Saturday, 31 May 2008

off to London: TMBTLT edition

according to 'Permanent Midnight', William S Burroughs, when asked why he did heroin said 'So i could wake up and shave in the morning'. yuuuuuup. i get it. do you? as well, he said (something else to which i totally relate): 'I'm getting so far out one day I won't come back at all'.

moving right along, i heard a funny joke last night. *clears throat*

Q: 'What did one guitarist in the Alabama 3 say to the other guitarplayer?'

regarding the answer, i totally ain't doin' it, not gonna say cause there are two plausible, very true and hilarious replies to that question but i can't go on, to do that'd be terribly cruel. *sniggering my ass off* anyway, i'm once more off to London, to my favorite nabe in the entire city: Brixton, the only place apart from my flat where i totally feel at home.

a coupla hours ago, whilst eating dinner and watching 'Permanent Midnight', i realised like 'holy shit – the sun's up and i haven't slept yet'. (nb: dawn's at 04,14 these days.) but i should be used to that already cause my days (for lack of a better term) are basically like 36 hours long.

at about 05,00 i booked my taxi for later so at least that's outta the way and since i had a bath about 07,00 all i've gotta do is laze around, maybe take a nap or something or watch another film. prolly Permanent Midnight again so i can relate and reminisce and wallow about whilst trying to forget the cutlass which's still driving its way deep into the top of my fuckin' skull. but i digress.

i was originally on my way into town to be in Fluffy's film tomorrow but somehow got guilted, soz, i mean, both Chris and Mark convinced me to see the Acoustics at Dirty South tonight. not that i mind, i'm actually looking forward to it. BTW, have i said how much i'm in love with the absolute brilliance of a tune which was given me the other night? yup, i believe i did but i shall say it again, once more with feeling: I LOVE THIS TUNE and can't even post up the title, dammit. *shakes liddle fist* i totally blame this on Freebase. and whoa, he'll pay, plenty and bigtime.

here's one of the recent pics of the band, those amongst my faves, the first taken by the Coat last month at the 30th Anniversary of Rock Against Racism at Brixton Academy; it's Mark, rather Rock being halo'd onstage cuz he was totally there:

*singing in a shite Johnny Cash channelled by Larry Love accent* 'I was there... when they crucified... the lord...'

i can't express how much i love this bit of every full-band gig, especially when the crowd goes wild with delight with chicks swooning left and right, with every single display onstage demonstrating The Increased Prominence of Rock Freebase (better late than never – click to totally engorge). thanks muchly, Coat. :-)

and here's another totally new fave, this time by Alabata – thanks, dude.

no coincidence that Mark's featured prominently, LOL. but ahhh, i just love the way Mark, sorry, Rock's like so modest and shy (!?!) that whether with the Acoustic flavor or full band, he's usually looking down, all concentrating on his craft and stuff. here's one of the few where he's not, taken by Jonny Love, so thanks as well, dude.

very strange: for once Rock's looking up and Harpo's looking down... hmmmm. actually Nick, i mean, Harpo's reaching for yet another of his fifty-odd harmonicas. right, anyway, i shall be meeting Chris right after my Shame Train pulls into town later on this afternoon, then to refuel, then to dinner, then to refuel after txtng about 20 people and then onto The Albert and then to refuel and then after that, meeting up with Mr and Mrs Ifor The Engine before the gig and then on to Dirty South, hoorah! if i still live and breathe and am somewhat coherent, tomorrow i'm back to Brixton for Fluffy's film.

BTW, have i mentioned how totally in love i am with this new t- oh right, said it up there. i just can't quit listening to this absolutely mind-bending diamond of perfection (weak phrasing). and i wanna say more but i can't! *weeps* oh right, i think i can say this: 'violins'.

WTF? but yup, y'all read me rightly – violins. and y'all know how much i totally hate 'em. BUT. *to self* i can't STFU any longer, Mark... this might be The Incident That Breaks The Bond, The Lovely Trust Between Teh Lawd and the 8 year old boy inside. LOL, joke! kidding! – i'd never ever – not in a brazillion years would i ever do anything like that. *snide snigger and a smirk* no, rilly! the fact i've listened to it *whispers* like 167x in the past coupla days means nothing, absolutely nothing. *sigh*

OK, back to biz. *more deep sighing of frustration* anyway, here're the Acoustics individually and i just can't wait to see 'em playing together tonight at Dirty South. first are two of my faves, those i've taken of Mark – errr, soz, Rock and Larry last year.

next up's Harpo Strangelove or Nick Reynolds when not onstage (stolen from Whiskey Fun).

and last but certainly not least, here's Devlin Love. uh, d00dz! please pick yer tongues up off the floor; it's like totally unattractive, unbecoming and alla the rest of those un-words that make me feel embarrassed for youse.

no time to witter on; i just remembered some sudden hurry-uppity so happy weekend y'all. peace out. :-)

what's blasting: The Last Time by The 5 Blind Boys of Alabama.

☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪☪ ✒✒ ⌛

Friday, 30 May 2008

shorter rimone in TRW

here we have a goddess' eye view of The Real World. which godless, soz, goddess? *shrugs* i see no goddess. anyway, in other news, Techie-boy is teh funny, or so he thinks, with his 'Shorter Rimone' – in 'graph below. *mirthless laughter* yeah dude, tell me sumpthin' i don't know already, why don'tcha?

this has something vaguely to do with my inability to get from Point A to Point B, whether it's vocally in TRW; y'know, 'meatspace' – same dif plus that's what it is reality, like the plane upon which we all find ourselves forced to commingle with others *shudder* living their lives or, in my case, attempting to get by without meandering off wherever, most frequently finding myself down memory lane or permitting the ADD to lead. it's kinda like clicking a link – any link – and off you go, clicking your life away.

and there's today's taste of ADD. any questions? back to shorter rimone and i honestly dunno if he was being funny or it, his phrasing, came out unthinkingly. his direct quote was 'Shorter Rimone: "I want to check out because I've decided it's unseemly-"...'

please notice i ended it there, suppressing his finale cause the reason he gave, how he ended that particular thought, was totally off and he's usually right *singing* but not theh-ennnn. nyah, Babe, you totally missed the boat on that one. in other words *singing again* i was right and you were wrong. in fact, this is you and that's me.

no wait... THIS is you. *self-satisfied smirk*

short(er) rimone and as sweet as i'm able to summon up (which's never been very): i've been totally remiss in my thank-yous; lately, apart from forgetting VIPs (those who're very important people to me – and IMO, that's all that matters). uh, where was i? right, forgetting important stuff like gratitude. and this really humiliates me plus demonstrates exactly how crap my memory is, i wanna say a HUGE thank you to Mississippi Outlaw whom, on tuesday (wednesday? don't remember and failed to Palm it) had the tenacity and patience to bear with me.

well, it didn't exactly go like that, though i wish it had. the other day, we agreed to talk in real time on Skype. now, as far as i know, everything's cool over here cause up to then, i Skype'd my head off (but not lately cause of dee-preshun). when failing to connect with him which was the first sign of trouble, i quickly downloaded the latest version, fired it up and was all good to go. that is, until he Skype'd – it rang, i clicked 'answer' but whilst i could hear his Southern accent perfectly, he totally couldn't hear me. whoa, others would tell you that's a good thing, dude.

then we tried IM, yet another failure though i've got working accounts with Jabber, ICQ, Y! and the dreaded, muchly disdained AO-Hell, all of which were online and rarin' to go.

as a last resort we ended up at The Old Purple Tin and had way, way too brief a chat but in that short span, he cheered me up muchly, causing me to momentarily forget the usual gloom & doom – yup, anyone reading me lately can see i'm back to my 'normal', your mileage may vary and i know for a fact it totally does. and y'all can thank yer lucky stars for that.

as i learnt when much younger, with others, it's a phase. on the other hand, with me it's my normal state. *sigh* anyway, as i said, Chester the Molester – whoops... soz, dude. *snigger* and that's totally not a dis cause i think the name's hilarious in an incongruous kinda way. moving right along, as i said above, we successfully diddit by going to Church. i'm quite pleased and very proud to say he's the latest in a long, hopefully never-ending queue of those i've met online first and then happily met in meatspace with spoing. this happened just about a month ago when he stayed over here at Chez Hunter for Alabama 3's Bristol gig. M.O. dude, i can't thank you enough for letting me ri-moan and go on and On and ON.

as well, big thanks to JPirou, Guilty Undertaker, Mr and Mrs Engine, Dragnim, Nomad, Chris and Christine. oh (she added grudgingly) and Rock Freebase. LOL, Mark as well.

what's blasting: Sense of Purpose (Chrissie Hynde, Isle Of You). one of the above is in my head whilst i'm playing this. there's no 'guess who?' here, cause it wouldn't be possible, so don't even bother trying. :-)

Thursday, 29 May 2008

last stop: blogspot

once upon a time, somewhere in the state of Terminal Alienation, there dwelt the Goddess of Living Deception. wait – that's all wrong. lemme start again. *cough*

nine months and mourning. well, not 'mourning' as such but an occasional *sigh*. anyway, i used to get a lotta inspiration just from mulling over the design and the drunken trollup.

but what kills me mostly is

the Wayback Machine's like totally incomplete and it really hurts, nay it almost kills me all my best posts are gone. but hey, i've got the most beautiful BRB message, EVar. and for the next nine years. *wack*

clouds, silver linings – 'when one door opens...' and stuff like '...when life serves you lemons....' squeeze 'em into Life's eyes and don't hold back: squeeze 'em hard. LOL, oops – sorry (hee!), but as always, not very really). anyway, all that happy sappy keep on pushing stuff just doesn't do it for me, prolly cause

and my fucked upbringing. anyway, i know i'll be totally done when the number '29' doesn't conjure up memories of my real site. that is all.

no, wait – i lied. i dunno if the second link from here'll work but if y'all scroll down here or search for Grave New World, you'll read a beautifully crafted yet wonderfully dystopic short story by Dave. when prior link works, my old random quote generator – which lately, seems to have a mind of its own, that is, in a synchronistic way – serves up this next by John Stuart Mill (1806-1873):

'That so few now dare to be eccentric, marks the chief danger of our time'.

right, before i take off for now, i was surfing around and found a post someone had written on memorials and other morbidities; they wanted people to submit the photographs they'd want to be on display at their own funerals or after-cremation death parties or what-have-you. i sent this one in, my total fave.

and then, knowing it'd piss the dude off, quickly sent this next.

and that, my friends, is all for the night. sleep tight and don't let the itty-bitty bedbugs do whatever it is they're supposed to do. personally, i always welcome them, like lit-tle friends cause you can't have too many of those. especially the ones bearing gifts and other death-y threnodies. *snigger* :-)

right, before i forget, i apologise in advance for this next. everyone knows i love animals, especially kitties but everyone also knows i'll laugh at anything, and i mean, anything.

