act of whining

HEWWO! *cheezey grin* in all honesty, i never realised how self-absorbed i was until i got my first camera-phone. before that, if anyone would've told me i'd end up with shitloads of pictures of myself, i'd have called them liars and totally beat em up cause i'd never seen a photo of me i liked. that is, until 2004 when i began taking em myself. hmmpf... it's really an odd sensation; looking at a photo of myself and not wanting to rip it up... anyway, let's get down to cases and raise a glass to the act of whining: the best way i know to get stuff outta my system, lose friends and alienate people.

if i felt like it i could go on about my exorbitant Council tax or i could bitch about Clifton's insane waste management roolz; listen to this shit: they don't recycle any cardboard or plastic and on top of that, you have to wrap the rest of your trash twice cause they won't collect it if it's not in a black bag. i mean, is that insane or what? *cough* right, or else i could whinge about how i couldn't pay Wessex Water online thanks to Barclays fucked website — but i won't. tonight.

due to deadlines and such, i'll keep this post to my latest, least important moan: i tried to caption above photo but even though it's a .jpg, LOLCat builder said its format wasn't acceptable. huh? WTF and WHY? but no time to wonder cause i'm sure they'll sort it soon. moving right along, as per usual lately, i really shouldn't be here at all so in closing *snigger* i'm reposting one of my all time fave LOL-Hunters for your delectation or whatever. remember, although i put the words into his widdy smudge-mouth, he speaks the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth (apart from when he doesn't).


yup... too true, too true. :-)

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Instant Death Booth

on any given day, i mail with a lotta people, most of whom are economically, socially and culturally unique compared to each other but all of whom eventually ask me my feelings on America's non-health care system. sometimes i'm told horror stories and sometimes i'm given links to read; it's all bad but i don't mind that much, thanks to Hunter S Thompson's classic tip which begins:

'Drugs usually enhance or strengthen my perceptions and reactions, for good or ill. They've given me the resilience to withstand repeated shocks to my innocence gland...'

back to my mails, about 9 outta 10 of the non-Americans (and a tiny but brave percentage of Americans) ultimately end up talking about Death and how we feel about it in the States (as y'all know, the subject's taboo, dudes) and how other cultures handle it. anyway, last month i got this next from someone who'd rather remain anonymous. LOL, you pussy!

*cough* in all honesty, i didn't have the heart to tell him Christine came up with a similar idea a few months back... *whispers* but now y'know, dude (she said, with a winsome yet scarey smile). anyway, for the purposes of this post, i think i'll call you Anonymous Cute Young Boy — it's awkward but you won't mind, right? RIGHT? 'OK, then...'

ACYB: '...the Instant Death Booth would have 100 questions, or better still 1,000 questions that people would have to answer before they pressed the death button, that way making sure they really wanted to die and that would make sure kids wouldn't misuse it...'

me: 'yes, we must Think Of The Children. *snigger* i can see it now: "don't bother packing a lunch for me, dear; i'm off to The Booth today (but don't tell Becky and Tommy yet)"...' but i betcha there'd be kids trying to look older and getting in with phoney ID and shit...

ACYB: 'Kids?'

me: not all kids, just... y'know, the heavy readers and natural depressives. the kids who think too much... those.

ACYB: '...they'd — the kids'd get bored having to answer 1,000 questions...'

me: 'not the one i have in mind. but that's a great way to weed out the ambiguous adults... the Not Sures. *snigger* or the 'temporary "suicidal ideation" people' or those who've, thanks to previous failures, been relegated to The Attic of Cries For Help.

ACYB: '...Then there should be an age limit too or something, that you couldnt kill yourself until over 20, or over 30? I think 30, the 20s aren't too bad and you're still looking good (most people), but what do you think?'

hah! wrong question: 'What do you think?' — cause he got what i thought in about 14KB's worth of reply mail. anyway, that was last month and i didn't hear from this person again till early this morning when he continued on the same theme after reading on Quentin Crisp's thoughts here the other day.

ACYB: '...its very similar to the Ministry of Death — you just go to the Death Booth, press a button and then evaporate. They could have them in all the Walmarts, making bigger ones for the obese (LOL) ....they would have to answer a lot of questions though, making it harder for little children to "disappear" and also make it criminal-proof, because people might want to take their children in there to get rid of them, kind of like live abortion...'

whoa... i'm like totally speechless, mostly cause i myself never thought of such a thing (which is a wonder, actually).


