Sunday, 31 May 2009
yesterday i was on the kitchen floor when i looked up and took this shot. in truth, i spend quite a bit of time down there (i just don't talk about it that much). anyway, i've been there lately cause Hunter's the only kitty i ever met who gobbles sump'n down one day and the very next, won't touch it, so it's impossible to keep up with his ever-changing Nom-sy whims and shit so out of desperation, i devised a method that works (that is, so far — Sod willing).
basically, i make sure he's watching, then get down on my hands and knees and crawl over to his bowl and stick my nose in, pretending to eat the foul-smelling food (that is, i make *chomp!* sounds and stuff). and whenever he sees that, he like nudges me outta the way and actually eats whatever he disdained only a few moments before.
and since he's such an insufferable, obstinate liddle prick, i've been stashing the Cobalt phone in my pocket so when i get down there, i can maybe catch him in action doing sump'n cute but so far, no good; all i get is boring stuff like his impression of me on the floor here.
hmmm... that's only about 200 words. what the fuck can i say without a shitload of people beating the crap outta me? right, here's the fridge, again from the floor, after i gave up on Hunter.
and my first photo (in a countless series) of the French doors taken within weeks of me moving in, as i sprawled on the livingroom floor nearly five years ago:
knowing me, i think i must've posted this next eleventy-thousand times but i can't find it now, so for the record or whatever.
onto other things: this morning's mail brought the usual moans, to all of whom i went, 'yes, goddammit! i'm boring — i've been saying this shit for years now to anyone who assumes stuff that isn't so, just going by a few incidents in the past. and AFAIC, all that matters is that i'm not bored'. then came the delightful mail from my sister — in reply to mine explaining Chavs — which read in part:
'Jesus Christ!!! You expect me to get through this VOLUME of hatred, sarcasm and vitriolic abuse? (hee!) Actually, I tried... I really did... at work and here at home but I couldn't do it!!! It was too much for my latent ADD or whatever and with all the tangents, etc. ... I'm going to save this mail and maybe read it paragraph by paragraph... there MUST be some way to get through this! There must MUST!!!!...'
it's obvious she has no idea what she's talking about with that 'latent ADD' stuff cause if she had even a smidgeon, she'd be able to follow me easily. i'm totally disappointed in you, Barbara (and told her so, along with mocking her use of multiple!!! surprise!!! marks!!!).
more mail which included this pic:
and the one-liner: 'It's a belt and if you want it, I can get it for you'. um... oh wow, dude, that's really sweet of you to think of me. um, thanks—but no thanks. i mean, i appreciate the thought and all but somehow it's just not me. *edges away in reverse*
OK, here's another of Brixton Town Hall taken the same evening i took this one here, the last time i was in town after the total cock-up of my day, courtesy of the British Embassy (details in first two 'graphs here).
moving right along, when filing photos away just now, i ran across these, two of the first pics i took in the 'hood after i landed, just about five years ago when i was still freaked by the stone walls and truly ancient buildings all over the place. *whispers* still am, actually.
they're what i see if i happen to turn left at the top of the street. when i make a right, i get to see this (took it on the way home from today's very brief venture into TRW).
*cough* hmmm... 'boring'. how's this?: 'in other news, water's still wet'. is that good? believe it or not, i can do better, actually. *giggle* um... OK, 'oh wow (she said breathlessly), i've poured Cheerios into a huge beermug and i'm like drinking em out of the glass, just like i did in Brooklyn. and they taste goo-ooood'. *snigger*
next up in My Exciting Betcha-Wish-You-Were-Me Life, i actually do the laundry (in mind-numbing detail) and i get to drag it out over three or four posts with Before and After photos and stuff, so stay tuned. :-)
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Saturday, 30 May 2009
that's not mine (though i wish it were); i stoled it off a greeting card my sister sent whilst i lived in Bonn and which, at the time, referred to Peter (RIP). anyway, it's been pinned to the bulletin board ever since (couldn't take a decent pic cause it's so faded and shit). OK, the next two a few 'graphs below were taken in the dark as i leaned off the bed with my phone trying to get him to do sump'n (anything, at this point).
even in above classic where the goddamn kitteh is doing nothing but licking his paw, the second he sees my phone out, Hunter quits doing what he's doing immediately and worse yet, won't move or do shit for like an hour or two after. }-( unlike other kitties doing stuff, those whose photos appear on I Can Has Cheezburger, when he sees that camera-phone, he refuses to move his ass into any position apart from Looking All Cute (and/or Starey-boy, depends on what i read into em).
