meta notes including some not

firstly, if you notice my profile over to the R, you'll see i'm one day short of four years and one month living here *happy grrl dancing* and so my plea about marriage to any dude born of the British persuasion is quickly being left in the dusts of time passing. this can only be a very good thing since when i was a teeny-tiny child, i somehow knew even then that marriage wasn't for me.



me? thanks for asking: and thanks to my real site's bandwidth limitations being exceeded, my profile pic's gone since it was uploaded from my very own site. this doesn't sit too well with me but it's only for the one more day so one mustn't complain (but knowing me, i shall and do so lustily – at the top of my lungs).

OK, second up: over the years, people have requested me to list their sites under 'reservoir dogs' (one of my fave films and the term i use instead of the hated word 'blogroll').

it's easy-peasey to get listed under Reservoir Dogs: sites shown there are either those belonging to my friends or those belonging to people with whom i've had an ongoing email relationship and as such, are virtual friends.

then there're the oddities – sites i frequent on a daily basis and can't resist listing in the hopes others will check em out as well. that is, all apart from this one, something i don't enjoy reading but feel must be included to keep the record straight and keep up the hatred i have for bu$hCo as it's way crucial info for all to know.

thirdly we move on to happier things (well, 'happier' if yer name's not SG):



i shall be having an un-birthday 'event' (let's call it) on the night of saturday 9. august in the Garden of Albert on Coldharbour Lane. i'm calling it 'un-birthday' cause my actual birthday's in the middle of next week. anyway, i got a text from MS Freebase last night – 'Is it at yours or at The Albert? I've heard different stories...' – from which i gather there was some confusion as to where this thingy would actually take place.

in all truth, i'd rather host people here, but i know damn well nobody's gonna move their lazy asses allllll the way out to Bristol: 130 longass miles due west of London! just imagine! the absolute gall of me to invite people over to actually come visit without the enticement, the extra-added attraction of an Alabama 3 gig taking place in town. moving right along, the last thing i need is for a flat filled with refreshments and me the only person here. my biggest fear:



cause i foolishly decided to have it here, at home, in Bristol, FFS! oh wait, tawkin' to myself again. never mind. final word: it's in the Garden of Albert nine days from tonight.



tell me about it, kitteh. anyway, expanding on my explanation of the unbirthday thingy: i term it such cause my real one falls in the midst of next week and to be a REAL birthday party, i'd think it'd have to be on The Day or at least the one before/after. please don't blame me but blame my Asperger's exactitude for that one.

anyway, i've invited all those whose addys i have as well as txtd those whose addys i don't, but if i've somehow missed y'all, consider this your invite. in fact, any fan of the Alabama 3 is welcome, whether s/he frequents the official site or the unofficial site cause as i've said too many times over the last eight (!) years, i just LOVE meeting other A3 fans.

BTW, this would SO not happen in the States where i'd rather be drawn, quartered and then ripped to shreds before i advertise how old i am back there, in their culture of idiocracy or whatever it is. and this birthday is somewhat very very special to me, for reasons i've only told Chris and Mark. but i can safely say this is the last year in which my age shall begin with the number '5'. CAN YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING?



this amazes as well as disgusts me cause old people are scarey! and despite the wrinkled old envelope without, i STILL feel like the eight-year old boy within. and as i've said too many times already, i'm with these dudes here, now framed in place of pride on my livingroom wall (notice Irvine Welsh's autograph; he laughed his ass off when i pulled out the article i'd brought for him to sign for me):



'amazed' doesn't cut it, d00dz. i'm totally flabbergasted, shocked shitless, gobsmacked, appalled and all those other words meaning totally stunned and terrified i'm still walking this planet Earth. well, crawling, more like, but only on 'good' days.

a few hours ago, i spoke to Kate's mom who encouraged me to go onto Ultimate Guitar and post this writty which i called 'it's ur wack granny speaking: listen up, ppl' and begins with:

'HAHAHA! what a pisser, my birthday's next week and it just occurred i'm prolly old enough to be most of y'alls' grandma, the kind they lock away in attics, especially in Victorian lit...' and then i pontificated a bit, ending with my fave Lemmy quote. *smirk*

moving right along, in a feeble effort to end with some humor, i found this in my phone the other night, sent me by Chris M: 'Went to the library today and asked the assistant for a book on suicide. She said "Fuck off. You won't bring it back"...'

LOL, and that is all... for now. *threat mode* meaning My Rape Part II will be reformatted and posted here ASAP. stay tuned. *sniggering and snarfing away*

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it's tough being high maintenance

here are three of my closest friends and what they think of me (L-R: Lazybones, Electric Landlady and Dave G) when they know damn well i'm too high maintenance to wanna go to any festie, even when when it's killing me that Alabama 3's gonna be there. i won't go! *stomps cloven hoof*

i believe this was the first photo taken when these three met up at Trowbridge Festival last weekend. i showed it to Chris, all weepy. he laughed. :-( but like, can you smell the Schadenfreude? i can... |-(


from Lazy's aggro-filled mail: 'Hi Rimone, We all had an unbelievable weekend. Sun shined all the time except i just had a text from Dave, who's still there, saying it's pissing down. Had a great natter with Mark who was on great form and the gent he always is'.

the "gent" looks bent but whaddoo i know?


'Mrs Lazy and L'il Lazy bumped into Larry while they were in the shops and asked if he mind having a pic taken. No problem he says and asked Talia if she wanted to go on stage and introduce the show.


'When they came back and told me i thought that they were taking the piss. Having had to ring Mark we eventually made it past the twat on the gate (more of these twats later) and Larry entertained Li'l Lazy for a while and then off to the stage for Li'l Lazy Love.


'Zoe gave her a confidence boosting cuddle and warm up and put her really at ease. Miriam has video of her introducing them ... I only have blurry photos from the side of the stage...'

EL took Larry and Zoe in action (and i do mean action) and beneath it, D Wayne, Larry, Zoe and Orlando.



wait, is this like a 'Where's Wal- rather, a 'Where's Rock?' type of thing? oopsy, quiet bit out loud again. *whispers* i dint say that. moving quite swiftly along and away from the danger zone, back to Lazy's mail:

'All in all it was just an unexpectedly amazing weekend for the family Lazy...'

um... Lazy! Darren! or whatever yer name really is, dude. you forgot the bit that says 'ps: EAT YER HEART OUT, SG!' anyway, here's Mr and Mrs Lazybones:


and here's the now-famous Li'l Lazy Love with Daddy Lazy:


the Lazybones fam'll be smiling about this for ages (believe me, i know; The 2005 Outlaw Tour's Cardiff and Manc gigs are amongst the first to jump out at me) but unlike Chris and me, this couldn't have happened to a nicer dude. following Alabama 3 pics by Lazy from the very enviable, familiar and most favored angle, backstage at the Trowbridge gig:





Dave chimed in with 'Given that I am pretty tired and a bit crap I have only transferred one photo so far but it was of the star of the festival. (By the way, she is sitting next to Freebase ).


no Dave, she's sitting next to Mark. THIS is Freebase (photo by Electric Landlady):


lah dee dahhhh... *drooling at photo* OH! sorry there. and a fabaroo time was had by all apart from me cuz i'ze too high maintenance to do any festies an' thass mah excuse an' ah'm a-stickin' to it. :-)

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Internetz trubblez = FAIL!

having been offline (not my fault – honest!*) since monday AM, i'm happy, no: delighted... nah: over-fuckin-joyed to say i'm back 'on' and so, shall regale y'all with the second episode in the disgusting yet true recounting of My Rape as soon as i can format the damn thing more better. betcha can't wait, huh? caution: not for the faint-hearted; sick-bags not supplied.



big thanks to Chris and Dave (and let us not forget Electric Landlady; knowing her, i owe her plenty); both of whom (Dave & EL) hadn't yet gotten their shit together and had just bopped back home, wagging their tails behind them, after seeing the band at Trowbridge when my desperate help txt first came in to Dave. thankfully he answered my plea in a more than timely manner and walked me through the entire router botch-up. but still? i failz... and tragically so.



*um...in all troof, the 'not my fault' bit might or might not refer to sumpn' like this:


do i lie or do i not? YOU be the judge. *snarf* and big thanks to Marianne in Dublin for my new fave word: 'snarf'. :-)

*sings softly to self* 'The sun's gonna shine in my back door some day...' (with apologies – but phoney ones – to the Alabama 3). *snigger*

nb: right, yes i know my bandwidth's overexceeded for the month and my site's down for the count until 1. august. this means that, despite my pleas, people haven't been R-clicking and Saving before listening to whatever mp3s i post up. and so, it'll be a cold day in hell before i illustrate any future post of mine with musical accompaniment. which is truly a shame since i've recently gotten permission to upload a few intristin' things that did NOT make it on to Alabama 3's M.O.R.

oh well, i tried and tried and tried but there's a limit and i've surely reached mine. too bad y'all have got to suffff-fffferrrrrr!

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My Rape – Part I

It seems like ages ago, in another lifetime belonging to someone else and in truth, it was. It feels like it happened to another girl, someone I didn't know very well, and in a way it did. Perhaps it was just my denial kicking in, but thinking on it a few days after, it was as if I'd been watching a play when it happened, watching a stranger from a distance, watching some other chick I knew only vaguely but for whom I felt a strange kind of empathy and an awful lot of sympathy as her horrific experience unfolded before my eyes. Yes, denial is my best friend and most cherished ego defence mechanism, now and forever, but I digress.

My life had always felt like a book of differently textured chapters, all mixed together with neither rhyme nor reason, kind of like a mismatched patchwork quilt, something which starred a cast of singularly defined characters; so radical was every incarnation through which I lived, from that of the next. And my rape was just another episode on yet another typical night in the NYC Punk scene.

First some background: in the beginning, there was the intelligent but bored and lonely little girl who rode the subway from Brooklyn to Greenwich Village after school only to run away from home and end up cross-country – 3,000 miles away in California – when I was nine. Yes, I was nine when i first left home, thanks to the kindness of much older Beatnik strangers with whom I'd hooked up in the Village.

A year later, when the police returned me to my distraught parents, the notoriety at school gave me the nearest feeling of acceptance I'd ever had, but the attention didn't last as long as I'd have liked. All too soon, things returned to normal and again I was a friendless, straight-A student and thanks to that, I got the shit beaten out of me by my more stupid, jealous classmates. I was deeply unhappy because once the glamour of Leaving Home wore off, it was back to the usual: no one wanted to have anything to do with me. When I looked in the mirror I couldn't blame them cause there were little girls way smarter than me, but they were pretty and nobody dared touch them.

Me? I couldn't see past my thick coke-bottle bottom'd glasses which made me look like the nerdiest of nerds, which I guess I was. As well, I'd always carry a book with me and it wasn't a textbook; it was always some adult-type non-fiction book I'd gotten from the library, any book into which I could escape as well as learn. At this point I can't remember how many times I got beaten up and whatever book I'd be carrying would maliciously and purposely be torn to shreds and I'd end up having to pay the library for the book I'd 'lost' (that's what I told them, rather than recount how these greaser girl gangs would take delight in ripping up whatever book).

My mother spoke of 'inner beauty' but that was never any comfort; I knew that there was something very wrong with me – no one ever seemed to like me apart from my teachers. I wrote reams and reams of self-pitying poetry and went through endless notebooks (which I called journals); my allowance was spent on books, more notebooks and after age 12, records from England. But books were always my best escape and for the longest time, my drug of choice. No matter how large my own personal library grew, it was never enough; I always wanted more (and that was always the problem).

Most kids spend their free time hanging out with others but I was curled up on my bed every weekend reading my head off in a habit still with me today: the penchant to read four or five books at a time and remember where I left off with each one, no matter how disparate the subject matter. The nearest I came to feeling any joy was when a library was built round the corner from my parents' because I was there every day after school, that is, until i began taking the subway down to Greenwich Village and lying to my parents about it. Criminal and Abnormal Psychology and 20th Century Art were my favorite subjects but I haunted the rest of the non-fiction aisles as well; I was interested in everything. Desultory reading was my specialty and if I had my way, I would have lived in that library, any library.

That is, any library until I discovered Grand Army Plaza:



and its magnificent library – '...The building resembles an open book, with the spine at the main entrance on the plaza, and the two wings running along the avenues. Construction began in 1912 and was completed in 1941...'

After a couple of visits there, it occurred it was just about a ten minutes' subway ride away from Greenwich Village. and so, I began to bullshit my parents that this libe was much more in tune with my personal literary pursuits. What they didn't know was, I found it way easy to stay on the subway and on to the Village with no one ever the wiser.

I would occasionally surface from my little dream world and knew that it wasn't enough, but life was just so depressing that I would sink back into whatever book I'd been reading and soon forget about the real world around me. The thought that I was alienated would occur to me every so often but I didn't like to think on that; I knew I had no one to talk to and I tried not to let that bother me even though most afternoons found me in Washington Square Park, reading my head off, alone on a bench.

My parents took a more drastic approach and insisted I see a psychiatrist which forced me into his office (and away from my beloved library and the Village) one afternoon a week, after school. At that point thanks to all my reading, I could analyse myself much better than he ever could and after a couple of useless sessions he knew it so I quit on the same day he sent me home with a note.

This note explained to my parents that I was way beyond his help. And the note required both my parents' signatures, as if I wouldn't tell them that. Oh how I laughed when I opened the envelope and read what he'd written. In all actuallity, I was overjoyed this waste of my time was over. Once each of my parents read and signed, Daddy cried. Mom got angry and hit me which made Daddy cry more. I woudn't give her the satisfaction of turning on the tears so I stood there, waiting for the next smack to the head and pulled nasty faces at her, egging her on. Incorrigible, moi? You had to be me and thank your lucky stars you weren't. Aren't. Whateverrrr.

When I was fourteen I decided that enough time had passed for my parents not to be too suspicious of my travels out of the neighborhood and so, I informed them there'd be no more library after school and began hanging round the Village again. Things had changed considerably since I was nine; I found others my age with whom I could actually talk and relate and for the first time in my life, I felt accepted. We all felt we were outcasts and at that time, in all truth, we were.

We had to leave our immediate homegrounds to be our True Selves and get away from the straight-thinking majority which included narrow-minded teachers, the greaser types so fond of beating the shit out of us and other such non-thinking wackos. One of the cohering factors which drew us together was the fact we were all into British music which distanced us from those others at our respective schools. And at that point, I thought my poetry improved dramatically just about the time I discovered TS Eliot and started dressing in black and bingo – I changed lifestyles once again.

