SOS!

SOS! or State Of the Slum(p) VII.

last twit about an hour ago was a g'night, vaguely touching upon my 36+ hrs days w/wiki link to Circadian Sleep Disorders (apart from my particular one wasnt exactly listed, only this bit:

'People with circadian rhythm sleep disorders are unable to sleep and wake at the times required for normal work, school, and social needs'.

i'd been falling asleep watching old Hitchcock and suddenly got the brilliant idea that now was the time for the bedroom for a lotta battery recharging. since then, for some strange reason, i got an even more clever idea into my head to reframe the After Party Poster from the London Astoria on MOR Tour 1



and frame the Enkelmann Alabama 3 Photos Show glossy promo. they're both fairly large. then i hung em up.



is this the 'i hate to go to bed thing'? or is this like a real sleep disorder? almost 40 hours and counting, and believe me, i'm dead fucking tired. but some how it seemed like a good idea to do the above NOW. did i mention i took x number of 10 mg V.s about 90 minutes ago? to help me stay/get to sleep? i know they're good... what is this, some fucked Adrenaline of mine subverting my wishes to crash and recharge?

GAH! now i'm RILLY going into the bedroom for a hopefully long lie-down.

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state of the Slum(p) VII

OK, my first title for this post was the above caption: 'Time's never wasted when you're wasted all the time'. then, serendipitously, i found above image whilst searching for something else. after that i actually looked for the exact quote above but more fittingly, decided to change my title to what it is now, which's much more reflective of the contents within. but surprise, surprise – my only ri-moan: too bad she's holding a bottle; i'd have her holding other accoutrements (at least my pipe) or have the gear of my most fave time expanders – all extra-legal, of course – somewhere in this ideal imaginary image.

i say 'time expanders' but AFAIC, that's something which conjures up psychedelics and i totally ain't talking those, although i've actually been known to enjoy them muchly (like every night) especially the mildest of the mild, thwooping whilst having dinner and watching whatever film. and as we all know, thwooping's been a part of my life for x number of years, exact number which i totally won't say even though the word thwooping's relatively new. for that, i blame Alabama 3's 'Cocaine Killed My Community' as the first time i heard the onomotopaeia i call 'thwoop' was the first time i heard La Peste, so blame them, not me. ;-)

as well, another good thing of not finding something which more reflects the me of me is that, had i found that which i wanted, you can bet your bottom dollar (as they say in the States) it would scare and/or disgust the multitudes who still manage to think my writty's intristin' an' all. according to them (and my mails) they check here for updates on a daily basis, something i find incredibly hard to believe, but hey (stats don't lie). that is, unless they're checking to see if i'm dead or alive or have totally given up.

back to the non-search for whatever reflecting the me or me, it's all private biz; those who know me well enough already know my fave thing – well, my fave mixture of things, a concoction to which i came to the conclusion is my fave after careful experimentation with different amounts of the contents – and for the others from whom i occasionally get mails which include commentary on whichever post, they'd prolly shit their trousers in surprise, disgust or a mixture of both. ooh, if i could either bottle it or magic it into a weapon, i'd get rich right quick (or busted, take your pick). *preens like a proudtard*

yes, wittering again – to take up space – nothing new there. and to all and sundry, i'm so not in the mood to update this site now but am sick and tired of receiving mails over the last few days (starting thursday night but it seems so much longer). these are mails which come right out with stuff like 'Are you OK? Why have you not been writing on Tawdry since Wednesday?'

welp, before i remind y'all that you can always find me and what i'm up to on Twitter, at least that which i feel is socially acceptable to those following me, the answer to that is, 'no, i'm not OK right now' and at this point in time, there're many reasons.

ADD tangent: as far as Twitter goes, anyone can see my page at prior link above but only if one joins, can one see to whom and why my @*whichever user* replies are directed (if y'all decide to join and check the liddle box on top of my page to stalk, rather, to follow me). fun fact: John Cleese is on Twitter and of course, i'm following him as well as racking my brain to come up with something either amusing or intelligent enough to get him to follow me too. Snoop Doggy Dog was there as well but it seems in the time i quit following him, he deleted all his formerly interesting posts and is finito now.

not so fun fact: my last two twits are always near the bottom of the R-hand column. anyway, following anyone makes more sense cause the context from whom one's twits e.g., which begin @slum_goddess are visible. in other words, if y'all join up, you're not compelled to twit or say anything ever – see if i care– but when one's on, y'all shall see the entire thing, which makes more sense. for example, one of my followers, katiemagic twits like once in a blue moon but she always knows what i'm up to cause if she's worried about me, she first checks here and then goes over there. and so, i never receive frantic – 'Are you alright?' – mails, calls and/or txts from her, which's a total relief.

helpful hint: when you join, your real name is hidden behind any screen-name you might choose and i'll never know you from Adam. i went further: AFA Twitter's C, my first name is Slum, surname's Goddess. fun fact: Jake's most current, most recent word for people is Schlemiel and every time i hear him say, i'm reminded of my grand-dad, who called everyone he thought had something wrong with them that (i became a Schlemiel about the age of 8 or 9 – yes i know: nothing much's changed). naturally, since i'm saying this now, it'd be instantly obvious that any new follower of mine called Schlemiel has read this but unless you put IDing info into the profile fields, i'll never know who you are.

why am i pimping Twitter? mostly for my own selfish purposes – it's tiresome and even more depressing getting mails from friends asking what's up with me... the amount of mails i got last week when MIA from Free A3 for about 8 days or so, well, i wasn't flattered – i was only depressed (more). in Larry Love's words, 'One more time for the people' – you're not forced to update or twit at all but believe you me, i could do without the mails and txts (and the occasional phonecall which the ringing made me cringe most) cause i know what yer thinking: 'Did Wack-O finally off herself?'

speaking of Larry, i sent Jan Enkelmann a cheque for 5 quid and received the poster for his show; the one last may at the Ritzy Theatre at the top of Coldharbour Lane in Brixton. actually, though the show was called Alabama 3, it's photos of Larry and D Wayne. the poster's now gracing the outside of the LR door; i found a lovely wooden frame for it but haven't yet gotten round to the framing. here it is as it appears now.



back to Twitter, i personally think it's fun to answer the one question it's all about: 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING?' in 140 characters or less (including spaces). i've gotten quite creative cause the 140 character limit sometimes forces me to use numbers like 4 and 2 instead of the words 'for' and 'to' (in other words, as usual, i bend the roolz to do it My Way).

and at times, i descend into my own brand of shorthand or whatever (i omit the vowels in order for my entire twit to display). the other night, Christian or nussbi on Twitter, this Swiss dude who's one of the few i follow and who follows me (way flattering since over 500 follow him) had a bit of trouble deciphering my twits. right, i refuse to call em 'tweets' like everyone else. anyway, my answer to his twit to me about my language and usage on Twitter was 'soz for that but yeah, i use a mix of LOLCat & txt talk 2 get around teh 140 character thing & 2 speak as i do in meatspace'.



thank goodness nussbi's not like LOL Cat, but before i posted, i wondered if he'd be cool about it or not cause in past, there's most always at least someone who gets pissed when i bend (or break) whatever rule. anyway, as i was hoping, he was cool – a total relief cause his site's really interesting and i wanna stay on his good side for my own nefarious purpose, which, in this case is to learn stuff as well as attempt to mirror his own positivity and upbeat outlook on life. um... y'all can quit laughing now – thass right, i can hear youse. i for one, do not think it's funny cause y'never know – i'm going by the old adage that states 'it's never too late'.

anyway, most of youse who contacted me since thursday wanted to know about the dead/alive thing – basically how i was doing in my liddle self-constructed stubborn chiaroscuro world sans grey middle-ground relief.



