back on my Mac :-)

after three days of trying to pretend i didn't give a shit my machine was in the shop, i'm sprawled on my fave chair again staring at pixels but better yet, for the first time in four months (or more), i've got like nine apps running. why did it take me so long to call Apple? well, cause — uh... heh *whispers* it takes a LOT for me to move my ass on anything — just ask Chris, LOL. well, apart from certain situations which might be termed 'extra-legal', but we don't wanna go there now. then again, just like the iPhone, i've been looking for a reason to buy a Mac Air, a reason apart from 'i wannit' *sobs* and i was kinda thinking if the Mini dies, there's my reason. *hangs head in a manner approaching shame*

anyhoo, Apple dude told me that once he got a look inside, he freaked cause he'd never seen such a fur-packed Mac, EVar. then he went in and said he 'called everyone over to see'. *smirk* but it took almost four years for my poor machine to get to that sorry state, a thought which brings me a bit of comfort (and didn't occur until Christine reminded me in mail, so thank you, sweet grrl). :-)

the thing of it is, Hunter's so furry, i'm forced to brush him at least four times a day and whoa, does he love it. all i need to do is say 'Hunter... brush' — then he stops whatever it is he's doing and flies over to me. BTW, this is also used as a diversionary tactic when he's trying to get under my desk — i feel a bit guilty using his ADD against him, but hey, whatever works.

it's so cute: after the first few seconds of brushing, he becomes Purry-boy as he slowly turns round so i can do him all over, then he stands there in front of me, actually preening, with his motor running louder and louder whilst he stares into my eyes, as if daring me to stop (well, that's what it looks like to me). anyway, the multiple daily brushings began about eight or nine months ago but too liddle, too late... i should've been doing it all along cause sometimes i'll see wisps of Hunter-hair floating about in the aether, as like part of the permanent ambience here. lovely... NOT. }-(

now it's back to work for meh. as always, Hunter has the very last word. *sigh*


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a meaningless comma—then you die

for all those with crap vision like mine, i'll read it aloud to youse (mainly cause i dig the sound of my own voice — no surprise there); it's one of my favorite Jean Paul Sartre quotes: 'Life is a meaningless comma in the sentence of time'. 

*snigger* heavy shit, huh?  *whispers* not rilly but i'll pretend. anyway, the above's the cover of one of those Underground Comix they used to make in Olden Tymes and also a copy of sump'n that's been on my fridge door since- whoa, thinking on it, it's been on fridge doors in my flats starting ages ago in Lower Manhattan, then up to the Bronx, then Downtown Brooklyn (2 different apartments), Midwood, Brooklyn, then Bonn (2 flats) and now Bristol (but mine is all yellowed with age).

hmmm, i actually think i once posted a photo of mine but can't remember whether or not it was here on Tawdry or on my real site and no time to check now. no matter; i'm sure y'all get the gist. anyway, i'm here to say 'Farewell, my faithless friends' cause of the Mac situ over here: my beloved machine which is right now revving up to the soundlevel at which, back in december, Dave compared to a hair dryer on 'high'. i wouldn't mind the damn sound actually, but i do mind the over-heating and the near impossibility to get where i wanna go in a timely manner. y'know, like instantly cause i've got next to no patience. but back to my Mac troubles:

worst of all, i quit using Firefox a few months back and that's the shit that really hurts. i made this decision after noticing that when FF was running, my Mac would crash like way too frequently — please note i didn't say 'my browser' i said 'my Mac'. and though i dig using Safari (the browser — out of all six i've got — with which i had the most success since), i do miss my little kitty theme on Firefox, the one at which Chris took just one look, then gave me one of his withering glances. *shudder* *whispers* as if i weren't withered enough. what hurt even more was his appraisal: sump'n about how the Firefox kitties were total proof i was firmly esconced in Old Lady Land with no turning back. *weeps*

editor's note: he totally didn't believe me when i meekly attempted to convince him that i'd downloaded the kitties theme cause i thought it teh cute.

