Part 2 (1/2)

A while later I came home one afternoon after a day of shouting over gossiping kids to find my answering machine blinking. I pressed the b.u.t.ton figuring it'd be one of the members of My Niece's Foot, the expat band I'd joined in j.a.pan, trying to schedule a rehearsal for a gig or a trip to the local bar. But no: on my answering machine was the voice of The Man Himself, n.o.boru Tsuburaya. n.o.boru Tsuburaya! n.o.boru Tsuburaya! On On my my answering machine! I peeled myself off the floor and pushed shut my slack jaw. I played that message back about thirty times to make sure I'd heard him right. Was he actually asking me to call his secretary to set up a time for a job interview? answering machine! I peeled myself off the floor and pushed shut my slack jaw. I played that message back about thirty times to make sure I'd heard him right. Was he actually asking me to call his secretary to set up a time for a job interview? A job interview? A job interview? I made Yuka come over and listen to make sure. Yep, she said. That was exactly what he was saying. I made Yuka come over and listen to make sure. Yep, she said. That was exactly what he was saying.

So I went to Tokyo and had the interview. I got the tour. I even got to meet Ultraman himself (or at least a guy trying on a newly repaired Ultraman costume). And it was all I had ever imagined!

Soon after I got back from the interview in Tokyo (where I actually got to walk around in that attic full of monsters I'd seen in my Ohio dreams), I got a call telling me that not only was I hired but my salary would be about 20 percent more than the already inflated (to my mind) salary I'd asked for. Furthermore, the company would pay for half my rent in whatever apartment I chose in Tokyo. Good googly-moogly! Good googly-moogly! What more could any human being possibly want? What more could any human being possibly want?

For me this was like winning the lottery after being elected emperor of the whole wide world and the Playboy mansion to boot. I couldn't imagine anything better. This was heaven, absolutely and without a doubt. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dead. All my dreams had come true-granted they may have been stupid dreams, but they were mine and as of this particular Tuesday they had all come true! they had all come true!

I spent the next several months being totally blinded by my good fortune, walking around in a complete daze.

This was some weird kinda mojo for sure. How had such a thing happened? As I became aware of just how impossible it was, I started to get a little scared. In my view of the world at that point, things like this just could not possibly happen. It was utterly impossible. If I hadn't been so blinded by happiness I would have gone nuts. Maybe I did go a bit nutty. But I managed to keep it in check. Sort of.

WHENEVER I'VE REFLECTED on what happened, I am struck by the phenomenal string of coincidences that brought me to Tsuburaya. How had I just happened to pick that particular prefecture in j.a.pan as the place to work? How had I come across that particular book in that particular book store? How had life conspired for Yuka and me to meet? How had it just so happened that I sent my letter to Tsuburaya right after the last American who worked there quit? How had I even made it to j.a.pan in the first place? And that room full of monsters I'd dreamed of as a kid, had I somehow known I'd end up working at such a place? My head was spinning. If daffodils had flown out my a.s.s, I couldn't have been more astounded.

I'd had a zillion jobs by then, mostly through temp agencies. As thrilled as I was, I nonetheless had an inkling that the best job in the world was still just a job. Even Johnny Ramone said that being a rock and roll guitar player was a pretty good job, but that, in the end, it also sucked just like any other job.

Yet, I knew-I just knew knew-that I had landed The Perfect Job. My life would never be dull, dreary, or disappointing again. These people got paid good money to sit around and look through Ultraman Ultraman books, to write the scripts for books, to write the scripts for Ultraman Ultraman shows, to dress up in rubber dinosaur costumes and trash model cities! (Not to mention that there were some mind-bogglingly hot-looking babes in the sales department.) shows, to dress up in rubber dinosaur costumes and trash model cities! (Not to mention that there were some mind-bogglingly hot-looking babes in the sales department.) Johnny Ramone was obviously wrong. Buddha was wrong-life wasn't suffering, life was great! great! A job at Tsuburaya Productions was definitely A job at Tsuburaya Productions was definitely not not suffering. Maybe there were people in the world who could get tired of such a life. But not me, boy! No way in the world! This was it. Stupid as my dreams were, I had just realized them all in one bound. Maybe it was suffering. Maybe there were people in the world who could get tired of such a life. But not me, boy! No way in the world! This was it. Stupid as my dreams were, I had just realized them all in one bound. Maybe it was because because my dreams were so small that I'd been able to realize them all. Whatever. I didn't want to be a rich rock and roller or movie star or dictator of a nation. Maybe I'd stumbled onto the secret for eternal happiness: Keep your dreams small and stupid. my dreams were so small that I'd been able to realize them all. Whatever. I didn't want to be a rich rock and roller or movie star or dictator of a nation. Maybe I'd stumbled onto the secret for eternal happiness: Keep your dreams small and stupid.