i'll throw out the two biggies but as usual with me, there're so much more going on, most of which i can't really say but it doesn't matter since this here substitute for a meatspace journal is to remind me of stuff i might forget and most of the bad biggies are things that won't need reminding (going by sad experience) ever. number 1 horror: i was forced to go to the dentist on friday and it turns out that i need a lot of work done. naturally, i was warned about this over four years back whilst still living in DE, but typically with things i don't wanna do, procrastinated my ass off.

let's put it this way – if i'd put off the dentist any longer, i'd soon be walking around with a Laurence Fishburne-type gap between my two front teeth; something i've always wanted and find very attractive in both men and women. but not the way mine would appear. fun fact: we all know someone who has this and this person uses it against me to ease any tension when present. oh, let's face it: he does it on purpose; he's the dude with The Purpose-Driven grin. *snigger*

back to the dentist, i would've put him off forever, that is, until thursday night when i bit into the main course of my fave home dinner: anywhere from one and three Cheese Toasteys, those i eat after my fave appetiser (or starter as they're known here) or a shitload of strawberries or grapes or both. BTW, both of the latter are sometimes my dessert, having abandoned my ten years' plus habit of downing a pint of ice cream a night. why did i stop the ice cream? no offence, but let's just say apart from the exorbitant price charged here for pints of Ben & Jerry's or Haagen Dazs (which are just about 8$ US), the variety of flavors in the UK are – well, IMO they're crap. as Chris would say, 'Frustratingly close to not sucking'.

i mean, strawberry shortcake or whatever other strawberry horror? believe me when i tell you that i've tried them all; why is there no plain old strawberry like they have in The Netherlands as well as the States? and there's no plain coffee Haagen Dazs either. forget about my latest fave, something introduced just before we left the country back in Summer 01: White Chocolate and Raspberry (see image at link). my only fave American flavor i've found is Ben & Jerry's 'Chunky Monkey' a delicious mix of banana ice cream with chocolate chunks and nuts. mmmmmm... glurghll drooll... *in a Homer voice* but the closest place it's available in Bristol is like over a mile away. grrrrrr....

now where was i? right, Cheese Toasteys (but i neatly diverted yer attention from 2nd horror of the week cause i might not wanna go there now (or ever, actually, cause it has to do with someone in the band – no, not him – for once, LOL). back to Cheese Toasteys, that's what i term grilled cheese sandwiches, as they're known in the States.


over here, the comestible somewhat similar is known as Toasted Cheese but from what i've been told, it's cheese on only ONE slice of bread. i make mine the American way, using two slices but i've rimproved* on this muchly; i only make mine with the most mature Cheddar i'm able to find. fun fact: in the States, mature Cheddar cheese is known as 'Extra Sharp'. no comment necessary cause we all know it'll be a total dis. anyway, back to my most fabaroo Cheese Toasteys, all i can say is: whoa, the finished product totally doesn't resemble the pic above, nor does it taste like the kind i used to be only meh about when i lived in NY.

*rimproved: c'mon! y'all know what this means awreddy. i can think of countless times hanging at Chris' listening to him and Delta Slide Dumbass punning negatives on the first syllable of my name and with my inability for snappy comebacks, never thought of 'rimprove'. bah – typical!



just ignore my sister's kitty, Rigby, cause he's a NYC cat (meaning he's an attention whore, just like me). anyway, my Cheese Toasteys are multi-step, being of the rimproved nature: first toast the bread, then place three slabs of extra mature Cheddar on the bottom slice. next step is to very liberally cover top slab of Cheddar with like almost half an inch of shredded or grated of the most mature Cheddar y'all can find. then squoosh the second slice of toast on top, pressing down firmly (but not too firmly). pop it in the oven (preheated to 150ºC) for like ten to twelve minutes and when it's time to remove, you'll have the most delicious Cheese Toastey or grilled cheese sandwich EVar.

unlike two images above, there'll be melted cheese running down all four sides of the sandwich, which looks a sloppy mess but it all holds together when removed from the oven. AFAIC, when i open the oven door the last time and see the finished product, i'm all Homer going 'glurghllll drooollll...' yes, a-GAIN. *sigh* getting quite hungry here, actually. dammit, I WANT WHITE CHOCOL- shit! i mean *whispers* my kingdom for a spoonful of Haagen Dazs White Chocolate & Raspberry.

having nothing to do with anything else, i shall take this opportunity to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO DRAGNIM and HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MIKEY. he's the one who surprised the shit outta me by giving me Gee Vaucher's signed and numbered screenprint 'Liberty' which can be seen at top of R-hand column. and after over a year of it still rolled up in the original container (which i tried not to look at cause it brought me grief and guilt for not being on the wall), i found a proper steel frame and now it's finally hanging in the LR, the first thing to which one's eyes are drawn when one steps into my flat, and very deservedly so. :-)



as well, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MR PIXIE. i said all i was gonna say (in public) on this thread in this post here, mainly the end, the bit on '...thanks for listening to me moan (he did for hours and PATIENTLY) and for hospitality and companionship a coupla weekends back...'

last time i hit 'publish' i said 'finished product (hah! 'product') will most likely be done before noon sunday (see timestamp below, when i began typing)'. right now it's 11,54 sunday and i'm about to hit 'publish' for the last time. finally! Endlich! in all truth, i haven't been as conscientious as i might've been cause that thing called 'sleep' has slowed me down. and then somewhere between midnight and now i managed to watch a film called Kiss Kiss Bang Bang with Robert Downey Jr and Val Kilmer (playing an openly gay detective); it's highly rec'd to everyone who digs films about Hollywood.



*a huge sigh of relief escapes from the two in the audience* and that'll be it for this, my latest entry to the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. and let it be known had i been on my toes and not so down in the Slum(p)s – errrr, the dumps – i would've been posting every day since wednesday and my up-till-now last post below on the snarky comments Mark wrote on my birthday card. grrrrrr... |-(

BTW, i spoke on phone for over an hour with him on thursday and since he'd been without a 'net connection and with fambly up Naarth, i read bits of that post and got the satisfaction of hearing him cackle (unless he was humoring me) so that's when i figured enough is enough, told him so and reminded him when he got back online, it'd still be there for him to see.

thank you time: thanks to Fran who kept me updated all through the week. big thanks to Boudicca who finally got back to me yesterday, relieving my anxiety cause i'd not heard from her since after my birthday. feel better soon, grrl, i miss you muchly and am still planning to come up to Manc, not for a gig but for visiting. as well, thanks to Jake for ringing me on Chris' phone the other night and getting to hear me go 'Hey Babe' thinking it was Chris. of course, he tried to keep up the pretence (but couldn't 'do' Chris' Midwestern accent) so he quickly switched to Yiddish-y accents (in Scottish) whilst i was LMAO here. he and Chris were at some pub watching football and as he was cracking me up, Chris rang my landline and so, for the 3rd or 4th time in my life, i was like those i see in films, on two phones at once, laughing into them both.

more on that in a while (or not) plus the only photo i've yet seen which has me and the Acoustics flavor of the Alabama 3 in it. plus some other self-absorbed minutiae which'd only interest me but (and i hate to do it since i can't stand the song) *singing* 'It's my site and I'll write what I wanna...'

as well, if y'all look over to the right, you'll see the ever growing sub-division under Reservoir Dogs Redux, the section separated by the two 'shameless self-promotion' links, both of which lead back to my permanent BRB message and are actually only placeholders. believe me when i say there's a very good reason for those links and all shall be splained in detail sometime in the near future.

