Let's start with the fact that I have this song stuck in my head, & roll from there:
OK, we up to date now? Good.
Have I lost the uninitiated? Good.
For months I've been making mention of moving. Of course, I haven't mentioned it for some time, and I know there are a good many who think I've already toddled off to Connecticut. This is not true.
Why isn't it true? Because when you're dealing with contracts that involve tens of millions of dollars all parties are very interested in crotting every "T" & dotting every lower case "j." Because with that kind of money involved, and the ego that will necessarily accompany it, sometimes shit just falls apart.
So as shit changes we must adapt. In the case of The Dr. & myself that adaptation involves staying in northern California. We've been searching furiously for a new place to live.
& sometimes, when you're searching furiously for a new place to live, you wind up seeing places you never considered could exist in this modern world, places such as the one where I shot this photo:
An actual sign, on an actual door, to an actual shop, which deals exclusively in imaginary objects.
When we arrived in the town I was stunned and amazed. When I saw this I turned to The Dr. and said, "Did Neil Gaiman just make this place up, and we stumbled in here by accident?"
Turns out it's very real, and my wife & I very really intend to buy a house there.
But we can't do that right now, so we had to forge on, & search with increased vigour.
Now contracts are signed, emails sent, phone calls made, and the movers arrive at ten a.m., Sunday morning to pick our shit & take it to our new home in Oakland.
We're leaving the little one-bedroom, with the one a.m. street fights, and my drafting table in the living room. We're leaving it for a place on a hill, with hardwood floors, built-in bookshelves, and a studio.
I was talking to The Punk about it the other night, and I said unto him, "...Yeah, The Dr. wants to put track lighting up in the hallway, so we can make into a gallery for my work. I think we should call it the Sinclair Klugarsh Proactive Memorial Gallery. It'll stand in tribute to the hope that I'll kick the bucket soon, so that all my existing work will be worth more."
& on that note, I'm going to have a cigarette. I have a fuckload of packing to do, and an impending column deadline.
Who needs sleep? Not me, I have Dr. Hook.
