Trains, Trannies, and Scary Nigerians : With Love, Toyko Part 2 *

For part 1 click here !

                                     "have I found home"?  Photo Credit Rudy Randa

 

Check in to the hotel.

Its nice.

I am glad I stayed here. Complimentary extensive breakfast Buffet every morning, and a top notch wine bar / restaurant on the first floor.  The room is spacious and well appointed. The toilet comes with a remote control and seems to be smarter than me. Hotel S and Residences in Rappongi Hills, if you ever want a gander.

But They aren’t serving food anymore.

Ugh.

I get into my room and just lay in bed. Fully clothed. Coat and Shoes still on.

Its after midnight on a Saturday in Tokyo and I am absolutely beat. I don’t really know what is out there, but its fucking Tokyo on a Saturday night- its not difficult to sense the possibilities. Accompanying the awful travel day and bizarre encounter where I was two more sips of sake from getting roofied and turned out in the Japanese sex trade was the fact that I had been struggling internally recently and I just felt kind of low.

Not generally a feeling in my color wheel, but I was feeling it, insidiously and subtly.

These moments, the moments where you just want to deaden yourself; forget, sleep, detach, cope -these are the moments where you must get up and walk.  

Just walk.

Your spirit will take you somewhere you need to go, just put one leg in front of the other and (repeat, often).

I cannot tell you all the places these two legs of mine have taken me, but I can say with certainty that they have never let me down. I can also say, that I have probably forgotten more beautiful bizarre experiences (sigh, alcohol) than some people experience. All because I trust my feet.

I got up out of bed and stood up. ‘Meh’ to a shower. I’ve already got my coat and shoes on …..lets just GO. 

                                 "robo-toilet" (seriously, these things could rule the world)

As soon as I hit the pavement, I felt invigorated. The cold Tokyo air seemed to awaken something internally, and despite being raggedy fucking andy haggard-tired, I was revitalized.

I love to walk. It is truly the most visceral way to experience life-Whether with a destination in mind or truly aimlessly, just walk.

Tonight I would amble aimlessly.

I stopped in a Family Mart convenience store and grabbed a tall Asahi. It was delicious. ( you can be in public with an open container in Japan= awesomeness)

AS I walked toward nowhere, a strange feeling came over me. A feeling, my dear friends, I know all too well. It is difficult to explain, but:

These are the days when I set the world on fire. I engage everyone I can and my smile and my words are effortless and true. I hold court with the earth, and if I engage you, you will smile, you will laugh, and I will always walk out of your universe way too soon Leaving you with one thought : WHO IS THIS HUMAN? 

 WAIT, WAS THAT A HUMAN?

 It is the inner light burn burn burning bright.

Now, these moods can either be uplifted or deadened or enhanced or skewed or just plain fucked up with the addition of alcohol, and tonight, friends, I was

                                                       d r I n k I n G.

I did not know how the booze would fuel tonights romp, but we would soon find out.

I smoked a cigarette and drank my beer as I approached Rappongi Crossing, the main thoroughfaire for madness in this neighborhood.

A Nigerian approached me “you want pussy man?” “Coke” “I got hash”.  I ignored and

and moseyed on.

“Come to my club for girls man c'mon” another Nigerian peddling flesh.

Press On.

I seem to have come to the end of the raucous stretch of Roppongi.

I see another Family Mart and checked my beer.

Time for another.

They have some flasks of Meyers Rum, and its sight evokes warm comforting faded memories of times past : sailboats and love and friendship and sunshine.

I buy the bottle and sit on the steps of an apartment building above the Family Mart and sip the rum on this nipply Tokyo night – it Is as warm as the memories.

I pull my earbuds on and simmer. Music, pulls of rum and swigs of beer in between breaths of ice and exhales of tobacco; I sat, and just… pondered.

Where did I fit in on this Rappongi Crossing?

Did I even fit in?

 I didn’t quite know yet. I wasn’t sure.  Nothing on the main drag had engulfed me, at least, not yet. 

                                 ("TRUST YOUR FEET" Credit: Rudy - the Japanese had crazy individualistic style, but nobody rocked socks like me)

I had finished about half the flask and three cigarettes when I decided it was time to move.

Trust the feet.

 Always.

