Japan households reduce spending as unemployment rises
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Japan's youth turn to rural areas
seeking a slower life

ONE LESS FOR THE MONKEYS

As if those events weren't enough for one day, home alone after the morning described in The Approach of the Weedwhackers, and after I had later in the morning chased the monkeys out of the garden because the chain alarm sounded as described in The Me Squad, as I was even later trying once more to get some work done in the loft I heard a loud CR-R-RACK! and a leafy thrashing that could only have been caused by a newbie in the plum tree - young monkeys nowadays, I'm telling you... why, when I first moved here, even the youngest monkeys could climb, but ever since they've gotten used to the cushier modern lifestyle - o yeah, the plum tree... so for the third time that day I ran downstairs, this time toward the big glass doors, through which I could see a plum-filled monkey - the project supervisor - sitting on the rail of the deck picking his fangs with a pinkynail, savoring the flavor of my nearly ripe plums in a distant attitude that reminded me of a wine gourmet I once knew, until the ape heard the sound of my feet, turned, spotted me through the screen and took off redtailed, screeching to warn his crew still operating in the branches "The guy who has a thing for these plums is coming, so take off, now!"

The newbie crew in the tree itself, one of whom had snapped the branch, were not used to being chased by humans at such close range; they were but clouds of leaves whirling in the heart of the tree as they made for the exit and hit the ground running, also redtailed, the supervisor ahead of them looking back redfaced over his shoulder at me (redfaced and shaking my fist), to see if I was seriously in pursuit (a common concern among thieves of all species). I noticed that under his arm he was carrying a good cache of plums for later; unlike the empty-pawed newbies, he had anticipated a rousting. I also noticed that while supervising the hairy work force, he had eaten his take of plums fastidiously and not thrown the leftovers here and there, as one might expect a wild and unmannered monkey to do; rather, he had left a pile of peels and pits laid out along the railing in a sort of spontaneous natural nyah-nyah...

But although the monkeys had gotten a few of my plums, because I had reacted quickly most of the fruits remained on the tree and outside monkeys, so "One less for the monkeys..." became my loud mantra for each plum I picked on the spot as I walked around and beneath the tree, climbing the ladder in the hot and humid afternoon, plumbing the leafy reaches, squinting upward among the green-plum-colored and shaped underleaves, looking for orbs that might be barely tinting red but still indistinct against the glare, using my extended branch cutter when I couldn't reach high enough. I intoned "One less for the monkeys" at least a few dozen times, so the pickings were pretty good. I'll enjoy those purple goodnesses over there, by the big kitchen window.

You'd think that by now, after 15 years here with a garden and over 5 with a producing plum tree, I'd have known instinctively (how long does it take to acquire an instinct?) that after such extended rain and inactivity the monkeys would be hungry and out in force, coming for their vig-- and preempt them 100%, finally get to see a mob of monkeys nowhere near my plum tree, looking at me with respect. Maybe some day. For now, my dawning hope is that they acquire even more of a modern, processed lifestyle, maybe get a thing for couches and junk food, develop an aversion to fresh fruits and vegetables...

But I'd never stoop so low as to leave out a bunch of jumbo bags of potato chips...

TOTEM POLE OF THE SENSES

Pate de foi gras? You can have it. Caviar? It's all yours. Filet mignon? Sauce remoulade? You can have those, too. Take 'em away. Just pass me the red beans and rice or the chile or goulash or ramen or minestrone or salad or sandwich with maybe a pickle. I've always been a one-dish man, and a simple dish at that. Nothing fancy, please; go to no pains.

Food has never meant that much to me; it's meant nothing, in fact, other than the asap assuagement of hunger with the sauce of simplicity. It's a bother to eat, a mere necessity after all, no need to make a fuss about it, certainly not spend much on it, of either time or money, and so it has been all my life. Same as it's a bother to sleep, but I have to do that too, or I'll collapse into my goulash.

I'm one of those guys who (at least when I prepare my own lunch) generally eats over the sink, to minimize the time needed for all the de facto pointless trappings, from plate (who needs a plate?) to utensils (what's better than fingers?) to napkin (ridiculous!) to cleanup (BIG waste of right-now time!), and I can get quickly back to whatever important it was I happened to be doing when this evolutionally spoiled body interrupted and said FEED ME.

Everything is more important than eating. Animals eat. And that's pretty much all they do, except find things to eat. In between, they sleep. Gustatory interests are probably lowermost on my totem pole of the senses. I even find politics more interesting. Well, that may be overstating the value of politics, but what the hell, it's my totem pole.