I’m starting to understand the idea of “seasonal albums.” Not collections of songs tailored to accompany a particular holiday, but albums that fit more successfully into a certain temperature and certain colors. Influences for this idea are, recently, Greg Johnson and Anthony Fantano.

The Needle Drop called Feist’s new LP, Metals, a “Fall album.” Fantano is right that it is a little cold, like it’s cover art. Many of the songs are about pain and, by extension, loneliness. But energy from tracks like “A Commotion” keep it from being “desolate.” It also might be (nationalist) that she’s from Canada. I imagine thick sweaters, dying trees, yards lost under reds and oranges and yellows, and hot drinks. And therefore, I see lots of warmth (coffee, etc.), too. This argument would almost perfectly justify Metals as a “winter album” as well, which is an issue. It’s possible that there are just cold albums and warm albums; heat albums and A/C albums; coffeehouse albums and beach-front albums. That would make the seasonal album a dichotomy instead of a quadchotomy. For example, what’s the difference between a Spring album and a Summer one? I can’t say. But I can say that there are emotions and phases that fit my idea of one (or two) season(s) over another.

And I will surely change my mind when April brings in some warm weather and green plant life, and I am still listening to Metals.

(I’m also confused that I feel more comfortable saying “album” or “LP” but not “CD.” I even like saying “record” meaning “album,” but since those two words mean different things at the Grammys ["record" means a single song], I’m still unclear what to do. The very very former seems to be the rightest, and the oldest. So let’s go with that.)

A seasonal record may refer better to a season of life. Trouble with relationships? You might connect better with a record about breakups and heartache. Trouble fitting into the real world? Melancholy, philosophy-laden, and political albums–or, conversely, one about friendship!–might help you understand what you are going through. Always happy? Listen to the radio or whatever.

Most of the time, I seek music that reflects my emotional state. But sometimes, my mood follows the music I listen to.

I pay more attention to song lyrics now. I don’t think musicians are in the business of delivering the pithiest and profoundest summations of being human. I think writers do that. But, being a lover of music, I am drawn in by good musical compositions, and find out that “hey, this person is similar to me in at least one aspect!” (Do I really talk like that?)

Seasons change, and as they change, I’m looking for something to do with my life.

Just so you know, I was not in Hongu for any of this. I showed up 10 days later. I lived in Tanabe (rent-free) with a gracious ALT who put me up until the Board of Education allowed me to return home to Hongu.

Landslides destroyed important roads–important because in a small town one road can be nearly the only access available from one area to another, short of tiny mountain paths. As news rolled in after I arrived, the death toll numbered in the tens (I think it was around 50). Shit was not good.

Locals tell me it was the worst flood in 60 years. Hongu is prone to flooding, the water rising to unfavorable levels just a few months ago. But it was especially rough this time.

This connects my district of Hongu to the area with the tiny grocery store. It was very important that this road open up, and finally did, looking like this. It’s still in this condition–half paved, with a temporary traffic light in place, blocking one direction at a time.

This is an interesting side-view that allows us to see how high the mud piled up on top of the rice fields. The gunk rose almost to the top of the plants, as you can see.

In that same rice field, garbage and various items were tossed into this pile, now dried up, but clearly still dirty. This is next to a small stream that was surely completely submerged at the height of the typhoon’s flood.

The foot of the massive torii Shinto gate across the street from my house.

My home, by the way, is elevated completely above the highest waters, and was therefore not damaged. For that, I was fortunate.

A lot of rice was killed by the mud.

Inside the beautiful, relatively new World Heritage Center, furniture was taken outside to wash, while documents, books, and folders were laid out to dry. Those bumps in the floor in the background are warped wood. I imagine being under water for a couple of days and then drying caused this. This building is still not in full use as I write this.

This is the local town hall’s (where I work) parking lot. It’s covered in dried mud. It might not look like it did much damage, but the feeling you get when you walk through your town and ever sidewalk, every parking lot looks just like this, makes you realize how clean towns typically are. I mean, they typically aren’t caked in mud.

You can see how deep the muck got in this parking lot–lower in altitude than the one above.

I don’t entirely get why this wood debris settled stuck in the side of a bridge like this.

