Absurd with Class

There are two kinds of inventions in the world: those that solve problems — and those that make us wonder whether those were even problems to begin with. Chindōgu belongs to the latter category. It is the art of creating things that are “almost useful” — clever enough to work, yet absurd enough to make no sense whatsoever. When Kenji Kawakami introduced his first “strange tools” to the world in the 1990s, people discovered that Japan was home to more than just robots, geisha, sushi, and Nintendo — it was also home to the exquisite art of being absurd with style.

Kawakami was like a Zen monk who, instead of preaching about emptiness, designed shoe brushes attached to slippers. In an era when Japan was drowning in a sea of consumption and countless useful modern gadgets, his inventions were like poetic provocations: a mixer with an antenna, umbrellas for shoes, a hat with a roll of toilet paper for allergy sufferers. A little Zen, a little Monty Python — chindōgu is laughter in the face of the logic that tells us everything must “be useful.” It is a rebellion against a world where every app promises to “boost productivity,” and every day must deliver “added value.” Kawakami reminded us that thinking doesn’t always have to lead to results — sometimes it is enough if it leads to a smile and a moment of reflection.

For chindōgu are not projects meant for specialists. Their uselessness is meant to be universal — understandable to every human being, regardless of language, age, or profession. Everyone has the right to invent nonsense — one of the most beautiful human rights that no one has yet written into any constitution. In times when even absurdity is being sold on Amazon, chindōgu remains the last bastion of freedom — useless, impractical, unmonetized (so far), and wonderfully human. Let us explore the philosophy of this Japanese engineer and the ten commandments that guide these peculiar “Japanese Dadaists.”

What Is Chindōgu?

Let us start with the word itself. Chindōgu (珍道具) is one of those Japanese terms that sound simple at first — until they draw you into the abyss of absurdity and admiration for human creativity. The first character, 珍 (chin), means something rare, strange, curious — precious because of its uniqueness. The second, 道具 (dōgu), simply means a tool, an instrument, an implement. Together they form an expression that can be translated as “weird tool,” though that translation lacks the charm of the idea itself. For chindōgu is not merely a gadget — it is something suspended between a flash of genius and complete nonsense.

Kenji Kawakami, the father of this phenomenon, called them “un-useless inventions.” And that is indeed the perfect translation, capturing the very essence of the concept. Chindōgu cannot be fully useful, for then they would lose their soul — but they cannot be completely useless either, for then they would lose their intrigue. They exist on the thin border of reason — inventions that solve small everyday problems only to immediately create new, even bigger ones.

For example: have you ever burned your tongue on hot ramen? Of course you have. Here’s the solution — chopsticks with a miniature fan at the tip to cool the noodles before they reach your mouth. Problem solved? Not quite — now your meal is electric. Or another classic: the butter stick — butter in the form of a stick, like a deodorant. Perfect for spreading on toast! As long as the bread isn’t too soft…

Behind the humor of chindōgu lies a distinctly Japanese way of thinking about the world. It is not only a joke about technological excess but also a subtle play on the word dōgu — a term deeply rooted in Japanese tradition, evoking practicality, mastery, and craftsmanship. Dōgu are, after all, also the tools used by masters of the tea ceremony, calligraphers, potters, or samurai — symbols of perfection, harmony, and meaning. Kawakami, with the ironic sparkle of a Zen monk after three espressos, took this useful concept and fused it with absurd uselessness in everyday life. The result was something like a haiku created by an engineer with mild depression and a big heart.

This is precisely where the charm of chindōgu lies: they are a manifesto of freedom of thought, as Kawakami himself used to say. In a world where every action must have a purpose, and every product must be “innovative,” chindōgu is an act of quiet rebellion. These are objects that do not wish to be sold, patented, or turned into the next viral hit on Amazon. Their only purpose is… to remind us that humans can still invent things purely for the joy of creating, without any corporate logic behind them.

Some compare chindōgu to a Japanese form of functional Dadaism — a movement that, instead of making “art for art’s sake,” creates tools for nothing. Indeed, Kawakami himself was an aeronautical engineer by training and a former left-wing activist. In his “almost useless” projects, one can hear both the spirit of experimentation and a faint contempt for a world that insists on measuring the value of everything in money.

