Porn Store Jokes! Sorry, Mom!

At some point during a hallway party, somebody told a story about how Rappongi- another district here- was on the US Embassy’s “don’t even think about going there, idiot” list because of the preponderance of rape drugs and burgling.  I can’t explain why my ears perked up, but they did.  I went back to my room and strapped myself to the wiki train.  

That’s when it turned into a moral dilemma.

The article about Rappongi was written by either a Nigerian-hating racist, or a person who legitimately had a researched-based reason for reporting that Nigerian bars there are rampant with roofies and robbery.  

I am a rabid anti-racist even though I think some honky jokes are hysterically funny- because of wordplay and the clever poking of fun at human nature, not because I’m a douchebag- and I don’t believe you should judge any group of people for their extremists.  I mean, I don’t want to have to take responsibility for Rick Perry because I’m a white person, or Lorena Bobbitt because I’m a woman.  This attitude is nicely reinforced by the fact that none of my Somali students are pirates, and none of my Iraqi students are hole-hiding dictators.  Personalities run the gamut of jackass to genius in all of humanity, I figure.    

That said, did I really want to go to Rappongi if the extremist portion of Nigeria happened to have relocated there?  Was it worth the appearance of being non-judgmental if it meant I was ignoring advice based in facts?  Should I stay home and be safer than sorry?

Yeah, right.  I figured I’d take my chances and simply avoid the bar scene.

This turned out to be a fabulous decision.  After taking at least nine pictures of this awesome spider sculpture,

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I hit the roof (literally- not metaphorically- because the view was too good to get angry there) on top of the 54th floor of the neighboring building for a nighttime Tokyan panorama.  

The Mori Art Museum was next, and I fell in love with Love, the exhibit currently showing.  Excellent night all around, and roof- not roofies!- for life, I say.

Sunday held a day trip to Akihabara, Electric City.  I was kind of hoping for a quick trip before heading to Yoyogi Park near Harajuku, where I read that the teenagers gather in crazy costumes to swing to ‘50s American pop music.  Akihabara took a little longer than expected, though.

Allow me to digress.

I have been been trying to smash my American hips into Chinese dresses for years.  First I tried in San Francisco’s Chinatown, but it made me want to cry and swear off gas station ice cream cones forever.  Then I tried the general Internet, where I found out “triple XL” is a relative term, and not a kind one at that.  Lastly, I tried sending a Vietnamese lady my measurements so she could hand sew me one to order, but I think I accidentally used centimeters because this gorgeous silken thing arrived a few weeks later but I couldn’t get it down much past my neck.  

I thought I might be disappointed for life, but I had ruled out triple x of another kind.  For the record, it is socially acceptable to enter the four-floor porn store when they’re selling Chinese dresses outside.  Here I am!

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They wouldn’t let any females onto the top two floors, but it was totally worth asking what was so special about them because the attendant only knew some choice English vocab to describe some specific parts.  Haha!  I’m a 12-year-old boy in my brain!

And sadly, the dresses didn’t fit.

I should probably have mentioned that we were in the robot region of Akihabara, a place known for all kinds of insanely technological electronics and animation.  I was tagging along to check out the robot store, which was unfortunately a bit of an anticlimax.

Porn store joke!  Sorry, Mom!

Anyway, I split from the shopping for a bit and found this awesome dessert bar where I got to sit in an air-conditioned hammock, play with the ipod they provided, and eat something fruity that pushed me further from Chinese proportions but was the “who cares?” kind of delicious.

Then I left for Harajuku on my own.

When I say that Gwen Stefani is the reason I wanted to see Harajuku, you should know how ridiculous I was for listening because Gwen Stefani and I have nothing in common but a conspicuous lack of doubts.  

Harajuku is what it looks like when the youth movement explodes and bleeds an ostentatious trail of neon and bad taste.  And I say this coming from the fetish store, you guys!  I was far more nervous than at Rappongi, so I had to employ the tactics I read years ago in probably Marie Claire magazine.  Bag zippers toward the body, walk tall with confidence, eye contact with everyone.  The theory is that the thievery-minded will look for the weak and meek: targets who seem anxious or off guard.  This minimizes the chance of them choosing victims who fight back and/or recognize.   So, boom.  I lined up my tired vertebrae and started the march, meeting every hawker’s eyes with an aggression I usually reserve for salivating mongrels.  The poor souls who as much as took a step toward me got my “I’m packing fist heat and I’m not afraid to use it” look and I got out of there and on a train as quickly as humanly possible.

In the interest of complete honesty, “as quickly as humanly possible” isn’t precisely true.  I did stop briefly to photograph the sort of store that outfits the typical teen there.  Get a load of these dresses:

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Wouldn’t you say the Chinese ones are classier?

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One thought on “Porn Store Jokes! Sorry, Mom!

  1. Ruth Majka says:

    Your Gwen Stefani comment made me lose my shit hahahahah

    Like

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