My first thoughts when I wake up with the sun stroking the thin beige sun-bleached hotel curtains with Dan’s tousled head still sweating out last night’s stage sweat against mine is: I love tour. I am home on tour. Coffees to go and overcooked breakfast sandwiches start us on our way to New York City. But Skinny Puppy readies us out. And I write and read with my sunglasses on during the light-drenched ride. It’s still important to pretend to be cool when headed to the big apple and sunglasses are a staple in this American dream where my future’s too bright and I always have to wear shades. At the Tribeca Grand we pretend we’re famous – living on borrowed luxury having been comped a schwank room for the night in exchange for doing press in their lobby. Vodka tonics for lunch and chatter blather. The sun has escalated its presence and we’re all happy. Soundcheck at the high-eaved chandeliered Bell House in a soon-to-be-gentrified area of Brooklyn goes beautifully smoothly and the prettily tattooed staff are warm and very very good to us. The show turns itself into a shiny mess and I feel like heroes of anti-heroes: All in this together. New York give us one of our most diverse and receptive crowds – fans from Korea, the author of a book I read about the destruction of Beijing’s hutongs, HBO blokes and video game industry types, at least three Colombian lesbians, our booking agent and our lawyer, a photographer from Iceland and, well, Guy Picciotto from Fugazi. Matana Roberts, our friend from Harlem, beautifully destroys No Feelings with her sax playing. And after the show I hug Guy for so long I think I’m whole. He is my hero of the anti heroes. Fugazi’s album In on the Killtaker is the first compact disc I ever bought. And though he is a friend through friends, he remains my hero. The party goes long because none of us want to leave each other. It is an immense night. I love you, New York.

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