I’ll have to say I get distracted in Harajuku by all the Engrish.  My battery gave out somewhere in there and cost me the photo of the “Richärd” boutique (imagine gothic lettering for the logo). 

I’m sure it’s a clever reference to some bygone decade. 

Our shop is seriously cool!  So is my job!  Just look at me!  (I wish I’d gotten the disbelieving stare of a foreigner who passed shortly thereafter.)

Clothing for the more cowardly martial artists. 

Wait – is it okay for me to stop and read this sign?  And is that why the shop looks empty? 

Not your typical Harajuku house.  Well, actually, that makes it sort of typical. 

Wow, we only try to measure it.  They got in at the ground floor.  Or did they mis-translate microcosm?

Emancipation killed the chauvinist pig.

The Design Festa Gallery building.

The gallery rooms are former one-room apartments, hence the gas meters. 

The staircase to mindless happiness. 

Natty hair or Glitzy Chest?  Your choice! 

Not just Panama Boy - Used Panama Boy.  They serve cocktails of colonial supremacy inside. 

For conscientious objectors to Used Panama Boy. 

We now move to Kabukicho, where sleaze and exploitation meet, of all things, Korean cuisine. 

Nice Badonkadonk. 

Part of the menu at Casanova. 

More options at Casanova. 

It’s like the cheese counter at Wal-Mart: they all look the same to me, vaguely artificial, and not terribly appealing. 

And always in the midst of it: Mr. Moustachio.  (The bottom right sign says “Crime won’t be overlooked.”) 

Still my favorite name for a love hotel: Hotel Speck.