This morning the keyboard was covered in an avalanche of sticky blank CDs and twisted, empty sheets of rolling paper doused in whiskey. I don’t know what happened to the mix, it’s not on the hard drive, which really sucks because baby, that shit was golden. It was the soundtrack to the French movie in my mind, in which all the characters lounge around an empty, scarred swimming pool wearing autumn sweaters and chain-smoking and nothing much happens but everything changes.

It’s a citywide, cinema scope—an invisible mix for an invisible age.

I’ve got the music video but I’m missing the music.

Not to worry, party people. It’s upstairs somewhere, bubbling with the cannabis infused proteins just under the surface.

I’m gonna work it on out.

Those of you who sent me your addresses so long ago start checking your mail next week.

Gimme your address if I don’t have it and you want something from me.

(sorry Stacey, no tennis balls)

G.E.T. L.I.V.E.

Aiiight?



my hero