future on/off

I'm back home, and for what seems like a good, long time. I'm not too sure what the next few months has in store for me other than some rain and some cold, possibly some boredom, and plenty of eating and sleeping, but I'm up for it. In LA, at the Universal lot I spotted the old DeLorean that has been collecting dust and rainwater for the last four years.  Every time I see it it seems less cool, as if my childhood is slipping farther away, or maybe every time I see it there is a new family of squirrels eating through the dashboard and tearing up the seats. Yep, that's it.















There's nothing quite like a busted-up old time machine built into a notorious cocaine-hoovering socialite's car rotting in the LA sunshine to make my day.















I gave it a shot and tried to go back to 1983 so that I could buy some stock in Microsoft and punch that dick who broke my glasses in grade school, but thought better of it, and just tried to rewind the clock about twelve hours to just before I started drinking tequila the night before.

Man down.















It would appear that I only have myself to blame for the current predicament, or any pain and suffering that I may have caused myself over the last few weeks. If only I had seen that sign earlier.















This last week of shows has been pretty wild. I was home for a few days, then up to Seattle, then back home for a day, then down to LA, over to Tucson, back to LA and then home again. I went through a violent packing and re-packing into smaller bags, and a shedding of wintery layers as we made it further South. LA was a breeze the first time through. The band was playing on the Craig Ferguson show, so that left me with most of the afternoon to kill. Lilly came and got me, and we sat in the sun and drank coffee, then went shopping for a few hours. By the time I made it back to the studio the show was over, the band had played, apparently been briefly assaulted by Carrie Fisher, and then left. We rode the bus overnight to Tucson where we were greeted by the ragged remains of what was meant to be a Christmas radio show. We were holed up in an old convention center with some moldy showers in an ice hockey rink next door, no food, beat-up equipment and a dozen palm-sized chocolate chip cookies for lunch. Beat that.















I am convinced that there are either ongoing nuclear tests just outside of metropolitan Tucson, or that I am experiencing the residual effects of a previous generation's exposure to radioactive elements. I found this note on the lighting desk when I first arrived. It seems to imply that (possibly with the help of aforementioned time machine) one should go back in time and not remove the tape...from the future?
















The local lighting guy was having a pretty hard time with it considering the uranium that must have been pumping through his veins. I found this sheet of paper with our production manager's info on it. Clearly he had attempted to convey my name to the locals who interpreted it as an impossible, and yet hilarious collision of vowels. I would imagine if anyone actually tried to speak the name out loud the skies would blacken, and every dog within a ten mile radius would go deaf.
















Yeah, that's about how I feel.
















At the end of the night I did manage to find a tumbleweed, which is usually a good omen, or at least a fun thing to have on the bus for a few hours.

Speaking of....last night on the (or any) bus for a long, long time.















Back in LA we got wrapped up in the last, and arguably most hellish Christmas show of the year. We were thrown on a revolving stage with Franz Ferdinand, Kanye West, The Killers and The Cure (who, now that I think about it, should have battled it out....maybe they would have cancelled each other out....). This was day 2 of the radio festival at Universal Studios, and day 2 of cleaning liquor and stripper sweat from the carpets at The Renaissance hotel. It was charming to find enough emptied booze bottles to inebriate a full grown bull elephant for 72 hours stacked at the end of the hallway. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that looks to be a box of wine as well. Class.















One way or another we made it though unscathed. I was up early, with a raging headache the next morning for my flight home. All total it took five and a half hours to travel from my hotel in LA to my house in SF. As the pilot commented over the PA as we sat on the runway at SFO "maybe next time you should just drive." Sort of like being kicked in the groin and then finding a 100 dollar bill as you are doubled over in agony, this box, addressed to one 'Dick Weed' was circling the baggage carousel all alone when I got off the plane.
















So, it would seem that my hobbit name is 'Fosco Knotwise,' and that's how I've spent my morning. Now I'm off to terrorize my neighborhood with my ratty old pickup. Get some.