NRT JL 001

Generations garbled on the sound of take off. Homeless guy running into neighboring flight gate, a Hefty bag for his carry on luggage. Guy next to me reading new William Gibson from cover to cover. Aged author’s photo peering into my laptop the whole time. The long sweet Xanax hole. Detained as usual at immigration. New sign on the wall saying not to use cell phones in the detention center. I wonder how yelling “HELP” at the top of my lungs instead would go over. Officer amused by Otaku USA and Schoolgirl Inferno. As a MEXICAN AMERICAN, I know that La Migra can be a tough crowd, but he actually gets a laugh out. “Crazy Japanese culture.” He waves me out, probably wondering what the fuck is his country coming to. African soccer team staring at Limousine Buses. White nerds with long sturdy posters tubes, stragglers for Comiket? I come alone. I come in peace. I move fast. But the freeway is only two lanes. It’s not until hours later that the family restaurants appearing out of the dark that you realize you are finally almost home: Jonathans, Skylark, Denny’s, Volks. It’s a bug filled oven when you step outside. An inordinate amount of J-pop names a big deal of “natsumi no hi” and about half of Masamigi Sugi’s songs seem to take place duing “hachigatsu”, but my round eyes fail to see the charm. Someone seems to be intent on destroying the fabled yakitori stands of Kichijoji, replacing them with nothing. But Draft One still stands and it sounds like this when I hit the stinky crunk stained futon…

And Friends...