Yeah. Except we didn't stay at his place. We stay at the promoter's place who has the fucking class to, even though we're playing at this Anarchist squat, to get me the MEAT that he was contractually obligated to give me. But he has to apply like all of this totally high level of Pentagon-like security to get it to me before we're both lynched by the Anarchists. So the meat is hidden in this container that's buried at the bottom of this empty laundry basket that he wheels into the food room. Which doesn't LOOK suspicious at all. Me eating furtively from the bottom of a laundry basket, my lips and fingers glistening with the holy meat, glowering at vegetarians and guarding said meat from the packs of wandering dogs that seem to be de rigeur at almost any jack-booted collection of anarchists.

Perfect.

He's also in the band that's playing support named NED. And they're cool even though I'm rattled at their insistence of singing in English. Makes me suddenly start to feel like I've learned how to speak FRENCH but they're tight and Fugazi-esque and he's spent time in Canada or some fucking seedbed of Westernism and so he speaks English much better than my retard level French and so we get along well.

HIS NAME IS NICO. WHICH MAKES FOR AN AMUSING "HELLO NIKO, HELLO NICO" BETWEEN HIM AND OXBOW'S NIKO. THIS IS FUNNIER THAN IT SOUNDS BELIEVE ME.

But he's eyeing me as I drink the wine. And so I drink even more of it because we're already familiar with this calculus:

Dirty, filthy, dog-infested hippie-laden anarchist squat = extreme violence.

So we head for the stage and I'm beset by French women.

CAN I BUY YOU A DRINK?

Yes.

CAN I VIDEOTAPE YOU?

For what?

FOR MY PERSONAL COLLECTION.

Yes. But come talk to me afterward.

And so it goes.

We play.

No one "tries" ANYTHING.

I'm spun.

The show ends.

Limping through the crowd (I don't know what happened) the video woman comes up to me trembling.

"It was great."

"So that video's going to �work out' for you?" I say leering like the degenerate motherfucker that I am.

"Yes. Yes. And where are you sleeping tonight?"

"At your place." Smooth. The fucking EPI-TOME of smooth.

"Well where's my husband going to sleep?"

"Good of you to ask, but you know after I strangle him, this will be of little consequence."

She escapes as soon as I bend down to begin putting my pants on.

Natch. Fucking married broads. A little murder, a little spouse-I-cide and they're off like a raped ape.

Which is fine.

We head over to Ned's with a guy from the great band Laddio Bolocko (which I'm misspelling because I'm fucking idiot). He's got two broads in tow and it seems that the party will be taking on a railroad motif.

Except I take some mystery pills and that with the wine is making me feel kind of, uh, BROOPY.

So when we get to Ned's I pass out.

Greg later tells me that he thinks the guy was a junkie. As were his wife and her friend. I bemoan my premature exit because if there's nothing I like better it's junkie's looking to score. Seriously. That single minded purposefulness. That monomaniacal focus. That attention to detail. That willingness to suck cock for a few hastily passed bills.

Ah well.

Off to Milan to do TWO things of which I won't speak at all and they are

1) to interview porn star Rocco Siffredi and
2) to get my hands on a whole shitload of steroids.

Don't ask me anything else about this section of the trip as ANYTHING I say in regards to it is likely to be a clumsily erected house of lies