Samurai Indie Rock

After a busy day 1 of the vacation Daphney and I awoke at the crack of noon on Friday. We stumbled around the hotel room for a little bit, showered, and sallied forth into the afternoon. I broke with my typical traveling style of blundering into the sights worth seeing, and decided we should head to the infamous Osaka Castle. We had to take the subway to a different train line, and though I was becoming increasingly frustrated with the endless underground labyrinths of the large stations in Osaka, Daphney guided us toward the seven story white monster that loomed on the outskirts of the city.

The intense heat of the previous day had done some damage though, and everywhere my foot met my sandals yesterday was rubbed raw, so I went down to the convini (convenience store) and bought some band-aids for the sore spots which seemed to do the trick.

I’m going to bombard you with photos of the castle, which was breathtaking, until I was informed that the entire thing was fake. It had been completely razed sometime in the 19th century, and the exact exterior replica was rebuilt sometime after World War II. Defeated countries often cling to the glories of the past; see Italy or France for further details. This first, in my opinion the worst photo was taken a few hundred meters from the castle, and the second photo gives you a little better idea of the distance.

The castle itself was situated on a massive island of its own, which had in the absence of feudal lords, shoguns, serfs, and samurai become a kind of public park, complete with Japanese tourists walking around with giant clownfish hats from the movie Finding Nemo, I may never know why, but I don’t think I want to. The park was lush, and paths criss-crossed in every direction, but it wasn’t hard to head in the general vicinity of the castle, as we could see it from any angle, at every position in the park.
As we neared the castle I kept snapping pictures, it seemed to be the only actual photo worthy thing I’d seen in a while. Notice, there are no pictures of me standing bemusedly in front of the castle…tourist douches.




































Then as we approached the sprawling courtyard which would have no doubt held the lifeblood of any castle’s ecosystem, blacksmiths, markets, farms, animals grazing, everything was replaced by Coca Cola vending machines and dancing Korean religious cults. God I hate religious cults. However, these misled sheeple (that’s modern leftist slang combining sheep and people, it’s very chic in collegiate circles) provided abundant entertainment. As you can see from the picture, what should be a synchronized dance to promote the lord is a mish-mash of unattractive Asians in various states of totally arrhythmic disarray. If the thriller video was made with real zombies, it would look something like this.

After chuckling heartily we made our way to the vending machine for tickets into a recreation of a castle burned down before the declaration of independence was signed. As a general rule of thumb, if you enter something you think is a fortress meant to protect people from catapults and flaming arrows (which as I write it seems like the perfect name for the next big boy band) and that castle has…an elevator, something is wrong.

All of the signs that bothered to have English translations advised us that our phony castle viewing experience would be best if we began at the top and worked our way down. What this meant was that I had to try extra hard to have a good time working my way up. The entire interior of the castle had the feel of an under funded museum, it was well laid out, but hardly aesthetically appealing to someone who has more of an interest in how people killed each other hundreds of years ago.

The first stop on the first floor was a small dark room, showing an endless loop of a video about the construction of the castle…the original castle, sans gift shops and elevators. I’d by lying if I didn’t say after a few hours of walking in the sweltering heat I wasn’t more motivated by the darkness and the air conditioning than the video. I couldn’t exactly avoid watching the giant screen in front of me though. As such, through the tiny version of the movie off to the right with English subtitles I did learn a decent amount about the castle. So for those of you reading this because you’re taking a much needed break from writing that master’s thesis about castle construction in Tokugawa era Japan, I’ll enlighten you. The physical specimen of the castle itself isn’t very remarkable, other than the fact that you can see it’s entirely more decorative and less functional than a European behemoth of the same era. What’s interesting are the stone walls and the foundations of the castle. Unlike the Europeans, or even the Egyptians that constructed massive buildings from stone, the Japanese did not strive to create walls from thick uniform blocks of limestone that sealed together. The Japanese looked for the largest, most massive stones they could find, and then crafted the other stones individually to interlock with them.

Enough of that though, let’s move on to the second floor. I don’t remember anything about the second floor…

Let’s talk about the third floor, my favorite floor. Well I’ll just show you. I actually have no intention of explaining this floor; I think I’ll let you use your imaginations for this. Suffice to say the other tourists were wildly amused. However, since it is extremely rude to laugh at a Samurai, I was forced to go on a killing spree reminiscent of the scene in Monty Python’s search for the Holy Grail where Lancelot murders a few dozen wedding guests to rescue his flamboyant damsel in distress.

Umm, the fourth floor…I think there was a diorama. Are you excited? I sure as hell wasn’t…moving on.

The fifth floor was remarkable only for being ten feet higher than the 4th.

The 6th floor though, had a very large observation deck, and if I had a bow and arrow, and about two years to figure out how to accurately aim a bow and arrow I could have murdered me some Korean sheeple.