Within 2 quick blocks I encountered another Nigerian. I was annoyed and restless, it had been a long long long        l    o    n     g    d        a       y          and I didn’t know where I was going, or wanted to, but knew I wanted to be SOMEWHERE.

I stop cold and look him dead in the eye.

In a stern voice but not yelling (surprisingly, I am after all 50% Napolitano) “Answer me this question, please.”

“Do I look like I need to pay for pussy!”

Before I could discern whatever the Nigerian was sheepishly stammering out, I turned and pressed further.

My feet told me to go right and I did, and stumbled upon a beautiful neon oasis that screamed 

“BAR MILWAUKEE”!!!!!

Had I found home?

Was this it?

Increduoulously I ask the Nigerian (obviously) who was working the door if this place was true.

It was.

Unfortunately, He informed me that there was a private party that evening, and that I would not be allowed entrance.

I laughed at him.

This was my birthright, this was my bar, this was my HOME, and surely I would never be denied entry to my own kingdom.

He laughed right back at me, But let me head down the stairs.

Immediately at the top of the steps I saw an american girl crying about some nonsensical boy problem with a totally disinterested friend faux consoling her while she sipped her drink and kept one eye on the entrance, counting the seconds until her lip service duty had ended. The scene evoked memories of trashed whiny girls on the dirty steps of pale moon-lit sidewalk-less corners in Tucson Arizona.

This did not bode well for my home.

“IT’S A PRIVATE PARTY” the disinterested friend informed me, clearly more engaged with this fact, than her slobbering gelatinous friend.

“Your friend looks like she’s going to puke on your Manolos” I retorted and pressed on.

I get to the door and it is narrow. And there is a very large, somewhat obese Nigerian (obviously) blocking the way.

“Private Party” he informs me.

I glanced in. It was white people and nothingness and full but blank. And suddenly I didn’t want to go in anymore.

This was not home, it was not indeed, Im sorry, I must have been mistaken.

I turned around and heard bass from above and asked and found out and took an elevator to some floor.

The doors opened and I emerged into what could have been dentists office on the where-ever floor of some what-ever building.

Except it was smoky. And dark.

And there was Drum. And Bass.

This was where I belonged…..For now.

I drank and danced and talked and caroused and laughed and intermittently smoked cigarettes and intermittently made no sense until I got bored.

Next place.

I walked and walked in. Below this time, under, down the stairs went.

There were more Nigerians in door positions and more smiles and more drinks. It was dank and small and dusty, and played American pop music, that this all Japanese crowd seemed to know all the words to, much better than I. 

I watched the room go “gangnam style” in the 3^rd Asian country in as many weeks.

I got random hugs and danced in this dank basement, a foot taller than all the rest, but feet shorter when it came to kindness and hospitality.

Time to leave.

Reggae?

I smell it.

I love it.

It’s a part of my soul .

That is what I want. Roots Reggae Music.

I got what I want and I was again up on  some floor in some building, in a smoke filled little cave, but this time, with Roots music.

How did I get here?

I don’t know.

Did I go outside? AM I in the same building?

Have I never left?

Am I dreaming?

These trivial matters did not concern me- they were playing tracks of my youth- Deep roots cuts with a thumping sound system to boot.

I lost myself in my world and in my dance.

Sometimes, these are my most happiest moments: Alone in a sea of people and music, but seemingly nothingness around me just moving moving moving, My eyes not seeing anything but what was in my mind.

And where my mind goes, it doesn’t matter, it is introspective and creative and honest and beautiful and true.

I lose myself in this and it feels good.

Gone are the day’s hardships, gone was fatigue, gone was heartache.

I  (quickly) open my physical eyes and glance around:

I am the only white person here. Thank GOD.

I lose myself again.

Again, I open my eyes and look harder. I am not only the only white person here, I seem to be the only non-nigerian here. In Tokyo, Japan.......or at least, that's where I remembered being last, but with these infinite buildings and these infinite elevators with these infinite rooms with no windows I could be anywhere in outer-space.

But I really never care about HOW I get anywhere, just that i am there, so pay this no mind, because it doesnt matter how you got there. Just

There you are.

And this is where i am now.

So, I converse and engage and wiggle and make friends but there were still some unhappy smiles pointed my way.