All I knew was this was paradise on earth and nothing would ever, ever, ever change that.

Famous last words...

IF ONLY...

You may find that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting.

This is not logical but it is often true.

MISTER SPOCK.

Rivers of sweat spilling down my forehead and into my eyes, my brain liquefying under the heat of the giant arc lamps, I rip the heavy fibergla.s.s and latex monster mask off my head and collapse to my knees.

The skintight wetsuit transformed by the Tsuburaya Productions' costume department into the monster's silver-and-black-striped body threatens to rip open in a particularly embarra.s.sing way. ”Cut!” the director yells, no longer even bothering to hide his disgust and anger at yet another take ruined by the foreigner dressed as that transdimensional menace Alien Dada, one of Ultraman's most fearsome enemies. I fall into a useless heap on the floor while the rest of the monsters get into position for the next take.

The opening sequence of Let's Learn English with Ultraman! Let's Learn English with Ultraman! features six of Ultraman's greatest monster foes dancing behind a ten-year-old half-j.a.panese half-American singer named Nadia. There is a huge Ultraman live show going on the same day the shooting is scheduled, and so there aren't enough of Tsuburaya Productions' professional monster-costume actors available for the scene. I am one of a group of stupidly enthusiastic guys from the office drafted in to help finish the shoot on schedule. I'd wanted to dress up in one of those cheesy j.a.panese monster costumes since I was a kid but I had no idea they were so hot, stiff, and smelly. As I lie there watching the studio ceiling whirl around in crazy figure-eights over my head I wonder: How did I end up in this h.e.l.l? features six of Ultraman's greatest monster foes dancing behind a ten-year-old half-j.a.panese half-American singer named Nadia. There is a huge Ultraman live show going on the same day the shooting is scheduled, and so there aren't enough of Tsuburaya Productions' professional monster-costume actors available for the scene. I am one of a group of stupidly enthusiastic guys from the office drafted in to help finish the shoot on schedule. I'd wanted to dress up in one of those cheesy j.a.panese monster costumes since I was a kid but I had no idea they were so hot, stiff, and smelly. As I lie there watching the studio ceiling whirl around in crazy figure-eights over my head I wonder: How did I end up in this h.e.l.l?

THAT EXPERIENCE made me wonder what else there was for me in j.a.pan. I hadn't really done much to expand my understanding of Buddhism since coming here, although I had visited a few temples. I'd visited Eihei-ji, the temple founded in the thirteenth century by j.a.panese Zen's greatest teacher, Master Dogen, and seen the spot where he preached. On the whole though, Eihei-ji was nothing more than a fairly average j.a.panese tourist attraction-but man, it's got some big trees.

The hill leading up to the temple was lined with tacky souvenir shops selling everything from plastic Buddha statues to the requisite Ultraman toys for the kiddies. Insert 700 yen into the vending machine outside the temple and you get a ticket ent.i.tling you to walk around a cordoned-off part of the building. I didn't actually see anyone doing zazen. I didn't see anyone doing much of anything except walking around pointing at stuff and taking pictures. That was about it for my Buddhist historical explorations.

Yet I still did zazen every day at home, as I had ever since I'd started sitting with Tim, though usually just the token twenty minutes before bed. And in my first year in j.a.pan I went to three temples to actually practice zazen. All those times had been in the form of the kind of ”Get a Taste of Zen!” ”Get a Taste of Zen!” things typically organized by groups of foreigners with little involvement from the temples themselves. In one case a monk simply showed us where the zendo was then disappeared. We just saw ourselves out when we were finished doing zazen. For all I could tell the monks had all gone home by then. things typically organized by groups of foreigners with little involvement from the temples themselves. In one case a monk simply showed us where the zendo was then disappeared. We just saw ourselves out when we were finished doing zazen. For all I could tell the monks had all gone home by then.

