SOS!

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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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state of the Slum(p) VII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

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


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

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



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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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presented without comment

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

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



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

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



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



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



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

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

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



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

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snap shots

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

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



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







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

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

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




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



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



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

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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

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

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evil tattooed bitch!

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

hope U die B4 U get old?

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

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

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state of the Slum(p) VI: extended play

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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right now

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

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

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

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

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state of the Slum(p) VI

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



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



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

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



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



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



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



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



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

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

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



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

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



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

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



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



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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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what's blasting over here

three of my favest old skool toonz EVar: Turn On Your Love Light by Jerry Lee Lewis who rocked my world when i was 7. LOL, SEVEN YEARS OLD, mind! and this is a bit of how The Trouble Began but that's a story part of which already told and not the point. for now. ;-)



Soul Man by Sam & Dave who rocked my world like a decade later. The Trouble (Take II) had already started by then, yet another story for another time.



and bestest of all...Freda Payne and BAND OF GOLD (which i've already heard like 11x this AM alone). turn em all up to 11 and happy listening – but please be kind: R-click and Save first, TIA, xxx.

edit @08,30 wednesday. forgot to say THIS WAS A TEST. i shall be checking my stats on a regular basis and to alla youse lovely people who read me *snigger* if my bandwidth begins to be eaten up too fastly, they'll all come down ASAP. which is a damn shame cause i've gotten permission to upload a coupa intristin' things, tunes (or variations of same) which din't make it onto M.O.R. yup, it's a shame (not for me, for thee) cause i love sharing Alabama 3 and that which i've gotten my grubby liddle paws onto and in the immortal words of D Wayne Love, 'I Ain't Doin' It'.

soz for the Alabama 3 Tourette's and resultant A3 ADD (not rilly sorry but trying for a level of seriousity here, seriousity tempered with one o' my scarey smiles) so once again, please R-click and Save to your hard-drives before listening. don't dig em? trash em or else they'll be no more M.O.R for alla youse. well, that is, unless y'all come over and visit but there's a better chance of Jebus dancing on a camel bopping through the eye of some needle, somewhere. oh wow, i'm off-topic. sue my nasty ass. :-)

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LOL, it's Freeeebaaaaaaase!

Rock's comment: 'I think it looks rather splendid'.

a good friend just mailed: 'Probably a good thing he didn't wear that to Austin'.

ROTFLMFAO! Mark, my questions to you are: are you bi-earring'd now? did you take the other one out, or leave it in? (there since aged 13, as you informed me when i asked last year). enquiring minds wanna know an' all. :-)

thanks, person-who-sent-this-to-me whom i don't wanna get into trouble. *snigger* i saw a rather large prototype of this a few weekends back and i had only one thing to say (and in the words of the Very Reverend D Wayne Love, 'I ain't doin' it!').

nb: earring design was stoled, i mean 'taken' (no, not 'inspired') from Maddi's original Alabama 3 logo, the Afroskull which she created over ten years back, shown here:


thank you, Maddi. *love*

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even more SG self-absorption

* in light that i crashed at 22,00 last night cause i've got a busy day today and then woke up at 02,00, pigged out, watched the start of Hitchcock's Family Plot just in time to hear Karen Black say about 25 minutes in, 'What about the ketamine for that toothache?' which left me um, mulling and envious, and then crashed again, only to wake the fucking fuck up at 07,30 so this was my first twit of the day: 'being 4 of the 7 dwarfs: Grumpy, Sneezy, Sleepy & Dopey. "case of the mondays", my ass, bah!'

* bought huge boxed set of Alfred Hitchcock's 50s-60s work. Psycho's the only DVD that doesn't play in my all region DVD player. spent 30 minutes on phone with Amazon UK splaining. result? 5£ cred and immediately bought Psycho (singly) again along with other films i don't need but want to keep me sane and distracted.

* am forced to go out after a record 8 days inside (last time out last sunday night from London). this doesn't sit too well with me. it's to the eye doctor and i wannit to be over already. running outta food (mine and Hunter's) and so weak from illness, considering splurging on taxi to help me take my shit back including the 10 kilo cat litter bag.

* going back to bed now cause i'ze so weak and tired and totally don't have the strength to go out. alarm's set for 12,30 to get me to app't in time. temperature's like 100F so shoot me now, please... ka-CHOO! ka-CHOO! ka-CHOO!

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SG minutia

fun fact: even before i met him, i was in love with above poster. anyway, going by that old axiom 'The unexamined life is not worth living' here's more boring teeny tiny facts about my exciting life at home.

a) YES! thanks to the generousity and brilliance of Techie Boy,
i'm back on line and so is my mail client. *obligatory fuck you finger to teh hated webmail, even Y!* :-)

b) it's hard to be me on Ultimate Guitar II (see part 1 here). dig how harsh these fuckers were to me when i dared begin a topic called My Voice is My Instrument. well, one o' them was a dick but he actually apologised on my profile page.

b1) dick-swinging contest: i've got more U-G friends than Freebase. then again, the GUI's very hard to negotiate – it's like a Usability nightmare. but they listened to The Klan more times this week, than even Rock's Sweet Joy. c'mon, people help me out; join up, listen to his tunes and raise his fucking profile there. and pweeze sign on to be mah fwen' (and his as well).

b2) i betcha he doesn't even know that this exists; their User Interface is so fucked up i had no idea i had 'friends' requests waiting for me for weeks already, till last night.

