Tag Archive for 'los angeles'

International Pillow Fight Day 2009 - LA

Naked Man on Cross

If the naked man’s legit, a former altar boy/molestation victim or suffers from genuine mental illness, I’m here to offer the guy a shower, some meds and some counseling. And if not (which I gather is the case) then I’m just going to add his name into the 1,000 yard long “attention-whoring dip shit” column. What better way to protest the evils of the Catholic Church (including the sexual abuse of children) than by swinging your naked dong around in front of innocent kids?

Save the pseudo-religiopolitical rants and poop-smearing for your Burning Man pals, buddy, we’re all stocked up on kooks down here.

Dance Floor Dale

AKA the new video for ‘Parisian Goldfish’ by Flying Lotus. More people should make videos like this, and I’m not talking about the throwback graphics (though those are cool too). Dale is a fucking superstar. Thanks to Tim & Eric & Devin Flynn for making this thing and Dirty Darren for sending it over.

This video below is NSFW and for those OVER 18 ONLY.

For more Flying Lotus go to http://www.myspace.com/flyinglotus


In my travels, it seems the people who tend to talk the most shit about L.A. are mostly talentless, humorless, unintelligent and uniformed people from nowhere places who have enough time on their hands to sit and dissect what life in L.A. must be like even though they’ve never lived here.

The following is a quick list summarizing what various groups of these people ‘think’ or say about LA:

The Elderly: LA’s dirty and dangerous, prone to earthquakes, mudslides and fires and will eventually break off from the rest of North America and fall into the sea.

Heartlanders think we’re fake.

Tourists think we’re snobby.

Fat people think we’re too skinny.

Many Artists and Musicians from other places think we’re sellouts.

Environmentalists say it’s polluted.

Republicans say it’s too liberal and I’ve heard conservatives call it ‘the land of fruits and nuts.’

Jesus freaks and Mormon’s think it’s a den of sin.

New Yorkers say it’s no Manhattan and racists think we’ve been overrun by Mexicans.

Nobody’s really from here. Every waiter is a wanna-be actor. Every video store clerk a budding director and every attractive young girl who moves here, one line of bad coke away from prostituting herself on some sleazy B movie producer’s faux Eames sofa.

And I’d argue with these close-minded, bigoted assholes, but they’re right.

TRUE. LA is dirty and dangerous, but not nearly as dirty as let’s say, Cleveland. And criminals here don’t have to wait for you to get off at their stop. It’s a driving city, so the crime comes to you. This sucks, yes, but kids are also shooting up schools in the boonies. Even the Amish aren’t safe. Crime is everywhere. So best protect ya’ neck.

TRUE. There are mudslides and wildfires and this whole place will eventually break off into the sea. The very idea excites the shit out of me. Nothing humanizes us more than a hard, sharp jerk of the earth, a rumble that puts into the streets or into each other’s arms. To realize death is to realize our own humanity and I think most people need some shaking up once in a while to understand the beauty in life.

TRUE. We’re snobby because expect a lot. Many of us dropped everything, picked up our shit and moved here with a dream and no money and heaps of uncertainty. So you’re here on vacation from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, that’s great! Do you have anything else interesting to share with me? No. But ya’ say you’re going to Magic Mountain tomorrow. Awesome! No, I don’t know where the nearest cool sports bar is, or who makes a mean Long Island, but nice to meet you. I have to go home now and write and shoot and edit and paint and finish that one track and write some more. So long.

TRUE. There are a ton of posers roaming this town. But to call them fake, is to acknowledge their existence, implying that they’ve affected your life in some way. Don’t worry about them. Worry about you.

TRUE. We’re skinny sellouts. Don’t blame me. Blame my metabolism, my boundless energy. Blame my tenacity. Blame opportunity. Blame the reality that if I don’t sell anything or work for anybody, I won’t eat, and because of this have many times had to skip a meal.

