Riding the trainington to Paddington statington. I have to go to a lockbox to get the key to my flat cause I’m not made of money, just enough to get here and rent the cheapest non-twin size bed in London. I open the lockbox and there are no keys. I call the WhatsApp number on my reservation email and a Russian woman picks up, she is panting heavily for the entirety of our conversation, I think she’s on a treadmill. She says she’ll call me back, which she does moments later, still panting. The previous tenants put the key in the wrong lockbox, so I find another lockbox and retrieve my keys.

Paddington is a ghostly, affluent area of London bordering the north of Hyde Park. Matching white Victorian five-story flats bend and arch along the empty, trash-strewn roads without a grid. Walking up to my flat, an athletic black guy around my age, maybe a bit older, sits on an empty street curb, throws his head into his hands and starts sobbing, loudly.

I get to my flat around noon and sleep until 1:30. The walls are paper thin and, lacking door knobs, everyone’s doors slam loudly. I make a list: “earplugs, plug converter, soap” and head down for food.

Before leaving for London I found a substack about “99 places to eat in London that aren’t Pret,” mostly shawarma and chicken liver sandwiches, so I head to my first spot, Al Balad Restaurant on Edgware. On the way there I’m struck by everyone’s clothes. I’m wearing sneakers, jeans, a baggy t-shirt, and a hoodie, par for the course or even elevated by Brooklyn standards, but here I feel like a slob. Everyone is dressed smartly, fitted, fashionable, but not trendy. It reminds me of how Manhattan used to dress 10 years ago, before the athleisure took over. I’m probably just in a posh area.

My chicken shawarma is as surprisingly small as it is delicious. I could definitely eat another, if not two more, and again I feel very American. But I’m not. I’m a Soho Boy. D from Bad Sip says I’m staying near all the brothels and I tell him, good, I’m here for the ladies of the night. I text H and he says he’ll be here Tuesday and he’ll hit me up “when he has time” because he’s a little bitch.

I’m too tired to do anything so I go to the gym. Maybe I’m exaggerating but I feel like British people even get fat differently, not the Flubber/Jaba the Hut fat you get from eating too much fast food, but the bowling ball/Santa Claus fat you get from drinking too much beer. I crave the grid. I’m lost without it. Nothing makes sense anymore. One moment I’m headed the correct direction and the next I’m turned around going the opposite.

The only gym near me that doesn't require a 12 month contract is Pure Gym. There is no front desk at the entrance, just these insane human tube/pod things you have to scan to get into so only one person can enter at a time. I scan a QR code on the wall to try to sign up for a month, but the website requires my “UK bank code” which I don’t have so I ring the “assistance buzzer” for like 20 minutes straight.

A big Russian man comes out and tells me “you have to ring the buzzer” and I tell him I’ve been ringing the buzzer for 20 minutes. He asks what’s wrong and I explain to him and he says “oh, I work here, there’s nothing you can do. You can’t work out here.” I laugh at him, “I’m trying to give you my money and you’re saying no,” which somehow works and he swipes me in and tells me to talk to the woman at the front desk, she might be able to help me. There is no woman at the front desk, so I stand and wait for another 20 minutes. I eventually wander back into the office area of the gym, trying to find an employee.

A surprised Russian woman finds me, or I find her, we find each other and she’s startled that I’ve wondered into the offices where I’m clearly not supposed to be. “I’m trying to talk to someone at the front desk” I tell her. “Is it important?” “No” “ok I’ll talk to you in 20 minutes.” Fine. I wait another 30 minutes. Finally, she says the same thing as him. “So if I don’t have a UK bank account I can’t go to this gym?” “That’s right” Interesting! I’m already inside so I get in a free work out.

For a chain gym with an intricately complex entrance system, the gym is small, not much equipment. I’m trying to use the leg extension but there’s an old man on the machine. He’s not really working out so I ask him if we can switch off between sets. “I just got here, I have three more sets.” Ok so can we switch off? “No.” Ok. At least it puts a fire under his ass and he rushes through the three sets at the speed of someone who has no business working out in a gym.

Across the street from the gym is a Subway. I order a 6-inch (mysteriously still listed in US customary units) ‘Notorious BMT’ which is like an Italian but with turkey instead of ham. For some reason they don’t have an Italian, which is crazy. They do have hashbrowns, though, which is interesting. I tell him I want “everything except for cucumbers” and by that I mean “everything that the menu says goes on the Notorious BMT except cucumbers” but he misinterprets that as “literally everything” and starts loading my sub up with pickles, peppers, corn, all sorts of nonsense.

Unfortunately I ask him to take it all off, absolutely destroying his spirits, this may have been his final straw. He completes the rest of my sub like he’s going to go out back and kill himself after. I feel terrible and apologize profusely but I’m not about to eat a corn pickle sandwich. I slide next door to McDonald’s for a small pineapple mango smoothie to complete my post-work out meal. The smoothie tastes like baby food but the Subway tastes like Subway, and that makes me happy.

An hour and 4-5 contacts later, I buy a half pound of weed. I only wanted a quarter pound but the guy said he wouldn’t deliver unless I bought the half and he was too far for me to travel, and online it says flying from London to Paris with weed won't be a big deal. I have to walk 15 minutes to find an ATM, as if they’re allergic to money in this city. As I pull up the dealer tells me he "has cheaper weed, but this is his best,” the information I would’ve appreciated before buying. “It’s from Cali. It will remind you of home.”

I go to breakfast at a tiny diner next to my flat and order the full English without the beans. The diner is full so I ask for it to go, which I can tell upsets them. The restaurant is tiny so I wait outside and realize they have outdoor seating. I sit down and they bring me my to-go containers. “Oh, you are staying, let us bring you a plate and silverware” the waiter insists, but I refuse, try to assure him I’m fine with tinfoil and a plastic fork, but he seems sincerely distraught. A few moments later another guy comes out and re-enacts the previous conversation again. I pay and leave and the guy behind the counter gives me my change with disdain. Perhaps I was being rude by refusing their silverware, but I was honestly just trying not to give them a hard time.

I call gyms for about an hour. I swear this city is allergic to my money. I finally find an Anytime Fitness across Hyde Park in Kensington willing to take me. While signing up they ask what I’m doing in London, I tell them I’m touring with my band, they ask me where I’m playing, “some record store, Herge? Herve?” “That’s not a very good way to advertise your show, mate” I laugh, he’s right. One of them tells me he “doesn’t like music” except for when he’s working out, and that he listens to “very aggresive rock.” I tell him my band probably isn’t for him. They ask what band I would compare our sound to, I say Bar Italia, but they’ve never heard of them. He asks if we are a Christian rock band. I say no and he says “ah, it would have been a good guess if I was right” which is something you could say anytime you guess anything.

London respects the lunch special. I go to a “bbq” for lunch, have a delicious brisket wrap, side of fries and a fancy organic soda for £9. Afterwards I head to Serpentine. On the way there I consider why London is so photogenic compared to New York. I think it’s the lack of a grid– makes things more dynamic. In the park I see a 20 story tall sculpture made of gold and then I think maybe centuries of the church robbing the poor is the true secret to the city's beauty.

Serpentine isn’t different from 10 years ago, the art is very “I used to be an outsider artist but now I have such a huge production budget I don't know what do with it,” so lots of big bright patterns printed onto anything and everything. Outside is a Richter sculpture, a tall asterisk of thin colored stripes. It makes me think about the sculpture you see when driving to JFK from my apartment, the one with the long strips of see through glass that looks like it was made at Home Depot for under $150– and now I’m here with Richter.

Last time I was in London I was impressed that most taxis were BMWs. To my surprise, they’re even fancier now. I can’t tell the brand at first but the car is shaped like an old Rolls Royce and has a logo resembling a Bentley. I google it and find the brand is called Levc and that they took over the London taxi game in 2017. I hope I get to ride in one before I leave.

I wander into a sample sale. They’re selling Moncler and another fancy brand I can’t remember for 80% off. None of the sizes go larger than large and I realize I may have been sized out of high fashion. I continue to wander down Oxford Street. It’s much cleaner and shinier than I remember, it felt a lot seedier when I was younger but it was also my first time living in a city so 10 years in New York may have lowered my standards significantly.

I see the McDonald’s outside the Tottenham Court tube stop where we used to line up like drunk cattle after a long night out. Around the corner is still the Burger King for when you weren’t willing to stand in line. I find my old study abroad campus. All the restaurants have changed. It almost makes me emotional but I sit in the same spot I used to smoke 10 years ago, light up, and get excited to re-trace the steps I used to take every time I left my dorm. I walk towards the National Gallery and everything looks extremely familiar.

Inspired by the sample sale, I try to see if I can find another one online. There seems to be one at Les 100 Ciels just off Regents Street, which I walk to, but when I arrive there’s no sample sale, just £650 sweaters (jumpers?) so I head home. On my way I stop in Primark. They’re selling NFL t-shirts– the Chiefs, Miami, the 49ers. They’re selling lots of clothes that say Los Angeles and some that say Napa Valley, San Fransisco, Copenhagen, but none that say New York. I buy a Copenhagen shirt for £3 and head home.