(not so) fun-fact: my most recent FAQ: 'Do you have a death wish?' — hah! a reason for shameless self-promotion. *cough* you tell me:

last week i said 'my lifelong habit of reading about life and death' and a few weeks before when listing things wrong with me, i talked about my 'Death fixation' so i can see where these assumptions are coming from. nb: i'm too lazy to search all of Tawdry but Safari says the first page has 21 matches for 'death' (not counting this yet-unpublished post). *shrugs*

i just looked at the page in FF and — holy hell, i don't remember writing this: 'one of my other legal anaesthetics involves thinking about any and all aspects of death...' *cough* but LOL, it's funny cause it's true. :-)


in other news, it's thank you time again: a) thank you for ringing me yesterday, Maxine... *to self* will wonders never cease? we discovered we shared the exact same attitude on a subject near and dear to both of our hearts; b) thanks to Chris for the yet-unseen phone which i hope is still intact *snigger* (and nah, i won't say why); and c) thanks to Rock Freebase for the latest tune. it's totally beautiful Mark, and i appreciate you sending it very, very muchly. :-)

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now's the time

nah... not for me it ain't. OK, on friday, euripidean blithely twat 'lying splattered on the pavement' to someone and i got this jolt — like this frisson — of recognition or sump'n. i mean, i totally knew — i knew that phrase, dammit — and very, very well indeed but i couldn't remember from whence it came. it was frustrating as fuckall, almost as annoying as having an itch y'all can't scratch. well, that never happened to me but it's easy to imagine. anyway, i dunno how many times i've moaned that my memory's like a sieve and not only was it killing me i couldn't remember what's lying splattered on the damn pavement, but i took it as just another nail in the coffin of my sanity or whatever. Alzheimer's, anyone? *shudder*


then lo and behold, Converted began playing in my head. this wasn't so bad cause it's one of my all-time faves from the 23 or so i have outta Alabama 3's genre-busting vasty bounteous back catalogue (and thank the FreeA3 angels — both the real CDs and the mp3s — for that. oh, and the band... prolly Larry and sometimes Jake, actually, but still). shit, i'm wittering again when i should be worki— oh wow! look over there! when i needed it the very least, euripidean gave me this earwig; her 'lying splattered on the pavement' suddenly morph'd into Converted a number of times. and then, without warning, it seamlessly segued into the rest of Exile On Coldharbour Lane.


LOL, don't miss this special two-part fun-fact: a) up until 2000, the album i played most on continuous rotation was Exile on Main Street.


that phase or whatever lasted just about three years and was ages ago. b) the memory of EOMS was immediately ousted in 2000, the first time i heard Exile on Coldharbour Lane (which was more than 3 years old by then). i quit listening to it on a daily basis sometime in 2008 and according to iTunes, the last time i heard it was last august.

so despite the fact i figured (wrongly) if i actually put it on, it'd be gone, outta my head for at least a liddle while, i found it in my iTunes, then hit 'play'. silly stoopit me: i heard it once then shut it off but the entire album continued pounding away. i gave it a few minutes and turned iTunes back on, then clicked 'shuffle', which didn't do shit, so it went off again though it continued blasting in my mind's ears. *mirthless laughter* y'know, whether it's actually on or off, since friday i've been treated to multiple listenings of Exile so by the time this afternoon came round (with yet another deadline looming) i was too distracted to keep on editing. in desperation (and to kill moar time), i forced myself to make a LOL-SG:


it was still impossible to concentrate so after singing along to the album, i heard Peace in the Valley five or six times, hoping that'd end it, but no. then, for the tenth time since friday, i tried listening to everything else i dig especially my faves like Band of Gold, all my Underworld (Rez/Cowgirl: 10x straight), all my Fluke, Sam & Dave, Ministry, Crystal Method, Daft Punk and every other non-Alabama 3 tunes near and dear to my heart. result? none, not even when i listened to my beloved 1812 Overture cause the second it finished, bingo: i heard this liddle voice going 'Now's the time to get right and repent' and the jukebox in my head started all over again.

one good thing: thank goodness i was trying to work cause if i'd read euripidean's twit whilst waking up drinking coffee or sump'n, the tune would've eventually brought back thoughts that're always tip-toeing toward dangerous territory in my head and in all actuallity, i'd rather not go there so at least, working kept me somewhat safe.


