behind the curtain.

rooftop conversations under the english flag.
clear black blend whiskey band.
monkey trouble.
the splitting ceremony of the magestic pecan tart.
twenty-eight degrees celcius.
the obvious reconstruction of the gonpacho restaurant scene.
one mysteriously broken coffee table.
donkey hotel and hidden cheaper detergent.
darts in electrical sockets.
storytales of brazillian lsd christmas dinners.
life plans and george orwell over coffee.
gifts in painted paper bags from kyoto.
licking a ten thousand dollar tuna.
des cahiers de sake; des nouvelles resolutions.

Score!

Digging through piles of crap at a vintage store in Tokyo, I found the ultimate treasure;
A black, vintage Pink Floyd '87 World Tour t-shirt.
Without the traditional Floyd prism on the front.
Googled up an image of the t-shirt. Couldn't find mine.

WONDERFUL.

Dear Tokyo;

How on earth do you expect me to live off 60 bucks a week, when the brussel sprouts are nearly seven, the strawberries are twelve, and the mangoes are fifteen? I have been hustling out of my ass. Going into fancy grocery stores and stealing samples. Stealing Splenda by the handful from Starbucks. Re-using tea bags. I thought being called a hustler was kind of fucking cool. But now, after actually having to hustle, it's not as much fun as I thought it would be.

It doesn't help that every other store is a painfully amazing bakery. I experience on your streets, over and over; bakery, starbucks, convenience store, another bakery, health food store, restaurant. How do all of these places stay in business with so much competition around? How is everyone not painstakingly obese in your country? Sharing the cheapest thing at the grocery store today with Rianne (a 3 dollar pack of dried peas), the people in front of us had spent nearly a hundred dollars on a couple day's worth of groceries. Incredible. No wonder everyone works until eleven at night here. I thought Paris was expensive - but this is really horrific.

I'm on hold for three jobs, and they told me if I don't get one of them, they're sending me home. I hope everyone who reads this prays for me, because I've got some unfinished business with you, Tokyo. As soon as I get my shit together when I come back home, I'm going to New York. Fuck this shit. Fuck catalogue castings, fuck everyone who look exactly the same, fuck all of you cookie cutters. If people here can't understand a different kind of beauty (or brains, for that matter), then I'm not wasting any more of my time trying to convince them.
Fuck you, Tokyo. Thanks for taking all of my money in order to survive, thanks for tempting me to every extreme I can possibly think of.
No one likes you anyway.

Tonight's mission: WOMB TOKYO.