i'll prolly be back after i'm done drool- i mean, watching Robert Downey Jr in Zodiac, which so far, is absolutely dynamite. and it also features Chloe Sevigny, John Getz (of Blood Simple, the very first Coen Brothers flick), Elias Koteas (the most excellent psycho in one of my fave films EVar, Fallen) and best of all, it's directed by David Fincher of Fight Club and Se7en fame. what more could i want? *snigger*

Wednesday, 28 May 2008

good morning, let the stress begin

yup, i sure know it and *groan* iz stawree of mai lief, akshually. last night's twit: 'about to crash at the ungoddessly hour of 22,35 GMT in order to catch the early coach to the American Embassy in London' ended up a lie cause right after i twitted – wait... after i twet? twat? nah i don't like the nuances of that particular road i'm – SHIT! *singing* '...and this road I'm on... could lead me anywhere... it might be rough and rock-' – OK, enough with the ADD, i'm like in a hurry here, actually.

but hmmmm... isn't the past tense of 'shit', 'shat'? whatever, after i quit twit, i picked up the remote to turn off Deja Vu but Denzel was just getting into the 4 days, six hours and 23 minutes machine and once again, i began to marvel at the technology and how it was depicted.

then i did a liddle mulling and read a shitload about Einstein (Google is my friend) and his take on parallel realities and bending time (as they put it in the film, IIRC) and whether or not the device they showed was able to be built, physics-wise, and y'know... by the time i was done dawdling, rather reflecting, and researching, so was the film.

when my alarm went off at 03,45, i rang the taxi company, got my wake up shot together (coffee, milk and sugar – the term's a holdover from the old junkie days) and before my first sip, immediately fell asleep at the wheel. i woke up with 45 minutes to bathe, dress and wash my hair and i did it all in record time cause i also did the unthinkable: skipped the coffee completely (it was one of those triage decisions i detest making cause i always regret whatever gets thrown overboard).

the stress was building and as i blew out my hair i kept glancing longingly over at the coffee machine but i actually exercised self-control, and was good to go 5 minutes before the warning phonecall from the taxi company. plus i remembered to turn the damn machine off (amazing!) so, there i was this morning: totally dressed and totally stressed and i hadn't even put a toe into meatspace. i looked at my vial of Valiums with the greatest of longing but got an image of me sleepwalking at the Embassy, the last thing i wanted to do.

i got to the Shame Train just after 06,00, boarded and was the only one i could see or hear who wasn't asleep and snoring all the way into town. this was yet another stressor cause i'd been kinda hoping the coach would act like a cradle and like, lull me, rock me to sleep but no. i made it to the Embassy in good enough time, had a last smoke before joining the queue and reluctantly gave up my cellphone and Palm at Security. this was before the metal detector went off and kept on doing so, even after i removed my belt, and had them (yes – them – cause i can't do it myself) take off my bracelets, choker and skull cross on the chain around my neck, until they finally like relented, put 'em back on for me and let me through anyway. i was halfway upstairs before i realised my silver Zippo was still in my pocket. oh, darn... *snigger*

and the really funny bit was (well, it was funny to me), since it was chilly when i took off this morning, this was what i had on under my regular T-shirt, what Chris made me ages back.

i totally forgot i was wearing it. *snigger* the thing of it is, though i prolly would've got into a shitload of trouble (at the very least detained for causing a disturbance) the truth of it is, that's what we ALL are: suspected terrorists. anyway, i'm gonna skip the rest of the boring stress at the Embassy which can basically be summed up by being forced to Tell My Story To The Officials (never a pleasant task) and not once but five or six times to a number of different groups of very sombre, sober suits.

this is the story about the two birth certificates and why the name on the one i have doesn't match the name on my passport (but the Social Security number matches everything – that was my ace in the hole) and all they needed to do was call the hospital where i was born in Brooklyn to verify and finally someone listened to me and did and i was home free; they gave me what i was there for: a dumb little embossed stamp on each of a shitload of American Federal Treasury 'official' (or so they were stamped) photocopies.

i realised, much later on, i might have exacerbated the stress in the huge waiting room cause a lot of Ugly Americans were giving me ugly glances and i assumed it was cause of my hair and clothing but then i realised it must've been due to the book i was reading: 'Xenophobe's Guide To The Americans' (something i've been carrying with me cause it's light – not even 90 pages – and doesn't take up much room). and there were bits that made me giggle aloud like on page 8:

'We're Number One. Being number one is very important to an American... Winning is central to the American psyche ... Having God on your side in a fight is good but having the United States on your side is better. To an American, they're the same thing...'

yep, i actually know people like that. see 'We Can Kick Your City's Ass'. LOLOLOLOL!

