Let no one deny the power of whiskey. No one. It is a godsend. That makes sense because I am pretty sure God invented it. With his eyes closed.
The morning was a clusterfuck. Alarm blaring and murdered any hope of Saturday feeling like the weekend. This was just second Friday. Fight From Above signed a cool record deal for the digital space and we were getting our photos done with a really cool photographer who had shot Robert Plant amongst other people.
We get to the label and everyone is late, including us because we all had drank the night before. I feel a little off, but I attribute that to just being hungover. Mr. Hobson, a cool little Morkie that likes to bit and hump Miner’s leg. I eat a donut. I regret bringing only one usable change of clothes. I am preoccupied by the fact I am having cable, telephone and broadband set up at the same time as having furniture delivered only I am not there. I am in the Valley about to go on a quest.
Our photographer is hard to follow, although I like him very much. He swerves in and out of traffic as if we do not exist. He is a hard worker. We pull up to a rip in a fence atop an interesting stretch of the LA River somewhere in Marina Del Rey. There are lights and assistants and makeup. It’s nice to feel important now and again.
We take lots of photos and the passersby on bikes and jogging shoes are thinking we are more important then we are, although who is to say. The shows are crowded. We’re humble about it all. We’re having a lot of fun and people keep coming back. Maybe it is all well deserved. Maybe not.
We climb into the LA River and realize this is the second time this year we have taken photos in it. I am fairly certain 95 percent of the population of Los Angeles has never set foot in the concrete path we call a river, but we have been in it twice in the last 12 months. Go figure. I guess we are living in Lost Angeles as I always expected we were.
The photographer is nimble, climbing walls and setting up shots. I start to feel a little queasy but I chalk it up to standing in a river with dormant, stagnating water that would probably kill a dog if it took a few laps of it.
We have to find an alternate route out. It doesn’t appear we can jump over the wall ourselves. We do.
Drive to assistant’s house. It’s pretty cool. On property designed by the designer of Pirates of the Caribbean. The Ride I think he means. Which makes sense. It’s a strange oasis. His house is cool in a strange way. It looks like there was a party recently. He has cool striped walls and a giant propeller on the wall. Nice.
Everyone is tired and sick and sick and tired and we head to Saticoy for rehersal. By the time it’s over, we’re all dead tired. The issue is, we’re playing Molly Mallone’s in 3 hours.
Everyone heads out for a nap. I am not officially sick. I feel like balls. I am not happy. I cannot sleep. I am complaining (kind of like now). Our label is checking us out. We have lots of friends coming. It would be a shame to suck tonight.
So I drink a lot of whiskey. I’m told by others the show went great.