That reminds me… I don’t make shit off this site, but I’ve tapped into a pretty crazy youth culture/yuppie US/UK/Euro-Asian-Aussie crossover demographic. So if you’re a corporate sponsor with cash burning a hole in your pocket and an severe handicap in connecting with the elusive 16-40 angry, streetwise and educated demographic, a designer who has some extra clothes or shoes lying around (M shirt, 12 shoe, 33/32 pant), or a record label who thinks you’ve signed somebody worth listening to, let’s talk.

TRUE. The place is crazy polluted. Smog is fucked. Flying back into the city from somewhere with clean air and dropping through that brown soot hood in the sky can bring a tears to your eyes in more ways than one, and unfortunately, the act of selling our souls inevitably leads to the creation of a some of that pollution. We have to get to meetings somehow, so we drive there, but we also drive more hybrids than anybody else in America so until the government helps implement the Electric Recharge Grid Operator for EV’s… suck it.

TRUE. We’re liberal because, in the end, we believe in your individual rights and freedoms. We give a shit what happens to all of you, if only because we’re forced to share this planet with you.

TRUE. We’re crazy. When the opportunity arises we will dance and drink and fuck, sacrifice our souls to the lord of darkness and set the night ablaze. You might to if you put down the Bibles, strapped on some heels and mixed yourself a stiff Pim’s cup.

TRUE. LA is no Manhattan. And though Manhattan is still king, it seems only kings can afford to live there now. FYI New York peeps: My friends are about to give up this dope rent-controlled 2 bedroom in Koreatown for a song so hit me if you’re interested.

TRUE. There are lots of Mexicans here. We’ve also got Armenians and Russians, Iranians, El Salvadorians, Guatemalans, Indians, Pakistani’s, Bangladeshi’s, and crazy amounts of Asians. You name ‘em, we’ve got ‘em and these folks are just one more reason to love LA. If you’re down with whites only, better find a time machine.

Many waiters are actors, video store clerks aspiring directors and people with questionable motives and morals are everywhere.

We all have to start somewhere. We all have lessons to learn and many of us will never learn them. It took 70 million years of evolution for sharks to find perfection, so give us a fucking break.

So now that I’m done substantiating these accusations, here’s are some of the things I love about LA:

Let’s start simple…

The sun. Though I hide from it much of the time, and it can often make one as crazy as a relentless February Lake Michigan wind, having the option to walk out my door every morning and not be pelted by rain, snow or baseball-size hail is always nice.

The ladies. They’re at the gas station, Target, and working the Hot Dog on a Stick stand. They’re everywhere! And when my day is sucking dicks, nothing turns it around faster than the sight of a 6’ raven-haired, blue-eyed, 22 year old Czech girl who threw on short shorts, a tank top and heels to wear to Trader Joe’s on quest to pick up a box of veggie corndogs. It’s ridiculous, hilarious and excites me because I am a simple and sick cliché beast of a man.

Taco stands. Late night food has replaced much of the booze for me, is probably worse for me, but I love being able to decide I want a shrimp taco, a really tasty authentic shrimp taco, at 4 a.m., and have no problem procuring one. It’s a simple pleasure.

Late night crazies at the taco stand. Whenever I feel the world is falling asleep, I need not driver further than the closest roach coach after 12 a.m. to be reminded that the world never sleeps and is actually in a constant state of chaos.

A recent conversation I overheard at Cactus Taqueria on Vine:

GUY ONE (calmly): ‘I didn’t piss on your car, man.’

GUY TWO (irate): I just saw you piss on my car!’

GUY ONE (defensive): I didn’t piss on your car. Why would I piss on your car?!

GUY TWO: I don’t know, but I just saw you piss on my car!

GUY ONE (soberly): I didn’t piss on your car, dude.

Guy Two waves Guy One off, and stalks off, mad as hell. I turn to Guy One and notice that his fly is wide open, his dong practically hanging out.

ME: So you didn’t piss on his car?

