Japan

[G'D UP FROM THA FEET UP]

in Canada

[G'D UP FROM THA FEET UP]

in USA & Canada

[azerks]

Post up some more shibuya bombs and tags!!

[serum]

 

Actress-model Yu Yamada, 23, takes part in a graffiti clean-up program in Miyashita Park in Shibuya on Sunday.

She joined 50 other volunteers in the urban beautification project that also included Yoyogi Park

[FUCKMUNI]

haha i had tags runnin in that park...that was the kirin nodogashi spot

[TYCOONSAVAGE]

Is that TIE slap in tokyo

[EL Narison]

Now that's a hell of a shirt for my girl.

[thegutter]

that white paint is alot prettier than me and disks mops that where there

[the_gooch]

i'm coming to narita for a week. what's the scene like (if any) in the area? i'd like to try to paint something while i am there.

[thegutter]

theres lots of burners on the planes at the airport, hehehe nahhh. just take a train into tokyo dude, i think its only like 45 minutes to ueno, then check out around shibuya, shinjuku all those main areas and you will find lots of shit.

[the_gooch]

cool, thanks. hopefully i'll have some free time for some painting, if not flix will be cool.

[serum]

alot of people ask me about being arrested in japan. so heres an example what could happen after getting arrested for fighting

 

 

Hard Time

After Three Weeks in a Shinjuku Lock-Up, the author finds that justice in Japan is rough indeed

 

Courtesy of Paul C.J. Green; Kohji Shiiki

 

Day 1: Blood and Processing

 

 

After 17 hours of interrogation, I had an arrest warrant slapped down on the dirty table in front of me, as if the cop had finally captured a serial killer. My tsuyaku (translation) guy had already informed me that I would do a stint of at least 10 days while they investigated what happened. I didn’t need translating, but knew it would help down the line. He had mediated all the proceedings and helped me feel a little at ease.

 

The warrant read, “For not cooperating with the police and hitting a man with a bottle.” I was definitely guilty of not cooperating with the police, but as the obviously far-from-smart detective team would find out later by video, not guilty of hitting some guy with a bottle. My attack on the “victim” had been fired by his drunken physical taunts and led to injuries mimicking those of a bottle to the brow. He was so drunk and shaken up himself that he said he was unsure of what happened.

 

The room, now full with eight police of varying rank and each sporting different attire, heated up when the lead detective walked in to ask about my now deformed hand. My metacarpal had snapped on the third punch to the Goliath-sized “victim.” It became swollen and near vestigial. I decided not to go to the hospital as the police didn’t seem too happy about having to take me. I also wasn’t ready to be walked through a hospital in handcuffs. I wanted to sleep more than anything.

 

The cops ushered me to the elevator in my ropes and handcuffs under the watch of all those on the afternoon shift, keeping my nose up, not bothering to be embarrassed anymore. None of them knew that over the last few days I had stayed overnight in a suite at one of Tokyo’s most expensive hotels, posed for a magazine, helped some Japanese children with their homework, dressed up in a gorilla suit and been to a private party that the prime minister also attended .

 

I had already made my phone call to my brother, who also lives in Tokyo, to tell him that I may need some assistance in returning to freedom. Little did I know that in the next three days, I would be out of contact and the process would rape me of my rights as a human.

 

After the grueling experience of taking photos and fingerprints, I was happy to be in the processing room. My handcuffs were off and I knew I could finally sleep soon. As they weighed me in my silk Batman boxer shorts, they told me to make sure I made friends with my cellmates and to verse my number—65—clearly when addressing the guards. I kept up my ‘don’t understand Japanese’ act just out of respect for my tsuyaku guy who read me the jail rules off the wall, although they were in English too.

 

They allowed me to write down five telephone numbers to use as a reference days later when the guards would relay a message for me by phone. When I checked my phone I discovered an email from my girlfriend. “Be strong baby, I love you, I love you, I love you.” The last times I had seen her were when the detective was playing bad cop and shouting in her face and then when the police escorted her past my interrogation room.

 

On entering my cell I found my space on the carpet and scanned the place, trying not to make too much eye contact. I made the effort to get everybody’s name and, as they insisted, to tell them my story.

