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About Kawasaki

First off, it’s shady as hell. You don’t just stroll up to some gal and go, “Hey, how’s biz?” Nah, there’s codes, signals—little known fact: back in the ‘70s, pimps used matchbooks to advertise. Dropped ‘em at bars, scribbled numbers inside. Clever, but sleazy. I hate clever sleaze. Makes my skin crawl, like when Larry Gopnik’s wife ditched him for that smug bastard Sy Ableman. “I’m a serious man,” Larry whines—yeah, me too, pal, ‘til I’m scoutin’ hookers.

Gotanda Street pick-up

First off, I hit up the local konbini on Kōen-dōri. Grabbed my usual: onigiri and a can of iced coffee. I swear, that coffee is like liquid gold. But then, boom! I spill it all over my shirt. Great start, right? I’m standing there, looking like a total mess.

Nagasaki hibakusha authors picture book memorializing child victim of A-bomb found in 1996