Hey gang! This is your friendly neighbourhood Don here, reporting live from Hollywood Boulevard, where I’m currently holed up with my lil family at my buddy Wade Crescent’s place, where we’re working on HITS and enjoying the California Autumn, which necessitates the wearing of VESTS at all times. Also Superman hats if you’re Hollywood Herc and you need to protect your purdy lil head from the blazing sunshine.
Strange to think that this time last week we were in the process of being last-minute evicted, packing up Don Studios into Big Yellow Storage, while lil Herc stumbled from box to box, tripping over piles of crap and weeping fat tears in the very space he was born in when it was finally time to leave, forever.
Now he runs laps around Wade’s dining table in his Lizard outfit and I have never seen him happier.
The other day Wade stumbled in drunk at 6am and the pair chased each other round the table on hands and knees, as the sun rose and flooded the room. Then we did crunches and went for mexican food.
In the night we attend ridiculous parties where the Jack Daniels runs free like the ocean and Frank Sinatra Junior serenades us, and we play our songs and chicks dance provocatively and excitedly to them and we write hit records over the top of whatever else is playing. In the day we execute those hits, and stroll down the boulevard looking for ridonculous sunglasses and tacos and comic books. Charlotte has been spending happy hours between feeds working down by The Roosevelt pool, sipping gin and tonics in the sun while VAs compile her XL spreadsheets. She’s never been to California before, but I knew she’d love it. She is radiant.
I ran into Killa Kella earlier, because I always run into Killa Kella when I’m LA, whether its at the airport or outside Meltdown Comics looking at a photo of Grant Morrison taken by a guy I met at Grant Morrison’s house who’s taking me Go Carting next week. Everything is synch on top of synch, Walking With Allah, as Malcolm X would have it, and I’d completely forgotten till Charlotte mentioned it earlier that I was signing autographs in the Shuttle cab from the airport, and if that’s not a sign that one is the place one is supposed to be as an international rap superhero then I know not what is.
Tonight Wade’s babysitting, and Mamma Don and I are gonna go to the cinema, like young lovers. Tomorrow we’re all gonna drive out to the desert and find some legendary abandoned town that got ghosted when LA stole all its water. On Christmas Eve we return to the UK, where Hercules will join the statistics as one of the UK’s 50,000 homeless, but we’ll worry about that later. “Oh everything’s gonna be OK, nega eobseodo,” in the words of Herc’s favourite song. “Everything’s gonna be OK, jalsarabwa.”
RIP DON STUDIOS!