I: Morning:
I woke just after 6:40 this morning with the pleasant emptiness that follows a good night’s sleep and, occasionally, good sex. The room was quiet. My head was clear. Osaka was already stirring.
I brewed a coffee in my room, then wandered downstairs for another one from Lawson, bought a bag of crisps, and smoked a few heaters.
Travel logistics, I’ve have come to realize, occupies only a fraction of my days these days. The rest is spent trying to make sense of what happened yesterday.
I opened my essay draft from last night.
“She looked like her picture…but not quite.”
Good.
“She joined me in the shower.”
Fine.
“She began to stroke my dick.”
I stared at the sentence. Technically accurate. But could I do better?
Try again. The morning became less about memory than rhythm. Every sentence asked a question.
Too much? Not enough? Funny? Honest? Self-indulgent? I changed “dick” to “cock.” Then changed it to “dick” again. I have no logical explanation for this. It just felt right.
Then there was the kissing. I looked at the sentence “her tongue had been just a little aggressive.” True. Funny. Fair. It stayed.
Other things didn’t. I caught myself trying to make everything dramatic. I deleted entire paragraphs. I was making progress. Outside my window Osaka continued existing without the slightest interest in whether one sentence sounded better than another.
Inside my room, however, the fate of Western literature seemed to depend upon whether I’d written “I checked Google Maps again” or “I checked Google Maps for the tenth time.” The latter had to go. It was writerly inflation. Get it outta here.
II: Early Afternoon:
Whenever I edit, my brain begins making impossible associations.
One sentence reminds me of a song. The song reminds me of a film. The film reminds me of another book.
Then suddenly I’m Googling Moneyball pictures because I need a photograph of Brad Pitt smiling for my essay cover.
I put on the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Dirty Water with that one immortal line.
“Fuck with me and I’ll fuck with you/ ain’t what that were supposed to do?”
Perfect, I thought. There’s your epigraph.
By mid-morning I’d spent three hours changing words that most readers would never notice. Dick. Cock. Looked. Seemed. Perhaps. Another cigarette. More editing.
There are days when writing feels like building a cathedral. There are other days when it feels like repeatedly moving the same chair around the living room in search of the perfect angle.
=====
After lunch I finally leaned back. The piece wasn’t perfect, but it was alive.
Yesterday had begun as a train ride, become a date, drifted into sex, wandered through a convenience store at half past midnight, detoured into Zero Dark Thirty, and somehow wrapped at six thousand words.
That’s the strange alchemy of memoir. You don’t write life. You live it first. Then you spend the next morning discovering what it was actually about.
III: Late Afternoon
Whether you know it or not—if you’re even halfway interesting—you eventually become Larry King.
“Morning folks…maybe Hong Kong… maybe the weather… coffee…”
Dot dot dot. The famous Larry King ellipsis.
God, I loved that.
“Mets win…”
Always the Mets.
“Mets win… rain tomorrow… baby dies… RIP… gonna take a shit… Larry out…”
Everything separated by ellipses like every thought had exactly the same emotional weight. That’s genius. USA Today probably paid him a million bucks for two tiny paragraphs. Larry transcended journalism. It was its own literary form.
Speaking of old media guys, I think this has been reported, so I’m not talking out of school. Mandiola said Larry was up against it money wise when he died. Eight marriages. Eight divorces. Totally outta control.
After sixty-five years at the pinnacle of broadcasting, CNN, the huge interviews, all of that… supposedly there wasn’t much left. You assume people who sit on top of the mountain for half a century just become permanently rich.
Apparently not.
=====
Hong Kong still sounds attractive to me. Not just because of the escorts. Honestly, I can get dumplings anywhere. But there’s something about Hong Kong. South Korea too, though prostitution isn’t really an option there. That’s okay. I’ll get on the apps when I feel like dating.
I don’t actually want another marriage. I thought I did with Litz six weeks ago. Turns out I was just rushing in and being dumb.
Ian texts nd says a bunch of those Scott Walker songs on YouTube are probably AI. Sure dude. Doesn’t bother me. Fine brother, fine.
III: An Early Night
I don’t have a lot to say about last night. I didn’t get an escort. I didn’t even browse the escort sites. Mostly, I slept—twice more—and finished editing and publishing my essay He Gets on Base. Other than that, I didn’t do much of anything.