This is the first floor of the building where I’m based. It’s higher than the buildings on Hongu’s main street, but still get four to five feet of water. (The education office–and my desk–is on the second floor.) So here, for about a week, I worked distributing relief goods, donated materials like clothes and food and cleaning supplies, to people who needed them. I was fortunate to get food, work boots, and some other items by the generosity of others. Relief materials are still being distributed daily at a local gymnasium, where I went to work until two weeks ago.

It was a grim situation for a long time. But posting this information so late allows me to skip forward in time for you. Now, people are doing better. School has started again. I have my desk back. Businesses are slowly stocking their shelves again. Most of the sidewalks are cleaned up. The river water isn’t entirely a filthy brown. More and more important highways are opening up, allowing people to get out of Hongu and into areas like Tanabe and Shingu without taking hour-long detours through scary, winding mountain roads.

So now, the town is beginning to come back. Everyone in town–and many volunteers from out of town–worked very hard to recover this quickly. Morale is back up. I hope further recovery is ahead of us!

After a simple lunch at Yoshinoya (a diner-style cheap Japanese restaurant, the likes of which I went to so often in the past, that I miss them not being in Hongu, where I live now) of meat over rice, miso, and pickled things, I was kindly driven to Shirahama beach. A discussion with a friend made me realize that I like the hotels and commerce packed into the view behind us, approaching the shoreline, rather than the secluded-island style beach, because of all the fond times I’ve had at Florida’s beaches, which resemble Shirahama.

The crowd was enormous for a small beach (because it was a Saturday and a festival day), so different genres of music blended together from all directions coming from under others’ umbrellas; wayward frisbees and beach balls encroached on groups of tourists (mostly national) who weren’t playing; and a grocer peddled imported fruits for a “good price.”

These lanterns were spread out over Shirahama beach in honor of deceased ancestors. My birthday weekend coincided with Obon, the festival in Japan for spirits, during which time they return home (I think).

A pizza restaurant near the beach which had the best pizza I’ve ever had in this country.

The one picture I have of our hours in the karaoke box.

—

The night ended, and I returned home (by bus) the next evening to a surprise: the torii–a Shinto gate–was lighted. I didn’t learn until later that this, too, was to celebrate Obon. I’m pretty sure that Hongu has one of the world’s largest torii. That’s the one they lighted.

This is the view from my yard. The torii would have been hardly visible if not for the spotlights.

And a magnified view:

Thank you again!

I was happy to be back when I landed and rode to Shinjuku, Tokyo, where JET Orientation was held. Not my favorite area of the capital, but a thriving district nonetheless: delicious sushi was a very short walk from my hotel, as were bars, shopping, and young people.

I remember the bus ride from Kansai Internation Airport to my hotel in Osaka in September, 2008. Namely, that the ride itself, through a mundane business district of the city, was exciting. I saw “SEGA” on the side of a boring low-rise, and it made sense: I had arrived to the nation I’ve heard so much about. I had actually made it.

This time, the bus ride from Narita Airport to Shinjuku was too easy. Nothing around me caught my interest in a gripping way. It all seemed too familiar, too normal. I walked out into the streets that night to search for dinner and toiletries afterwards with no fear like in 2008. Though I still couldn’t grasp the bits of conversation passing my ears all around me, and I couldn’t read many of the restaurant advertisements on the stands outside the entrances telling me what was delicious and what was on sale, I wasn’t nervous. I looked for food, simply, straight-faced; I entered; I grabbed plates of tuna and salmon and other fish from the conveyor; I was chatted up by a guy who lived in Australia (but was Japanese); I paid; I left.

The comfort was weird. I can’t understand it, and I am the one experiencing it. Why wasn’t I excited by the simple fact that I was here?

¤

During the very long drive from Kansai Airport to Wakayama prefecture, Tanabe city, Hongu, feelings of excitement and fear had me wondering what I had gotten into when I accepted this job two months ago. Just like the current JETs said, on the way to Hongu, the houses slowly disappear. Just like they told me, many people say they live in the Japan countryside, but I really live in the countryside.

I stared at the beautiful green mountains; there isn’t much else to see. I saw the small stream creeping through the massive carved path that used to hold a huge rushing river (and regretted the dam, regretted progress that steals idyllic scenery). I held the handle in the car as it wound left and right and left and right. I’m surrounded by mountains.