I became baby-beatnik as opposed to the hippie masses now congregating down in the Village; a few years later I was called a freak by my very own cohort – still wearing all-black and in skin-tight trousers, not the hated bellbottoms the masses had on, because I refused to go with the hippie flow and totally didn't desire to dress like them, especially since mass market upscale places like Macy's and Bloomingdales were now trumpeting the Next Big Thing: the Swingin' Sixties by way of London: bellbottoms and flowery shirts, all to which my ever-shrinking group of friends and I would turn our noses up in disdain. In secret we called them all The Mod Squad. Original? Nah, but very fitting as we watched them trying to outdo themselves.

A few years after that, I morphed into a scholarship-winning college student but of course, that still wasn't enough. I had been fooling around with drugs for years and I finally hit upon a formula that seemed to suit me quite well: I smoked reefer from the moment I got up in the morning until bedtime – one of my fave things to do was roll a jay and get behind the wheel of my car and fly down the highway, ripped off my face. As well, I shot heroin as often as I could afford but not frequently enough to give me a habit. The first drug I used that required a needle was LSD (but that's a whole 'nother story).

Thankfully, my first foray into the Land of Acid was painless and the trip was way joyous. Anyway, that particular chapter lasted longer than I'd anticipated but at the time I thought it exciting to have such a shameful secret whilst being simultaneously trusted to grade papers in the English Department of my Uni, be on the Dean's List every semester and counsel students with emotional problems but yet again, I digress. I graduated with honors, won a scholarship or three and was up for being Valedictorian, one of the faculty's more foolish choices as I showed up to give my speech in a tanktop and cut-offs and black tights and boots and was immediately stripped of that particular honor. AFAIC, it was no great loss and once informed, I skipped the entire Graduation Ceremony and soon after, moved myself back down to NYC where I took up residence on the Lower West Side (the original Greenwich Village).

After the move, came a stint as a callgirl (or 'escort' as my clients preferred to term it) whilst working as a secretary during the day and managed to buy a major share in a lower Fifth Avenue jewelry shop, all to mask the double life I found myself leading since I was still fooling around with dope and was determined to hide any and all traces of that particular element of my life. And I did so admirably; no one was the wiser even though I ran myself ragged being a workaholic of sorts.

Occasionally I would shoot cocaine with some of the doctors ('clients') I met at night. And yes, it's true; doctors do have access to the best pharmaceuticals (amazingly enough, so did my clients who were attorneys). On my nights off (or after I was done), I would go to after-hours clubs on lower Third Avenue to hear punk rock bands and it was on one of those nights that I managed to get myself raped.

At this point I have to describe the clothing I was wearing because there's still the very tiresome issue of blaming the victim; something I always thought was ludicrous. No matter what the situation, to me it has always seemed apparent that the transfer of guilt and blame, both commingled with a lack of responsibility, is used to target the innocent. It's easy to say, to believe, 'she asked for it' instead of holding a man responsible for his own deplorable behavior; holding him responsible for not having the discipline to curb his hatred or his violence towards women. Then again, I'm sure that many will still think that, dressed as I was, I was asking for it. Yeah, that was me – 'Please rape me, kind sir...'

At the time, the Lower East Side was the centre of new music, design, film, fashion and everything British and we all had the feeling that anything was permissible, anything was possible. I moved there from the Lower West Side (traditionally called 'Greenwich Village') because the area seemed as if a chick like me could have limitless possibilities.

This was way back before chain stores like The Gap and K-Mart and Starbuck's moved in; before the yuppie corporate types decided the Lower East Side was The Next Big Thing. At the time I moved crosstown, the neighborhood was a homogenous mixture of long-time Polish, Italian, Irish and Jewish immigrants who'd lived there since the early 1900s – straight off the boats at Ellis Island – as well as Puerto Rican families who'd made their homes there since the 1950s, and the more and more ubiquitous artists and musicians who'd discovered a diverse neighborhood where the rents were still cheap enough to live there comfortably and go out every night.

And the thing of it was, EVERYONE GOT ALONG, newcomers like us and the oldtimer immigrants. Of course, there was an abundance of drugs on the streets, but if you were fairly well-informed and watched your ass, you could live pretty safely and stay high and healthy. Funnily enough, during my worst times of addiction were the same times I ate most healthily and joined the gym. Talking to others, I found out the same. Coincidence? Nah... I think not. But yet again, I digress (I do that a lot – I blame the ADD actually but hey).

Anyway, at the time, there was a clothing store which catered to bands; in their front window was a huge sign stating 'Be a Musician Or Just Dress Like One' and some people, especially out-of-town tourists, took that sign seriously. And so, there was a fine line between what the musicians wore both onstage and off and what their audiences had on and it's still true today but to a lesser extent.

Whenever I found myself above 14th Street I would be subject to an awful lot of leering and nasty comments but below 14th Street, no one would look at me twice. At the same time, there were a lot of models and hookers hanging out with the bands and to the uninitiated, I guess, all groupies and rock & roll chicks looked very similar. If my mother could have seen my nightly wardrobe, she would've passed her usual judgement – 'You look cheap' – something I'd heard my entire life but for the most part, it was always based on the length of my skirts. I think she would've dropped dead on the spot if she'd ever seen me going out dressed the way I used to every single night (think garters and panties showing whilst teetering round on way high stiletto heels).

Anyway, back to my rape. It was right before midnight and on that particular night, I'd seen two of my regular clients beforehand and had just about 500$ (earned the easy-peasey way) stashed in the waistband of my knickers. I'd just left my boyfriend Gordy at our fave hangout, The UK Klub, in order to run up the street to buy cigs since we were out and the club's machine was broken, or so the sign said.



Some guy pulled over to the curb on the corner of Third Avenue and 13th Street and motioned me over, like to ask for directions. I leaned over to talk to him and the next thing I knew, I was roughly pulled by the arm and shoulder, through his rolled down window, over his lap and into his car. Then he took off with me screaming my head off, totally freaking out till he smacked me right across the face. This shut me up, but only for a second or two. Then I commenced screaming again and then he began to beat my head in.

I didn't know it at the time, but Gordy had just emerged from the club to tell me the cig machine was now working and he caught the entire scene and had the brains to memorise the first three numbers of the guy's licence plate. As it happened, Mr Rapist turned out to be an off-duty cop who was raping and killing women he assumed were hookers, but here I am, doing my usual – getting ahead of myself.

nb: top illo and illo illustrating The UK Club by Tomar Hanuka. To be continued.

what's blasting: Rape Robbery & Violence (by K.M.F.D.M. & PIG – buy here).

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the obsession or whatever continues

obsession: 'the domination of of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc...'





is there a word for when it only happens whilst in the presence of that not-so-obscure object of my desire?




cause i can walk the streets of Bristol near-happily taking photos of whatever catches my eye (usually stuff i've never seen in anything but books and films and certainly never in the States); things like this wrought iron archway over some longly steep stone steps; i took this after just a few weeks living here.



wait. i think i remember that the sight of those words 'Christmas Steps' forced out my first 'OH!' way back in july '04. it was one of the first photos i took with my old silver and blue Motorola cause i was immediately charmed by the aesthetics and the inherent history all mixed with little Charles Dickensish fantasies, either read in his works or conjured up in my own.

ARRGGGHHH!!!111!!! – '...Ancient and beautiful stepped hill dating back to medieval times, flanked by independent shops, galleries and cafes with one of England's oldest fish and chip shops at the bottom...'

BBC: 'It is so tucked away that many seem to walk straight past without realising it is there... It is an area steeped (no pun intended!) in history, and nobody can say for sure how the street acquired its unusual name.

'It's medieval title was Queene Street, then it became known as Knyfesmyth Street, after those who traded there. This name may gradually have been corrupted into the "Christmas" of today. ...Others suggest that the name may be derived from the nativity scene found in a stained glass window of The Chapel of the Three Kings of Cologne, which lies at the top of the steps...'

BTW, nobody shushed me when that first 'OH!' got shouty'd out – Chris looked pleased cause he was showing me around; he'd had three months to explore Bristol before i finally got here (long story having to do with Peter). anyway, pic was taken on like my second or third weekend here... wait. what the hell was i talking about again? right, stuff i'd be photographing anyway, like outside this abandoned house. i took these this afternoon cause of the flowers. yes, i know i must look like an idiot tourist but in all truth, i don't care.




what was i- right, i can walk all over wherever, Oxford, Bristol, Whitstable, London, Brighton, Bounemouth taking pics up the wazoo (and i have) but the second i turn onto Lower Clifton Hill, my gaze is immediately drawn to That House...



and no matter how many photos i've already taken of it, there's always something new, something that makes me stop in my tracks and whip out my liddle camera-phone and most times, look up.




when i'm not looking straight across the road.




back to the dictionary, IMO it's less an obsession and more a fixation – 'a preoccupation with one subject, issue, etc...' but no, not exactly, since i barely think about it when not in its presence. then again, it's kinda like an infatuation: 'An extravagant, short-lived romantic attachment'. well, yup, in truth i'm infatuated with the damned thing (apart from the 'romantic' bit). i'm like gaga, actually (that's a hair above 'cheerfully stunned').



OK, we're getting close – it's definitely a fascination: '... a powerful attraction; charm...' big duh! but so am i fascinated by the wisteria, which hasn't seemed to bloom as it'd done over the last four years and is just about where it was a week ago (the below was yesterday; compare with photo of same in this post here, the one with kitty in).



if that bush isn't totally purple before this month is out... *glares* but good news! on my way home today, i noticed even more wisteria and these are directly across Bellevue from the house in which i'm living – fuckin'-A!* cause i can see em out my bedroom window but never thought to look. :-)




*remember kids, AFAIC, 'it doesn't take much!' ® (TM) (U.S. Pat. Pending) *snigger* OK, back in TRW, i had some trouble with my lenses last week and consequently forced myself outside to the eye doctor today cause last night i was all like this.



so this afternoon i'm in the waiting room and checking out eyeglass frames, toying with the idea of changing my image to one more intelligent and scholarly (as fucking IF) when i noticed this sign which i thought amusing – your mileage may vary (and prolly does).


there's a joke somewhere but i'm too ripped to think of it. moving right along, today's biggest thank you goes to Abeizer who sent me a lovely, beautifully covered DVD of this objet d'media we've already discussed both online and off, something which i won't name here for obvious reasons (think: 'US Nazis').

when i tore open the mailer, he'd included this postcard, using Maddi's original AfroSkull design, which's now up on my kitchen's Wall O' Shame. Fame, rather; it's in a place of honor (next to one of Freebase's 'thanks, Chris, fuck off Rimone' notes). anyway, BIG THANKS, ABEIZER DUDE! :-) xox



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it's hard to be me on Ultimate Guitar

this is a screenshot of my profile page on Ultimate Guitar, a site which i joined in a feeble effort to keep on stalking MS Freebase (with his full knowledge) at any other place than the one at which he virtually lives – Alabama 3 Officialdom (click screenshot for enlargement of pertinent details). in all truth, once he told me he was a member there, i joined up the second after i quit LMAO, hoping he didn't hear me – my hand was covering the receiver – and hoping to give the band a bit of solo online promo right before they took off for their mini-tour of the States.

ideally a number of us would've joined at staggered times and way in advance of last month, when i was told/did and so, i didn't do a very good job there but hey, i tried my best under limited conditions (and i even joined in on discussions already in motion, in order to give the impression that i was like, actively interested in whatever they were talking about, much as it bored me to do so). *rolls eyes*

basically, anyone can see from reading above 'graph i'm meandering around the issues at hand, mostly since i wanna talk about stuff that can't really be talked about here, there or any which where (yet), so to take up space and waste even more time, i shall copy and paste my latest so-called blog posted at U-G just about an hour ago. why? cause i can but more importantly, cause it's SAFE. *snigger* OK, here we go:

it's hard to be me but i wouldn't have it any other way
Monday, July 21, 2008
Current mood: naughty

'my life is words and music and as a mod at FreeA3, the unnofficial Alabama 3 fansite forums, i spend an inordinate amount of time each day trying to make as much trouble as i can. as well, i make my living using words as my tools (proofreading and editing plus the occasional website Usability review gig). not for nothing, i write my ass off in journals which'll never see the light of day (not in my lifetime) and at my personal site A Tawdry Autobiography Written By A Nobody so this blog thing here, is a bit – shall we say – redundant? we shall, or else i'll end up cursing y'all out and with a vengeance.

'what i'm trying to make perfectly clear is, when i'm not busy following Alabama 3 all over the place and/or writing about the virtues of fellow U-G member, Rock Freebase (and virtues he has, from being a stand-up dude to his totally fabaroo grade-A professional musicality as Delta Slide Dude and more), i'm usually all worded out by this time of day. but as they say, The Perverse Must Persevere and i've attempted to live up to that standard 24/7 and must say, i've succeeded admirably.

'right, notice me leaving out the bits about extra-legals and other such things that might weigh heavily on young impressionable minds. in the words of that teacher dude on South Park whose name escapes me at the moment, "drugs are baaaaad... mmmkay?"

'oh, have i mentioned the love affair i've been having with myself for most of my life? have no fear, i shall be delving into that particular area ASAP. and if yer all very good liddle grrls and boyz, i shall delight you with the story (the same one with which i've bored everyone i know in meatspace to death), the story of how i ended up on Alabama 3's 2007 album M.O.R. the funny thing is, since last Summer before it's release, i've been told that in Japan, my bits off 'Klan' have been made in to ringtones.