 

The Pakistani A visa overstayer—# 7—had been the most talkative and was very happy to be leaving in a few days after a three-month stay.

 

The Chinpira Some big dude in the classic Mickey Mouse jumper—# 31—arrested for carrying a knife. He was also due to leave after a two-night stay.

 

The Drug Dealer Anzai, whose name I mistakenly repeated as hanzai (crime)—# 46—had been in for six months for distributing heroine and had three years in prison ahead of him. He mostly kept to a corner, writing to his ex-wife and looking at photos of his dog, although he would become very chatty and funny after a few tranquilizers. He had been in there the longest and had the visible composure of the highest rank in the cell.

 

The Street Vendor Yamamoto-san—# 76—was a cheerful old man who fit in there less than I did. He had sold incense on the street without a license. It wasn’t his first offence and he didn’t have jail time ahead of him, but they had to keep him there while they investigated his case and set a court date.

 

The Burglar Takada—# 1—had done less time than Anzai and had the most confidence. He had lived in the U.S. as a teenager and spoke to me in English, which was refreshing. Although he insisted that he was happily married to the right person he told tales of his exploits in Kabukicho with prostitutes he referred to as his girlfriends. He revealed details of his deviant acts on girls as young as 14, though making sure to justify his actions. It intrigued me to learn of the themed red-light joints he frequented, like naked-old-lady soba shops and excrement-play establishments. Takada was one of a racket of 16 burglars who climbed up to balconies to slip into homes. Most of his associates were Chinese, as was his wife. He said he is still under investigation because he hadn’t yet ratted out any of his team members. He showed no worry when he mentioned he would serve two to three years in prison. He had plenty of money in the bank for his wife and was finalizing his purchase on a nice apartment in China.

 

Day 2: The Bus of Torture

 

0630: I woke up with a startle to the sound of the killer industrial lights turning on. The cell doors clanged open and my new roommates nodded for me to follow them. After putting away our futons, we proceeded to the troughs. It was time to brush our teeth and wipe ourselves down with a hand towel.

 

Luckily, I had showered the night before, as it had been bath day. It was to be another five days before I was that lucky again. The shower room was quite tame, with just one other guy in there covered from head to toe in tattoos and missing two and half fingers on each hand. I told myself many a time not to drop the soap trying to cheer myself up but behold, I dropped it—thank God with no consequence. I found out later he was intentionally segregated—he had once nearly poked The Burglar’s eyes out while he slept.

 

After our trough time, the doors clanged shut, and a vacuum cleaner and bucket were passed through to us. The ranking cellmate showed me the procedure of how to clean the already clean toilet. The next time for the doors to swing open was for undou (exercise time). A guard had informed me that this actually meant “Tobacco!” I was in no mood for anything, so I shoved my face into my borrowed jumper and tried to get back to sleep—the only place I wasn’t in jail.

 

This was to be the longest day of my life.

 

0830: Shiken (court)! Guards escorted me with 12 other poor souls to a room preparing us for the goumon (torture) bus. I called it the bus of torture not because of the ride itself but because where it would take me: holding cells for those with an appointment to see the prosecutor or judge. Upon entering and exiting the bus, there is a large flock of blue uniforms, one of whom shouts at the top of his lungs your precinct and the number that’s written on your slippers as you pass.

 

The room for the day has an open toilet at the rear and hard wooden benches on each wall that seat 10. You keep the handcuffs on from 0900 when you arrive to 1730 when you leave, with the exception of lunchtime, which consisted of two bread rolls, one sachet of butter, one sachet of jam and one sachet of chocolate sauce. The only thing I had to look forward to on my bus-of-torture days was the cheese stick that accompanies this lunch. Talking, sleeping or anything other than sitting was prohibited.

 

I had a translator sitting next to my floor-fastened chair. My lawyer said to be nice to the prosecutor, so I was, but truthfully, I wanted to kill her. The prosecutor knew the basic facts of the case: I had punched a guy so hard and so many times that his nose was shattered and his monkey forehead ripped. Therefore, I must be a criminal.

