Woodstock

So, I am in Woodstock today, and it is practically monsooning outside. I am in a wee library, with four old PCs hooked up to a cable connection that is slower than the first 56k I ever experienced. I am feeling kind of mental, as I have not slept, for I stayed up watching Dave Chappelle on Jeff's Olympian television and was out of the apartment at five thirty am to walk from Bleecker on the Lower East Side to 42nd Street on the upper West Side, to get the seven o clock Greyhound to Woodstock. The bus left from Port Authority, a place as grim and poor as Digbeth Coach Station in Birmingham was last time I was there. Which was 1998.

The journey was pleasant. I read Don Diva, a terribly spelt and almost awesome super real rap rag, which educated me on a bunch of stuff, like how felons have no rights at all, like they can't vote and they can't rent places and they can't get loans or have jobs that requite lincences, like lawyers or fishermen.

It also ran an outraged article rightly warnign women about the huge and increasing numbers of "homo thugs" getting AIDS in prison and bringing it back for wifey when they get home, where "what goes on ion jail stays in jail", but failing completely to wonder what an intensely regimented idea of masculinity might have to do with the fact that so many of these terrified, repressed, fucked upon Thugs are having love affairs, not just banging sessions, inside.

I met a safe as fuck war torn bike casualty, who shared with me sleep deprived banter and weed. I smoked some underneath the awning of a little shop in Woodstock an hour ago, shelteruing from the rain, and nearly passed out. I haven't had any for ages. I am cutting down, with a mind to cease.

But I do see a drink on ther horizon.

Perhaps.

It has been 14 months.

That is ages.

I am a different animal.

So the other night was awesome. Jeff took me to see The Hives, via Asif Yeah Yeah Yeahs McLaren's birthday, where I bumped into people from London, like Steve McQueen's mate Jason and that bloody Rory. Met a very dear Blue Nose and Adam And The Ants and Shm 69 fan also, who had an even more elaborate BCFC tatto than I. And some freaky twins. And a nice and lengthy man called Jim. And many other nice people.

It is nice mate.

The Hives' songs are all two minutes long and comprised of the same chords, and quite amazing. Their frontman is Malcom MacDowel in a Clockwork Orange spliced with Andrew WK and both of that Sasha Barron Cohen's characters that aren't Ali G. And Mick Jagger obviously. The gayest bits. He is also very Swedish, obviously.

Incidentally I have somehow sen the most recent Ali G in the US Aii or whatever it is three times. Half of it is mildly amusing, a quater not so, the rest quite incredible. The Gay Converter, this crazy hick reverned guy who goes on and on about Jobe not wanting any virgins and Will And Grace being a pathway to sin and the watching of it an ungodly act. I saw Bill O'Reilly ranting about how crazy "those Islamic people" are for thinking they're going to get seventy virgins or whatever. It's like Ben Stiller's Daredevil calling Halle Berry's Catwoman obscenely idiotic ill advised intensely embarasing super gay cock.