1st unhelpful hint: 'snot up to me. (O RLY? yup, rilly.) 2nd unhelpful hint: if all goes according to plan, i shall be an example, so watch out people cause the day i serve as example, is the day we all ask 'Has the whole world gone crazy?' *in a John Goodman voice* (from The Big Lebowski).

what's blasting: Cocaine Killed My Community from the Original Alabama 3 Remixes album (buy here). please R-click and Save to your hard-drive cause after you listen on your machine, youse can always get rid of it if you don't dig it and you'll be saving my bandwidth. my last plea and uploads – as a kinda test – sorta helped but a LOT of y'all totally listened here, and so, i'm STILL holding back on posting the coupla variations of things for which i have permission. so i guess, although i hate to do it, this is yet another test. note to Mississippi Outlaw: nope, i haven't forgotten what i promised – please be patient. and coming from me, i know that sounds strange (yet another euphemism). *wack*

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presented without comment

apart from when i do. yup, i totally negate and confuse but hey, do try to keep up or you'll hold back the rest of the class. fun fact: i'm the most confused, i'd bet more than youse. moving right along, the below was a few weeks back on the night of my un-birthday thingy and we'd met at Chris' before advancing onto the Garden of Albert to hook up with the others and i'd dragged Jem along (from Southhampton to Bristol and – at the last minute – on to London). in all truth, about an hour or so earlier when Mr and Mrs Lazy so kindly met us at Victoria Coach Arrivals and gave us a lift down to Brixton, i was already having qualms about the entire idea. i mean, WTF and WHY was i calling that kind of attention to myself? what purpose could it possibly serve? the fact this massive madness (get this – my own idea) is something i just remembered makes me wish i hadn't. *wack*

not so fun fact: everybody knows (oh, how they know *groan*) i totally have no qualms about attention whoring when behind the safety of the screen, but in TRW? in actual meatspace? despite red stripey hair, fuh-geddabbaddit (as the Tony Soprano crew would say). anyway, after i tore open the envelope and read the front of card above, i glanced across the room at Mark who appeared all innocent, casually nonchalant on the sofa. but after reading card-front with my gaze stuck on the illo (specifically, the woman's face), i was freaking out inside and really embarrassed cause there were others present (which i'm sure was his intention). after reading, my temp must've climbed to about 100F cause my face got all hot and the tissues came out to blot under my fringe and that was when i shot him one of my looks. what Delta Slide Dumbass gave me in return was the expression i call 'The Purpose-Driven Grin'. seeing that shit made me 'grrrrr' in my head, but i tried to smile, not wanting to show how humiliated i feel. soz, i felt.



seeing Jack's name made me smile cause he's such a clever cute little kid (kinda like Mark without the snark. oooh, unintentional rhyme *giggle*). and Chad's really cool; that's him singing on the absolutely totally BEST of the three uploads this month on the official site (Eleven Grand To Take A Bullet), if not THE best – along with Rush – since the entire Manifesto began. EGTTAB's been playing here since may and i totally won't say how many times i've heard each version sent – embarrassing!

right, where was i? oh yeah, he's all redeemed. but then i look up and see this shit.



HEH HEH? in regard to the cardfront message? WTF? eeeeee-vil, Mark. |-( in context.



hmmpf... he's like in stitches watching my reactions (or it could've been the Persians) whilst i'm trying to keep all cool, calm and collected (never an easy task for me). another sweet smile and i turn to open Chris' stuff and put the horror (which i still can't figure out) back in the envelope. and then i look at the envelope and fucking freak. inside AND outside.



GRRRRRRR! BASTARD! BTW, we're STILL not talking (but i'm plotting my revenge).

editor's note: anyone can clearly see i have absolutely nothing to say that i can say out loud here so i decided to concentrate on this... this thing. ps, i took it down from the bulletin board along with other Freebase souvenirs. nyah, Mark. you're so dead, you're deader than dead, dude. TOTALLY UNREDEEMED. |-(

in other news, last week i said BEST. CRUCIFIXION. EVAR. but now i've changed my mind. THIS is the best one EVar. thanks for the photo, hypnofocal. :-)



*to self* heh heh? HEH HEH? HEH HEH?!? $%!*%&@! grrrr...

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snap shots

best pic i've seen all day: 'The Sun and the Moon at the North Pole' – thanks, Christine. *love*

and now back to the regularly scheduled self-absorption. these next are all of a theme



and yes, i know i posted most of em before. but now they're up on the bulletin board, magnet board and heater enclosure in the kitchen.







two of the above are birthday cards (outta three all told on magnetboard), the one in the middle (held fast by the mini Life Magazine with MM on cover) has a pewter moon and real candles and the one at upper right was made from a mashup of the cover of Alabama 3's latest album, Hits & Exit Wounds and the cover of a bootleg CD of the last Alabama 3 gig here in Bristol in april. i'm not permitted to say who sent the pewter moon'd one (this bothers me muchly for ego/LSE reasons) but since i usually do what i'm told – to give the appearance of being diplomatic and stuff – i shall obey and won't say. but i will call him/her a total poltroon. and... an asshole, the chickenshit. |-(

in other news, don'tcha just despise when people ask 'but what will /they/ think?' personally, i never gave a toss about what others thought of whatever action i was planning to take, which prolly explains why my highly succe$$fu£ business ventures and huge social circle – replete with the nightly invites through which, most days, i must ultimately choose where to appear – bring totally unforeseen joy and that feeling of contentment with which i go through life, leaving trails of the vibes of my own contagious happiness and sunshine wherever i go. *wack*

anyway, if y'all click on above, you can see it more bigly and i dig it so much, here it is again below. right, that's you-know-who at upper left on promo card for Mashville 1 but at the moment, we're not speaking. below it is part of the reason why.




Kitty and Bast – i think Pam again but not too sure... typical.



this next came anonymously in the post and i stuck it right under the moon and candles card on magnetboard (see three pics above).



i didn't recognise the handwriting inside but apart from the usual 'happy birthday' (with the 'happy' bit in double quotes, like "happy" birthday), s/he wrote 'LOL' after. and it was obviously made from a packet of those Death cigarettes i've seen in the States but not seen here (but it was posted from Sometown, UK). i just dunno... if i felt like being paranoid, i'd take it as a threat. but i don't so i won't. in all actuallity, i just don't know what to think when i look at it. but thank you for thinking of me, anonymous possibly ominous intimidator wanna-be. :-)

one of those from Techie-boy, which drove me up the wall when i first saw it but now i can laugh about it (or at least that's what i told him – it STILL drives me nuts cause in all truth, that's what he thinks). and the bitch of it is, i totally can't say WHY. hmmpf... *giggle* i was a bad grrl. oh wait. i AM a bad grrl. *preens*



and coincidentally here's a card making it official. i totally love this next, mostly cause i AM the bad grrl of the fam. and please notice Dali's Skulls Within Skulls to the right (click for total humongousity).



underneath the Dali is Pam's kitty magnet which i somehow forgot to note a few weeks back. i'm sorry, Pam – but thank you cause i love it; he's almost like a little Cunter. mrrrrrr! :-)



here's more context with Mango Factory (hey Megan and John! hey Stephen! :-) at bottom with one of Pam's calligraphics. and his... that... that total dis... i can't begin to describe the absolute horror of the insult doesn't begin to . |-( BTW, this was the band for whom we passed up seeing OUR, i mean, going to the Alabama 3 gig at Trowbridge Festie a few weeks ago. and we even had a ride to Trowbridge, from Lazy, Tina and Talia. nyah, Mark. ;-)



and detail of Pam's S for Slum. i honestly don't know what i'm complaining about since the ratio of the few times i go out socially to the people who call me SG compounded by the fact that having nothing better to do, i'm in the midst of delicately greying, shading and lightening this traditional Sailor's Anchor on my right shoulder...