b3) fun fact: last weekend he told me they'd interviewed him for Ultimate-Guitar and its over 7,000 members.

c) i actually ventured outside last night, down to the Hatchet, and managed to slip down these steps on my ass...


sliding real fast, like, hitting each step. this occurred when i espied Katie waiting for me below so i commenced running from Park Street downstairs. it actually was fun, and i heard myself first going 'ow! ow!' and then 'WHEEEEE!' like Police Chief Wiggums. i think Kate looked at me strangely when i got all shouty and but we were so fucked up, i couldn't have cared less.

d) i signed up for jaxtr this AM cause i think it's a great idea and my phonebills are busting me broke (and most importantly, they hide your real telephone numbers). but y'all have to sign on as well, in order for us to talk free and cheaply (all over the world). tried to place this widget in the sidebar over to the R here but failed fuckin miserably. and have to post a screenshot cause i'm so lame at grabbing frames and blogger don't post .tiff format. click for the cute liddle widget which should be in lower R-hand column if i were half the geek i wanna be. :-(



e) thanks to Christine, this made me cry (so naturally i watched it over and over again, for the depression: best excuse in the world to take more drugs. :-)

f) thanks to Lazybones, i just got this vid of the Alabama 3 from Dorset this week. THIS IS THE BEST FREEBASE CRUCIFIXTION EVAR! YOU. GO, ROCK! (starts at 3,27 – take note, Mississippi Outlaw). :-)

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site notes & ri-moaning

19,45: new and improved! see last item below which cheered me although my real site's still down.

damn straight; you bet yer fuckin ass i am, and these are just some of the reasons why:

a) my real site's down which is depressing (hah –> euphemism!) since i had the most beautiful BRB message EVar:



mailed my hosting service a complaint and must wait '24 hours' to see WTF's up. 'tis more than passing strange; it's renewed for the next nine years and i've had permission to post EVERY Alabama 3 tune i ever have.

result? took 4 Xanax and 3 blue V.s. I. AM. PISSED!

b) if y'all wanna mail me, please use my Y! addy: rrimone (at) yahoo (dot) com. BASTARDS!

result: i hate webmail even more than before with the constant reloading the damn page. more Xanax dropped; thinking of swallowing more V.s. wishing i had the good stuff, William S Burroughs' fave. FFS! my kingdom for a damn dilaudid, even! OK, back to site notes:

c) changed my profile; removed '...my plea: if any British dude would, out of the goodness of his heart, do me a karma-packed solid and marry me so i don't have to wait the 11 months till i can apply to be a UK citizen, please mail me ASAP.

'i promise you won't be vexed by my end of the deal which, out of respect for the family-friendly nature of this site, shall go unstated here. and as Bast is my witness (amplified by each brilliant dose of Holy Blood and Sweet Joy by the Alabama 3), your delight shall reach an untold apex by virtue of my own personal end (photos sent upon request)'.

took it all out and replaced it with this: '11 more months till i can apply to be a permanent legal UK resident. fuck that marriage thang; i made a vow when i was 5 so it'll never happen anyway. calling Sod! shit! did i just say that aloud?'

result: researched offerings to make Sod's Law go assbackwards which in this case would help me muchly. smoked a HUGE pipeload of Moroccan black. one more Xanax and one more V since my aggravation towards my hosts or whatever seem to be negating the good stuff. and that's the biggest sin of all: they're making me waste good drugs. note to my hosting service or whatever:


d) back to the profile changes, i put a little message in the Fave Films bit for people like Dragnim and Highlander. nyah, nyah... i mean, what do they know?:



result: Schadenfreude lasting one second. two more blue V.s popped. eyeing the Xanax. fuck it... dropped another.

e) note to '4playwithme' who just sent me a Bluetooth pairing request. don't bother dude; i don't play with unknowns unless they'ze young, talented and sexy. or if they know enough to teach me more about Usability.

result: Googled above; dickwad's some muscle-bound dork in Florida of all places. i betcha he surfs the lower Atlantic and's a republikkkan. *puke*

f) thought from music futurist Gerd Leonhard here: 'bloggers are like DJs. they pick bands to play and talk about and become powerful super-nodes (me)...' apart from i ain't powerful nor am i a supernode. thanks to one of my followers on Twitter, mleis.

result: i've only turned on about a thousand people to the Alabama 3 from either of my sites. this distresses me muchly. just took my 20th V. and i KNOW they're good... it's the aggro that fight their efficacy. i shall travel to the wilds of wherever USA to beat the shit outta everyone at my hosting service or whatever if my real site's not up and soon.

g) actual positive stuff – maybe teh drugs might be working!: from TumblSeth: 'I don’t consider myself better than anyone because I use Apple products and you shouldn’t feel so bad for being second best for not using them'.

result: 'just havin' mah coffee...'

h) even more positive shit! amazing! just bit the bullet and Skype'd one of my Twitter crew to ask him why he's following me. in essence it's cause i'm 'interesting'. *snigger* he's a Frenchman in Kiev and we Skyped for about an hour and then i added his site to my Reservoir Dogs at right. *beaming cause he's an IT expert*

result: 'still having mah coffee...' with a huge fuckin' joint and a smile to scare babies.