anyway, i'll be back as soon as my machine's home so i can catch myself up with my typically asinine blether, y'know, the same old shit by which some miracle actually causes people to tell me they're *gasp* 'entertained' — or worse; i mean 'better' yet, 'amused' — WTF? entertaining and amusing were the last things on my mind when back in early 04, Datumzeile: Bonn went live and i switched from my lifelong habit of writing in meatspace journals to begin to witter away on rimone.org, only to be forced to change the title to Dateline: Bristol when i moved here. the only difference i can see is that here, anyone can read as opposed to the others, which i'd kill (or at least maim) before i'd permit anyone a peek inside.

and so, i'll be back (hah! i just mistyped 'back' as 'baked' and guess what? i AM), uh, sorry, i'll be back to keep on whatever it is i've been doing here. i've already set aside an actual notebook to be used as a journal whilst i'm Mac-less and i'm hoping i can read my handwriting afterwards. as well, i've been planning a post detailing every single (known) thing wrong with me (not physically, head-wise) and i actually feel stoked thinking of the reaction i'll prolly get when it's up. 

it's really nothing special: just more — let's call em 'incidents' cause 'events' is just too pretentious and y'll know me: i'm the furthest thing from pretentious. wait... can't quit LMAO. OK, no wait. OK, i'm a bit calmer now. anyway, i've a post planned detailing my mental incapabilities which're all tempered with details of those biggies i secretly think of as my Four As: the ASBO tendencies, the ADD, the Aspergers and the Anhedonia. then there's the SAD, the reverse SAD et al. and let us not forget the chronic depression and the suicidal ideation without which i wouldn't be me. well, without any of the 4 As i wouldn't be me but hey, no time to go there now. then there's the Tourette's as well as the (dunno what to call em cause they've got more seriousity than the word 'ASBO' implies), the um... shit! OK, the Criminal Elements of my so-called personality. awkward, right? but i think the message is way loud and clear (and knowing me, it's louder than one might wish but that's me to a T). oooh, i made a liddle rhyme. *proudtard* *wack*

and so, i'll leave y'all with a sinking heart, a frantic stomach, a quivering lip and tears in my eyes (not cause i'm gonna miss youse but cause i've gotta go to the loo and bad). then it's back to work — thanks to which i've been up all night and (very pleased to say) finished three out of the five jobs thrown at me yesterday, and all before deadline. *preens* (possibly for the very last time here). only two more to go; one due at 13,00 and the other at any time before 15,30 later on today when Mark, the Mac-dude, is set to be arriving. yup, i requested a housecall and gottit. *wack*

anyway, in case i finally get my wish — oops, there's that inside voice sneaking out again, dammit — rather, in case sump'n happens like i get hit by a truck, get killed (there's a queue for potential murderers for that one, so get yer ass in line) or finally decide To End It All (as in Suicide by Cop), this meaningless comma in the sentence of time which laughingly passes for my life will totally be over and good fuckin' riddance. and in the case i finally leave Planet Earth, this's how i'd like y'all to remember me:

HA-ha! *in a Nelson Muntz voice* i'ze only kidding. THIS is how i'd dig being remembered:

please notice the very un-SG wistful look. i think that's the bit that made me choose this as the fave Mick took of me for the Role Models show. i'd actually love to throttle the life outta teh Internetz with it though it's already been posted as a Twit-Pic, on Free A3 and of course, on here and if i had my way (as well as the stones) i'd have already been flooding all your inboxes with same and not once, but on a daily basis (but with sundays off cause of reasons touching on 'Shomer fucking Shabbos' — LOL, leave it to meh to force in Lebowski. :-)

BTW, check out the difference between the above pic and this one here, the second was taken within an hour of the first, when the entire ordeal was finally over and i was once again safe at home. amazing, right? well, i think it's amazing, amazing what a little make-up and a proper camera can do to make a person look so wildly different. shit... i'm wittering again. soz, ppl. *snigger* OK, time to get down to that which i've been avoiding: my actual Goodbye:

*sniffle* i'm so gonna miss spilling my guts here and at the moment, instead of madly trying to make my next deadline, i'm staring at the notebook in which i'd planned to write down shit i wanted post on when i got back. uh... please notice my use of the past tense. right, just remembered: i totally forgot to give proper attribution to my Disclaimer (linked above), the one that i recently called the shortest post i'd ever written. which is the total truth since it's only 33 words, but the thing of it is, it's also bullshit since i didn't write it.