My luggage arrived safely to my new home. It’s a very old building, but definitely comparatively spacious. I love the sliding doors and the tatami-mat floors. The bath is old, grimy, and not fully functional. The restroom has an odorous, odious pit toilet. The kitchen is big but aging. I’m not even sure how to use the stove, but I did see that it is battery-operated.

This place has unique and fun ups, and unexpected, perhaps unacceptable downs.

The schools (six of them) have seemingly nice staff and nice kids (who were at school during summer break for club activities—a bonkers idea to me).

For now, I am car-less. I walk to the local education office and create activities to keep myself busy, or else browse the internet or nearby teaching materials in drawers. I really have no obligations until school begins in September. I will use my time to read and study…I hope.

What will become of this year? What will become of me? My idea to use these wildly different circumstances as a learning opportunity to find out about myself remains at the fore. But for now, I am in the doldrums of a stranger in the mountains. A location in Japan with no train access reachable without a car summarizes the type of life these people live: a secluded, somewhat underdeveloped, one.

Music is saving my sanity these days. (The bridge on my guitar melted off. It is unplayable until I get some materials to jury-rig it. But I have speakers for my laptop. Subwoofers mean a lot!) That, and the comfort of kind people talking with me over the internet. I appreciate you all so much.

Here are a few of the better viewpoints from my 6+ km hike on the Kumano Kodo pilgrimage path yesterday.

Honestly, it’s a bit of a sad, stable mess.

Immediately after graduating with my Bachelor’s degree, I was the best man in my cousin’s wedding. I completed the task, wore the tuxedo, wrote the speech, and stood. But the extra mile was not taken. Flattered by the offer to be the best man, I gladly agreed. But whether I deserved to be such an important part of his life is a separate issue. I could have done better.

Then, I lived out a summer undergrads dream of: the summer of no immediate responsibilities. The only summer of my adult life during which I had no concern for finding a residence or registering for classes. Homework loomed not. Conversely, I was able to take the work ethic and interests that I picked up in school and pursue my own interests, instead of ignoring them to focus on assigned work. However, my potentially wonderful holiday quickly spoiled.

I became lazy. I became weak. I became tired. I became worthless. I became bored. I became uninteresting and uninterested. I became a failure. I became indecisive. I became very very sad. I became a waste. I became envious. I became nothing helpful. I became a failure. I became a lazy in a race. I became sleepy in a midterm exam. I became confused and dry-mouthed in an important interview. I became emotionally sensitive. I became a failure. I became tired. I became weak and uninterested and uninteresting.

I did nearly nothing I planned to do.

I accidentally got a full-time job after eight months of awful freedom. I’m still there, daydreaming, wondering if my life will change.

Who will love you if you are too weak and sad and awful?

I’ve been thinking about the extremities of English lately, and the peculiar, but also not surprising, way we overuse our biggest words (in depth, not length). Louis C.K., for one, is right. Subtlety is lost on the average English speaker. Consider the F-word. Should it not be stored away for all but the most important occasions? Yet many of us throw it around, using it many times a day, even as an ellipsis (“What’s that… um… fuckin’… crazy-ass cake recipe have in it?”).

It isn’t that we use other mid-range words less. Between “fuck” and “air” there are many descriptors, nouns, and so on that we use interchangeably. This comes down to style and personal preference. An example of a style choice: when is the last time you enjoyed something so much you said it was “stupendous”? Yet the word has its place.

Rather, we exchange words with different connotations often. Therefore, a “very very good” book is also “awesome,” “amazing,” “fucking wow,” “unbelievable,” “life-changing,” “indescribable with words,” “great,” “a must-read,” and “an experience.” I certainly want all these words to remain in use, and I don’t think they are all out of place when describing a book that was very very good. I’ve simply noticed how many different ways there are to describe a positive experience in English, and how the exact words used makes nearly no difference.

In Japan, my Language & Culture professor first introduced me to a linguistic understanding of youth culture. We–being students from all over America, other non-Western countries, and natives as well–were asked to write on the board common slang used in our home cities, states, and countries. At the moment, I immediately recall the English “hella” and the Japanese “meccha,” meaning “very.” The professor’s point was this: youth tend to create fleeting, trendy neologisms of extremeness. (You don’t often find slang that replaces words like “orange,” “national,” or “plastic.”) I was surprised to learn that this linguistic similarity spanned nations, but she is right. “Über” is another good example. (This is a loan word, which is similar, I think, to an entirely new word.)

