The Mysterious East, Vol. XXXIX

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

'Cute ambassadors' roam globe to promote Japan's pop culture

By JUN KAMINISHIKAWARA

Kyodo News

Three female "ambassadors of cute" appointed by the Foreign Ministry have started traveling abroad to introduce Japanese pop culture to young people overseas.

Cutesypoo: Entertainer Shizuka Fujioka (standing), known for her high school uniform outfits, dispenses fashion advice at a Japan Festival in Bangkok in March. KYODO PHOTO

One of the "kawaii ambassadors," Shizuka Fujioka, the "magician clothing coordinator" known for her school uniform outfits, took part in an event in Thailand in March. The other two will hit Paris in July.

At her appearance at a Japan Festival in Bangkok, Fujioka advised young ladies on how to dress.

"You look very pretty in the uniform," one young Thai told her at the festival. "I would like to go to Japan."

School uniforms are in vogue in Thailand, thanks in part to a Japanese "anime" based at a school campus.

Misako Aoki, a Lolita-esque fashion model boasting girlish tastes, and vocalist Yu Kimura, known for dressing in several layers of old clothing, will be sent to Paris to promote a Japan Expo from July 2 to 5.

Many young French are fascinated with anime and "cosplay," or the hobby of dressing up in costumes based on their favorite characters. More than 100,000 people attended the expo last year and more are expected this time around.

To help the world learn more about Japan, the Foreign Ministry is promoting exchange projects related to traditional culture and art, such as kabuki and noh.

It has also been playing up the growing popularity of Japanese pop culture worldwide. To target young people, the ministry chose the three women as Japan's "flag people" in February.

When Prime Minister Taro Aso, an admitted comic book freak, was foreign minister, he promoted "pop culture diplomacy" by establishing an international prize for "manga."

But some people are raising eyebrows over the use of "kawaii" as the culture campaign's latest buzzword.

Kaori Maruya, a Diet member from New Komeito, is one of them.

"I'd like you to be careful about unwarranted criticism against overseas tours by 'pretty ambassadors' wearing very short skirts," Maruya said at a session of the Lower House Foreign Affairs Committee on April 24.

Kenjiro Monji, head of the Public Diplomacy Department at the Foreign Ministry, replied that it is important not to offend the host countries.

"We'll try to effectively carry out the project by taking the local situations into account," Monji said.

Envoy Fujioka agreed.

"I think it will be in Japan's national interest if there is at least one person in the host country who thinks I'm pretty," she said.

Confronting the CIA's Mind Maze

A brief history of contemporary American torture

Alfred W. McCoy, J.R.W. Smail Professor of History at the University of Wisconsin-Madison

Over a 40-year period, Americans have found themselves mired in this same moral quagmire on six separate occasions: following exposés of CIA-sponsored torture in South Vietnam (1970), Brazil (1974), Iran (1978), Honduras (1988), and then throughout Latin America (1997). After each exposé, the public's shock soon faded, allowing the Agency to resume its dirty work in the shadows.

Confronting the CIA's Mind Maze

Heroic Peoples' Struggle Blocks Hood Hotel

architect's sketch of proposed Campus Inn

Anarchist Headquarters, University City

The cold December sun streamed through the grimy broken window onto Dexter the Anarchist, sprawled on a torn mattress on the floor of the squalid and wretched squat. "Ho!" he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly and burying his filthy dread-locked head in his hands. "My head is throbbing like a fucking bomb! What the fuck was I doing last night?" He paused. "Pardon my French."

"Smack, crack cocaine, ecstasy and horse tranquilizers," retorted Gretchen, looking down at him dully. Her enormous but unwashed breasts shifted massively beneath her ragged peasant blouse under which she wore no bra. "Plus which you were out past midnight scrawling obscenities on the walls up and down Baltimore. What the hell were you thinking, if you can call it thinking? One of these days the UCD pigs are going to come down on you hard."

"Fuck the fucking UCD pigs!" swore Dexter, as he absentmindedly gathered up last night's used condoms and tossed them through a broken window onto the sidewalk.

"I mean it, Dex," sighed Gretchen, prying open a can of pork and beans with a rusty switchblade. "Those UCD dudes are rough, man. They won't even take you to jail for a shower and a hot meal -- they'll just beat the crap out of you in some back alley."

"Look, Gretch," snarled Dexter, combing his stubby unwashed fingers through his soiled dreadlocks. "Are you down with the revolution or what? Sometimes I wonder about you. I mean, are you part of the fuckin problem or part of the fuckin solution? I mean, are you on the fuckin bus or off the fuckin bus?"

"All I know is that we're almost out of food," whined Gretchen, spooning the greasy concoction of beans and pork fat into cracked and discolored ceramic bowls. "You're either gonna hafta go out and peddle some horse to raise some dough, or else go score more beans up at Philabundance with your homeless routine. And I am *definitely* not going out to walk the streets down on Beaumont Avenue again, if that's what you're thinking."

"Aw, fuck that fuckin shit," growled Dexter, beating out a primitive tattoo on a home-made drum fashioned from a discarded plastic paint bucket. "Pardon my French."

The Gentrification of the Corridor

The Gentrification of the Corridor

THE GENTRIFICATION OF THE CORRIDOR

December, 2003. University City Village lay in ruins. Dogs, many of them Borzois, wandered unleashed, bumping pedestrians off the sidewalks. Feral roosters and ferrets hunted in packs. Hair braiding salons and stop-and-go delis dotted Baltimore Avenue, and bands of pre-adolescent Negro teenagers hung on the street corners, hefting their AK-47s and brazenly dealing smack.

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In 200 College Hall, President Cherry Ramsbottom was about to preside over her Tuesday morning debriefing. At 59, Ramsbottom, the first female Ivy League president, was also the highest paid and most curvaceous; her $800,000 annual salary and benefits package made her the third best compensated university president in the nation. She was also one of the most compassionate -- rumor had it she gave most of her salary to charity, reserving only enough for her personal luxuries such as lipsticks, nail polish, and occasional trips to Singapore for face lifts and breast augmentation.

Peter Proven, her personal assistant, boy toy, sex slave and graduate student in English, was laying out a sumptuous buffet of croissants, bagels, and Danishes with an exotic assortment of cream cheeses and Amish jams. Handsome and distinguished Stetson Graykirk, University Counsel, was pensively sipping a molto grande cappucino allegrosso as he stared out at the dozen statues of Benjamin Franklin in various poses that dotted College Green. Vice President for Real Estate, Acquisitions and Mergers Guido Minelli was already seated at the long teak conference table, shuffling through his papers. Down two places across the table sat Eric von Hohenstaufen, Obergruppenfuhrer of the University Police and executive director of the University City Village District.

Cherry Ramsbottom emerged from her private office and Proven, buff, tanned and 20-something, rushed to pull out her chair for her. "Down, Peter, down -- oh, behave!" she greeted him cheerily. "Right, let's get started," she said as Graykirk took his place at the table.