*to self* could there be ANYone out there who truly believes i could write sump'n as concise and amusing as that? in all honesty, i copied it down whilst watching Where The Buffalo Roam (i think) cause it was so me (even though it wasn't). and as i so dig doing — mainly cause it takes up space — i'll repeat (this time, with proper attribution and i'm pretty sure anyone who's been paying attention already knows from whom i stoled it). AFAIC, it's as true today as it was since i dunno when. always, most prolly. OK, here we go:

'I am no longer responsible for anything I write from this point on... I've been without sleep for over 80 hours, so I'm beyond simple fatigue. The hallucinations have finally stopped — thank god...' 

please note that i kinda sorta made it my own by taking out the fairytale entity at the end and writing 'praise Jebus' instead in my post, but hey. right, before i forget, if y'all didn't know it's none other than Hunter S Thompson who seddit, then *shakes head sadly* you haven't been paying attention. in the corner, alla youse! stand there and reflect upon your sins or whatever until you've learnt you can trust me just about as far as y'all can throw me (and throwing like 85 lbs shouldn't be any big whoop).

moving right along, remember, y'all: 'We're your friends — we're not like the others'. yup, it's Hunter again; i mean, from whom else but a dead dude would i so blithely steal? shit! i'm not only wittering again, but trying my hardest to stretch out this last post as long as i can with my typical M.O: talking loud and saying nothing (nope, that ain't mine either). helpful hint: Google is your friend. :-)

almost forgot to say that thanks to Chris lending me his Vaio (the hated Windoze laptop) as well as my beloved iPod, i'll still be connected (note to Sod: NOT an invite) so keep those cards, letters, emails and photos coming. and please keep in mind if y'all send me anything weighing in at over 1MB, it'll totally be deleted like instantly cause it seems my iPod doesn't dig big attachments. just sayin'.

OK, i'm REALLY off now (i swearz it and 'off' in more ways than one, of course), so i'll see ya when i see ya — which might not be for a long, lawwwwng time and if at least one person has her way, it'll be never. *snigger* 

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whatever you fuck your brain with

'For whatever reason you refuse to feel this space we're in, to know its insanity — really know it,

'Whatever your particular anaesthetic is that you hold onto so desperately, the thing, I mean, that makes you think you know who you are,

'Whatever that thing is that you allow to keep you sane, your ace in the hole, the psyche that keeps you from trying to guess what your pimp holds in store for you;

'Whatever keeps you from screaming out at this very moment in absolute and sheer horror, whatever you fuck your brain with — whatever that is, whatever that is,

'It's a LIE'.

above with big thanks to the Alabama 3 cause i stoled it: the spoken intro to 'Peace in the Valley' (off their totally glorious and eclectic Situationist masterpiece of a first album, 'Exile On Coldharbour Lane'). anyway, one of my rare legal anaesthetics involves mocking the sacred to which above image will attest, so thanks, Chuck. *snigger, snarf & snort*

one of my other legal anaesthetics involves thinking about any and all aspects of death (big DUH! — no surprise there). *smirk* Christine was kind enough to send me this next which IMO is pretty damn crucial to The World As We Know It. or at least, the world as seen through the prism of Christine's and my own way jaded eyes. um, don't try this shit at home, kids — it's totally not recommended for the weak of heart (or mind, actually). and if y'all don't obey the prior warning, don'tcha come running to me with the usual reports of bad dreams and other moronic shit.

in all truth, it takes a certain kinda person to be able to laugh in the face of death *preens* i mean, i've been doing it since my first close call (aged 8) and i've never looked back. but youse are totally not me (and thank your lucky stars for that and the sanity that comes with it). anyway, the next is a bit of Christine's mail this morning, more proof she knows exactly how to cheer me up, so thanks, sweet grrl.*kiss*

Neale Donald Walsch: 'You have created a society in which it is very not OK to want to die —  very not OK to be very OK with death. Because you don't want to die, you can't imagine anyone wanting to die no matter what their circumstances are, or condition. But there are many situations in which death is preferable to life — which I know you can imagine if you think about it for even a little bit...