'can you imagine? your phone rings by shouting 'That's fuckin' bullshit!' in an outraged Brooklyn accent – MINE and in Japan!?! this cracks me up muchly and adds a huge amount to my already overblown ego'.

and then i ended it with what i consider a corker of a closing, a la the preznit's ridiculously moronic statement after each and every boring kindergarten-level advert the rethugs ran over the last eight *gasp!* years, but honed down to me and my style:

'my name is SG and i approve this massage. xxx'

'and that's all she wrote' – for today, that is. believe me when i say i've got a shitload of deviousity behind my joining such an elite, um... such an elite site as this and the fact that right now, over 2,600 members are online has totally nothing to do with it. right, have i reminded y'all lately how much i love to bullshit? um... consider yerselves reminded, mmmkay?

moving right along, it's tough to be a one-grrl promo machine but with a bit of luck and some extra time and the willingness and the absolute total need to knowingly risk making a damn fool of yourself, you too, can be like me (though i wouldn't advise it unless you're fortified with the proper combination of chemicals to kinda get you through the night and the days as well). in all truth, it's a thankless job, but someone's gotta do it. *snigger*

OK, am i done yet? nah... one more thing: i wanna point out above screenshot again, where it lists the avatars and names of my 'friends' on U-G. the latest is a 13 year old boy from Ireland. i shall withhold further comment on him, not wanting to warp his impressionable young mind but AFAIC, unless he's bullshitting (like i do and did) i find that to be one of the funniest things i've seen on the 'Net today. that is all.

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sunday night waking up

i originally titled this post 'things i'd never see in NYC' but after checking the time, i've changed it. anyway, when it was called the other, i'd posted these photos and written 'this is just an ordinary wall ("ordinary" to the natives), one i pass every fortnight and yet another thing i've only seen in films and fills me with something akin to joy due to the untouched flowers and such, permitted to grow wild and hanging over the ancient stone wall'. BTW, stone walls are something else i'd never seen in the States. just sayin', like.



i remember about a decade ago when someone had the brilliant idea to plant beautiful flowers on the median strip running up and down Park Avenue South. i lucked out and got to see them on the very first day. by the second, all those gorgeous plants and flowers had been snipped and ripped – totally stolen and gone. this depressed me muchly but was typical for NYC.

over here nobody would dare touch these things and in all truth, what delights me is that they're invisible to my British friends. having grown up with the obviousity of such beauty, they're oblivious to what drives me into *shouty* and near-happy mode as they don't give any of it a second glance. yup, i'm uncool – just like a tourist i ooh and ahhh at EVERY liddle thing that i've ever seen in a book or film before and i do it in a very shouty manner. i torry! NOT. cause i don't care what y'all think of my mode of appreciation of your country's natural wotevers.

OK, these were the first blooms out back, in late april. when i showed them to someone else who lived in the area, he said 'So?'



'So'? i was all WTF & WHY? but i realised i'd get no headway with this dude, so very typical of the blase attitude the UK has to its natural beauty. anyway, i wanted to show M.O, visiting from the States cause i know HE of all people would appreciate but no... unfortunately, by the time the Alabama 3 played Bristol, the blooms'd been gone and so i couldn't show them to those staying here. another view a few days later.


whoa, i just realised the time and although i'd love to keep on posting photos of this nature, proof of things that never in a million years would i ever see in the States, i can't cause i checked my Palm which reminded me tomorrow's monday and apart from not having had dinner yet, i've got a deadline to meet (09,00!) and PDSA at which to volunteer tomorrow afternoon. this is actually a very good thing since it's one of the few charities in which i believe plus it gets me outta the flat. from the PDSA wiki:

'The People's Dispensary for Sick Animals (PDSA) is a veterinary charity in the United Kingdom. It was founded in 1917 by Maria Dickin to provide care for sick and injured animals of the poor ... During World War I, animal welfare pioneer Maria Dickin worked to improve the dreadful state of animal health in the Whitechapel area of London. She wanted to open a clinic where East Enders living in poverty could receive free treatment for their sick and injured animals. Despite widespread scepticism, she opened her free "dispensary" in a Whitechapel basement on Saturday 17 November 1917. It was an immediate success and she was soon forced to find larger premises.

'Within six years, Dickin had designed and equipped her first horse-drawn clinic, and soon a fleet of mobile dispensaries was established. PDSA vehicles soon became a comforting and familiar sight throughout the country. Eventually, PDSA's role was defined by two Acts of Parliament, in 1949 and 1956, that continue to govern its activities today...'


cool, huh? i think so cause i'm one of those who believe in, not only doing yer time for a cause but doing time for one in which you totally believe, as i do PDSA. :-) anyway, the icing on the proverbial cake is, i end up meeting all kindsa animal loving people thanks to my accent and all. but back to reality (ugh) the deadline thing means yet another all-nighter (not that i mind; i'm switching back and forth between real work and watching Denzel W in the most excellent remake of The Manchurian Candidate again).

OK, though i shouldn't be posting at all but did anyway and since i have the willpower of a junkie, i can't resist from throwing up a few more pics of That House, the one i'm beginning to have some sort of obsession over... bah, i have enough obsessions to last a normal person a lifetime (e.g., Usability and Web Standards, the Alabama 3, Macs v. PCs, the inability to pass by any bookshop without snagging yet another copy of either Catcher In The Rye or Alice in Wonderland... y'know, like that). and so i'm forced to post these, taken over the last week or so at night-time.






ah, before i forget, big thanks to Marianne in Dublin who not only joined up at Twitter but sent a few photos, my fave of which is this of Ethan and Saorsie (the Irish children with whom i ended up rolling on the floor in Dublin just about a year ago, rolling on the floor in order to beat it outta them that i was certainly no 'Lady from NYC' as they insisted on referring to me before we actually met. ps: i won and no more shall i ever hear that 'lady' shite again. *snigger*



BTW, Marianne's their grannie; Naomi, their mom, is an award-winning photographer for Hotpress, someone i had the pleasure of meeting before she instigated a photoshoot of the Alabama 3 before they played the Tripod in Dublin last july (her blog thingy's linked under Reservoir Dogs in R-hand column). back to Marianne, she also sent me this, called Celtic Woman Seamist with which i fell in love once it downloaded from her mail to my machine. and which i want framed, of course, and in the place of honor – my bedroom – where i don't even have any Alabama 3, stuff framed or otherwise, on those sacred walls. *snigger*



as well, big thanks to Brian who totally freaked me out as i thought by the radio silence from his direction over the last year or so... well, in all truth, i thought he was *whispers* dead. but tonight he sent me a link to one of the many creative facets of one of my heroes, Alan Moore: The Mindscape of Alan Moore, a collection of Alan Moore on youtube, from all of which i shall wring every last drop of viewing pleasure as soon as i finish my very late deadline'd work. so thank you, Brian and Marianne. *love*

and yup, to get back to what i said before about having the willpower of a junkie, what'd a post of mine here be without a LOL Cat?



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no sir, Mr Dope Fiend, no fish today

after all the ridiculous build-up, i'm at the point at which i don't even wanna post My Rape anymore so i'll spare youse all – and spare myself from re-reading and thus, reliving it (it's that eidetic memory thing i've got going). anyway, here's Hunter tonight, all joyful to see me upon my return. two minutes later found him hiding, kinda sorta.


only to emerge about an inch to his left, at the promise of treats, most prolly thinking 'First show me the money and then – maybe – i'll come out to play'.


note the intently hostile gaze. i held out my hand, he leapt and grabbed the little crunchy things and fled into the bedroom and out of the line of fire. 'vision', sorry, i meant 'my line of vision'. good Hunter! good boy! grrrrrrr... ;-)

having nothing to do with anything else, here's the only photo i've seen in which i'm present as well as the Acoustics flavor of the band. *snigger* (thanks, TopChick). :-)


this was taken at the last Outlaw at Dirty South way back at the end of may, i think (for some strange reason, it's not in my Palm). weirder yet, there's totally no mention of me staying at Mr and Mrs Ifor the Engine's that very same night nor my next day's reminder (with alarm, even) to be at the Albert at 14,00 for Fluffy's filming.

Fluffy was my first reason for coming into London that weekend but after Chris and i discussed Something Else, he ended with the words 'it's only fair...' – that convinced me not to buy a sunday ticket (arr: 12,00 / gone: 22,00) but to spend an extra night in town and go to DS to tell Mark whatever. so in a way, this is his fault; it was Chris who encouraged me to go to DS cause i wasn't gonna do that but that's another story i'm not gonna go into here.

anyway, i was originally coming in on the sunday for Fluffy's film – which i didn't make and about which i still feel bad, cause i promised i'd be there and wasn't. ideally she didn't give a damn and it's just more proof of me being all self-absorbed and ultimately ideally, i'll learn something from alla that.

but back to the Case of the Missing Info Definitely Entered in My Palm, this could be a blessing in disguise cause it'll give me an excu- a reason to get a new 2nd brain ASAP (that's what i've called my Palm(s) from the beginning. and they are... but the thing of it is, this missing info shit – i mean when i looked at the monthly view of may i almost flipped cause there was hardly anything in there (photo to come).

and i hate to say it but this jives nicely with the fact that IT QUIT SYNCING ABOUT A MONTH AGO, right after i was talking Palms with someone who casually mentioned she'd be uptight cause if she lost hers, she'd lose all her info. .and that began me telling her about the Palm Desktop app that you sync with your Palm Pilot so your machine has the same info as your Palm in case anything happens. that very day, my damn Palm quit syncing, thank you, Sod. *snark*

anyway, this lost info shit is the best exc- reason i've got yet for getting a new PDA but this time, it won't be a Palm but totally one of these, over which i went mad in public, on the Tube, back in march whilst Chris smugly grinned, pretty much oozing Schadenfreude after choosing a public place in which to show me (as he put it) his 'new toy' – and then he got the desired reaction on our ways down to the MOJO fundraiser.

yes, i'm wittering (and i'm not even high). wanna make sump'n of it? nah, din't think so. anyway, i shall leave y'all cause i'm about two hours late to wish Kate a happy birthday at the Hatchet, but before i take off, here's two more i took tonight of That House, the one for which i have an extremely unnatural affection.



believe me, i actually have visually induced virtual orgasms each and every time i pass this place which force me to stop, dead in my tracks and take photos of the damn place, over and over and over again. BTW, i haven't even posted any of those i took when it's dark out and whoa... they're really sexy. that is, if y'all think a house can have any kinda sexual allure, which i obviously do.

right, Stress Counsellor dude knows about this fixation or whatever and we agree, as long as i'm not actively hurting or bugging the residents or attempting to indulge in physical tactile stimulation (e.g., have sex with the damn thing), i'm cool. well... 'cool' is in the eyes of the beholder or something. i mean 'cool' in a sense. um... let's move on. quickly.

OK, last pic of the day cause Kate's gonna bust my ass when i show up, late as usual but i just have to post this up; my latest in the ongoing love affair i have with Cabot Tower in Brandon Park. unfortunately it's only during Winter that i can see this magnificence from my windows but apart from actually walking over there and looking up, i manage to catch a glimpse of it at the top of Bellevue when i'm not in my usual rush to get the hell outta meatspace ASAP. and so tonight, as i rounded the corner of Lower Clifton Hill and on to Bellevue, i just hadda stop and capture this.


it almost makes me happy to be alive. 'almost' being the keyword there. *to self* i am SO late... Kate's gonna kill me. :-)

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i caved – for now *evil laugh*

takin braek from TRW = back home to refuel for a moment and i got that uncontrollable urge to chex mah mailz, so just about five minutes back, i found a coupla messages from those who not only read the original (My Rape) on my real site but shall remain anonymous (out of respect, like).


in essence it seems once they got wind i was gonna c/p it again they ... let's say they weren't too pleased as they'ze depressed enough awreddy. and so i dedicate this to one of the Brixton Crew and Some Chick who'd kill me if i ID'd her. and so, this next is to youse. *winsome yet phoney grin*





but then, my natural inclinations rose to the fore and so...


and i'm all back to being my usually contrary self.


but i pity you pussies (literally – pussies); i mean, y'all read it the first time so what's the big deal? (apart from mails i got right after, both from feminists and pity-mongers all of whom were really nice but totally unnecessary). oh, and the most important being from meatspace friends, the less said about those, the better. *sniffle*

so i'm gonna cave for the nonce.


editor's note: the above caving has absolutely nothing to do with the threats, most of which can be summed up liek:


hang on... i'm losing it cause in past i've taken stuff like threats to be a challenge, urging me on, further and further into whatever danger zone is closest. shit! more proof i'm (getting) old. anyway, to prove my good faith or whatever, i shall take the onus of the entire deal upon myself thus setting y'all free to blithely go one more day without reading My Rape (and or ignoring it; cause it has lots of words and actually, is rather boring, as i remember it. apart from when people actually believe me, in which case, as a proponent of any and all truthiness happening, it's teh total troof. *cough* 'truth', rather.

so here: as usual, it's ALLLLLLL my fault. *to self* hmmpf... anything to appease those who akshually waste their precious time reading my drivel. LSE again.




yup, 'mebbe tomorrow'. *evil laugh* stay tuned for MR – all seven easy to swallow bits of it as i've separated it into chapters, as it were, thanks to those who mailed the first time round, complaining it was all just a bit too much, even in two lengthy episodes (that's the Bullwer-Lytton's). *proudtard*. :-)

what's blasting: Chainsaw (Cosmic Psychos) and Rocked By Rape (the Evolution Control Committee). R-click and Save and TIA. have a happy weekend. :-)

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posted under duress

yesterday, in the preposterousness of any profundity i said i'd talk about that, as a lead-in to what would've been in this space, the copying and pasting of My Rape (true story) and how i managed to find a teeny bit of the horror with which to ridicule Mr Rapist.

that is, that was my little plan for today until i got a complaining phonecall from Kate, with whom i went back to Holey Skin on wednesday and then had another Drunken Luncheon at the Hatchet. she wanted me to post the photos i took *whisper* cause she couldn't handle My Rape *cough* so in order to appease her, here they are. *sigh*

first, here's Kate flying down Lawrence Hill, all pissed off at me (forget why at the moment but i'm sure she'll remind me ASAP).



my newest cranial depiction in what'll end up to be a chain of skulls wrapping round my lower arm and wrist.



here's Kate on the corner where i'd left her before i ran back to shoot this. at that point in time, we were both starving and not on speaking terms, but i just needed to get a coupla more pics of The Hatchet since i'm so in love with the place. notice her refusal to face me – she'd just cursed me out cause we hadn't eaten anything all day and had gotten as far as the front door before i decided i just needed a coupla more pics.




the next are from off the walls inside. in all actuallity, i could take photos of what's on the walls all day and night and since the place is so huge, it'd take me days but i wouldn't care (Kate did cause i kept jumping up, like).







at this point our food came and we both wolfed down steaks and gulped down our booze. (i sent my chips back cause they were too yellow). about two minutes later, a total asshole came up to us, made himself at home at our table and began with the semi-lewd remarks. in all truth, he was nice enough to buy us drinks (triple vodkas and OJ) but his incessant bullshitting was rather annoying so whilst we took him for all he had, we also took great delight when, unbeknownst to him, i signalled the owner and we basked in the glory of our Schadenfreude as we watched said asshole bodily thrown out into the street.

