Jinglish

[Faithless]

They've even hijacked our language. Jinglish, or an awkwardly sideways rendition of English, continues to proliferate in the land of shabu-shabu, excellent beer and robotic housekeepers.
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Any English will do, as long as it's trendily catapulting the Latin alphabet, kind of like some apparel worn by North Americans where kanji of any stripe will do.
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Why all the Jinglish? It's partly because the Japanese language with its more than 3,000 characters is so complex, English is used to simplify in a form known as romaji.

'Jinglish' lesson -- Japanese give our language a whole new meaning

Mon, April 24, 2006 | By Bill Kaufmann

TOKYO -- They once conquered economically.

One spin past the humming industrial and port complex surrounding Yokohama is a testament to the rebounding brute strength of Japanese commerce.

The country's TV news flashes images of padlocked North American auto plants while their own thrive.

They've even hijacked our language. Jinglish, or an awkwardly sideways rendition of English, continues to proliferate in the land of shabu-shabu, excellent beer and robotic housekeepers.

Don't get me wrong -- the Japanese get English right more often than not and should be given full marks for trying.

The country is weirdly, though generously devoted to making tongue-tied North Americans feel linguistically at home.

One can only imagine the howlers hidden in Canadian forays into kanji, or Asian script.

A quick trip through the storefront and published English of Calgary reveals its own tale of grammatical massacre, spelling crimes and punctuation abuse of a native language.

A sign outside one Calgary eatery promises "War Won Ton." Could it be served in blitzkrieg broth?

Still, a journey through the southeast portion of the main island, Honshu, revealed an entertaining kaliedescope of Japan's take on English -- endearlingly lost in translation.

Repetition is a Jinglish artform, as shown by one subway ad. "Perfect balance is symbolized by the visual graphic of the triangle image," reads a gin ad above sardine-packed riders.

The admonition "do not touch doubtful things" on another train let the imagination run rampant.

A tourist coach was marked "Joyful Sightseeing Bus" -- proof the Who were out of their depth in titling one of their hits.

T-shirts are a prime canvas for Jinglish viewing; "My home casket heart" was enough to warm cockels all the way to Nagasaki while "Ozone Rocks" was blissfully devoid of any environmental context.

Grandmas can be seen clad in T-shirts splashed with gangsta rap lyrics complete with racial slurs, propelling seniors into the ranks of the unwittingly, dubiously hip.

Any English will do, as long as it's trendily catapulting the Latin alphabet, kind of like some apparel worn by North Americans where kanji of any stripe will do.

"There's no way you're wearing that in Japan," instructed my wife, gazing in horror at a T-shirt I'd purchased marked "Kamikazi" in kanji that only a clueless tourist would exhibit.

But the Japanese have a corner on overly-ripe poetry, as evidenced by the flourish on the wrapper of a hotel hairbrush.

"Holding you close is like holding the summer sun ..." gushes the rhapsody in dandruff.

It wouldn't be Japan without an ode to earthquakes, as this cautionary hotel ditty attests.

"Behave calmly ... protect your head and escape, paying attention to tumbling furniture and falling objects."

Somehow, the accompanying assurance that "we have our perfect safety and security systems" didn't hold much sake.

Dustcovers at Tokyo bookstores carry the brand name "Brajackets," supplying the suspicion more than just pages are meant to be concealed.

A trip near Mt. Fuji was taken on a train with a cramped men's washroom, the door of which was fitted with a large window.

Charges of indecent exposure would be hard-pressed to stick, though I was expecting advice for passersby along the lines of "uncomfortable eye movement is required at this juncture."

Another not-quite-bullet train, perhaps the blow dart express, boasted washroom doors mercifully lacking windows, perhaps as a nod to the zero mile high club, a theory lent credence by the train's name: Romancecar.

Couples seeking privacy in a notoriously cramped Japan patronize so-called love hotels, and one dubbed "Hotel Be Free" spoke eloquently of sexual liberation, if not revolution.

One storefront advertised "English available" without spelling out in the same tongue what services were provided, though modesty was likely a factor on this office, which belonged to a gynecologist.

An optical retailer's "Refresh Thanks Sale" put things in focus.

Why all the Jinglish? It's partly because the Japanese language with its more than 3,000 characters is so complex, English is used to simplify in a form known as romaji.

But no matter how obtusely it sometimes reads, it'll never rival the Yale-educated, increasingly radioactive George W. "I'm the decider" Bush in crucifying a language's syntax.

Unlike the Japanese, the leader of the English-speaking world and other North American word manglers have no excuse.