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About Kawasaki

“Wanna hear a riff?” I ask, jokin’. She smirks, “Play me somethin’ sexy.” Hella fun, that was – spark in the dark. Didn’t go for it, tho – morals, y’know? “Good goy, you are,” she teases, Coen-style. Walked off, I did, hummin’ – night’s wild, man! Prostitutes, they’re survivors – real talk. Next gig, I’ll write her a song – “The Lamppost Blues.” Do or do not, right? Fuckin’ A!

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An exotic Western-style (wafuu or yoshoku) meal intended to be like the spaghetti and tomato sauce eaten by the American troops.

Fast forward a bit, and I’m knee-deep in leather when I hear this loud crash outside. I rush to the window, and there’s a delivery truck that just smashed into a vending machine on Kōen-dōri! I’m dying laughing. Like, who even does that? The driver’s fine, but the vending machine? RIP, my dude.

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