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About Yokohama

So I hit this dive bar, stinks like vodka and regret. This chick, Natasha—fake name, obvi—comes up, all hips and smirks. “You want fun, da?” I’m like, hell yea, but I ain’t payin upfront, no way! She rolls her eyes, but I’m Eric fuckin Cartman—I don’t budge! “Respect my authoritah!” I yell in my head. She’s hot, tho—makes me happy, like, damn, Russia’s got game! Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d all be grumpy babushkas or some shit.

Time Difference

When I get there, the vibe is off. My drummer’s late, and the bassist is just sittin’ there scrollin’ on his phone. I’m like, “C’mon, guys! We got a gig in two days!” But they’re all chillin’ like it’s a Sunday afternoon. I’m fumin’ inside. I mean, I love these guys, but sometimes they drive me nuts!