GUY ONE (taken aback): No, man. That guy’s crazy. I didn’t piss on his car.

ME (looking to his fly): Then why is your fly open?

Guy One looks down at his open fly and back up to me with a shit-eating grin. Busted.

The doers. The 5% of people in LA who are actually doing shit, are many times, doing great shit and there are too many names to list here.

Free shit. LA is the schwag capital of the world. How is it, you ask, that one goes on unemployment and ends up living a better quality of life than when one has a job? Because the less one works, the more time one has to hit up events doling out catered gourmet food, top shelf liquor, free clothes, shoes, movies, disk drives, hats, candy, music, massages, hair care products, body oils, baby food and hand jobs. I even got a free pair of roller skates once. Retarded.

In n’ out. Double Double with cheese please!

Surfing. Even though I’ve only gone once, I like the option of being able to go if I want to. Like we come from water, so it’s our nature to be one with it, ya know? And that one time when I was in Venice waiting for my first wave while this cute surfer chick held my board (so I wouldn’t spend half my day paddling in circles) I felt that shit for real. And for that moment I.WAS.THE.SEA.

La Poubelle. Used to drink there alone, a lot, and loved it. Off-peak weeknights, there always seems to be a great conversation if you want it, but if you don’t, you can just stare into your wine, into the back of your mind, and let the spirits take hold.

Cinespia. Death and movies, together in one place = awesome. In France, the cemetery is not only seen as a place to bury people, but also a place to meet for lunch, a place to read and relax. In America, it’s pretty much a place you go to weep. Americans don’t realize their own mortality enough. Other cultures shape their lives with respect for the end by squeezing the most life out of each day. But for some reason the American ego rarely allows most to comprehend the fact that there’s anything beyond their bed, their desk, their couch or the ‘big game’ on Sunday.

Actors. They crack me up. They wait in line for hours in the hot sun just to get the chance to be a spokesperson for herpes medication or to get the ‘guest star’ slot for an episode of some lame CW show. In no other industry can you find delusion executed with such consistency. They practice their parts for the acting class next door on my front lawn and so many are profoundly bad, yet they refuse to give up. But you know what, I’ve got to admire them for it. At least they’re not sitting on their couches watching ‘Ellen’ all day, or working in some cubicle shorting the sickly on their medical coverage.

Being constantly surprised by the quality of the LA art and music scene. I guess it’s because I’d taught myself to expect nothing. When I moved here, there was no DJ scene, a lot of mediocre bands, and only a handful of great artists were showing it seemed, but the shit has bloomed and I’ve been getting my mind blown consistently lately.

I feel like New York places expectations on its artists to somehow be the ‘best’ with regards to it past reputation as the Mecca of the American art world, and in the end, it probably stifles a lot of creativity. Not all artists have balls like watermelons. Most of the best artists I know have no idea how great they are, and attempting to carry a weight like that on their shoulders might just render their good hand helpless.

Snowboarding. You can drive to out Big Bear and be back in time for a Flux Screening.

Flux Screenings. Going to these screenings has become the highlight of my week. I hadn’t heard about them until my strange and talented friend Chris Milk (name drop) was screening his latest Gnarls Barkley video at their screening series at the Hammer. It was a beautiful LA night. Shepard Fairy and Spank Rock were spinning in the courtyard. They screened videos from No Age, NASA, Brighton Port Authority, TV on the Radio, Tricky, Fujiya Miyagi, and some shorts, including a super dope one entitled ‘Made in Queens’ about Trinidadian kids who trick out their bikes with crazy huge stereo systems. I got inspired, ran into some of the most talented people I know and rode home with a boner on a mission to work even harder at everything I do.