OK, Kate, happy now? :-)

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the preposterousness of any profundity

Jose Chung in MillenniuM: 'I've learnt to appreciate the preposterousness of any profundity. And in my distress I'm able to find the smallest, most absurd detail as if god were looking down, winking at me, letting me in on the joke'.

the above M.O or at least statement of philosophy, something about which i'm totally behind, has gotten me into shiloads of trouble by attempting to live my life as it reads... just ask anyone and they'll tell y'all i'll try to find ANYTHING to laugh at whenever appropriate or not. AFAIC, it's not only an ego defence mechanism but it helps me from losing my mind.

regarding first pic, here's the same view at the same time of day, taken four months ago, and rather more reflective of my daily day-to-day point of view.



bleak. cold and forbidding. dour, grim, desolate, gloomy, cheerless and joyless. dark and depressing. LOL, OK, which am i?


oh, but kitteh will geddit and fast since this post'll serve as a lead-in to a copy/paste job of one of my happy sappy crappy liddle true-to life stories, so stay tuned for My Rape. and yes, even with a gun to my head, i managed to find the preposterousness of that particular situation. needless to say, Mr Rapist didn't dig it, which made me laugh all the more. *snigger*

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webdive 2000

the above was the view from on-high back in july 2K, yet another wild anniversary owned by my own bad self and The Person Formerly Known as Pet Man. *snigger* it's been exactly eight years since Techie-boy and i jumped out of an aeroplane together – and believe you me, we'd do it again and again and AGAIN. and AFAIC, this was yet another dream come true. anyway.

Techie-boy, being a... well, amongst the ranks of full-fledged Techies or Geeks or whatever they're called, worked his ass off and did his bit and more for furthering the Internet, that is, before the bubble burst right after bu$hCo took over. shortly after we met and hooked up, a story i've told too many times; yes we met on the 'Net but it wasn't a moronic online dating site, it was a technical news site (and after six weeks of emails, we got together for the next 5,5 years beginning on same night we first met in meatspace *proud*).

*to self* it occurs that coming after a bottle of wine and an hour or so of scintillating conversation (really! on design, music, our fucked childhoods, like that) when something told me it was totally the perfect time for me to make my move, to whisper, in my most dulcet tones, 'wanna fuck?' *proudtard* well, in all truth, i believe that was the icing on the proverbial cake and we got the hell outta there ASAP, flying into the first taxi we saw. and from that night forward, we were inseparable. *snigger* up to a point.

anyway, i shall never forget the day he asked if i'd be too a-skeered to go skydiving with him. i think i remember saying something like 'scuse me; it's obvious you don't know me too well though we've been spending every waking hour for the last three months together' (and most of our sleeping hours as well). 'but... ME a-skeered? i jump out of aeroplanes before breakfast and upon the slightest provocation, i'll have you know... i double-dare you to double-dare me to do it... wuss'.

after we finished laughing our asses off, he contacted Peter Shankman of The Geek Factory. here's Shankman on his (oh, so unfair to us) second jump of the day (BASTARD!):



after Peter went up the 2nd time, Chris and i exchanged many a nasty comment since it should've been one of US who had the second chance to kill ourselves. but since Peter did all the organising (ever try herding kitties? getting more than one geek to do something at the same time as another is like a thousand times harder). um... where was i?

right, thanks to Peter, way too early one saturday morning found about a hundred of us gathered at 06,00 on the sweltering hot (already high in the 30Cs) SE corner of Third Avenue and 39th Street in Manhattan, whilst waiting for the three buses to take us to the airfield in Sussex NJ.

i couldn't quit yawning (along with the rest of the soon-to-be jumpers and/or cowardly trouser-crappers) and so, we all slept most of the way out there. at least, we of calm minds and virtuous souls slept very soundly; the rest of the scaredy-cats nibbled their fingernails practically to the bone. *giggles* *points and laughs at the cowards*. nb: most all photos stoled from gigglechick.

at one point after we arrived at the airstrip we were forced to queue outside this very rickety shack. believe me, it didn't instill much confidence but neither Chris nor i gave a damn:



inside of which we had our photos taken and we were video'd repeating the Skydiving Pledge of Disclaimer or whatever; something akin to 'i promise not to hold Sussex Airport liable in any way, shape or form in the case of my death or any injuries sustained, thanks to the moronic idea of jumping out of an aeroplane'. then we were forced to sign a legal paper stating if we'd died or any other bodily harm were incurred, we'd totally not sue these people and neither would our relatives, our children, our children's unborn children and so on down the line.

at that point, the dude in front of me, the holder of the pen, very reluctantly seemed to be rereading the simple text above, i grabbed the damn pen outta his hand, signed my name and gave it over to Chris. and at that point, some of the more chickenshit element amongst us wussed out. i think i remember saying 'step aside and lemme show y'all how a pro does it', dragging poor Chris behind me. i signed with a flourish and then, my fist wrapped tightly round Chris's reluctant right hand, forced him to sign his disclaimer as well. it came out as a very shakey 'X'.

LOL, kidding! he was just as into signing our lives away as i was. upon emerging from the flimsy confidence-draining shack, we were greeted by this hilarious sign:


i thought it a riot, the illo of the jumper who was about to knock into some dipshit standing directly in his way. then i had a deeper think on it all, wondering if the sign was actually there cause some dumbass once had the idiocy to stand in the wrong place. but no matter... next is the teeny-tiny plane into which we all packed (5 jumpers-to-be and 3 instructors).



i was so dying to get in i think i remember pushing The Hesitants outta mah way with Chris' hand in mine and pulling him along (not that he needed any encouragement). and even though the smallest jumpsuit they had was like miles too big for me, i didn't give a shit how i looked; i only wanted to jump. :-) unfortunately the roolz stated we couldn't go it alone together (like we wanted; something about which we'd fant-) errr, never mine, quiet bit aloud and alla that. needless to say, we'd thought about it muchly up until we were told it was against The Roolz.

now where was i again? right, we assumed we'd be able to jump together but weren't aware of American Skydiving Roolz which state one must do it 20x attached to an instructor before you can do it by yourself. this was a heavy disappointment cause no matter how we changed our Final Fantasy, there was absolutely no room in it for a 3rd unknown party. i so wanted to do it alone with Chris and now it's too late. oh, boo fuckin' hoo! LOL, but no worries.

it was actually very funny as well as exhilerating as all hell. once we were up in the rickety old plane, they gave us lessons on how to split the aircraft; taught us all the proper way to roll out (and i do mean roll out). it seems that the skydive planes are designed with three walls only (pilot's end, L-side of plane, rear-end and that's IT). the R-side of the aeroplaneone is totally non-existent (i term it The Wall That Ain't There).

please note that if any aeroplane used for skydiving would have this unnecessary 4th wall, it wouldn't be used for skydiving, FFS! some of our fellow, uh... 'passengers' (let's call em, in a rare act of generosity), errr, these passengers (all MALE, mind, LOL) were a bit – shall we say? oh yeah, we certainly shall! *snigger with huge Schadenfreude* – these oh-so-manly men were a bit trepidatious when first inside.

nah, i cannot tell a lie: they were fuckin' shitting their trousers both metaphorically and literally as the aeroplane ascended quickly and they realised THIS IS IT: THERE'S NO TURNING BACK. but wait, there's more: Chris and i were virtually dying laughing even more cause one of them actually had the temerity to state the bloody obvious, i.e., 'Hey! How come there's no wall on that side of the plane?'

um, duh! where the hell was he during the pilot's humdrum 10 minutes required dos and don'ts lecture, shit that could be chalked up to Using Common Sense and during whch, Chris and i were busy kissing each other g'bye, once we realised it was a little talk on shit we already knew. fun fact: it ain't a plane meant for skydiving if it has four enclosed sides. to all ditzos who still don't geddit: one side is removed for easy access. where the hell was this paragon of brilliance when Pilot dude gave his little talk, not half an hour previously?

anyway, we were taught the one whose turn it was went up to that side of the aeroplane (yes, the 'open' one), tried not to look out (an impossible feat which i highly recommend to get the most adrenaline out of the entire experience) and then, you lay down, parallel to the length of the plane. you feel the wind blasting in your face and it's totally fantastic. helpful hint: if you're into living dangerously i'd recommend you open your eyes, so not only is the wind blasting your head off, but youre lying about an inch away from sudden death at the same time, drooling over a breathtaking view beyond the clouds and sky between you and the farmlands of Sussex, NJ (or Wherever You Skydive) waaaaay down below you.

you got horizontal and made up with your instructor to kinda, well, kinda roll out (but only on the count of three). then they made the mistake of asking 'Who's first?' – my hand totally shot up, and i got up to stand in front of Chris so they wouldn't see his arm waving wildly to be first. to say that was much to Chris's dismay is repeating a euphemism; i don't think i EVER heard him curse me out so much so quickly in any other situation.

but more so (and an absolute riot to me), much to the total depression of two or three others, big dudes like 3x my size who were shitting their trousers in fright. and i mean, literally shitting their pants. *snigger* (pussies!). and since we dint wanna make it worse for the Sudden Cowards, we laughed amongst ourselves (well, we tried to but kept on ROTF cause it was sooo funny. poor thing). i believe this one dude was the only one who came down with the pilot, having never gotten the stones up to jump by hisself, not even with the help of an instructor.

*attention-whore mode* LOOK AT ME, EVERYBODY! I'M JUMPIN' OUTTA A 'PLANE FOR JEBUS! oh, and The Alabama 3:



rewinding back to Before The Jump and eight years ago, right before i gave Chris the thumbs-up sign (as well as a Schadenfreude-laden 'fuck you – i'm first' finger) and told him he could keep my worldly goods in case i had the most fortunate luck to have a heart attack, happily stricken on the most fabaroo, coolest way to die – dying happy – happily hurtling on my way down. that was it – i totally rolled out, dragging my instructor behind me (since i violated Rule No. 1: inform said instructor when exactly y'all were ready to roll). here's how i would've looked without useless instructor who was there for moronic safety purposes, totally unnecessary AFAIC:




anyway, after the way too brief wild ride was over and we were on solid boring old ground, and after i got chastised by said instructor for not warning him first (this i did on purpose, of course), i felt the most fantastic feeling i'd ever had, much better than any drug rush – and coming from me, that says a lot. hurtling down to Earth thanks to freefall with the wind whistling in my ears and the intensity of the panorama around you as you've first, dropping through air and then suddenly floating gently in the breeze, it all made me scream my head off in joyl

i could hear Useless Instructor laughing above me whilst i shouted out thigs like 'HOLY SHIT! THIS IS FUCKIN' GREAT! OMG! OMG!' and then, the freefall ended and our chutes kinda gently stopped and bounced a bit and then we began floating back to Earth. ugh. after i shushed him a coupla times cause i was pretending to be by myself or with Chris, it was almost as good as being alone, digging the curvature of the Earth in the distance whilst watching Sussex County come up nearer to you. at one point, he totally disobeyed my shushing cause he asked me if i wanted to go up again? i gave him A Look and went 'DUHHHHH! one guess, dude!'

then he laughed and told me i'd have to wait my turn. something i'm not very good at but hey. from the ground i watched Chris fly down and after we hooked up again, couldn't get the grins off our faces for the next five hours or so, hoping against hope that everyone else would hurry the hell up, go on, get in their damn planes and jump already and leave enough time for us to do it again, but it wasn't to be so.

this, the below, was the image of our dreams until that fateful day we were told we couldn't do it together. damn those American safety roolz as i just knew that with Chris by my side (or on top of me, as it were) we'd have the time of our lives in a 'Mile-High Club'? Eat my dust!' kinda way, LOL.



anyway, today's eight years that we did that wondrous thing and i wonder if we'll ever do it again... i sure hope so. the funny thing is, 0ne of the first things Chris researched after moving to Bristol, was if we could go skydiving together. get this: in England i'm too old to do it! so when we were together, we spoke about flying to France and doing it there. but Alma told me in Scotland, that's quite another story and she knows women in their 70s that are just beginners. :-)

so bring it onnn, Alma (she's busily at work getting me signed on to skydive with her for charity purposes). in truth, at first, i was all charity-shmarity, i just wanna jump outta yet another plane again. :-) but i'm all for raising money for decent causes and such so i shall do this with pleasure.



about skydiving people have asked but no, it's not a deathwish, it just appeases the adrenaline junkie within and if y'all can't understand that shit, i don't know what to tell ya. but really, i totally recommend this to everyone, to roll outta any aeroplane in a skydiving sorta way. i'll never forget the sight of this one dude who was in the plane with us. he never made it down via his 'chute cause he wussed out. and he weighed more than 200 lbs and was a big bruiser sorta fellah.

'oh, how we laughed...' :-)

what's blasting: Fly With Me, something off sump'n called Demo 1 which unfortunately dint make it onto M.O.R. helpful hint: it ain't dead air. R-click and Save y'all and TIA. :-)

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i'm in love – w/a house

the above is proof positive how my curiosity gland and my Aesthetic Quotient's totally tortured each and every time i return from meatspace cause i'm dying to get inside and talk with the residents and/or owners. mostly cause AFAIC, falling in love with an edifice is much more safe than actually being in love with another human bean but that's just me, your mileage may vary. anyway, when i first moved here the name of the house was on prominent display on the fence enclosing it but now it's gone. the very small sign stated it was called 'Lower Clifton Hill House', which of course i Googled but found nothing.


these were taken over the course of the last week or two, as i trudged up Lower Clifton Hill with my groceries and supplies and stuff. anyway, these pics shall demonstrate why i'm actually in love with a house (and not a person). from in front of the gateway (above and below):



notice above orange sainsburys bags which i failed to move outta range. oh well... walking along Lower Clifton Hill, i managed to capture these, something i'd never expect to see in the States.








the above was me, lying on my tummy, across the top of the three-foot wide stone wall enclosing this private home from outsiders like myself. BTW if someone were to have sneezed on me, i'd have tumbled over and onto their property. this might not have been such a bad thing, but i digress. again, leaning over the damn three foot wide, 4,5 foot high privacy wall:




yes, i had to actually climb to take those shots. after a while, i got sick of acting like a paparazzi, especially when i noticed some alarmed faces in the windows. since i don't wanna unduly frighten them (yet), i decided to photograph upwards, to kinda give them a rest and leave them in privacy (or so they thought).




it's the profundity of numerous little details that totally kill me, any one of which would totally flip me out if seen in the States so y'all can imagine how loud i get each time i pass this wonder of wondrousness. anyway, once the inhabitants' surprised faces withdrew from the windows, i once again climbed up and leant over the wall, to capture fine details of this House to End All Houses, this total magnificity i've yet seen in England.