...one which says The Slum Goddess (Kate designed it for me) demonstrates the workings of a childishly disturbed mind, one which leans heavily upon criminally Schizophrenic elements as a kind of ethos... hey! look over there! it's Pam's S!



i'm relieved to say i found out that no, she doesn't think of me as SG it's just that she already made me an R for rimone card. but there's a joke up in that pic there somewhere, sump'in about being able to take the grrl outta the slum but impossible to remove the slum from the grrl but i can't think of it now. anyway, another anonymity (which i stuck in a frame and on the bookshelf):



where did this come from? they didn't say which bar (this is on a Need To Know basis cause I Need To Know). :-( moving right along, the less said about this the better cause it mentions the filthiest of three-letter words of which i'm aware. hint: it's not 'how', 'you' or 'are'. |-(



this is my total fave, made by AvenginAngel Angie and cleverly affixed to the board with my angels magnet:



but apart from that, i've got kitties, skulls, death and disses – what more could any grrl want? *sobs*

right, whilst we're on annual thingies, a very happy birthday to Mississippi Outlaw, Mr Pixie and Dragnim, all having theirs within the week. :-)

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evil tattooed bitch!

yup, that's me but like who cares? not i, said the liddle tiger striped kitteh, cause i've been called worse. but whoa, it's like almost 23,00 over here and i just resurfaced, freaking at the time. about 10 hours ago, i got this rilly great idea and it involved me caving and joining up at YouTube (i won't post my link until everything's ready). and then, somehow i ended up testing out this brilliance and watching Alabama 3 vids (mostly) and subscribing and commenting whilst working on deadline yet again. it's times like these when i wonder where i'd be if it weren't for the Asperger's working for me, but it does, so i don't.

moving right along, the other day i mentioned i owed Pam an apology. i've got no time to get into it now but it's about him, my newest poor liddle (forgotten) effigy of Cun- rather, Hunter.



right, almost forgot. over at YouTube, i was forced to use l33t sp34k cause it seems there's ANOTHER Slum Goddess already signed on. this didn't sit too well with me so as i proofread my ass off (and relived former Alabama 3 gigs in Dublin, London, Brighton and many other places across the UK), typing as fast as i could all day, i came up with the very easy peasey (for me to remember) S1umGoddess. but doing so rankles me, to say the very least. but i got em back in a way and all i'll say about that is, i might as well be wearing a badge that reads

to be perfectly frank and Asperger's exact, the word 'strangers' should be followed by the word 'online'. *giggle* whatever it was i did, worked wonderfully and also worked off the aggro accrued by initial situation. *self-satisfied scarey smile*

Techie-boy update: still in Warsaw but will be coming home tomorrow and boy, do i have news for him. *grins* it's not the first time he's been to Poland but this time, he was invited by M, his former manager at Y!, dude who hired him and then a year later, left the company thanks in part to the threat of the Borg, i mean M$ and their 45 billion dollar attempt at a hostile takeover (thank the lord for the so-far impeccable virtues and ethos of Y!'s two founders and owners). anyway, M's a lovely dude i've met on occasion, but Chris is so not a stagparty type person. watch, Sod's gonna step up and by the time tomorrow's bank hol is over, Chris will be re-entering the UK
in the process of getting used to a totally different social status – attached. best of luck, Babe. :-)

something i'm supposed to do but don't wanna cause i'm forced to do it: Undergoing MyBlogLog Verification. double grrrrrr...

one more thing – i've got an 'ask' as they say in certain Sicilian American circles. the other day, i stuck in a poll over on the R-hand column. the question is

hope U die B4 U get old?

and the instructions swore up and down when the poll was posted it would clearly state that every vote or whatever would be anonymous, plus people could choose more than one answer. welp, if you look over to the right, you'll see the damn poll but totally won't see any crucial reassurance of anonymity or the info that one has the ability to select more than one answer (which fucks up the total; right now there are nine votes but the little diagram shows ten results). this is yet another thing in which i'm interested so do me a solid and please throw in a vote. and it's easy to see my own answer – it's the one that begins with *weeps* and ends with 'too late to ask' (or more exactly '2 late 2 ask' cause i wanted to fit everything onto its own line for my own aesthetic reasons).

my last twit o' the evening: ENDLICH! dindin's on, nite-nite ppl-my pipe's filled, Polanski's in my DVD, i'm in my Clash T-shirt 4 sleeping & the X just came on. *beams*

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state of the Slum(p) VI: extended play

editor's note: i added this to the end of State of the Slum(p) VI cause when i WUTM (actually this afternoon at about 15,00 after seven fabaroo hours of uninterrupted drug-free sleep) i remembered more personal stuff having to do with my birthday and what first got me hating birfday parties for me and WHY. but to save y'all reading the entire thing, here's what i added to the very end, beginning with what used to be the end, for a bit of context.

*personal note: my overblown ego is so dying to list those members of the Congregation who didn't post on my birthday thread but took the time to mail or ring me instead. and it would so help that low self-esteem thing going on. Q: what to do? list their names and blow any trust (whilst i embiggen myself to the max)? or shall i just suck it all up and pretend they didn't mail or ring me?

A: *suckity suck suck suck* – 'and that ain't bottles' – that's the sound of SG-style self-restraint, a rare and unusual concept. :-(

hey, i just got this really great idea: we can meet up in fifty years for my 3rd birthday thingy ever. in all truth, i can tell y'all that my first – and up to last weekend, only – birthday party was totally teh suck for everyone concerned... well, at least it was horrid for me. it all began when my mother had the brilliant idea of inviting the kids on my street over (and some of my classmates). remember, she had no idea how badly i did in the socialising department, even though apart from telling her exactly why i was always miserable every time she asked (every day after school), i never got a higher score than 'N' (Needs Improvement) or 'F' (FAIL!) under the bit on my report card that covered Deportment.



oh wow – just realised that i got my Denial from her (always my best invisible friend and most helpful ego defence mechanism). CAUTION: unwittingly teaching Denial to your child might lead the more angry sort into fantasy worlds as adults whom on the low end of the range, have heavy Peter Pan complexes and on the upper end, use extra-legals. i know a poor unfortunate who does both. my prognosis? incurable. anyway, example of Iron Mommy's denial: on our report cards, there was a category called 'Plays Well With Others' which (predictably) earned me quarterly Ds and once an F when i punched this kid out who punched me out first but he had a million friends and nobody believed my side of the story. she STILL didn't get it even after i finally gave in and sobbed, begging her not to throw this fucking party.

it was the end of july and i was about to turn eight and most of the guests – can't call em 'invitees' cause i didn't invite em (she did) – anyway, they gave me a shitload of dolls with wardrobes and accesssories and one little girl (pretty, popular, never said 'peep' to me in school or out, though she lived two houses down the street); anyway, she gave me a toy oven that actually worked. i think it must've been expensive cause it lit up inside and was made of enamelled metal and glass and in my horrified eyes was practise for being a mommy. it had two electric burners on top and came with a little frying pan and a pot and other mini-sized housewife domestic accessories like a pancake flipper and a wooden spatula and a loaf pan for baking. worst of all, it had a *gasp* recipe book. and everything worked.

part of my grief was due to the (undiagnosed) Asperger's; i'd not yet perfected The Frozen Smile and my graciousness skilz were sadly lacking apart from i didn't forget to say 'thank you, i love it' (but i'm pretty sure everyone knew i was fulla shit cause that's what i said about every single damn Barbie or Wendy or Whatever doll). they were only there cause their moms were invited for coffee and cake whilst we partied on, in the backyard. someone kept playing 'How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?' over and over on MY liddle yellow and red plastic recordplayer, set up on the table with the cake and presents. right, here's one for Freebase: the second most played record was Thumbelina. my fave was Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen but nobody played it and when i'm depressed or frightened, the last thing i wanna hear is music.