Another such excursion was an overnight deal organized by some fellow JET partic.i.p.ants at a rustic old temple high atop a mountain in a remote part of Gifu Prefecture. Still, aside from cooking and serving our meals, the temple monks were completely uninvolved.

Now that I was in Tokyo and had what could be generously described as an ”open social calendar”-although it might be more accurate to call it ”a severe case of being a friendless loser”-I figured it was time to get back into the Zen thing. I came across a cla.s.sified ad in the local free English paper for a Zen group in Tokyo offering lectures in English and decided to take a chance. The group turned out to be called Dogen Sangha and its leader one Gudo Wafu Nis.h.i.+jima.

LET ME TELL YOU a little about Nis.h.i.+jima. Nis.h.i.+jima is a Zen monk who certainly doesn't fit any usual picture of what monks are supposed to be. These days, at eighty-four years old with a shaved head and the traditional monk's robes, at least he looks the part. But delve a little deeper, and the neat, easy image falls apart. Besides being a monk, Nis.h.i.+jima also works for a cosmetics company, a job he took after spending several years working for the j.a.panese Ministry of Finance.

During the early part of the Second World War, Nis.h.i.+jima started attending zazen sittings and lectures held by Kodo Sawaki, one of j.a.pan's most notorious ”rebel” Buddhist monks. Not content with the way j.a.panese Buddhism had degenerated into little more than maintaining temples as tourist attractions and hosting funerals, Sawaki wanted to return Buddhism to its fundamentals-the practice of zazen. He never had a temple of his own but wandered from place to place teaching and holding zazen sittings and so he came to be known as ”Homeless” Kodo. He dispensed with most of the elaborate rituals a.s.sociated with traditional Zen and stuck to a few favorite chants and bows. Fearing that Buddhism was nearly dead in j.a.pan, he wanted to spread it beyond the j.a.panese islands and encouraged many of his followers to teach abroad.

In the early 1970s, Nis.h.i.+jima started hosting lectures on Buddhism in English at Tokyo University's Young Buddhists a.s.sociation. With the help of a young British student named Mike Cross he embarked upon the ma.s.sive task of translating the entirety of Master Dogen's greatest work, the Shobogenzo, Shobogenzo, into English-all ninety-five hefty chapters of it. Nis.h.i.+jima gave his group the name Dogen Sangha to signify his dedication to the teachings of Dogen but also to place a bit of conceptual distance between himself and the mainstream Soto sect of Zen Buddhism into which he'd been ordained. into English-all ninety-five hefty chapters of it. Nis.h.i.+jima gave his group the name Dogen Sangha to signify his dedication to the teachings of Dogen but also to place a bit of conceptual distance between himself and the mainstream Soto sect of Zen Buddhism into which he'd been ordained. Sangha, Sangha, by the way, just means a group of Buddhists. Although Nis.h.i.+jima received Dharma Transmission from Niwa Rempo, then the head of the Soto sect and Head Abbot of Eihei-ji, the sect's main temple, he has never felt entirely comfortable with the way they run things. by the way, just means a group of Buddhists. Although Nis.h.i.+jima received Dharma Transmission from Niwa Rempo, then the head of the Soto sect and Head Abbot of Eihei-ji, the sect's main temple, he has never felt entirely comfortable with the way they run things.

When I first started attending Nis.h.i.+jima's lectures, I found them infuriating. His frank arrogance was contemptible. You'd think the guy believed that no one on Earth understood Buddhism except for him. He insisted that the only Buddhist books worth reading about were Dogen's Shobogenzo- Shobogenzo-in his own translation, of course-and a book called Fundamental Verses on the Middle Way Fundamental Verses on the Middle Way, by an ancient Indian guy named Nagarjuna. Nis.h.i.+jima also mentioned that all existing English translations of this latter book were totally worthless. And he had all these weird theories about the autonomic nervous system. What was a Buddhist master doing talking about medical stuff? I wanted to hear about how to reach enlightenment! Nis.h.i.+jima also mentioned that all existing English translations of this latter book were totally worthless. And he had all these weird theories about the autonomic nervous system. What was a Buddhist master doing talking about medical stuff? I wanted to hear about how to reach enlightenment!