This actually beats out every single other building; yes, including the 16th Century priory in which i had the pleasure to spend a night, back in october 2006. Silly Mark was a-skeered but his txts wouldn't admit it but that's a whole nother story. BTW, i'd thank the person, naming him here on this page but i don't wanna shame him any more than i already have with my then-too verbose gratitude.




leaning over the wall again, well, in all truth, i was splayed over the wall... just waiting for one of the faces to materialise next to me and push me over, thus landing on their private property and summoning the authorities to get me the hell outta there. 's not my fault i'm from the States and never ever saw such historic aesthetics. if worse comes to worst and i'm busted for intrusion of privacy i have only one person to blame (hint: screen-name begins with an 's', works for Y!); not my fault EVar). ;-)



i've got plenty of other photos of this house, here, seen from the safety of Across The Road (Marianne says the building opposite which is known as Queen Elisabeths' Hospital School for Boys reminds her of Hogwarts. this is something of which i know not, having no desire to read Harry Potter or anything of that ilk).



in all actuallity, i'm about to print this post (sans these last 'graphs) along with the photos within, wrap it safely in a water-proofed envelope and run down the hill, leaving it in their mailbox, hoping that whichever gazillionaire reads my plea, ends up giving me the guided tour.

nb: this next will totally not make it into the mailer i'm gonna be leaving them in a couple minutes; i just need to chug my second cVcV, a concoction of my own devising (chilled Vodka and crushed Valiums liberally sprinkled on and mixed therein). *burp!* hey, y'never know. some old dude might take a liking to me and ask to marry me. shit, i'd marry Quasimodo in order to move into above House. BTW, next LOL Cat is totally me (will not make it into final revision to be left in their mailbox either).



*cough* note to my future housemates: yer gonna cave sooner or later, cause that's me in The Real World – on very rare occasions – when i akshually want something, i can be very persuasive; i can slip into Super SG mode (though usually it's too much trouble) and remember, i use every awful trait for which Americans are dissed far and wide, use em all to my advantage when getting my way. helpful hint: rather you give in ASAP or waste mucho time tryne t'put me off. hope this helps! and TIA. :-)

what's blasting: Mansion On The Hill by Alabama 3 Acoustic down in Bournemouth sometime last year.

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wisteria + ADD = scrambled eggs

i think this might be up there amongst my most self-absorbed posts EVar but hey – thank you, Mikey for calling me that, actually; LOL, it's funny cause it's true. :-) anyway, i just got back from an entire night in TRW (the less said about which, the better) *snigger* and realised my phone's been on Silent, i guess since yesterday afternoon when i took a nap. so i missed a coupla txts and calls: to Kate, Michael and Mark: i'm sorry. hmmpf... Mark's slipping; his txt wasn't funny or anything:

'Just did a little set for the BBC, Kate Nash joined us, we did MDMA (not literally). x'

i have no idea who Kate Nash is, i'm too tired to Google and in truth, i really don't care. LOL, back to me, on the way home before, i was thinking about yesterday when i'd looked out the window and saw the naybores' B&W kitty. then i ran to get my phone and went out on the balcony, only to see kitty's sitting in front of the wisteria which's FINALLY turning purple.

this is the latest it's bloomed out of the four years / five seasons i've lived here; the earliest was in mid-may and that was back in '04. i have no idea if this is weird or normal and i'm a bit too wasted to look it up (and i'd prolly forget whatever anyway), but a few months back, at the end of april i began to photograph the damn bush every few days in heavy duty anticipation. then i gave up a few weeks ago cause it looked like nothing was gonna happen.



above's 3. june, the day i quit. the lighter green, kinda triangular area in the centre is this huge wisteria and going by the past four years, should've been totally purple and turned brown by now. but yesterday, seeing it's begun to change or whatever made me very happy (for like an entire minute) and if i hadn't forgotten to put cred on my phone, i would've txtd the usual suspects (i announce this kinda stuff – whenever i think i'm happy – so that after i'm gone, at least they'll have had proof positive i wasn't morbidly depressed 24/7). and if you click top pic, you'll see kitty better cause the photo came out pretty bigly (he's at lower R of upper L quadrant). but the wisteria's the point, not the kitty, so more purple later.

from the Department of Scrambled Eggs: i dunno if this was local NYC terminology or what but in olden days if you bought smack by small weight, at times you'd have a choice – every half-load would be consistently pure – or not (to succeed in the biz or one's own decline, one had to have a trained tongue, which of course i did). *preens* or you could buy what was called 'scrambled eggs' which weighed the same but came pre-bagged: a combination of stuff stepped on at various times, the purchase of which i thought was a waste as well as teh stupid. *lightbulb on* for whatever reason, though my short-term memory sucks, i have a huge capacity for useless info like the esoteric trivia above, something i haven't thought on in ages (but stuff i'm always ready to flaunt). *proudtard* :-)

so i went looking for mentions of 'scrambled eggs' from which to cite, dint find any but learnt that 'scramble' was another term for crack in the States. oh wow, on the same page it says 'schmeck' is coke when ages ago, schmeck meant smack. hmmm... intristin'. i wonder how that happened? anyway, i had a point – right – scrambled eggs.

Joseph Cornell, king of assemblage, would be proud: Stevie made this based on that huge freaky shaped driftwood. this was the only angle from which i could get the entire piece in one photo since the wood's more than two feet across.



please notice testicular thingies at right. T&A? rather T-or-A? wait, i think they're actual balls of some suspended nature (petrified kiwis?) and not part of the driftwood... gotta check this out next time i'm there.

ahhhhhh... OK, words cannot describe and this photo doesn't begin to show the purplenessity of the wisteria bush out back.



now i have to remember *daily note in Palm with alarm* to take a pic/day until the flowers start turning brown and dying off; something i've been doing over the past four years, for whatever reason (which hasn't become apparent yet). *whispers* it's actually an OCD thing, cause i've always loved checking out series of whatever subject matter over however long a space of time (Michael Apted definitely has it worse than i do, which is something of a relief cause he's in the public eye and i ain't).

this next is teh tree behind that bush, the one i call Robert Johnson. *cough* wait, more proof of OCD: i have serieseses of Mr Johnson in each of the four seasons as well as over the course of a day (these next were a minute apart and in all truth, they're to show the sky and not teh tree).




anyway, i'm still amazed at how late it stays light outside in Summer cause even on the 1st day of the season – 'the longest day of the year' – in NYC and the rest of the East Coast, it begins to get dark at 20,45. fuck knows why, since i hardly go out, but it cheers me a bit that it's light so late here. anyway, here's Mr Johnson the other night whilst i'm standing in the kitchen about 22,00:



after i took the above, i wrote for a bit then began my liddle Classics of Early German Cinema film marathon and when it was over and my eyes ached with subtitles, went straight into Walk The Line, a film which if even 3 years ago, someone'd told me i'd be willing to watch, i'd have totally not believed it. anyway, i'm about an hour into the flick when it occurred i'd be forced outside cause i was running outta cigs but more crucial than that, Hunter needed kitty litter. right, here he is just about five minutes ago, waiting for me to crash. *yawn*



back to yesterday, very reluctantly – even though it was gorgeous out (10C! *sticking tongue out at NYC*) – i went into TRW *shudder* then lugged the damn 10 kilo bag (oy, 22 lbs) all the way up Lower Clifton Hill, thought i'd have a heart attack, sat down at the top of Bellevue, lit a cig to help catch my breath *snigger*, talked to Boudicca and then saw Chris, the punky Royal Mail dude. he said he'd left a packet for me and when i came in, found a mailer with unfamiliar handwriting on, tore it open right then and there and whoa. :-) thank you, Jem:



um... if you've forgotten who the author is (or worse yet, never heard of him), you're an idiot – do NOT tell me this shit, EVar – especially if you've never read any of his books. for a liddle taste of his voice (and the heavy Brooklyn accent), listen to what's blasting or for a reminder, go read his name in the liner notes on Power In The Blood. again, thanks very muchly, Jem. :-)

what's blasting: The Moon Has Lost The Sun (Power in the Blood). please R-click and Save and TIA. as well, has everyone apart from me heard Larry on NPR in the States last week? NPR is about the most liberal American publicly funded radio station which means their reach ain't too broad but hey, better than nothing.

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whoa... i LIED! tsk tsk tsk

whoa, i lied – i don't really hate Errol. i mean, how the hell could i? why do so many people believe shit just cause it's out in public, like printed on paper or on TV or the 'Net? is it teh stupid or is it teh naive? it's almost as if when something's not hand-written but available for public consumption, it's immediately a Serious Authoritative Voice Speaking The Truth and validates whatever insanity just by being out there, wherever, in print and not handwriting.


in all truth, if i did hate someone, the last thing i'd do would be name them here. *wack* oh, pols don't count, of course – they're totally fair game, like bu$hCo (all of whom i hate with all my heart). back to regular people, i don't hate anyone and certainly wouldn't write about whomever if i did, that is, unless i make up some descriptive title for them, then that's a different story – but then i'm accused of being cryptic... *wrings hands* there's no pleasing some people... LOL, what's a grrl to do? ;-)

anyway, here's Errol telling me to fuck off, British style, yet another addition to my collection of Alabama 3 dudes all photographically giving me the finger. *proudtard* :-)


as i said here 'today i hate Errol cause like 3 hours after i took photo ... he squozed my carefully rolled-up Irvine & Alabama 3 poster ... ON PURPOSE whilst Stevie, Pam, Fran, Jake and i were all talking. then he ran off when everyone went "OH NO!"...' amazing to me that people thought i really hated him. *wack*

then i went, 'totally off-topic: does anyone else think he sounds like a younger Blind Willie Johnson? (BTW, that's some name, in the parlance of our times'). and then i began to goof on myself for a change:

'O RLY? *to self* Asperger's? check! filmic Tourette's? check! ADD? SRSLY!' in all actuallity, i try to cram as many elements of stuff that's wrong with me into every post i submit, wherever on the 'Net, whether or not i point these things out. wait... i lied again cause it's not that i try, it's that i can't help it. :-(

fleeing the scene of that particular danger zone and onto something more pleasant: since the other night, i've mentioned Nicholas Hawksmoor cause right across the street from The Ten Bells is Hawksmoor's Christ Church, the 'Dramatic Georgian steeple rising from a grand portico...' – click pic for CU and see Christ Church Commentary.


i've always loved Hawksmoor's work especially since Alan Moore wrote him in (as a kind of background element) to From Hell, his brilliant analysis of Jack The Ripper crimes (not, dear lord, definitely NOT the film which they bastardised so badly that Moore took his name off it).


unlike a certain party who actually shushed me a few months ago, Pam, Stevie, Jake and Fran don't mind when i get all shouty over British architecture like i did the other night when leaving the pub and Jake pointed out the Hawksmoor (and Marianne didn't mind me freaking in Dublin and Chris didn't mind me doing same in Germany). some actually encourage me – imagine that! anyway, it happens a LOT and i honestly can't help it; i mean, i get all spoingy and stuff walking up Lower Clifton Hill on the way home passing all those stone walls and this house around the corner – yup, still, to this very day.


the thing of it is, if i see something i've only read about or seen in films or photos for my entire life and then, there it is in meatspace, in person, in TRW, i get totally fervent (read: zealous, which's a really mild way of putting it). OK, how bout enthusiastic? *snigger* (which's the euphemism to end all euphemisms); yup, 'enthusiastic' covers it *whispers* to a small degree.

anyway, whatever others might call it, the fact is i get all shouty (and excited) on many levels, mostly cause i NEVER even dreamt i'd EVER see these things in The Real World and, well, there they are and bingo, i'm like momentarily happy (or a reasonable facsimile, brief as it might be). and i don't dig being shushed but that's a different story. *rolls eyes*

what's blasting: Praise God I'm Satisfied and It's Nobody's Fault But Mine by Blind Willie Johnson (last is a link to 'State of the Blues: The Soul of Blind Willie Johnson', a really intristin' biographical piece). happy weekend an' stuff – peace out, yo. :-)

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new & improved!

we will now interrupt this programme for a brief un commercial message.


a few hours ago, i said 'stay tuned for the bit on Today I Hate Errol when this'll be finished sometime before midnight'. and being the man i am...


ooopsy, i lied. *smirk* your irregularly scheduled programming will recommence like, errrrm... whenever, y'know? in any case, i shall finish the telling of why i hate Errol and what happened with Jake, Fran, Nicolas Hawksmoor, Pam and Stevie the other night later on whenever today. *cough*

'the other night later on whenever today'. *snigger* but really, i'm gonna cause i wanna but just off phone with Christine on the Pacific Coast when i realised i haven't really gone to bed since i woke up in London at Stevie's wednesday AM. so for now, here's Errol whilst i watch my pre-bed (read: morally depraved, totally wack) film, Lonely Hearts. :-)



what should be blasting but it's almost 03,00: Wonkey Donkey (starring Errol, Be Atwell and Larry Love), which Be – at the top of his lungs – called 'SHIT! SHIT! SHIT, I tell you!...'

fun fact: Wonkey Donkey: 'a slang term for someone on ketamine'. and or 'when a girl / woman has one larger breast than the other'. um, i'll take the Special K for 500, Chuck. *preens* ;-)

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today i have / hate. have hate.

today i have / today i hate / today and every day i have hate... have, more like have not but still. caution: this will totally not make sense; as usual, it's not youse, 's meeee. unhelpful hint: lack of punctuation within the last six words of first sentence in this 'graph is on purpose. LOL, DUH!

anyway, on tuesday night as we were leaving Book Slam, i asked one of the Security people if they had a flyer they could spare. they asked what i meant by a 'flyer' so i went 'something like a poster or smaller; anything with the date, the band, Irvine Welsh and the name of the venue printed on it; anything like that lying around?' to my delight, the one dude comes out with above hugeness, which i carefully rolled up and around which put a rubber band.

i took off with Pam in Brixton and Stevie (the Librarian of Love) and we walked around the area for a bit and then got hopelessly lost trying to find Liverpool Street Station. we were standing on the corner of Commercial and Fournier Street, trying to decide whether or not to spring for a taxi and then noticed there actually was a pub open – The Ten Bells – 'standing since at least 1752'.



that '1752' stuff diddit; i could already feel the first tinglings of an historical orgasm (brainial style) but i valiantly attempted to ignore it but the name of the pub began that liddle voice in the back of my head which kept nagging, repeating itself over and over cause it was so familiar but i couldn't place it until we walked in and i saw this on the wall.



whoa: Spitalfields! that was it – as a kid, my first escape was via literature of the criminal sort and the name conjured up a series of images from all the stories i devoured back then. and then – just as now – my fave bedtime stories are all horror stories (to ensure good dreams) and the best ones were the Brit books i'd hunt down which taught me the many versions of the adventures of Jack The Ripper. speaking of whom, a few hours ago, Pam sent me this next.