moving right along, today's the first day of DST here (they call it BST as well: British Summer Time or sump'n). AFAIC, this is both a blessing and a curse; a blessing cause we've 'lost' an hour and thank fuck for that — i'm a clock-y hour nearer the end. shit! A3 Tourettes when i need it least *to self* what set me off? oh! the bit about 'nearer the end'. OK, now fast to get it outta my system *cough* 'nearer the end'

'...all of a sudden, I'm overcome with a feeling of brief mortality, cause I'm getting on in the world, comin' up on 41 years, 41 stoney grey steps towards the grave, y'know, the box... awaits its grisly load and now I'm gonna be food for worms...

'and just like Charles Mingus wrote that beautiful piece of music, Epitaph... Eric Dolphy...' *in a D Wayne Love voice*

damn, am i done yet? oh, wow, just remembered Quentin Crisp offering this film dude a drink; he went (paraphrasing) 'Would you like a glass of Stout? I wake up and immediately have one cause it makes the day go quicker...'

right... what the hell was i saying in the first place? oh, riiight — that DST's both a blessing and a curse cause now it's gonna get light out earlier and stay that way later, sump'n i loved in prior times *mirthless laughter* (editor's note: see 'reverse SAD? i haz it too'). anyway, the only defence i can muster goes sump'n like:



editor's note: above photo with big thanks to Chris and Vitamins M, D, M and A. top photo by Mick of Mane; feather boa with thanks to Vitamin C and the Fun Lovin' Criminals who gave it to me backstage a few months back thanks to Delia and Mary E who were in London from Dublin that night. right, i took this next when FLC were on before we were whisked backstage after the gig.



anyway — i really love to write, to get things down or whatever and the thing about that is, i always have. and if anyone ever asked, i couldn't tell them why. for most of my life, i've gone through dozens and dozens of notebooks and fuck knows how many miles of ballpoint pen ink and reams of paper... LOL, i just remembered my fountain pen and turquoise ink phase. jeez, how could i? that was when i was like 11, 12... around there. anyway, my notebooks all used to be in blue ballpoint but for the last decade or so, i've been typing my head off about what's or what's not going on. the thing of it is, it's really a pity (for me as a *snigger* 'writer') that so much of that which i say and think are totally unoriginal, mostly stoled offa films or The Simpsons or The Sopranos (*whispers* or the band) or yawn-inducing cliche's.


but unfortunately for me, i can't express myself any other way. *huge heaving sigh*


yeah, dammit — really... hmmpf. keeping that in mind (or better yet, forgetting it, which y'all won't) what would any post of mine be (or anything else i write and say) without the par-for-the-course, 'wuz funny teh furst tiem but now? not', completely ubiquitous (at least here on Tawdry):



*sigh* yes, Hunter — i know. *shakes head sadly* hmmpf... in truth that caption should read 'iz stawree of mai deth... akshually' but too late now (or too early, depending on how deeply one's Asperger's goes). but Hunter, liddle dude, you'd be posting pics of you all over the place as well, if you had even a tiny fraction of my terribly low self-esteem (and thank Bast you don't). whoa! i just checked the time and i shouldn't even have bothered to post yet moar of my bullshit today cause the liddle 15 minute break i took from tonight's job seems to have gotten outta hand, as usual.

but wait, there's more! *snigger* in a desperate and transparent ploy to embiggen this tawdry episode with a snippet of actual literature and ending up with the usual futile imitation, hoping nobody'll notice — ooops, there's that quiet stuff out loud again — here's Alexander Pope with a message near and dear to my cold, cold heart.

'Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own? ...
...I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd.
The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife,
To help me through this long disease, my life...'


editor's note: yep, i'm uncomfortably aware above LOLcat'll totally negate any higher literary ground one might gain thanks to reading the Pope bit, but hey — in all truth, if i ever quit fucking around whether it's on the page or in meatspace, then i'm faced with reality and a long time ago, i learnt that that was sump'n to be avoided at all costs. :-)

edit @17,46 monday: just resurfaced from shitloads of work and am right now, firing up my mail client, iTunes et al., whilst re-reading the above. *shudder* i'm actually humiliated i posted this shit and what's worse, *whispers* i don't remember writing it. but hey, go ahead and laugh... some day i shall as well.