After that I went to the screening ‘Megunica,’ the documentary about Argentinean graffiti animation artist Blu and to see the super rad Swedish child vampire click, ‘Let The Right One In,’ last Tuesday night. Some douchebag threw a quarter off the balcony to get his main floor friend’s attention and clocked me straight in the eyeball. It’s still scraped and bloody and hurts, but I’ll be there next week for the screening of Synecdoche by Charlie Kaufman with bells on. Thanks Flux for tearing me away from my computer for a couple hours a week, and thanks to security for tossing that quarter-throwing cocksucker to the curb.

Rocket Video. Awesome movies. Efficient and engaging movie nerd staff. I go there to clear my head, browsing sometimes for an hour at a time and nobody bothers me. But if I I’m feeling particularly social and decide strike up a conversation about the final season of ‘The Wire,’ I’m sure to be there ‘til closing time. They also have a vast DVD porn collection if you’re some sort of technophobic lover of the dirty.

Ghetto birds don’t make me feel any safer, but there’s something exciting about a 5 kazillion kilowatt light beaming through my kitchen window as I’m making a midnight snack in my black dragon kimono or blinding the driver of the Super Shuttle that’s dropping off my out of town guests at my place for their first visit to Los Angeles.

Goi Cuon at Pho Café, Prosciutto sandwiches at Larchmont Wine and Cheese, the sound of west coast icicles being beaten by warm Santa Ana winds, after hours in Thai Town, Sunday brunch at Chateau Marmont, hikes through Griffith Park, the view from the roof of the Standard in any state of mind, El Matador Beach (with or sans clothing)…

Even after composing this epic, I feel I’ve sold my city short. I could easily spend the rest of the day at this computer listing the things I love about LA, but I have to go cut my reel so I can gets me some work, get money and make rent, so I don’t have to move away to some shit city and start hating on LA.


These are my opinions, based on generalizations and stereotypes I have, in some cases, formed immediately when visiting the following cities and in other cases, formed over many years of repeated visits to said city.

If you want ‘fair and balanced,’ tune in to Fox News.

San Diego is a big suburb. It’s boring and it sucks. San Diego people love tell people from LA about how much they hate LA as if the LA people are going to look past the fact that these cheese balls live in the giant sea world strip mall that is San Diego, and actually take their opinion on anything, besides the daily wave report, seriously.

Every time I’m there I have run-ins with assholes of all kinds: extreme surfer dudes, racist skinheads, extreme racist skinhead surfer dudes, racist housewives, shady scuba rental pervs, douchebag lifeguards and retarded store clerks. San Diegans if you want to prove me wrong, book me in your club and show me a good time, email: chrisk@sleepnever.com.

Pomona. Not sure. When I got there on a Friday afternoon, everything was closed except for a single BBQ joint. I ate brisket. It was good, but where did all the people go? It looked as though a dirty bomb had just gone off.

San Francisco, was all about crazy hippies, cool peeps and crazy girls as usual. The skyline’s intoxicating, the food is tasty, the air seems relatively clean, and people actually have conversations there. Between pull in to bus call, I was offered weed, oysters, man sex, free booze, a three way and some pretty interesting life stories. San Francisco would probably be a great place to raise kids. I need to get up there more often.

Portland smells good, feels like college town, but still has enough of an underbelly to thrill you like a real city. The music scene is still thriving (depending on how jaded the record store clerk you ask is) and they have the best barcade I’ve ever been to.

Seattle. Within a few hours of being there, I felt like I could live there: clean air, many nice, smart people, great restaurants and architecture. During my interviews on the street I seemed to find a sort of collective, progressive consciousness amongst the citizens.

And then night fell.

There was a street fair: music, booze, churros and lots of super crazy wasted people. Our posse arrived at the tail end and stopped in a club one of the Spank Rock dudes was spinning at and the place was at fever pitch. Undulating bodies surrounded the DJ. Couples were dry humping on the dance floor. Lots of shirtless sneering dudes pounded beers in the shadows, barely camouflaged by the out-of-date, splatter-painted, fanny-packed hipster masses. Very Phi Kappa Cobrasnake Rape.