'Winning is important to Americans because it makes them feel good and good is an American thing to feel... Being depressed is unattractive and thus not suitable for public display...'

oops. my bad. *snigger* but let's move on, shall we? anyway, last night, i'd made a note to take a different book but was so sleepy this morning, i'd forgotten to look at the note. anyway, i thought my stress was over for the day but there was yet another stressful interlude when this dude offered to drive me 'wherever you want to go in The City'. i said 'yeah' where i'd normally have mustered up a withering look and went 'thanks but no thanks'. halfway down to Brixton it became apparent he thought i was a prostitute. more stress ensued on my part, frustration on his.

i kinda felt bad for him cause he seemed so embarrassed, so awkward, after we'd established i was only this regular person and especially when he began to backpedal and tried to pretend he was really doing me a favor (as i'd first assumed) when he offered me the ride. consequently, there was dead silence in the car for the rest of the way down to Brixton whereas before, we'd been in the midst of a friendly exchange of pleasantries. i think i made it worse when i asked him to drop me at the nearest Tube station and i'd make my own way downtown but to keep up his backpedalling, he was all 'No, that's OK; I'm headed to the area anyway...' when it was such an obviousity he wasn't.

anyway, despite wanting to drop dead from fatigue, i met Pam at the Albert where i downed a coupla double vodkas and ended up talking to Dave Fowler, who entertained us with stories about being Mark's guitar tech and being in the Cunts (where i first met him at the Windmill when they played back in 2003; i think that's when Larry was actually playing bass but not sure).

SG note//: whoa, it's like thursday AM and i'm proofreading here (something i would've done last night if i hadn't been sleep-writing). i just remembered that gig at the Windmill: that was the first time Mark – rather, Rock Freebase – and i'd argued and i cried on the plane back to Germany thanks to his winding, something i had no idea about and in all truth, still have big trouble recognising). //SG note.

anyway, when Dave began talking about the Cunts, i quickly hushed him up by noticing the time and running the hell outta there as fast as i could since it looked like i'd miss my coach. it was a damn good thing i split when i did cause i almost did miss it; i was the last one on and it actually left on schedule: 17,00 on the dot – a first.

thank you time: first off, the biggest thanks to Sarah (Mrs The Engine) for starting off the day on such a positive note and causing me the nearest i felt to a smile the entire ride in, due to the inherent spoing in her txt. this came after a coupla hours of feeling held captive, envying the Shame Trainers snoring their heads off. it was almost as if i had some kinda super-power, one i didn't want.

it was a total bummer up until my phone went off with her message. up to then and every so often, i'd raise a bit up and off my seat to take a look around, just to see. that wasn't such a hot idea actually; directly behind me, there were two i was sure weren't acquainted when the coach took off and they looked very comfy, blissfully leaning against each other. i wondered how soon the one would notice the present with which the other was slowly gifting him and hoped, at least, it'd be after we reached Victoria but before he got to wherever he was going.

2nd big thanks go to Pam; hours later, before i flew out of the Albert, drunk on my ass, she gave me this mousey toy she got for Spooks but Spooks didn't dig it, i think cause it's prolly as big as he is (or at least weighs as much as he does).

here it is with Hunter, who loves it, like i knew he would. first came the introduction where y'all can see my genius kitty tasting New Toy's tail whilst pretending not to be interested in the rest. oh wow, i see my suede Beatle boots with the stilletto heels in the background... i can't even remember the last time i wore them, actually.

*sings* 'Getting to know youuuuu...' (nb: fuck knows where that came from apart from My Fair Lady.)

then he dragged it over to the pillow for a better snort.

ahhhh... good enough for rolling and tumbling (all the subsequent photos came out all blurry).

and then off to the kitchen.

i haven't seen it since but i'm sure he stashed it somewhere within the vasty empty bottom cupboards which once held Chris' tremendous array of pots and pans. a few months back, i came upon a pile of his toys which i thought'd gone missing; things like little mice and furry catnip frogs and puffy balls. these were in a cupboard i thought he couldn't open... i don't like to think about why he hides his toys from me, but he does. hmmpf... anyway.

on the coach back i got a txt from Mark, with whom i spoke for awhile, in the afternoon after the Embassy. anyway, he sent a new tune and WHOA, IT'S AMAZING. i dunno if i'm permitted to say what he said someone else in his band said so i won't but like i don't have the words nor will i say how many times i've listened to it – embarrassing! i'm like totally floored here. thank you SO much, dude. :-)

right, now being a control freak, i hate surprises. so imagine mine when i came home and found a neatly addressed mailer sans name or return addy on the back and inside there's a stack of CDs, beginning with last Summer's Alabama 3 Dublin gig, 24. july 07 at the Tripod. that was my first and only time in Dublin and i just loved it. – wait... *lightbulb on* i totally know who recorded and sent these. THANK YOU, SCHOFF! you, my friend, are a total star. i'm really touched, just haven't the words and wish i could see you more often. i'm bringing them back to London on saturday for Chris to copy over the weekend... i'm just like so freaked at your generosity, beginning with the night we met, over five years ago now.


the MOR Tour II dates are 21. april, Preston Lancashire (two discs); 26. april, Manchester, 27. april – here in Bristol (!!!). wait, i just remembered Jake, rather D Wayne giving me and Chris a shout-out; i wonder if that's audible. plus there's the Acoustics gig in Brighton from two weeks back. if it were any later i'd have them blasting but i can't even listen to them cause i'd wanna turn it all the way up to 11 – and i happen to dig living here and wannit to stay that way. and i can't listen now, cause i'm on my way out again. but i will tonight... thanks again, dude, i can't wait.

what's blasting: Up Above My Head (La Peste Demos). don't forget to R-click and Save for keepsies, y'all. :-)

♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞ ♞

Tuesday, 27 May 2008

La persistence de la mémoire

Salvador Dali (11. may 1904 – 23. jan 1939): '...His best known work, The Persistence of Memory, was completed in 1931...