fun fact: if i'd been asked, i'd have said all i'd wanted (apart from more books) would've been a toy telescope or a kids' chemistry set or more stuff for the little town i'd started to build around my electric trains set. y'know, with trees and street signs and cars parked at the depot. i was trying to recreate an English train depot, like (think Brief Encounter) but nobody asked what i wanted (even though everyone knew about the models and books &c). and nobody asked why i put little black umbrellas and derbies on the male passengers in the trains stations. not even when i made everyone (all 14 two-inch figurines) carry or use umbrellas. shit, off-topic, soz.

right, it was all made worse cause everyone knew when not doing homework or writing in my diaries (here in the UK a diary is not what Americans think it is), by the time i'd turned eight, i was on my 3rd and every day's entry was written out in my then perfect huge rounded handwriting. and the contents were writty similar to that which one reads here; i mean, nothing much's changed and back then, stationery and a decent pen would've been nice. but i got Barbies. with accessories! *rolls eyes*

*injecting some positivity* my fave presents came from Daddy, of course. amongst a stack of books about animals (in what i now believe was an unsuccessfully futile attempt to change my literary prefs from topics like Hitler, Nazis and the true criminal stuff about which i was so keen on learning), he bought me a children's membership to The National Audubon Society (valid till i turned 16). dig:

'The National Audubon Society is an American non-profit environmental organization dedicated to conservancy. Incorporated in 1905, it is one of the oldest of such organizations in the world. It is named in honor of John James Audubon, a Franco-American ornithologist and naturalist who painted, catalogued, and described the birds of North America in his famous book Birds of America published in sections between 1827 and 1838...'

one of the best bits of the Audubon Society kids' gift membership was he added a real Audubon birdcall thingy made of birchwood:
no. that red capsule's not a Seconal (pity, that). it's a teenytiny container of rosin to refresh the thingy for optimum results. and y'all can betcha asses i was working it to bits as well as devouring the monthly Audubon magazine which came with the membership. but wait, there's more – Daddy gave me an Etch-A-Sketch



on which (the minute the last kid and mother was outta there) i immediately took about half an hour to totally clear the screen so i could see how it worked before i used it. in all truth, i made some really cool images once i got the hang of the controls and actually mastered the R-angles problem. after a year or so of playing around with it i got inside and for awhile, it ended up looking like this cause i really wanted to see how it worked.



much to my delight (and Daddy's relief my mother wouldn't beat the shit outta me for 'breaking' it), i got it back together and working like new in no time at all. best of all, i still have it somewhere but back in Brooklyn, in my mother's sub-basement, last seen in 1996 right after Daddy died. *thinks and virtually kicks self* i should've taken it with me here. :-(

OK, that's the end of the positivity; now back to the climax of the entire party disaster: my mother gave me this lacey (!) beribboned and sashed (!?!) sewn-in crinolined (!!!) frock – a dress – which was the epitome of femininity to me: more proof of her denial issues, busily chugging along. sprinkle with a huge heaping helping of unreal wishful thinking and you've got. well, not your first born, she's got some imaginary person she sees – saw, i mean, saw... she saw me as. *snigger* *weeps*

back to the dress, it sounds a bit much but in reality was quite beautiful but whilst the same details could've given a hint of the British or something, this was very clearly an American's concept of what a well-mannered clean cut American girl would wanna wear. someone whose mother had never raised a hand to her, someone who enjoyed paper dolls and who enjoyed baking and cooking on her real working toy stove. someone who had a huge Barbie doll collection. AFAIC, i didn't know anyone like that. plus, it had no soul.

i never wore the dress apart from trying it on that night but in all honesty, it would've looked great on any pretty liddle girl. try as i might, even before being forced to model it (or risk a fight in front of the neighbors and worse yet, their kids), i knew it would look like shit on me (remember the coke-bottle glasses and the tomboy slouch and the attitude). and she wouldn't allow me to try it on with my pink stockings (her choice when i subtly requested black *whispers* Beatnik tights for my dancing practise. anyway, to avoid a scene, i was coerced into putting the damn thing on with these stupid looking pastel pink lacey anklets (bought for the dress) and my black patent leather Mary Janes, the prototype for these but a thousand times more uncool.



when i slouched out, i KNOW people laughed. nah, not true: the mothers (and two dads) were cool and said how good it looked on me whilst i stood there in front of this mirror in the foyer and refused to look at my reflection cause i really didn't wanna see. but the other little girls laughed softly and i knew i was right. i was standing there in total humiliation, feeling like an ass, like an alien, like a BOY in a dress. dunno which element was worst, the needless (to me) ribbons and other feminine embellishments or the 'N' she'd had the store embroider onto the right chestal area.

'N's for Nova, my real first name. did i mention the damn dress was pink? and not bubble-gum pink, but pastel pink, old-lady, newborn baby, girly girl pink). i knew it was expensive cause of the Lord & Taylor box but it was totally not me; it was given to the daughter she wished me to be. sad to say it fit perfectly.

a year later, this birthday party was part of the reason why i took off for a little hol from fam and school, one that took me over to the Left Coast thanks to the kindness of strangers. i never could figure it out; everyone knew all i did was play with toy trucks and my electric trains set and make models of aeroplanes (and the occasional animal) and draw and read in solitary confinement or at the library. i mean, people would joke about it to my face. but i ended up with a set of Barbies and the Frozen Smile Horrified was carved into my face. when the last kid left the party, i'd been labelled bad and was back in my fave place: banished to my bedroom in Solitary Confinement.

fun fact: the solitary confinement was usually the result of me being 'bad'. on one end of the behavior spectrum, Bad was knocking over a glass of milk and on the other end, it was outsmarting when talking back to my mother – easy peasey (this happened on a daily basis but not the solitary confinement. i mean, i was so naive it never occurred to mess up on purpose, otherwise i would've been banished to my bedroom every damn day).

consequently, after i was bad enough to warrant punishment and sent to my room to 'think about it' ('it' being whatever transgression that'd most lately incurred her wrath), apart from telling Daddy from the get-go, i never let on that her words – 'Up to your room, NOW!' – were like music to my ears cause they were official permission for my one desire: to be left alone. and when Last Jerk took off, i was shouted up to my room, flinging off the hated dress and stupid socks as i ran upstairs. with this kinda situ came the implicit understanding she wouldn't be hassling me for a way too brief hour or two so, the way i saw it, the longer i was banished was the better for me. i think i remember my best experience lasted for almost three hours and it was totally great cause i was reading my ass off, safe in the knowlege that nobody was going to bug me. BTW, Daddy'd sometimes peek in to say Hello and tell me he loved me (but only when she was down in the basement and he knew she'd never hear). *sigh*

anyway, the damn party and that stupid dress. it all ended in tears when the parents (having coffee and cake with Iron Mommy) must've noticed an interval of quietude that went on way too long for any kid's birthday party and looked out the window from the safety of the A/C'd dining room and into our old backyard. and there i was, in the damn dress, naming each Barbie from off the card stuck on its box ('This is you, Debbie') as i twisted off their heads and cut their hair and put them into stupid positions whilst their snobby daughters sat there and said nasty things and made rude faces. and that's when i vowed Never Again – no more birthday parties for me. but last saturday night at the Garden of Albert was the total antithesis of that, amazing.

big thanks again to everyone who came to my unbirthday party. :-)

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right now

dawn's at 05,33 this morning and coincidentally, i just peeked outside and saw the sun begin to shine through the trees. so just as the Palm alert for my Cheese Toasteys went off, i stepped onto the balcony to take above two.

lots to say but no time to say it so i'm gonna have my dinner with the currently usual kilo of strawberries for dessert and maybe some ice cream whilst watching Secret Window (Johnny Depp and John Turturro) and decide whether or not to stay up and keep writing or do the normal thing like crash from the excesses of breaking deadline (straight, even! i dint even smoke reefer for some reason) even though there's totally no way i'm tired. decisions, decisions...

anyway whenever next, later or yesterday or tomorrow there's a mystery unsolved and an apology to Pam amongst a bunch of other things. today – i mean yesterday, friday, i was in a pretty good mood cause i was on deadline and fucking about for most of the day (got up and working at 11,00 and proofing as fast as i could slurping coffee. and then i'd remember Best Friend No. 1 is at a (get this) stag party *snigger* in Warsaw for the next four days (!?!) and i refuse to contact the other one fir$t when he's s£aving over a hot guitar (unless there's A Real Situation – mine, not his). so then i got bummed cause there's nobody to talk to and killed my last jobs of the week totally straight (!?!).

stay tuned / that is all. *snigger, smirk* *stomach all growley* wait, mmmmm... strawberries. glurghll drooghllol... ... ...