At this point I’ve walked 20,000 steps two days in a row and I still have to walk to dinner. I notice electric bikes parked randomly around the city that say “first 10 minutes free” and sure enough it’s 1£ to unlock and every day you get 10 free minutes. I go home and change into nicer clothes because I’m tired of being the biggest slob in the city. Tonight's dinner is at Cafe Helen, not as good as Al Balad but still very good and I’m very hungry so even though they accidentally bring me two sides, rice and fries, I eat it all. The walls are mirrors so I have the unique pleasure of watching myself eat alone from every possible angle. When I arrive home my phone says I’ve walked 25,000 steps and my feet concur.

I’m greeted by the angry cashier from yesterday, he recognizes me and his eyes light up with joy, “dining in with us today?” “yes, thank you,” I take a spot. He comes over and asks what I want, four eggs scrambled with cheese, bacon, hashbrowns and orange juice. He says ok and comes back a moment later with a notepad, “tell me again.” I repeat myself “I can give you the cheese on the side,” “can I get the cheese in the eggs?” “Ok but that’s an omelette.” “Ok I’ll have a cheese omelette.” He brings my cheese omelette, three huge pieces of greasy thick cut bacon, two hashbrowns, and a fresh squeezed orange plus some toast which I didn’t order. I can only eat one slice of bacon but finish everything else and leave the toast. I have to run out of the restaurant back to my flat as the bacon hits my stomach like a grease bomb.

I forgot to mention that last night at Cafe Helen, when I went to use their toilet, I found that in place of toilet paper they had paper towel rolls, and I can’t even imagine what that does to their plumbing, but it serves as the perfect analogy for the choke hold Cafe Helen has had on my stomach since then. The grease bomb doesn’t do much to help in that regard, so I hold my stomach in pain as I hobble very slowly and carefully through Hyde Park to Anytime Fitness in Kensington.

My workout keeps being interrupted by Cafe Helen. I notice on my way out that the gym’s trainer served in the special forces of the Iraqi military. Across the street from the gym is an Açaí Berry, a big chain here in London. I figure that will help my situation and sure enough it does. Walking through Hyde park on my way home I cross paths with a little old lady wearing head-to-toe monochrome bright blue “fancy old lady” clothes that could only be described as Chanel or Chanel-esque with a matching bright blue Adidas baseball cap.

Back in Paddington I take a quick shower and hop on the Central Line at Lancaster Station and head towards Tottenham Court. A voice on the tube tells us “See it. Say it. Sort it.” which makes me laugh out loud on the quiet train. When I exit the tube stop, some solicitor approaches me and says “you’re a cheeky 160, aren’t you?” and I smile and nod but I have no idea what he means. I head to Primark because it’s colder than expected and I want to go to the museums but I don’t want to wear my ratty old hoodie into the museums so I buy a black blazer for £25, it somehow fits well right off the rack.

I take a few puffs of weed and head into the National Gallery. At the entrance to the museum is a dark room showing two of Caravaggio’s last paintings, The Martyrdom of Saint Ursula and Salome receives the Head of John the Baptist, the latter of which I’m completely consumed by. I head upstairs in search of Titian and in one of the first rooms I enter, an older middle eastern woman reaches over and touches an enormous high renaissance painting, making me audibly gasp. The security guard freaks out and starts yelling into his walkie and I quickly exit the room.

Every painting brings me closer to tears and then I see Esteban Murillo’s Heavenly and Earthly Trinities and I’m sent over the edge. I’m disappointed by a lackluster showing of Turner but I think they have better Turners at Tate Britain if I remember correctly. Outside the museum a group of Korean dancers in fancy costumes appear to be shooting a k-pop music video in Trafalgar Square. I decide to try to find my old magazine shop in Soho but I’m distracted by Dover Street Market on my way. The staff is unusually friendly. I wish they would all stop saying hello to me, I’m just trying to look at clothes I will never be able to afford in this life or the next. I’m still impressed by Undercover after all these years and resolve that they might be the most consistently interesting label, in my opinion. There is an extremely obvious trend of integrating an enormous fake plastic/fabric flower that appears across 5-6 different labels.

On my way home I stop at Wok to Walk and get an udon beef noodle. Considering how popular this place is across Europe, it’s a pity there’s only one in Manhattan, as I’d honestly rank it as one of the best fast food chains out there, which means a lot coming from an American. On the walk home I receive an email confirming my residency for Subtle Radio on the third Wednesday of each month from 6-8pm. At the same time that I receive this email, I also receive a direct message on SoundCloud from Coyote Records asking for my email. I entered a remix contest for their last release, which I lost, but afterwards they tweeted about the possibility of doing a remix EP with some of the contestants, so I’m guessing this will be about that, which is exciting as Coyote is a longstanding institution in the grime scene. Back in Paddington, a couple smokes fags with their baby in a stroller outside my flat.

Keeping the breakfast overview brief— let’s just say I’m done with my corner diner. I tried to order the specific amount of food I knew I’d eat, but they gave me extra and charged more anyways. I head to Cork Street. Barbra Kruger is Barbra Kruger at Spruth Magers. It’s nice to see a converted pre-war apartment gallery like Triest that looks immaculately well kept, unlike Triest. Across the street at David Zwirner are huge “drawings” by Richard Serra, if you can call them that. They’re pretty boring until the second to last one, which is bigger than huge, it’s enormous, blowing me off my feet. Every other gallery in the area is showing geometric abstraction garbage.

On Berkley Street, three men in suits, blazers and sunglasses sit outside a cafe and puff on cigars. On the way to Tate Britain I see a man around 40-years-old walking with what appears to be his mother on his arm, they’re both dressed like they walked out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement. Some areas and their inhabitants feel as though they’ve never left the 20th century.

Inside Tate Britain I head to use the restroom before going into the galleries. A man in an orange visibility vest has a giant dirty bucket and seems to be cleaning his rags for a construction job in one of the sinks in the restroom. It strikes me as odd, his demeanor juxtaposed against his setting. I can’t tell if he’s working at the museum or has just wandered in off the street.

In the “Art Now” gallery is a series of paintings and drawings by Zeinab Saleh and they’re beautiful, really delicate and ornate washes of light grey blue and pastel pinks balancing somewhere between design and interiors. Inside the main contemporary gallery… drum roll… geometric abstraction. The Turner wing is amazing, as always. There’s a room in the back where they try to juxtapose an internet-kitsch video rendering by Yuri Pattison with Turner’s unfinished drawings and it’s hilarious how terrible the painstakingly wired assemblage of Pattison’s monitor looks compared to Turner’s tiny, barely-there drawings. At this point I’m starting to feel my feet so I cruise through the rest of the museum until I come across The Derby Day by William Powell Frith where I stop and try to remember the details my professor had shared when she tried to draw a story from every figure in the painting during one of our classes. And now today, my own private Derby Day.

Outside Tate Britain my feet are tired so I head towards some new lunch spot that serves little portions of organic meat and vegetables on cafeteria-style trays, but in all honesty, I’m tired and hungry so when I see The Laughing Halibut I decide it’s time for a fish and chip. I can tell the waiter is fascinated by my accent and when I’m checking out he asks “what part of America are you from?" “New York City,” “ah, the BIG city!” “That’s right” “is it true Katz’s Deli closed?” “No sir, not now or ever” “oh that’s good to hear, right then, cheers” “take it easy” “oh, take it easy, take it easy, I like that one…”

I walk past Big Ben and Westminster Abbey on my way to Tate Modern. My feet are absolutely killing me. The new additions to the building seem lame, the building was cooler when it was just this enormous industrial smoke stack. Inside, the art is kind of second rate, as I remember it being ten years ago. Some good Richters, some great Mitchells and then a bunch of apologia. Not as much geometric abstraction, thankfully.

I take the tube home and boil hot water in a kettle to pour into my flat’s sink so I can soak my feet and try to bring the blisters down. It’s 4pm and my phone says I’ve already walked 22,000 steps. It's 10pm and now it's says 23,000. I needed an evening in bed to allow my feet to reset so I put on Pretty Little Liars and let it put me to sleep.

I think my neighbor is a little old man because he’s watching old vintage films, noirs, with their antiquated American accents and their grand sweeping soundtracks— plus once I saw an old man in my hallway so I’m assuming it was him. I’m not entirely sure, though, so I try to put that thought aside as I lose my temper, start yelling at him through the wall “turn your TV down” and proceed to blare the harshest noise wall I can find from my laptop speakers for 10 minutes straight. It works, and when I pause the music, he knocks back and the sound is lowered.

I try a new breakfast spot on my block, this one is a combination breakfast/deli/bakery/dry cleaning service. The front of the shop is a tiny little dining room with no wall dividing it from the dry cleaning operation happening in the back. The older man behind the counter winks at me as I walk in, which I don’t really give any consideration until he brings my water and places his hand on my shoulder softly, leaving it there just long enough for me to wonder about the wink. Things get weirder when he brings me double of everything I ordered, and I have to tell him “I didn’t order all this” and he says “yes you did” and I laugh and say “I absolutely did not” and he looks embarrassed and takes half of it away, which is even more confusing, because my first and only assumption is that he was trying to scam a stupid foreigner, but then why did he give such little resistance?

