Home again, haunting the streets (and airwaves)of my beloved city, devising ways to juggle all the bills till the new job starts, missing my love as he returns to work for 8 days in a row before another free weekend. Less than 48 hours ago I was hanging out in Downtown L.A. discussing David Bowie with Australian rock and roll demigods. I shared in their gin and tonic supply and snuck a nibble of backstage brie off the catering tray before wondering if the rules of live rock performance were like the rules of Faery. Perhaps I’ll now have to return to the Teragram for one night a year in perpituity or until someone breaks the spell. I suppose that if those are the terms I can learn to abide by them. Now I’m in an ice cream shop back home and they’re making me pay. My backstage passes have no currency here, and the soundtrack is upbeat indie rock and they sillier kind of vintage Stones, nothing terribly mythic. The sidewalks are all but made of fat, lazy pigeons. I wish they would get off of my cloud.