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too true, too true...

above from the department of I'm Just Sayin'. helpful hint: don't ever tell me y'all weren't warned. ;-) right, and for those eagle-eyed, i had this flavor of the same sentiment over to the bottom of the R-hand column for ages.


but the aesthetics starting with its verticular shape and ending with the font-size, they always nibbled away at my AQ plus the fact i got not one mail commenting on it makes me think a) it remained unseen cause it was so far down and/or b) people didn't dig it and were too kind to say. hmmm... anyway, 'It's gonnnne, bay-beh'. *in a Very Reverend D Wayne Love voice* and the above's the last it'll ever be seen here. *whispers* with the usual caveat: if i remember.

what i did today and why: i've been working almost continuously since i WUTM but eventually needed a break so i decided the safest way to enjoy break-time was to keep myself to myself and get rid of temptation: my mail client's shut down and i've managed to stay off Twitter and the other forums i frequent. but makin LOLCats is cool (read: safe) to a degree. :-)

but on the whole, it's not, so NO — STFU and quit bugging me, kitteh — i won't feel it's safe till i'm satisfied i've earned enough to cruise through the time as much as i can when first Pam and then Chris'll be visiting here in a coupla weeks. nb: 'as much as i can' means — well, don't try that at home, kids... not without medical and psychiatric supervision, that is. *cough* 'Good drugggggs!' *in a Brad Pitt voice* right, for all you beginners, a stand-by EMT might not be a bad idea. nah, not for me, thank you. in other news, it's back to work for me, now. *dark sigh*

editor's note: i blew like an HOUR on this? damn, i could've been working... bah, iz stawree- mmmpf! mmmpf! ptoo! HAL-mmmpf! mmmmmpfffff...

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resident alien

Quentin Crisp: 'As soon as I stepped out of my mother's womb, I realised that I had made a mistake'.

oh wow... yes, exactly! — and i've only met like one other person in my entire life who had the stones to admit s/he thought that way (or was crazy enough to admit s/he thought that way — your call). but LOL, where to begin? OK, i first became aware of Quentin way back when his book The Naked Civil Servant was published in the States. i finished it in a coupla days, whilst riding the subways to and from work, then i read it again before bed the next few nights, all the while marvelling over how frequently we shared the same emotions (especially our shitty attitude to what he termed 'the outer world').

then my life went on, Shit Happened and as time went by, he gradually dropped off my radar and outta my head along with my dreams of living in England. years later, PBS Channel 13 in NYC showed 'The Naked Civil Servant' starring John Hurt as Quentin.


bingo — i freaked and instantly fell in love with him all over again (and my long-buried dreams of moving to England were back with a passion, so i was forced to get deeper into self-medication as a self-protection kinda thang). fun-fact: TNCS is one of the first of my vids i replaced with the DVD. and just like so many other of those i look up to as heroes (Charles Bukowski comes to mind), after death, Quentin's finally getting the attention he deserves, especially now cause John Hurt — one of the very few people about whom i'll readily admit i wanna kiss the hem of his garment and wash his feet with my hair — hang on... *cough* OK, AFAIC, this next is great news (she said weakly):


'John Hurt stars in the long-awaited follow-up to The Naked Civil Servant, the ground-breaking television drama first broadcast on ITV in 1975. An Englishman in New York tells the story of Quentin's new life when he emigrates to Manhattan aged 70...'


*sigh* ah... i never saw this photo before: Real Quentin next to Filmic Quentin, John Hurt... *sigh* right, i actually ran into Real Quentin one night on the Lower East Side. i was headed for a business meeting over dinner on Second Avenue (and already late, as is my wont) when i spotted Real Quentin, bopped up, introduced myself and thanked him for everything. he looked me over and made a crack, sump'n like (paraphrased): 'Why are you thanking me? You're not a boy, are you?...' we laughed and then i told him why and for how long i'd been admiring him.

looking back on it, it was weird cause the thought i'd been like gushing never even entered my head. maybe cause he was so friendly, open and inviting — he actually radiated interest — that i wanted to hang onto him longer than was seemly, wanted to tell him about that hideously hot night i was on acid in The Stonewall endrunkening myself down and how i wandered outside, only to end up in the midst of the historic gay riots with shitloads of mean, fatassed cops on the one end of Christopher Street and hordes of angry gays gathering on the other, both sides just about to strike. i was tripping my brains out and immediately forgot my BF inside and ran over to the gay side to help.