The tables are small and close so I’m basically seated at the same table as these two old French women who whisper to each other in French and it makes me excited to soon be in a country where I truly can’t understand anything anyone is saying. Across the street an older man gets into the drivers seat of an emerald green Rolls Royce and drives away. A group of kids maybe 8-12 years old wander out of a convenience store, crack open a Prime energy drink and pass it around, chugging it. Their mom comes out and takes pictures of them posing while chugging. A middle aged man wearing his dress shirt tucked in uses a high powered vacuum to clean the cracks in the sidewalk.

I head to Cass in SoHo for art supplies, but when I get there, the sun is bright, and I’m distracted by my desire to find a silly hat. Inside Our Legacy they’re playing deep cuts from The Smiths. In another store, I find a vintage Burberry cap for 100£ and for half a second I consider buying it. At Reign Vintage I find the perfectly frumpy wool hat, somewhere between a beaten up fedora and a bucket hat. It’s so ridiculous and makes me look British and only sets me back 10£.

H calls while I’m in Cass. I can hear G in the background and she tells me to go to Albert Oehlen at Gagosian, says it’s some of the best Oehlens she’s ever seen. H says he wants to stay in Camden, says I should come out, he’s too lazy to take the train into Central London. I’m not so happy about this idea so I say I’ll call him back after Oehlen. We negotiate over text and he agrees to come into the city so we can make merch for the shows.

The Oehlens are insanely good. He really painted the shit out of those canvases. I think his two person show in New York had one or two stronger pieces but this show is overall much more complex. He was really doing the most for these, which I think is where Oehlen shines.

I hop over to the Gagosian gift shop to try and buy a poster to paint for Soho boys merch. The poster catalog has an amazing advertisement for a Damien Hirst exhibition with a photo of diamonds which unfortunately they’re no longer carrying. Next door at the Royal Academy I find the perfect canvas for our Soho Boys merch— a postcard box set, 250 postcards from all the works in the collection for £25. Horacio calls and says he’s on his way. I pop into a gelato shop and buy Ferrera Roche flavored gelato.

In Trafalgar Square, I find a spot on a bench next to the fountain and finish my gelato before taking a few puffs and setting up to paint. To my left is an old man smoking cigarettes and to my right is a big French family, the youngest of which, a girl maybe 7 or 8-years-old, is absolutely enamored by my painting, alternating between sitting her head on my shoulder to watch me paint and running in front of me in an attempt to become the subject of my painting. Eventually I decide to wrap up and relocate. I climb the lion sculpture, set everything up, and again, a little brown boy, I’m not sure where from because I never hear him speak, is enamored with my painting. It’s like I’m the biggest kid in the playground and everyone wants to play with my toys.

Just as I start a new postcard, H calls and asks if I want to go into the National Portrait Gallery with him. Inside we are again like two children in a playground. We spend 5-10 minutes in front of every painting, picking apart every detail, completely enamored with the great lost art of renaissance painting, laughing at how terrible our own work compares today. H goes to Hauser & Wirth to hear Harmony Korine give a short lecture, but it’s a private event and he can’t get a +1 so we agree to meet up after for dinner. On my way home I actually have a chance to sit on the tube for the first time in 10 years and I’m shocked at how soft, cushy and comfortable the seats are.

I arrive at Carrousel just after 7. I don’t know why I expected a huge party of people, it’s just H, G and the gallery assistant from Sadie Coles whose name I’ve forgotten unfortunately, an extremely nice fellow that I get along with very quickly. Carrousel has a normal restaurant in the front and a tasting room in the back with a rotating chef. We’re the first party to arrive for tonight’s tasting menu, which will be Japanese/Mexican fusion. Everything is good, even the grasshoppers, but nothing is great, except the mole, which we all agree is worse than bad. G says it tastes like a urinal cake and she’s not wrong. At the end of the dinner we all agree that it was very mediocre for a £500 dinner but Sadie is paying so who can complain?

I survive, but I left my jacket so I have to ride again. This time I take off another article of clothing and forget both of them. At my new breakfast place, there’s the sketchy old man from yesterday and a younger middle eastern guy. I order the same thing as yesterday, scrambled eggs on toast with cheese. “You want a baguette?” No I want scrambled eggs on toast with cheese. “You want bacon?” I lose my temper a little and enunciate slowly and loudly. Scrambled. Eggs. Toast. Cheese. The sketchy guy from yesterday can sense my patience thinning so he jumps in and excuses the new guy so he can re-take my order. “do you want a baguette with that?” No. “Do you want bacon on it?” No.

While all this is happening, I’ve been messaging this guy in Brazil, D. I guess you could say he’s my biggest fan. A 22-year-old, obsessed with my music, not the sharpest tool in the shed, he messages me non-stop asking to collaborate with me and listen to his music. He’s alright in the sense that he just mirrors what I’m doing back to me, but both my record label head and I know he’s been prone to tell some pretty far fetched stories.

We’re having a normal conversation when he tells me he messaged one of the most influential producers in our genre and claims he listened to D’s beat and told him he liked it. I ask him for a screenshot to prove it. He claims he deleted the message exchange. I tell him I don’t believe him. He keeps trying to talk around it but I keep pressing him to send screenshots, which he eventually does, and the message exchange is literally just D saying “hi, I love your music” and the influential producer ignoring him. At this point D claims there was a mix up in his translation of what he was trying to say. I call bullshit. He keeps trying to talk around it but I’m not letting him off the hook. I bring up other things in the past I’m sure he’s lying about. He realizes he’s been caught so he admits that he was lying about speaking to the producer and admits he lied about there being trouble with the translation. He can tell I’m pissed so he starts begging for my forgiveness and asking me not to cut him off. I ask him to admit to lying about the other stuff but he insists he was telling the truth. I still don’t believe him. I tell my label owner we need to cut this guy out of our circle and he agrees.

I’m determined to find one person in the city who fucks with Chief Keef. Leg day at the gym and then an açaí bowl. I head back home, shower, and head back out to paint in the park. I get white paint on my new hat, which bums me out, so I go home to try to clean it out and luckily it mostly does. G asked me to DJ the after party of her opening so I assemble a playlist. I ask S to recommend an indian place for dinner, it’s only 30 minutes away so I hop on the 16 and climb up to the second floor of the bus. I order appam, fish curry and paratha and it’s phenomenal. I take the bus home and hop into a cantonese place to grab some steamed rice for some extra leg day carbs. J arrives tomorrow.

Security at Gagosian opens the door for me as I approach. Waiting behind the door is J wearing matching denim jeans and jacket with a sweater tied around the outside. We gush over the Oehlens and take pictures of each other, I think I overhear someone whispering about “artists in cool clothes.” We’re both hungry so we walk to crunchy falafel to grab a quick bite then head towards The French House where we find H outside. The Soho Boys, reunited in Soho. We head in for a pint before walking to Sadie Coles for G’s opening.

Afterwards, while walking to the after party, I’m approached by a peculiar younger man, A, who has lots of questions about our band, about Georgia, and he tells me a bit about his own artistic process. Midway through our conversation he seamlessly introduces his friend L and quickly exits. L is friendly and smiley at first, we talk about the similarities and differences in London and New York culture. She’s an art writer, a critic, and when I tell her I run Triest she says she knows the space, and sure enough she’s already following me on Instagram. When we get to the party I go to the bathroom and when I come back up, A & L both weirdly act like they don’t know me when I interact with them, and I realize I was essentially used as their life raft to get into the after party. They’re far more interested in trying to awkwardly squeeze their way into the “adult table” to try to socialize with the older, more wealthy attendants.

After multiple instances of thinking “hey, I know this song,” I remember that’s because I picked all the songs that are unfortunately playing at such a faint hum of a whisper you can only barely make out the drums of every track. I hate after parties but O from Bad Sip and his girlfriend are here so we talk about music and art, they are genuine people so it’s nice. At one point I get up to take my jacket off, O kind of makes a joking “ooh la la” type gesture so I flip my hat off like I’m going to do something special, which somehow instantly gets the attention of the entire room, all the gay men and older women start cheering and I go along with it, slowly taking my jacket off like it’s the beginning of a strip tease, but it’s not, I sit back down and the party continues.

We hop in a taxi to the after after party, someone’s birthday party in their flat. We FaceTime J’s girlfriend A2 on the way there, she’s going to a wedding and we talk to her dog. At the after after party, the birthday boy let’s us in. The party is so crowded we physically can’t enter. Everyone inside is crushed in like tinned fish. J manages to barely squeeze into the entrance then pops back out and says “Dean Kissick is here.” In the hallway outside, a guy with a pouch full of mushrooms gives a dose to H. We follow mushroom guy out to the garden behind the flat. He reminds me of the stereotypical bloke you’d find in a movie, smarmy asshole for jokes but actually a nice guy underneath it. G’s german friend C loses her temper when he starts talking about how much he loves the king’s tailoring. Some girl in all white comes out and introduces herself by simply asking “does anyone have coke?” so we try to get her to try H’s snuff but she calls us pussies and leaves.

