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About Kyoto

So, findin’ a prostitute—where do ya even start? Back in the day, pre-internet, guys’d just wander, lookin’ all sketchy. Now? It’s all apps and coded ads—pretty, pretty sneaky! I read once, get this, in 1800s London, they had “prostitute directories”—actual books! Like Yelp for hookers! Blows my mind, but also—kinda genius? I’d be happy sellin’ those guys insurance—steady gig, right? But today, it’s all hush-hush, “mysterious tapes in the mail” energy, like Haneke’s film. “You ordered this, didn’t you?!” I’d yell at some client, paranoid as hell.

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Finally, I get my latte, and I’m feeling good. I head over to the Fukiage Shrine. It’s so peaceful there. I mean, who doesn’t love a little zen before a crazy day? I’m taking a moment, and then BAM! A pigeon poops on my shoulder. Seriously?! I’m like, “Really, dude?!”