So, we exaggerate the intensity of our situations with powerful language. This probably has cognitive implications. My guess is that our experiences are so vivid and interesting to ourselves, and when we try to convey those feelings to listeners, it’s often lost. We then make claims about something being the “worst song I’ve ever heard” or the “best seafood in the whole universe,” hoping it will make the story more notable. But maybe it isn’t just related to cognition, but also to social structure. That is, because we hear other people describe food as “the best ever ever ever totally amazing,” we might feel like properly and more subtly calling it “really delicious” might not give the listeners enough emotion behind the words to stick in their minds.

Not only do we exaggerate, but we create ungrammatical phrases that give degrees to words that don’t really need degrees. Like “unique.” Unique means “one of a kind.” It doesn’t mean “interesting,” or “thoughtful,” or “innovative” per se. So, to call a video game “pretty unique” or “really unique” could be considered a waste of words. Uniqueness is binary. It is or is not. (I learned this from Strunk & White, by the way.)

What about forgetting? Can you “totally forget” to stop for groceries on the way home? If so, is that different from “forgetting”? Is that still different from “almost” forgetting? In my experience, when I claimed I “almost forgot” about an obligation, I actually just forgot.

I’m not bothered by our colloquial grammar and vocabulary. I’m simply interested in it. Especially in verbal conversation, heightened intensity of diction is more entertaining. If you jump out of your chair and scream how a movie sucked so horribly you wanted to pluck your eyes out, it will probably be more fun than saying, “All enjoyment was lost on me.”

All of this probably has something to do with the linguistics I wish I studied in college.

Woe is me! I’m left with nothing but a tiny paper blanket after five years of strife and perseverance. Alas and lackaday!”

That is not how I feel about my university experience. I would be a lesser being not to consider the lessons I learned beyond the classroom and textbook, not to be ecstatic at the opportunity to live happily—in the “all’s well that ends well” sense—through 5 years of higher education. Even though most middle- and upper-class kids go to college now, they do not always squeeze the most wisdom from their studies. If you do understand that university soars beyond the importance of its degrees, you’ve done a good thing.

Another way whereby graduates can appreciate their years at college is to use what they have learned there to make a living. I—this admission is totally superfluous—have failed on this front.

For months I have been at times unable and at others unwilling to make myself a productive member of America’s workforce. I like to blame college for that.

Though I cherish my education, my History degree has left me with zero feet in zero doors, zero advantages over competing applicants (see below), and minimal open career paths.

When I apply for a job, my degree is one of the first accolades my potential employers see. I know they don’t care, though, because I lack experience and all those acute, specific certifications and licenses that filter adults into soul-crushingly singular trick pony stalls.

I want those stupid things, though, because I have to want them to be successful.

But, wait! I have one already: a prestigious degree from a prestigious university. Yes, why yes, the University of Georgia…oldest public college in the nation…Baldwin…famous for…Go Dawgs…so many awards…tried the meal plan?…award-winning…award ceremony…half-day to honor honorees…business fraternity…co-ed…opportunities…create your own major!…career advisor…free water…here’s my card…check the website…career test yet?…opportunity…bar hop…pre-game…the best concerts…they’re from Japan!…she and he and she are from Japan, too!…maybe…history is what has happened…learning…research…bored…what can I do with my life?…what will I do with myself…start searching…success…nice try…foot in the door…you never know…know someone…persistent but not annoying…well, if you look at the options…I don’t want a second interview…I’m better…Go Dawgs…totally Go Dawgs…a degree will help…my degree isn’t helping…degree…Bachelor’s…that will help.

It’s not helping. However, one thing being a History graduate has taught me is this: universities sponsor liberal arts despite the all-but-absence of any careers in the field. (The lucky few who do get jobs recognize they’re fortunate and few.) I’m happy universities remain bastions for thinkers to teach subsequent generations how to think. Indeed, I am very happy about that. And I postponed reality as long as I could.

Now I have to answer the question I have been continuously asking since May, 2010: What am I going to do with my life?