 

Actually, the “victim” had shot incomprehensible words at us; we retorted with, “Sorry, what?” which he took to be aggressive. Later, I found out he had thought we were making fun of his friend’s limp when we passed, although they were standing, not walking. We were actually just flailing about tipsy, on our way home from the night out and didn’t even notice the guy. But before we knew it, Kenji the Great was pulling our ties and slapping my arms while shouting in his local yakuza-wannabe dialect, “You gaijin pieces of crap, I’m gonna smack the hell out of you!”

 

Provoked? Doesn’t matter. I turned to my Australian comrade with his ruffled tie. “I’m not gonna take any of this,” I muttered. I hated him and people like him and I wanted to show him. I had to reach up towards the sky to connect my blows. The second left his nose in pieces; the third snapped my hand in two and opened up his head; the fourth and fifth were so bloody I knew something was wrong with my adrenalin levels.

 

There were two beer bottles involved, which both, conveniently, had limited-edition labels from the one-off event from which I was coming home. One bottle lay smashed in the train station at the crime scene (behind the yellow “crime scene” tape). The other lay intact in my special event bag next to my girlfriend in the police station. Obviously, this was proof!

 

After going through my statement with the mole-ridden prosecutor, I implored, “I have never been in trouble with the police before; I’m an active, respected member of my local community and I believe I am not a flight risk, so please.”

 

The prosecutor simply looked up, sniggered and politely, but firmly, said, “Tell that to the judge tomorrow.”

 

On the way home everybody was like little puppies in anticipation. I never thought I’d be so happy to see a jail cell. Here, there was nothing to do but eat my shabby cold dinner that they had saved for me: rice, disgusting fish, mingy vegetables and other insufferable nit bits.

 

Day 3: Eating in Handcuffs

A sketch of the prison environment, by “Inmate 65”

“Tell that to the judge tomorrow.” Ha, yeah, what a poof. I did tell the judge the same story, but he didn’t even look up from his desk as he said, “Noted.” I got 10 days “investigation/incarceration time,” later extended to 20.

 

The second day’s holding cell was one large, dull room for everyone. This meant our handcuffs were to stay on while we ate, which ensured we got jam and butter all over them.

 

A call followed my belated dinner—“Rokuju-goban, shirabe desu.” My cell mates quickly reminded me to kill as many cigarettes and cokes as I could while I had the chance in the interrogation room.

 

When I got back from questioning, a new criminal entered—he was smiling, friendly, relaxed and haphazardly said, “Oh, it’ll be a three-year holiday!” He was a highly ranked Yamaguchi-gumi yakuza member who had been caught with a gun. He told stories of making people dig their own graves and of sending others who were in debt out on tuna boats for years on end. When Anzai moved on to prison a few days later Yamazaki and I slept next to each other at the end of the cell. He had lived on a base as a teenager and often came out with English of a very humorous or sexual nature. Despite being who he was, he became my best friend in the lockup. He had false teeth, a round belly and often wore his pink socks with a cell carpet matching lime-green tracksuit.

 

“Paul, check this out. It says here that in some prisons in Australia you get all-you-can-eat beef and gays are allowed to get there own couple rooms!” He kept insisting on washing my back for me in the showers, and on the last day I agreed purely out the irony of the situation. The warden couldn’t believe his eyes.

 

Day 4: The Verge of Breakdown

 

I had asked over and over for some English reading material and finally received two novels, in French. Lunch came at noon, an hour after the daily attendance shout. I had ordered a bento upgrade for ¥500 in the morning and was surprised by how edible it was.

 

When I woke up from the hard, bare floor at about 4pm with no one to come see me yet, I started to become distressed and asked what time visiting hours were over. “16:30,” they said.

 

I had being trying to keep myself from crying and throwing up all day, and as the dinner preparations started I paced around the cell like a caged cat. Yamazaki announced, “Well, I’m going to give this guy the three tranquilizers I saved because he’s on the edge.”

 

As I ordered water as a chaser for the tranquilizers the yakuza guy had given me, I heard a shout. “Rokuju-goban, menkai desu!” (“Number 65, you have a visitor!”) I couldn’t believe my ears—visiting hours were over half an hour ago.