i) SCHADENFREUDE TIME!: Madonna is FIFTY today. i shall never forgive her for fucking my entertainment attorney bosses' brains out just as she and Cyndi Lauper hit the charts at the same time. and for other things i won't go into here (ask me, ask me). my birthday wish for Madonna? plastic surgery and lots of it (not the good kind, the kind that doesn't 'take' well, of course). was about to post this:



when i went over to awful plastic surgery and found the real thing. dig, here's Madonna noted on 27. july:



am i mean? fuck yeah, but y'hadda be where i was and overhear what i did to understand my initial disgust and contempt for her throughout her trumped up, phoney gay caring career.

result: SQ (Schadenfreude Quotient) SOARING plus *happy grrl dancing* all over the place. especially since she's been here in the UK for like over 5 years and enunciates with a phoney Brit accent compared to Chrissie Hynde, a REAL rocker and musician, who's been here over 30 years and still speaks in her Midwestern Ohio twang.

trying to end on a normal (for me) happy note, here's a photo Euripidean Jane took along the Thames for me a few weeks back cause she knows how much i love those fishy lamp-posts.



and a photo that should be an award winner, taken by Dave G last Winter, called Snowtree (click on pic for fragile but beautifully huge details).


added for your viewing pleasure whether or not you hate cats or love em: Prolly the funniest kitty vid you'll ever see (bear with the lame opening). happy weekend, people. :-)

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more on Orlando's latest

i got a bunch of mails from people on my post yesterday but i think this one's most succinct; it's from Segs' sister Christine, unfortunately (for the botha us) in the States cause she married an American (!?!). but one o' the good ones:

'...Anyway, I just read your post about Orlando's post and I had a couple of comments too. One is I agree with Chuck about the name Alabama 3. I think, for one thing, that was a bad choice of band name for the States because of the obvious – people associate with the beloved (choke –> puke) all-American band, Alabama, and Americans who don't know them probably think they're a cover of that band or something.

'You know how they are over here....'

lemme break in, Christine: yeah, in general, they're fuckin' STOOPIT! helpful hint to Statesiders:


'I've really had to spell it out to people sometimes, no, not THAT Alabama, Alabama THREE...'

*SG smacks head in frustration*

'Also The Sopranos Theme! Well, I gave up asking people over here if they'd ever seen The Sopranos! I used to ask nearly everyone I met if they'd seen it just to say my brother played in the band but 9 times out of 10, people I'd asked hadn't even seen the show!

'That's because it's on HBO and a lot of people don't have it because it costs so much extra to watch the same 2 movies over and over for a month. Most people I've asked had heard of the show but weren't familiar with the theme, or maybe they'd just heard part of the theme from ads on T.V. And then again like you said they're not mentioned in the credits even if people have seen the show...'

i refuse to touch on the directly above cause i'm done blowing my stack over that moronic oversight. Stuart Green? Bob Johnson? whomever the hell made the deal with Sopranos' maestro David Chase fucked up bigtime.

on to happier things: here's Segs and Christine's husband Michael on the band's 2000 American tour:



and here's Christine with her little darling Scruffy:



thank you, Orlando, for starting a shitstorm; i haven't received this much mail on a post since both parts of My Rape I and II.

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Orlando: God Bless The Alabama 3

and today they're telling me to set Orlando straight on a coupla points from his latest lovely piece, from The Spirit Speaks and i have this loud-mouthed rep to maintain, so here we go.

'If God Exists, and he's as besotted with America as Americans think he is...'

do NOT generalise, sweet sir, i happen to have had the misfortune to be born in the home of the brave (brave regarding needless and crass consumer consumption way beyond one's needs for the benefit of 'The Joneses', the type of activity even the mad wouldn't consider) and land of free enterprise (read: 'American') and i'm sure any sane god hates our fuckin' ugly greedy non-Socialistic guts.

think Katrina, think bu$hCo, think of the fact that 99% of US wealth is controlled by the elite 5% of the population). but think for the most part we are IDIOTS (present company excluded of course). next time i see you, i'll tell you the amusing little story of how the UK's much beloved 'Quiz Nights' would NEVER go down, over there. not if y'all's a red-blooded American male, they wouldn't. no, not even in 'faggy' Jew York City, as ann [hope she dies painfully today] coulter calls my home town. back to youuuu, Orlando:

'...then he must hate the Alabama 3. Our every attempt to ingratiate ourselves into the beautiful country...'

stop right there, dude – take the South Bronx as an example of 'beautiful country'. or Brooklyn or wherever else the wealthy don't deem worthy to piss on. been down in any of the NYC Subways? nah, dint think so. helpful hint: bring a gas mask.

'...has been so ill-starred you'd have to suspect divine intervention. This is unfair, because we've always been very nice to God; Larry name-checks him at every opportunity. In fact he's had his tongue up God's arse for so long you’d think He'd give us a break'.

uhhh, far be it for me to contradict you but an all-knowing all seeing wotEVar god or goddess certainly must have total contempt for asslickers or brown-nosers as we Stateside Puritans are sometimes known to call them.

'But then, most of Larry's references are from the New Testament, so maybe God's Jewish'.