i took above two about 04,00 the other morning after i locked him in the bedroom with me so we could totally crash in peace whilst my livingroom was being used like a fucking youth hostel. then at about 06,30 in accordance with native custom, i came out and made coffee for everyone but only after negotiating a wake-up blast from the leader of the pack. and one for 'later' and one for yesterday, today and tomorrow *whispers* but now they're all gone.
onto sump'n totally different, the other day i was all pleased i'd found a new word (in this edition of World Wide Words) to describe me: doryphore. mail from Pam in Brixton called 'Increase Your Vocabulary' which began:
'If you're still awake/conscious ... The new word is ... —> ... —> ... —> ... silver arsed (or silver assed, US possibly) which means someone who is a perfectionist, nit picking etc...'
once i quit ROTFLMAO, i asked her if she made em up, but no — then i went a-Googling and found 'silver arsed' has eight results whilst 'silver assed' has 31. they're already in the Vocab list in iPod Notes so thank you and muchly, Pam. :-)
in other news, i'm actually supposed to go Out to The Hatchet tonight cause today was Kate's last day at work after she managed to get herself fired. then she somehow convinced me to witness her asshole colleagues in action and though i tried to beg off as best i could, i could never resist a bribe so i'm going. i honestly dunno why she needs me there apart from moral support (or Shared Schadenfreude) so i'm very reluctantly like dragging my heels (and if she really doesn't need any moral support, i plan to dip heavily into the party favors and then i'm so outta there, fast).
OK, bell just rang and i've gotta split so i'm passing along these words of wisdom, once again from my favorite junkie, William S Burrughs:
'If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you've tried'.
status report: *hic!* my head's halfway to being where i wannit to and the other half's waiting for me in the loo at the Hatchet so i'm off now — happy weekend. :-)
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see this house? (click to embiggen.) last week as i did my usual run from Victoria Station to Coaches Departures, i flew in through the wrought iron gates and up the steps cause though it was only like 23,00-sump'n, these two overgrown dudes had followed at my heels for a block of so and were talking about me (loudly) in such a way i felt uncomfortable. BTW, i wasn't bothered at all until i heard the phrase 'punk pussy'.
once in front of the door, i fumbled with my keys, then took out a mirror and messed with my lipstick and hair (as if someone special were waiting inside). the dudes kept on going but stopped in front of the house next door, rolled and lit cigarettes and continued talking, so i took my time with my lipstick and hair (though neither of them needed repairing), then decided it was the perfect moment to clean out my bag. for whatever reason, it was just then the thug-dudes started off, so after waiting a few minutes more, i figured i'd chance it cause Departures was like only 100 metres away.
just as i turned to split, the front door opened and this dude — whom i figured to be like 55 or thereabouts but seriously cute (not cute-old man cute, cute-dude cute) — came out and asked what the hell i was doing on his property so i told him, hoping he'd believe me and i'd get away in time to catch my coach. well, he believed me, invited me inside (i hadda tell him no and why), then we traded numbers and he escorted me out so i could take pics of his place. then he walked me to Departures during which time we had an amusing little conversation (that pegged him as a class-conscious snob in my head and i told him so).
*sigh* and goddammit... without getting into the really good (juicey!) details he txtd me last week, reminding me of the promise i made not to publicise his address, his name, the breed of his doggy or said doggy's name and any other identifying marks, scars or tattoos including the silver stuff on his face and in his ears and nose. *cough* editor's note: i made up that bit about 'tattoos' cause i dunno if he has any. and when i didn't txt him back, he rang (which was my goal in the first place, to talk to him again).
anyway, i'd given him the URL to here and after (i imagine) he read around a bit, he txtd me again, sump'n I AM DYING to copy here but after talking to him yesterday, he refused to give me his permission, booooo. but *cough* hello um, Stranger... i kept my promise, right? right?
enough about my personal life. *snigger* according to my Dashboard, Sunrise in Bristol was at 04,16 this morning and above two pics were taken within the next twenty minutes. right now, i'm thinking of Pi and what Max Cohen said throughout the flick (before he gave himself that home-made trepannation):
'...Personal note: When I was a little kid my mother told me not to stare into the sun. So once when I was six, I did...'