 

While I was walked down the halls towards the visitation booths I saw a basket on the desk at the end of the corridor that looked like it held clothes and magazines. The familiar guard swung open door number 2 as if he had done it a thousand times. As I entered the room, slightly confused as to who it may be, I saw my sweet-skinned girlfriend beaming up at me. “Oh my god, you are a lifesaver,” I said. Again I had to try hard to hold myself from crying or throwing up. This time it was out of relief and happiness instead of distress and depression.

 

The basket held some underwear, socks, T-shirts, a tracksuit, magazines, a novel, some Polaroids and an old Valentine. She had written her letter to me in English and it couldn’t be passed on to me, so she held it up to the Perspex for me to read. I hardly remember what we talked about but I know I went back to the cell unable to hold back my smile and had a good night’s sleep.

 

Day 5: The Not So Lucky

I was now a regular feature in the tobacco exercise room every morning.

 

It was always a happy, talkative place. Everybody’s two allocated cigarettes brought joy to their abysmal lives. The characters moping about the small open-air room looked no different to the people eating next to you in a noodle shop.

 

The Tourist—# 74—The day before, I had seen a huge backpack’s worth of things laid out neatly on a tarp in front of the processing room. It belonged to a Danish guy who I met during exercise time. He was studying in Taiwan and had been sightseeing in Tokyo for less than 12 hours before he was arrested for spraying a fire extinguisher when drunk. After apologizing and paying for a new canister, he and his two friends were hauled to jail. His two friends, mere onlookers, were also guilty and spent the same 10 days as their friend. They missed their return flight and exams.

 

The Korean—#52—Shin started crying about 10 seconds after sitting down in the cell. He didn’t stop until after he saw the judge three days later and was released. He had stuck his foot out in front of a police car or something while at a crosswalk. It was obviously all just a misunderstanding. He was a gentle businessman with a family waiting at home. We all tried to comfort him and found it hard to stay positive through his endless sobbing. For a brief hour or two we managed to divert his thoughts by hastily making some playing cards. The cards are eventually flushed down the toilet, hidden under your jumper with some bread from the day before or confiscated when rising fun levels are noticed.

 

Over the weeks there were a few other people that popped in and out of the cell aside from the usual suspects. One was a very seedy drunk guy obviously from Kabukicho who turned out to be quite funny and entertaining when he sobered up days later. Another was an illegal porn shop owner with long hair and a content composure.

 

Day 6: The Long, Long Weekend

By the first weekend of my stay, I decided that my hand was definitely broken and needed immediate attention. That came the following Monday.

 

When we arrived at the hospital, I was fitted with a hand cover so that kids didn’t see my cuffs and get scared. The doctor treated me like the criminal I was. He seemed quite happy when he realized that he was going to have to re-break my bone. The elderly nurse gave a cringy grin—I could tell she knew I wasn’t the criminal I appeared to be. Two guards held me down on the seat while the doctor pulled with all his might. I let out a loud swear and groan just for effect and made sure I got a prescription of extra-strong pain killers for everyone, as advised by my cellmates.

 

Weeks passed with every day becoming more comfortable but at the same time more monotonous…

 

Day 10: No Chance

The author stands on the spot in Shinjuku station where his life turned upside down

I became quite popular with guards, as I sometimes had four visitations a day, which involved a guard sitting next to you and were only in Japanese. This meant the guards knew everything about my personal and business life by the end of my stay. Some were more lenient than others on the language rule, but most times I would find myself having to talk to even my foreign friends in Japanese behind the Perspex. People could bring things for me. Porn magazines were fine but Where’s Wally was not allowed in. On another attempt, a similar picture book was smuggled through from my girlfriend by a sympathetic guard.

 

When I didn’t get released on my tenth day I was pissed. It meant another 10 days, just when all the guards were becoming my friends and calling me by name rather than number. At the nightly roll call, I let them know how I felt.

 

“Number 65! Number 65!! Number 65!!! Paul, that’s you!!! Number 65 Paul!!!”

