Port of Spain's local crematorium. Just in case you happen to die while in Trinidad (which is not impossible) and need somewhere to set fire to you in a hurry. Notify your cab driver in advance.

THIS PHOTOGRAPH REPRESENTS 33% OF THE TOTAL AMOUNT OF PICTURES I took on my ten-day trip to Texas, Florida and Trinidad & Tobago (which, for you math underachievers, means I took seven pictures). Not only did I forget to take my camera, but I didn't even realize until I saw a baby robbing a German tourist with a plastic fork in downtown Port of Spain and thought it might make a cute picture, and stuck my hand in my pocket for a camera that turned out to not be there. I guess it's not impossible that I myself got jerked for my camera by some conniving Trini toddler unknowingly, but I am looking at a Canon here at home that looks quite like mine, so I'm letting this one go. But you never know.

In a nutshell, an enlightening trip. Hit the South By Southwest Music conference in beautiful Austin, TX with 500 of my new Bankruptcy CDs (which you can download free at malkovichmusic.com/bankruptcy.zip, plug plug), watched performances from Asher Roth, Diplo and many other overrated artists, and ate beef brisket three times daily.

From there I continued on to Miami for the Winter Music Conference, which I didn't catch much of, since I was only in town until the weekend, which I now know is when the conference really starts swinging. But I did get to hang out with some interesting cokeheads, my ace boon coon DJ Quickie Mart who got me carte blanche in both cities and is now officially my dog for life (his mother irons a mean shirt too), and a foxy journalist who had better be reading this.

By the time I made it out of the airport in Trinidad I was piss drunk and had a date with Estelle, who hands out the free rum shots at the duty free shop. I spent my days hanging out with a gospel soca singer and married mother of two named Cindy Sammy, who works the front desk at our hotel and is going to be bigger than US Steel. My evenings were chiefly spent at the club, protecting my youngest sister from flying beer bottles and leering Rastafarians, one of whom commissioned a knock-kneed Tobagan hooker to offer me a spiked drink. Pah! I invented that move. Any free drink I ever bought any of you was spiked.

Yes, it was a colorful trip. A necessary trip. And now I'm back, bitch. Barely back a week and I've already started a new album, sued someone, and done more drinking than I did my entire trip. That's that Palms living. I feel bad about only having one picture to share, so I will compensate generously with this picture of a drink perched on Brick's ass. Just so you know I mean business.

Palms, CA.. the Endless Summer.

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