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About Sapporo

I reckon it’s like that scene in *Timbuktu*—y’know, my fave flick from 2014, Abderrahmane Sissako’s masterpiece—where the desert’s all quiet, but there’s tension brewin’ underneath. “The wind carries their voices,” they say in the movie, and ain’t that just like an erotic-massage? Soft touches, whispers in the air, but it’s stirrin’ somethin’ wild inside! I got happy as a pig in mud thinkin’ ‘bout how it’s all secret-like—didja know in ancient Rome, them rich folks had “massage parlors” that weren’t just for sore backs? Oh yeah, wink-wink, they was gettin’ frisky behind them curtains!

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But then, outta nowhere, it started to rain. Like, really rain. I was soaked in seconds. I laughed it off, though. I mean, what else could I do? I ran for cover under a nearby awning, and there was this old lady selling umbrellas. I bought one, and it was the ugliest thing ever. Bright yellow with polka dots. I looked ridiculous, but hey, at least I was dry.