I must’ve been knocked into by sloppy drunk fucks about 7 times in 5 minutes. Not my kind of fun. And then this handful of beefcake douchebags standing at the back of the room started shoving each other into innocent dancers and passers by, slamming into them and taking them off their feet.

Finally one of the cocksuckers smashed into this girl. She went down and cracked her skull on the pavement and I watched as the sole female bodyguard in the room watched the shit and did nothing. Not a fucking thing! And when I explained to the security guard that she may have just been witness to, not only the end of her job, but the beginning of a big lawsuit from the barely conscious girl on the floor, she looked at me like I was speaking Aramaic.

So I rolled out and grabbed the professional hit men at the door to take them out and they did. And that was the end of my night Seattle, but hopefully not the end.

Granted we arrived at the end of a street fair. It would be interesting to see how similar the inhabitants of most American cities appear after they’ve spent 14 hours drinking in the sun and eating elephant ears.

Spokane. I think a t-shirt hanging in the bar of the venue we played said it best: ‘Life’s Lie. Spokane, WA.’

There are children playing everywhere and trees and bridges and bountiful gardens of flowers and fruit trees and white water rapids carving their way through craggy rock faces and working carnival rides, one of the most beautiful old hotels I’ve ever set foot in stateside and a Godiva stand at the food court of the mall.

And then there are aggressive speed freak beggars, homeless drunkards, gangbanger wanna-be’s, muggings in broad daylight and crazy drunk bitches in bars at closing time who want to start some shit. My end saw me ducking out of a ‘friendly fire’ brawl: navy vs. marines. No shit. They’re fighting each other now.

Salt Lake City is full of Mormons. In the first coffee shop I went into, I found a stack of business cards and flyers in front of the register promoting a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints-sponsored teen suicide prevention group. When I asked the college-age female workers if there had been a rash of teen suicides in SLC, they asked me if I knew ‘what they say about Mormon boys.’ I told them no, but that I was aware of what they said about Mormon girls (They’re diiiiiiiirty). The latter, from what I know, is true, but the barista team informed me that the standard SLC Mormon-on-Mormon youth rap about the boys is that they’re all gay and end up killing themselves because their lifestyle is condemned by the church.

I was hoping to contact the prevention group to see about how they plan to curb suicides with further condemnation, but ran out of time. Between holding my own ‘American Idol’ tryouts and interviewing crackheads I had a pretty busy day.

And then I met a remote viewer who looked like Anna Nicole Smith. She further explained about the filthiness of Mormon girls and then offered to remotely view what was in the back lounge of the tour bus at that very moment. I accepted her offer. She looked into my eyes and mentioned an electric guitar and a blue duffel bag. Imagine that! A guitar and a bag on a tour bus! How could she know?! Is remote viewing real?!

No. Even dishing me a 16 inch softball, she was wrong. It was an acoustic bass and a blue and yellow duffel bag. Anyway, I challenged her to a contest. I promised to take a photograph of some obscure image once a week on tour and send it to her, and she promised to she would attempt to ‘remotely view’ what was happening in the picture and report back to me.

I was totally excited about the idea. We exchanged info and then I accidentally threw her email out thinking it was just a napkin. I returned to the coffee shop to find her, but she was gone. Anna, if you’re out there, hit me up. I’ve got some pictures for you.

Boise is slow and quiet and clean and Christian and yet somehow, I don’t hate it. Office buildings leave the front doors unlocked making it possible to easily access private bathrooms for unsavory purposes.

It gets lonely on the road. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Denver is packed with pretty girls who will take your head off in the pit, yet the beggars are some of the most polite and gracious of anywhere I’ve been.