I could teach high school history and convince myself that my students care for a subject that put me to sleep at their age. I could work at a museum because that market never ceases. The demand for a 20-something History major in the museum world, well, I tell you, you can’t not find work.

The third and final immediate opportunity is graduate school. What’s that? You’re laughing because I called a system wherein you pay people outrageously high fees to teach you more stuff so you can have more debt and potentially only a speckle more for your résumé an “opportunity”? Yes, it’s funny. It’s hilarious. And the hilarity of this path leaves me unwilling to walk down it.

So I sit around and, between moping, just think about what would possibly make me like my life. I ask myself, what could I do for a living and think, “Yeah, I like my life and I’m glad I invested in this career”? And even when I consider dream jobs like musician and video games journalist, I can see—even from right here in my bedroom—how I could easily be unsatisfied.

I’ll end with the only paragraph in which I do not pity myself. The truth is, I haven’t searched for jobs as earnestly as others. I haven’t reached out at life and taken hold and forged my own future. All I have done is think about how much fun drinking wine and reading Dante in Tuscany would be. Or doing something with wind power. (See?! I don’t even know what I would do even if I had a good opportunity!) I tell Sarah that I want to do something meaningful and satisfying, like developing clean energy. But I am not a scientist, or an engineer, or a PR rep, or a marketing adviser, or a CEO, or a construction planner, or an administrative assistant. At this moment, the best I could do for wind power would be to write hype blogs extolling the deep importances of clean energy. And cozy jobs like that are rare. But I can’t keep waiting. I need to stop stalling with books and video games. (I stall thinking about my future by playing video games and reading books.) I have to stop being like this.

Here goes.

Wait, I think I pitied myself in that one paragraph.

I enjoy others’ birthdays like any normally psychologically functioning human would: what’s wrong with partying and happiness? It’s just mine that I have problems with.

Furthermore, it isn’t the principle of my own birthday that I dislike; that would be silly (see “partying and happiness”). It’s just that most of my birthdays since I was fifteen or sixteen have–for reasons I thought in high school were coincidental–rocked my emotional foundations and left me at the end of the day depressed or in tears.

First of all, I know that it’s my fault. I don’t think any of my loved ones with whom I have celebrated my age changing intentionally exacerbate the precarious emotional state I end up in on my birthday. Rather, it is what I expect of people–expectations that are unrealistic–combined with a bit of bad luck that makes me dislike my birthday.

When I turned sixteen, I wanted a car, though I didn’t fully believe I would or should get one. I must not have given my parents a birthday list either. (I don’t know why the hell I would do something so stupid. I mean, I set myself to be disappointed. The only reason I can think of to explain why I didn’t mention my birthday list to my parents is that I went through a phase of extreme frugality in high school during which I would avoid gifts and leisure spending at all [figurative/financial] cost. Still, what a stupid thing to do.) So I woke up to find a card and a leather toiletry tote bag. The card told me to “look in the toothbrush case,” which I assumed meant the tote bag, and found hygienic items. What’s more is that I saw a tiny toy car nearby. This was, well it was a joke. And man did I not it was fucking funny at all.

I was shocked at what I received. I must have figured that, even without a list, my parents would still know what was hot in the streets, and get me something cool. Instead, I found nothing but small travel gear and a gag gift.

During school that day, I couldn’t help but notice that no one thought it was awesome that it was my birthday. I wondered why no one congratulated me for…living. (I don’t know exactly why we earn favor on our birthdays, but we somehow do, and even if it’s arbitrary, it feels great!) I wondered, but I knew the answer: I had not told anyone it was my birthday. Instead I expected them to know already. I believe I was just then exiting the solipsistic world of a child’s where it seems like the whole world just happens to know it’s your birthday.

So I became angry at my friends for withholding laughter and good cheer and all that (even though they were withholding nothing). But I still didn’t mention anything to anyone. I tried to be as stoic as I could while hating the day.

At lunch, I found the table I wanted to sit at was at around 250% capacity by the time I got my food. (By the way, why didn’t the lunchladies let me get my food first? It was my freaking birthday!) It was the very beginning of the school year, and people were still figuring out whom they would be eating lunch with for the semester. That meant, with my one viable option for a table at the time gone, I sat by myself. In the center of the lunch room. Plenty of room around me. I was unhappy.

