"Good life for strange person"

The Omotesando days (no wars here, never wars) continue with me doing Marui stuff in the maybe-kanemochi spot. Faded Harryhausen cyclops T-shirt from 1990, tattered generic cargo pants, Converse that leak and stain my socks and feet navy blue when it rains. Amazing bossa nova version of TV’s Match Game theme on the hidden BOSE speakers here and now, sound waves and sun bouncing off silver glitter tile squares that plaster the walls. The staff routinely takes turns to look out the window in casual awe, pointing out some odd bit of tourist strange or obasan mayhem on the street below. Even the worst here will only evoke lilting laughter, offhand amusement. But still Omotesando dori continues to fascinate as much as anything could. Zoom in on a line of stragglers, always at least three people deep, at the Omotesando crossing police box doing Q&A. Little policeman spreading out a map or peeping into a notebook and then pointing the way out. The cops are also playing light samba music inside of their koban as well, the seal of the Imperial chrysanthemum doubling as a delicately tuned subwoofer. It will be desert time here, with drink service, until the windows crack open and rich bored woman come tumbling down.