I’m jamming gear into my Tokyo bag, sweat of frustration mingling with neon anticipation. I loathe packing. Bags bulging, zipper teeth snarling; chaos winning. But tonight, oh, tonight, the Acid Capitalist takes the merry punk band, you my droogs1, straight into the belly of Osaka’s electric beast. Swissôtel Nankai in Namba awaits, our basecamp nestled atop a humming hive. Brace, brothers, sisters, madness incoming; boundless supply.
Why write this frantic chronicle? It’s theorem and method, my formula for inclusion. Mea culpa: I've always found that glimpses of the future, those shards and reflected misfirings of tomorrow, only arrange themselves clearly in my head after confronting something visceral, something challenging. Like that haystack barn, the rough heat rub of hay on flesh pushing me to discover a random cross-currency trade in the South African rand.