A young gentlemen named Brian (I think) sat across from me because the overpacked table was his first choice as well. We knew each other, but were nothing close to friends. Nevertheless, Brian was more outgoing (ears pierced, you see) and tried to make conversation with sad, quiet me. Frustrated as I was, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“It’s my birthday, actually,” I told him.

“Oh, well happy birthday, man. That’s cool,” came the reply.

And with that release, my brain ordered legions of endorphins to acknowledge the fortune I had had. In a way, it was even more significant that it was a semi-acquaintance-but-mostly-stranger who praised me because it felt like he went out of his way to congratulate me when he didn’t have to. And I didn’t even like that guy, but I did that day.

So I get home and my mom asked me how I liked my birthday present. I was obsessing about admitting to my mom that I didn’t like my present. My mind could not escape the thought of telling her. But when I did, as I said it, I realized how horrible and awful a person I was for saying it that I was crying before I finished speaking.

“I…don’t know…it’s not that I don’t appreciate the gift. It’s just, I feel like you didn’t care about my birthday enough to put more thought into a gift…”

She asked me if I looked in the toothbrush holder. I said no, finally realizing that there was a proper object by that name inside the leather case. Inside it was a $100 bill.

I was already crying, and upon receiving a huge amount of money (for a sixteen-year-old), the shame exploded. I apologized and apologized to my mom for even suggesting the thoughts I had had all day, telling her that I “just had to say something,” or some bullshit. She said it was OK.

I called my girlfriend crying and feeling like the ass that I was, and then went to dinner with my parents. My mom had gone out and bought me a pretty metal Fossil watch, wrapped it, and presented it to me at the Olive Garden. What you’re reading is a tale of me guilting my parents into buying me more presents. (It’s not the only time I’d done that, I am shamed to say.)

On my birthday the year before (I believe) my family’s dog, a chihuahua named Dot, was attacked and killed by a vicious neighboring rottweiler or something.

On my eighteenth birthday, I was in the middle of one of the scariest transitions of my life from at-home-grade-school-kid to college-aged-adult-ish. I spent the day at UGA Redcoat marching band camp, surrounded by people who already had friends or were better than me at making new ones. I was a little puppy lost in a big city, scared out of my mind. Though again, this was my fault. My band mates weren’t evil, I was just scared of them because my brain doesn’t work. After dark, the sousaphone section of which I was a part was wrapping up their end-of-the-day announcements, and I yelled out to these people,

“Wait!” I paused and then, “It’s my birthday!”

Then they paused. I’m sure they were confused by my sudden burst. Then they all screamed and smiled, one guy picked me up and took me around the circle of sousas, each one congratulatorily slapping my behind. I was elated, and this is a fond memory, but the entire day, the entire week before, I was frightened and lonely.

My point is that my birthdays have come to remind me of sadness and alienation. As each one approaches, rather than anticipating good times, I am scared that one tiny thing will fuck it all up. Each birthday stands on the precipice of being the worst day of the year for me.

This year is no different. I’m fearful and nervous that tomorrow, my birthday, will end poorly. Many of my friends are out of town, and others seem to be busy with other endeavors, unable to come and support me.

I’m not complaining, only explaining. I’m still wary and nervous. And it’s still my fault.

Artist – Chris Whitehead
Album – 恋物語 (pronounced “koi monogatari”)

Tracklist:

1. Something I Want to Say
2. My Hands Are My Pillow
3. One Maybe Two Nights
4. Savetheworldman Rescues Beautygirl
5. The Wind, the Sky, the Shade, the Leaves
6. Am I Enlightened?
7. Breezilude
8. 「Rescue Me」と言って (pronounced “toh itte”)
9. You’re Never One to Miss Me
10. Darkest Part of the Forest
11. Carried Away
12. Look Into Your Eyes
13. We Cannot Have What We Want

My second album, if you don’t already have it, is available at the link above. Enjoy!

If it is plain, obvious, common, or harmless, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let other people know.

But what if this something that you have learned is a controversial bit of information? I imagine, if you told someone, you could at best remove the sketchy parts together and come to a definitive answer; at worst start a fight and ruin a night.

More to the point, what if you speak some slice of knowledge that others would not normally have?

In this case, you’re either a teacher or an asshole. But how can we determine the difference? What makes the distinction: what is said or who said it?