Kansas City. Looking out the Days Inn laundry room window at the flat plain dotted with oaks and willows and strip malls before me I started to actually feel homesick for the sticky midwest summers of my youth. But that was before I went out to Angel’s Rock Bar, a ‘rock bar’ whose music and décor pays homage to rock n’ roll legends and whose patrons are decidedly white, jock cowboys. I was called a ‘bitch’ to my face in record time, in less than 30 seconds of entering the club (as a ‘guest of honor’), by a beefy redneck in a white polo, for politely waiting outside the bathroom door for a couple of guys to finish taking a leak.

Atlanta is hot and slow and sweet. The women are beautiful, the dance floors buck wild and most of the people I met were black and loved my sunglasses.

Orlando. I met as many assholes as I met cool people. They close of the streets downtown every Saturday night, so again I was subject to this ‘street fair syndrome’ of sorts. Who knows, could be fun on a Thursday, but I doubt it because Orlando’s in Florida.

Ft. Lauderdale’s skin is starting to look like a saddlebag and I was forced to create my own fun here: a ‘spring break’ hula hoop and dance competition. I did have the luck of meeting a fabulous lesbian couple who took me to a strip club where I had the lap dance of a lifetime. For $100 you get all the booze you can swallow, all the blue balls you can handle and the place serves all night long. Problem is only 1 out of 100 in the half-time stripper parade was a looker.

St. Petersburg sucks all the way around. What was a thriving Florida vacation spot for middle class tourists and a home to snowbird retirees is now a ‘once thriving’ Florida vacation spot for poor tourists and a home to once-retired geriatrics who now have to join the workforce again. Spent half of my night there wandering the streets with my homies, looking for ice pick to dig my eyes out with while a black car full of muscle heads followed us around and called us ‘faggots.’

Jacksonville is shit. It’s hot and sticky and is in Florida.

Charlotte. Had a great black cow at this dope old fashioned malt shop, but the ‘best burrito in Charlotte’ is definitely not the best I’ve ever had. Made the mistake of trusting somebody else with the nightlife duties and ended up in a gigantic sports bar full of jumbotrons and beer signs. There were about five people in there and nobody was talking. This crazy she-male John Madden was at the bar and she kept asking the bartender to hide her Sharp’s when her girlfriend came in. The bartender was like, ‘it’s non-alcoholic,’ and the John Madden was like ‘Linda doesn’t care if it’s non-alcoholic, she’ll freak out! Hide it and give me a Sprite!’

Depressing to say the least. But more depressing was when I looked through the window of the bar next door to see if anything was happening and found 35 blue collar dudes, forties to sixties, drinking, and staring up in a shared sad silence at the sports broadcast on the TV.

But even MORE DEPRESSING THAN THAT, MORE THAN WORDS can possibly explain, was the black and white photocopied flyer advertising the upcoming Extreme show was happening there.
Yes, THAT Extreme.

Loved Lancaster, though I’m not counting the nightlife. It’s tiny and clean. There’s a cool gallery scene, museums, cool shops and they kill a burrito without bragging about it (See Senorita Burrita Café. The architecture is dope: Lots of awesome 19th century homes with fresh flower boxes lining the streets. Every single person I met was nice, and helpful, though I was disappointed I didn’t get to hang with the Amish.

Poughkeepsie is a shithole. I don’t care about the cool mansions on the outskirts or the people who live in them. The one cool thing I learned in Poughkeepsie is that there’s a thriving Jamaican community, though I didn’t really see it with my own eyes. Actually found out about it in a convenience store, when I asked the Jamaican clerk about the shelves stocked with Jamaican convenience store items.

Philadelphia. It was raining most of the time I was there. Spent the night hanging out with mob guys and they were great fuckin’ guys, you know. Not impressed with the cheese steaks though. Geno’s wasn’t bad, but not what I expected. I was severely fucked up though, so who knows. Also bummed I didn’t get to run up the ‘Rocky’ steps.

Towson. The girls at Hooter’s were nice, but the proprietors of Catholic Corner were less than Christian. Moxley’s has some of the best ice cream I’ve ever had in my life.