'... Andre Breton coined the anagram "avida dollars" (for Salvador Dalí), which more or less translates to "eager for dollars"...'

from here: 'It is possible to recognize a human figure in the middle of the composition,This figure is known to be about him if you turn the painting to the right, you will see the saddle "transforms" into a profile of Dali with his prominent nose, long lashes and chin...'

'I have Dalinian thought: the one thing the world will never have enough of is the outrageous'.

and something a bit closer to hitting home, so much so that it, at times, hurts:

'Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings'.

⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛ ⌛

Monday, 26 May 2008

Death: The Time Of Your Life

'It was a dark and stormy nightmare...' (Neil Gaiman in Sandman No. 1). i'll get back to Neil a little later and if this post succeeds, i won't have to explain why i quoted his paraphrasing Edward Bulwer-Lytton but it seems i've got lots of splainin' to do (and i so totally hate to do that). this relates to mails received last night and early this AM, mails sent to my secondary Y! addy.

as everyone who knows me knows, i totally ignore mah mailz when writing – actually, i ignore everything when writing – but these are from those with whom i've not spoken before, so here's a quickie clarification: at times, i refer to my stream of (un)conscious drivel as a bi-product of my particularly personal and unique combination of ADD, Tourette's Syndrome (comes in two flavors – Alabama 3 and filmic), Asperger's Syndrome and that which i call Bulwer-Lytton disease, a malady i named after the epitome of lousy writing: Edward B-L. he's the dude who came up with the totally trite 'It was a dark and stormy night' as well as other clichés still used these days (and i blame my penchant for run-on sentences on B-L as well). wait, there's a rhyme or two there but apart from this mention, i won't submit to temptation. and it's obvious the foregoing is a typical example of my AD – oh look, another kitty!

*cough* hearkening back to topmost LOL Cat, all i shall say is 'thanks, but no thanks, liddle one'. and i won't get into my main, major reason but secondly, i see no hand, just a tiny paw, along with your adorably yearning expression. and so regarding your request, i'm all 'nope – i don't wanna'. and i refuse to get into the basics for my own selfish rationale apart from wishing to avoid yet another shitstorm, cause each and every prior one i've caused resulted in masses of mail, all basically saying the same damn thing. and then i have to go calming people down... i could cry, actually (and believe me, i do).

now please don't think i'm not appreciative, cause i truly am, really. i'm touched and deeply so, not the least bit being akin to 'i am not worthy'. but the guilt – and i'm totally aware nobody intends for me to feel that, but guilt's my first reaction and it lingers for far too long, kinda like a miasma from which there's no escape. i do understand it's completely unintentional but i feel heavy-duty remorse whilst reading friends' mails and believe you me, the amount of regret's tremendous, so i end up feeling even more bummed, worse than before.

conclusion's simple: i shouldn't bother writing what's on my mind, something which's always been bubbling away, about to boil over on one of the back burners. as a sidenote i'll offer that AFAIC, me not writing is virtually akin to ending my life – wait, fuck it with the euphemisms; me not writing is virtually akin to suicide cause one of my things (which i've never admitted cause it never occurred) is: 'i write, therefore i am'.

actually, i think it was Michael, Christine's husband, who first put it to me in a similar manner, but in mail and i thanked him then as i thank him now. naturally, that's in addition to 'i fuck up, therefore i am', but that's a road on which i've been down too many times and not about to venture further on tonight. the thing of it is, in order not to write about that which's always on my mind (and has been for most of my life, back burner or not), i find myself committing a lie of omission and apart from being crap at lying, i don't dig it.

so apart from the 'S' word, i'm yet again forcing myself into avoision mode, not only for my own benefit, but for yours – hey, waitaminnit: don't ever say i never did anything for youse. *snigger* but i'm being totally serious now, especially to the lovely people who've recently voiced their concerns on the state of teh Slum, all to whom i wanna say 'please don't bother'. i dunno how else to phrase this, apart from my typical wittering, and for once, i don't feel the need, mostly cause there're things to be done, things like rea£ work as well as bragging about a somewhat minor achievement: i've begun to outline the second chapter of what could be called an autobiography, tawdry as it might be. *preens*

and all my notes are in that desk drawer i mentioned ages ago and will post photos again in a bit. anyway, i hope at least some of this will allay the fears of those who've mailed lately (no, not to the Y! addy, apart from Jem but he's excused cause he's going through his own kinda hell and i'll leave it at that). but the veritable dancing y'all've been doing, dancing round the subject at hand... (helpful hint: LOL, it's the 'S' word, dammit!) welp, taking that literally, as i do...

...i call the above FreeA3 meet-up at Dirty South. BTW, that's me, 2nd to the left, dancing my ass, hair, skin, muscles and everything else off (and yeah, it was worth it). so y'see? it's all hilarious to me. but really truly, my thanks to each and every one of y'all who've wasted, rather, taken the time to write *whispers* apart from the fact that yer squandering precious time. but i truly do mean 'thank you' and very sincerely so, from the very bottom of my – yup, here it comes again – 'cold, cold heart'. *in a D Wayne voice*

but c'mon, it's funny! jeez, y'all shouldn't take things so seriously, for all yer own goods. y'know, i was actually beginning to type 'take things in such a grave manner' but i don't find puns as amusing as Brits do and i feared i'd be misunderstood yet again. *wack* and then, during a second or two of actual paranoia, it occurred that someone'd think i might be in mocking mode. *sigh*

my stuff's only the usual blether, for the most part based on hastily scribbled notes taken throughout a lifetime of totally having the misfortune – whoops... my bad, soz again – rather, the extremely good luck to be in the right place at the right time (but being the wrong person, mostly cause i did absolutely nothing; one might say i didn't achieve, actually). getting back to right place / right time, when mailing with Abeizer, i believe it was he who called me 'the real-life Zelig' (or maybe it was my own idea; i honestly don't remember).

