We find ourselves, every morning we wake until we are no longer allowed to do so, to be the most important atom in our cloud, regardless of our fondness from the other atoms with which we bond and break away from, our connections creating warmth in the forever cold nothing that surrounds. We are all our own Harry “Rabbit” Angstroms (if it’s okay with Updike), and this is natural because our consciousness requires it and makes it so. My fondness for the other atoms in my cloud is more apparent than ever having been alone this past week. It has also not only validated but sharpened the notion I had going into this journey that it would be good for me to spend some time with myself. It has been good for me to focus my attention on to me. There is nowhere to hide. I am become hydrogen, to mix Oppenheimer with Dr. Manhattan even more obviously than did Alan Moore.
The weather in Tokyo has been very nice this past week, often threatening to rain but not delivering. On this day however, my last in Tokyo until four weeks from now when I say my final goodbyes to the Sunrise Kingdom and prepare to rejoin my family and friends, winds are high, the sky is grey, the tile and concrete and glass of the city is wet. The thirsty flora is sated once more. I spent much of yesterday afternoon in only my Bernie 2020 t-shirt, which was met with much fanfare in the imperial gardens of Chiyoda City. Today, I launder my spent underwear and socks, get a massage from the woman around the corner who’s been angling for a chance at my muscle and sinew all week, and ponder my first Japanese hangover well earned from a night of karaoke at the Golden Tiger with Kesh and the lads. As you read this, I lie in my creaky bed streaming the Canucks and Blue Jackets game on my phone, laptop atop my lap. I crave pizza, and if the ads on YouTube are to be of any direction, Uber Eats may be my window to weight-gain, to borrow a turn of phrase from Dr. Nick Riviera. But let us not skip ahead, because there are older tales that await.
As you know, dear reader, much of my entertainment diet has been removed from the menu, given away as tribute to the greedy grips of COVID-19. But if there is one backup plan that suits a the tastes of a gourmand like myself, the man with the Nintendo knuckles, it is the familiar embrace of arcade video gaming, and there is no better place to satisfy such digital urges as Akhibara, Tokyo.
Taito Station and the four Sega towers were more than enough to help me spend an afternoon doing what I used to skip school to do for countless afternoons in my adolescence with Justin and Shawn and those other jokesters. These arcades are 5-7 floor towers, where the lower floors are mostly populated by crane-game prize machines, and the upper floors are where the real gaming takes place, including a complete VR floor in Sega Building 2. I was thrilled to shoot baddies in the latest incarnations of Time Crisis and House of the Dead, race the newest rally cars and street racers that Sega does so well. I street-fought, I bombermanned, I set a daily high score at Tetris. But, with the ascent of home gaming, Arcades have been in decline in North America for decades. And with respect to my friends at Quazar’s in Victoria, who’s venerated establishment has been both a joy and a genuine comfort to me this past year, I had no idea what I was in for as it pertains to modern arcade machines.
I climbed into a full pod to shoot down Tai-Fighters on a 3-foot tall, concave screen. I became one with a mech-fighter that moved with me as I flew and juked across a wrecked cityscape. I was on it like Elizabeth Warren on a tower of lies. These experiences were awesome to be certain, but familiar. The expansion of possibility as it relates to arcade gaming had moved beyond what I knew. Music and rhythm games have become truly a sight to behold. Fully immersive action RPGs that require you to bring a small, credit-card sized memory card to save your progress, from franchises like Final Fantasy and Sword Art Online. Real time strategy games were using touch-screen tech that I’d never seen but seemed so obvious like every good idea. And then there were these ¾ overhead arena war simulators where the player laid cards (I assume with RFID chips in them) on a flat gaming table and moved her card-squads and platoons around the surface, responding to the flow of battle and the strengths and weaknesses of each unit. The same for a soccer simulator, and I assume the cards are purchased in randomized packs, which would get expensive quickly. One fellow I creeped on had Messi, Ronaldo, Xavi, Cryuff and Zidane running his attack for Juventus. Imagine that salary in today’s market! It was truly cool to watch, and I’m kind of glad we don’t have these machines back home, because I know I’d get in too deep. If you speed-read this part, dear reader, I do not blame you.
In the middle of the afternoon, I took a break from gaming to gorge myself on a different kind of sustenance, that you and I may know as food. The Gyukatsu Ichi Ni San in Akhibara was a restaurant I had looked into before my trip, and it was definitively the best meal I’ve had so far. Their menu is simple – you can have one thing, and your only option is how much of it you want. And that one thing, is a steak, breaded and deep fried for a moment with the beef still raw in the middle, sliced up for you to grill yourself on a hotstone at your seat, served with cabbage salad, miso soup and spicy raw tuna. I got the medium size, which was huge, and left feeling stuffed. The chef spoke excellent English, and we had a nice chat. She is not scared of coronavirus either. I intend to return for lunch when I’m back in Tokyo. It makes me wonder, if I ever open my own place, would something like that work in Canada? Maybe not gyukatsu, but a single thing done very well. Like Pete Buttigeg does only one thing well, and that’s lie his ass off.
As the day turned to night like Joe Biden’s sundowning brain, I took the train to Roppongi Hills and had a few beers at Geronimo’s, which was like BBJ’s if there were no rules. A very intoxicated drug dealer wanted to fight me for no perceptible reason and got ushered out by the owner, a girl rolled around on the floor, and a group of Australian 40-somethings crooned away to Save Tonight, Semi-Charmed Life and Lose Yourself. It was more than enough, and I went home to rest.
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As my writings for two days ago went a little long, I’ll let photos do most of the storytelling here. Yesterday was spent wandering. First, I took the train to Chiyoda city, home of the imperial palace (you guessed it, closed) which is set on the most beautiful grounds; followed by looking around but not buying anything in the cutest neighbourhood yet, Yanaka Ginza; eating Ramen and street-meat and butter chicken, then finally ending up in a karaoke bar called the Golden Tiger and earning my aforementioned first hangover in Japan. I would be comfortable with one hangover a week while I’m on vacation, but I hope this one is the worst, dear reader, as I am fucking rough right now.
I had originally planned to just get a quick beer and call it a night, but I made fast friends with the lads down in the bar, our group of four eventually blossoming to a robust five. I sang the following songs:
- Plush – Stone Temple Pilots
- H to the Izzo – Jay-Z
- What Happened to You – The Offspring (shouts out to Marky!)
- Bulls on Parade – Rage Against the Machine
- Sitting on the Dock of the Bay – Otis Redding
- Still D.R.E. – Dr. Dre
Kesh and his minions were really fucking good at karaoke, like Mike Bloomberg is at lying, and it was a joy to watch them suck at English and rock at singing. I had a blast! At one point, they made me plug my phone in and play them Hammy Swagar on the house speakers. I was too intoxicated to be embarrassed, and they really seemed to like it, but who knows – this is the most polite culture. On my way home, I absolutely crushed a kebab wrap and the Lebanese dudes at the restaurant were visibly impressed and disgusted by my performance, looking upon my animalistic feasting with morbid curiosity like the cringiest part of a Curb Your Enthusiasm episode. I dropped out of consciousness like Tom Steyer after South Carolina.
And that brings us up to speed for now, dear reader. This entry felt to me somewhat perfunctory, but it has helped me wrestle with my alcohol-gained dehydration, and steeled me for my final day in Tokyo, part one. I thank you as always for reading along. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I did not muster the courage to order delivery and now sally forth in my quest for pizza.
As a final note, if a laundry machine is both a washer and a drier, it does neither well.
Dummy Fat Japanese Adventures with Largefather Rowe 