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About Kawasaki

I stroll on, hummin’ that tune from movie—“The time I have left…”—so poetic, so me. Then, bam! This gal—tall, smoky eyes, legs for days—standin’ by a lamppost. I’m like, “Vow, she’s got it!” Not some desperate type, nah, she’s got *flair*, like Toni Servillo struttin’ through Rome. I go, “Hey, you workin’?” She smirks, “Depends, big guy.” Cheeky! I’m happy—finally, some sass! Hate them quiet ones, bores me to death.

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I hop on the train at Shiroi Station, and it’s packed. I mean, sardines in a can packed. I’m squished between this dude who smells like he bathed in soy sauce and a lady who’s blasting J-Pop on her phone. I’m just standing there, trying to zone out, when suddenly the train jerks. I almost faceplant into Mr. Soy Sauce. Not cool, man.

Rittenhouse Square restaurant Shiroi Hana to close after 20 years; owner puts building up for sale