I know, I know, dear new friends,   my soul is hot and on fire; I’d explain it, but it is a long sad beautiful story and I will not tonight. I know my energy is palpable. I know it is felt and what it does. But there is no aggression in it in this place, not right now, not with the soothing sounds of Junior Murvin and Lee Scratch Perry,  working their magic like some perfect soul salve, No. So please understand, that this soul on fire means no harm, but that it will burn you if you attempt to touch it.

I lose myself again only to be pulled somewhere and it was to get my coat and leave and it wasn’t my own feet but a someone actually pulling me Towards the door.

It is curvy Nubian princess and I must have been dancing with her, but wasn’t quite fully aware.

I find myself leaving and going to another place, but when we get there, I didn’t want to go in. I was spent and it was 5 am and I didn’t want to be tugged around and pay for a girl I had no interest in.

So at the door of the next place, with this Nubian queen, I just turned, and  with a click of my heals I was gone. No explanation needed. Just bolt.

I laughed as I skipped up the crossing. The streets were still teaming with people, the energy was still riding big bursting waves high.

I am not walking amongst the crowd but twisting, twirling, wiggling and skipping.

Another Nigerian stops me to sell me pussy.

I was drunk now, and had had it.

Cant a guy just walk and smile and be happy without being hard sold beat up Thai or Eastern European women?

If I wanted to drive a yugo, I would-And right now, I don’t want to drive anything. I just want to walk, alone, and be happy.

“DON’T Even talk to me brother”

“Fuckyou man, I don’t need to talk to you”.  (he was talking to me)

I turn around and approach him, inches from his face.

“Where is your soul brother? Look at you with your Fisher Price gold all over and chop shop designer sunglasses , you aren’t sending money back to Africa son, I don’t have it twisted. Grow up and get somewhere: MORALLY BANKRUPT MOTHERFUCKER”.

I don’t think this gentleman had ever had a drunken westerner in his face with such choice words and although I probably looked like his typical patron,

                                           I am anything but typical.

                                             At least, at this time in this place in space.

He began to look nervous as a crowd of Japanese formed around us. Another Nigerian pimp sidles next to the us. I google translate “Morally Bankrupt” on my phone from English to Japanese and hold it up for the Japanese crowd to see.

They all cover their mouths and guffaw.

I want no part of this anymore, because I have said my piece and wanted peace not confrontation, so I shadow dance some improvised martial art moves to ensure everyone watching that I was indeed insane but quite capable and then skip away, my cackle echoing into the early morning.

I come across the Mcdonalds that had first tempted me when I was starving and fresh off the train from Narita.

This time I went in.

Only to bellow

“I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY YOUR POISON”

and then run out.

…..and then go back in

........and get a hash brown.

I awoke in my hotel a few hours later the same way I had entered it, fully clothed, shoes on, only this time I had passed out backwards with my feet resting on the pillows.

I do not know what it was, but the feeling of low vibrational frequency was gone. Although I didn’t remember everything, I did remember one thing: that I was the most interesting man in the world when i wanted to be, when i created for me, and that there should never, EVER EVER EVER be a reason to think poorly of myself,  No matter what I think i  fail in, as long as i do it with a burning honest heart, and a passion and a work ethic and my soul NEVER fails to light up the world and make it beautiful for me, as long as i TRY.  This is the same for you. ALL OF YOU. We create this. It is what we manifest. No one does this for me, as no one does It for your soul. It is our creative spirit that presses on (and picks fights with Nigerian pimps).

So dear friends, snap out of that funk! It just takes a few moments to create something beautiful. You are beautiful and have the power to create any situation you desire. I needed all the things I received, I needed the random hugs, I needed the confrontation, I needed to get lost in dance and rejected from the bar of my home. I needed all these emotions, and i created them, it just starts with your feet......ALWAYS TRUST YOUR FEET.

PS. I was telling this story to some people in Palomino, Columbia about a week after I left Tokyo, and they all asked which day was this? I told them and they laughed. FULL MOON. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. 

Click here for the part one if you missed it


* No Transvestites, Nigerians, or bibulous western writers were hurt during the filming of this episode and I trust and know that most Transvestites, Nigerians and bibulous western writers are upstanding good people.