ARRRRGGGHHHH!!!! haven't you ever heard of The Chosen People? which include the less than ten percent of American Jewy types? that's us – chosen! dunno for what we're chosen apart from shite skin, horrid noses, worser hair, fat asses (chicks and guys) and 'education' but hey, that's the apocrypha and far be it for me to bust a cap in the asses of thousands of years of fairytale.

fun fact: one of the three prayers devout Jewish dudes say upon arising each AM is 'Thank god i'm not born a woman'. nice, huh? right, back to Orlando:

'But so was our first manager, Stuart Green, the man who advised us to submit our criminal records to the American Embassy, resulting in the deportation of several members of the band, including himself. A Zionist conspiracy?'

no comment on the Zionist conspiracy bit unless Mr Green now resides in Israel or wherever. in general, Jews ALWAYS obey the laws but there're always ways to get around them. Stuart Green was just the Wrong Jewy Manager. dipshit... nah, better yet, in the parlance of the common Jew, he was a SCHMUCK.

'But the man who tried so hard to get us there in the first place, David Geffen, was a Jew too'.

OK, here we have one of the biggest kept secrets in the US of A: Hollywood Jews are NOT reg'lar American Jews. they celebrate Christmas with a passion and turn their noses up at Chanukah or however you say it without spitting all over the faces of the persons opposite you. THEY ARE NOT LIKE THE 9% of JEWS ALL ROUND THE REST OF THE STATES! just take a look at all the films that ever came out of Hollywood, no matter from the 20s to right up to now.

unless we're talking Tevya and his fiddling on the roof or Barbra Streisand in the non-hit Yentl, you show me a successful goddamned film made in California which emphasises Jewy rituals (or whatever the fuck they are); it's always churches, always confession, always Christmas in december, always crosses, always candles, always kneeling, always Christ (nb: not a complaint).

fun fact 2: dig the typical American Jewish mindset: 'From that you make a living?' this is the usual response to someone who tells you they're an artist, a musician, a writer, or a blue-collar worker.

fun fact 3: by definition, anything not 'kosher' and/or termed 'goy' or 'goyish' totally means unclean. this includes those men with dicks uncircumcised. and 'kosher' only means retail shit 'blessed' by some rabbi and priced doubly more than normal goods and services. i'll leave y'all to draw your own conclusions.

'By elimination, it seems God must be a Muslim. But then wouldn't the Alabama 3 be the perfect weapon of cultural jihad, a dirty bomb of pop infecting the infidel with songs like 'Mao Tse Tung said' and 'Power in the blood'? Hm... maybe God's a Christian after all...'

nah... one word: promo, promo, promo. nah, two words: promo lacking.

'Or maybe he's as confused as we are. As confused as the 115 people at our first New York show ten years ago, as they gamely cheered a bunch of British Cokeheads singing about the redemptive powers of bestiality in cod- Louisiana accents. On that tour we opened up for shouty anarchist agitators Chumbuwumba, who had, much to their own surprise, just had a hit over there with "I Get knocked Down."

'When you get a song in the charts over there you find Dads and Moms start coming to your gigs with their children. I found myself in Denver giving the Red Army salute in the faces of a row of thirteen year old girls, sucking lollipops while their mothers covered their ears with their hands. I don't mind telling you, it felt a bit wrong'.

aw, c'mon... don't be a pussy. you loved every second of it (i would).

'When "Woke Up This Morning" was picked up by HBO for "The Sopranos" it looked for five minutes like everything was going to be different. Then Columbia withdrew all their promotional support over a row with Geffen over the rights to the song'.

fun fact 4: we found all this shit out eight years back on the 'Net the second we ordered the Sopranos Sampler since nary the name of the theme tune singers were on the credits to the Sopranos. the second we found out your name we Googled our heads off and learnt y'all slipped through the cracks of Geffen, Columbia and then finally Sony. WE were the ones who announced to the Sony A3 message-board that y'all were touring the States in 2000. Chris knows the entire story, all the ins and outs, ups and downs &c &c. and it's a sad one but hey.

'When we played it in a series of steak -houses across the U.S. bemused yanks would come up to us and congratulate on our convincing cover version of 'That Sopranos tune'. We were famous the world over. There was just the small problem of nobody knew who the fuck we were'.

see three comments above.

'Every time we went to the U.S. we lost money. After the Soprano's debacle One Little Indian decided we were a liability. Fans and Promoters would call, begging us to come over, and even our own management would tell them not to bother. Good eh?'

me thinks – strike that – me knows you've been managed by uncaring assholes apart from the newly current management, Jonathan and Ian and big thanks to the both, especially Jonathan. Punkt, Ende.

'So ten years later, I’m surprised to find myself in a taxi on the way to Heathrow terminal 5 to catch the 10:10 to New York...'

read the rest of Orlando's adventures at JFK Airport (20 minutes cabride from my wicked mother's house!) my fave bits:

'....we file through immigration at JFK. I try and find the correct posture to adopt in front of the female immigration officer ... I settle for a sort of relaxed put respectful hands-clasped-in-front stance, a bit like a man who needs the toilet but is secure enough in himself not to worry about anyone seeing his cock. ...

'...I'm directed to a separate office. Everything could still go wrong. There, sitting on a row of plastic chairs under a poster trumpeting the good works of "Homeland Security", are D.Wayne, Peers and Ed. Ed's record reads like a short story by Irving Welsh...'

I LOVE IT! oops, soz Orlando, continuing with you:

'..."Mr Edwards? You've entered the United states twice since your initial deportation, in 2001 and 2006 is that correct?"

"Why yes Madam! Indeed! I believe that to be the case!" For some reason he's started talking like a Dickensian manservant...'