i wanted to tell him about being nine years old and having no friends and feeling ostracised until the point of desperation, when i left my safe Brooklyn neighborhood to secretly subway it down to The Village after school every day. i wanted to tell him about the older beatniks who befriended me and how they first culturised me, then helped me get away from my mother. there were two teenaged chicks who had a flat on East 11th Street and they took it upon themselves to organise the entire runaway thing and when i ran into them years later, only then did i realise they were transvestites and told em so — 'Oh, how we laughed...' — and i wanted to tell him about that as well. shit, i wanted to tell him everything.

but i knew well enough to respect his privacy so i reluctantly let go of his hand, said 'see ya later' and took off to meet these two dealers for whom i worked at the time. we sat down and ordered and a few minutes later, i noticed Quentin at the other end of The Kiev where he was having his dinner as well. he waved and came over to our table and kissed me as if we were really old friends (my bosses were impressed) but that's quite a different story. fun-fact: one of those bosses was the ex-BF i left tripping in the Stonewall, almost 20 years before. LOL, *cough* hey, Roger... ;-)

anyhoo, i watched TNCS again early this morning and still not sleepy after, saw the DVD extras for the very first time. i sat there, glued to the screen throughout two interviews with Quentin (one in London before he split and one in NYC a few years before his death). i knew his disdain for the mainstream went down pretty damn deep but had no idea we were more alike than i'd originally supposed. nor did it ever occur to me he'd felt about living back there the same way way i feel about living over here.

“The moment I saw Manhattan I wanted it. It was more like the movies than I had ever dreamt."

i'm thinking 'fuck! that's me, but in London' cause i totally lose it, go out of my mind with what seems like a fleeting taste of happiness whenever i see sump'n in the landscape or catch a place-name or some architectural detail i've only seen in films before, not only in London but all over the UK. but it's most intense when i'm in London where sometimes it feels like i'm having a non-stop series of architecti-gasms.

i imagine if someone were watching me watching Quentin this morning, they might've feared my head would drop off my shoulders cause i was almost continuously nodding it in agreement up till the point at which i got shocked shitless: hearing him go on about how there should be a Ministry of Death and when you ring em on your expiry date, they come to get you, then you simply disappear (sump'n Christine and i have talked about for ages). he ended that bit by saying 'This is a message of hope — it shall come to an end. We shan't be blamed for it and we shall be free.'

*taps cloven hoof impatiently* LOL, apart from the obvious parallels that we both took off from our home countries without a glance back when we weren't as young as we should've been — and were relentlessly questioned on same, as in 'How could you just pick up and leave...?' (still am, actually) — as well as the both of us had been prostitutes (with the same attitude towards it), Quentin's 'I've always been American in my heart, ever since I saw the movies. Any movie'. totally transmits how i've felt about here since i was a kid seeing British-made films and feeling secretly British deep down, where other Americans couldn't see. here's even more Quentin from The Department of Iz Stawree Of Mai Lief, Akshually:

'I don't ever remember a time when I wasn't being made fun of...'

'One has to remember that though my parents did lack understanding to an extraordinary extent, they cannot be blamed; they tried to prepare me for the world they knew, so no one ever said "When you go out into the world, you'll meet people as mad as yourself and I can only hope you'll get on with them"...'

' I never learnt to live in the real world ... The outer world is a club I do not wish to join'.

'The young think of me as the oldest teenager in the business and it's true, only of course, I am where I always was; I'm doing and saying and wearing the same things as I did and said and wore 40 years ago...'

'You should make no effort to try to join society ... Stay right where you are. Give your name and serial number and wait for society to come to you'.


'I think if anyone ever said to me, "If you go on like this, life will pass you by", I would reply, "Thank God for that; I nearly got mixed up in the beastly thing"...'

TESTIFY, BRO! LOL, happy weekend, y'all. :-)

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reading matters, but

last night something i read set me off so i went from working whilst scanning my old Abnormal Psych books to the latest episode of my lifelong habit of reading about life and death. in truth, i've pursued mostly what philosophers have thought on death, but unfortunately (for me), those who've written on it can't seem to separate it from the tedious 'life' bit. anyway, this next is from Arthur Schopenhauer's Studies in Pessimism (my emphasis):

'In early youth, as we contemplate our coming life, we are like children in a theatre before the curtain is raised, sitting there in high spirits and eagerly waiting for the play to begin. It is a blessing that we do not know what is really going to happen. Could we foresee it, there are times when children might seem like innocent prisoners, condemned, not to death, but to life, and as yet all unconscious of what their sentence means...

