Big Mac, fries, and a sundae from the Family Mart for dinner. But golly, I deserve it, enduring the blurriest of my days here.
Thursday is the opening of the typhoon. I sit inside all day and watch the rain. It keeps me from a trip to immigration, which I guess I should be thankful for, except that I woke up early and will now be swimming all the way back to a shit-ass country in a duct taped rubber raft.
A million emails about Interview With Scary Director for nice-paying magazine and consultation duties on a DVD set of a Prominent Japanese Superhero who must remain nameless. More photo collection for the Japanese book. Something else probably happened. I can’t remember now.
Evening. Tokyo Wrestling Café with Famous Manga-ka Who Wishes to be Known Only as ‘Date Rape.’ The rain is coming down hard so we hide out in front of the big plasma set playing Best of Wrestlemania and Lita until the place closes at 4am. Best bathroom I’ve ever been in circa now Tokyo. Floor to ceiling: bikini pics of wrestling gals. The next time, I bring a camera. Date Rape swoons like a schoolgirl whenever The Undertaker shows up onscreen. “That’s my husband,” she says as his eyeballs roll up inside his sockets and his tongue hangs out like a lollipop in reverse. Everything elicts an “unbelievable,” and must be filed under “oh my god.”
Fast food, pro wrestling, and rock and roll, the mir, gold, and frankincense of the modern age.
Wind and heavy rain on the way to the karaoke place, the best kind of 4am shelter. Yanagi-san sings the Weezer song about the Japanese girl. Date Rape and me duet Lee and Nancy for Summer Wine. Last song is the Ace of Spades.
First train out West to Rate Rape no uchi. There, we do the tarot. Celtic cross and three-card spreads. For once, The Tower doesn’t come up in my reading. I leave a Patrick-shaped lump in the big red Muji beanbag. Wake up around 4pm, hungover and washed up. Nothing like a post typhoon sun in Tokyo: angry and radioactive enough to bring the dead back to life. Shimorenjaku had a twee pop vibe that day.
Tonkatsu breakfast at 5:30. A kindly reminder from Momus to drink some green tea instead of Coke. Time to shake down avisiting publisher for more fried pork.
He tells me to consider marriage and other bits of fatherly advice, much appreciated here in the middle of my encore adolescence. He says he was doing the same thing when he was my age: living in Tokyo, being nutty. But I'm jealous. He was there for the Showa jidai.
I make the pitch. The Novel and how to pimp it. He likes enough to ask for a proposal. I don’t want to push it. I want to spend all next year in a room writing it while Date Rape pulls out one of her masterpieces tonari-ni.
The nama beer chases away the headache but not the hangover. I drag my ass to meet Yoshiki in Takanobaba, then Hibiya for the Land of the Dead Tokyo premiere. I like the area a lot: Asakuasa for women who dress like men and rich people. The monster kids are out in force. Zombie lookalike contest before the show. Seven chocolate brown ganguro go on stage, the idea being that they practically look like zombies anyways.
Bad news. Land will not start until 3am. They ask the audience to sit through NOTLD and Dawn for the millionth time to get there. We split, and wind up somewhere in Yurakucho with the Mount Rushmore of J-subculture: Jun Murai, Masaya Nakhara (best quote: “"I make music for intellectuals with masters degrees and super models”), and Kiichiro Yanashita. Unfortunately, my brain is falling out of my head by now, and my stomach wants to eat my knees. Mad dash for the last train.
It makes it to Kanda before sitting on the platform for a full 45 min. The Gerotan, it seems have re-emerged from the post-typhoon muck. Depressed by the state of Japanese TV and the terrifying realization that the media is controlled by the GOD (Government of Darkness), they have been committing suicide on the Chuo-sen tracks en mass. I fall asleep for the first time on the train somewhere between Shinjuku and Ogikubo. I can’t believe I was ever that vulnerable in public. I fear my contact lenses scratching my corneas maybe not enough.
Saturday is only more of this. The air conditioner. Bu-chan the cat begging for something whenever I have to take a whiz.
Shinjuku again, like once a day this week, to see some bands with Batty and Cherry. Batty tried to prepare me for Nylon: “It is the girl band of Osaka. All of the members is a girl. I was very shocking when I saw that guitarist's performance for the first time!”
So was I. About mid-way during the set, guitarist Shimano, dressed like her mates in a Reservoir Dogs suit, motions to me to come up to the stage. She leaps on my shoulders while I stand up and stays there. I hunker down and try and keep my balance while she does a solo perched on top of me, strings inches from my stupid smiling face.
I’ve seen a lot of garage bands in Tokyo, but Nylon are the absolute motherfucking best. I cry “I love you!” when they leave the stage. Shimano is young Pete Townsend possessing the body of a Japanese women: windmills, duck walk, and voodoo spazz outs. The 5,6,7,8’s are total shit compared to this.
Batty took a pic of me getting skull fucked by the guitar while someone plays it on my shoulders. It looks like this:
Patrick Macias is the author of Youna Dai Senso – Saga One: The Ramen Bomb, Ryuhei Wars, and Zoku ESPY Dairi Senso. The face of his fake diamond watch reads “Rainbow Time of Person Dating.”