not sure but i think all mothers warn their kids about that shit; at least mine did and many times, so naturally, just like the fictional Max Cohen, i didn't listen which could explain a LOT (but as usual, i don't wanna go there). message to my mother: HAH! i must've stared into the sun like thousands of times (especially on acid). what's the big deal? i came out normal and stuff — oh, wait. uh... anyway, i'd just gotten outta the bath and as i stood at the French doors wrapped in a towel and holding my phone, i felt a warm furry body rubbing up against my legs and when i looked down, i was all 'awwwwwww... how sweet: he wants sump'n'.
i ignored him cause first off, that's his 'pleeh? Please? PLS?' look (after which, when i relent, i'm faced with cleaning liquids and pawprints from every horizontal and vertical surface in here) and secondly, the skies were putting on their usual show and i didn't wanna miss any streaks of new color. but i could feel the vibrations as Cunter (The Kitty from Hell) whom he'd been imitating for hours morph'd straight into Hunter (Sweet Docile Purry Boy) and actually whimpered.
then he got angry cause not only would i not give him the leftover milk in my cereal bowl (which ends up in stinking liddle pawprints all over if i don't follow him around with a sponge and cleaner), i wouldn't let him out. please notice the (subtle though it is) difference in expression from pic above to the next, which's his 'GIMME! or i'll *chomp!* you' look:
awww... who could resist that (unless you've lived with him, you think it's a) plaintive expression on his widdy face? (me cause i know a phoney when i see one.) i said sump'n like 'hang on, Hunter, i'll be with you in a second' but when i was done taking sun rising pics (none of which came out looking decent), i called and called then searched high and low but no kitty. then i peered around the coffeetable and found this peaceful sight.
but dig Le Stare Surreptitious. i went 'whoa, there you are...' and if you look closely what appears to be zooming in on the same photo (but isn't) reveals that, without moving a muscle and letting on he's awake, he'd opened his beady little eyes.
moving right along, as usual, i'm writing without thinking cause i have to get this shit down ASAP (or i'll forget), in order to peruse in future when i get enough free time:
BTW, when i said 'or i'll forget' that means 'even when i bookmark things i always forget to look at them. ALWAYS'. anyway, above's A Dictionary of Slang And Its Analogues (here's the entire thing in boring plain text). check the typeface above and when you get to the link on which it lives, click on the pages to turn em whichever way, fascinating stuff. *stage whisper* i love the Internets!
OK, here're my currently fave sites: The Planning Lab and The Cock Bucket, so enjoy. :-) that is, enjoy The Cock Bucket unless you're oprah, an oprah-watcher, a crazed American, a religious nut or a member of the BNP in which case please go fuck yourself. or move to the States — i'd suggest Alabama or Mississippi or another of those ass-backwards places in which the N-word's used blithely (almost as a term of endearment) and they're still fighting the Civil War. *snigger* don't forget, kids: y'all can thank me later, preferably long distance. :-)
overheard the other night on QI: 'Which country has the highest suicide rate?' i love this programme (and i've been in love with Stephen Fry since i saw Wilde way back when in the States, but that's another story — and yes, i know it's hopeless). right after he asked, my landline rang and i got involved with someone and didn't hear the answer but according to (the possibly outdated wiki) it's Lithuania.
*whispers* i so wanna be on QI but know there's no way in hell i'll ever for many reasons, mostly cause i'm not a comedian and not known outside my lit-tle circle of Pill Poppin' Hollerin' Deviants — but regarding being a contestant or whatever on QI, dig:
'It's okay to be wrong, but don't be obviously, boringly wrong. In this way, QI tries to rid the world of the flotsam of nonsense and old wives' tales that can build up in your mind. QI not only makes us look more closely at things, it encourages us to question all the received wisdom we have carried with us since childhood. Think of the program as a humorous cranial de-scaler.
'QI isn't really about pointless information, or shoring up vast banks of trivia, It's about finding undiscovered connections and seeing hidden patterns, just like the best comedy. After all, curiosity is hardwired in all of us; we just lose the ability to indulge it. "The lust of the mind", Thomas Hobbes called it, "that exceedeth the short vehemence of any carnal pleasure". There you have it, and from a philosopher not a press release. QI: better than sex'.