The Ghost Of Jack The Ripper, Ten Bells Pub: 'The Ten Bells Pub is indelibly linked with the legend of Jack the Ripper. Its interior, resplendent with a magnificent tiled wall panel...



... depicting the days when this area was countryside outside the City of London, has hardly changed since the early hours of November 9th 1888, when Mary Kelly, Jack the Ripper’s final victim, left the pub...'



most of the walls were variations of the intricately designed blue fleur di lis'd and almost William Morris-like flowered tiles above but the first thing i saw when we stepped inside was this way appropos laminated front page.



we sat down in the back corner after we got our drinks and although the pub was really crowded, i took a slowish walk – heh. in all truth, i staggered, knocking into people and kicking over their bags cause i was totally fucked up, ripped outta my face from things i got from strangers at the gig before... ah, where was- right, i kinda stumbled around the room to take these pics. i was totally thrilled to pieces, checking out the interior and inwardly revelling in the fact that it'd been Jack the Ripper's local and i was actually there. now, right before the 'hate' bit occurred, Stevie went for a piss and upon her return told me to check out the stairs.



these are quite strangely reminiscent of the steps in the 500 years-old Torture Museum that Nadine took us to in Linz when we lived in Germany but i guess stairs like these were rather common way back when. to me, they totally added to the atmosphere and it was just after i snapped the pic when the villain of this liddle story, Errol Thompson, whom we'd just seen onstage with the Unplugged Bammies, ran into The Ten Bells, kissed me, and flew down those stairs to copy Stevie.



OK, stay tuned for the bit on Today I Hate Errol when this'll be finished sometime before midnight which, apart from Errol, Stevie and Pam, co-stars Nicholas Hawksmoor (as The Architect), Sister Francesca (as Mary Magdelene) and the Very Reverend D Wayne Lo- rather, co-stars Hawksmoor, Frannie and Jake but i'm fiii-iiirst... i just have to refuel, get high, get an appetite, eat, futz around, procrastinate my head off... oh, almost forgot: name that band!:



and there's other stuff i have to do first: finish watching The New World, pound some nails into the walls, hang framed rarities, wrap-up some boring dead£ine stuff (that i could do standing on my head in my sleep; in fact, here's me on deadline sans the drool, actually):



... get higher to make it all more intristin' and try not to think about the amazing fact that the first bit of Summer started out normal (read: i can haz risst-slitten tiem?) but i think this just might be the first july in like 12 years in which i actually look upon Death from a small spot in the reality-based community, like that.

anyway, look at that gorgeous face up there (and y'all should hear his voice); how could ANYone hate Errol? *whispers* apart from me. ;-)

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back from London: amazed & confused

here's Hunter a few minutes ago, after i bopped in, back from London, STILL thinking about the long talk i had with Jake after Errol, Stevie, Pam and even Frannie walked ahead, leaving us in privacy so we could compare notes, like. and whoa... the story i could tell (read: the trouble i could make) if i wanted to be a nasty person- hang on... i AM a nasty person and here's (more) proof.



('s me at hairdresser's monday). i stuck it in mail called 'BOO!' and early yesterday and sent it off to Mark and Chris. Techie-boy immediately shot back: 'Fucking hell — wait until *after* my caffeine for that shit, OK?'

ROTFLMAO! and being the man i am – soz, A3 Tourette's – rather, being a nasty grrl, i shall only give a very unhelpful hint about the subject of Jake's and my loooong talk but The Person In Question will know exactly to whom i'm referring.



but as i said the other day, i'm with Larry, Irvine and Jake:



and my plans for the foreseeable future are to stay amazed and confused – and alive – so i'm gonna keep quiet about this shit – for now. *evil glare* LOL, i SO wanna spill... but i won't. *snigger* for now.

moving right along, details and photos from last night's Book Slam with Irvine Welsh as well as the very short but excellent set the Acoustics played coming up later on. Irvine was great; he read a bit from his new novel, Crime (buy here). this was from Chapter 2 ('Miami Beach') an hilarious and quite accurate description of the South Beach scene which brought back many memories as i too, had had some of the same thoughts as the protagonist.

checking out my copy now, i can see where general audiences would find it really funny but having experienced the scene up close and personal, i thought i'd die laughing as he read. South Beach is truly one of the most tawdry and gaudy scenes of our great country, but as seen through the eyes of a Scotsman, there's a whole 'nother slant. whoa, i'm totally off-topic. iz staw- *cough*

OK, before i forget, amongst everyone else last night, i quite happily re-ran into Sean again (he of the lit-tle 's') and finally met Johny Love of FreeA3. *waves* and there was Topchick (hey, Sarah!) and the very lovely Mrs Ifor The Engine who got up onstage with the comedian and put on a Southern accent but i missed it, dammit, cause Someone was busy doing white stuff on Coldharbour Lane. MY white stuff. :-( but i had plenty more. too bad certain people saw fit to – well, i'm in one of my very rare good moods, so looking on the bright side, there's more for ME, LOL, wheeee!

anyway, i got to see Rich and Sarah and in the smoking garden, ran into Ruby about whom i'd been questioning Mr Pixie and bingo – there she was. big hugs and kisses ensued cause it's been way too long, months and months since i've seen her. then i heard my name again, turned round and whoa, i flipped for the hundredth time last night cause it was The Beautiful Kate, a woman i know through her ex, Captain Paranoid. she showed me a photo of her daughter Molly and i flipped again cause last seen, she was like 6 or 7 but now? she's 12 and totally grown up and just as gorgeous as her mum.

personal note: i'm still totally amazed whenever tall, beautifully lanky sky-high chicks not only remember me, but go out of their incredibly lengthy ways to come to say 'hello' to me. i mean, this would so not happen in the States; never did, never will and a huge reason why i ain't NEVER goin' home (if 'home' is the States and technically, it is). |-(

last but not least, after ages and ages of not seeing her, i got to talk to Samantha Love, whom i totally didn't recognise at first. i'm standing there, front and centre, right under Larry Love's mic and i kept hearing someone calling my name but each time i turned round, all i saw from outta the crowds packed behind me was this really gorgeous chick whom i just didn't know. at first, i assumed she was yet another poor girl trying to suck up to me in order to get close to Freebase. why? cause that shit still happens. a lot. *wack*

anyway, i turned back round to keep digging Larry (with a beard – he looked like a fuckin' farmer!) and the band and then suddenly i realised it was SAMANTHA LOVE WITH A FRINGE! i turned back and i'm all shouty, all 'SAM! OMG!' and she's blowing kisses and on with the 'c'mon over' gestures i couldn't, cause the crowd was really pressing and there was no way i'd give give up my front and centre-nessity. hmmpf... i should've taken her pic but i was too wasted to remember – iz stawree of mai lief, akshually. and yes, dammit *snigger* i know i'm OD-ing on that spreshun but the shoe fits an' all, each and ebry time i use it so... like, tough – go read someone else.

anyway, above and beyond beyond the many i happily ran into last night, i got to see Chris again and not for a second, for quite a while in the Garden of Albert. at one point, when he finally decided to grace us with his presence (and do some of my presents) but hadn't yet shown his ass, i sent him a txt, something along the lines of 'FUCKIN-A! now hurry up, i'm dying to see you, dammit!'

Techie-boy (two seconds later): 'Christ on a crutch – calm down before you wet yourself again'.

so there i was, sitting in the Garden, laughing my ass off and as usual, people around me (including my friends) are staring and gesturing with that finger 'pointing to the head going round in a circular manner' motion. and then there were Mr Pixie, Pam, Stevie, Saffron, Bree-an (sp?) and a shitload of others whom i'm actually forgetting exactly their names but they always come up to me and most of them were there, amazingly, on a tuesday and all brightening up my miserable existence. ;-)

right, last night i got a chance to briefly talk to Jonathan and gave him a really good idea (or so he said); he asked me to ring him later on to remind him cause he was drunk off his ass (but very funny). yet another unhelpful hint: me: 'dude, you're sitting on top of a fuckin' goldmine...' :-)

anyway, i'm off cause there're these powders i've taught to speak and they're sitting on the tray on the coffeetable behind me, all lined up in lit-tle rows (well, not so liddle) and shouting out my name, kinda like Alice in Wonderland but different; where Alice got 'Drink me' or 'Eat me', i'm getting this sorta thing:


and before i forget, big thanks to Sean D and Sarah H for the essays – rather, the longass txts which very muchly brightened up my Shame Train home this morning. and huge thanks to Stevie for hospitality and Mark for the enabling and Mr Pixie for even more enabling. *preens* oh, and if anyone sees Errol T before i do: we shall Have Words thanks to what you did to my Rolled Up Thingy at midnight (explanatory photos coming up ASAP and/or when the mood strikes me (read: when i remember); whichever comes last). *winkyface*

♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒♒

Irvine Welsh in Bristol

here's Irvine Welsh giving me the finger tonight at Borders Books on Queens Road. *preens* now, if y'all don't know who Irvine is, you don't deserve to keep reading so please get the hell off my page (go play in traffic or go back to school for remedial reading or something).

but how in hell did this ever happen? what, apart from losing my mind, would EVER make me go – willingly – into a place like Borders? FFS, it's a goddamned chain store and i avoid them like... like STDs, apart from the latter no longer being an issue but that's a whole 'nother story. *giggle* wait – bloody hell, there's totally nothing giggly about that deplorability. i mean it's fixable and all, if i wanna but i don't know anyone with whom i'd wanna so, not *giggle* but *sobs* um... sorry. quiet bit aloud again. moving swiftly back to Irvine.



'I didn't have any concept of Trainspotting being published. It was a selfish act. I did it for myself'.

and that just about sums up the reasons (or excuses) for all the notebooks, journals and the now 140 stories, poems, essays, book and film reviews which take up *checks* only 130 KB in my Palm Tungsten (total capacity: 32 MB). and it's a perfect summation of what keeps me up nights about as near to happy as i'll ever be – i'm selfishly writing my ass off, pretty damn sure that nobody but me will ever see, but that's nothing new; iz stawree of ma- it's a total fact of life and i've been doing it for years and believe me, when i think of what i wanna be when i grow up, 'author' isn't exactly what comes to mind. *giggle*




yup, i'm amazed i'm still alive as well, dudes, and in all truth, 'amazed' doesn't even cut it. anyway, above's Larry, Irvine and Jake from the Guardian (21. april 08) which Dave and Electric Landlady were kind enough to bring when they were over for the Bristol stop of MOR Tour 2. fun fact: when they released Trainspotting in Stateside theatres, they dubbed it over in American cause they (rightfully) assumed that US dummies wouldn't have the patience to deal with heavy Scottish accents and they couldn't use subtitles – or as they called them in Film School, 'the kiss of death', but sacriflege! and funny as fuck. *snigger*



how i ended up in Borders, of all places: about two weeks back, after our last tattoo session, Kate and i had lunch at the Hatchet and afterwards, i'm walking home... well, dawdling actually cause i was on deadline and hey, where's the fun and stomach-churning excitement when y'all have plenty of time to do any job or else not get paid? there's nothing like that adrenaline rush that floods your head when you finish something to perfection with less than 5 minutes to attach and mail it in. and then you say a lit-tle prayer to Sod about your modem and router and- whoops, STFU you, inside me there; that's even more quiet stuff.

anyway, i'm passing Borders and there's this huge display of Irvine's new book 'Crime' in the window and the unbelievable announcement that Mr Welsh would be signing copies on the night of 7. july. and then i check out Alabama 3 officialdom and read: Irvine Welsh Presents: The Book Slam Summer Barbecue

'...To launch his latest novel Crime, Irvine Welsh has teamed up with Book Slam at 93 Feet East to present an evening of words, music and comedy, bringing together some of his favourite performers, including a set from Alabama 3 Acoustic and Unplugged.

'Featuring: Irvine Welsh, Alabama 3 (acoustic set)...' and some others i never heard of but that was THAT and it's tomorrow night and i'll be there, in London and with HIM again and THEM as well (many thanks, Mark).



anyway, i went through my stuff and brought along the things photographed above and below. at one point last night, i took above promo card for Power In The Blood off the bulletin board in the kitchen (what's missing is the last line: 'October 28 2002'). but when i turned it over, i found this:



'This is the first band I could ever dance to in the daytime hours without chemical assistance. That says a lot. This band are about the only one around that can make you sing, dance and think, even those of us who've impaired that latter process over the years with out indulgence in those chemicals made by man with the grace of our Lord...

'...So a few years down the line and more than a few lines down those years, the virus that is the totally unique, shit kickin', foot-stompin', muthafuckin' virus of beauty called the Alabama 3's music is spreading remorselessly into every corner in our psyche...

'...One more time for the people: Alabama 3 are the first ever band I could dance to in the daytime hours without chemical assistance. That says a lot.

