M

arilyn Monroe on a train. Shot Orange Marilyn 1964 on the Yamanote Line, to be precise. Technicolor dream, like so many we’re likely to see among the costumed lost generation wandering the streets of Tokyo. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Oh, she gathers attention. No doubt about that. But not a riot. She can slip off at Ueno and hardly be noticed. Make her way to Yoyogi or Meguro, perhaps have lunch with Hot Pink Marilyn 1967. She avoids Akihabara and Roppongi and Shinjuku. No point in asking for trouble. She’s a smart girl. She avoids the transvestite bars too. Best not to flaunt it. But she likes to keep moving. Wanderlust. Not like Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, angular gawkish nudies, whoring themselves to the City of Ueno as a park sculpture. Every damn day in the same place, the same scenery, the same pigeons. She can’t imagine such a fate. But those girls were always a little crazy.