Would you like to see how a Samurai looks after he’s been drugged and his armor and sword have been stolen:


The next couple of shots were taken from the top, and you can see the fake gold plated fish in the foreground, and some random parts of the city of Osaka in the background, and possibly you will get an idea of the scope of the island the castle was sitting on. The photos of course do no justice to the amazing view from the top. After we’d had our fill of the castle we refused to take the elevators down and walked back down six flights of stairs.


As usual, and this rule applies to almost every square inch of Earth dubbed interesting enough to generate tourist revenue, “All Roads Lead to the Gift Shop.” Everywhere from the Alamo to Mt. Everest, all roads will invariable lead you to an overpriced novelty store full of crap that’s so far from genuine in any conceivable sense that buying one of the items will detract from any experience or connection you had with history or human culture. They are filled with only the most brainless of tourist douches, the bottomfeeders of cultural enlightenment. I bought some postcards and a kabuki mask.

On the way out of the castle we saw this sign. It is a perfect example of how badly English is butchered everywhere in Japan, and the central reason I’m somehow gainfully employed in this magical land. This sign is not advertising Samurai shaped cookies, or some kind of cake designed to help you escape prison by smuggling a samurai sword into your cell. What they were trying to say is that you could get a taste of what it’s like to be a Samurai Warrior if you pay money like I did to look bad-ass and murder people who disrespect you.

We charged back out of the gates and all semblance of the poorly orchestrated homage to the powers that be had disappeared. Walking back through the park, I heard this high pitched sound, and after a few minutes it began tunneling its way toward my brain. It felt like I was being stabbed with an ice pick through the ear drum. Eventually we identified the source of the sound; it was a Japanese woman with a really annoying voice, armed with a megaphone. I began talking to her so she would shut up, and eventually got her to pose for this picture for about 3 minutes as I fumbled with my camera, pretending it wasn’t working, and checking the batteries, to afford myself a few moments of peace from her paint peeling voice.

Walking away from the harpy I spotted these odd stone statues. I again made Daphney pose for a picture, as my only Japanese subject around. I like the giant monoliths dedicated to the old traditional appearance of Japanese woman juxtaposed with a modern Japanese girl. Yeah, that’s right, I said juxtaposed, about a picture, because I’m artsy like that.


We fled back to the hotel and picked up some sammitches to gnaw on. Afterwards I convinced Daphney that we should both get hair cuts, because I thought she’d look really hot with short hair. We headed back to Namba and began searching in vain for some able bodied homosexuals to make me look like less of a goon and for her to look stunning. The search was sadly coming up empty, but when I saw this wall outside of a café I just had to take a picture.

After wandering for a little while we stopped off at a burger joint for a late lunch/early dinner. After we finished eating she said her feet were bothering her a little bit, so I took off her shoes to have a look. It was god damn gruesome. Her feet looked like she’d been a leper for twenty years so much of her skin had rubbed off, she was completely calloused and almost bleeding in about a half dozen places. While I whined like a little girl about a few sore spots she’d endured what I can only imagine was excruciating pain and not made a peep. Herein lies one of the hidden strengths of Japanese culture, despite the fact that they have almost no outwardly confidence, they have an inner strength that radiates from this standoffish culture that no Western nation can come close to touching.

I ran off to a 7-11 that luckily had a huge assortment of large and small band-aids and ace bandages. Since I didn’t want anyone in the restaurant to vomit on me, I took her outside and played nurse for a little while as I bandaged and wrapped her feet. She went from leper to mummy in the span of a meal. Right before I left to get her supplies though a gorgeous stripper looking girl sat down in the table next to us. I told Daphney to ask her about a hair salon before I left, and by the time I got back she had a map with a small area circled and the name of a salon next to it.

I have no idea how big Osaka actually is, so I couldn’t very accurately gauge the distance, but a few inches on the map didn’t seem so insurmountable, we walked toward the dot.

On the way we passed a contraption that looked very much like the London Eye, attached to a mall in Namba. It was basically a huge Ferris wheel, but instead of the rickety carnie operated loveseats, each point on the wheel was a small observation bubble, completely encased, and air conditioned. While we were up top I took a bunch of pictures, but only two of them were worth anything. The first picture, if you look closely, shows what appears to be the demolition of a building, with bulldozers, from the top down. I’ve never seen anything like this before, and I’m not entirely sure how the process works.

The second photo is worthwhile because it gives you an idea of how insane the traffic patterns are in Osaka. If you look at the bottom right hand corner you can see a cab on the lowest level of streets. Above the cab in the middle of the picture are train tracks, a lot of train tracks. Further above the train tracks is a third level of traffic, an overpass that looks like it’s about level with the 8th floor of a nearby building. This picture made me happy I was not navigating this city by car.