*whispers* but it's true; y'all know me and how lazy i am; i didn't do shitall i did was show up. anyway, this do-nothingness on my part'll all come to light after i've checked out and the now infamous desk drawer's finally opened: only then shall Dave and Chris (to whom the contents are bestowed) realise i was correct, as i usually am on all things pertaining to me-me – 'it's all about' – me. right, here's a bit of The Drawer Of Disappointment. *snigger*

oh wow, i see a mailer from Mark (and whoa, what a story lies behind that) and recognising the fucked handwriting on the legal pad partially covering it, i can just about make out some thinking i got down like two weeks before Daddy died. and you can barely see the spine of The Red Journal, standing vertically off to the left but there are like four or five more notebooks leaning against it and even more underneath the mess of papers visible.

about Mark's mailer; why i stuck it in there is totally beyond me, but i've been doing a lot of inexplicably wack stuff lately. maybe i thought i'd sell it on eBay? along with his discarded guitar strings? i can see it all now *vivid imagination mode* 'Rock Freebase actually changed these strings!' duhhhh... *shrugs* i've totally no memory of saving said mailer and in truth, assumed i'd thrown it out, once the precious contents were in my possession.

last Winter the drawer looked like the above, a photo i copied from this post here. but ever since then, i've rummaged around a lot inside, looking to organise and hopefully find something with which to plagiarise myself. back then i wrote: ''s like over a foot deep and two feet long and really heavy...' well, there's almost six months' more of my stuff in there now; poor Chris! poor Dave!

and i really mean that; i truly pity them now, mostly cause i totally forgot about the other writty, the journals from my film school days (all written during a relatively brief stint actually being a true workaholic), those which i found in the bedroom back in january and briefly glanced through all the stories i wrote including the little anecdotes or whatever, stuff about the bands who were clients for those blood-sucking bastards – whoa, sorry – i mean, the entertainment attorneys for whom i worked in the 80s.

hmmm... lessee: workaholic mode to keep my heroin habit moving along in high style and so much so, nobody was ever the wiser, EVar. *proudtard* in brief, when i wasn't busy scoring or writing screenplays and poetry or actually filming and such, i owned a successful lower Fifth Avenue jewelry shop (Silversmythe), was secretary to one of the partners at the biggest entertainment law firm on the East Coast, sold pounds of reefer at night, flew back and forth between NYC and Miami Beach rather frequently to fulfill these wild trading schemes (ganja for coke)... hmmm, i really haven't thought of that for ages and luckily for me, they all came off without any hassle.

right, and i was a prostitute or callgirl or escort or whatever they're called these days. y'know, not the kind who stands on corners, the kind who visits professionals in their homes. my clients ranged from doctors and lawyers to aeroplane pilots and stockbrokers and other boring big biz executive types. i was verily wined and dined and boy, did i dig it, especially when, for whatever reason, they'd rent a suite at whichever hotel (mostly cause i totally dig room service as well as love that indescribable smell in the hallways – dunno why, but i always have).

my fave was The Plaza cause of the vasty views looking down on and across lower Central Park. actually, any of the many hotels standing along Central Park South were fine with me as, once inside, they were practically the same: luxurious, private and the best bit was scanning the menu and picking up the phone to call downstairs and request whatever it was i wanted: AFAIC, the ability to do that was totally magical. bloody hell, i'm thinking about this steak i once ordered like at 03,00 and it was served within twenty minutes and medium rare'd to perfection. mmmm... steak. *glurghlgulll... drool...*

i ate that particular early morning dinner with this one dude, an architect (who made the mistake of falling in love, rather, thinking he had, but i don't wanna go there, now or ever, cause it ended in tears – on his part, not mine – when unbeknownst to me, he left his wife and kids. when i found that stuff out, i threw a fit and refused to see him. let's just say that he turned out to be so obsessed that a prison term ensued; not mine, but his). anyway, on weekends, he'd fly me outta JFK to whichever city in which his buildings were under construction, but enough about him. fun fact: no surprise but the doctors had the bestest drugs. and to quote from Barton Fink, one of my favorite Coen Brothers films, 'I could tell you stories...' and i shall, just not now.

hang on... why the hell am i on about hotels? i blame the ADD, actually – i'm totally off and wittering again – lessee if i can trace this route or whatever. OK, the writty, the notebooks i found in the bedroom, the attorneys and the other simultaneous gigs, all thanks to the dope, led me to the workaholic bit and that led to prostitution. *giggle* OK, i'm back, back to the Drawer of Doom, the Drawer of Disappointment; they think they're getting the Drawer of Desire but all they'll end up with is one of Despair, Destruction, maybe Dea- shit, i better quit now or i'll get into the family of The Endless way before i'm planning.

