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In the middle of a weekend, in a bar in Cambridge, Bridget, Ann and I are talking about the recently installed new sushi counter that sits opposite the turntables where a rough-shaven DJ is spinning some punchy drum'n'bass. We wonder about the juxtaposition of tuna and top shelf scotch, and I float the idea that the chefs should take a page from Cocktail and Benihana and start juggling knives and maki pieces. From there, we riff on each other and decide it would be far better to ape Coyote Ugly.
And you can see it now, can't you? Earnest, aspiring Japanese idol singer leaves her parent's home in Hakone and takes a shinkansen into Tokyo, dodges the jobs at hostess bars and falls in with a rough'n'tumble sushi dive near Yokohama Bay run by lesbian punk matrons with Harajuku pedigrees. "You want a California roll? We don't do California rolls here. All we got is urchin, octopus, and fugu!" There's sumo wrestling on the bar, and a karaoke machine in the back stocked with Merzbow. They'll let salarymen in, so long as they can cut off their ties and set them on fire.
Someone get me David McNally's phone number.
And you can see it now, can't you? Earnest, aspiring Japanese idol singer leaves her parent's home in Hakone and takes a shinkansen into Tokyo, dodges the jobs at hostess bars and falls in with a rough'n'tumble sushi dive near Yokohama Bay run by lesbian punk matrons with Harajuku pedigrees. "You want a California roll? We don't do California rolls here. All we got is urchin, octopus, and fugu!" There's sumo wrestling on the bar, and a karaoke machine in the back stocked with Merzbow. They'll let salarymen in, so long as they can cut off their ties and set them on fire.
Someone get me David McNally's phone number.
