Yeah, I know my blog game's been poor this week. So what? I gave you a whole mixtape on Sunday. Play that over and over and stare at the lovely sleeve until you feel inclined to spend your next pay check on Don Shoes, why don't you. There are worse ways to pass the time.
I, for example, have been hanging out in the Passport Office in Victoria. I got a new passport, as you can see above. Well, you can see my new photo above. I'll be damned if I'm scanning my new passport. How stupid do you think I look? Not as stupid as I did in 2002, that's how.
Anyway. Passport office. A lot better organised than it was last time I was there. There are men wandering around with fucking guns now! This surprised me, as I am famously naive. "Well, duh," said Littles when we were talking about it on the phone earlier. "It's a passport factory! That's more money than a bank! Man could run up in there with straps and be rich!"
I suppose man could. Me, not so much. I was tempted to steal a magazine in WH Smiths last week. I stood there in the isle, holding the thing (a copy of Future Music, since you asked) for a good four minutes with my pulse racing before I pussied out and out it back on the shelf. My days of crime are far behind me now. I am like George Bush.
Anyway, I have exciting things to tell you about, but I don't want to jinx them. So I shall bid you a good day, and get back to learning my lines.
So, there were a bunch of updates and pictures and things, and they got wiped! Oh, the tragedy. So, a recap. On my last day on Rivington Street I saw a white thug in an open-top Hummer drive by blasting out 'I Want The One I Can't Have' and nodding along with a serious expression about his face.
Then we went.
Wade and I ended up on the coach, as there was no room in the van, or car. We got there early, and checked out the scene. The scene is small.
We don't actually live in Woodstock. We live in Shandaken, outside. Well, just outside. Half way up a mountain, hidden away by forest, amongst bears and chipmunks and what have you. In a big old dusty house full of weird porn and broken stuff, with brown water and giant ants. Like, there's a jacuzzi, but it doesn't seem to work. There is the biggest TV you've ever seen, but it's got a big black tear across the front and doesn't tune properly. It's a two hour walk to the nearest shop, whihc is a petrol station, and does a good line in biscuits. The local girl's got a lot of guns.
It is very lovely to look at up in Shandaken. Mountains covered in trees, mainly. Streams. Clouds so low you can jump up and punch them.
I miss Wade, who is back in London sorting out affairs. All my stuff is in boxes.
So I fell alseep on the sofa after 5, and was awakened gently by Super Phil at 6:20, and it transpired Bird left my bag with my passport in it at the venue last night. But Bird's got me another ID card, so we're outside waiting for Jeff to pick us up at 6:30. And at midday we're in LA, and soon after that we're in Interscope's offices,and I'm filling a bag with Nirvana, Guns N Roses, Gilbert And Sullivan, Dre, Peter Gabriel, Police and other such back catalogue. Jimmy Iovine has a signed letter from Tupac and a video console that won't switch on. And loads of ideas. A balcony. A lush view. LA is lush to look at, from these places of advantage. Like, later we visit Jeff and Trent's, and there's this fucking alien cat that loves me, and an incredible, incredible view, of this desolate wilderness spattered with money.
It was a lovely day.
But in the nighttime it is hard not to see that LA is awash with cunts. It is a sad and massive amount of cunts, and I am not sure whether it is sad because this is what the world did to them, or because this is what they do to the world, or because they are cunts, and you can see their faces rotting right in front of your eyes.