'...If children were brought into the world by an act of pure reason alone, would the human race continue to exist? Would not a man rather have so much sympathy with the coming generation as to spare it the burden of existence? or at any rate not take it upon himself to impose that burden upon it in cold blood'.

LOL, TESTIFY, BRO'! *cough* over the last few months, Christine and i've been talking about this; she did a little more reading and sent:

'Pliny says: "Life is not so desirable a thing as to be protracted at any cost. Whoever you are, you are sure to die, even though your life has been full of abomination and crime. The chief of all remedies for a troubled mind is the feeling that among the blessings which Nature gives to man, there is none greater than an opportune death; and the best of it is that every one can avail himself of it."...'

yup, totally. what brought this all home was her heartbreaking mail, part of which reads:

'... just heard from Phyllis and they found out that her husband Greg has throat cancer - I think I might have told you that - but she just find out that his health insurance DOES NOT COVER chemo or radiation! They will have to go to an out of network provider that only pays a small percentage, and they can't afford it. SO...

'...he worked 35 years as a janitor for the govt hospital VA, finally retired at 55, gets cancer, can't get any treatment at all...she said now he's saying he wishes he'd never told anyone about the cancer, because now he's going to have to tell them he won't be getting any treatment for it because they just don't have the money (he said to me he'd rather die anyway)...'

in light of all that, please reread above Schopenhauer and Pliny and you tell me if you're not — at the very least — veering towards agreement. and in light of Greg's situation, i'm still totally hanging onto my childhood belief that if there's an almighty, omniscient god or whatever, s/he and/or it's insane.


y'all have a nice fuckin' day, now. *snigger* |-(

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mai bizzy daze

jeez... i shouldn't really be here at all *checks the time feeling guilty* but if boss-dude catches me, i'm gonna say, 'the cat made me do it' and hope he doesn't believe Hunter above. OK, yesterday i finally got some work into which i can sink my fangs, no, teef-dammit, i meant sink my teeth — i've been editing and proofreading the first chapter of a soon-to-be published textbook on Abnormal Psychology. *snigger* and since i know the material so well, i can honestly say (for the millionth time) iz stawree of mai lief akshually. why? cause it is.


hmmm, teeth... y'know, i always wished i were born with those teeth like Cher has... those fang-ish things? wait... oh wow, the ADD struck and i didn't even notice till i just reread from the top. hmmm... what the hell am i talking about? right, i was actually enjoying my work for about the first time yesterday so i stayed up all night reading my old notes and textbooks so i could do the best job i could with the editing bit, all the while making mental comparisons and stuff (and i do mean 'mental')...


...my final analysis: nothing much's changed over the last fifteen years or so since i took shitloads of abnormal psych classes to get my Special Ed. teaching license. perhaps the pharmaceuticals have changed (and for the good of everyone else, i surely hope they have) but i haven't gotten to that chapter yet.

sent my work in this morning and then lo and behold — got moar abnormal psych chapters in return, yippee. ahhhh, pharma— i mean, ahhhh... i could read and write about this shit for ages. it might have sump'n to do with my fucked homelife as a child but in all actuallity i have — been reading and writing about the very same shit (but mostly with an emphasis on the criminal element).



moving right along, i really don't have the time to write anything else (and i shouldn't even be here in the first place) but i stopped off at I Can Haz Cheezburger to see what's new. first i couldn't get in cause i forgot my password (duh!) so i told myself 'fuck it' and made this anyway:


then i recaptioned this to my liking:


please comment and/or vote for it at above link. if not, it'll fall back into the obscurity from whence it came (LOL, no biggie). now i've gotta run but before i do, big thanks to Angie for this next of my hero, Stephen Fry.


editor's note: i'm perfectly aware of the stream of unconsciousness style (hah!) of this particular post but that's what y'all get as long as i can type faster than i can think and there's no extra time to go over it again in order to omit extraneous stuff. prognosis: it'll only get worse as the years go by. *shudder*


