Tokyo, Day 9

I ate breakfast!

Well, sort of...

I ate at breakfast time, but it wasn't really breakfast food. It was good, though!

It was right across the street from my hotel. Chicken (!) and rice, and mizo soup with some things Kevin claimed were highly nutritious. They tasted like potatoes to me, but hey, they're good for you too.

Then Kevin and I walked to the post office so I could mail myself some books and CDs and hopefully make weight at the airport. We'll see...

A little later, we headed out to Meguro to meet Motoki for lunch. I was still kind of stuffed from breakfast, so I didn't eat much, but the sushi was really good.

That reminds me: Eating sushi in Tokyo is like eating Chinese food in Hong Kong: it ruins it for you everywhere else. I'll still go to Genki Sushi, and enjoy it, but the sushi here is unbelievable.

So are the pork chop sandwiches, but not even I would think to equate them...

We talked about Christmas dinner, and they caught up on old times, which I was glad for. I didn't really feel like talking about milk and soda water during lunch.

Afterwards we went to karaoke and I got to watch them sing. They're pretty good, and a lot of the videos were very interesting in that karaoke kind of way.

Especially the Morning Musume video with all the girls in the bathroom ( I mean in the stalls!) and the urinals with lights in them. But I forget if that was the incarnation of the band where they were all of age or the one where some of them were under age...

I spent the rest of the day sitting around my hotel room. Which is not hard, considering how small it is.

One of my friends berated me for sitting in a hotel in Tokyo, but I walked a lot already today, like I do every day, and I currently have a case of Hong Kong Feet that would cripple a monitor lizard. My soles crack so bad they bleed.

I know, too much information, but it's true. Walking is painful. So I'd rather not.

Besides, I got to sit around and play my new guitar a lot.

I've never been one to name instruments, but I admit to a certain temptation to name this one after someone I just met.

Someone, I must confess in a paroxysm of Freudian P*ss Shivers, whose first name is the same one I used to call my grandmother.