We got out of our romantic little bubble and cruised back down to the city streets, looking for a hair salon. Maybe 20 minutes down the street I took what we might call the first of my purely artistic photographs. Since modern photographers tend to name their pictures as precisely as possible, I call this shot, “Abandoned bike meets lonely shed, under a street in Osaka, where two travelers were on the way to a hair salon, which would prove not only too expensive, but completely booked, and thus they were forced to abandon their plans for a haircut and begin binge drinking slightly earlier than the night before.”

It was getting dark when we got to Namba again, so not knowing where the good bars were, we stopped into a 7-11 and bought a beer for the walk. This was followed directly by another stop at another 7-11 for another beer for the road. Staggering randomly around Namba we came across this sign:

This seemed like as good an opening bar as any for the evening so we popped in. However, we later discovered that the sign was not intended as irony, the drinks were overpriced, watered down, the food was overpriced, and microwaved, and the bartender paid us no attention the entire hour and a half or so we were there. The score for the night was Osaka 1 – Samurai Steve – 0.

We boondocked outa there and veered toward the general vicinity of America Town, which despite the name, was by far the coolest part of the city we’d seen. The entire city was buzzing on this particular Saturday night, and the next bar we flowed into was jubilant in comparison. It was an Irish pub, filled with all sorts of Japanese and European patrons, wildly shouting, chugging, and rocking out to the…rock music playing. I was quite happy with our current decision. Osaka 1 – Samurai Buzzed – 1

As a general rule, any city that contains over ten bars will have at least one Irish Pub. This rule has never failed me, and the ratio usually maintains that consistency across the larger cities of the planet. This rule obviously doesn’t apply to Ireland, or Boston, otherwise known as “New Dublin;” or maybe, “Successful Dublin.” From what I’ve seen of Boston they could change the city slogan to “drinkers with a working problem.” It goes without saying that the slogan doesn’t apply to the Red Sox, who’ve hardly worked a day in their lives. Did I mention I was from New York?

We found a table for two near a wall that separate the serious, restaurant section of the bar, from the boisterous happy portion of said beer dispensing establishment. However, the amazing experience we had last night eluded us at this bar as well. It was loud, and filled, but it was nothing more than an ordinary bar filled with tourists, we had a decent enough time, we had a few drinks. Daphney ordered a drink that looked like a frozen rainforest. As we got up to pay the tab I went on a bathroom run, and when I got out, Daphney was in mid conversation with a giant, gangly, long-haired fellow, who turned out to be the drummer from a band called “Little Barrie.” This was one of the bands playing in the massive Summer Music Festival, and apparently there were more people like him out on the town tonight after the show. This folks is what we call foreshadowing.

After a slightly off key interaction, the night takes on a more optimistic note, something different had already happened, even if the rest of the night was a wash, we met a drummer from some band at an Irish pub in Osaka. If I met a really boring person somewhere I could probably embellish just that part of the evening to make myself sound exotic and adventurous. Luckily though, the rest of the night was not a wash.

We strolled around town for a while, America Town that is, and came around to the same concrete park that was crowded last night. Tonight it was filled to the brim, there must have been over a hundred people drinking and carrying on in the park. I immediately felt a little nostalgia for the experience I had in Budapest with a bunch of strangers sitting idly in the courtyard in front of St. Stephens Basilica, but I was not alone here. I probably would have sat there for hours if I was wandering around by myself, but Daphney isn’t what one would call a conversationalist, and I didn’t think she would enjoy this environment too much. So instead of popping a squat I asked a couple of girls who lived in Osaka for directions to a solid bar.

What came next was the most drunkenly convoluted series of directions I’d ever heard in my life. She was literally still talking 5 minutes later about how to get there. I thanked her for her thorough directions and made sure that she saw me start walking in the exact opposite direction of where she told us to go. In the end, it would prove better that I hadn’t stayed, but that’s purely speculation.

We aimlessly shot down the narrow alleys of America town until I had to stop to take a picture of the front of this hotel:


As we kept walking the streets were getting darker and darker, less and less businesses were open, and bars were very few and far between. I was still a little buzzed though so it didn’t bother me too much. Eventually we stopped at a familiar looking intersection. There was an ad for a J-Pop band called, “Dirty Old Man.” I thought it picture worthy.

As soon as I put the camera back in my pocket I realized exactly where we were. We were at the intersection where Peace Street was located, the crazy ass bar from last night. Even if the bar was dead, we definitely owed that bartender money for a couple of drinks to thank them for last night’s insanity.

The bar is completely and absolutely empty. I’m sure the douche douche bang bang club downstairs was packed to the rafters though. We had a drink and carried on a conversation with the Marijuana Cowboy, and Juggles the bartender. It was mellow but entertaining. Then I looked out the window, and down below on the street level 30 white guys were mulling around across the street.

