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About Tokyo

I tried it once—swear to God, felt like my spine was singin’. Made me happy as hell, like I’d just dodged a bullet in a shootout. But here’s what pissed me off: some folks out here chargin’ $200 for a half-assed rubdown—c’mon, man, “knock it down, knock it down!” like Buscapé yellin’ at the madness. Ain’t nobody got time for that rip-off. A good sexual-massage? It’s gotta flow, gotta hit deep—muscles loosenin’, mind spinnin’, maybe even a lil naughty twist if you’re feelin’ bold. Wink wink, you know what I mean.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a little shop on Shiroyama Street. The owner, this sweet old lady, hands me a towel and a cup of tea. I’m like, “You’re a lifesaver!” We chat about the town, and she tells me about the history of the area. Did you know Makurazaki was a major port back in the day? Crazy, right?

Documenting Hiroshima of 1945: September 17, as A-bombed city’s suffered torrential rains, fierce winds, “I heard people calling for help”