Imagine you are studying in an obscure field at a university, like poultry science or philosophy of language. It is natural that your esoteric curriculum provides you with funny stories and obscure factoids.

So this imaginary-linguistic-philosopher-you tells me, “Japanese and Turkish are in the same language family, you know. It’s weird but proven by experts in my field.”

“Oh yeah?” I’d probably say. “That’s weird.” I’d ask for an explanation, and whether you had one that a layman can understand would determine whether I believed it. But also, it would settle the teacher/asshole question.

1. “So, many of the sounds are pronounced the same in both languages. Also, Turkish grammar is as backwards from English as Japanese. It goes like subject-object-verb, for instance.”

2. “Morphemic similarities are negligible, but phonemes are often comparable. Also, they’re clearly syntactically congruous, don’t you think? Just ask Minamoto Yoritomo!”

Which choice shows pedagogy, and which pretentiousness? I know I would not want to hear choice 2 over the first. But why?

For one, the language is too esoteric. Not only jargon, but actual scientific dictionary-noted terms should not begin an explanation of a specific field like comparative linguistics. An educated person does not try to confuse listeners or belittle them; they realize the negative effects too clearly, and they see no utility in it anyway. Choice 2′s speaker might be someone just entering his field. He thinks the information is so cool and interesting, but more importantly sounds cool and interesting. So to whom does he go to impress? It’s hard to say. Maybe he tells the first person who will listen. Maybe he waits for an enemy and starts a debate he cannot lose. Or maybe he tells his closest friends, unaware that arrogance breeds discomfort, distrust, and dislike.

An important part of lucid, friendly, effective speaking is understanding your audience. I don’t mean judging your audience — that’s too harsh and allows too much power for the speaker — but being loosely aware of their language.

I just picked up my graduation robes today (true story), and I imagined what would have happened if, questioned about my height, I said to the clerk with a straight face, “178.”

It made me mad at my imaginary self because he knew she wasn’t asking for centimeters. But he said it anyways; no unit of measurement, no “which in feet is…” conversion, nothing. This is how you do it wrong. Of course, metric numbers have their place in conversation, but that scenario had a gross misuse of them.

Now the flip-side: is uncommon, esoteric knowledge forbidden from friendly conversation? Of course not. I welcome new facts and stories and theories. I want to hear that stuff every day. But discerning how to properly inject them makes all the difference between educator and asshole.

Each time an obscurity floats up in my head during a discussion, I struggle to decide how to place it properly in my speech, and whether to mention it at all. I usually keep it down, but if I feel it will lend to the education and enjoyment of my listener, it earns the right to be spoken.

I’ve had my failures and blushed-cheek embarrassment, but I’m getting better. I try and say things like, “Yeah, it’s like in Kansai, the western part of the big island in Japan, everyone’s nicer than in Tokyo.” But sometimes I come across like a jerk. It hurts, and perhaps I’m too sensitive about it, but it irks me.

Two caveats before I finish:

1. The person who knows nothing but academia, one who is absolutely steeped in the kind of facts that would either get jeered or blank stares at a party, is an exception to my advice. A friend from Oxford University visited me last week, and he, Sarah, and I ate dinner in Atlanta. We met in Japan, and it was clear from the start that he was an academe through-and-through. So when he arrived in Atlanta, it was no surprise that he knew more about Georgia elections and downtown hotels than we did. He made more than one joke that soared over our heads. But he meant no harm. You can tell when you meet him that he knows no other way. The disconnect is jarring, but he doesn’t mind explaining himself — just ask.

2. In writing, (my) rules are less strict about what you can include in friendly discourse. If you load a blog or paper with neologisms and obscure Victorian poet quotes, you have weighed the writing down with your own fat ego, and it will never get off the ground. But — and I read this, so it’s true — including occasional unspoken words can spice up your writing and make it more unique, more personal. Furthermore, including one (and no more than two) reference is just fine, provided the writing cannot exist without it. The reason is that if I were to mention the Gothic king Alaric to you face-to-face, I would necessarily be testing you or challenging you. And that will not make the world a better place. But if I write it, you have your own time to look up his name, or decide it isn’t worth learning. In this way, esoteric references can be pure: written only to flavor the writing and to teach you a small bit of knowledge.

Honestly, though, I think I am too sensitive about all of this.