Yesterday I called in at the Rubbish Tip Shop. This is a good place. Lots of very cool things that are unloved and need a new home. So I now have a faded red plastic rubber lobster in the front dash of my car. It cost me twenty cents. Somehow I find that symbolic of my life. I love lobster. They migrate across the Atlantic floor looking for love.. or something close to love. Maybe I can draw a lobster in my next publication.. you know the flashing neon lights outside some bistro. Big claws.. opening and closing. Maybe it’s a jazz club, the kind of place full of sad jazz buffs with their tragic vinyl collections and soggy beer stained carpets and the rudest bar staff who talk to you like you are just there to pay their wages, which is exactly what you are there for.

But there’s some seventeen uber kid on piano playing some atonal variations on a theme by some dead dude who used to do bad stuff and the drummer is playing some strange funky backbeat. It all makes perfect sense and its such a cliched shithole that you believe it’s the best jazz club in the neighbourhood. 

‘Hey! I’m going to the club tonight’ mmm ‘Not the Lobster Club? .. ‘oh wow.. that’s such a cool place, you know who I saw there the other night? No .. tell me.. ‘I saw Miles..  Yup! How cool was that?. Ohmygod let’s go there now’
You get my sad drift?