Bye bye 12th and Broadway.

Well, I have been very busy, thank you, and somehow that has lead to this being the 20th of September, the day of my eviction. Well, not eviction. But my time in this apartment I have come to love so is over, finish-ed, done. No longer will I awake to the sight of men in overalls hitting things with hammers outside my window. No longer will I gaze seven stories down at the Strand bookstore, no longer will I gaze at the window of the comic shop on my way back from the shop, paper bag full of vegetable juice and pretzels and water under my arm. No more buying records off of rappers in the street, no more talking with the doormen, who I am very fond of now, no more popping outside to listen to a rally and get glared at by coppers. No more nude pincer sit uppy things to Damian Marley with the aircon on full blast. No more Daily Show, no more screaming at the dream-stealing white liar on BET in the whee hours. No more sitting up alone till 7am writing songs and balking at websites. No more rapping in the shower, water drilling a happy hole through my skull. No more waking up lying sideways across this goliath bed, twisted up in a river cotton. No more piles of fresh towels. No more Leonard Cohen waking the neighbours. No more 12th and Broadway. That's that.

It's La La land again, for me, where I shall be staying with mister Danny Saber and making more noises. My session with James finished at 7am on Sunday morning. It came out pretty much perfect. Jeff was still drunk, and the steak we ate in that posher place with Taj and all the funny lady trainers, (one of whom told me she was an uptown girl! Woh-oh-oh-woh-oh-oh-ow! Another record related childhood thing sorted!) had done strange things to my brain. Plus I saw Madison play earlier and it was kind of awesome - and terrifying and deeply unsettling, and I'd spent four hours in the afternoon running around blazing Manhattan trying in vain to purchase a 16 volt adapter in an orange boiler suit, so I felt weird and woke up and got a tattoo. And Amy made my hair white.

I should be out with Spiky tonight, but I am packing and editing vocals. I've hardly been out at all the whole time I've been here, which is a marked improvement on my last visit, which found me emerging from dank holes in the Lower East side blinking at the sunlight too often for anybody's good. Anyway. I will be back in a few weeks, to work with Emile, and go to the fair on Coney Island.

So, Jeff rang me earlier, saying they'd had a bunch of people from a charity on TV saying the National Guard were stopping them getting supplies to people in Mississippi. The weird thing was though, was the Scientologists were already in there, FEMA approved, giving out Massages.

I think those people are still banned from France you know.

Still there's a lot of them in LA LA land.


So, this guy is the guy who's up on Black Entertainment Television every night from 1 am onwards, demanding my money for "Jesus". He says that New Orleans was sinful, and if we give him money ("a thousand bucks for Jesus! That's nothing! And sister, brother, call now and get this free prayer hankercheif, blessed by me!"), that will sort out our sin issues, and we won't get no damnationing and shit. Goon that I am, I sat there watching this dude for like an hour one night, getting frustarted and emotional, when I should have been answering email, or drawing, and I even phoned the number on the screen to ask his name, cos he wouldn't say. The lady on the phone said God called him, and that he was a special, honest man, and we had a bit of a dialogue, and she cried and shit.

I didn't cry. Boys don't cry. Only at the movies.