As we walk into the party they’re playing da 445.ceo so I know someone at the party has good taste. J immediately hi-jacks the aux and plays Help! by the The Beatles. Some people are bummed out but I hear Dean Kissick somewhere in the background say “this is actually a really good song.” J quickly gets kicked off the aux after playing Something by The Beatles. Someone is playing Charli XCX-tier “dance music.” I start pointing fire headies out. I’m hitting all the milwaukee dances. I can tell some people are getting a kick out of it and others are somewhat disturbed. I’m dancing for about 30-40 minutes, just minding my own business, trying not to take up too much space. The all white “does anyone have coke” girl comes up to me and asks “why are you dancing like that?” I tell her I’m pointing fire headies out. She tells me to loosen my hips so I go into full belly dance mode and she’s impressed because I don’t think she expected that I actually knew how to dance. Then she tries to start grinding with me and I’m definitely not having that so I go back to doing my own dance.

The following, dear reader, is, as with the entirety of this text, to the best of my account, entirely non-fiction. A couple minutes later, the birthday boy comes up to me and asks “what’s your problem? what’s with your hat?” I tell him “No problem, just dancing with my friends.” He is quite serious and says “I want you to leave right now,” I ask why, and he says he doesn’t like my hat and he doesn’t like my dance, according to him I’m embarrassing myself and ruining the party, and I need to leave right now. I’m 100% sure he’s joking, because no one would actually ask someone to leave because of a hat and a dance without any discussion, so I play along with the bit, “oh, you want to wear my hat?” I try to put it on his head, but he takes it out of my hand and throws it across the room, getting all up in my face like he’s trying to start a fight. J immediately jumps into action and shoves him. H quickly throws a bow at him. He grabs J by the face and in response J turns around and does a half-round house kick, really quite expertly grazing the top of the main table in the center of the room, sweeping a huge mess of glass cups and plates still half-full with food off in a loud crash before running out of the room. Everyone in the room starts freaking out. Standing in the middle of the chaos, I light up, take a puff, ash it on the floor with my foot and hopefully leave a permanent mark.

Woke up hung over, didn’t get out of bed until noon. Got breakfast to go and ate it extremely slowly in my flat. Around 4 I head to Walworth for band practice at J from Bad Sip’s flat. We retell the insanity of last night. J2 has a video and the reality of what happened is just as insane if not even crazier than I remember. J and O, the guitarists from Bad Sip, can play our songs better than I’ve ever heard them. We go out for a pint after and then head our separate ways. I go to Ecco Pizza and get a 12” supreme for £12 before heading home and going to sleep. Tomorrow, we take Brighton.

At the train’s second stop, the doors to our train car open and O from Bad Sip just somehow happens to be standing ready to get on exactly where we're sitting, completely unplanned. We had no idea we’d even see him until the show. J and H pop some shrooms as soon as the train arrived in Brighton. We spend a solid half an hour dicking around in a music store. H buys a flute-looking instrument which is not a flute, but a tool for bagpipe players who are trying to practice without playing a full sized bagpipe, harder to blow into than a flute and with a much lower sound that resembles a cow mooing.

We wander down to the beach. O is shooting us for a music video. He has his guitar with him. We take it out and start recording a jam session with the waves crashing in the background. We go to a fish & chip spot on the beach. It’s the best fish and chips of my life, H agrees.

We walk to the pier. J has to take a shit. We walk into the casino at the pier. We all wander off in different directions. I eventually find J inside a theater booth, some sort of dinosaur shoot-em-up you can sit inside. J plays the song and I record us lipsyncing in front of the video screen. Midway through, H finds and joins us, then O, who gives us his guitar to dance with. We walk around the pier, J still has to shit. H decides Brighton is depressing and by my approximation this is where their shroom trip started to turn south.

We are trying to find the nearest poundland to buy art supplies, while also searching for the nearest public restroom J deems worthy of pooping in. For some reason J spends 15 minutes buying an ice cream cone, despite badgering us about how bad he has to shit. This spawns our first inside joke of the day, “I have to take a shit…. maybe here? No… here?” which we repeat through out the day. I see an officially licensed Hello Kitty cafe/ice cream shop, so I buy a sheet of stickers and a rose flavored ice cream cone. J uses their toilet.

Outside, eager to find Poundland, H is mad at how long it took J to find a place to shit, spawning our second inside joke to be repeated throughout the day, “I’m pissed off guys. I’m in a bad mood.” This joke can be optimized by speaking in a british accent. We find our poundland. We’re running on low, fueled only by thinly veiled sarcasm. We sit in the park and use our poundland supplies to build sculptures to house our CDs for sale tonight at the show. A loud unintelligible homeless woman comes up and joins us. I give her a marker and paper and tell her to draw.

When I get up on stage with my easel and canvas, I hear someone in the audience say “he must have stage fright” but what she doesn’t realize is that the canvas is only making the whole thing 100x times more nerve wrecking. After the show I’m bombarded by a group of locals, “you’re our new favorite band!” I take the train home and reach my flat just after midnight.

The venue had a gas leak so we move to an old pub across the street. Before the show I meet H, who has been listening to my production for years. It’s bizarre to meet a fan in real life. I don’t really know what to say to him. The show falls apart in the middle of our biggest song. The band can’t seem to get the notes and beat right, making it basically impossible to sing over. We just start improvising. J starts screaming in my ear and I paint his face with my paintbrush. The crowd seems completely disenchanted. I apologize at the end of our set.

After the show, this older guy comes up to us, seemingly angry about our accents, but actually he’s just impressed at how well we lampooned him. We tell him we’re from New York and he starts talking at us about Dime Square, Honor Levy, and being post-woke so we make our exit. Inside at the Bid Sip show, an old man has dropped a huge bag of coke on the ground and is on his hand and knees sniffing it directly off the bar floor. Some old lady is trying to hit on me and despite their lack of enthusiasm, the london crowd claims to have loved the show. A younger guy tells me “Soho Boys has aura.”

I try to ship the gifts back to NY so I don’t have to carry them around but my Shippo order is plagued by unfixable errors. As I’m walking to the train station, H texts to say he will be skipping out on the first few days of Paris. I call him up. I’m angry. I didn’t come all the way here for him to flake on us. In my anger, I order a hamburger, just to spite his european ass. The hamburger is terrible.

I sleep the whole 3 hours from London to Paris. My mood is immediately lifted by the beauty and energy of the city. I check into my hotel just as R’s finnisage begins. I’m still in a bad mood from earlier. P, the parisian that runs my label, is texting me, he wants to know my plans for tonight. I put my phone on silent, go to the nearest gym, buy a day pass and absolutely crush shit for half an hour. I run home, hop in the shower, then run back out.

I try to use the metro. I can’t figure it out. They haven’t figured out the tap yet. I call a cab. I show up as the finnisage is ending but it’s packed. P is downstairs, we reunite for the first time since his 2021 trip to New York. We head inside. I meet L at the door. The building is pre-war with an electric, glass lift installed in the center— in other words, it’s nice as hell. He explains how his great great grandparents built the building and now most of his family lives in it. Upstairs we find R and J. We shoot the shit but quickly begin making moves to find a bar. P and I quickly slip out, we don’t want art shmoozimg, we want food and time to catch up one on one. We go to a noodle place, he orders for me and then we walk to a jazz bar and watch some improv.

I walk to a cafe and order breakfast. I’m not sure what I order, it just appears from the menu description to include avocado, eggs, and a pancake. I am served a hard boiled egg, on top of a mountain of guacamole, on top of an enormous pancake, with a side of syrup. I try to eat it together, as it’s served, but it’s much better when divided.

I walk to the Pompidou. It’s still my favorite contemporary collection ten years later. The new building is nightmarish but in a good way. I walk to the Lourve. I don’t go inside, the line is too long. I go to a cafe and eat steak frites. I walk home. I feel like I haven’t done much but my phone says I walked 20,000 steps and my body is exhausted. I go to the gym and call it a day.

L has prepared coffee and croissants from a local bakery. R de-installs, L heads out to meet his girlfriend for a few hours, and J arrives. I’m still hungry from a light breakfast so when R goes to grab a beer around 3, I head with her to a trendy vegan bistro called Land & Monkeys with pre-made sandwiches in the window. I order a mediterranean, which is tomato, arugula, pickled onions and some kind of lemon hummus spread on a fresh baguette. It is hands down the greatest sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

As we’re walking to the bar, we hear someone yell “hey!” in the distance in a booming spanish voice. Of course, it’s H. I decide to head back with him to Profil while R goes to grab a beer. P is texting me about meeting him and his brother in an underground cellar with a turntable and sound system near Pont Neuf, on one of the two little islands tucked into the center of the city. L returns & R2 shows up to say hello. A arrives, fresh off the plane from JFK. J and H are making their trash sculptures while I pace back and forth, trying to convince L or R to help me buy weed. J, A, and R2 head to an opening while the rest of us hang back for a minute, H to continue working and myself to continue pestering L for weed. Eventually I head out with H and R to meet P and his brother on Pont Neuf.