ROTFLMAO! read the entire thing and thank you Orlando for doing my work for me today.

wait! aha! and intristin': 'Abraham: Some Islamic theologians say he was the first Muslim who was about tosacrifice his son Ishmael at the shrine in Mecca, before Allah prevented the child's death. Others say Adam was the first Muslim...'

Allah Fuckin Akkbar!

Chuck mailed to say: 'Of course, the name thing didn't help either -- imagine how well a yank band would do in the UK if back home they named themselves (for example) the "Girls Aloud 3"*, and then had to tour and put out their "Acid House Bubblegum" albums out in the UK as "GA3" :-) ...'

(* racked mah brane trying to think of anything potentially as annoying as the US's "Alabama" :-)

LOL, thanks, Chuck, dude. right, for the thousandth time, here's Orlando doing my bidding to add to my boundless collection of Alabammies giving me the finger:




personal note: i won't be at any Outlaw in the foreseeable future for reasons of my own. doesn't mean i don't wanna be, just means shit i ain't about to spew here.

have a great time this weekend, Jamm and Dirty South Outlaws. this next was taken by Topchick at the last one i was at, at Dirty South in may or june (can't remember; blame teh drugs):



obligatory photo of Freebase (can't help it – sue my ass cause i spoke on phone with him a coupla hours ago and decided to dig up photos i've never posted here). thanks for this one as well, Topchick. *love*



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AA: recovered fr ur bday?

thank fuck i dint have to pretend like LOL Cat above. anyway, me in essence to Angie: 'NO'. but thank you muchly to everyone who showed up saturday night. i suspect more than half of youse wanted to see the oldest living fossil Alabama 3 fangrrl evar but that's all i'll say about that. *weeps*

these next are those whom actually appeared (please forgive if i left you out cause i'm old, senile and i dress funny):

Darren and Tina (Mr and Mrs Lazy)
Sarah and Rich (Mr and Mrs Ifor the Engine)
Jem (Bournski)
Stevie (Librarian of Love/Tourette)
AvenginAngel Angie
Dave and Electric Landlady (Miriam)
Pam in Brixton
Topchick (Sarah)
Euripidean (Jane)
Dragnim (Mikey)
LancinLee
Matty
Mr Pixie
and those old reprobates, Mark, i mean: Rock Freebase and Chris.

now comes the hardest bit: thanks to the shitloads of MDMA i swallowed, not only hasn't my vision come back but i forgot who gave me what. i'll give a coupla 'i think's after but i'll prolly be wrong.

yay – i know this one! it's a hand-made blank book covered in human skin but it's not human skin (i forgot what AA said it was). but i dig thinking about it being made of dead people (kinda like Auschwitz Jewy lampshades but not). hey wait, when my mother reads the foregoing, it just might be the last touch to flick her off this mortal coil but hope springs eternal and all.

anyway, it's totally gorgeous; i think i remember she said it was for my special writty but i never wrote anything special so it'll prolly remain empty apart from her message on the first page.



i know this one as well! it's one of the presents from Mr and Mrs Ifor the Engine which'll be hung in the foyer (or bathroom; not sure yet) when i get the strength to first lift the hammer then take the ladder outta the storeroom and then set the damn thing up so i can reach up better.



waitaminnnit... is this like a subtle dis about me being oldest crazy cat lady? fuuuuuuuck... anyway, Rich and Sarah also gave me two fabaroo CDs, Up Jumped the Devil (American Devil Songs) and The Legendary Sounds of Memphis. :-)

from Stevie:


plus a way cool CD she made of tunes about rock & roll, Brixton, drink, drugs, death, Jebus and stuff. haven't opened it yet but believe me, i'll be wearing em all at once next time in London (i figure in december 08). AND Bristol to see Alabama 3 on i think 7. dec 08. w00t! :-)

from Pam, a way cool SILVER coffin shaped stashbox in place of pride on my silver tray of extra-legals accessories. won't say what i put inside stashbox (my fave!) but it's white. hey – maybe that's why my eyesight hasn't come back, cause i've been dipping into the contents of the coffin ever since i got back. hmmpf, whatever... anyway, dig Pam's coffin for me:



Sarah/Topchick got me a way cool top-hatted silver skull. when i went 'oooh! what's it about?' i found out it was a cellphone charm or whatever. i gave her 'a look'. it's now on my keychain and i fuckin' love it (ps, the thingy supposed to attach to said cellphone broke in my bag). please don't mind blurry photo; all my fault... y'all get the idea. skulls, top hats, coffins, Death, have we noticed a theme yet? GOOD. :-)



to everyone else, i'm sorry my memory's so shite i can't attach the gifts to the very lovely and generous people who gave me them. so i'm just gonna post pics here – please mail me to ID yourselves.



lovely, lovely stashbox: 'Stewed, Screwed and Tattooed'. unfortunately two outta three is me. *weeps* ;-)



and a book i can't get into until my eyesight comes back.


