Christian meaning is absent from an event of such great importance?

“This is her day. It is celebration day and not indentured servant day,” says Aaron, the latter reference being to the average woman’s eventual place in male-dominated Japan. “It is an all-day event where she is the center.”

Note: This article originally appeared in April 2003 on the Sake-Drenched Postcards Web page.

Shukan Bunshun’s weekly column, “Shukujo no Zasshi kara” (from ladies’ magazines), features this gem, excerpted from the November issue of Ai no Taiken SpDx.

“One day, I was taking a shower,” she relates. “And while directing the shower head on myself down there, I started feeling really good. Suddenly, I sensed someone was behind me and when I turned around, I saw my husband, watching me masturbate! And what’s more, he wasn’t just watching, but was shooting my picture with a cell phone camera.

“At first I was surprised, but realizing I had an audience I got even more excited! I continued stimulating myself, and as he looked on, I came.

“My husband and I often peruse raunchy ‘ladies comics’ (manga for adult females) together,” she adds. “It’s nice when a couple can have interests in common.” (K.S.)

Source: “Shukujo no Zasshi kara,” Shukan Bunshun, (Nov. 20, page 120)

Note: Brief extracts from Japanese vernacular media in the public domain that appear here were translated and summarized under the principle of “fair use.” Every effort has been made to ensure accuracy of the translations. However, we are not responsible for the veracity of their contents. The activities of individuals described herein should not be construed as “typical” behavior of Japanese people nor reflect the intention to portray the country in a negative manner. Our sole aim is to provide examples of various types of reading matter enjoyed by Japanese.

Up to that point, Asako had never cheated on her husband. But she had various concerns, and was looking for a diversion.

“I was ready to try something drastic,” she tells author Sanae Kameyama in Nikkan Gendai (Nov. 14). “I’d just turned 40 and had lost my self-confidence as a female. I hadn’t had sex with my hubby for a long time, and my body was tingling like crazy.

“By having sex with him, my whole outlook on life changed. After an hour of foreplay, I felt like my body was reduced to jelly. When his big thing went inside me, I felt giddy.”

Asako and her Canadian beau maintained a relationship for two years, until he returned home.

“When he left, he introduced me to another friend, and I began going with him,” she said. “When I feel like doing it, I have no choice but to contact him.”

Kameyama writes that more married women like Asako have been seeking sefure (sex friends) outside their marriage.

“I don’t want my family to break up, but I’m the type who likes sex and enjoys a man’s company, especially one who’s discreet,” she says. “The foreigners will leave someday, and they know how to treat women. After they’re gone we can still be friends. I couldn’t wish for anything better.”

Asako is currently mulling new prospects — a 30-year-old American student and a French businessman about her own age. It’s hard to say which one is better.

“Now I’ve sorted things out so that my brain is devoted to my job, my heart to my family and my body to my sex friends,” she tells Kameyama. “My kids have made it through adolescence and I think things are going to be even more enjoyable from now. I’ll stick with my husband and we’ll grow old together.”

The way Asako sees it, you only live once, so you might as well enjoy it. (M.S.)

Source: “Izure kikoku suru gaikokujin wa saiko no aite,” Nikkan Gendai, (Nov. 14, page 14)

Note: Brief extracts from Japanese vernacular media in the public domain that appear here were translated and summarized under the principle of “fair use.” Every effort has been made to ensure accuracy of the translations. However, we are not responsible for the veracity of their contents. The activities of individuals described herein should not be construed as “typical” behavior of Japanese people nor reflect the intention to portray the country in a negative manner. Our sole aim is to provide examples of various types of reading matter enjoyed by Japanese.

Rock is the main character in a manga featured in Kindai Mahjong, a bi-monthly magazine whose content includes various serials and advertising all focusing on the game of ceramic tiles on felt.

