I’m pretty sure I manage to offend both the San Francisco and LA audiences by saying that I’m an East Coast girl but that I’m warming up to the West Coast. My intentions are good but I always flub everything from stage. What I meant was this: I will argue with New York about bagels and win. (St Viateur bagels make New York’s rendition seem like dense bread. Go fuck yourselves. It’s true. No competition) And I like the “harder edge” that is inherent in the souls that must shovel snow and brave blizzards and wear parkas to shield themselves from ice storms. And I like that Montreal has a reputation for having a bad attitude… and sexy girls. Or at least the cheapest in North America. I like that East Coasters gripe about the weather and politics and garbage removal and language laws and I like our hip hop too. Growing up, I imagined California as sweetness and sunshine, Hollywood blondes and yoga. Boutique coffee shops made me recoil in terror. (It isn’t an espresso if you have vanilla syrup in your establishment). But I have grown up a little more. My edge hasn’t softened. In fact, my eyes are keener and I can see the underbellies of these bubbly burgs a little more clearly now. You certainly have your goth side. And your punks. And The Smell. And problems with crack. And some of the world’s best living authors. (Hiya William T. Vollmann and Thank you City Lights) And you gave us Black Flag. And late night noodle stands and taco shops. And admittedly, Pomeranians and terriers are pretty cute if they don’t have personal stylists. And the fourteen year old skaters that run amok on every curb corner are lethally adorable. Thrash on boyz. And even though it pains me to write this: Top Chef Michael Voltaggio makes a mean sandwich. I mean who would have thought to dry chicken skin in a centerfuge then put it in the sun with salt before combining it with chicken liver mousse, lettuce and tomato. (I’m sorry, Schwartzs’ and Katz). And Melrose Place certainly looks like the American Dream but I know there are oodles of struggling artists down by the Echoplex. Plus, also, Marc Jacobs’ Daisy perfume does smell delightful. And San Franciso has always had its Tenderloin and revolutions. And absolutely no one at either of our shows did the “Hippie helicopter” dance. So forgive me my skepticism. I fucking love palm trees. And if I came across as harsh and trashy or unappreciative, I promise it was just the opposite. I’m just awkward at niceties. That’s the problem with the East Coast. You don’t get taught kindness. So here is mine: Thank you. And I mean that. These were two of the most eccentric and wonderful shows of the tour. You were cutthroat while buoyant. You were sweaty while sexy. And to boot our Hells Angels know your Hells Angels. And your hip hop is actually really good too. So fuck this: East Coast Vs West Coast bullshit. There are freaks and good people on both sides. And we utterly cherish all the ones that like us. I HEART LA and I HEART SF. From the bottom of my heart.