THANK YOUSE FOR EVERYTHING, everyone. BTW, i told Mark and Chris i wanted nothing but for them to show up. guess who gave me each of these cards?


worst of all...


reads 'She was living proof of what too many nights on the "Vodie" and more men than you can shake a stick at could do to a woman in her 30s!' very nice... not. hmmpf. ;-)

BTW, when i bopped into the Albert, i was all like


(but in my quiet inside voice). by the time the night was over and too many people asked if i were having a good time, it took all i had not to bop 'em over the head and go



but thank y'all for coming to my thingy and thank you mr pixie for hospitality and the endless capacity to hear me moan. :-)

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it's all about me. RLY!

so remember the one rool for tonight:



*snigger* (Marianne! when i *snarf* coffee comes outta my nose so i can't do it). laters, ppl, see youses tonight on Coldharbour Lane. :-) xoxoxoxoxox

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why i love England

being a visual person, – ah, fuck it. explanations unnecessary but seeing this stuff every day brings me to a point approaching actual happiness. these next were taken last night within the cavern of the pub known as The Hatchet.



a bit of clearer detail:



from aforelinked wiki: '...Local legend has it that the front door, beneath the paint and tar is covered with human skin...'

woo-hoooo – my kinda place! i love this bit about '...the American businessman who walked in one day in 1956, took one look at the thick oak door and offered 1,000 dollars for it on the spot...' *snigger* more from the walls of The Hatchet:



more offa The Hatchet walls: Mr DuCrow as The Flying Dutchman:


my fave detail (duhhhhh! of course):



the original (click for enormous engorgement and i DO mean ENORMOUS):



on our way home, we passed this sign and edifice behind it. when i first saw the sign, i went OH! a number of times (nobody shushed me).



from here: '...Most Bristolians are familiar with some of the almshouses situated close to the city centre. In particular, passers-by often stop to admire Foster’s Almshouse, at the top of Christmas Steps, which has a chapel with a unique dedication to the Three Kings of Cologne, the biblical Wise Men.

'It was built between 1481 and 1483 by John Foster, a salt merchant, who served as Sheriff of Bristol in 1474, Mayor in 1481 and MP in 1489. His house still stands in Small Street...'

then i looked up and kinda like sorta shouted OH! OH! OMG! a number of times as i took these next pics (again, nobody shushed me).




pity i was so excited (understatement), i pushed the wrong button on my phone and this bit of roof came out teeny-tiny.



if y'all click on the above, it's worth it for the details, but up to youse (we're still at the Almshouse and i was still going 'OH!'). moving right along, i actually made an effort to take an ugly photo of Bristol, and this is the best i could come up with.


to the day i fucking die, i will ALWAYS be able to determine whether a photo's taken in the States or in EU and/or The UK. just sayin'. that is all. Punkt, Ende.

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happy b-day 2 me & WWW

and thank you Tim Berners-Lee: '...The first Web site built was first put online on 6 August 1991. It provided an explanation about what the World Wide Web was, how one could own a browser and how to set up a Web server...'

and thank youse dudes as well so very, very muchly although i'd dig forgetting better... there aren't paws enough that can count up the hugeass number of years i've somehow managed to accrue.


LOL! i fuckin' wish! *sobs* but, with the grace and gospel of the Alabama 3 in my ears and eyes...


Punkt, Ende. and YES, for once i had a great birfday yesterday cause


y'all'll be meeting him saturday night in the Garden of Albert and he's smrt! i mean, smart – a fuckin statistician. *sniggering my fuckin ass off*. but really, THANK YOU, PPL! *love*

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My Rape – Part II

The Rape of the Sabine Woman by Jacques Louis David (being the night before my birthday, i figured i'd cheer y'all with a heart-warming tale, the finish of My Rape I).

Anyway, where was I? Right, pulled through the driver's window of a car in the middle of the night by some crazy fucker who stupidly assumed I was out hooking while, unbeknownst to me, my boyfriend looked on in horror from the Punk Rock club I'd just left.

I was actually dressed pretty conservatively for the scene: teeny-tiny red skirt which just about covered my butt and a gauze-y and very aesthetically torn up t-shirt. Garters showing holding up lacey stockings and these terrific Italian red and black leather T-strap stiletto heels. My hair was done up in my usual; that which i called The Sid Vicious Cocker Spaniel: hanging down my back with a ponytail over each ear and the spikes and all. Nobody had ever mistaken me for a hooker before, especially below 14th Street.

Permit me to state that on that particular night, I wasn't stoned in the least; I'd had a couple of glasses of Jack Daniel's and my boyfriend and I were chilling, waiting for a musician friend to deliver some blow to us. Anyway, back to the scene in mr rapist's car: I started to shout and he immediately smacked me across the face and my head hit the window at my right. I was shocked and shut up fast and then rapist-guy sped away.

I asked him where he was taking me and got no answer apart from "Shut the fuck up." I was frightened and didn't know what to expect and that just about did me in more, because he was in total control. We drove up 14th Street and made a right onto the west side of Union Square, and then a left onto 17th Street and after a block or so, pulled into a now empty all-day parking lot. Apart from a couple of dim overhead spotlights, the place was fairly dark and I was told to strip.

I tried to talk and could only gasp for air, mostly because I felt I was suffocating. Then he hit me across the face again and I kind of bent down with my back against the door at my right and pulled off my shoes and stockings. I stopped and turned to look at him and that's when he really got angry; he pulled my hair back and I felt this cold hard thing against my neck. He went "Do you know what this is?" I nodded numbly, imagining a huge knifeblade. "Do as you're told." I nodded again and took off the rest of my clothes. The funny thing is, my mind was racing and I remember thinking I didn't take that kind of shit from my own mother and who the hell did he think he was?