In the streets we hear a loud event blasting Adele and decide it’s an Adele concert even though it’s not. We pop into Franprix and buy a bag of mustard flavored chips and two bottles of wine. P says he doesn’t have a bottle opener so we ask the restaurant above the cellar to open it for us. We descend underground into what feels like a catacomb from an Edgar Allen Poe story, everything is made of circular carved stone, dusty and moist.

In the bunker we listen to Burial and unreleased stuff forthcoming on P’s label. H is thoroughly impressed by the sound system. I ask P and his brother to recommend some things to see. They tell me to go to La bourse du commerce, but R disagrees, and calls it the worst museum she’s ever been to. P and his brother gush about the architecture and R complains about the heavy security presence. We eventually decide to head to meet J, A and R2 at the opening at Doc. P and his brother decide to stay behind.

R recommends we get an uber. We all agree. Our guy shows up, R gets in the front and I pile in the back with H. The two of us go back and forth about our respective relationships. I’m noticing a battle going on over the music volume between R and the uber driver. The radio is playing hardstyle trance with a French woman screaming on top, like a french crystal castles. I keep trying to shazam it but nothing comes up. All of a sudden R lights up a cigarette. We realize she has the uber driver under her thumb, she’s flirting with him and he’s falling for it, she’s seeing how far she can push it. I start to smoke weed and he freaks out, says we’re going to get arrested, so I put it out. She tries to put her feet up on the dashboard but that’s where he draws the line.

At Doc, H is excited because he recognizes the bartender as an artist from venice biennale. L is here but he’s headed home and I realize my only option for weed is closing out until tomorrow. I act quickly and have R2 text a dealer to come by. The party ends and we are asked to leave. We move to the street where we are asked to move again. At the bar down the street, I’m running around looking for an ATM. Suddenly the bartender says we have to leave, apparently R broke a glass on the street. At this point she’s completely wasted. We walk to another bar to meet up with G. The night slowly dies down.

I call an uber, and when I get in, a younger drunk French girl forces her way into my uber. I’m trying to keep her out but she’s putting all her weight onto me so my only options are to physically shove her or give up. She’s dressed well and wasted so I deem her harmless. She tries talking to me in french. I ask if she speaks english. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” Great. She mumbles to herself. Halfway there, the uber driver asks if I know who she is and I say I have no idea. He lectures her sternly in french and then tells me that he told her that she’s crazy and could put herself in danger pullings stunts like this. She chimes in, “it’s actually really not that crazy,” and I snap back, “no one asked you.” At this point, I can’t be sure, but I think the uber driver takes her side, because they start talking and laughing and when he drops me off he says “merci madam” before driving off with her. I report him to uber and get a full refund for the trip.

I take my time installing my paintings and help the boys with their various tasks. Hours pass. The show crystalizes. O and his girlfriend show up unannounced from a 16-hour bus trip from Berlin. We decide to take a walk just as the show opens. By the time we return, the gallery is so full we can barely squeeze in. I sit outside and eat beef chili. People come and go and we talk about the art, life, etc. We perform outside the gallery with two acoustic guitars, seated on top of R’s car, and people go crazy. As soon as the show is over, people come up and ask us for pictures. It’s undoubtedly our best show yet.

We go to a bar. It’s the most packed bar I’ve ever seen. I squeeze in and someone hands me a beer and I ask “who paid for this” and the person who handed it to me just shrugs. There’s no room to sit so we all stand in a circle around this woman who is sitting at a table buy herself, and she is absolutely livid, repeatedly asking us to go away, but we just ignore her.

It’s a funny feeling to be treated with such disdain by Parisians everywhere you go and then to suddenly be treated like a rock star for a night. People sing our lyrics at us. “Soho boys! Soho boys!” We move from bar to bar. Conversation flows as freely as the beer we’re drinking. I’ve never seen so many cigarettes smoked in my life. At one point i’m sitting on the corner smoking a joint and I’m overcome with an incredible gratitude for life and being alive. H and J go home around midnight but I stay out and chase the night, meeting more people, moving to other bars, until my phone is about to die and the sky is starting to gain its color again, just before the sun rises.

I was recommended La Baguette du Relais by an instagram reel, so I head there against my better judgement. They have two items on the menu: A sandwich with steak, fries, and a buttery/lemony herb dressing on a fresh baguette, and a larger version of that same sandwich. To my surprise, it’s very very good.

I meet up with P and we walk along the river that runs through Paris, the Sein? The Rein? We stop for a beer. It’s hot as hell. Somehow we cross paths with R and the fellow who gave me the “free” beer last night. They tell us they just came from a book fair where a bunch of Soho Boys fans were still talking about last night’s show. I walk on with P, we walk all the way to the Eiffel Tower.

When I was here 10 years ago, the eiffel tower during the day was still just another section of Paris you could walk through and under like it was no big deal. Now, it feels like an airport, the entire bottom area blocked off with enormous fences and long lines for security check points.

It starts to rain and it smells like rotten eggs or a gas leak. I wait in line to buy a subway ticket for 30 minutes. I take the train home and lay in bed. Somehow, after only standing for 6 hours, I’ve walked 20,000 steps. I turn on Pretty Little Liars and order a four cheese rigatoni in deliveroo, it’s amazing. I make plans with various new friends from last night, some want to get drinks, some invite me to dinner with their various gallerists and friends, etc. but as I’m drifting off to bed, something doesn’t feel right, like I’m starting to get sick.

At around noon I gain enough energy to go to the gym. I’m always the biggest guy in every gym I go to in Europe, even though I’ve lost 10+ pounds since my arrival. This makes me proud to be American. I wander around after the gym looking for a big hearty lunch. I don’t want to eat at one of the intimidating cafes where everyone just smokes and drinks and I don’t want to eat a kebab. Somehow I stumble upon a french owned Texas BBQ called Melt. It has the aura of a french restaurant with a thoroughly American menu. I order a brisket sandwich with a side of “mashed potatoes,” which are potato wedges in actuality, but wow, the french do not disappoint in the kitchen, even with such a thoroughly american cuisine, and I’m so impressed that I have to tell my waiter “this is VERY good,” but of course she doesn’t give a shit.

I walk to an undisclosed location to buy S presents. I walk through an area that feels like the Upper East Side on steroids. Paris is the Disneyland of Europe. Everything is so immaculately curated, just to be sat on by hoards of tourists. In London, you have a greater number of people who dress nicely, but their style is often modern and nouveau riche. In Paris, the well dressed truly embody style.

On my way home I get caught in a heavy rain so I dip into the nearest cafe. It’s 6pm but the kitchen isn’t open for dinner yet so I order a glass of merlot and try to catch up on tourlifexxo. Back at the hotel, I’ve run out of my daily alloted wifi so I’m only able to stream short sections of Pretty Little Liars at a time and fill the in between time by flicking through the TV. The only channel in English is Al Jazeera, but it’s not Al Jazeera anymore, it’s commercial programming from Korea, basically just one long infomercial from Korean tourism. Eventually they start showing some sort of korean military choir concert, which is so miserable I decide to watch A Star Is Born dubbed in french instead.

Somehow, 20 slow and poorly communicated minutes later, my package is seemingly ready for its journey home, fingers crossed. I head to Bouillon Chartier to meet whoever shows up for lunch. First, H and G. We don’t really want to go in, but some guy motions us into the restaurant and starts bringing us to a table. We tell him we need a table of four. He’s very concerned that we’re only a party of three. I explain to him we actually weren’t coming in, he just brought us in, and he’s flustered so he just lets us sit down.

J shows up and tells us that A will be coming later. We try to tell the waiter and he has a small meltdown so we tell him, it’s ok, don’t worry about. Moments later he comes back and tells us we can just pull up a chair. We order 6 snails, two salads, two plates of carrots, three steak frites and one fish. All the appetizers are excellent. A arrives. Our steaks and fish are served. H points out that the steak tastes extremely average and I agree. J insists his steak is delicious but I don’t believe him. It tastes like Chili’s, but the check comes and we each only pay 20 euros so you can’t beat that.

We head to Musée D’Orsay. J, H and G all have fake Manhattan Art Review press passes, so we skip the line outside, but when we try to enter without paying, the head security guard says their cards are invalid because the date on the back has expired, which I find hilarious. After waiting in line to buy tickets with the ordinary people, J goes one way with A, H goes the opposite way with G, and I decide to head off on my own, skipping the early few centuries to spend extra time with the expressionists on the 5th floor.

The museum is about to close. They’re coupled up and spending time discussing each painting, but I’m on my own so I’m able to view everything much faster. I’m ready to leave so decide to head off on my own. We are planning to head to Profil to pick up the work we left behind. Midway there, H tells me they’re going to skip Profil and head to a cafe and we agree to meet at R’s birthday party later. I pop into Land & Monkeys to buy my final mediterranean sandwich before heading up to the gallery. L and C greet me. I was planning on getting drinks with C yesterday before I got sick so we sit, smoke and talk about contemporary art— specifically Jeff Koons. I tell them I’ll meet them at R’s birthday and head to meet everyone at the cafe, L’Avant Compotir du Marché.