that's all for the nonce... i've been putting off working (as usual) but now i'm down to the edge of the danger zone (means i have less time to work than any normal person would've left herself) and i'm finally ready to swing into action, so peace out, yo. :-)
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Wednesday, 27 May 2009
tee-hee... yup, i had someone in mind when i made Bug-Out Kitteh but no, i give benefits of doubts around here so dude'll be nameless for now. suffice it to say, Mr Mystery Man has already met this kitty and whoa, it's wild how very differently two people can react to the same image. i mean, i think it's teh cute, teh funny and teh TTLY immichur whilst He. Is. Pissed. *shakes head sadly*
but forget about that and back to the weekend when i was still pushing myself to see how long i could stay up working without sleep. saturday was the 5th day of my second impression of Sad Eyed Lady of The Lowlife and i knew i was cracking after beginning to yawn (mostly cause she'd never), when a brilliant idea occurred: the best way to stay up and keep working was to take a few short breaks an hour — not to rest, but to concentrate on doing things that were trivial, fast and fun between rushing to meet whatever deadlines.
i figured i'd have these short breaks for twitting or chasing Hunter around or taking phone pics off the balcony or making prank phonecalls to Moe's, and if i could keep doing rapid-fire stuff like that, as long as it was fun, i was pretty sure i could get my work in on time without suffering from lack of sleep. well, i wasn't pretty sure but at that point i was willing to try anything in order to put off going to bed although i was like dead on my feet and the toothpicks i'd propped under my eyelids to keep em open the day before were starting to bother me. anyway, the photo above and two below were taken 06,00 saturday on the first break i had after i put my new strategy into action.
so i began working for like 20 minute stretches and playing around intermittently and that's how i stayed up longer than i thought i would at the beginning. but i'd totally forgotten they mail out World Wide Words on saturdays and when it came, my good intentions flew out the window cause it's another addiction — i always read the entire thing in one sitting — and the more i sat here and read, the sleepier i got until i found this new word describing the major reason i'm such a good proofreader (without getting into my usual moans on OCD, Assburgers and all the rest) and i immediately woke up when i spotted:
doryphore: a pedantic critic of minor errors; a nit picker.
*cough* guilty as charged, yer honor. :-( but in my own defence, i know it's best to STFU about my doryphorical bent unless i wanna make someone i don't like feel like a dumbass by attacking his grammar, usage, spelling et al. *whispers* it's an old habit — from Junior High to (my first) college, i'd have a red pen to correct and grade love letters from undesirables (i.e., arrogant jocks, streetwise greasers and ultimately hotshot teachers) and send em back, hopefully chowing down on yet another bit of their self-esteem. holy shit, did i say that out loud?
'We owe this word to Sir Harold Nicolson, who introduced it to the world in the Spectator magazine in August 1952. In an issue of the same magazine later the same year, he described a doryphore as a "questing prig, who derives intense satisfaction from pointing out the errors of others." ...
hmmpf... i thought that last bit was called Solecistical Schadenfreude, actually. my bad / silly me / live and learn.
'Herb Caen commented in the San Francisco Chronicle in 1996: "For a doryphore, what is more delightful than a mistake in a correction?"...'
well y'know, it depends upon who made the mistake and... um... that is... uh... O HAI! i mean, hey! look over there —> thanks to sleep deprivation and what they call a cocktail of drugs, i was so ripped, i totally failed to notice the Ground Floor neighbors' ugly bins out back which ruined the aesthetics of my photo.
OK, the next few 'graphs are literally for the record (mine): back to Twitter, i usually ignore the trends and games many play with tags and shit but over the past few days two new ones were born with my name virtually written all over em: #3wordsduringsex and #3wordsaftersex, both of which practically shouted for me to get as crude and puerile as possible. i tried my best:
for 3 words during sex i twat 'is it in?' and originally intended to stop there but throughout the day, inspiration struck (along with nausea and the growing need to soak my mind's eye in Clorox) when i twat things like 'i'm coming, actually', 'tastes like chicken', 'check that O-face', 'need more Viagra?', 'more coke, please', 'not another queef', 'that's a buttplug?', and i was just about to twit 'did you fart?', 'dog felching? OK', 'finger lickin' good' and 'happens to everyone' when i threw up a liddle in my mouth, then gave up and crashed.
yeah, that's what they've been telling me for ages now. anyhoo, for 3 words after sex i twat '100 quid, please', 'was that it?', 'Friends is on!', 'who are you?', 'i'm off, then' and 'mommy was better'. i wanted to get in another reference to felching but all i could think of was 'so that's felching' — big whoop. and 'Friends is on!' would've been much more betterer (read: insulting) as a During, not an After. #iwannado-over #justsayin'
so thanks to everyone for putting up with my repulsively infantile bullshit. *giggle* i'm always amazed when i twit whatever inanity and people still hang on, seriously clever people who don't unfollow after i try my utmost to get as lowdown, dirty and disgusting as i can. *whispers* so it's obvious i'm losing my touch. this troubles me. *shouts* DOGFELCHERS!