It was the end of October and it was fairly cold so when I was naked on his cheap plastic seats I started shivering and couldn't stop. I could feel the constant reminder of the knife pressing into my skin as he somehow managed to keep it against my neck the entire time I bent down or stretched to take off my things. I heard him say "Let me look at you" and I stared at my feet on his dirty floor as I imagined him checking me out. My right foot was wet, having stepped into the remains of a McDonald's cup which once held some kind of drink.

Suddenly, he grabbed my hair again and yanking my head down, forced it into his lap. He had unzipped his trousers and growled "Open your mouth" and pushed my face between his legs and kept his hand, hard on the back of my neck. I felt sick and I thought of biting his dick off but I was too frightened of that fucking knife; I imagined that the second I caused any pain, he'd slash my head off or cut up my face and that would be that. I had no idea how much time had passed and he didn't seem to be any nearer to coming but at least I thought I was getting off lucky. Silly me.

My mouth was getting tired and I was really uncomfortable but I didn't complain. I kept on thinking ''One more minute, in another minute he'll come and it'll all be over." It didn't happen and I began to feel even more desperate and began sweating on top of freezing my ass off. My jaw was aching and he tasted awful. And suddenly I thought I was going to vomit; I started gagging and gasping and came up for air. I looked at him and was even more horrified to see him grinning away.

I tried to smile but I knew it didn't come out right because he immediately smacked me in the face again. That time was the hardest and my mouth filled with blood. He said something like "Take a rest" and I gasped and swallowed a mouthful of blood and felt a thin stream dripping out the corner and slowly running down my chin. And that goddamned knife was still pressed against my neck.

I looked out of the now half-fogged up windshield to the empty street outside and it seemed like another world. My clothes were in a rumpled heap beneath my feet and I idly worried about them getting dirty and I knew I would never wear them again. Then I panicked and began to hyperventilate as I thought what would happen if he tried to cut me; if I would fight back or just give up. I thought of all the things one was supposed to do in the case of attack and none of them seemed right for the situation. I started to yawn and my eyes watered; I wanted it to be over already, I wanted to go to sleep. I heard him say 'Time's up" and I thought "Now what?" He said, "I'm coming over to sit underneath you."

He started to move nearer and then I flinched and again felt the knife against my neck but pressing harder. I allowed him to position himself underneath my butt. While he was getting comfortable, the top of my head felt the roof above me. I knew what was coming and started to breathe faster and faster and then he hit me again. I continued drooling blood out of my mouth and he told me to wipe it off ("It doesn't look good"). Then I got nauseous all over again and began with the dry heaves and he warned me not to puke in his car. Then I began to wonder exactly how long we'd been parked there and exactly how long this hell would go on.

Then he told me to lean over and I really started to freak and asked him why and he gleefully said and I became even more terrified, simultaneously shivering and sweating buckets. Then I started shaking in the way I'd only read in books: ankles trembling, then moving up to my knees and thighs. Then my upper body began to shake and I wondered if I was going into convulsions. He told me to cool it again and when I didn't quit shaking, he asked "Don't you know what this is? I'm not afraid to use it" and then he removed the knife from my neck. But it wasn't a knife – it was a gun.

It was at that very moment something broke inside me and I literally saw stars. The sick fuck was holding a gun to my neck the entire time we were in his car and I was too stupid to have known, to have even imagined. And then I passed out.

When I came to he was in the driver's seat again doing up his zipper. I wondered what had happened and suddenly felt the pain and the wet on the seat underneath me. There was blood all over my hands and tummy and I felt all sticky and filthy. Suddenly headlights turned into the parking lot and I was momentarily blinded. The gun was still on me and he warned me not to scream or else he would blow me away so I sat there dumbly like a good little girl. A car parked about twenty feet away and sat idling for a few minutes, then turned around and quickly left and I figured it must have been some kind of drug deal.

Suddenly we heard sirens coming closer and closer and the both of us sat tight, waiting. It was only the Doppler effect and the wailing came and went, leaving us in silence again. He lit a cigarette and slowly dragged on it; I asked him for one and he told me "No." Then he told me to pick my clothes up off the floor, get out of his car and walk to the back wall of the parking lot and then count to twenty without turning around. He said that if I didn't, he'd blow my fucking head off. I begged him to let me dress in the car before getting out and he laughed and said something like "Pigs don't dress in my car." Oink.

Much later on, I figured I'd been stalling for time so I didn't have to leave the car naked, but of course I did anyway. I wrapped my clothes in a tight ball and picked up my shoes and tried not to cry. Then he turned his ignition key and unlocked my door and warned me not to turn around again and make sure he could hear me counting once I reached the wall.

My feet hit the cold pavement and I dragged myself away, expecting to hear the shot that would kill me. I reached the wall and dropped my little bundle on the ground and started to count. I heard him yell "Louder." So I started over and slowly counted to 15 until I heard his car start. By the time I was at 20 he'd pulled out of the lot and turned down the street. I was shivering as I put my clothes back on, feeling totally exposed in that little skirt and those now ridiculous shoes. I knew that from the neck down I looked like I was going to a pretty wild party, until you looked up and saw the blood and bruises on my face.

I wobbled down 17th Street towards Union Square on shakey legs and passed no one in the streets and for that I was glad and once again, idly wondered what the hell time it was. At the corner of 14th and Third I saw my boyfriend talking to some cops. He ran over when he saw me and I collapsed in his arms. There was this one nice cop who came over to me as well and I asked him the time; it turned out I'd been gone for just about three hours. We all went back to the station (9th Precinct on 5th Street where they shoot 'NYPD') and when I finally finished telling my story, the cops who are there to protect and serve kindly informed me "You can't rape a whore."