Yet for all that, I couldn't doubt this guy's sincerity. He made no effort to try to convince anyone to accept his beliefs. He simply stated them like they were undeniable facts, utterly obvious to anyone with the sense to take a look. His unstated att.i.tude seemed to be, ”You came to hear what I have to say. Well, here it is. If you don't like it, go listen to someone else.”-and a lot of people did indeed walk out on him. A few times I even gave up on the guy, staying away from the lectures for weeks at a time. But after a while I'd always be back. Something about his outlook felt right to me. Something about the old man really moved me.

There's no way I can convey the full sense of what it was like to listen to him teach. Gudo Nis.h.i.+jima is like a force of nature. Describing his personality is like trying to describe the personality of an earthquake or a typhoon. Mostly you're not concerned about what he's really like so much as concerned about how to stay alive until he pa.s.ses by. He's just a little old bald man in robes but he has this voice that can rattle walls for miles in all directions. There are times he seems to be baiting the audience to come after him, sort of like GG Allin used to do.

In case you don't know, GG Allin is perhaps the most notorious punk rocker of all time. He was so outrageous on stage that no one was really sure whether he was a performance artist nonpareil or an actual crazy person. He died in a spectacular suicide in 1993.

But Nis.h.i.+jima was way more dangerous than ol' GG. The punks who came to witness GG Allin swearing at them, calling them names, and hurling excrement knew they had a chance of at least beating him up with their fists if they wanted to (and many did). But Nis.h.i.+jima wasn't so easy to defeat. No one would think of physically attacking a kindly old monk in black robes. And no one I ever saw start an argument with him ever made it through the thing without being reduced to a sputtering fool. I know I never did.

MY UNDERWHELMING PERFORMANCE as Alien Dada wasn't my first appearance in a j.a.panese monster production. In 1994 I appeared as an innocent bystander dodging the laserbeam breath of the brontosaurus-like Darengelon in Ultraman Neos. Ultraman Neos. In the film In the film Ultraman Zearth Ultraman Zearth I was ”American News Reporter Bradley Warner,” glimpsed for about three seconds reporting on the theft of a statue of King Tutankhamen by aliens. In episode one of the I was ”American News Reporter Bradley Warner,” glimpsed for about three seconds reporting on the theft of a statue of King Tutankhamen by aliens. In episode one of the Ultraman Tiga Ultraman Tiga TV series, I'm a South American member of the super-scientific team GUTS, the Global Unlimited Task Squad, reporting the sighting of a monster on Easter Island. TV series, I'm a South American member of the super-scientific team GUTS, the Global Unlimited Task Squad, reporting the sighting of a monster on Easter Island.

One of my more memorable roles occurred during episode 51 of that same TV series, in which I was cast as an American Blue Angel whose plane gets attacked by a gigantic pterodactyl-style beast devastating New York City. For this they gave me a uniform and put me into a mock-up of a c.o.c.kpit complete with cast-off parts from actual planes. As I sat strapped into a pilot's chair, a guy came in and taped a bunch of little plastic bags containing explosive powder to the control panel in front of me. These charges, I was told, would be ”harmless,” just bright light and lots of smoke. Of course on the Ultraman Ultraman budget they weren't about to set off any of the fireworks during the test runs. Each run-through, the guy in charge of the explosives would shout budget they weren't about to set off any of the fireworks during the test runs. Each run-through, the guy in charge of the explosives would shout ”Bang, bang, bang!” ”Bang, bang, bang!” to cue the camera crew when to expect the explosions. Finally, everything was set. They wanted to get this in the first take-film and firecrackers cost money. I, on the other hand, was working for free. to cue the camera crew when to expect the explosions. Finally, everything was set. They wanted to get this in the first take-film and firecrackers cost money. I, on the other hand, was working for free.

I was to look up, yell, ”The monster's too fast!” then scream as the explosives went off. I shouted my line and, right on cue, a huge fiery blast went off in my face. My scream was entirely genuine. I could feel the force of the blast and the heat on my face and chest. Amazingly, I didn't get burned-but my ears rang for the rest of the day. Later when I saw a videotape of the action, I found out that those ”harmless” fireworks had created a fireball about five feet across.