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state of the Slum(p) VI

OK, above pic was taken before i took ill and had the 3rd skull added and then added to the first as well. yes i know: the quality's shite; proofreading deadline's making me anxious so i took a funny little heart-shaped pill and i dint care that much. hmmpf... Kate took the top pic so it IS really my left arm and this next one i took in the mirror tonight. lord, dig the distortion – i have like Fistus Giganticus or something. anyway, y'all can get the general idea of my Work in Progress here.



why am i talking tattoos? cause i got a new comment on top photo from one of my 15 U-G Friends*, Crazy Mike 100 on Ultimate Guitar, right here. dear lord, why is he like great grandson age again? (he's a natural born depressive like me AND loves to write and he's good). ooopsy, quiet bit out loud again. ;-)

*take note, Freebase; i am so beating you out in U-G friend dickswinging. then again, when your interview's finally published over there, the whole damn community's gonna be trampling all over themselves requesting to be on your page or whatever. this can only be a Very Good Thing. :-)

–> after not having left the flat for EIGHT fuckin days until monday, am recovering from visiting one of my fave band dudes and his wife at their home yesterday (a very sudden invite) so this'll be short and nasty, oopsy, i mean 'sweet'. short and sweet. LOL, like me. *smirk*

–> i actually went to Church tonight and nobody was there. bummer. :-(

–> just as i was fondling a pair of very well-made skull cufflinks at Borders (don't hit me – i was only there cause Bristol Borders is having a DVD sale) and thinking of Mark wearing Larry's wack cufflinks at i-forget-which recent full-band show, at that very moment, he txtd me so i rang him back since i never got him last year's b-day present. he told me not to bother cause that night was an anomaly – all the band's new shirts are now cuffed with buttons. uh, Larry – how far to the middle of the road do you really wanna take this shit?

–> with that outta the way, here's the point: my birthday presents status: the following is a photo of the wrapping papier from Mr & Mrs Ifor the Engine. it occurs that knowing i have Asperger's, this is a total dis cause that stuff looks mean – almost like newspaper. more on those two miscreants further down the line.



this top-hatted skull is supposed to be a cellphone charm, given me by Topchick at my thingy on Coldharbour Lane last weekend.



well, i found a better use for it. yup, i've gone back to my roots; i haven't worn a chain on my leather jacket since – well, let's call it 'a long long time' and be done with it. :-)



best of all, the taxi chick driving me to the Shame Train place and two strangers (one in Victoria Station and one walking in London) asked me what it means and why and i was all about Alabama 3 (for a change but this time, they asked me). *preens* thank you, Sarah. *love*

courtesy of Mr and Mrs Ifor The Engine, this is now proudly hanging above one of the many way high doors in my flat but i'm too weak (lost two kilos last week) to get the ladder for a better photo. if/when i get my damn strength back, i shall remove ladder from storage room and move this way-heavy sign up above my head more – dammit! i meant to say 'up above the door more'.



shit, shit, shit, get ready cause here it comes: '...cause up above my head now... I hear music in the air... and this road I'm on... could lead me anywhere...' *sticks pipe in mouf and takes huge toke to STFU* damn you, Alabama 3 Tourette's. ;-)

as well, i've been listening to 'It Came From Memphis: The Legendary Sounds', a two-disk set including 40 tunes by the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (who played with the late great RL Burnside on one o' my fayvuhtest albums, 'A Asspocket Full of Whiskey'. prior link states 'The genre might be described as lo-fi storytellin' garage-blues rock with explicit lyrics...'). among many others, there's Al Green, Johnny Woods, Howlin' Wolf, Booker T & the MGs (YES!) and Alex Chilton (with whom i actually went to HS for a small while)*. the liner notes are totally amazing (means: i actually learnt stuff) and written by Robert Gordon.

LOL, uh... dunno how to say this without it appearing i'm embiggening (or bullshitting) but yup, y'all guessed it: i knew RG and used to watch Tuff Darts at CB's (way in the beginning, when the place was really good, before the Bridge & Tunnel crowd descended en masse and stoked up the prices of flats in the 'hood). Tuff Darts were one of those bands (like Patti's, like Television, like Richard Hell, like Blondie – when they were good at the start – and those no-talent bubblegum bastards who totally ruined my name for me, all of whom used to play for free for those of us who lived in the 'hood and went to rock out every chance we could get, every night of the week.

OK, i'll shut up now cause coming up soon's yet another um... validity thingy.* damn, y'know i just can't help it if i were in the right place, right time, so many damn times – just remember, y'all, i dint do SHIT – nothing, nada, bupkis. OK, moving right along, the Choo-Ch-, i mean, Mr and Mrs The Engine also gifted me with 'Up Jumped The Devil – American Devil Songs' (1920s - 1950s). check out fabaroo cover:



apart from the obviousity of my hero Robert Johnson and amongst many others, it's Fats Waller, Gene Vincent, Bo Carter, Screamin' Jay Hawkins (YES!), Skip James (YES!), my hero Bessie Smith (WOO-HOOO!), Sister Rosetta Tharpe (FUCKIN-A!), and Jelly Roll Morton on this 20 tune compilation. note to Techie-boy: yup, y'all can borrow these but not for too long unless you find the time to zip em all up and send em over as .mp3s cause my DVD player's really been getting a workout lately and as y'know, i can't use my Mac to stick new music into iTunes anymore. well, not without some kind soul's help, Chris. ;-)

fair trade-off, Babe? you damn well know it (and whoa, wait'll you hear these). i guess it's another reason it's good we're not together anymore cause for the last ten days or so, i've been listening to the both albums over and over and OVER again – thank you for EVERYthing, Rich and Sarah. *love*

fun fact: when Alex Chilton and The Boxtops released The Letter, the very few NYC Alternative and/or FM stations in existence (those which the kewl kidz like me would only hear) called it the Greasiest Song of 1967 (remember, NYC and the West Coast were in the midst and mindset of The British Invasion and the Generation Gap as opposed to Real Middle America which first began thinking US bi-coastals were outta our minds).

this was just about the time when John Lennon made that 'We're more popular than Jesus' statement and in Real Middle America as well as Down South, there were newspaper articles galore on parents and pastors and priests ganging up on their god-fearing children and holding massive Beatles burning records events. can you imagine the stink of all that vinyl? we'd check the Sunday NYT for the latest every weekend and then laugh our asses off about those poor brain-washed goodly behaviored kids, the very next day between classes at Quintano's HS, feeling all elite and stuff (when we weren't getting the shit beaten outta us on the subway by said greasers).

