I still haven't figured out the particulars of changing time zones and date lines and shit like that, and I'm in no hurry. The more you know about what time it is, or should be, the more it's gonna fuck you up. I stayed up the entire night before our flight drinking in Hollywood, watching some girl take off her shirt and get her big fake boobies licked at the 360 club, and finishing up a few business obligations (you know, put up our site, that kind of thing), and got to Paul's house in the morning light. We parked in a lot, got on Korean Air, had a few complimentary drinks and crashed out hard, thanks to my inflatable pillow and the incessant badness of "Patch Adams". Next thing you knew, we were in Tokyo.



Takuji Masuda, our favorite international playboy, was in town, throwing a party/show for San Francisco graffiti artist Twist and Los Angeles Photographer/Writer C.R. Stecyk III. We gave him a call, made plans for a nighttime hookup, and spent the day wandering around Shibuya and Harajuku, where the cool kids roam and sex industry lurks in the corners. We felt right at home, but were distressed to learn the current female style, which last time was highlighted by knee high boots, was now a strange bleach-blonde (or just as often, bleach-gray), blue-eyeliner beach-theme that was more creepy than attractive. Oh well.

We met the boys at On Sundays, a super cool bookstore, and geared up for a wall painting. Twist worked on a giant piece inside the store while a host of Japanese graf artists wonwind. A bottle of whiskey was appropriated, and by 2 in the morning we were deeeerunk and giddy and peeing in the bushes and taking photos. We met a few weirdos, including Johnny Walker (said so on his business card), a strange American man that reeked of avuncular pederasty and art history. After dropping some Keith Haring scenarios and offering us a place to stay, he left us with the cryptic proposition: "It's hard to find a good Jewish mother... don't worry, I'll be yours." I don't remember him pinching my ass as he left, but let's just say he might as well have.


Shewchuk, meet Jim Beam...


...Shewchuk, meet Johnny Walker.

All in all it was a good time, but it was no disco, so we packed up, said our goodbyes and hoofed it back to Shibuya for the Cave, a club we got to know pretty well last time around. Tak and company changed their minds and met us there, then changed their minds again, declining to enter the chamber. Too bad for them. DJ QuietStorm slid us in for free, the club was packed with smoke and freaky deakies on all four levels, and after downing the remaining whiskey with a group of Japanese kids, either Burt Cocaine or Slap Maxwell or some other boozy incarnation of your faithful narrator managed to jump on stage and freestyle some incoherent dancehall ragamuffin for a screaming crowd. Somehow I got the idea, somehow they let me on stage, somehow they didn't blackjack me on the back of the head and drag me into the alley. It worked. It was fucking incredible.


Paul managed to miss the whole thing, unfortunately, so there is no documentation, but he and you will both have to trust me, when I say now that I have performed in Japan. Rock on. Around 5 in the morning we stumbled our way to a capsule hotel and crashed out.

Outside the Cave.

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