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June 2004
Tuesday, June 29th, 2004

Akira The Don and Birddogg Vol. 2, The Mixtape is ONLINE NOW! Thank you Melissa and Jozef, you have kept my virtual self alive, while my real self remains unreal. The Mixtape is amazing, anyway, and features, amongst other things, Meth VS Billy Idol Vs Chris De Burgh. And Birddogg’s ‘Wheels On The Bus’. And fresh rubbish freestyles from me and Carpet and Kool Kid, plus INCREDIBLE freestyle power from 6 year old genius The King Of Rock. And more. Full tracklisting is on the music page!!

— Tuesday, June 29th, 2004

Sunday, June 27th, 2004

Calling the UK is proving difficult – Bird has broken his phone and lost all his numbers, and I left mine somewhere. So the only numbers I can remeber – Druze’s and work’s – are not giving me any joy. So here’s what’s up, London. Me and that Bird are not going to be able to get back for the 30th. So the shows we were meant to be doing at Cargo on the 30th, as Akira The Don and The Dogg and as part of Crack Village, will not happen. Hopefully CeeVee will anyway – there are three of them over there and they have the skills to do the stuff…

So. Me and that Dogg have been busting out limbo beats. Can’t record vocals as the PC has a dusty old sound card that records nothing but hiss. I stayed in last night while the kids went out to watch Wade juggle, but suceeded only in transferring Catholic Anthem ‘Every Sperm Is Sacred’ from Spiky’s Mac.

And hey – I had a great dream last night. me and the Dogg joined The Stiff Little fingers, to make it hardcore again. We played this pretty big church hall, and I didn’t know any words really. so I threw myself about the stage, up-ending tables and leaping into the air and crashing them down on the legs so they broke. At the end of the first song I looked up to find the entire audience, bar one guy throwing beer, had left in disgust. It was amazing.

— Sunday, June 27th, 2004

Sunday, June 27th, 2004

The sun still shines in New York, but I am inside, glooming a little. Limbo is my least favourite place, even if I do have a PC and Acid and Soundforge and Fruity to play with now. That Dogg and I mashed out three tunes yesterday, and I wrote words for one, tentatively (and groundbreakingly, I’m sure you’ll agree) called ‘New York’.

I guess you will like it, since it is very good. Hopefully I’ll record it later, if I get some money and get out of this space. I woke up late, and the place was deserted – my people are away. I have the only key, so I can’t go out, cos they can’t get in then. And go out for what? I have a couple of quarters and a suntan. I guess you can go pretty far with that sort of ammunition round these parts. I open my mouth and watch the faces change. My alien nature is my trump card. I am almost beginning to loathe my countrymen, their closeted, cynical, sardonic nature, their fear of love, or at least its physical form. The British lie cowering behind irony, firing off bitter barbs and feeling unhappily superior to the world. I am in awe of a people that is not afraid to tell its brother when it is a cocksucker and when it is a thing it would like to fuck. That feels no shame and silliness in talking to randoms on the street.

I wonder if a Britisher would have made Farenheit 911. I suspect not. Those from back home lucky enough to understand a little of the nature of the world mock Moore’s “simplistic” approach, and his passion, ignoring the fact that the vast majority of the world does not share their knowledge. People DO read The Sun, and they DO believe it. Over here, people DO watch Fox, and they DO believe it. …911 is fucking awesome, and I cried on the way home. It wasn’t like I wasn’t aware of most of the content, unlike most people. But seeing it… seeing America’s poor, hearing their voices, having the whole thing laid out in such a human context, made it more real to me than it has ever been before. On the way home Wade and I saw one of those New York exchanges I always assumed to be fictional in basis – a man and a cabbie, exchanging “fuck you’s” and “cocksuckers” and fists.

Things that will happen over the next few months: The swine in charge will “find” WMDs, and the swine in charge will “find” Pretty Bin Laden. I have realized that Sage Francis is an uppity prick, and my admiration for Mr Moore grows daily. Sage once told me that he would never promote himself heavily, appear in teeny magazines, etc., because “whoever needed to hear [his] message would, eventually”. Bullshit. If he really has anything of value to say, it should be heard by as many people as is possible. If he actually wants to help. But he doesn’t. He wants to keep it in the clever clever club, where they can sit around slagging of Cheney and feeling superior. Fuck that. Just because people are taught to be retard robot scum by school and TV and their parents dopes not mean it is their fault, and that they ARE – how dare you elitist cunts think you have a right to knowledge over the rest of the world… How dare you consider yourselves better than ANYBODY. You pricks. You are worse than the people running things. You are their smug accomplices, keeping things just how they like it. Fuck you. I spit on you. I will wear your bleeding hide as a coat on the cover of TV Hits.

— Sunday, June 27th, 2004

Friday, June 25th, 2004

Don’t you just love penalties?

Maybe it was the gloating over the Germans. Maybe it was that lump of dirt that Beckham nearly collapsed over. Maybe it was Darius the unlucky. Maybe it was Gods willing. Maybe we should have practiced penalties more – they are approaching inevitability. Maybe there were too many Chelsea players in the team and everyone was working too hard to keep up with them. Maybe we’re cursed.

I’m miserable now. New York has lost its lustre. I’m going home to cry.

— Friday, June 25th, 2004

Thursday, June 24th, 2004

And now for a change of correspondent. Adam is currently tearing at his blonde mane in frustration at some particularly tricky rizla woes, so I, the Dogg, am deputizing. So, tonight.>

Well, Cecelia and I have had a very civilized, pleasant evening with the cultured charms of Beaver the wine connoisseur on a smoke search sidequest. Now this encounter was surprising and refreshing in that Beaver, fresh and flushed from a heavy wine testing session, was gleefully discussing Euro 2004 without recourse to the word “soccer”. We watched in shared joy at the Germans’ departure. “We would have won if we had scored more goals,” claimed the poor fools.

Several samples of rather expensive wines (in price order) later, and we departed into the New York night with re-stocked supplies and a recommendation to visit the Africa Day Concert in Central Park.

Central Park, incidentally, is marvelous. Just look at the glorious photos below. They have this brilliant miniature boat lake that you will recognize if you’ve watched any American film ever. Oh, and there are lots of trees.

It’s rather nice you know.

Well enough of this writing escapade, my finger is tired from typing. I’m off to my brandy and cigar.

— Thursday, June 24th, 2004

Monday, June 21st, 2004

Kylie just arrived and says she is taking me to “do” my “deal”. I was expecting a phone, so there you go. I hope this isn’t all a ploy. If we’re off to meet Robert Mugabe I’m going to be very ticked off. Also, the subject of Robert Kilroy Silk was just raised. And what is Bowie doing pretending he still fucks Iman in those Tommy Hilfiger ads? Why does he need to do that? Jackie Chan pays himself $100,000 a year and the rest goes to charity. Anyway, Mathew says I have to be there “NOW”, bless him. So I shall be off. Isn’t fire lovely?

— Monday, June 21st, 2004