*validity thingy bit of fun fact: and Alex Chilton was one o' those who led the charge; he was very, very funny and snide. and then i ran into him in the late 70s during the height of the NYC Punk scene when he took one of my oldest friends, Erik's GF away Down South with him but enough about that. ooh, look over there! it's a kitty! anyway.

getting back to 'The Letter', what made it more of a scream: as it says on last wiki, 'The Letter' was preceded by Bobbie Gentry's 'Ode To Billie Joe' and succeeded by Lulu's 'To Sir With Love' after four weeks of being Number 1 on Billboard and preceded by the Beatles' 'All You Need is Love' and succeeded by the Bee-Gees' 'Massachusetts' after five weeks of being Number 1 on United World Charts. believe me, we laughed until we pissed our trousers before, during and after 'The Letter' hit big, especially when alla us smoked reefer between classes across the street from Carnegie Hall.

oh wait, this calls for a totally self-absorbed, totally truthful LOL-SG:



moving right along, to the rest of my presents – some still un-ID'd from whom they came cause i'ze senile an' stuff – well, in all troof, i was higher than high and drunk offa my face at the time they were gifted and my normally accurate vise-like memory had taken a hike some hours earlier. but here's Pam's silver coffin stashbox on my rolling tray.



cool, huh? y'all better believe it's holding my most potent thwooping substance right now. and i think (but not sure) that this next particular stashbox, reflecting the essence of me, is from Pam as well. i torry i was so ripped the pic came out blurry (and if y'all believe i'm apologising for being ripped, you're all incredibly naive).



but THIS is the design that's really on it.



Kate came over the other night and just as i knew she would, totally freaked the second she saw it and demanded to have it. she's actually right, she should have it more than i should but i don't believe in giving that which friends give me away, so i told her i'd get her the same, then found the above. it's funny, when we're outside, so many people think we're like Lezbo Paedophiles or whatever, mostly by our demeanors plus the tat on her left shoulder, the chick in which looks exactly like above chick on the tin. but what they dunno is like our relationship is more 8 year old boy mentoring his 3 year old sister. *snigger*

still can't remember who got me this gorgeous skull sticker but rest assured, it'll be stuck on something i love, permanently. i'm actually thinking of putting it on the back of my motorcycle jacket, the one i wear when it's really cold out in Winter, but that might be a bit too much for one such as old as i am. *weeps copious tears*



moving right along again, even though i've enjoyed the fabaroo CD Stevie made me – tunes about rock & roll, Brixton, drink, drugs, war, death and Jebus with terrific titles like 'No LSD Tonight', 'Rock For Cops', 'Joggin' With Jesus' (wait... i'm thinking it should be called 'Jerkin' Off Jesus') and my fave: 'Didn't Wake Up This Morning' – i haven't yet used any of her way cool packet of The Illustrated Librarian (Booklover's Temp Tats) cause i know me and i'm gonna wanna slap em on, all over the place. yes, all at once.



i really love the 'Born to Read' and 'Read or Die' the best so far cause they're so me. here's a blurry pic of the inside cover with teeny tiny repros of what lies ahead. why is this photo so hazey? one damn guess: it's that time of night when i'm getting ready for my dinner and enhancing my appetite with thwoop.



must... not... touch... yet... LOL, bah! right, forgot to say the other day that Angie made me the most gorgeous card which my enfeebled and shakey old hands can't keep steady to photo rightly. so i stuck it on a black and white striped pillowcase for some focus. it dint work. :-(



about the beautifully designed and made blank parchmenty'd paged (skin! it's skin!) book she gave me?



*HUGE SIGH!* i'm honestly afraid to write in it and ruin it; to besmirch it with my bullshit. but being a very tactile kinda grrl, i get a kick (let's call it) from stroking it every night after dinner whilst i'm watching whatever film... almost unconsciously. it's kinda the same feeling i got when i first held my glossy new Mac mini, even after Chris demanded it over to stick in more memory (and i made him wait cause i wasn't done caressing it yet). it took me about two or three weeks to quit fondling it every day so maybe there's hope.

but like i said, i don't wanna mess it up with my shite... oh wait – i thought of one worthy thing i can write in there: it's that poem 'Fission Bomb', the one i wrote for Chris; the one that won an award last year and was actually printed in a meatspace magazine. i think it might be somewhere in my real site's archives but don't have the time to look at the mo'. but it's in my Palm and my copy of the 'zine. whew; i'm relieved – i thought of one decent thing befitting the calibre of Angie's book... y'all have no idea what a comfort this is. :-)

Pam made me a beautiful card as well, but i'm like flustered in a way: is that how she thinks of me? not as rimone but as Slum Goddess? LOL, where to begin? say it ain't so, Pammie. :-( ––> ;-)



rest assured, people, all the lovely cards (even the nasty ones from Mark and Chris) are on permanent display on the kitchen walls, either the bulletin board or the magnet board or the disgracefully primitive hugeass heating control box.

anyway, since my memory's still teh suck (but worse) i honestly can't remember who gave me this wristband (it's on yet another black & white striped pillowcase.)



but wait, i just noticed sump'n intristin' – the skulls can be removed with an ordinary Phillips screwdriver. you can betcha asses i shall be 'doing' things with these lovely symbols of myself, long before i heard of the Alabama 3 and always wanted to be a living breathing memento mori. :-)

AFAIC, this last is a mystery and a goddamned humiliation:



Jane? Euripidean? is that you? since i saw the eye doctor on monday, i can read off papier much better – fuckin Endlich! finally! BTW, this is the bookshelf of everything people have sent me and i've bought since my reading books sight turned to FAIL:



actually i'm fulla shit, above's only a bit of the four foot long shelf with unread books on it (notice the Mary Poppins series i bought for myself a few months back in a fit of papier reading optimism, at extreme R). and there's like a tonne of art books i've managed to amass over the last few years (too embarrassing to show how many) plus this modest liddle pile on the coffeetable with 'Wildest Dreams' on top.



the first thing i did was open it up on the Shame Train home last sunday night and found one of my fave stories: 'Hauser and O'Brien' by William S Burroughs, one of my all-time favorite junkies. but for the life of me, i cannot remember who the hell gave me this treasure, goddammit.

as well, i found a beautiful catalogue to the CANS Festival: the Stencil Art Street Battle held in town a coupla months back but unfortunately, the MDMA taken last weekend totally destroyed the last of my eyesight and i could only like squint and drool. Pam was that you again? damn... i should've kept the cards and stuff together but like last weekend was only the 2nd birthday party that ever was for me and i'd thrown everything together in my bag.

hmmpf... i'm looking through the envelopes now to make sure i've got everything straight (well as straight as i possibly can at this point in time) and there's this big white one with nothing but 'Rimmy' on it. grrrrr... i know where you live, Mark dude. i totally forgot about that particular slight until about a second ago, lovely. not. |-(

whoa, almost forgot. y'see that 'Liberty' by Gee Vaucher in upper R-hand column? it's an illo of a signed and numbered screenprint that Dragnim gave me last year and after so long, i finally got it framed the other day and now it's hanging where it should've been for all this time.



but something's gone terribly wrong cause he still ain't talking to me and i still don't know why. it looks a bit off centre above cause the vertical blinds were open on the right-hand side when i took the pic this AM but rest assured, it's at the focal point, exactly on the centre column of the entire livingroom. anyway, once again, thank you everyone for showing up and all. :-)

as well, forgot to say before but thanks for the birthday txts and mails, Sister Francesca and Samantha Love. at one point i told Sam to 'tell Hisself his oldest living non-cumbucket groupie has one year left to get free bus' and she LOL'd me to death. i preened (then i cried). BTW, thank you everyone who posted here and special thanks to those whom, although they didn't post*, took the time to mail their best wishes – 'twas VERY much appreciated.

*personal note: my overblown ego is so dying to list those members of the Congregation who didn't post on my birthday thread but took the time to mail or ring me instead. and it would so help that low self-esteem thing going on. Q: what to do? list their names and blow any trust (whilst i embiggen myself to the max)? or shall i just suck it all up and pretend they didn't mail or ring me?