OK, back to my writty, then there's all the poetry, screenplays and stories in those notebooks pictured which weren't originally stashed in the drawer and still not inside, no matter how hard i tried to cram them in. even when stacked in neat piles and such, there's no damn way i can force them to fit. so i stuck 'em over there (after i first typed that last, i added: *slowly pointing with left thumb towards the walnut table behind me*).

i did that, went through that physical manouevre in a casually vague manner cause Hunter's picked tonight to be on the prowl or something and seems to wanna have breakfast noms waaaay before the usual time; i mean, even the birds haven't yet begun to sing outside. and as i learnt the hard way, a few hours back, he reverted into Cunter mode, leaping at sudden movements and trying to bite. at one point, he actually got at my finger, so any sharp, quick move i make is strictly verboten for the nonce (i hope i remember). OK, where was i? right, the newly-discovered notebooks and stuff, over there on the table.

for now, i'm gonna totally leave off the very emotional reaction i had after suddenly finding them; to say i was shocked, especially since i was searching for something totally other, is the understatement of our age and i don't do 'understatement' very well. and so, here's my heartfelt message to both Dave and Chris: so long, suckers! oops, i mean: have fun boyz, and the very best of luck to y'all for getting things together. *oozing sincerity*

IMO, yer both so totally out of your ele- depth, you're both gonna like virtually head for the hills, shrieking in horror as soon as you see exactly how much raw material there is, especially if you put everything together; for instance, pile things up on the floor. oh, wow: just realised if your aim is to end up with something like Teh Compleat Rimone (or to begin by getting things together enough to separate the shit from the not-so-shit) you're gonna have to include the (right now) 76 memos in my Palm, those under the category called (one guess) 'Writty'.

but hey, at least they're already in the Palm software on my Mac, all sync'd and stuff, just waiting to be printed out and the icon's in the Dock, so that's a huge help. and yer lucky; y'all don't have to transcribe anything. and even better, i'm so damn (anal!) meticulous with record-keeping and details and such, everything's dated, whether in my Palm, on slips of paper, or wherever else; writing pads, journals, notebooks... you name it and it's all dated so that's gonna be a great help if you actually carry out this modest task and achieve anyway. (heh. soz for TBL ref. not really).

i don't doubt yer capacities but to be honest, i'm sad to say yer so gonna need a good anally-retentive editorial secretary (if y'all can find one who's practised in hiding his or her distaste for things like criminality, violence and activities of an extralegal nature, whether they be sex or drugs or both simultaneously. and maybe someone should look up the statute of limitations on things like – aw, why spoil the surprise?

in all seriousity, y'all should hire someone as detail-oriented and familiar with the material as i profess to be *snort* but we won't go there for now, or ever again. anyway, i'm quite pleased you two've shown some interest but i'm totally certain that, apart from ending up hating me (more even), you're both gonna end up being verily disappointed, mostly cause my writty can be summed up by the classic and slightly paraphrased Mose Allison: 'Her mind was on vacation but her mouth was working overtime'. sorry, dudes, but i callz 'em as i seez 'em.

anyway, that's my unadulterated, very unbiased and totally un-SG (read: non-embiggenated) opinion, my semi-professional self-critique on that which, on the surface, appears to be a shitload of self-absorbed musings of varying interest, cause that's what they are. then again, there are flashes of, if not gold, then silver. cause even i'll admit, there's a bit of some good stuff hidden away, your tremendous chore is to dig it out. so out of the blether comes the good stuff: the decent poetry, essays, editorials and a rather high number of true stories involving people who later became famous (or were on their ways up or down, depending upon with which year y'all choose to begin).

i guess those photos are warnings, like to show only the tip of the iceberg and what's in store for y'all and all that through which yer gonna have to wade, sometimes neck-deep in dross, searching for gold that might not be there but hey, i warned you – and not once but many, many times – so i relinquish all responsibility and i'll end by saying 'no backsies!' *scarey grin*

moving right along, the next is my personal apology to Neil Gaiman, this time for stealing my title from him.

sorry Neil, but as you know, i dug it so much, i took it from your graphic novel 'Death – The Time Of Your Life', a book which, along with the most excellent Sandman series, i totally recommend to everyone. this is Neil's character Death, one of his family of The Endless, as rendered here by Chris Bachalo, whom along with Jill Thompson, are my fave Sandman artists.

the first Sandman i ever picked up was Chapter 4 of Brief Lives and without even reading, one look at Jill Thompson's illustrations forced me to fly to the cashier and lay my money down (cause if i hadn't been in such a rush, i would've been late for this huge exam).

and then at first, i sneaked peeks and read a bit here and there whilst starting an essay for which grade was intended to be weighed as two thirds of my final grade in a class called 'Psychology of Juvenile Delinquency: Understanding Abnormal Behavior', a series of courses about which i found myself wishing (and not once, but many times) they'd offered in HS cause the information could've successfully been applied to my own mother but, yet again, i digress.