um... in other news, i haven't yet got permission to talk about the possibly slanderous stuff i've mentioned a coupla times (and i'm really pissed off about that, mostly cause i'll prolly forget what they're all about unless i get details down here) but i'm giving those responsible a few more days to get back to me (cause i'm so dying to spill, especially stuff about The Apprehensive Text and Village People With Vaginas and Stupid Costumes in Public) but for now, here's My New Silver Cuff, unfortunately having no gossip value whatsoever. bummer.
but wearing it will better show off the Skulls Bracelet gifted to me by TPFKAPM. anyway, i'm outta free time cause i've still got some work to do here, Kate's coming back with some people and a taxi for some wack plan of hers (which i OK'd in a moment of weakness) and now that she txtd she's on her way over, whoa, do i regret it.
once again, Hunter's got the very last word and i'm getting sick and tired of i— oh, shit! — he heard me. *cringe* LOL, kid-ding cause we all know who's boss around here.
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Monday, 25 May 2009
the other day i decided to walk round Bristol pretending i was a deaf-mute... y'know, for research purposes (and that's all i wanna say about that for now). anyway, when various people tried to speak to me, i pulled a *wack* face and kinda made vague hand motions and mmm'd, uh'd, uy'd, yuh'd and mrr'd em until they left me alone, prolly thinking i was mentally feeble as well (not far from the truth — exactly the image i wanted to impart — and as for the 'Why?', the less said about that shit, the better).
anyhoo, my lit-tle plan worked and i ended up bopping round town taking pictures and shit in near-blissful silence, enclosed in my own private world. it was such an uplifting experience, i plan to do it again and again cause i actually got a lot of stuff done, things that'd been on my To Do list for ages but for whatever reason, i never found the time to accomplish cause i always end up talking to strangers after they hear my accent when i ask for directions or help from shopclerks or whatever. the only lesson learnt i'd like to share is people seem to really wanna listen to you if they think you're worse off than they are especially when some non-specific, totally imaginary death sentence's involved.
AFAIC this seems to hold true be it mentally, physically or however else plus it seems i get their full attention exactly in inverse proportion to how much i'm wanting it on any given day. usually when i'm in the foullest of moods (pick a day... any day) and don't wanna communicate with anyone, all i have to do is blink or sump'n innocuous like that (and then get ready to be bored to tears after making certain my face is set in a mask that says 'politely open to strangers' moaning' cause since i left the States, my meatspace expressions are always mistaken for that shit anyway). hmmm... the more i think on this, the more i realise this is valuable information to be carefully stashed away for use in some future criminal deviousity, but i digress.
ultimately, i ended up spending quite a bit of time on The Christmas Steps. from the BBC: '...Its medieval title was Queene Street, then it became known as Knyfesmyth Street, after those who traded there. This name may gradually have been corrupted into the "Christmas" of today. Others suggest that the name may be derived from the nativity scene found in a stained glass window of The Chapel of the Three Kings of Cologne, which lies at the top of the steps...'
apart from the surefire draw of the stained glass, i lingered there for quite a while and for many reasons but the only one i wanna share now is my love for British place-names, sump'n which never fails to conjure up the epitome of History to someone like me (read: Curious American) as well as more recent beliefs and images (be they true or total fantasy) fleshed out by reading the likes of Charles Dickens, the Brontes, Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, Lewis Carroll, MR James, John Collier, Agatha Christie and (of all people) AN Wilson.
not-so fun-fact: this immersion into all Brit Lit (especially after slogging through their Stateside counterparts) very frequently proved to be a frustrating experience.
sad to say, all this reading only fanned the flames of my wellworn but highly treasured, unrealistic and totally stereotypical impressions of Olde and early to mid-20th Century England, carefully chosen from the shitload of films seen during childhood (when i hadn't my nose stuck in a book) and then — thanks to Denial — stagnating for decades, right under the surface, barely remembered till recently.
*to self* hmmm... if i knew i had only X weeks to live, i'd prolly lock myself away with all my Brit books and old DVDs and spend my last days burning my eyes out 24/7. *whispers* i actually wouldn't mind doing that anyway, death sentence or not. :-)
back to The Christmas Steps: they '...were constructed, at a steep slant, in September 1669 ...' (editor's note: *whimper*) '...Prior to this there had been a steep, muddy and narrow street leading from the bridge over the Frome outside the city walls...'