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back from Brixton

*yawn* i've been back from London, Outlaw and Sunday Noms No. 8 since late last night but i've been typing like a bastard starting about 06,00. despite the *yawn* copious coffee drinking, i was like working in my sleep, so after i noticed my deadline wasn't at noon (as i'd stupidly assumed), i decided to have a very well deserved break. *yawn* ah... 'the pause that refreshes'. *thwoop!* :-)

anyway, big thanks to lazybones Darren and Maxine for the excellent company (and transport in style) and to Talia and Tina for letting Darren off the leash — oops, rather for permitting him to consort with the likes of me — and for two nights and two days — absolutely amazing. *snigger* it's so obvious they don't know me very well — whoa, my inside voice got out again. *sigh* i give up—why bother even trying? now where was— right, HUGS TO TALIA for the beautiful card she made for me (it's up on the kitchen bulletin board). here she is onstage as her Alabama 3 alter ego — Li'l Lazy Love — introducing the band at Trowbridge last Summer.


i can't wait to meet you either, sweetie, xoxox :-) moving right along, biggity big thanks to Chris for doing the legwork and thanks to Ms Rock Freebase for enabling us all to sail into Dirty South. as well, thanks to *deep breath* Stevie, Pam, Mr and Mrs Ifor the Engine and Darren and Maxine again (she said grudgingly cause i don't dig thanking anyone twice. in truth, i don't like thanking people at all but out of deviousity, i do it for socially political reas— whoopsy). um... hey — look over there! i mean, what was i saying again?

right — yesterday. anyway, it's been way too long since we all sat down, got ourselves endrunkened and talked our heads off so it was super lovely to see y'all at the Prince of Wails for Noms yesterday. but we all missed Chris. *whispers* i think he was recuperating (lightweight!) cause last night when i stopped off to say G'bye to him, he seemed a bit, um... quiet. back to the Prince of Wales, *still whispering* i think someone else was there too but i was so fucked up (still am, actually) i don't remember who it could've been. *blushes in a manner totally imitating shame* (but not bloody likely cause deities of the slums don't blush). not-so-fun fact: that'll be on the test so write it down.

*yawn* now, where was i? right, i hear the bed calling so i'm gonna head back into my own personal version of The Dreaming (kinda like a lunatic asylum, the way i designed it). stay tuned *yawn* or sump'n... zzzzzzzzzzz *snorkle* zzzzzzz...


edit @11,06: my cellphone took a hike outta Dirty South early sunday morning. i know who took it and for about the first time in over seven years, i wish i were back in NYC so i could ring up Nicky Barnes and he could Make Things Right (like he used to when i was dealing and shit happened). LOL, just sayin'. :-)

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criminality? whatever...

yup, thass me cause i can't count the many times i've been in his place. y'know, like when i'm reading some book or watching a film with friends, sump'n in which whatever anti-social and/or criminal behavior's demonstrated. it's almost enough to make me yawn cause i've heard it so many times before: they always ask 'Didja ever do that?' *snigger* i deny the stupid stuff; i mean, not only cause i didn't waste time or take ridiculous risks doing anything criminally stupid but why bother taking credit for someone else's idiocy?



but apart from being a braggart, since i'm honest as the day is long — not cause i wanna be, just cause i can't help it — i'm forced — nah, i'm proud to rattle off a litany of every heavy-duty criminal act in which i've been involved.



of course above photos were taken like three years ago but nothing's changed since.


and since i'm so terribly nonphotogenic (due to one of the rare symptoms of Asperger's, sump'n which i call Asperger Mouth) on top of my horribly LSE, i have no compunction whatsoever to once again post my totally fave photo EVar. ;-)


moving right along, why did i ever choose a life of crime? it actually chose me (yup: each and every time) but that's like another twenty-odd stories. well, apart from the fact that i was raised in a hell-house in boring middle-class Brooklyn which kinda planted the seeds along with my Philistine neighbors and teachers. BTW Chris, your twat about SG's homelife as a child was totally not correct (cause Iron Mommy always tried out that kinda shit on me first before she inflicted it on strangers). but for whatever reason, for most of my life, i've always been on the side of whatever criminal and in love with whatever bad guys in whatever movies. yeah, since i was really little.


i don't think of what i've done as criminal, actually.