30 white guys in a group anywhere in Japan is very suspicious. We immediately assumed that this must be a posse from the Rock Festival. As the group was all guys I immediately tried to send the cute Japanese girl down to fetch them, but she wouldn’t budge. I chugged my drink, I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. I told the bartender he was going to owe me a free drink soon. I marched downstairs and across the street. I had to think now, I wanted to get 30 people to follow a strange white guy in Japan of their own volition. This would be much easier if I had breasts.

I tried to gauge if one of them was the ring leader of this walking boondoggle. I couldn’t find anyone taking charge of the situation, so I singled out the quietest one on the outskirts of the group.

Me: Hey are you guys with the rock festival?
Random Indie Rocker: No mate, we’ve got nothing to do with it.

Shit, ok that was stupid, I took the completely wrong angle with that one. I had to react now before they decided to move off. Some of the bigger guys in the middle of this circle were much more belligerent, and belligerent people usually win the tit for tat where should the group drink arguments. I decided to act wildly drunk, and try to go for the drunk ones.

Me: (charging through a couple of people to the middle) Yoooo! What the fuck is up guys!? Listen, are you guys looking for an awesome bar, it’s right up the fucking stairs, man…this bartender…he like fucking flips all the bottles all over the bar, and does crazy fucking shit. It’s like a one man Japanese version of Coyote Ugly, without all the tits.

Drunks: No shit? Guys let’s go to this fuckin’ bar.

I am a god damned genius. Though to be fair, I probably could have been laying in a pool of my own vomit and grunted “bar” while pointing my finger and it would have had the same effect.

I led the way to the bar which was previously empty, and the owner looked at me in total disbelief as thirty gaijin stormed into the bar ordering about a dozen drinks at a time. I was the patron saint of Peace Street. The lads are began boisterously drinking, here they are:


The two old guys said they were roadies, the guy with the cigarette in the corner is the drummer for a group called, “We are scientists.” The craziest part about meeting this fellow the drummer is that I’ve met him before, about three years ago in a tiny bar in New York City, while they were, low and probably not coming. The fellow in the blue shirt next to him is the bass player for the Arctic Monkeys, who have apparently made it pretty big recently, with MTV videos and such, despite the fact that they’re pretty damn horrible. The lead singer from the same band is somewhere to the left, he’s very drunk, and very British, and at one point while he was talking to Daphney she turned to me and said that in 15 minutes she couldn’t understand a single word he was saying. The awe of being in the same company as indie stars soon faded though as it became apparent they were a bunch of whiney bitches.

One guy behind complained about his record label for a solid two hours, until I turned around and asked him if he whined that much in his lyrics. He moved to the other side of the bar after that. Indie rockers aren’t the strongest guys in the world. I carried on a pretty solid conversation with the drummer and bass player in the picture for a while, they were still in control of their ego’s and had no problem talking to a mere mortal for a while.

During this entire interaction, various members of various bands were crawling behind the bar to mess around with the laptop off of which all the music was being piped through the bar. It made for some interesting sing-a-longs, and it was pretty funny when someone would find a song, belonging to one of the bands present. The band whom the song belonged to would always say, “turn this shit off,” and immediately look for a song from one of the other bands.

The all hell broke loose. The bartender decided it was time for a show, he put on a song he liked, dimmed the lights, and went to town. All the tricks from last night, were warm ups compared to the stuff he was doing tonight. The man had a flair for theatrics. He did the same thing with pouring the drink into the cup he was balancing on a small pole, then stood up on the bar, jumped off, spun around, and caught the drink in mid-air.

Then, after that, the bartender’s friend came in, took off his shirt, and proceeded to do BMX ticks…ON THE FUCKING BAR. What, you don’t believe me?






















There’s only so much you can cope with from a single bar, I’ve never been to a single place that has provided so many crazy experiences in the span of two nights. Eventually most of the whitey’s got too drunk to carry on much further, and I was pretty sandblasted myself. We stayed a little longer after they filtered out, and I did about a half dozen free shots with the bartender, who you can imagine was happy I showed up that night. He was actually about to leave for the night, but I made him stay 5 minutes when I went outside to gather the troops.

We paid our very modest tab, and headed out into broad daylight to go back to the hotel. We must have stayed somewhere in the vicinity of 4 hours in Peace Street, and if you happen to find this bar, look for the little book on the bar where patrons can leave a message. After the illiterate ramblings of a bunch of indie lyricists I wrote what I remember to be some kind of sappy message, but I have no recollection of what it was.

On the way to the main street to get a cab, I realized that some American bitch had followed me all the way here to Osaka. I think you can get a grasp of my feelings about my homeland from the tinge of vomit that rose in my chest when I saw this little icon proudly displayed in Osaka. We grabbed a cab, went back to the hotel, and immediately passed out.

Final Score: Osaka 1 ½ - Samurai Hangover – 387

Wheat Out