A: *suckity suck suck suck* – 'and that ain't bottles' – that's the sound of SG-style self-restraint, a rare and unusual concept. :-(

hey, i just got this really great idea: we can meet up in fifty years for my 3rd birthday thingy ever. in all truth, i can tell y'all that my first – and up to last weekend, only – birthday party was totally teh suck for everyone concerned... well, at least it was horrid for me. it all began when my mother had the brilliant idea of inviting the kids on my street over (and some of my classmates). remember, she had no idea how badly i did in the socialising department, even though i never got a higher score than 'N' (Needs Improvement) or 'F' (FAIL!) under the bit on my report card that covered Deportment.

oh wow – just realised that i got my Denial from her (always my best invisible friend and most helpful ego defence mechanism). example: on our report cards, there was a category called 'Plays Well With Others' which (predictably) earned me quarterly Ds and she STILL didn't get it.

back to the agony of my first birthday party (i'd turned eight), this was cause most of the guests – can't call em 'invitees' cause i didn't invite em (she did) – anyway, they gave me a shitload of dolls with wardrobes and accesssories and one little girl (pretty, popular, never said 'peep' to me in school or out, though she lived two houses down the street); anyway, she gave me a toy oven that actually worked. i think it must've been expensive cause it lit up inside and was made of enamelled metal and glass and in my eyes was very well made and had two burners on top. as well, it came with a little frying pan and a pot and other mini-sized future housewife domestic accessories like a pancake flipper and a wooden spatula and a loaf pan for baking. worst of all, it had a *gasp* recipe book.

part of my grief was due to the undiagnosed Asperger's, i'd not yet perfected The Frozen (but believable) Smile and my graciousness skillz were sadly lacking apart from i didn't forget to say 'thank you, i love it' (but i'm pretty sure the rest of the kids knew i was fulla shit; they were only there cause their moms were invited for coffee and cake whilst we partied on, in the backyard. i remember that someone kept playing 'How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?' over and over on MY phonograph, set up on site on the table with the cake and presents. right, here's one for Freebase: the second most played record was Thumbelina.

fun fact: this was way before all our stuff was mass produced as cheaply as possible and imported from China). anyway, if i'd been asked, i'd have said all i'd wanted (apart from more books) would've been a toy telescope or a kids' chemistry set or more stuff for the little town i'd started to build around my electric trains set. y'know, with trees and street signs and cars parked at the depot. but nobody asked (but there was no way they didn't know what i was into).

it was all made worse cause everyone knew when not doing homework or writing in my diary (here in the UK a diary is what Americans think of as a calendar or an agenda; back there, by the time i'd turned eight, i was on my 3rd and every day's page was written out in my then perfect handwriting, the contents of which were writty similar to that which one reads here).

*injecting some positivity* my fave presents came from Daddy, of course. amongst a stack of books about animals (in what i now believe was an unsuccessfully futile attempt to change my literary prefs from topics like Hitler, Nazis and the true criminal stuff about which i was so keen on learning), he bought me a children's membership to The National Audubon Society (valid till i turned 16). dig:

'The National Audubon Society is an American non-profit environmental organization dedicated to conservancy. Incorporated in 1905, it is one of the oldest of such organizations in the world. It is named in honor of John James Audubon, a Franco-American ornithologist and naturalist who painted, catalogued, and described the birds of North America in his famous book Birds of America published in sections between 1827 and 1838...'

one of the best bits of the Audubon Society kids' gift membership was he added a real Audubon birdcall thingy:
no that red capsule's not a Seconal (haven't seen one of those in ages); it's a teenytiny container of rosin to refresh the device for optimum results. and y'all can betcha asses i was working it to bits as well as devouring the monthly Audubon magazine which came with my membership. but wait, there's more – Daddy gave me an Etch-A-Sketch



on which i immediately took about a half hour to totally clear the screen so i could see how it worked before i used it. in all truth, i made some really cool images on it, once i got the hang of the controls and actually got round the R-angles problem. after a year or so, i decided to get inside and for awhile, it ended up looking like this next cause i really wanted to see how it worked.



but much to my delight (and Daddy's relief my mother wouldn't beat the shit outta me for breaking it), i ended up getting it back together and working like new in no time at all. best of all, i still have it somewhere but back in Brooklyn, in my mother's sub-basement, last seen in 1996 right after Daddy died. *thinks and virtually kicks self* i should've taken it with me here. :-(

OK, that's the end of the positivity and back to my birthday fiasco. wait, almost forgot: my mother gave me this lacey (!) beribboned and sashed (!?!) sewn-in crinolined (!!!) frock – a dress – which AFAIC was the epitome of femininity: more proof of her denial busily at work tempered with a huge heaping helping of her unreal wishful thinking. it sounds a bit much but in reality was quite beautiful despite the extras described above which were all in very good taste.

in all honesty, it would've looked great on any pretty liddle girl but try as i might, even before being forced to put it on (torture! i hadda do it in front of my 'guests' and their parents), i knew it would look like shit on me (remember the coke-bottle glasses and the tomboy stuff). and she wouldn't permit me to try it on with my pink (her idea) Danskin tights. i was coerced into putting the damn thing on with pastel pink lacey anklets (bought for the dress) and my black patent leather Mary Janes, the prototype for these but a thousand times more uncool.



i KNOW people laughed. nah, not true: the mothers (and two dads) were cool and said how good it looked on me whilst i stood there in front of this three-way mirror in the foyer and refused to look at my reflection cause i really didn't wanna see what they saw – i already knew. but the other little girls laughed and dint even try to hide it. i was standing there in total humiliation, feeling like an ass, like an alien, like a BOY in a dress. dunno which element was worst, the needless (to me) ribbons and other feminine embellishments or the N she'd had the store embroider onto the right chestal area.

BTW, 'N' stood for Nova, my real first name. did i mention the damn dress was pink? and not bubble-gum pink, but pastel pink, old-lady, baby, girly girls' pink – just about as feminine a color as one can get). anyway, i knew it was very expensive cause she got it at Lord & Taylor which, at the time, was one of the most pricey NYC Fifth Avenue department stores. i guess it was nice but totally not me; it was given to the daughter she wished me to be. and unfortunately it fit me perfectly.

everyone knew all i did was play with toy trucks and my electric trains set and make models of aeroplanes (and the occasional animal) and draw and read in solitary confinement or at the library.

fun fact: the solitary confinement bit was usually the result of me being bad. nb: on one end of the behavior spectrum, Bad was knocking over a glass of milk and on the other end, it was smacking the shit outta my sister (who always deserved it). or talking back to my mother (this happened on a daily basis but not the solitary confinement. i mean, i was so naive it never occurred to mess up on purpose, otherwise i would've been bad like every damn day.

consequently, after i was bad enough to warrant punishment and sent to my room to 'think about it' ('it' being whatever transgression that'd most lately incurred her wrath), apart from telling Daddy from the get-go, i never let on that her words – 'Up to your room, NOW!' – were like music to my ears cause AFAIC, they were official permission for my one desire: to be left alone. and hand in hand with that stuff came the implicit understanding she wouldn't be hassling me for a way too brief hour or so. and so, the way i saw it, the longer i was banished to my bedroom was the better for me. i think i remember my best experience lasted for almost three hours and it was great. BTW, Daddy'd peek in to say Hello and tell me he loved me (but only when she was down in the basement and he knew she'd never find out). *sigh*

it all ended in tears when the parents (having coffee and cake with Iron Mommy) must've noticed an interval of quietude that went on way too long for any kid's birthday party, and looked out the window from the safety of the A/C'd dining room and into our old backyard. they caught me cutting off the Barbies' heads and hair and twisting them into stupid positions whilst their snobby daughters sat there and said nasty things and made rude faces at me. and that's when i vowed Never Again – no more birthday parties for me. but last saturday night at the Garden of Albert was the total antithesis of that, amazing.

big thanks again to everyone who came to my unbirthday party. :-)

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