Thursday, 31 July 2008

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*


Wednesday, 30 July 2008

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. :-)


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.

* 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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Friday, 25 July 2008

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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Tuesday, 22 July 2008

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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