Moving

Well folks it has finally happened. I now no longer reside in the chaos that is Koreatown. I wish I could say I'll miss the not-so-subtle threat of violence hanging in the air, or indeed the local psycho(s) shouting and pointing finger guns at anyone who happens to cross his demented path, but I can't. I could not be happier to be out of that shithole.

Especially as now I am in an extremely hip, not to mention celeb-filled, area called Franklin Village. At first I was dubious, thinking that once off the main strip of shops it would be just another horrible LA filthhole. That and the fact that the Scientology Celebrity Centre sits right in the middle of the hood. However, so far - and to my pleasant surprise - it has been wonderful. Only this morning I went for a walk around the area and rather than be greeted by mentalists, poo and broken couches on the street, I was instead treated to smiling faces and trees. Actual trees. And of course it's nice to see the old Hollywood sign looming overhead. Maybe this move represents some sort of allegory for my career, gradually getting closer to that sign and all the success it represents....then again, maybe not.

One more thing that should be noted here is a word of warning to any and all. NEVER underestimate what a colossal pain in the arse it is to move house. I thought "I'm in a studio, I haven't got much stuff, how hard can it be?" Well, after about a thousand stair trips and multiple instances of me lifting things well beyond my puny limits, the answer is: Fecking hard. For the past two days I have been walking around in stiff agony, which, contrary to how it might sound, is not a kinky sex game.

Still, I'm in now and life is good. Life promises to get even better this weekend when I head to Coachella (for the first time since 2007) - a place where Radiohead and the Arctic Monkeys are playing in the same weekend. Expect tears of joy to be shed. The only downside being that I will no doubt be surrounded by vaguely interested 15 year-olds, sporting neon shades and muttering "who's Thom Yorke?". Cest La Vie. Someone's gotta do it I suppose.

Peace and love,

John.