As a business, mahjong doesn’t have the scope of pachinko, one of Japan’s largest industries. Neither does it have quite the sophisticated allure of horse racing. Instead, its reputation over the past decades has been as the game of choice for high-stakes wagering in smoke-filled backrooms and parlors by hard-core gamblers - including members of the yakuza, company presidents, and politicians.

Today, this image is slowly being changed. In its place is a game of leisure for salarymen, retirees, and, yes, even those inclined to read comic books. Such a development makes the organizers of the 2002 World Championship in Mahjong, set to arrive in Tokyo this week, very pleased.

“Mahjong has come to be understood as a sport and a competition at last,” beams Kyoichiro Noguchi, Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Mahjong Museum and Director of the Japan Mahjong Organizing Committee.

This first ever championship, to be held at the Grand Palace Hotel in Iidabashi, will draw 120 players comprising 30 teams. Noguchi expects the strongest players to hail from China, Japan, the United States, Sweden, Hong Kong, and Holland.

Ever since the game was imported to Japan from China over 100 years ago, Japanese players have developed their own rules. But the basics are the same. Players select individual hands of 13 small white Chinese character-covered tiles from a pool of 136. The starter of the game selects 14. The tiles come in matching sets of 4. The goal is to create a hand of any of a number of predetermined matching combinations. Players take alternating turns in discarding and selecting tiles from the remaining pool until a player achieves a hand of one of the matching combinations, allowing him to “go out.” Based on his exiting hand, points are then tallied.

For the championship, the rules of play will be those set by the State Sports Commission of China in 1998 - the year that mahjong came to be recognized as an international sport.

Today, Japan is the home to over 20,000 parlors nationwide with nearly 5,000 in Tokyo and 2,000 in Osaka. They can be found in large entertainment districts or small residential communities. The times of greatest activity are on Friday and Saturday nights for Tokyo parlors, often tucked in darkened alleys with signs out displaying the two Chinese characters that compose the game’s name.

Vacance Mahjong, in Kagurazaka, is frequented by salarymen and students from universities in nearby Ochanomizu and Waseda. Steady streams of cigarette smoke rise from each table on a typical evening. This parlor, painted in a South Pacific island motif of seagulls, ocean waves, and palm trees, charges a rate of 1,000 yen per hour per table. Students get a break and are charged at rate of 500 yen.

Given the relatively low prices, mahjong has become a popular option during the past decade of economic stagnation. Though assistant manager Kensuke Saito admits that his business is being influenced by Japan’s weakened economy, he isn’t worried because he has plenty of loyal customers. “Compared to hostess clubs,” he says, “this is very cheap. We opened four years ago. The economy was already slow at that point.”

Reikichi Sumiya, a journalist and expert on organized crime, maintains that while the image of the game has changed, the yakuza and mahjong are still deeply linked. For many gangs, the game is used as a means of honoring members at times of a funeral or wedding.

“There is a gambling party,” Sumiya explains of these special times. “Suites are reserved at one of Tokyo’s top hotels. There’s tobacco, brandy, sake, bourbon, girls walking around, and mahjong.”

The players will strip to their waists to reveal their colorful tattoos just before the game is to begin. Since the games often drag on into late the next morning, they shoot up on speed to stay alert. “They use promissory notes because the wagering can exceed 1 billion yen,” Sumiya says.

Further, last year’s arson fire at a video mahjong parlor - suspected to be of mob origin and which killed 44 people in Tokyo’s Kabukicho district - reinforced this gangster-associated image of the game.

But these are exceptions. Mahjong parlors are more and more being seen as a place to go and associate with other people for friendly competition. Additionally, women are being encouraged, with lessons specifically for them being made available.

The game has even spawned a somewhat sultry side. Dozens of ads in Kindai Mahjong feature parlors that will provide young ladies to play should a particular party include less than the four people needed for a game.

Of these changes, chairman Noguchi says, “Nothing gives us such great pleasure as this.”

Note: This article originally appeared in October 2002 on the Sake-Drenched Postcards Web page.

