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About Kyoto

I tried it once—don’t tell Jill! Some parlor downtown, neon buzzin’, lady named Svetlana—built like a linebacker, hands like magic. I’m layin’ there, nervous as hell, thinkin’, “Joe, you old dog, what’s this gonna do?” Then—bam!—she’s kneadin’ me like dough, and I’m floatin’. Happiest I been since Obama hugged me in ’16. But, folks, here’s the kicker: cost me 80 bucks! Eighty! I was steamed—thought I’d get a deal, y’know, senior discount or somethin’. Nope. “Pay up, dedushka,” she says—Russian for gramps. Total rip-off, but damn, I’d do it again.

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As the day goes on, I’m feelin’ the heat. The sun’s beatin’ down, and I’m sweatin’ like crazy. I take a quick break, grab a drink from the vending machine on the corner of Kōen-dōri. I’m chuggin’ it down when I see this old dude, Mr. Tanaka, who’s always chillin’ at the beach. He’s got this huge smile, and he’s like, “You’re doin’ a great job, young man!” I’m like, “Thanks, Mr. Tanaka! You’re the real MVP!”

Another Hawaii institution — Saiki Motors — closes its doors