It was fifteen minutes into the domestic flight from San Francisco to LA that I remembered some kids gave me some weed and I’d put it in my bag and forgotten about it. I decided not to worry. What’s the point? I drew some comics and investigated the magazines. It was only a short flight.
So short in fact, I didn’t even get to read all of the crazy in fight shopping magazine, that sells ancient-ass things like Vinyl To CD converters for $400, skeleton gnomes and amazing creations like “The Travellers Bed Bug Thwarting Sleeping Cocoon”, yours for a mere $79.99. It took longer to get out of the airport than it did to fly there. LA has little in the way of public transportation, so I got the “Shuttle” which is in fact a six seater taxi driven by a sardonic cabbie that takes multiple humans to their multiple destinations for a mere $25 each. Naturally I was last, which was excellent as I got a guided tour around the posher bits of LA, along with the most hilly and treacherous, narrated by a nice Jewish lady from Brooklyn, who informed me she could tell from looking at me that I was evidently a great musician, that I had a good energy, and that it is important to drive through cute areas as often as possible. “If your areas are cute, your life is better,” she philosiphised, enthusiastically.
Eventually I was alone with the sardonic cabbie, who proceeded to tell me his life story, which involved a lot of child support payments and two years in jail waiting to be deported. Eventually he was not deported, but if he ever leaves the country he will not be allowed back in, and now resides “in a big hot prison forever, spending all my money on that fucking bitch.”
He dropped me off outside Wade’s place in Hollywood, where I was greeted by a very friendly and excited concierge, who had a similar life story, but a sunnier outlook on it. “Shit, I’m just happy to be here,” he said. “Your buddy Wade is great people. It’s exciting to see him doing his thing, you know? They have amazing parties here. Amazing girls. Just to be around that gives me hope, now I’m back in the game. It’s a blessing, you know?”
Wade met me at the door of his vast and luxurious penthouse apartment wearing a baseball cap and a very serious tan, both signs of his thorough and enthusiastic Americanization. He made us meatballs and spinach, because he is still a proud half Swede, and filled me in on what he’s been doing in the past 10 months, since he got his Visa. Mostly he’s been running a successful and super trendy new nightclub, DJing, acquiring a tan, dating a parade of aspirational females, and getting into baseball caps.
I woke up to a somewhat homerian and inspirational 360% panoramic view of Los Angeles. Then Mocky came and picked me up, and took me on a tour of his new stomping ground. A former Berlin resident and underground scene captain along with Chilly Gonazles and Taylor Savy, Mocky recenty spawned, and relocated with his young family to the Golden Coast, for which he is its single most enthusiastic proponenrt. Mocky loves LA, he loves his new life in LA, and he was generous enough to share some of that with the visiting Don.
After a few entirely lovely hours spent munching on Tacos, sightseeing, smoking medical, and listening to the next Mocky LP – dystopian futuretronica spliced with a big wedge of TurboGFunk and Saskamodie‘s lush melodies and instrumentation – we sat around Mocky’s kitchen table to write a song. Less than an hour later, we had written a song. BAM!
It’s a Californian joy anthem, obviously. Lyrically it concerns my recent CA adventures, and the existential nature of putting oneself in the postion to experience Adventure. Mocky recorded me singing it over his FM radio instrumental into his phone, in the futuristic fashion. We’re going to record it properly either tonight or tomorrow.
That night Wade took me on a tour of some of his hangouts, including the notorious Chateou Marmont, a beautiful and opulent castle upon the hill, that was populated only with chain smoking young ladies, as the men had all fled like rats when the electricity briefly went an hour before our arrival. A tall blonde female, excited by my similarly bleached mane insisted on having her photo taken with me. This happens quite a lot here. The photo thing and the tall thing. God knows what they feed them.
After that went went to Wade’s joint, Smoke And Mirrors, which is a very beautiful and classy place with an atmosphere enforcing low ceiling and a goddamn PIANO. I sipped on bourbon and met all manner of interesting mofos, including some super safe anglo japanese half brothers, one of whom turned out to be local producer Rex Kudo, who shared a pair of expertly constructed medical sticks with the interloping british rap star, creating a nice trippy level of brain fluidity with which the young Don wrote some excellent raps in his wife’s Sony Xperia.
Cultural Differences Observation #257: American yoghourt is upside down.
Yesterday Wade took me down Melrose, where I copped some very fly garms, and observed a wealth of cultural glory, like that Wild Things graffiti above, and this My Little Pony gallery.
Wade and I shared a milkshake. “There’s nothing gay about two grown men sharing a milkshake is there?” enquired Wade. ”No, it’s maddeningly attractive,” said Twitter.
Here’s Wade doing some work. Wade’s work outside the cub seems to involve wandering around in a wifebeater making excitable noises into a telephone and occasionally looking contemplative.
When the dark drew in we went for a very delicious and fulfilling Mexican (PINCHES TACOS!), then he DJed at his club and I danced in the DJ booth and wrote about three songs worth of raps. It was Model Night, wherein by some queer magic a disproportionate mass of attractive young womenfolk fill the place to capacity and throw themselves around excitedly to Wade’s Kim Carnes and Snoop Dogg and James Brown records, while the roughly five menfolk that managed to get past security attempt to ply them with buckets of champagne.
Tonight I am told will be “more avante garde… some dudes in wigs and girls on rollerskates.”
I am going to go see the homies Fat Tony and Tom Crus first, as Mr Tony just hot me on G Chat and invited me to this shindig they’re playing tonight at the Broadway Bar. I will wear my fly new hat. Look at my fly new hat! It is so choice. I also found the flyest shoes I have ever seen today. I am worried to take them back to London as everyone that sees them will commit immediate suicide out of sheer envy. But they are too beautiful to leave here, damnit.
Oh yeah, Wade and I constructed a desk this afternoon, like we used to back when we lived together and got all our stuff from the local Ikea… apart from the plants which we stole from rich neighbours under the dead of night. Such a manly feeling! Making a desk that is. Plant stealing was very fun and exciting though. We almost got caught one time. Oh god! One time we stole a stone owl, and put it on a plinth in the middle of the garden, then one day we woke up and it had make up on. We never did find out what the hell that was about, but we took it as a bad omen, and didn’t linger much longer in that place. It was far too nice for our hedonistic young selves. The last song on Unkillable Thunderchrist is about that period of my life. I will dedicate it to our neighbours, who were surprisingly tolerant and forgiving.