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About Sapporo

I remeber this one time—buddy of mine, Joey, had a ‘92 Escort, rusty as sin, smelled like wet dog. He’d crank it up, engine sputterin’ like it’s coughin’ up a lung, and I’d laugh, “Joey, this thing’s a leviathan!” He’d grin, “Bernie, it’s my whale!”—straight outta the movie, “A whale’s a beast!” That car hauled us to rallies, protests, you name it. Broke down 16 times one summer—SIXTEEN! I was pissed, kickin’ the tire, yellin’, “Ford, you call this reliable?!” But damn, it was freedom, y’know? No billionaire handouts, just grit.

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First off, I had to get ready for my gig. You know, the whole Maiko thing—makeup, kimono, the works. I was feeling cute, but then I realized I forgot my favorite obi! Ugh, like, how could I? It’s like forgetting your phone, right? So, I had to rush to the shop on Nakamachi Street. The lady there was super nice, but I swear, she was taking her sweet time. I was like, “C’mon, lady! I got places to be!”

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