Cape Canaveral remained the soundtrack of the evening. I don’t even remember whether I talked to Litz. I had the tempura soba for dinner from the store, and that’s about all I can confidently remember.
Around five o’clock, I realized I’d slept very little over the past week. As I’ve mentioned before, I haven’t really slept well since I was fourteen, with very few exceptions. A week of minimal sleep isn’t unusual for me. After several days, though, it inevitably catches up with me. This was one of those times.
Earlier in the day, I’d finished a somewhat difficult edit of my journal entry, Am I Bisexual? After publishing that, I turned to the previous day’s essay, He Gets on Base, which was also running a bit behind. I thought I could get it edited and published before going to sleep, and, thankfully, I was right.
A couple of hours later, I took a short nap. When I woke up, I washed up, drank some water, put on some fresh music, and went back to work. I don’t remember thinking about much besides finishing the essay. That was the goal, and I wanted it out the door.
I finally fell asleep for the second time around 10:00 p.m. and woke up around 3:30 a.m.—a perfectly normal night by my standards.
Overall, it was a good day. I didn’t accomplish much in terms of sightseeing or adventure, but I did get two overdue essays edited and published. I caught up on some badly needed sleep, felt productive again, and, in the end, that was good enough.
This will probably be one of the shortest entries in The Days and Nights of My 50s, but not every day needs to be an epic. Sometimes getting the work done and getting some sleep is story enough.
Dedication:
For sleep. Thank god.
[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[The Days and Nights of the 50s, 7/25/26. He Gets on Base.
zmust be eighty meterswith planters all the way down , with planters all the way down it.
Some benches have backs.
Some don’t.
Obviously I’m taking the deluxe seating.
No plans today.
That’s the plan.
Maybe extend another night.
No reason to move.
Red Roof got cancelled.
Waiting on the Sony card.
Probably head back Tuesday unless Hugh suddenly decides otherwise.
I doubt it.
He said “maybe.”
That’s already twenty percent.
Then he didn’t text back.
That’s another twenty percent.
I just don’t think it’s happening.
If he calls, maybe Kobe.
I’m not cold-opening Kobe.
Women?
Sure.
Friends?
Different rules.
Bought Camels.
Pure economics.
American Spirits are ¥440.
Marble Blacks are ¥660.
Camels were something like ¥480 for twenty.
The math wins.
Star liked my pieces.
There’s something going on there.
I know there is.
She texted back fast enough.
Not saying anything dramatic.
Just…
I have a read on these things.
Music.
Nothing beats side two.
“Rock & Roll.”
Then “Sweet Jane.”
Come on.
Lou Reed was absolutely on one.
People always talk about “Walk on the Wild Side.”
Fine.
It’s good.
But Street Hassle…
Different universe.
He played twenty-plus minutes of it live when I saw him in 2003.
Incredible.
Rosie’s in Thailand.
Pink hair now.
Twenty-three? Twenty-four?
Typical Thailand.
III: Late Afternoon
arly Afternoon
Dude, whether you know it or not—if you’re even halfway interesting—you eventually become Larry King.
“Maybe Hong Kong… maybe the weather… coffee…”
Dot dot dot.
The famous Larry King ellipsis.
God, I loved that.
“Mets win…”
Always the Mets.
“Mets win… rain tomorrow… baby dies… RIP… gonna take a shit… Larry out…”
Everything separated by ellipses like every thought had exactly the same emotional weight. That’s genius. USA Today probably paid him a million bucks for two tiny paragraphs. Larry transcended journalism. It was its own literary form.
Speaking of old media guys…
I think this has been reported, so I’m not talking out of school. Manuel said Larry was almost broke when he died. I don’t know the numbers—I think Manuel threw out something like a million dollars in debt—but the point wasn’t the number. The point was that after sixty-five years at the absolute top of broadcasting, CNN, the huge interviews, all of that… supposedly there wasn’t much left.
Again, that’s Manuel’s story, not mine.
If true, it’s fascinating.
You assume people who sit on top of the mountain for half a century just become permanently rich.
Apparently not.
Hong Kong still sounds attractive.
Not because of escorts.
Honestly, I can get dumplings anywhere.
But there’s something about Hong Kong…
South Korea too, though prostitution isn’t really an option there. That’s okay. I’ll get on the apps if I feel like dating.
