AF Japan

The weirdness starts with the twin greeters, Romulus and Remus, masculine perfection ripped from the pages of the Abercrombie catalog. They welcome you in with a "Hey, what's going on" and you enter the club lobby. Models chat through model faces making model conversations, but words are lost in the unyielding thrum of dance music. Cover is waived and you're ushered into an elevator to the club proper, afterimages of shirtless abs floating in the periphery.

Obligatory retail dancers pitch obligatory retail smiles and a job interview comes into focus.

Suits: Do you like to dance?
Sunny applicant: Yes! What's going on? [shuffle, step]
Suits: Excellent. Do you *really* like to dance?
Sunny applicant: Sure do! What's going on? [turn, thrust]
Suits: Ok, sign here... thank you. Now hold still while we just embed this small chip in the base of your skull...
Sunny applicant: Great! Wait, what's thgyaahhhhhhhh....... Hey, what's going on!!

The cogs grind in fits against her will and she submits to another timed shuffle and folds a shirt to the beat.

A disco staircase with retro lighting leads you past murals of men arm wrestling, men in the gym, men with javelins, men on horses, men doing gymnastics, men in a sauna, men dressed up to party, men dressed down to play, men men and so many men that your face is rubbed in thick sweaty piles of Abercrombie brand gay.

On the next floor (Hey, what's going on) The perfume -- heretofore indistinct and nauseating -- hits you like an overworked underbathed nightwalker running a finger across your lips. And beyond the stacks of Eu De Last Night's Mistake, Abercrombie prepares to shock you: clothing! Yes, after selling you the image, you are free to donate to the church of AF, adorn their goods, and proselytize to the masses.

Nothing about this so far seems weird in a distinctly Japanese way -- I've heard the AF in New York is a similar if not more homoerotic experience. But rest assured that AF Ginza is weird as only Japan can make it. Hidden behind each "Hey, what's going on" is a clear echo of "irashaimase" (the typical "welcome" used in shops, etc). The staff isn't just wearing the clothes (along with Chuck Taylors or flip flops, nothing else permitted), they're wearing their unified impression of American retail. They've undergone the mandatory training and learned to swap one greeting and one mask for yet another. And it's frightening not because it's far from the mark but because the impression is so close. It's the minute difference, the "Hey wait a second"-moment where you realize that you've been duped, that sends a wicked shiver down your spine.

Strangely enough though, when I emerged from the lion's den, I was ready to dance and greet til my brand fell off.