*sigh* moving right along, here's what appears to be a manhole cover embedded in the street but dressed up with, like tesserae of rose quartz, glass, marble, flint and similar stuff. it reads St Pancras Iron Work of London around the edges and its beauty stopped me in my tracks, especially in light of the craftsmanship and design-sense that went into this everyday object upon which people walk and dogs shit and piss day in and day out.
my shite cameraphone couldn't capture it clearly in toto but you get the idea. in truth, i spent an inordinate amount of time ooh-ing and ahh-ing over this commonplace object and i'm pretty sure my audible whimpering helped the locals accept me without question in my newfound guise of Not-Nancy Drew, Girl (Mentally) Defective, so much so, i'm certain i won't be bothered when i return (and return i surely shall).
once back home, i Googled to see what the deal was and apart from learning a bit about Victorian Ironworks, i found a photograph on Flickr by a dude called Clive 1945 who captured one of these in its entirety in Gloucestershire and then commented 'I have found a second cover by St Pancras Iron work in Evesham, they seem rare'.
being that, at that point, my AQ's cup had runneth over, i spent the rest of the day back in normal SG-mode, laying the groundwork for my next extra-legal enterprise and taking more photos as the mood struck until i decided to do some volunteer time over at PDSA where i found this cute little dude on sale for 99p:
BTW, he's My Heavy Metal Elephant whom i mentioned as such on saturday when i warned 'next up...' cause he's one of the then-six people or situations upon which i wanna update ASAP but there's no time today and what's more, there's even a new really juicey one to add to the list: The Woman Whose Outlaw Cherry Was Broken At Dirty South Last Night. then in order going by the potential to be most trainwreck-gawking is The Apprehensive Text, the Village People With Vaginas, Literally Running Into Kate and finally, The Needle and the Damage Done.
one quickie i'll spill now comes from a friend who'll remain anonymous for the nonce and whose mail sent me this morning — called 'Dirty South Sober' — read hilariously in part, '...Band started without Nick who didn't arrive until halfway through the 2nd song. Apparently he'd been arrested for hitting a traffic warden. Respect...'
yup, this is the multi-talented Nick Reynolds of Memorial Casts fame, son of one of my heroes — the brains behind the Great Train Robbery — Bruce Richard Reynolds and seen above with Delia who came with me to Nick's Punkvert 402 Show last Fall, during which Nick introduced me to his dad which caused me to blush and gush like a typical fan grrl whilst Bruce looked all pleased.
before i forget, there are more pics of Nick at prior link where i wrote up my night with Delia and Mary from Dublin and how we ended up backstage at the Fun Lovin' Criminals Show where they gifted me with one of the long white feather boas used onstage an hour or so earlier. as well, here's more on Nick plus samples of his work at yet another of his shows about a year back to which i went with Stevie, Librarian of Love in a write-up i quoted Nick by calling 'sometimes it's hard to kick against the pricks'. here's a sample of one of the pieces at the show which i photographed but failed to get its proper title so i think of it as the obvious 'deathmask on armadillo'.
WANT. *sigh* if i could afford it, it'd be in my livingroom now... right, i just wanna add that AFAIC, Nick's punching out a traffic warden is totally Rock & Roll as well as reminding me of Ancient History: Wyman, Jones and Jagger micturating on the side of a petrol station (way before anyone thought up the lovely acronym ASBO) and from which that infamous quote 'We piss anywhere, man...' arose. hang on, just remembered my ASBO badge always inside my leather jacket worn close to my cold, cold heart:
yes, shite photo but yet again, i digress. back to spreading malicious gossip, i can do it as well as the next grrl so believe you me when i say i'll get to the shit i listed above as well as The New Silver Cuff which really isn't gossip at all but i wanna show it off. for now, back to my Heavy Metal Elephant.
i described it to Chris in mail which read '...it's about 3" high and 4" long from trunk-tip to tail — roughly twice as large as these photos — and very heavy cause it's solid pewter. i believe it's a pharmaceutical giveaway cause the word PROCTOSEDYL is engraved along the outer edge of the left ear; from what i can gather from Googling, it's the brand-name of a suppository or whatever. and i haven't named him yet but he's sitting on my desk reminding me to remember stuff'.
a few seconds later, Chris shot back: 'Like what stuff? To be an asshole?'
?!? OMFG — how the hell did he know?
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