BTW, it's an unfortunate obviousity i'm no genius and all that chilly late Autumn afternoon, i read Sandman at will, hidden within the pages of a textbook from a History class, a book that must've weighed a coupla kilos, cause this was an essay i'd already written, for the most part, in my head the evening before. anyway, here's a photo of the page at which i first opened the book in the comics shop, the panels that hooked me immediately (and then an even blurrier close-up).

just like the first time i saw Alabama 3 up close and personal at the Bowery Ballroom, lo these many years ago, it felt like i somehow knew these people (regardless of the fact that, unlike the band, these were figments of Neil's imagination). fun fact: Dream or Morpheus (the Sandman) is yet another fictional character with whom, like Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights, i'm totally in always-to-be unrequited love. *sigh*

which once again brings to mind, that old saw that goes something like 'the only love that lasts is that of the unrequited sort', so in a way, i'm doomed. let's move on: here he is all depressed, so naturally, it's raining in people's dreams all over the world, especially in his own off-worldly domain.

for the almost ten years when i was totally into graphic novels and comics, i met many another lover of the Sandman books and so, was asked (way too many times), to which of The Endless i most related. keep in mind these people barely knew me, only seeing me at the two or three comics shops i frequented and i'm sure they were basing their suppositions on my outward appearance (apart from my former blondnessity). anyway, to a man (or woman, as the case might've been) they ALL expected me to answer 'Death'. but nuh-uh; even if one's never read the series but knows me in the slightest way, i'm sure y'all can totally dig why my answer always was (and still is) Delirium.

don't let her cute little smile fool you – she's totally out of her mind and for very good reason. here she is along with her former manifestation, Delight (don't ask; it's a long intriguing story so read Gaiman's novels and find out what happened to her for yourselves).

this next is directed to everyone who knows me in meatspace: do any of the following bits of dialogue remind y'all of anyone? a coupla hints: easily distracted, rather height-impaired, non-stop wittering, fucked up and photocopied:

Delirium: 'Um... What's the name of the word for things not being the same, always, y'know? There must be a word for it. The thing that lets you know time is happening. Is there a word?'

Dream: 'Change'.

Delerium, later on: 'Change ... Yeah, that was always the problem'.

BTW, a few 'graphs up when i apologised to Neil G for stealing his title and using it here, i'm really and truly addressing him. here's the backstory as quickly as i can cause i'm so wildly off my main point for a change and in the midst of rewriting a film critique for Beat The Devil (directed by John Huston, 1953) with Humphrey Bogart and one of my favorite junkies, Peter Lorre. just sayin'. right, the backstory:

the last time i mentioned Neil on my real site (early February '05) i woke up a few days later to find mail from him which totally shocked me. without getting into personal details, i'd stupidly imparted some heavy duty, very serious misinformation; it was some gossip i took as gospel cause the teller'd been a trusted acquaintance during my last years in NYC.

hmmmm, that reminds me i've been trying to think up a short and sweet way to term that particular chapter of my life: the post-Daddy, late comics, pre-Chris era from Summer 1996 up to Spring 2K. i've already mulled over The Hermitage (cause that's what it was) and The Great Depression (cause it was that too, but worse). however, on the latter, i've had so many of those and it'd have to be actually detailed, something about which i don't care to spend even more of my time.

now, where in hell was i? right, Neil: he set me straight and i totally apologised to him, both in mail and the very next day, on the page. right, if prior link doesn't work, it's near the bottom of this page here (use your browser's search function for 'I'm sorry, Neil' or '8 February'). anyway, i was truly impressed at how kind he was after reading utter shite about himself. this is yet another British thing – being cool, calm and collected – whilst on the other hand, had i read the same about me, i would've thrown a French Fried fit, both on the page and off. a bit of his mail to me read:

'...Not to worry. Someone just forwarded it to me, and it creeped me out -- like reading something from a parallel universe...'

the thing of it is, his imagery and gentle tone really moved me. in a coupla subsequent mails, we both learnt each of our kitties were ill. little did i know that about six weeks later, Petey would no longer be with me but i'm about to go down a road on which i refuse to continue. and so, moving right along, instead of falling down into the old morbid rabbithole, i'll go along with my usually cheerful sweetness and light. and so, from the department of 'Oh, boy, sleep! That's where I'm a Viking!' here's an example of something i find hilarious.

it's teh incongruity, stoopit; here, i'll spell it out: a sweet liddle kitty states the very essence of any feline existence. and it's up to the reader to read whatever meaning s/he wants into it. but whilst posting things like that, i'm appalled to find people actually take me literally and we wind up back at the top of this post and i've already been there. so back to sleep, it could be worse; at least my sleeping habits are back to normal (pre-2K) cause due to the freelancing when i'm not at PDSA, i can sleep all day and stay up all night and no one's here to bug me and i'm actually getting at least eight to ten hours' decent sleep most nights.

but all that sleepy goodness failed me yesterday evening, when i woke up like 20,00; woke up from visions akin to Goya's 'The Sleep Of Reason Produces Monsters'.

it really flipped me out cause i love to sleep (and not only cause that's where I'm a Viking) and i love most all my dreams; like to me they're akin to visiting another world and sometimes they pick up where they left off and better yet, i still have my previously vise-like memory.

in the old days, i could read a quote or a bit of poetry a few times and years later, could still recite it. i first did it when i was 9, for Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner, (right before i took off for California but that's a whole 'nother bit of my tawdry autobio). the thing of it is, when i woke up yesterday, it was with Mark Twain's words ringing in my ears, something i hadn't thought of in ages and something which, had i'd been asked if i'd remember would've instantly answered 'no'.

but along with the remains of the Goya-like dream, i woke up hearing: 'Pity is for the living; envy for the dead'. and make of that what thou wilt.

shit, can't end on such a depressing note (though it's the total truth) so here's yet another LOL Cat who hopefully will allay any fears and quit it with all the dancing around That Topic. i mean, if i, of all people, can joke about it, then so can youse... what happened to everybody's senses of yooma? it seems they all took hikes off in different directions. but shit, AFAIC, coming from me, this is totally teh funny.

what's totally blasting: Sid Vicious' My Way. *preens* LOL, lighten up, people... damn! – *snigger*

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