A lot of my favorite movies are in a category at the Shibuya chain of Tsutaya mega-rental store called Serious (シリアス).

Osaka is much nicer than I remember. I regret that I may have fallen prey to the stereotypes of gaudy excess and tacky foods. But within the gravity of the exquisite graf gallery, everything is pleasant and romantic. Although the “Osaka = Chicago” parallel always struck me as forced — basically a way of finding Osaka an American city of its own after Tokyo automatically takes NYC, LA, and DC — the strong stone buildings and patina roofs of the business area around the Tosabori River reminds me of my vague memories of the area of Chicago near the art museum.

Osaka fashion is supposed to be more “individualistic” than Tokyo, but it just seems to be less obsessive and more subdued than what you see in Edo.

Visited a very neighborhood-y sento (public bathhouse) in Fukushima on Sunday night and was worried that perhaps there was going to be some odd resistance to my foreignness — perhaps enforced discretely in an anti-tattoo policy or something. (I do not have a tattoo. Big surprise.) I found myself, however, bathing with four enormously-fat yakuza thugs who sported massive tattoos of ghost warriors on the entire expanse of their backs. They hogged the baths. I kept clear, but once they went off to the faucets to soap it up (no, they didn’t properly clean themselves before getting into the baths — see, “rules” only apply to us katagi), I finally took to the shared facilities. There was a bath with some kind of mild electric current. Unless you like the sensation of your alarm clock falling into the tub, I do not recommend it. This particular sento’s proud feature was a “Radon steam bath” which I entered for a few minutes and will regret when I die of some terrible cancer in a few weeks time.

Kobe is fantastic. The “Ijinkan” foreigner district up at the top of the mountain is quite nice. There is an outstanding mosque down the hill a bit, and in its orbit, there are three or four import food stores featuring products that I had long assumed could never be smuggled into Japan. At one location, we wanted to buy a ¥100 pack of coriander, a ¥90 pack of fennel seeds, and a ¥80 pack of Juicy Fruit gum, but the store was completely abandoned for at least 10 minutes. Finally, an Arab gentleman came in and helped us complete our big purchase of the day. When we left, he too walked down the street, again abandoning the store to fate and patient customers.

Down by the river, there was some kind of festival with food stalls from around the world. Not always accurate, but delicious nonetheless. (My “tacos” contained hot dogs, and my “gyro” sandwich was at least 1/2 french fries).

Under the train tracks from Sannomiya to Kobe Station, there are hundreds of little stores and stalls selling various items. The first two or three of these arcades have street wear stores, respectable eyeglass vendors, leather shoes for men, pet stores, waffle cafes, etc. As you start hitting Arcade #3, however, things get a little more interesting: stores dedicated to old Famicon games, purveyors of ¥100 yen 邦楽 7″s, booksellers who have accumulated just enough literature in the front to justify the thousands of old pornographic magazines in the back. Arcade #5 & #6 are a descent into the debris of the 20th century — a cruel junkyard parody of commercial endeavor — tired old hags selling broken Betamaxes, ribbon-less typewriters, imperial military garb, grab bags of unloved old vinyl. Some of the last stores in this arcade can be hardly distinguished from the storage facilities of refugee communities, piles of extension cords, soiled and crumpled papers, vibrators piled up to the top. If you want to buy a full-size towel with an image of Iijima Naoko from the early ’90s for ¥240, this is your place.

Nara is always fun. The deer are just so adorable. The female deer very literally bow to you, and the male deer will put you between their antlers in a slightly frightening, yet overall endearing way. Everyone tends to buy the deer senbei thinking that this is the way to deer friendship. Not the case. When you have food in your hands, you are just another mark in their con games. When you go to them sans snacks, you go on an equal level and they respect that. A nice site: a family of deer galloping away, followed by a chihuahua in hot pursuit, followed by a bumbling old Japanese man with a leash, followed by his resigned family in slow paces.

Todaiji is big and all, but we went off the beaten track to check out a kofun which just looked like a chunk of forest that the Kunaicho doesn’t want you digging into.

Naporitan spaghetti may have began its existence as a distant relation to thick and hearty Neapolitan ragus from the Old Country, but in its contemporary Japanese form, the recipe calls for a vulgarity on par with the high crimes of American junk food. Pasta noodles are joined with slices of hot dog and drowned in an ocean of tomato ketchup. (Older recipes may call for catsup in place of the ketchup.) Upon hearing of this monstrous concoction, a good Italian would probably immediately saunter off to absolve himself at confessional; those who dare eat the dish risk a long term in purgatory.

Despite its culinary blasphemy, Naporitan perfectly represents a certain taste culture in Japan. All puns intentional here, because there is a general aesthetic surrounding the standard menu of Showa-era coffee shops. The proprietors of the trendy cafes that began to sprout up in the 1990s purged this pasta style from their menus to make room for the faux authentic sauces that go well with caffe lattes and caramel teas and bossa nova. The Naporitan only lives on at places like Kamiya Bar in Asakusa.