'...the soul is also clear that there is no great tragedy involved in leaving the body. In many ways, the tragedy is being in the body. So you have to understand that the soul sees the whole death thing differently...'

please keep in mind that all the above is from NDW's (supposed) 'Conversations With God', a mythological character AFAIK, moving right along, let's be frank and call it what it is: my obsession with all things death. this began when i was very young (as much of my stuff does). for instance, i couldn't understand why everyone was all weepy the week both my grandmothers popped off within days of each other cause in each of their cases, their lives on this earthly plane had morph'd into their own living hells. i was the only one not crying at their funerals and got smacked for it after i told my mother i was happy they were dead cause they were out of their misery. she totally didn't geddit (still doesn't, actually).

my suspicions that any death shit were totally taboo were unhappily confirmed when i was like 12 or 13 and read Jessica Mitford's The American Way of Death. read it: it still holds up today, and that says a lot.

i've got a shitload of close-but-no-cigar personal (near) death stories but now's not the time and i ain't talking about false alarms like the botched abortion (aged 18) where i was (supposedly) bleeding to death on the table so the quack made one of his quickie decisions and cut through my tummy, leaving an ugly scar about an inch below my navel, headed directly South. right, and there was the hep (hepatitus B, aged 19), the leukemia (aged 31) and the countless ODs (LOL, where to begin?), all of which remind me of Hunter S Thompson's 'It never got weird enough for me'. can't see the connection? rest assured there certainly is one but no time to get into it now.

in other news, my machine's going into the shop tomorrow afternoon, boooo. but there's just so much of this shit i can take, what with the poor thing overheating for no apparent reason and being contrary as well as creative enough to unexpectedly slip into sleep mode by itself (most likely a reaction to my writty — i prolly bored it to sleep *whispers* cause i do that a LOT). worse yet, it's been actually turning itself off (!?!) and i shudder to think what that could indicate. Chris ran Disc Utility last time he was here and everything's fine on that front, but still. *weeps*

and so, i'm gonna spend today and tomorrow working my ass off as fast as i can cause i totally can't proofread or edit on my iPod. well, in all truth, i could, but don't wanna go blind(er) in the process. boss-dude's been warned — he's verily pissed and actually asked me to leave the comfort of home and *gasp!* find a 'Net cafe (for which he'd pay, he so generously offered) but when i was done laughing my ass off at that particular suggestion, i told him to send me everything due ASAP and i'll stay up all night tonight working if i must till Mac-dude comes by to collect. oh, joy! NOT. grrrrr... }-(

right, totally forgot to say that my expected absence, unlike that of a few weeks ago, shall be (for once) NOT due to depression so please, dudes: no more mails and txts and shit asking if i'm OK (read: 'You still there?' = 'Have you finally checked out?') cause here y'all have it — the troof ain't out there; it's right here.

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the Doctor is out: 4 years on

damn, has it really been FOUR years without Hunter? in truth it seems much, much less, dammit to hell. anyway, way back when, the following first 'graph of sump'n i read in Rolling Stone (when it was good, meaning before it went all corporate and glossy and accepted adverts for shit that'd never in a million years have a place in my lifestyle)... whoa — where was i? right, the following 'graph totally hooked me upon first reading.