Inside, one of the chefs behind the counter takes two live shrimp into his hand and sets them on the rack above the counter to enable his patrons a clear view. A couple sitting on two of the shop’s twenty stools giggle as the shrimp flap their tail fans and squirm atop the perch. He then moves both below to his cutting board where he quickly takes two chops with his knife. The shrimp are once again set in front of the pair, this time mounted on slabs of rice with a bit a wasabi. The sushi master grins from beneath his white paper hat. “What do you want next?” he asks.

Freshness is indeed a necessity for customer satisfaction in the seafood trade, and it is a general assumption in Tokyo that the closer one is to the Tsukiji Fish Market, located on a 22-hectare plot on the banks of the Sumida River, the fresher the fish must be. Whether this geographic relationship is more myth than fact is best left to trial and error. In whatever case, early mornings at “Tokyo’s Kitchen” are typically comprised of 15,000 workers engaging in a chaotic environment of buying and selling to supply seafood that is the freshest possible.

If Tsukiji were to be considered an economy all its own - which many do - the auction of its bluefin tuna would be its blue-chip stock index. Set out in rows on the wet concrete floor in the back of the market are hundreds of frozen carcasses weighing up to 200 kilograms and coming from waters as far off as the Indonesia and Europe. Their size is so massive as to be easily confused for sacks of cement or torpedoes.

The tails have been lopped off so that prospective buyers can examine the flesh. By rubbing bits of the red meat in their hands, experts with years of experience under their belts can immediately determine tuna that is worth 10,000 yen a kilogram from a specimen worth one-tenth that.

The auction kicks off around 5 a.m. Auctioneers lead the charge by barking in rapid Japanese. Bidders respond with complicated hand signals, hoping to outbid all others for the fish they feel has the perfect fatty flesh for top-grade sushi or sashimi.

This is big business, and the first auction of the year in January is the marquee event that usually sets the stage for what will transpire over the rest of the year. In this year’s auction, a tuna from Oma in Aomori Prefecture, weighing in at 228 kilograms, netted 6.38 million yen.

As the morning moves closer to 7 a.m., the market’s activity shifts to its central area. Here, hundreds of gasoline-powered carts with headlights mounted on their front steering columns haul the frozen tuna through an extremely dark and narrow canopy-covered maze of stalls, shoppers, wholesalers, and ice haulers. Bandana-wearing men with wooden pushcarts loaded down with sweat and determination, as well as Styrofoam boxes filled with iced seafood, nudge, push, and pull their way through the fray. It is something like entering battle.

At the various wholesaler stalls, meanwhile, the catch of the day is prepared as buyers peruse. Bandsaw blades carve frozen tuna into wedges; lobsters fill boxes; and fish are set upon ice. Prices are usually handwritten on slips of paper and tossed into the container with the seafood or attached directly.

With the nature of the business being so mercurial, wholesalers are in continual motion in front of their merchandise. Hands are always moving - whether to make a call on a mobile phone to relay price information or to dispense bills from wallets to purchase ice from vendors.

This degree of activity is only matched by the sheer quantity of sea products. Trays of silver unagi (eel), buckets of kani (crabs), mounds of purple tako (octopus), bagged hamaguri (clams), endless varieties of fish, and tables of mollusks and seaweed form but a fraction of what Tsukiji has to offer - and from sources that stretch all around the world.

When there is a lull in the action, wholesalers will often wipe counters or splash buckets of water onto the pavement to wash down any stray fish innards. Some might choose to chat with a neighbor, many of whom have called Tsukiji their home for decades.

Including the produce sold in the adjacent fruit and vegetable market, a day’s business will amount to 2.4 billion yen. This turnover also results in a depth of used Styrofoam boxes exceeding the height of the average Tokyo living room ceiling. Mounds of bones, fish heads, and sheets of skin form rather sizable amounts of other undesirable byproducts as well.

