SXSW started just recently. Our town has turned into a living mob/mass of questions. The traffic is absolutely terrific, everyone’s reallllly nice on the streets, and all the venues are letting you in for free — if you have a smile on your face!? Isn’t that fucking wild man?
It’s actually not so bad. Our band is playing a f*ck load of shows, and it’s about to overwhelm me. I’ve had this death-chest for the last few weeks, and I’m hoping that I don’t bomb my shows like I did my midterms. If all goes well, I’ll still be alive in a week.
There are times I wake up and try to convince myself that smoking is a good idea. When I did smoke, I used to wake up to a cigarette. Lucky Strikes…Paris oh…Paris. Then I’d go to a bar and drink a Chivas on the rocks. Clink the ice around in my glass until it was just that watery-slightly rough alcohol syrup. Have another smoke and call it a morning.
“Up all night, got demons to fight” — this was my slogan from 2004-2007. I’d go to Harlem Halloween parties and dance with little angels, and fight my way back home to Brooklyn. It was a mess back then, and I almost lost my mind to the demons.
My wife and I just bought a castle and she wanted the room with the best window — for her medieval delusions of grandeur. Which is fine and all, but I’m growing restless sleeping in our yacht (which is currently stuck in the moat). She’s been on my case about it all week. At least the barbican is back up and running…
Ok, I’m the hell out of here. Going to go ride with the crew. The weather’s good. The sun’s bright. The time is right. And I can’t die. I’m ready to taste the wind at 100mph.
