Sobering up between bar hops Friday night, Andy and I decided to warp a few parsecs over to Shibuya Kaikan, but the once-legendary top floor, formerly filled corner to corner with retro arcade games priced cheaper than anywhere else in Neo-Tokyo, real classics competing for attention in all their polyphonic bitpoppy glory, the place I spent I think half of my off-hours and most of my weekly food allowance during college, the place I actually was (and this will date me) when I heard Kurt Kobain died, while playing Time Pilot as it so happens, me not him I mean, a shadow of its former self, filled not with Dig Dug and Elevator Action and the rest but rather rows of several-year-old head-to-head Gundam Versus Whatever cabinets instead, tended by a clone-like army of chain-smoking college kids and first-year hires in moptops and cheap suits and thick-framed glasses, who quickly scanned us for the dinosaurs we were, and after a desultory round or six of Time Crisis 2, at which Andy kicked my ass, we traveled floor to floor, a two-man lost tribe from an eight-bit era, bearing gifts of frankincense, myrrh, and fifty-yen coins, eventually landing amidst a paltry handful of vintage games in the manger-like basement, upon one of which which Andy proceeded to kick my ass again. Then the drinking.