Given the early working hours and nature of the work, exhaustion is common. Workers in rubber boots and aprons taking drags on cigarettes as they prop themselves against their carts is not an unusual sight.

Though accidents of all kinds imaginable are reputed to occur quite frequently in this fast-paced world where caution is often thrown to the wind, perhaps the greatest threat during the market’s 65 years in existence was its encounter with the hydrogen bomb. The Japanese fishing boat Fukuryu Maru V was accidentally exposed to radiation during hydrogen bomb testing by the United States at Bikini Atoll (a part of the Marshall Islands in the South Pacific) in 1954. After one sailor perished, the catch was returned to Japan, where dangerous radiation levels were detected. The exposed tuna and sharks were then buried at Tsukiji.

Rumors have swirled that Tsukiji might soon be relocating to friendlier confines. But to the average denizen of this bit of Tokyo history, the leaking roofs, uneven asphalt floors, and narrow passages bring forth a sense of old-style charm that all the modern conveniences in the world will never replace.

Note: This article originally appeared in June 2000 on the Sake-Drenched Postcards Web page.

Auga Yaya, the stage name of Mikako Motoyama, was a star on the rise. One year earlier she had her debut single “Close to the Night” hit the 12th spot on Japan’s Oricon singles chart. This temporary stay overseas was for further studio recording for her record label, entertainment giant Avex.

Even though her subsequent two singles hadn’t matched the roughly 150,000 copies shipped of “Close to the Night,” she still sensed she was moving up Japan’s pop ladder. At that moment in the water, Japan, and all its inherent rigors and rules, was slowly fading into the background. After all, this was a big foreign city, the City of Angels. A small-town girl of 21 was on her way, she thought.

“Good ideas came flooding to my mind,” Mikako remembers of that revealing day of harmony in the pool. Those ideas would later culminate into her fourth single, “Virgin?” - a poppy ode to self-discovery and her second song-writing credit.

Though this emergence as a writer seemed to be the last piece in the pop music puzzle, it just wasn’t to be. The reality is that the Japanese music industry machine is a fickle beast, endorsing trends more readily than talent and sculpting images for their rapid ease of promotion.

“I didn’t have a high-pitched voice,” she says of the priorities within the business during those days in the spring of 1998, a time when the chipmunk-like pipes possessed by Japan’s pop princess of the day, Namie Amuro, ruled the airwaves. “So I wasn’t the chosen one.”

The J-pop business today is at a crossroads. Faced with declining sales, the industry is in need of a boost. Avex, the industry leader, is relying on its massively popular current queen, Ayumi Hamazaki, the “chosen” successor to Amuro - a big gamble considering she generates nearly half of the label’s revenue during a period when a viable replacement isn’t in the waiting. And as Mikako came to know well, the job of manufacturing the next pop sensation is hardly an exact science.

It started for Mikako with a dream: she wanted to perform a concert as the headline act. That was her motivation for entering the Tokyo Beauty Center “Superlady” singing contest in 1996. She nabbed first place out of 5,000 contestants, setting up her contract with contest sponsor Avex. Even though her only vocal training had come through karaoke sessions beginning at the age of 15, “Close to the Night” soon followed.

Under the guidance of Avex’s management team, she moved into a company-sponsored apartment, as nearly all up-and-coming artists do, and received a basic salary.

Her performance was not judged on her individual sales, at least not exactly; instead, it hinged on the overall performance of her group of artists, agents, and managers in which she had been inserted under Avex. (Tokyo Pudding, a duo who wore large inverted custard molds atop their heads during performances, was one of the acts within her group.)

“I think in Japan, basically, it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with singing skills,” she says. “Whoever receives the best promotion within the particular group has the greatest chance of being famous. You have to be attractive in some way to the people around you. That way they can find a way to promote you.”