'We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive"... And suddenly there was a terrible roar around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamned animals?"...'

as i wrote last year, that's the now-famous beginning of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, a book that changed my life for the better and whose author became my living hero, someone in whom to believe and admire. best of all, his tools were words, humor and a contempt for any abuse of power and authority. 

it's really difficult for me to go on now cause as time passes, i miss him more and more (i'm reading last year's post again and am getting pretty damn weepy ATM). so i'll only request y'all to do the same: please read my post on missing Hunter (and the one the year before and the year before, LOL). as well, as anyone who knows me in meatspace knows, as a kinda wack way to remember him (as if i'd ever forget), i named my then-newborn kitty Hunter cause he was born within 3 weeks of the good doctor's departure from this world. my Hunter was also born the day before Peter-cat, my trans-Atlantic kitty, died but i don't wanna go there now.

moving right along, since last year, i've gotten my grubby liddle paws on a coupla DVDs which, to my eternal shame, i had no idea existed: one's Where The Buffalo Roam (1980, with Bill Murray hilariously as Hunter) and one's Buy The Ticket, Take The Ride (2006, the actual Hunter filmed throughout his life). that's apart from my treasured and way well-worn DVD starring Johnny Depp doing a fabaroo Hunter and Benecio del Toro as Hunter's attorney in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998). and when i wallow in my misery — and i do. a LOT — i'll watch em back to back, crying my head off, no matter who else is here with me.

editor's note: it just occured that knowing me, the wallowing in misery stuff is prolly yet another lame excuse to — um... let's use a euphemism and call it — 'self-medicate' even more. wait... shit! 'Did i say that out loud?' 

anyway, Hunter said shitloads of other quotable stuff and my fave's above on the masthead or whatever: 'I wouldn't advocate sex, drugs or insanity for everyone but they've always worked for me'.

then there was his opinion of America after the Supreme Court bent over, dropped trow and took it up the ass by promoting bu$hCo to power even though President Gore garnered way more votes. i believe Hunter wrote this after that lying sack of shit decided to begin OIL (Operation Iraqi Liberation). }-( oh, sorry (not really), i meant 'The War in Iraq':

'We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world, a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just whores for power and oil but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us. No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way or we'll kill you'. 

truer words an' all. next up is another of my personal faves to which i can totally relate: 

'Once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can'.

and let us not forget 'Look what God made me do!' something i love to shout out whenever i've fucked up somehow, especially in public. then again, there's my former sig, left on forums all over Teh Internetz:

'Drugs usually enhance and strengthen my perceptions and reactions, for good or ill. They've given me the resilience to withstand repeated shocks to my innocence gland. The brutal reality of politics alone would probably be intolerable without drugs'. 

*sigh* as Chuck said way back in 2005 in his eloquent eulogy, 'Dr Thompson is gone now and I am poorer for it'.

fun fact: i snagged The Libertine a few weeks back and totally loved it to the point at which i added one of (The 2nd Earl of Rochester) John Wilmot's quotes to the Hunter one above. why? duh! cause i totally related to it, of course. but i'm mentioning The Libertine here cause at the very end, i was thrilled to see a title card dedicating the flick to Hunter, before the credits began to roll.

RIP, Hunter dude. *weeps* dunno what else to say cause even though every day is way depressing, AFAIC 20. february is one of the saddest and it prolly always will be as long as i draw breath. but hey, i'd rather be bummed without you than never having known the delights your writing's brought me over the years. once again, RIP Hunter and thank you for everything. 

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make it stop!

LOL, kidding — i NEVER wannit to stop. anyway, i'm pleased as fuckall to announce that, without overtly doing anything at all, i managed to snag two new testimonials in the last few days (see R-hand column). *preens like a proudtard*

the first is an example of the worst kinda obviousity, and from setmajer, of all people. *shocked* the other day, he twat the way rhetorical 'You really do moan at an Olympic level, don't you?' to which i was dying to reply sump'n like 'BIG DUH, dude! have you forgotten already? i mean you, of all people, totally know that already and much better than most. un-fuckin-fortunately (for you)' but being the very forgiving, all-powerful, all-mighty deity i am *snigger* i STFU instead (like, a first for meh). BTW, i was only playing, using the phrase 'all-powerful, all-mighty' — *whispers* cause once again i stoled the words of the good Reverend, D Wayne Love. *not ashamed but close to it* um... let's move on and swiftly.

