Six Hours

Scotland. Good times, all the time. I had dinner with some good friends in Glasgow. It was Saturday night downtown which means I did a lot of track suit dodging to get to the restaurant, but it was worth negotiating the minefield of puke down Sauchiehall street. I met up with Joanna who I hadn't seen in a while, and missed in Vegas the last time I was there. She met me outside of my hotel and handed me a bottle of red wine. This was symbolic of the first time we ever hung out. We were at Nice and Sleazy's for hours and she let Jamie and I stay the night at her parent's house. Jamie went to bed, and we drank a bottle of red wine on her front steps as the sun came up over Glasgow. She is good fun. She turns 30 in a few months and has booked a room to have Mogwai play her party (well, Mogwai and a Scottish Elvis impersonator, who was booked in advance). Ross also came out for dinner. He was in the US for several months last year on some sort of journalist visa as he's a writer. He covered so much ground in just a few months. We talked about the best places to get bagels in NY, the worst places to discuss your views on abortion in Arkansas, the greatest place to see the northern lights in Alaska and where to go for good Korean Barbecue in LA. It was all a good time although I am now awake at 6am to load in before the Barrowlands market starts up outside the venue today.
















What a place. It is both wonderful and awful at the same time. The shows are legendary here, but what a hellish place to have to work for a few days. The crew is absolutely ruthless, as is the crowd. There is a bit of a sport involving drenching support bands with pints of beer. I also once saw a battered Ewan Mcgregor flee behind a barricade as the crowd at a Strokes show tried to tear his clothes off.
















The show looked like a scrunched up version of what it should have been, but it was alright in the end. I am less concerned about things of an artistic nature these days, it seems.





























We have been teaching the band how to count lately. It's really coming along. Tomorrow we are going to try 6 through 10.














The tour is getting to that point. Everyone is starting to smell. I am sick of seeing pizza with corn on it (you know what I'm talking about), and every day I wake up longing for the beach and sunshine. I found neither of these things in the drawers. Flagrant false advertising.

















I swear that there is a good explaination for this. Andy was eating dinner when someone came up to him and asked what he had written on his hand. Last I saw him he was frantically scrubbing in the sink.














There is a truly grotesque ad campaign promoting (or possibly opposing, who's really to say?) STDs in the UK. Gosh I love this place.















Hmmmm. I guess set it to pickle?
















It's back to hotel stinkeybus tonight. Boo this scenario. I am gathering myself today, and clinging to a faint wireless signal. I'm hoping that it can hold on just long enough...