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Found In Translation
I poked at a piece of neon-lit sushi with my chopsticks, unsure under the pulsing disco lights if it was salmon or tuna, but it didn’t really matter. The hallucinogenic quality of the show taking place a few feet away was only enhanced by the Vicodin I’d washed down with my two complimentary glasses of wine in an attempt to dull the pain in my rapidly-swelling right knee. My 16 year old son Max and I had spent the day chasing after our high-energy Japanese guide, covering 11 miles of hilly terrain in a fog of jet lag, after a flight spent sandwiched between two obese women who shouted over us in Russian for most of the 14 hours. Now I was in such agony that it was difficult to focus on the bikini-clad women riding giant Transformer-style robots, sword-fighting with pandas. Max sensed my discomfort. “We can say we’ve seen Robot Cabaret. I’m ready if you are.” I dragged myself up the four flights of stairs from the depths of the club and limped the two blocks back to…

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