A Bit of History First

To understand where chindōgu came from, we must go back to Japan in the second half of the 20th century — a country that, after decades of economic reconstruction, entered the 1980s like a well-oiled machine powered by sake and perfection. Japan was then the very symbol of a technological miracle. Industrial robots danced at trade fairs in Osaka, Seiko electronic watches were everywhere, and every new gadget promised to finally make life easier. That was when the spirit of excess was born — an obsession with innovation, productivity, and flawless rationality. And as it often happens, from the very heart of rationality arose a rebellion — small, harmless, yet brilliantly subversive. Its name was Chindōgu.

The creator of this movement was Kenji Kawakami, a man who made a surprising journey from aeronautics student to philosopher of absurd inventions. Born in 1946 in Nara Prefecture, he studied aerospace engineering at Tokai University. But instead of designing jet engines, he dropped out to join the radical student movements of the 1960s and 1970s — the same ones that built barricades against Japan’s alliance with the U.S. and American military bases (from which emerged violent organizations such as the JRA — more here: JRA, or Japanese Red Army – a Bloody Terrorist Organization from Japan). As he later recalled, it was a time when young Japanese truly believed they could change the world — with ideas, megaphones, and a bit of gasoline in an empty sake bottle.

Kawakami belonged to that generation of idealists who, in the 1980s, suddenly found themselves in a completely different reality: revised, polished, and sold on installments. Japan had shifted from counterculture to corporation. Where ideals once stood, skyscrapers now rose — accompanied by the click of Casio calculators. In this new era, Kawakami found employment as an editor at the magazine Tsūhan Seikatsu (“Mail Order Life”) — a mail-order catalog that could be described as the paper Amazon of the Shōwa era.

And it was here, among descriptions of blenders, heated blankets, and coffee makers, that the first chindōgu was born. One day, Kawakami had a few blank pages to fill. Instead of ordering ads, he decided to fill them as a joke — with photos of items that weren’t for sale at all. He came up with glasses equipped with funnels for applying eye drops, and a solar-powered flashlight that works only when it isn’t needed. These were objects entirely absurd — and yet disturbingly logical. In a world that worshipped innovation, these small acts of sabotage against common sense were like Zen kōan: brilliantly devoid of logical meaning.

Chindōgu Was the Child of the Bubble Economy Era

Chindōgu was, therefore, a child of Japan’s bubble economy era — a time when society was consuming not only goods but also the very idea of “being modern.” Kawakami noticed that everything — from toothbrushes to smart toilets — was becoming a commodity, a status symbol, an element in an endless race toward perfection. His response was to create objects that refused to cooperate with capitalism. Objects that could neither be sold nor patented, because by definition they were too foolish to be useful, and too clever to be useless.

In the 1990s, Kawakami met Dan Papia, an American editor of Tokyo Journal, who decided to introduce his ideas to the Western world. Fascinated by the anarchic spirit of the Japanese inventor, Papia helped him found the International Chindōgu Society, whose members (yes, they really existed!) pledged to follow the ten principles of chindōgu — a kind of code of honor for creators of “un-useless” things. In 1995, the two published the book “101 Unuseless Japanese Inventions: The Art of Chindōgu,” which quickly became a cult classic. Two years later came the sequel, “99 More Unuseless Japanese Inventions,” and by then the world already knew that Japan was home to more than robots, geisha, and sushi — it was also home to the exquisite art of being absurd with class.

In the West, chindōgu arrived at the perfect moment. The 1990s were an era when Japan had ceased to be an economic threat and had become instead an object of admiration and exotic fascination. In the British and American press, Kawakami was described alternately as a “philosopher of chaos” and a “madman from Nara.” His inventions — such as the chopsticks with fans or the baby mop suit — appeared on BBC television, in American talk shows, and in French art galleries. For some, they were mere jokes in the “wacky Japan” category; for others, they were a profound, Dadaist critique of consumer civilization.

Kawakami himself enjoyed this ambiguity. In interviews, he often repeated that chindōgu were a “manifesto of freedom from rationality,” and that “a world full of useful things is dangerous because it kills imagination.” He never profited from any of his ideas, never patented an invention, and never accepted lecture fees. All the money he earned from his books he donated to social causes. He was like a Zen monk who, instead of preaching about emptiness, designed shoe brushes glued to slippers.

Thus, chindōgu did not arise in a vacuum. It was not just a joke or an “Oriental oddity,” as Western journalists liked to frame it. It was a social diagnosis — ironic, light-hearted, yet striking straight at the heart of the matter. In a world that measures everything by usefulness, chindōgu reminded us that not everything needs to serve a purpose — and that sometimes the best way to survive the absurdity of modern life is to invent something even more absurd.