right, big thanks to Brian for the baby gun photo. anyway, if i enumerated here, my recital of the extra-legal stuff i've done could go on for hours (and has) depending upon who's asking. this'll most likely come out one by one, in future, as i remember shit in an ADD kinda fashion, when something sets me off. in meatspace, depending on the asker, i may or may not throw in the extra added bonus of the (euphemistically called) Escort Era. this was no Waiting on a Streetcorner To Give 10$ Hand-Jobs to Dudes in Cars kinda thang, this was after a friend spent a shitload of cash for an address book of doctors, attorneys, airline pilots and other such professionals who'd ring for the pleasure of our company.

then we'd get dressed and head uptown about 02,00 or 03,00 in the morning — usually to places like The Plaza or the St Regis Hotel or those luxurious Fifth Avenue apartments looking out on Central Park — then take off in whatever different directions and do the least we could to make the dudes think they were happy or at the very least, satisfied. fun fact: yes, it's true that doctors have the best drugs. anyway as usual, i could name names that'd knock your socks off (e.g., one of the Kennedys) but i won't — kinda outta respect and kinda cause that shit's personal and anyway, ages back, i'd already inadvertently broken up one marriage totally due to the client's moronic belief he was in love with me. *wack*

when he went and got himself into a shitload of trouble and beaten up on top of it, i visited him in hospital not knowing the rest of his family were there — at his request — to meet me. to say it was horrible as well as uncomfortable totally doesn't cover it as Wealthy Family confronted me in the hallway outside his room. i was totally aghast.



and then i asked Wealthy Long Island Dude:


he only basked in the attention he got in the wake of the trouble he'd made with an idiotic look on his moronic face. when i got no good answer, i tried to leave the hospital (St Vincent's) but the scene in the hallway was sump'n like this, as his entire family tried to stop me from splitting:


you can bet your ass he was totally deleted from my friend's address book and try as he did with apologies and gifts galore, i never saw him again (apart from when i ran into him years later, toothless and haggard, but that's another story). anyway, back to being a callgirl or whatever, i used to love my favorite bit: when whatever date was over. whilst my GF would taxi back to hers, i'd smoke a joint and leisurely walk downtown along the East River, watching the sun come up and filled with the warm glowing knowledge i'd earned a few hundred tax-free bucks for an hour or three of doing practically nothing apart from pretending to be interested in whatever the hell the client dude told me.

actually, that's more than 90% of the high-end callgirl game: being an excellent listener, attentive and totally supportive of whomever whilst remaining realistic and honest (to a degree). *giggle* anyway, knowing my bills were paid for the next month or so plus i had a shitload of wiggle room was always a heady feeling, made better as i sailed by the crowds of dayworkers, sauntering by in the opposite direction with my shades on and my Walkman blasting Clash or whatever. what made it sweeter, of course, was knowing these people were walking uptown, bound for their boring desk jobs. but it was Schadenfreude mixed with pity cause i totally knew that route way too well which was why i was heading home when they were all going to work. *smirk* hey, i just remembered: believe it or not, i once had an excellent secretarial CV. but i digress...

OK, back to present time: on monday i submitted to various blood tests cause i've been having these splitting headaches for almost two years now and the only relief comes from self-medication but since i'd promised a close friend i'd no longer use my favoritest drug, i've been like kinda bearing up with the pain but lately, these headaches have totally messed with what little concentration i can muster as well as my typing speed. and since i proofread and edit for a living, i've not been making as much money as i'd like, especially since my Council Tax was raised an outrageous 3,2% which brings it up to over 1,300£. am i angry? betcha ass i am. *fuming*

and so, just as i was instructed, on thursday i rang my GP to find out the results. miraculously, my liver functions are normal (?!? — totally amazing) as is everything else apart from what he called my blood count but he refused to get into details on the phone, so i'm to see him again this week. am i frightened? *snigger* if y'all think so, you totally don't know me (and that's a good thing). :-)

whoa, almost forgot: on friday night, Darren and Maxine are coming up from Poole and Bournemouth to get fucked up with me here at Hotel Hunter and next day we're travelling to London in style for Outlaw at Dirty South. i'm kinda stoked cause i can't remember the last Outlaw i was at (!?!) and sadder to say, i totally have no recollection of when last i saw the Brixton Posse. um... oh, Matron! *dribble dribble* 's time for my meds! :-(

but the good stuff is the real Rock Freebase sent a beautiful piece of music the other day, so thank you, Mark. and setmajer has been sending hilarious and intristin' links — thanks Chris. i'll see youse both next week and don't forget the inevitable 'hey, d00ds: i can haz moar, pleeh?' *cheezey grin*

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