I don’t actually want another marriage.
I thought I did with Liz.
Turns out I was just being dumb.
No regrets.
Seriously.
I forgive myself completely.
Starter still hasn’t gotten back to me.
Hugh either, but it’s only six in the morning, so he’s asleep.
Ian says a bunch of those Scott Walker songs on YouTube are probably AI.
Could be.
Doesn’t bother me.
I barely know what he’s talking about half the time anyway.
Green gum.
Always green gum.
The black stuff is basically gone in three chews.
Do people actually chew gum for half an hour?
I don’t.
Three chews.
Done.
This bench is better.
The hotel has this long strip outside—must be eighty metres—with planters all the way down it.
Some benches have backs.
Some don’t.
Obviously I’m taking the deluxe seating.
No plans today.
That’s the plan.
Maybe extend another night.
No reason to move.
Red Roof got cancelled.
Waiting on the Sony card.
Probably head back Tuesday unless Hugh suddenly decides otherwise.
I doubt it.
He said “maybe.”
That’s already twenty percent.
Then he didn’t text back.
That’s another twenty percent.
I just don’t think it’s happening.
If he calls, maybe Kobe.
I’m not cold-opening Kobe.
Women?
Sure.
Friends?
Different rules.
Bought Camels.
Pure economics.
American Spirits are ¥440.
Marble Blacks are ¥660.
Camels were something like ¥480 for twenty.
The math wins.
Star liked my pieces.
There’s something going on there.
I know there is.
She texted back fast enough.
Not saying anything dramatic.
Just…
I have a read on these things.
Music.
Nothing beats side two.
“Rock & Roll.”
Then “Sweet Jane.”
Come on.
Lou Reed was absolutely on one.
People always talk about “Walk on the Wild Side.”
Fine.
It’s good.
But Street Hassle…
Different universe.
He played twenty-plus minutes of it live when I saw him in 2003.
Incredible.
Rosie’s in Thailand.
Pink hair now.
Twenty-three? Twenty-four?
Typical Thailand.
Then out of nowhere…
An old girlfriend pops up.
Haven’t talked in thirty-four years.
Barely thought about her except when the algorithm reminded me she still exists.
Now she wants me to call.
Why not?
Thirty-four years.
What’s the worst that can happen?
I’ll give her a ring.
We’ll see what happens.
Duder out.
=====
Then there was the kissing.
I liked writing that her tongue had been “just a little aggressive.”
Whenever I edit, my brain begins making impossible associations.
One sentence reminds me of a song.
The song reminds me of a film.
The film reminds me of another book.
Then suddenly I’m reading Moneyball captions because I need a photograph of Brad Pitt smiling.
Why?
No idea.
It simply feels right.
Then Kevin Drew enters the room.
“Good sex never makes you feel hollow.”
Perfect.
That’s the epigraph.
Sorry, Bukowski.
You’ve just been replaced.
By now I’d drifted into The Sopranos.
I’ve watched the entire series twice.
One of my favourite moments comes near the end, when Carmela asks Meadow whether she’s really leaving.
Meadow says yes.
Carmela asks, “So you wanna get out?”
Meadow nods.
Carmela smiles sadly.
“Let me draw you a map.”
I’ve always loved that line.
It’s funny.
Protective.
A little manipulative.
Entirely maternal.
Like so much of The Sopranos, it’s simultaneously warm and faintly menacing.
Good dialogue almost always carries two emotions at once.
That’s something I’ve stolen shamelessly.
By mid-morning I’d spent three hours changing words that most readers would never notice.
Dick.
Cock.
Looked.
Seemed.
Perhaps.
Maybe.
Delete.
Undo.
Delete again.
Smoke.
Coffee.
Another cigarette.
More editing.
There are days when writing feels like building a cathedral.
There are other days when it feels like repeatedly moving the same chair around the living room in search of the perfect angle.
This was definitely a chair-moving day.
Around lunchtime I finally leaned back.
The piece wasn’t perfect.
It never would be.
But it was alive.
Yesterday had begun as a train ride, become a date, drifted into sex, wandered through a convenience store at half past midnight, detoured into Zero Dark Thirty, and somehow ended as six thousand words.
That’s the strange alchemy of memoir.
You don’t write life.
You live it first.
Then you spend the next morning discovering what it was actually about.
The Kyoto Kibbitzer 