The Rules Governing Chindōgu

The Ten Commandments

Kenji Kawakami, like a philosopher of technical Zen, formulated ten rules that distinguish true chindōgu from mere stupidity. This is not some random list from a DIY forum — it’s more like the “Tao of Nonsense Inventions.” Each point is a micro-manifesto, written with humor and a glint of philosophical mischief. Let’s take a closer look.

#1. It Must Not Be (Too) Useful

The main rule, the very heart of the idea. If something truly works and can be used daily — it ceases to be chindōgu. It becomes just an invention. Chindōgu exists in the space between usefulness and absurdity, in that blissful state where you solve one problem only to immediately create another.
Example: Slippers with mops on the soles — you clean the floor as you walk… but you leave streaks behind, and you’ll never reach the bathroom with dry feet.
Reflection: In a world where every “smart” device tries to be too clever, chindōgu reminds us that sometimes it’s better if something doesn’t work too well. Only then do we have room for laughter, distance, and philosophical awareness of our own clumsiness.

#2. It Must Exist Physically

An idea on paper is not enough. Chindōgu is not a concept — it is the embodiment of a concept, something you can hold, try on, put on a shelf, and look at with amusement.
Example: A hat with a roll of toilet paper mounted on top, for allergy sufferers with year-round runny noses. Sounds like a joke, but it really exists.
Reflection: In an age of digital “prototypes” and AI-generated concepts, chindōgu insists on physical reality. It’s a rebellion against a world where even ideas no longer need to exist in matter. Kawakami seems to say: Make it real, even if it’s stupid. After all, real-world foolishness is more honest than wisdom in PowerPoint.

#3. Freedom of Thought

Chindōgu are acts of rebellion against the tyranny of usefulness. They serve neither logic, profit, nor corporate design. They are an affirmation of creative freedom — the freedom to make something that makes no sense, without apologizing for it.
Example: Chopsticks with a fan for cooling ramen — a revolutionary way to eat noodles that makes you look like an engineer from an anime.
Reflection: The anarchic spirit of chindōgu is the same impulse that led the Dadaists to hang urinals in art galleries. It’s the freedom to create for the sake of creation itself — as if someone were saying: “You don’t have to be productive to be brilliant.”

#4. Everyday Use / Universal Understanding

Chindōgu are not projects for specialists. Their uselessness must be universal, understandable to every human being, regardless of language, age, or profession.
Example: Shoe umbrellas — protection for your footwear from the rain, as long as you don’t step into a puddle.
Reflection: A good chindōgu is like a universal joke — funny in Tokyo, London, and Warsaw alike. It is pure communication that transcends cultures. That’s why chindōgu humor needs no words — it’s enough to look and instantly grasp the absurdity of the situation.

#5. It Must Not Be for Sale

This rule is as sacred as the Zen principle of non-attachment — because the moment you try to sell something, you stop being free. Chindōgu must not be sold, for the charm of freedom and humor would vanish.
Example: If someone tried to sell the “baby mop” — a jumpsuit for infants that lets them clean the floor while crawling — it would be blasphemy against the idea. (And yes, unfortunately, it did happen on Amazon.)
Reflection: In a world where everything can be monetized — from emotions to mindfulness — chindōgu was meant to be the last bastion of pure creation without purpose. It’s an ironic utopia: an object whose value lies precisely in the fact that it has no price.

#6. Humor Is Not the Sole Purpose

Laughter is a by-product, not the goal. When creating chindōgu, you are not making a joke — you are doing something seriously, it’s just that the result happens to be… somewhat funny.
Example: The “Travel Napper” — a helmet with a suction cup that can attach to the subway window, allowing you to sleep without falling over. It makes you look like a cross between an astronaut, a miner, and a sleeping Buddha.
Reflection: This rule is about sincerity of intent. When you create chindōgu, you are not trying to make anyone laugh — you are doing something with complete seriousness, and it is precisely that seriousness that becomes funny. It recalls a certain Zen saying: “When you try to be profound, you become shallow; when you are simple, depth appears by itself.”

#7. It Must Not Be Propaganda

Chindōgu does not moralize. It is not meant to serve any ideology, movement, or social manifesto. Its power lies in innocence.
Example: A sun umbrella with a built-in solar panel and LED light — neither ecological nor practical, simply pointless.
Reflection: In times when every gesture is supposed to be a “statement,” chindōgu restores the joy of doing things for no reason. It is a quiet lesson in apoliticism — art for art’s sake, laughter for laughter’s sake.