That was the fun part. But it didn't take long before my dream job became-well, I won't say a nightmare nightmare, but it did become just a job. It was something I had to drag myself out of bed for. My paradise had melted into plain old nothing before my very eyes.

EVERY SINGLE HUMAN BEING in the world at some time thinks that ”if only” this or that one of our conditions could be met then we'd be all set. ”If only I had a girlfriend / boyfriend / million bucks, then I'd be happy.” Or in the case of the more spiritually minded: ”If only I were enlightened, then that would settle everything once and for all.” Think again.

An old Chinese Zen master once said, ”From birth to death it's just like this!”

Wherever you go in the world of human beings is pretty much the same. Only the details are different. All of my gaijin gaijin teacher friends who wanted to get out of j.a.pan and back to the ”real world” have discovered that the ”real world” is hardly any different than the place they were leaving. teacher friends who wanted to get out of j.a.pan and back to the ”real world” have discovered that the ”real world” is hardly any different than the place they were leaving.

We always want to believe that somewhere there's a perfect situation, if only we weren't barred from it. But that's not the reality.

We always imagine that there's got to be somewhere else better than where we are right now; this is the Great Somewhere Else we all carry around in our heads. We believe Somewhere Else is out there for us if only we could find it. But there's no Somewhere Else. Everything is right here.

Maybe your lot right now could be improved. I know mine could. And working to make things better is great. But we don't just just work to make things better and leave it at that, do we? We live in the idealized world inside our heads. And work to make things better and leave it at that, do we? We live in the idealized world inside our heads. And that that keeps us from ever really enjoying what we have right now, from enjoying the work that we're doing to create our better tomorrow. It's as if we're afraid to really commit to this moment because a better one might come along later. keeps us from ever really enjoying what we have right now, from enjoying the work that we're doing to create our better tomorrow. It's as if we're afraid to really commit to this moment because a better one might come along later.

This approach is totally ridiculous and completely absurd.

AMERICANS ARE ESPECIALLY p.r.o.nE to thinking that if they can only find just the right job, job, they'll be happy. That's why we're constantly hopping from one company to another, one career to another. Most of us are realistic enough to say we know there'll be challenges wherever we go but we really do believe in our hearts that the perfect situation does exist somewhere-if only we could find it. they'll be happy. That's why we're constantly hopping from one company to another, one career to another. Most of us are realistic enough to say we know there'll be challenges wherever we go but we really do believe in our hearts that the perfect situation does exist somewhere-if only we could find it.

This belief is at the heart of all jealousy and envy, and ultimately all of our suffering. We envy the rich and powerful, we envy famous people. But their lives are just like ours. The handful of famous people I've met actually seem even more more envious of fame than the rest of us. envious of fame than the rest of us.

Whenever I used to hear Buddhist teachers saying we shouldn't strive for money or fame I used to think it was some kind of admonition that we shouldn't have any fun. It's really not that at all. Thinking that money and fame are the keys to the perfect situation is a kind of deep confusion. Fame and money can actually stand in the way of real joy because rich people tend to get more and more easily suckered into the state of mind that if only if only they could acquire just the right house or object or lifestyle, they could acquire just the right house or object or lifestyle, then then they'd be happy. Why else would movie stars and athletes who already have more money than G.o.d demand multimillion dollar contracts year after year? What could anyone possibly do with all that money? What makes even the richest, most famous and most powerful people still want more and more? In the end, what did money, power, and fame do for Kurt Cobain...or Keith Moon...or Sid Vicious...or Elvis? If this isn't a lesson that fame and money are dead-end streets, I can't imagine what else could possibly be. they'd be happy. Why else would movie stars and athletes who already have more money than G.o.d demand multimillion dollar contracts year after year? What could anyone possibly do with all that money? What makes even the richest, most famous and most powerful people still want more and more? In the end, what did money, power, and fame do for Kurt Cobain...or Keith Moon...or Sid Vicious...or Elvis? If this isn't a lesson that fame and money are dead-end streets, I can't imagine what else could possibly be.