NYC is NYC. Whenever I roll into town, I feel relieved, like I’m coming home. I think one of the reasons I don’t move there is so that at least I have something to look forward to in visiting. Living there, in some weird way, might signify the end for me.

Toronto is pretty cool. Great skyline. Good falafel. Everybody’s nice and the streets are alive at night. And it feels crazy safe, even the worst parts. In the states, I think I automatically taper my comfort level and prepare for the possibility that anything can happen when walking through crime-ridden areas at night, but in Toronto I never felt an inkling of fear no matter who was walking toward me, or where I was. I Maybe it was just some sort of innate American machismo I unconsciously carry around. It’s interesting to walk through the slums though and have crackheads and hoodlums step out of your way. Very Canadian. Saw a homeless man on a laptop. That was interesting. I can see the Parlimentary pitch now: ‘Laptops for the Homeless.’ Just because your homeless doesn’t mean you don’t have a home… on the web.

Millvale is a ghost town. The owner of Mr. Smalls, a giant 19th century church and adjoining multi-family apartment complex bought the entire place for 80 grand. A bartender at Mr. Smalls bought her house for $10,000. Economically speaking, in a positive sense, right now Millvale is the perfect place for an art/music scene to bloom out of.

Economically speaking on the doomsday tip, Millvale is what America’s going to look like if we don’t get our shit together. Don’t blame it on the banks. Quit buying shit you can’t afford. Stop finding comfort in being a consumer and start creating your own happiness in life.


What started as the worst night of the tour, ended as…

the worst night of the tour.

This has nothing to do with the people I met. Cleveland may be broke as far as the dough goes, but it’s rich in hope for the future. The people I met, especially in the most poverty-stricken areas of Cleveland, were actually a ray of sunshine in the bleak, black hole that is urban Cleveland. My problem was that I drank too much. It was Sunday night and the only bar we could find open was full of eastern European call girls and Russian mob types. So I drank tequila and that’s all I’m gonna say about that.

Chicago is still home, in a way. Sometimes you miss the shit out of it, you get there and you feel like you could live there again: the people are friendly, the food is delicious, the skyline is enchanting and the nights long and wild. And then the temperature drops below freezing and it starts to rain, and instead of being stuck in the house, you go to a bar to drown your ‘season affective disorder’ sorrows and you realize that half the people you know are high on cocaine and talking mad shit about each other and not because they don’t truly love each other, but because they’re high and depressed and it’s cold and they hate their life, even if only for tonight.

Morning comes and it hurts. You’re late for your flight and the sun comes out. All of the sudden it’s 80 degrees and every girl on the street is wearing tiny shorts. Your peeps are going to some rooftop jam downtown and you’re looking forward to being molested by security guards and having your laptop swept for C4 residue. You grab a slice at Pizza Metro on your way to O’Hare, take one bite, cancel your flight and stay another day, knowing it can only get better, again.

LA. Easy to hate. A thrill to love. I’m going blind staring at this computer, so I’ll tell you why next week.

Day One of “The Last Road Trip” - Amtrak Pacific Surfliner LA to San Diego

In order to capture the essence of the “journey,” and fully embrace the chaos, I have planned little more than to meet up with some amazing people and see where the asphalt leads.

True to the nature of Sleep Never, anything can happen, and on the flip side, I’m sure at times, very little will.

Regardless, I quit my job yesterday, packed up my life and in the next six weeks, will be crossing this entire once glorious country in planes, trains, automobiles and a giant luxury tour bus packed with good friends and gear.

Feel free to join me from your couch, cubicle, barstool or the comfort of your own bed whenever you find the time. I’ll be here.

As for today, time to kill and strapped with gear, I wrote and shot and scored this “found” piece on the train ride from LA to San Diego.

Sure, the voice over is… you know… as voice over’s can be, and sort of “beat,” and the beats had their own beats, sure, but they didn’t have DV’s, Macbooks and Reason so…

Choo fucking choo.