Her producer was the legendary Tetsuya Komuro, or simply “TK,” the master of mass music manipulation. His ability to tap into the latest fad, say the demand for a high-pitched voice, and shape his artists into a form acceptable to both fans of dance and karaoke is responsible for paving such careers as those of Amuro and chanteuse Seiko Matsuda in the ’80s.

For the cover of her debut, there is a photograph of Mikako in a lake, visible from the shoulders up. Her wet brown hair drapes around her very attractive face. Subsequent singles under TK showcased her slender frame in a variety of sensual poses. TK wanted her image to be youthful, innocent and a bit sexy. He crafted the look entirely himself.

Attending singing lessons, writing lyrics, and sitting through meetings, at all times of the day and night were her daily activities. She thought this was the best way to increase her ability - and her popularity.

The release of the single “Orange” and the singles compilation of the same name came in early ‘98 - a time when her inability to match the success of “Close to the Night” first started getting her thinking about the way the music business works.

“I was nervous,” she remembers. “I knew then that I was lucky in the beginning. My success wasn’t normal. I started to realize that other members of my group were putting together so much time and effort to make me popular. And now with that fading, I knew I had to work for my co-workers so everyone could be happy.”

Success in the music world is based on three things, she surmised: luck, talent, and effort. “And I entered this world with only luck,” she says.

The formula for success is often very simple: a fresh face is splashed across as many magazines and countdown shows as possible with any hint of public acceptance being followed by mad promotion. The factory that is Johnny’s and Associates is one of the best at feeding off this process. They specialize in young male idols, cranking out cartoon-like stars repeatedly.

There is a lot at stake. Japan is the world’s second largest music market. Though the emergence of CD-copying and an increase in other entertainment alternatives are cited as reasons for the fall in music sales in recent years, the industry is still worth 320 billion yen a year.

Mikako’s fall was likely due to the top-down approach to promotion. “Someone at the top picks one guy or girl to push, but people at the lower levels don’t know the methodology,” she explains. Even though it was never clear, she feels that for her it came down to the pitch of her voice.

Of course, she wasn’t the only girl or act striving to be best. The industry is filled with dozens of hopefuls at any given time. During 1998 both Mikako and Hamazaki were relatively unknown artists within Avex’s stable. But one year later, Hamazaki’s number one smash “Love Destiny” was the spark that made her career, and today her tanned and trim form can be seen in every possible advertising medium hocking televisions and lip gloss ad infinitum.

In a last ditch effort that same year, Mikako made a change in her image; she tried to develop a more positive, forward-moving look. To reflect this, her long brown locks were trimmed into a pixie-cut similar to that often sported by Winona Ryder.

This change, though, wasn’t enough to make a difference. Instead, a sense of loneliness began to set in. With her family far away in Sapporo, she started smoking and drinking heavily. At night, she couldn’t sleep. “When I came home at night, I was dead-tired,” she remembers. “I didn’t want to believe I was losing it. Because I knew if I did, that would be it - it would be over.”

But, unfortunately, it was. Her final single, the appropriately titled “Goodbye Girl,” was released in April. In the end, the stress was just too much.

“I was putting in so much time and effort to be the best, but I could see I wasn’t going anywhere. I originally came to Tokyo because I wanted to be a singer - and I did it. But I had lost myself. I couldn’t sing at all and my confidence was gone.”

Mikako has no regrets. She was able to fulfill her dream, at least somewhat, by performing on shared bills at such venues as Velfarre and Budokan in Tokyo. “I was happy to be on stage,” she remembers. “It’s not like karaoke at all. I was singing with real music made by real musicians. The sound was better and the rhythm went with me.”

After a two-year hiatus from singing - anything, including karaoke - she’s back at it, even penning a song just for her own benefit. “I started to remember how much I love singing,” she says, today happily married and working various part-time jobs as an actress and radio personality. “The pressure is off, and the feeling is back.”

Note: This article originally appeared in June 2003 on the Sake-Drenched Postcards Web page.