'It says everything'.



so tonight i brought a number of his books plus the images you see above and got everything autographed. the thing of it is, i didn't really want his autograph, i just wanted a reason to spend more time in the glory of his presence. and i had some other deviousity to take care of, about which i won't go into here apart from saying now Irvine's totally aware of who i am actually (and M.O.R). :-)

as it turned out i was last on the queue and i began by telling him we had a mutual friend in common, some Scottish dude called Jake Black and that started the non-stop talking... i dunno about him but i was having a really good time wittering away, in a hopefully intelligent and amusing manner. naturally, i bought his new book and he signed that for me too.



then i picked up my stuff, told him i'd see him tomorrow night and i was off. *sigh* now if every one of my personal appearances in meatspace were as cool as tonight, i'd have nary a problem dealing with TRW. anyway, Irvine's totally got the last word, kinda sorta:

'I enjoy the freedom of the blank page'. *sigh... tell me about it, dude. :-)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

so i'm sitting here...

11,00: edited and reposted in a very sleepy manner cause of the one and only Rock Freebase, whose totally unnecessary name-calling, due to his own frustration (not my fault!) is copied off my phone below.

so i'm sitting here, typing away, pretty much ripped (pretty much SOP round these parts as y'all know) and i hear this little noise and i look past the foyer with the hundreds of vids i can't watch anymore cause Someone in the Alabama 3 (hints: Delta Slide Dude, loves Bukka White and can't stand to be reminded i actually saw Bukka but he never did and never ever will) STILL has my VCR at his place down in Kent. grrrrr...

furthermore, he still has my books on Innumeracy and Stephen Hawk- wait, shit, i'm sorry – was about to get carried away, totally off-topic even more and this, as always, is the fault of Rock Freebase, Delta Slide Dumbass. anyway, speaking of Hisself, i might as well cave since i already posted a bit of Our Last Comm on FreeA3 which, in toto, is here for yo' delectation *in a Larry Love voice* all i can say is, it's a damn good thing i was already awake cause this next came outta nowhere, totally disturbing my dinner and my high:

02,19: 'We got stuck in the lift at JFK for an hour, so missed the flight. Was it two cartons of Marlboro Light? x'

me: 'yes please. and loose tobacco if u can ... ck ur mail, x'.

me: 'watching The Shawshank Redemption, BTW, x'

(editor's note: i txtd that last as an afterthought to aggravate him even more, knowing it's one of his fave films. just sayin'.)

02,42: 'What do you mean, "loose", you silly girl? Which brand, you cock? x'

me: 'Moron! 1 fuckin guess! Two 50 gramme pouches of Golden Virginia, 1 for me, 1 for Chris. Oh, and C if you can find me RED Twizzlers, family or party sized, my asshole cuntrymen call size bag. x'

02,49: 'Fuck off, cunty. x'

me (in wonderment at the totally uncalled-for 'cunty'): 'STFU, i just went on FreeA3 2 dis u, u were on an EL-uh-vay-der, not a "lift" and that's wot ur problem was, u motherless fuck...'

now where was i? right, sitting here the other day and i hear this noise and i'm looking into the bedroom. and then i get a little bit closer.


and my stuff's all over the place and here's the culprit.



BTW, i posted the above cause i can't post what i really wanna say. *snigger* moving right along, here's a skull cause i know posting stuff like this pisses a certain person off, someone who lives down South. so here's yet another skull; suck it up.


now for something completely other, here's one o' my godz and he should be yours as well, Lemmy from Motorhead: 'I don't see why there should be a point where everybody decides you're too old. I'm not too old and until I decide I'm too old, I'll never be too fucking old'.

FUCKIN-A!!!1111!!!!!! You. Go. Lemmy! *love*




LOL, happy birthday, Nomad. *love* xoxoxox

₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢ ₢

all things are possible with prayer & medication

akshually i count up my stash and make liddle mental notes as to what i'm gonna need and when. once at Dirty South, i offered Larry some V.s and he had the fuckwittery to say 'Rimone, you don't have to give any of us teh drugs for us to dig you'. i was amazed at this assholery and immediately told him something like 'd00d! it's obvious you don't know me very well cause all my life, whenever i have something others want or need, i'm pleased to give em away... but i'm no altruist; as long as there's more than enough for myself to pig out on, y'all get the leftovers...' *snigger* the look on his face was priceless (but really, it's all true).

moving right along and still on sleep even though i went off down ADD Lane in the 'graph above, and even though 'I've been relaxin', (yeah, still) i've also been forced to put my cellphone on 'silent' every night cause it seems some guitarplayer now in the States thinks it a fabaroo idea to txt or ring, totally forgetting the time dif and what's worse, his motivations are... shall i say 'questionable'? yes i shall. so i get to hear shit like this.


to which i always go 'no, i hadda get up to answer the phone'. they STILL don't geddit and then have the absolute gall to complain cause i don't pick the damn thing up. last time, i went 'SRY! NO EARS! CAN'T HEER U, SRSLY!' and splained about the utter rudeness and stoopidity about forgetting time zones and such. some txts follow; i won't ID who said what but those paying attention should have no difficulty working it out. and i totally won't out anyone who has anything really complimentary and/or private to tell me. the 'private' is understandable; the complimentary bits? well, let's just chalk it up to my LSE cause though i'm a braggy kinda attention-whore, they embarrass me in an 'i am not worthy!' kinda way.

*whispers* those particular txts – the private ones – have already been transferred into my blackmail files, for future use but don't tell anyone. wait... that makes up the mass of the massiveness of txts so there're only a couple of innocuous ones. oh well...

in assbackwards chronological order: 'The US Government really should invest some of their world conquest budget in the fuckin' roads, they're shite'.

and on the first day when i so generously offered to lead them astray, i mean, lead them to some good eating places et al., i got to read 'Bollocks to food and clothes, what about Persians?'

you can imagine the many many variations of 'fuck YOUSE' i got to send, all with a terrifically huge amount of Schadenfreude on my end. plus one AM i got this almost indecipherable shite from Hisself with some wack complaint about not being able to talk cause Zoe was crashed out in his room. what did i send?:

'EAT ME U USELESS TOERAG ... just remembered i have a boner, oops, a bone to pick with you later on phone. Tickle Z, chix adore waking up like that. ps, COCK! x'

and one of my firsts, after being called 'Dumbass!' – and not once but for the upteenth time that day: 'the only dumbass i c iz u cos u dint have teh brainz 2 think ahead 4 NYC. i should really tell LL, Jake or Sam so e.one knows there coulda...'

and i shall leave y'all to finish my thought cause no way no how am i gonna shame him here (i dig doing it in real time, akshually, preferably up close and personal and ideally with a rapt audience present so we all are able to dig what Chris calls 'The Rock & Rimone Show'). then i felt bad for him as he'd asked me a favor so that txt of mine ended with '...ashamed to say i'm still onnit. Y? 4 my own deviousity plus u'll benefit & i luv u. x'

then i got some shite ending with 'Shut up you silly girlie'. LOL, sorry to say there are many many many other txts on phone but i wanna keep things the way they are and don't need a 6'2" giant after my ass (and not in a good way). but he knows i'm only playing with him (after all this time, at least he better know).


there, suck it up, Freebase. moving right along, here're a few of the photos Mississippi Outlaw was kind enough to send me when he saw them at the Fillmore at Irving Plaza NYC last tuesday night. please click on each cause they're huge.




and then there were the beautiful shirts M.O's wife Jeanne made using Maddie's original logo, that fabaroo unmistakeable signal which should clue in everyone but the unConverted. i've been told many in the band want them, as do i (but as i gave him instructions, i wannit on a black sleeveless T-shirt or anything black apart from a tanktop). i believe these will be going on private sale, individual orders to be taken soon, as soon as Chester the Molester gets his ass back on FreeA3 on a more regular basis. here's a photo and please click again for humongous details.


then M.O. ruined my head with this absolutely beautiful photo of one of my fave buildings in NYC; looking at it brought me right back there and my startled cry of HELLLLP! could've been heard far and wide (and prolly was).


did i feel even the teeniest bit of nostalgia? NO! i felt like i wanted to puke, actually. then again, it's a good thing he didn't score a photo of my favoritest building, the Chrysler Building cause then i would've made it my business to really bust balls. kidding, M.O. you know i am and once again, i verily thank you from the bottom of my (you guessed it) cold cold heart.

in closing *snigger* i made this to reflect the meh o' meh. and it's teh total troof, i swearz it to Ceiling Cat. KTHXBAI!


x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x

state of the Slum(p) IV

YES! it's the Fourth of July! the Day of Mai Indypindenz – mai 4th anniversary of the 1st full day i'm living in England! *preens in a shouty manner* anyway, i'll get to teh State of the Slum(p) a bit later but i took above on one of my first times out on the balcony four years back after thwooping some excellent reefer from our last trip to Maastricht. you can't go by the colors, but i was trying to capture the huge purple wisteria bush, kinda off-centre at bottom of pic, amidst the wrought-iron scrolly things enclosing the balcony. over the last four years, this bush has bloomed its gorgeous purpleness anywhere from late may to mid-june. here's a gooderer pic with the wisteria showing up better but still not reflecting the intensity of the purple.


it hasn't bloomed at all this year which AFAIC, is a huge pity. i've heard of perennials and dirennials and such, but never heard of a plant that blooms every year but the fifth. is there a word for that? still not woken up enough to Google for this info and in all truth, i don't care apart from i miss the gorgeous purplenessity. but it occurs it's poisoned or something... prolly my paranoia. to get my mind off said paranoia, here's another i took right after my ass was firmly and legally esconced in England, the view from out our, whoops, soz, Babe, the view from what's now MY kitchen window.


this never fails to amaze me, that i'm living in such a place, the likes of which i'd never be able to afford back in that hellhole i once thought of as home. as i've said here recently, i used to go round with a magic marker (or Sharpie as they call them here) writing on every availaable horizontal surface i found in NYC: 'We shall not act civilised in this fuckin' city' and i meant every word of that shit. back to the good stuff, i'm living in a place in which all it takes is a 3 minutes walk to see things like the next, up at the top of Bellevue and Lower Clifton Hill.


it gives me quite a non-sexual orgasm to even see stuff like that and i rid myself of any such thing by getting all shouty e.g., 'OMG! this is like normal for those born here...' and as i've said countless times here and in meatspace, the only thing i find affordable in England is my rent, yes including the exhorbitant Council tax and then people look at me as if i were nuts but it's true. i was paying way more for a shithole (large as it was) in Brooklyn, a teeny bit of hell in a way fucked-up 'hood.

OK, this next is one of the first pix i took of the gorgeous skies here... i still can't believe how dif they are from NYC. Chris says it's cause i've never lived in a maritime climate before. however, Bonn has a maritime climate but i never saw such skies over there. anyway, i prefer to think of it as more proof of the glorious difs between the UK and the States. here's the calm before the (six second full-blast) storm which occurred right after i took this:


and during the fullblast storm which above clouds brought along with them was my first experience of horizontal rain. here's the balcony whilst it was occurring. as i took it, my tongue was kinda hanging out in disbelief mixed with delight.


OK, having totally failed to check my post yesterday since i was like more than half-asleep, i see its formatting has totally fucked up and now, i've neither the time nor desire to change it, apart from the fact it offends my very high AQ (Aesthetic Quotient), with that black font in bold and all – ugh, not my style.

OK, back on-topic. today's exactly four years since the first morning i woke up in England, the land of my dreams and hoorah for that. FOUR YEARS LIVING IN ENGLAND is amazing to me and i have Chris to thank for that and whoa, i owe him plenty for making my fondest and oldest dream come true. that's the good bit. oh, one other good bit: i slept for a total of 16 hours since posting last; slept straight through but missed Mark's latest txt. but before posting that i shall upload a coupla pix taken of him recently.

apart from Alabama 3 headlining Glastonbury last friday, the Acoustics flavor of the band played Glasto the night after. big thanks to Cuba23 from whom i stoled this photo:


and big thanks to Chester The Molester, otherwise known to us at FreeA3 as Mississippi Outlaw. he and his wife Jeanne flew up to catch the band in NYC. can you feel me seething? anyway, he took this of (L to R) Piers (The Mountain of Love), Mark (Rock Freebase), Jake (D Wayne Love) and Rob (otherwise known as Larry Love). please click on each for way huge details and other such engorgement.


OK, the txt i missed and i'm pissed i missed it cause i would've dissed him to death in a timely manner:

'Summerfest was great, made a load of new fans. Stayed in Milwaukee, driving to Chicago now'.

*snigger* reading between the lines of that 'stayed in Milwaukee, driving to Chicago now' bit can only summon up one eight letter word to describe his behavior cause knowing him as well as i do, there's no other reason why he missed the bus, so to speak. hint: starts with an 'M' and ends with an 'e'. well? to quote from The Big Lebowski, 'Am i wrong?' LOL, Mark, d00d! as y'all must know by now, we all love you ANYway so don't you dare get all pissed at me for stating what those in the know, are totally aware of as obvious. day-umn...

as i just txtd back, after sorrying him to death that i'd missed his txt, i'm verily pleased he's having the fun for which this past Winter had so given him an IOU; i'm VERY happy he's having fun (in a Freebase kinda way) which he so sorely deserves after the bullshit that went on, in his personal life. and just cause i wanna, i'm posting one of my fave pics of Mark as Rock Freebase. why? cuz i can. :-)


OK, back to The State of teh Slum(p): it seems i'm not only sleep-typing (as my non-awareity to my last post's fucked formatting shall attest) but unfortunately sleep-doing other stuff as well. this troubles me and muchly so; i mean, with my vivid imagination, i can see myself dropping some Morning Don't Mean Ass and going down The Hatchet, grabbing the first cute young dude i see and taxi'ing it back to my flat, posthaste. and then not having any memory of doing it.

my way-too-vivid imagination paints the picture in my head now, the morning after: 'who the fuck are you and what the hell are you doing in my flat, much less my damn bed?' him: 'Wha? you found me at The Hatchet and went "wanna fuck?" and then we broke our asses getting back here'. me: 'holy shit, i don't remember this. was it good?'

him: 'Fuckin-A! "good" doesn't begin to cover it...': me 'oh. well, that's all right then...' *snigger* LOL at myself. but really, this is quite troubling, especially if stuff like this keeps on happening, the above made-up scene might just really happen and then i'd be really fucked not just proper fucked, but my sterling rep here in Bristol would be fucked beyond repair. anyway:

here it comes, the most recent State o' the Slum, adding a teeny bit – fuck it, in truth, it adds muchly – to my fear of my quickly approaching oncoming senility. when i woke up just before, totally refreshed and for once, not reloading my still drugs-laden head, i bopped into the kitchen and was aghast to see my bottle of nail polish remover only like an eighth of the way filled, cap missing (last time i saw it, sometime this friday morning before i crashed, i'd gotten the urge to re-do my nails and it was halfway filled).