When I show up, I’m informed that plans for the night have changed. R’s birthday is off the menu, G will be doing “girl’s night” at L2’s house, who I met at our opening and had made plans to curate a Trieste x Triest exhibition, as she was born and raised in Trieste. J and A will be having a date night, so I decide with H to go to La Perle to work on our movie script for Berlin. L2 happens to walk by while we’re sitting and having a drink, so she invites me and H to “girl’s night.”

L2 lives in what used to be Umberto Eco’s house, left entirely in tact with his library, chairs, pipes, artworks, everything. Located just south of the river, directly in the center of the city, this is considered the nicest and most expensive area of Paris. She tells us Monica Vitti used to live down the street. U shows up, an american living in Paris, and a private art advisor who occasionally works with Reena Spaulings. We had previously met at H’s opening at my gallery. We admire Umberto Eco’s art and thumb through his books. They all crowd around the window to smoke cigarettes. I decide not to ask about smoking weed.

Dinner is served. We take turns sharing ghost stories. L2 says she once had an extended conversation with a friendly ghost, but she said she was very drunk, so she’s not sure if it was real. U also shares a tale of a time she was sure an unfriendly ghost was following her. I tell them about my experience with having out of body experiences, then U shares her history of sleep pralysis, and G and I discover we both have exploding head syndrome, a strange affectation where you occasionally hear large explosions inside your head just before you slip off to sleep. Around 11:30, L2 wants to go to a cafe for a night cap but U, G and H want to call it a night. With my help, we convince the others to share one more drink.

At cafe, U knows the waiter so he gives us a bottle of wine (for free?) and sits down to drink with us. U says she can’t tell us any details but she’s on the cusp of a 200+ million dollar art sale, for which she will collect 10%, which, after taxes, comes out to about 4 million dollars. She tells us to pray for her and that if she gets it, she’ll bring us all on vacation. We head out to smoke in the courtyard of a mediaeval church and talk about what we’d do with 4 million. Back inside, U laments that she is essentially a professional alcoholic, drinking every night to wine and dine her clients. Everything comes at a price.

I get in my uber, and the driver guesses that I’m from New York and I work in finance. I tell him I’m in a rock band and I’m here on tour. I can tell very quickly that he is a showman, and his uber is his stage. He shows me that my uber rating is exceptionally high, a 4.78, and explains that the ratings are simply based off of how quickly you get to your car. He pulls out a binder to reference which he has assembled himself that explains the whole rating system. He tells me how, if I ever get in a taxi in paris, it is important to always say “Hello,” or else the taxi driver might ask you to leave his taxi. He opens up Tik Tok on my his phone and shows me how he has been featured on the local news and gone viral as the “karaoke taxi,” showing me video after video of people singing karaoke in his taxi, blinking the reading light inside the cab on and off like it’s a strobe light along to the music. I’m afraid he’s going to ask me to sing karaoke but just in time we arrive at my hotel and I assure him that was the best taxi ride of my life. “I know,” he responds.

I actually only end up smoking one very large joint, as the weed L sold me is extremely powerful. I sit in my hotel room and make what turns out to be my first ever techno song, in the spirit of Berlin, where I’m headed next. On the way to the airport I feel homesick. A highway is a highway no matter what country you’re in. At the airport, I get stuck in security but manage to make it to my flight just in time to buy a very mediocre sandwich. I booked my flight on an easyjet less than a week ago, but somehow I’ve been randomly selected to sit in the first row with extra leg room. As the plane doors close, I realize no one is sitting next to me and I’ve essentially scored a first class flight for less than $50.

We land and I get my luggage. As predicted, there was no reason to throw my weed away. My taxi driver asks if I work in IT. I must look like a huge nerd to these fuckers. I tell him about my band and he tells me we must be famous if we’re on tour in Berlin. I drop my things off at Hotel Europa City then head back out to try to find weed. I head to Grolitzer and find a guy from Africa who offers me cocaine or marijuana. I tell him I want 70 euros worth of weed, which is a mistake, I should have asked how much it costs first. We walk to the park. On the way there he tells me how his brother works for NYPD. He shows me a picture of them together. He tells me its his dream to move to New York or Chicago. In the park, I get my weed, which is more like a 40 sack then a 70 sack, but it is real weed so I’ll take what I can get.

Some middle eastern guy tries to sell him a bike for 5 euros, but he says he’ll only take it for 2 euros. When he gives him 2 euros, the guy won’t give him the bike and a huge brawl ensues between the one middle eastern guy and like five African guys. I just stand there and watch silently. We leave the park and head back to the spot where he found me. I ask him where I can buy a grinder. He takes me into a corner store and buys me a large bottle of beer and a grinder, his little way of thanking me/apologizing for ripping me off. We exchange numbers. His profile picture on WhatsApp is Rick Ross, so we bond over that. I head to a Kofte spot that H recommended. The guy who takes my order likes to play games. He acts like he’s “considering” whether he’ll make me a kofte when I order it, and when I go to pay, he makes a big huge fake smile. When the other guy starts making my kofte, he randomly starts tickling him.

At the train station, I’m surprised to see hot food being served directly on the train platform. A posh looking black woman around my age casually lights up a joint inside the enclosed station and passes it back and forth with a white American woman. I think “I like this city,” but later as I get off the train, another posh looking normal white guy around my age gets up in my face and repeatedly screams “hello!?” for seemingly no reason. At the transfer station, a krank head dozes off in a wheel chair. The station security comes and wakes him up, “krank? krank?” they ask him, “yeah, for a friend” he says. I make my way home and am off to sleep.

In the 2+ weeks I was in London and Paris, I saw one jacked dude. I haven’t been in Berlin for more than 12 hours and I’ve already seen three. People in Germany are big boned. J arrives to drop off his luggage right as I head back to grab a premade, cold “crispy chicken sandwich” from the sandwich shop next door before showering. I have my first “accidentally drinking sparkling water” experience of the trip, and am impressed it took me this long. I take a scooter to Michael Werner to meet the others at Picabia. The gallery assistant takes extra care to tell us about the show. We walk to Lars Freidrich, the show is good. We pop into a contemporary auction house and see a whole slew of familiar names. The prices are shockingly low.

We sit at a cafe and drink beers and eat cherries that C brings us. L comes and tells us he has changed the script, something new about "real stupidity," apparently he's writen a new song for us. We take ubers to the “suburbs” of Berlin, some huge house that has been converted into an arts foundation in an area that feels almost like somewhere between Clearwater Beach and Tampa or any other shitty part of the world, a highway with giant matching McMansions for the Josephine Pryde opening. They are charging 3.50 euro for a drop of white wine, no drinking inside, the view is nice. When the speeches start I try to walk away casually but then J catches me and tells me it’s not ok to walk away mid-speech. H gets a call and we look at each other and acknowledge that now it’s ok to act like H’s call concerns all of us so we can walk away and smoke around the corner. Afterwards we head to Lasan and eat the end of the day’s verschiedene spieße gegrillt before moving to a bar for the final drink. At some point I mention to someone what I’ve been thinking this whole time, that Berlin is a faceless, boring city. But they have electric Uber scooters and I love to scooter home in the cool night during a light misty rain.

You certainly couldn't say their hearts weren't in it. But their hearts were in many other things, and there were many other things they were trying to hold within their hearts. Alas, the heart can sometimes be a poor container, and yet it sometimes seems to promise to cover the whole earth. These blokes’ hearts were certainly on the move in such a way, as is suggested by the fact that they were going to try and make a film in a day, with little preparation, during one stop at the end of a European music tour, with another person who lived there and whom most of them had not even met.

Now, this one silly bloke who lived in the city of the stop on the tour where the film was to be made had a bit of an idea. He had once scribbled a story which was about a group called “real stupidity.” The group consisted mostly of people gathering together to give rambling speeches in various public and private venues and then getting brutally ejected from those places because the speeches they told irritated bar owners and law enforcement alike. The subject of the speeches was stupidity as an undeniable aspect of human reality – a substantial element of human existence which cannot be understood as a mere lack of intelligence, but rather grows, changes, and adapts in concert with intelligence. The name of the group – “real stupidity” – stood in obvious contrast to “artificial intelligence,” and indeed some of the members of the group in the story had lost their jobs to artificial intelligence. Others were simply losing their conviction in the absolute value of intelligence, in an age when it was developing rapidly in all sorts of ways but on often shaky grounds. According to one passage of the story, “Everywhere one looked, there seemed to be ever more and ever greater forms of intelligence. On the whole, the world looked like some sort of Rube Goldberg machine invented by two geniuses. But then, the closer you looked, the more apparent it became that one of those geniuses was a geriatric and the other a child, each genius thus facing some obvious limitations. And now, a fight for control over the whole thing was being conducted by various individuals of considerable but lesser intelligence trying to fix it for their own limited purposes. They were, in other words, viewed in the grand scheme of the universe for control of which they were trying to compete, dangerous morons.”

The silly bloke thought his story was okay. At least his one buddy seemed to like it. It was a kind of modern-day fairytale which, if it had some kind of fairytale moral, probably consisted in the light it shed on the spirit of friendly competition which prevails between stupidity and intelligence in the best of creative human activities.

