Gas Station Bear Claw

I flew in to NY last night, to whom it may concern.















It took me a few minutes to remember where I live. It's actually just under that dried wad of gum.















It feels worse than it looks.















Indeed.















I slept like the baby jesus last night, having drowned my sorrows (or exhaustion, really) in a South American themed evening which consisted of Patron, Tecate, Ceviche and a failed attempt at watching Il Postino. I woke up at 1:30pm today. I have yet to find my pants. I may not leave the house today.

I'm going to go sniff out some tickets for Iron & Wine at McCarren pool tonight.

Unfuckwithable

Sometimes Los Angeles is a sewer of booze, drugs and general depravity. Sometimes you feel like you never look good enough, never have enough money or never know the right people. Then again, sometimes your Scottish friend picks you up at your swanky hotel, takes you out for breakfast and then to Amoeba records to do some shopping, then invites you over to his house to play with his dog and cooks you dinner, and just before taking you back to work cruises past Glen Danzig's house for a photo-op.
















It was a good day, to be sure. It really made me feel like a person again, and, as much as it confuses my sensibilities to say, I really enjoyed being back in LA. The sun really does shine on a dog's ass every now and again.

This tour has been largely perfect. The shows have gone very well and there have been no catastrophes minor or major. Not having a day off in two weeks was beginning to wear on everyone, as was the pressure of an LA show. Things went pretty well from where I was standing.
























Here's a review of one of the LA shows. "The light show was top notch." -damn straight.



















Before we left the Greek theatre after the first show a lone shoe-gazing indie rock-type was circling the gate with a giant portrait of one of the band members. I actually thought it was pretty good, had it not been a painting of a member of Death Cab for Cutie. Eventually everyone claimed responsibility for the work, even after a few of us added a cigarette to the mouth or a hitler 'tache to the lip.

















Eventually it found a home amongnst the various pictures of previous shows on the wall outside of the dressing room.


















Then it was down to San Diego after three hours of sleep for the last show of the tour. There was much fanfare, a few heart-felt goodbyes, and about nine bottles of wine.
















After a long day of baking in Southern California sun I got to check into my hotel room for another three hours of sleep before I flew back to NY. Mine is an occupation of sharp contrasts. Sometimes I will go for three or four days without the opportunity to shower or change my clothes. Sometimes my only option for a bathroom is a honey bucket, port-a-john big plastic box thing that brings lesser men to their knees. Sometimes I check into my soundproof suite in San Diego to find box of chocolates on the bed and a full size jacuzzi in the bathroom. It can't rain all the time, I suppose.