Some may assume the famous Kamiya Bar is nothing more than a tourist trap, but the drab interior quickly quiets any doubts about authenticity. There appears to be no functional windows, and bright lights give the middle finger to all designer theories of dim ambiance. Asakusa locals sit within the unremarkable infrastructure and down round after round of the in-house brandy-esque liquor Denki Bran at ¥260 a pop. Seating is family-style, making Kamiya Bar one of the rare places in Tokyo where you must sit next to strangers and make an effort to befriend them. In a city dominated by cliquish izakaya, clinical cafes, and gimmicky ice bars, Kamiya Bar gives Tokyo a Hofbrauhaus on the Sumida.

Although Kamiya Bar has roots in the late 19th century, the menu and atmosphere have not budged since 1970. This may reflect the fact that Asakusa seems incapable of possessing a young generation. Even if kids exist and tag along to local festivals, the spirit of the neighborhood resides on the side of the grey-haired. Asakusa is completely untouched by the Parco vs. Laforet Wars of Sophistication that changed the face of West Tokyo over the last two decades. meaning essentially that Kamiya Bar does not intentionally “preserve” a Showa aesthetic as much as the patrons seem incognizant of the major changes on the other side of town.

Without falling into the trap of declaring Kamiya Bar more “real” than someplace like Idée Cafe, I will say that Kamiya Bar offers something completely different than Tokyo’s normal mission of providing the world’s largest set of life-sized simulacra. A night at Kamiya Bar is an inimitable experience. You can drink a frothy cappuccino or a Glenlivet on the rocks anywhere in the world, but there is only one spot for chilled glasses of spicy Denki Bran.

In my professional opinion, I am not sure “GASH” is the best name for a Maid Cafe.

There has been a “Miracle on Route 246″ — at least so goes the ad copy. Zaboo: the new onsen spa located smack in the middle of Tokyo, conveniently located across the street from once-trendy mega-complex Roppongi Hills. Thanks to some 50%-off tickets procured from work, Team Néomarxisme went down to check it out.

For suckers without discounts (i.e., the target customers), entrance to the urban hot spring will cost you 4000 yen PLUS a 550 “membership fee,” and yes, you must become a member. “Reflexology” and other treatments will set you back another 5000 yen or so a pop. A cold draft beer at the bar, thankfully, is only 600 yen.

The clientele is primarily women and mostly young OLs at that. This means the Men’s Bath is relatively empty, but its small scale belies low expectations of male participation. There is one large, very tepid pool (50% hot spring water). There is a “cave bath” which seems to have been carved out of real rock, but again, only barely warm enough. Hiding myself in the corner of the cave in 39.8 C water, I felt a bit like a bathing ape in lukewater. There is a single hot bath, the size of a small jacuzzi.

The bilingual sign above this bath reads something like, “Hot bathing is a favorite of the Japanese.” I glanced at the English, and thought, “Yes, that is true. Thank you for the cultural explanation to help guide my experience as a foreign visitor.” Then I noticed the Japanese text was exactly the same: something like 「日本人の好みの熱の湯」, providing the Japanese clientele with some much-needed anthropological self-analysis. No surprise to see such messages, of course, but it is another reminder of how much Japanese companies find it necessary (or at least in their best interest) to explicitly “sell Japaneseness.” Once companies and the media helpfully provide the correct images of nationality, consumers would be verging on traitorous behavior not to partake. I like hot baths too, of course, but a dip unfortunately does not reinforce my sense of national belonging. I just get clean and feel refreshed afterwards. Also, according to the sign, bathing stimulates my “sympathetic nerve.” (An observation courtesy of the Nihonjinron University Dep’t of Science, no doubt).

There is a “finish sauna” [sic] (フィンランドサウナ) which is good for wrapping up the experience.

All in all, the facilties were nice, I guess, but nothing spectacular. Compared to a super-duper “real” onsen out in the countryside that will set you back around 750 yen for entry, even ¥2000 at Zaboo was a bit excessive for the value. Nothing about the no-frills package screamed luxury. Clearly the price is more of a way to quality control customers than either a free-market price or a reflection of costs — and I get the sense that we will see a lot more of this in the “income disparate” future Japan. With no jolly middle class, you have to aggregate only rich people (or the well-behaved pretend rich) to guarantee a “clean crowd.” For 2000 yen, you may get the occasional 50 year-old woman who would normally go to a local sentō public bath. As it stands now, the spa probably gets well-to-do business people and their wives/mistresses as well as young women who live at home and have too much excess income anyway. No gangsters allowed entry — which is rather disrespectful seeing that the mob owns all the real estate in Roppongi.

The quality of the hot water is passable (gooey enough), but nothing spectacular. The most disappointing thing, however, is not the quality of the services/facilities, as much as getting out of the baths feeling refreshed and then having to step back into the reinforced-concrete tundra of Tokyo, catch a double-capacity Murakami-illustrated bus back to Shibuya, and wade through 500 people in Tokyu Food Show to get your supper. The charm of the countryside baths is that you take a peaceful dip then can proceed straight to your tatami mat room dressed in yukata, eat your dinner, have some sake, and fall asleep on a comfy futon. In this sense, Tokyo onsen is a bit doomed from the start.