#8. Never Taboo

Chindōgu must not be vulgar, offensive, or violate social norms. It is not provocation — it is humor that disarms rather than harms.
Example: A fake hand to hold the knife while cutting so you don’t nick your fingers — it looks macabre, but it (almost) works.
Reflection: Unlike Western “shock art,” chindōgu never crosses the boundaries of good taste. Its absurdity is gentle, subtle, and respectful of the viewer. It’s more Zen than punk.

#9. It Cannot Be Patented

Once something becomes property, it loses its charm. Chindōgu is a gift to the world, not a means to profit.
Example: The solar flashlight — it only works during the day. No one filed a patent, and rightly so.
Reflection: In an age when companies patent even the shape of an emoji smile, chindōgu is an act of pure creative freedom. It is the idea of the commons — a shared field of absurdity from which anyone may draw.

#10. Without Prejudice

Chindōgu is democratic. It knows no boundaries of gender, age, origin, or status. Everyone has the right to invent nonsense.
Example: Earplug earrings — brilliant and (sort of) practical.
Reflection: In a world where innovation is elitist, chindōgu is egalitarian. You don’t need a lab or grants — just a bit of plastic, some tape, and an idea. It is democratic creativity and thus, in a sense… revolutionary.

Each of these rules is a small philosophy — a little Zen, a little Monty Python. Together they form an ethics of free thinking that says: do not be afraid to create things that make no sense. In a world that tries too hard to be sensible, it is precisely these things that restore balance.

10 Examples of Chindōgu

1). Butter in a Stick
バタースティック

Butter in stick form, like a deodorant. Just twist and spread it on your toast with the grace of an office clerk in a hurry.
This is chindōgu in its purest form: useful only until you start thinking about it.

2). Hay Fever Set
花粉症ヘッドセット

Earmuffs with a miniature holder for a roll of toilet paper placed just above the nose. Just pull the end when a sneezing fit begins.
Absurd: A mobile tissue dispenser — because nothing looks more elegant than toilet paper on your head.
Reflection: The poetry of Japanese functionality — when practicality becomes so radical it turns into performance.

3). Back-Scratching Map Shirt
背中かき地図シャツ

A shirt with a printed grid of coordinates on the back — so the other person knows exactly where to scratch.
Absurd: Brilliant, until someone starts scratching in GPS mode: “Requesting adjustment in square D-4.”
Reflection: An irony about the need for control — even an itch must be precisely located in an age of overcommunication.

4). “Aparato” — 360° Camera Cap
３６０度カメラ帽

A cap with disposable cameras attached all the way around.
Absurd: Lets you capture a panorama of the world without moving — something Instagram achieved twenty years later.
Reflection: A commentary on the obsession with documenting life. Sometimes one look is enough, not thirty-six.

5). Solar Flashlight
ソーラー懐中電灯

The already-mentioned flashlight powered by solar energy, working only when it’s bright enough not to need it.
Absurd: A symbol of the helpless logic of technological progress.
Reflection: Almost a Zen paradox — an object that reminds you light exists only thanks to darkness.

6). Dog-Walking Umbrella
犬用傘

An umbrella mounted to the leash that keeps the dog dry in the rain. The human gets soaked; the dog stays dry.
Absurd: Proof that in contemporary Japan, animal welfare outruns human aesthetics.
Reflection: A miniature of the modern world: the human sacrifices themself for the pet’s good — which the pet doesn’t even notice.

7). Napkin Tie
ナプキンネクタイ

A tie made of material you can tear off and use as a napkin during lunch.
Absurd: Business style and hygiene in one — though after the meal you’re left in a shirt with no tie and a sense of defeat.
Reflection: A parody of Japanese office etiquette — where form matters more than sense, chindōgu becomes an enlightened business etiquette.

8). Shoulder Umbrella
肩傘

A small umbrella clipped to the shoulder to keep your hands free.
Absurd: Instead of freedom it gives you a tiny private canopy that swivels with your every move.
Reflection: A metaphor for modern comfort — the more you try to make life easier, the more you restrict your own movement.

9). Page-Turning Fan
ページめくり扇風機

A miniature fan attached to a book that gently turns the pages when you press a button.
Absurd: Ideal for lazy intellectuals — no physical contact with the medium, only the flow of air and ideas.
Reflection: A caricature of the culture of consuming knowledge. You no longer need to read — you only need a device that “reads” for you.