now what's more than a bit alarming is, i have no memory of doing this, no memory of beginning to take the old nail polish off my nails nor of moving the bottle over to the sink cover, something i never do cause there's no need. what's worse is, when i found it, the damn bottle was totally upright, not on its side, where i could understand how the missing liquid had dripped down the sink, but no. and the cap? bloody hell, nowhere to be found.

this troubles me muchly but wait – there's even more! after i pushed the button on my coffee machine, i searched for the kitty spoonrest my sister gifted me with years ago.


first i looked in the usual places: the dishrack for drying wet things and the cupboard for when i'm not too lazy (hah! a really rare occurrence and only happens when guests are to be over) and that's when i actually put stuff away. but no; it was nowhere to be found. about the spoonrest, when given me, i totally loved it but ri-moaned to my sister: 'couldn't you have found one that resembles Peter?' (tiger-striped kitty).


she cursed me out in return mail, accusing me of never being satisfied; her mail kinda went like 'You fucking cunt, wouldn't a "thank you" have done?' and yup, she's right. but i HAD to ri-moan, i mean, i wouldn't be me if there were no complaining going on. even she knows that, dammit. anyway. the thing of it is, as things worked out years later, it's a veritable porcelain image of Hunter. back to when i finally came to late tonight, in near-desperation, i opened the fridge and saw this:


and there it was, on top of a stack of Cheddar cheeses, still holding yesterday's coffee-stained spoon. i have no memory of putting it in there and why in bloody hell would i do that anyway? i mean, everyone knows a large bit of me is my total anality e.g., 'A place for everything and everying in its place'.


i'm losing it (prolly lost it already) but we already knew that. but still, on this day alone: the entire missing nail polish remover whilst the bottle was vertical (i found the cap in the shelf i keep Hunter's food and snacks – WTF? and WHY?) and the spoonrest found in the fridge; they're both totally a mystery to me. fuck knows what was in my head when putting them there; i mean, i'm reality-grounded enough to know that even i know where these things belong.

i instantly removed the cap from the cupboard, screwed it onto the damn bottle and put the spoonrest back, where it belongs, next to the coffee-machine for easy access. here it is on the kitchen floor cause there were too many reflections for it to come out goodly next to said coffee-machine.


see below for what's blasting; i think i'm playing this muchly hoping the 'satisfied' bit rubs off on me. *to self* i wonder if this is like the beginning of the end: like, more proof i can't be trusted to take care of trivial things in my flat, much less, as everyone already knows, i still can't take care of my own bad dumbass self.


preferably a live-in minder and ideally some cute young dude to take care of my daily wotevers or at least stand by my side, bugging me to death so i take care of 'em myself. this would be someone who cooks like a pro and loves doing so (e.g., cooks on a par with both Chris and Mark, both of whom, just the memory of the meals they so willingly cooked for me, bring a veritable fountain of drool in my mouth). right, and this personal minder must be all obliging and stuff as far as serving me hand and foot.

duties and perks: first off, if you thwoop, i shall be more than happy to keep you ripped 24/7 and even give you take-homes. and i totally neither want nor need anyone else to do the cleaning (cause i dig smoking hash or whatever other kinda thwoop and cleaning myself) but i shall need someone to hold the ladder cause i'm about to do the three ten-foot windows (which haven't been cleaned since four years back when i first moved in).

other perks include an undetermined number of hours a week (was kidding about the 24/7), y'all get to hang with me in Brixton but only if you wanna; if i require accompaniment travelling to London, at certain times you'll be free to take off cause i totally want you to have a life outside the confines of my reclusivity. oh, you can consider this next a perk or a job to be reluctantly done (i personally consider it a perk, but that's just me, your mileage will prolly vary:

i shall expect you to bathe me each day or night you're here, lathering me up and scrubbing my back and the other hard-to-reach bits and such and paying particular regard to what's left of my chestal area. and here's another perk: unlike in The Man Who Wasn't There, i shall be more than happy to shave my own legs.

as well, said minder must have a strong stomach for the nearly impossible chores on the To Do for SG list i shall bestow upon him – stuff like going to London for me when i'm too lazy to score (read: always). y'know, stuff like that. believe me, it'll be fun fun FUN! well, at the very least, i can assure there'll never be a dull moment round here, what with my constant demands and such. nb: potential minder does not need to be a drugs-doer (which'll mean more for ME). drinking's cool, straight's even better. just sayin', like. :-)

what's blasting: Praise God I'm Satisfied by Blind Willie Johnson – again with big thanks to Jeremy and Logical John. *love* i've played the shit outta this so many times since i got it, along with the Bessie Smith i uploaded the other day.

once again PRAISE JEBUS AND THANK CHRIS I'M LIVING IN THE LAND OF MY DREAMS for the past four years. sometimes i think i'm gonna wake up to some kinda fucked reality in a parallel universe, only to find myself still calling Brooklyn 'home'. if that shit happens, i can only pray to my godz that i have no memory of the last four, no, counting DE, the last almost seven years outta the States.

personal note to Wil/The Coat: fuckin' bloody hell, dude, i was just going through my DVDs and two out of the few having no proper covers; y'know they're in paper sleeves – 'and that's cool...' – but i had two in my hand and with my ever-emerging anality leavened with the home-type OCD i find myself getting blissfully lost arranging and rearranging the more than 200 DVDs (last count was about six weeks ago and since then, i've gotten at least 15 more, mostly found at thrifts shops – thank fuck!– oh wow... that's the Asperger's expanding on above post's ADD).

anyway, right, it's not really a topic directed towards you alone; it's an ask so AFAIC now it's cool to be in here. OK, Wil. *clears throat*

THANK YOU SOOOooo MUCHLY for the DVDs with which you've gifted me over the years. i can't put into words how much delight they've given me not only for the viewing but cos of the first hand, most believable proof that all factual accounts must have. in particular i've talking about that great gig with D Wayne and the S.A.H.B. in Glasgow in 2005. this shall be one of the many which'll be bits of my future book chronicling the Alabama 3. if i have the misfortune to be alive, that is. *whispers* come and git meh, Basement Kitteh! pleeh! ASAP!

anyway, i wanna be the one to tell the story of the band to the tiny-teeniest detail but after 2000, it'll all centre on me, of course (since we all know i cannot approach ANY of my fave topics like Usability without it being from a first person POV, kinda like Hunter S Thompson's Gonzo journalism but worser. Mikey once said, 'You're the most self-centred person I've ever met'.

i immediately asked Chris to hardcode it into my real site's template cause, i mean, it was the total truth. i am and i'm extremely up front about it. i mean, why lead people on, them thinking i'm all giving and generous, when i can't stand most of them? but thinking a bit, in all troof, i'm totally with Charles Bukowski:

'I don't hate people. I just feel better when they're not around'. *nods head in a childlike but emphatic manner*

whoa, more ADD and Asperger's, soz ppl. back to my request to Wil, d00d! i had it in my hand along with Rob Love's Ghostflight DVD and other DVD'd moments of Alabama 3 history but since i'm all old and shakey, i dropped them and i can't tell the dif cause they're all unlabelled and i don't have to time to stick 'em into my increasingly cranky DVD player cause i'm scared the next time i use it'll be the time it quits working. so please people, keep sending me A3 shit and i'll be more than happy to pay for postage and proper DVD and CD covers.

back to me on people, there are some i love, compared with the boring asswipes of TRW to whom good manners dictate i must be all polite and interested, that's the time for The Frozen Smile Perfected. about the rest (all Alabama 3 fans – coincidence? i think not), i love them all. that is, the ones i'm speaking to – just about 99.999999% of them. and when i say 'love' i mean 'love' in the 'will do anything to help them out and/or share Alabama 3 stuff as long as it's not on sale' and to the about ten i rilly know *reluctantly includes Traitor Dave* i'd practically die for y'all. nb: my Aspie can't lie thing compels me to admit if the mode of dying was a nice shot o' smack, i'd fucking die for any of the boring masses as well. soz, fellas, i ain't gonna lie.

wait – what the hell does all that have to do with Wil? oh right, look blame it on the ADD and the Aspies (for details! bah...). as Chris says in exasperated semi-shouty fashion: 'The HEADLINE, dammit!'

right, please people, when you send me bootlegs and historical stuff, please include a proper CD and/or DVD cover, the plastic kind? i'll even forego waiting extra plus very willing to send youse cheques, not only for the postage but for the material within. i'm putting this in here cause i'm about to being looking through my 17 unread mails, having put it off since i got up cause i've been cleaning, futzing around the flat and playing with Hunter ever since i woke up about midnight. y'know, just thwooping and cleaning and 'Just havin' mah coffee'.

05,17: what' blasting now: It's Nobody's Fault But Mine (Blind Willie Johnson). yup, y'all can see the frame of mind i'm in so it's time to give my mind a hol and film out whilst having dinner... nah, i think 5 hours after waking up's known as lunchtime, hoorah! tonight is a toss-up between Lonely Hearts (ooh! total escapism and no thinking required! fuckin-A!) and The Shawshank Redemption which MS Freebase recommends so highly, it's on his profile page at U-G. :-)

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time flies ➳ four years

*yawn* zzzzz... typing in my sleep but just had to say: exactly four years back, after Chris flew from here to Bonn the day before to help supervise the DE movers packing, Ercu drove us to Overath and we tearfully left Petey at Frau Linz' beautiful Katzenpension. the only blight on that day happened the minute we brought him inside – he had his own high-ceiling'd room filled with straw and sisal hemp stuff for scratching and with a private like runway leading straight out into the forest and as i laid out his steel dishes and filled them with food and water, he gave us a look, then turned round and stared at the wall and refused to let me hug him Goodbye. i was near sobbing and Chris wasn't doing too well either; we both loved our sweet little boy so much and felt terrible there was no way to tell him we were coming back in september, when he'd finally be permitted to enter England.

the really weird thing was, a day or two before Chris flew over the Channel to collect me, Peter would jump into my lap as i sat at my desk and began to lie across my knees, whilst i typed, posting to my real site. he'd never done anything like that before. each time i had to stand up to get dinner or go to the Markt or even the bathroom or anywhere, really, he'd like hunch down further on my legs. one time i got up and i was wearing Peter, like, somehow he'd dug his claws into the bottom of my T-shirt without scratching me at all. it was heartbreaking; it was as if he knew and wanted to prevent the separation by actually physically getting in my way.

after the last box was loaded onto the moving van, we said our good-byes to Bonn. then i stayed at the flat for awhile instead of walking down to the Rhein with Chris; i was sitting on the floor leaning against the livingroom wall not reading the book opened in front of me, just sitting in that empty flat thinking about stuff. Chris came back about half an hour later with some particularly pretty stones he'd picked up from the banks of the Rhein. i still have a lot of beautiful rivery Rheinische things but i hardly ever look at them anymore. later on that evening, we ate out in the Zentrum and then Ercu drove us to Koln Flughafen.

then we were on German Wings Flight 4U348 and an hour later were at Gatwick. we had dinner at a place called the Village Inn and i remember feeling totally spoinged outta my head cause for the first time in years i understood the conversations of people around us. i think i remember we got really drunk and then took a coach back to Bristol and i slept here that first night four years back, all happy thinking our new life was really beginning now, in the same country where all our friends and the band are.

what's so weird is, it really does seem like yesterday even though so much stuff has happened. i think it's an age thing... like it's all relative and stuff but my head hurts when i think on things like that and i'm too wasted now anyway and much too tired so i'm going back to sleep for another fifteen hours or so.

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i've been relaxin'

regular posting will commence once my regular life recommences (means when i go back to having no life: no cigs, no drugs, no booze, no freelancing, no friends, no nothing). for now, please see dates of Alabama 3's American tour in post below. that is, IF y'all can find 'em within all my wordyness.

That Is All. *snigger*

oh wait, i lied. first of all, i have a shitload of hilarious txts on my phone, stuff that went on since Alabama 3 hit the States and played NYC yesterday, txts that i'm gonna post ASAP but not tonight (yes at the risk of Some People in Some Band never speaking to me again). anyway, Mississippi Outlaw took his wife to see them last night (after i played middleman between his mails and Mark's phone... what fun! NOT. MO mails me from across the Atlantic, i txt or ring Mark (across the Atlantic) and then they hook up. i mean, what about meeeeee? do i look like a fuckin' people person, helping people get together and shit?



moving right along, this morning MO said:

'I found Mark at the bar next door, show was pretty good. Small crowd, no promotion, go figure. Jake told me only 135 tickets sold as of just recently. Crowd was in to it, not like in the UK but were some fans. ... Talked to Jake quite a bit outside after Mark went in before the gig...

'...I missed them doing (Acoustic) Gig in the park for a Village Voice interview. DAMN!!!! Mark had hoped I got there in time but I didn't...'

OK people, your mission is to find evidence of this gig that happened 1. july in NYC. someone go Google The Village Voice or look on youtube, please? i imagine it's either Washington Square Park or Tompkins Square Park. plus Angie txtd and told me they were live on the radio at 21,00 tonight but i missed it cause i had to go out for Hunter.

NEWSFLASH FROM MISSISSIPPI OUTLAW:

'...Rob said as I was telling him bye that they were doing a LARGER tour in AUGUST / SEPT. Maybe they will get to Washington and Baltimore then I HOPE, I HOPE...'

another American tour? i'm gonna be in the States then, hoorah! holy fuckin' shit, i can't believe i'm pleased i'll be in the States. hmmpf... must be the band, LOL.

'Let's see, Oh yeah Zoe's "dress" didn't make it and she was not happy. You willl see in a photo (when I can get it off Jeannie's camera card) what she wore. different style, tight body hugging, short, silver and black horizontal stripes on front and black on the back. Rob had on a Black shiny leather trench coat and hat to start the show. That's all for the fashion report...'

c'mon, Chester The Molester. where's the pics? for all i know they could be up at FreeA3 already but i don't have time to look, i'm gonna have dinner and crash cause i have Another Big Day tomorrow). one more thing: i'm sorry, Pixie... i shall ring you tomorrow instead. :-(

what's blasting: my new fave tune, Careless Love by Bessie Smith. thank you Jeremy and thank you, Logical John. *throws kisses, flowers, joints and waves wildly*

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