Sunset Strip

Birddogg is boiling with hate, and I am simmering. We are staying in the Hyatt on Sunset Strip. Sunset Strip is Dante's Inferno. It is just like Bangor, and every other small town on a Friday Night, only with a massive and disproportionate splash of cash and coke rendering the whole thing obscene and cartoonish. Outside my window flashes a giant television, on which Paul Smith tells me it's all about My Style. Outside my balcony I see little groups of underage girls in tiny skirts hunted and mauled by huge packs of men, clad in shirts and jeans, spilling out of limos and clubs onto vomitous tarmac, while police and security brawl around them. A limo lurches below and we gob on it. "Oh God," said Birddogg. "Being here makes you really appreciate someone like Phil." "Yeah," I said. "I wish Wade was here with his tights and his centurion hat." "When I see Phill I'm going to fucking hug him so hard," said Birddogg. "Yes," Said I.

So, the car comes to take us to the airport in two hours, and we'll be back in New York at 3pm. What do you mean 3pm?

I gotta sort out a lot of stuff now. I need my computer, I have three ideas for amazing songs, and I need to sort out Paper and Work.