Anyway, the important part was the speeches! In the story, speeches were chosen as a fitting activity for the “real stupidity” group for a couple reasons. First, because this activity echoes what happens in support groups like AA – and the “real stupidity” group was definitely meant to look a bit like a support group, but in an uncharacteristic mixture with elements of a special interest group as well. And there was also to be something cabaret-like, performative, and spontaneous about it. Speeches were fitting, then, because while rare and ceremonial they can be very casual and carefree, whether improvised, prepared, or somewhere in between. And they shift the atmosphere of a space, its soul or spirit, in a way which eludes any simplistic understanding of the degrees of intelligence or stupidity they contain. Their natures and purposes are generally beyond that dichotomy as well. In other words, a speech is a distinctively human activity – amusing and touching by turns – which allows free reign to the stupider inclinations of human thought so that they can wander and develop at ease.

Just consider some of history’s greatest literature, from Don Quixote by Cervantes, to Laurence Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, to Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, to The Idiot, by Herbert Achternbusch. All these works of literature memorialize stupidity in the rambling manner proper to speech.

Well, the one silly bloke figured that speeches would make a good format for the film that all the silly blokes conspired to make. For, this way, all the silly blokes could write a speech, or improvise one, and thus each would take care of a bit of the work and nobody would have to memorize any lines at all for the film. In addition, guests at the filming event who were not initiated into the idea or were simply unprepared could improvise speeches as well, if they were so inclined. They could film in a bar, or a park, and one speech would inspire another, and the prepared speeches would give way to improvised ones, and improvised speeches would give way to improvised activities, one foot following the other, until the batteries on the cameras died, or the memory cards filled up, or the prophecy of the original “real stupidity” story proved self-fulfilling and the event was broken up by a bar owner or the cops. And thus, the silly blokes would have their film, and it would be relatively effortless and a fun event to boot.

Well, wouldn’t you know, even these plans, simple and straightforward as they seemed to the one silly bloke in his naïve optimism, were not to bear fruit. Perhaps it was that the other silly blokes were preoccupied in their euphoria touring Europe as musicians for their first time ever. Perhaps they were of the taciturn sort – since the silly blokes still hadn’t all met, there was no way of knowing. Maybe they thought that all bookish preparations – no matter how minimal – could burn in hell with the paper they were written on, since in their version of the 21st century books were little more than things judges threw at people, and they wanted none of that. Or because if there was one thing that appealed to them about the Nazis, it was the whole mania for burning literature.

Well, the one silly bloke busied himself for a few moments over these not unpleasant ruminations. But at this point, the causes of the situation were immaterial to the urgent question of what to do about it now. And the situation was this: as the other silly bloke had presented it – the one buddy who seemed to like the original story well enough – the other silly blokes, the touring blokes, or “the boys,” as they were sometimes called, were on board for the film to the extent that they had agreed to improvise something for it. And, although good in theory, it does not really inspire all that much confidence in reality when all parties to an event just casually agree to improvise something. It would be a rare feat pulling together a film – even the stupidest of films, even a bad film – any film at all in fact – for which all of the participants have simply assured the others: sure, I’ll improvise something. Sounds like some sort of odd game theory situation not for so-called rational actors but for degenerates. Game theory without the game and without the theory. But a film probably requires at least a bit of a game, or anyway a bit of the gaming spirit, or else a bit of a theory.

Meanwhile, the one silly bloke – by the way, none of the so-called “silly blokes” in this story are British, which is why the writer of this story has called them “silly blokes,” in order to mask their identities, since although the characters in this fairytale are all fictional, they do bear striking resemblances to real people . . . But, anyway, the one silly bloke who was on tour with the other silly blokes stopped calling the event a “film,” informing the storytelling silly bloke that what they were now planning on doing was rather an “action.”

“Now, I don’t know about you all,” the one silly bloke thought to himself as if he was addressing an audience on the subject matter, “but in my understanding an ‘action’ is not just something like a failed attempt at making a film, or the half-assed fulfillment of a desire to capture something on camera, but is actually something planned, thought out, organized in its own kind of way, and also executed accordingly” (end of the one silly bloke’s episode addressing his thoughts to an imagined audience). He saw the whole film-ship sinking before his very eyes with all the equipment, props, and actors caught up in maelstrom, going under. All the same, this one silly bloke had never jumped from a sinking ship before. As a matter of fact, he’d only jumped into sinking ships, and in reality had never seen a sinking ship which he did not subsequently jump into. But then this one silly bloke received another call from the other silly bloke, who told him that he and the so-called “the boys” had had their event in his city, where the film was also supposed to be made, cancelled, and would instead perform their concert at the original so-called “film” event which had then been rebranded as a so-called “action.” So now, instead of a “film,” and instead of an “action,” the event had once again been transformed, this time into a so-called “concert.” And so, the ship had not sunk, or not only sunk, but had rather disappeared . . . disappeared into thin air and then reappeared as a wholly different ship.

But what was the silly bloke to do? He reasoned with himself, stupidly, naively, yet with the spirit of a true blue-blooded mariner, a second Noah, a seafaring Odysseus who dreads nothing more than actually returning home to his wife, a modern-day Moby Dick circumnavigating the globe with an Ahab skeleton lashed to his back, a Christopher Columbus, a Giovanni Caboto, a Chris-Craft, a Riva, a Cigarette, a Jacques Cousteau – in the spirits of all these people and things he reasoned that there was nothing for him to do but jump into this new ship, whether sinking, floating, whatever.

And so, he went to the event, and even managed to say a little speech. But he kept it short and simple, saying merely: “Hallo Leute! I would now like to introduce, for their first ever performance in Deutschland, the Soho Boys!”

Song

So, you thought you were going to make a film?
Think again!
Your batteries are dead, your brains are dead, your memory chips are full and your heads are empty, your lenses are all cracked, you might as well smoke some crack so that you at least have a decent excuse . . .
So, you thought it was easy to make a film without a script and without actors?
Haha, fucking idiots! It’s even more difficult . . .
So, you thought you could improvise?
All I see is the same old bullshit everybody expected anyway!
Why are there even any cameras at all?
You’re actually going to spend time editing this shit?
You’d be better off masturbating!
What, your dicks don’t work anymore and you need another way to get off?
A broken dick is a terrible motivation for making a film!
What are you even doing, why are you even here?
I don’t even see anything to edit, you nothings!
Take care of it in post-production? Take care of what?

You thought if you just found the right tone, the right attitude, it would save you from ruin?
Big mistake!
So, you thought you could turn a failed attempt at making a film into an action?
You thought an action consists in acting like your naturally braindead selves in front of a camera?
I’m surprised you’re not all hiding in the bushes or digging shallow graves to bury yourselves in!
You thought other people would fill your empty scenes?
You thought cameras would put something on your empty screens?
You thought all you had to do was show up and you’d be transformed into something?
You thought editing could turn your nothing into something?
Philosophers used to ask why there was something rather than nothing,
But you all prove the very question was based on false premises.
I don’t see anything here at all!
I see a black hole of imploding bullshit!
You thought you could save your bullshit from imploding simply by giving it another name?
But your black hole is sucking up all the words! All the ideas! All the action!
You thought a camera would justify your being here?
You thought a name would justify your being here?
You thought any event at all would justify your being here?
Sounds like an alibi!
There are easier ways of getting pissed on!

People used to think that God would take care of all their fuckups in post-production, but that was a mistake!
Now, you morons think you can take care of your own fuckups in post-production!
You think you’re like gods? You don’t have a clue! You can’t create shit! There’s no saving you!
God is dead! The magic of cinema is dead! Your dead brains are shallows graves leaking shitty ideas one after the other!
Now you’re performing a concert? You’re making a music video? How many senses do you have to destroy?
I don’t see degenerate art, I just see degenerates!
I can’t hear anything but degenerate howls!
Don’t worry, you say, everything will be taken care of in post!
By whom? By “the boys”? Ha!
I don’t see a film, I don’t see an action, I don’t hear a concert, but I can smell a total fuck-up!
The best you can hope for is an unfucking!
An unfucking or a hyper-fucking!
I hope people brought expectations so that they can at least leave with a bit of disappointment!
The best you can hope for is to fuck things up beyond all belief, beyond every expectation!
But I doubt your kind of dick can hyper-fuck anything!
I doubt you’ll unfuck anything either!
Go get pissed on and get the hell out of this park!
You might have made do with a barbecue but you couldn’t even manage that!
Your gazebo doesn’t have any stairs!
Stairs are the soul of a gazebo!
Get some stairs for your gazebo!
Get a barbecue!
Consider either unfucking or hyper-fucking!
Make a decision and stick with it!
I doubt you’ll make it!
But it’s possible! It’s unlikely but still possible!
And either way you’ll still live, you’ll survive, for a while . . .
And that means you have to do something!
Keep going! A little further!
From a failed film comes a failed action and from a failed action a failed concert but what comes from the failed concert? Think!
Just a little harder!
A poem?
With the intelligent ones, grow,
The idiots also!
Black hole black hole black hole
Swallow me whole!
A bit more bullshit, a few more fuckups added to your imploding black hole of bullshit, and the black hole might make an impact, it might be felt!
Wait! Wait! I felt something! And not just a drop of piss!
I don’t just see nothing!
I don’t just hear nothing!
I am being unseen!
I am going unheard!
I am . . . I can feel myself being unfucked! Unfucked!
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
You’re taking . . .
You’re taking from me the last thing I had!
Damn it! Damn it!
[diminishing volume] See you all in heeeeeellllllllllllllllllllllllllllll . . . [volume still diminishing to nothing:] ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the “Real Stupidity” band:
[each letter vocalized by a different person simultaneously, gradually increasing in volume until they can’t continue for lack of breath:]
Rolling R
EEEEE
AAAAA
EL-EL-EL-EL-EL
SSSSS
TS-TS-TS-TS-TS
UUUUU
POP-POP-POP-POP-POP
IIIII
DE-DE-DE-DE-DE
IIIII
TS-TS-TS-TS-TS
YA-YA-YA-YA-YA

However, upon our arrival, we were confronted with a completely different, and frankly, insulting script. Your new premise, portraying us as a "band of idiots" incapable of making a good film, is not only disrespectful but also reeks of petty, childish behavior. It is clear that this shift is a result of personal grievances rather than any artistic vision or professional judgment.