10). Subway Strap Glove
つり革手袋

A glove with a subway strap loop attached so you can “hang” anywhere — even outside the train.
Absurd: A simulation of urban suffering — an ergonomic way to feel like you’re on the Tokyo subway without a ticket.
Reflection: This is chindōgu as metaphysics: the modern human cannot rest until they pretend to be en route.

Philosophical and Social Depth: Why Does It Really Exist?

At first glance, chindōgu seems simply funny — a kind of Japanese technological humor born from a national obsession with gadgets. But that’s just the surface. In reality, chindōgu is a blade of satire aimed straight at the heart of modernity: at a society that has reduced the value of human creativity to measurable usefulness, and the meaning of objects to their price and function.

Kenji Kawakami, the creator of the concept, was no television prankster or comic inventor — he was a former engineer who refused to participate in the world of “productivity at any cost.” During Japan’s economic boom of the 1980s and 1990s — when Tokyo glowed like a calculator screen and every object had to be “innovative” — chindōgu became a kind of philosophical sabotage: a manifesto of uselessness in a culture that measured human worth by one’s contribution to the GDP.

In this sense, chindōgu is more than humor. It is the antithesis of functional reductionism — the philosophy that things exist only to serve a purpose. Kawakami’s invention is an invention that rebels — it works, yet simultaneously refuses to obey. It opens a bottle but spills half the contents; it cools ramen but makes eating a nuisance. It is a kind of mechanical Zen that teaches us not everything that functions has meaning — and that in a world oversaturated with meaning, sometimes a bit of nonsense is what we truly need.

The culture of chindōgu carries the spirit of Dadaism: the same gesture of provocation toward a world that has lost the ability to laugh at its own seriousness. Just as Marcel Duchamp exhibited a urinal as art, Kawakami displayed a vacuum cleaner in the shape of shoes to say: “Behold your civilization — one that has turned usefulness into religion.” Both created not to solve problems but to reveal their absurdity. Chindōgu is thus not a “joke about things,” but a joke about humans — who seek usefulness in everything, even if they must first invent a problem in order to solve it later.

Chindōgu frees us from the fear of “wastefulness” and “inefficiency” — the twin demons of the modern psyche. In a world where every action must lead to a goal and every second must be productive, an absurd invention grants a person a moment of blessed uselessness. It is a form of innocent rebellion, a joy born from the realization that not everything needs to work.

Yet, like every revolution, chindōgu too has been colonized by the very system it sought to expose. Today there are “commercial chindōgu” — expensive gadgets sold online as “weird but genius,” and influencers building careers on “parodies of uselessness.” The irony is that uselessness itself has become a commodity, and the anarchic spirit of freedom Kawakami once spoke of has been reduced to a repeatable lifestyle concept. When absurdity can be bought on Amazon, it ceases to be absurd — it becomes just another product in the catalog of things that are supposed to “spark joy.”

And here arises a question that now sounds surprisingly serious:
Can chindōgu survive in an age when even uselessness can be monetized? Is true selflessness still possible in a world ruled by algorithmic marketing? Perhaps real chindōgu are no longer objects, but gestures — moments of unprofitable laughter, spontaneous wonder, or refusal to participate in the race for meaning.

Useless but with Finnesse

While every new app promises to “increase productivity,” chindōgu reminds us that thought does not have to lead to results. Kawakami, a kind of Japanese Socrates, invites us to exercise the mind through paradox. To invent an object that is both ingenious and useless is pure creativity training — a game of connecting improbable ideas, where logic and absurdity coexist like yin and yang. For designers and artists, chindōgu is a laboratory of illogic — a place to explore ways of thinking that no algorithm can yet plan.

But chindōgu also has a therapeutic dimension. In an era of information overload and the economy of perpetual “musts,” encountering an absurd invention feels like immersing oneself briefly in a world where nothing needs to be proven. It works like laughter in the middle of a meeting — it releases tension and restores balance. It is a kind of intellectual bath in which one can, for a moment, put down the tools of usefulness and submerge in pure wonder. Kawakami called this “the sacred useless moment” — a moment in which a person remembers that they exist not only to act, but to experience.

I hope that chindōgu, in one form or another, will survive — not because it changes the world, but because it disarms it. In a world governed by the paradigm of usefulness and productivity, chindōgu remains an act of quiet resistance — proof that humans can still create not for the sake of function, but to help themselves truly feel and experience.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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