Then we went home and Gordy helped me take a long hot bath and I showed up for work the next morning pretty much OK on the outside (apart from being grilled by my bosses who were interested in the bruises). The thing of it is, a few months later, thanks to Gordy's memory of the first part of rapist-guy's licence plate and the one sympathetic cop to whom we talked, we found out the rapist was an off-duty cop who was caught and charged with murder for killing whores in the neighborhood.

They asked me to testify about the rape but when I found out he'd been seen and identified by other witnesses, I told them "Fuck that." I hope he died painfully, mostly because there was a long list of murdered working girls to whom he was attached. No rape charges, though. Pity, that.

I think it was just about that time when I realised what a great ego-defence mechanism denial is, because my life didn't change any. My friends and I continued to go out dancing every night and it always seemed as if it happened to someone else. Gordy and I only spoke about it rarely – I remember he was really proud of me when I just kept on doing what I was doing and didn't freak out or anything like that. But then again, I always knew what I was: a fucking survivor, whether I wanted to be or not.

The Somnambulist

just got finished refreshing my old film school learnings in German Expressionism or whatever the hell they were by burning my eyes out on Classics of German Cinema (boxed set) and am aghast and still totally mesmerised by The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920 and not seen by me for over ten years), regarded by many as the first true horror film. watched it three times consecutively and about to watch it again, just cause i'm STILL in lust with Conrad Veidt.


this lust/love shite having to do with people who appear ultra-normal, other worldly or dead prolly has a lot to do with the fact that i was brought up in a boring middle class environment but we won't go there now or ever if i can help it (but i am up for personal interviews in which i shall attention-whore my ass off and it'll all be true). ooops, did i just say that shit? never mind.

moving right along, i'm with Terry Castle who painted this beauty: 'I Heart Conrad Veidt':



if there're any real faux Conrad Veidts around (or reasonable facsimiles) contact me ASAP, dudes, laydeez, trannies, pre-ops and/or whatever (no worries, i've got a vivid imagination and androgynous is as androgynous does).

what's blasting: Walking In My Sleep (off Alabama 3's La Peste).

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state of the Slum(p) V

above is me i wish cause:


and so...





that is, when i'm not smoking my brains out with a variety of good reefer and hashs i managed to accumulate over the last few months. when sleep eludes me for more than ten minutes, that's the time i drop (at last count) ten blue V.s which only gave me like 5 hours' sleep.

at the moment, i'm watching a boxed set of mid-career Hitchcock and about to move on to an Early German Expressionist films collection, delivered by Royal Mail the other day (dear lord, let them put me to sleep but being a f0rmer film major, so far there's been no such luck, especially since i found my old Film School notebooks and have been taking copious notes on top of the copious notes already there). someone! take me outta mah misery! i need good drugs!

anyway, My Rape part II coming up as soon as i get the fortitude, strength or what-the-fuck i need to reformat and copy/paste. in case y'all missed the intro, here's My Rape Part I. happy reading! and YES, it's alllll true.

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Mango Factory at The Fleece

oopsy, thanks to bulldog/pipex fuck-ups i totally forgot to post this wrap-up of last saturday night - sunday AM when Techie-boy deigned to grace my flat with his presence. let it be known, it wasn't to visit me as we'd totally decided to miss Alabama 3 at Trowbridge (only a few miles away) in order to see our friends' band: Mango Factory at The Fleece. Chris and i had a totally fabaroo time and for once, the drugs had nothing to do with it. well, maybe just a liddle bit but later for that.

OK, from their site: 'MANGO FACTORY ARE A FORMIDABLE 8-PIECE LIVE ACT playing a unique blend of original music and a few funk, latin, and soul / jazz covers...

'...Their music showcases each of the band members musicality, but more important is the overall sound - a great big melting pot of funky jazzy latiny madness...'

here's our sax-player friend John with singer Aimee:



Neil Jones *sigh* on trumpet (i'd be going *sigh* for John but he's already taken by our friend Megan):



Ben Sayer *sigh* singer:



couldn't get the entire 8 piece band in one shot but this blurry one's the best i could do:


i was so moved by their fabaroo sound, i attempted dancing my ass off up by the stage and alone but i think i scared liddle Uni girl trying to show off her few clumsy moves and so, i kinda like faded into the background, out of respect, like. this did not sit well with me cause her dancing was shite and for the rest of the night, her humongous group of all-female compadres were glancing me daggers. so i gave 'em the finger a coupla times, both Brit style and the much favored American style. fuck 'em.

when the band were done, Chris and i were still artificially stimulated and found ourselves walking back to Clifton over the Whatever Bridge (that houseboat you see is a kinda tourist attraction going on in Bristol's City Centre, something neither Chris nor i have any desire to visit):



of course by the time we got to MY HOUSE (or so i call it these days), i just hadda take these:




when we got home, we threw on a film and took some more MDMean Ass and surprise, surprise! the phone rang about 02,00 and Sax-player John and wife Megan showed up at our doorstep. we immediately plied them with teh good stuff and a good time was had by all. it's been too long a time since we/i were visited by Megan and John. :-)

nb: no, i did NOT get to sing 'Careless Love' *grumble* and this is something i certainly don't wanna get into at the moment. or ever, really cause i just might KILL those (irr) responsible.

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