 

“Yeah, I can hear you.”

 

“So answer! Number 65!!!”

 

“Aha.”

 

“Number 65 say, ‘Hai.’”

 

“Whatever.”

 

What were they going do? Lock me up for 10 days!?

 

Day 18: The Smart Monkey

 

On my last day on the bus of torture I learned I was leaving the ryuuichijou (lock-up). A new, nice prosecutor went through my statement again. We both ignored the translator. I said I had been through the statement countless times and that there really is no point. Although her necklace and cheap blouse gave the impression that she was quite dumb, the size of her office and her countenance gave me a little faith.

 

She informed me of three possibilities: I stay in lock-up and go to court, I leave lock-up with a fine, or I leave without a fine. She decided that since my “victim” had received over ¥1 million in compensation, I need not pay a fine. So my punishment? Time served.

 

Day 19: Release Him, I Guess

 

A day earlier than expected, the guards scurried around the front of my cell unable to hold back their secret—“Paul, don’t tell anyone… but you’re getting out this afternoon.” My only concern was changing the restaurant reservation I had made from tomorrow night to tonight. I kept my composure, finished my book, and after scratching my name on the rear cell door, packed up my stuff and said my sad good-byes to the mob. I imagined meeting these characters on the street and wondered what I would say. I made sure to leave some English reading material behind to help the next guy in there.

 

With a new 6-pack stomach, 4kg and ¥2 million down, I slipped back into my three-piece suit, tightened up my purple Hermès tie, and strolled out back into the free world of robots. I still keep the unsmashed bottle in the fridge.

 

 

 

 

 

2 million yen is roughly $18,000US

[thegutter]

i know a few guys who have been popped for writing here, if your in a group and the only one caught, you are almost garunteed to do the 21 days while they try to get you to rat out the others. This is in a communal cell. as a foreigner you will prob have to pay for the damage and then be deported, with a 5-10 year ban on coming back, but all cases are different.

[26VALENCIA]

damn that jail sounds way funner than jail in the USA...you get to upgrade your meals and read porn?

[ANGELDUST]

DAMN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. .

[YoungonE]

well upgrading meals are a little different but porn is nothing new to jails and prisons in the u.s. he was serving his 10 days of time. not really waiting for trial so he wasnt being transported all over the place like the u.s.

[Punc_one_ev]

Anymore Gauze?

[serum]

 

[serum]

Emey

 

Kitchi

[YoungonE]

they got krylons in japan(1st pic)?

 

good posts serum

[delonemonkey]

howcome no one in japan or atleast not a good majority of people do write in graffiti in japanese?

[herbsyntec]

Dang that jail sounds way more fun that the ones here. But at least you get to scratch your name in the jail here too.

[username0913]

why are the japanese so damn sick? ugh its disgusting

[spook one]

dope shiit nigga...........

[novakaine]

Awesome story serum!

[serum]

Emey

 

 

In Kyushu

[YoungonE]

lol soup curry.

[RodneyRage]

Any people in here who have been to Japan before and happened to have a brush in with the law and their finger prints taken for whatever reason had better not leave the country or ever try to go back unless they are looking to waste alot of time and money. As of yesterday Japan started using a finger print scanner at all ports of entry, after having your prints taken the computer will search a huge database for any in particular matches. If anything suspicious is found you will be denied entry into the country and deported. Japan is slowely but surely turning into a police state and has always been known for its xenophobia/discrimination towards non japanese or gaijin as they like to label them. So if you are planning on going to or leaving Japan and plan to return I really hope you have never had any contact with the law. A note to all internationals living in Japan or planning to travel to Japan, dont be stupid about how you do graffiti out there. Japanese people may have a very humble selfless attitude outside of Japan but when you are in their own country doing crime as a foreigner you are only fueling their xenophobic idea's and reenstating their false beliefs that most crime is comitted by foreigners. For the sake of all internationls please think of this before tagging or "catching" a sticker in broad daylight in downtown Shibuya. Thank you

[Toe Cutter]

why do japanese taggers use english letters for their graph??

[Okininam]

why, can you read that!!!...english is universal

wanto..'02

 

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