Your actions reflect poorly on your character and artistic merit. Resorting to such a low-blow script change demonstrates a lack of respect not just for us, but for the creative process as a whole. We came here ready to collaborate, to bring something meaningful to life, and instead, we are met with your juvenile attempt to demean and belittle.

We understand that filmmaking can be a challenging and emotional process, but this approach is neither productive nor acceptable. It's a transparent attempt to undermine our enthusiasm and efforts, and it does nothing to further your non-existent reputation as a filmmaker.

I refuse to participate in a project that is built on insults and negativity. Creativity thrives on mutual respect and collaboration, not on petty grievances and unprofessional conduct. I urge you to reflect on the kind of work you want to be known for. If you cannot rise above personal insecurities and engage in a respectful, professional manner, then it is best you reconsider your future as a writer.

Your decision to scrap the original idea in favor of a pathetic, thinly-veiled insult to our intelligence and capabilities is beyond comprehension. This new script is not only insulting but reflects your own lack of creativity and maturity. It’s clear that this sudden change is nothing more than a temper tantrum from a petty individual who can't handle indifference to their work.

Let's be clear: your so-called 'film' is a transparent and desperate cry for attention. It's a childish, spiteful reaction from someone who can't handle the fact that no one cares about their ideas. Instead of rising to the occasion and creating something of value, you’ve chosen to sulk and lash out like a petulant child. It’s pathetic.

Your behavior is an embarrassment to the filmmaking community and a disservice to any real artists out there. You’ve shown a complete lack of respect not only for us but for the art of storytelling itself. You’ve wasted our time, our effort, and our goodwill with your immature antics.

We traveled all the way to Berlin with the expectation of collaborating with a professional, not an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum. Your actions demonstrate a staggering level of insecurity and an utter lack of professionalism. If you think insulting your collaborators is the way to garner respect or attention, you are sorely mistaken.

I refuse to be associated with your project and will not participate in this farce. You’ve proven yourself unworthy of our time and talent. You need to take a long, hard look in the mirror and reconsider your approach to collaboration and creativity. Grow up, and learn to handle your emotions like an adult instead of resorting to petty, spiteful drivel.

Consider this my formal withdrawal from your project. I demand that you cease any further association of my name with this ridiculous and insulting endeavor. Should you continue down this path, you’ll find yourself alone and forgotten, as no one of any merit will want to work with someone who operates on such a juvenile level.

The disgraceful bait-and-switch you’ve pulled is not just a professional blunder but a clear manifestation of your own mediocrity and vindictive nature. It’s laughable that you consider yourself a filmmaker. The new script you presented is nothing more than a transparent attempt to mask your inadequacies by projecting them onto us. It’s a feeble and cowardly move from someone who lacks both talent and integrity. Your inability to stick to the original, compelling concept reveals your complete lack of creative vision and your desperate need for attention.

Your actions are a textbook example of what happens when someone with a fragile ego and no real skill tries to play in the big leagues. You thought you could demean us to elevate your own pathetic self-esteem, but all you’ve done is expose yourself as a fraud and a joke. Your work will be remembered, if it’s remembered at all, not for its quality but for the sheer pettiness and spite that drive it.

It’s clear you’re threatened by actual talent and creativity, so you resort to this juvenile charade. You must be deluded if you think anyone of substance will take you seriously after this. You’re not a filmmaker; you’re a walking cliché of bitterness and failure. Every decision you’ve made reeks of desperation and inadequacy, and it’s frankly pathetic.

Your attempt to undermine us only highlights your own shortcomings. You’re nothing more than a spiteful hack, incapable of producing anything of real value. We came here with the expectation of collaborating with a professional, but instead, we’ve encountered a petulant, insecure man-child. Your behavior is not only unprofessional; it’s downright contemptible.

You’ve squandered an opportunity to create something meaningful, choosing instead to wallow in your own mediocrity. It’s astonishing that you thought this approach would lead to anything but derision and disdain. Your actions have irreparably damaged any semblance of credibility you might have had.

I am withdrawing from this travesty immediately. Furthermore, I will ensure that my industry contacts are made aware of your disgraceful conduct. You’ll find it increasingly difficult to find willing collaborators, as word spreads of your unprofessionalism and malicious behavior. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it.

Our time and talent deserve to be treated with dignity, and we will not settle for anything less. I hope you understand the gravity of your actions and take this as a learning opportunity to better your conduct in future collaborations. We hope this serves as a wake-up call for you to reflect on your behavior and, perhaps, grow a spine.

Furthermore, I’d like to take the time to correct some of the lies from your speech. We never backed down or out from the original idea for the film as it was presented. I can understand how a coward such as yourself would consider the oh-so dangerous threat of “improvisation” as such a reason to throw a tantrum of this proportion, but I can assure you, we would have only brought life to your otherwise dull script. Is that what you were afraid of? Were you afraid that just us being ourselves would have so clearly outshown your tireless pecking away at your little keyboard, all that strenuous effort you put into writing what amounts to literally nothing? If so, then I can understand your fear. But maybe all that effort is in the wrong place. Have you considered growing a pair?

You are a coward, and you crumble like a house of cards in the face of true artistic courage. You represent everything i hate about filmmaking, with your desperate desire to control and shackle every aspect of creative freedom. If you hear any part of my speech, please hear this: you don’t make art, you make propaganda. Your whole life is dedicated to making propaganda. It makes sense that you chose to leave America, the land of free speech, to live in Germany of all places, and on that subject, I’ll leave it at that. Someone once told me “people move to Berlin to pursue something creative they would be bad at elsewhere” and you’re living proof. I’ve seen your videos before. I feel bad for anyone acting in them and anyone else that was forced to sit through them. Please, never come back to America. Your city has the same charm and character as any other faceless european city.

If you think I’d ever take even half a second to write anything for you or your trash fire of a filmography, think again, because ChatGPT wrote all of this for me. You should try it sometime, it would be better than anything you would ever be capable of producing on your own.

Good riddance

I don’t understand the concept of “oh we’re in a new place so we shouldn’t talk to each other, we should only talk to ‘other’ people.” Why does there have to be any rules about talking at all? Can’t it just flow freely? Can’t I talk to anyone at any time and expect them to at least attempt to be decent to me? Does the art world have to be this stuck up bubble, where we “critique” all of our friends and colleagues, either with “ironic distance” or just outright and plainly? Which is worse? Does it even matter?

Berlin sucks. Germans suck. Put some clothes on, freaks. If you’re still in Berlin living some sort of taugenichtiger lackaffe fairytale as if any interesting art can be made, or has been made there, for more the past 10 years, you’re kidding yourself. You would be better off somewhere influencing the culture of some other identical european city, with its faceless ghetto charm. I need a real american cheeseburger injected intravenously into my lungs. I need a kiss from my beautiful american girlfriend. I need to inhale a large amount of chemically altered weed, the strongest kind, exhaling directly into my hepa-filter air purifier, recirculating peacefully into my cold, conditioned summer air. I need to go out every night and make art with my friends— my strong, powerful friends, so we can remind everyone where the true cultural center of the universe lies.

New York City, baby. The trash, the shitty cracks and mistmatch, third-world architecture isn’t pretending to be anything more than it is. We’re not polite or cordial to thinly mask some misplaced passive aggression, we’re going to be rude directly to your face, zero expectation otherwise. Give me your money, fast, and leave. Oh you still haven’t learned how to accept my money faster? Your metro has a 20-button click through menu ticket dispenser just to go from one station to another? That’s too bad, we’ve already run multiple circles around the sun, around you and we make your own music better than you can, just to mock you.

I need to go to a real gym, with machines and dumbbells that go up to large, three digit numbers. Pounds, the real pounds, our pounds will always be heavier than yours and the grid— big beautiful round whole numbers, squares, rectangles, grey, red, white grey, blue grey. New public restrooms. A small public library in the park. A parking garage filled with huge luxury SUVs, in a city, on a tiny island. The European mind could never comprehend this. You think you’re too good for us? You look to us. Your art watches our art. Your culture watches our culture. Europe is a lesson in a history book. We are the present. Soho Boys for life. God save Soho Boys.