the second's from my sister Bibbe from one of her five or six daily mails. we'd been discussing stuff that went down when we were liddle kids in Brooklyn and tawking about a number of things that made me the grrl i am today. y'know, stuff like my horrendous childhood (she had a good one cause she's The Good One), my running away from home (aged 9), the assassination of JFK... y'know, the usual stuff American chicks who share my cohort think on muchly (especially if they've only grown up on the outside). *snigger*

anyway, the first thing i can remember to impact on me (and badly so) was the sight of a legless World War II vet in the subway when i was three. he was on one of those little carts with wheels and selling pencils — WHAT THE FUCK!?! — and i'd asked my mother WHY? as in 'why has the government left him hanging after the war instead of taking care of him? especially since he'd lost both legs thanks to serving US?' needless to say, my mother hadn't a clue and seeing the poor dude at such an impressionable age did a lot of damage to my psyche, damage made worse years later when JFK got killed. and it was all compounded a bit after that when our oh-so-fair gubmint quickly pinned the JFK assassination on Lee Harvey Oswald.

BTW, that phrase above — 'a lot of damage to my psyche' — is a euphemism meaning it fucked me up verily and fed the mistrust that'd been brewing inside, way back when, since i had the misfortune to catch my first sight of Legless War Vet years before.

editor's note: after reading Mark Lane's book 'Rush To Judgment' y'all can imagine the trouble i got into at school when arguing with my teachers after each and every one of em taught us that Oswald was The Enemy: 'The Lone Gunman', so to speak. and after every classroom argument, i was called down to the principal's office to wait for my parents' arrival cause they were invited to join the festivities as well. and each and every time this happened, i was expelled from whatever HS, which is how i ended up at Quintano's School for Young Professionals with the likes of Johnny Thunders, Peter Tork, Patti d'Arbanville, Chris Stein (Blondie) and Joey Ramone as well as a veritable cast of thousands, all before they hit the bigtime and got famous or whatever.

anyway, back to my little sister's mail, i'd mentioned The Mad Bomber in passing — i think i remember i'd written her sump'n to the effect of 'stop me before i write again'. fun fact: The Mad Bomber used to scrawl 'Stop me before I kill again' on whatever surface nearest to his victims. moving right along, at the end of my sister's reply she went 'George Metesky, the person responsible for leading you into a life of crime!'

*whispers* in all honesty, she's not far from the truth, but it's all more complicated than that, of course. helpful hint: i'd like to thank my mother for the wonderful memories of my totally blissful, carefree childhood. secondly, i'd like to thank my country's government which, with the help of my mother, made me what i am today. whatever that is, since apart from the chronic depression, immaturity and rebellion, i still haven't figured it out (and at this late date, prolly never will). but hey... in the famous words of Popeye, 'I am what i am and that's all that I am'.  

LOL, *snigger* and a *wack* for good measure.

edit @11,28: speaking of my liddle sister, i totally forgot this next: note to David Niall Wilson: after she read the lovely profile of me on your site (well, one of em), she wanted to comment, but being the lazy cunt she is, totally didn't wanna take even two minutes of her precious time to do so and actually asked ME to post as her. i told her 'fuck off, goddammit — do it yerself' but no. BTW have i ever mentioned not only how cooperative my sister is but how we've always been less like sisters but as bestest friends? *snigger* as fucking IF... anyway, her comment — the one she wanted me to post for her — read:

'Yo! That's my sister you're talking about! And you didn't grow up with her so you don't know $%!+ about her!!! Take it from me: I KNOW THE TRUTH!!! Ha ha ha ha HAH!'

LOL, i'm so dying to annotate the above with my usual brand of snark but time's a wasting and so am i. but Bibs, all i can say to that shit is you're only half right as you still don't know me and at this late date, you prolly never will. not that you care (cause she doesn't). i also wanna commend you on the profusion of surprise marks you've used above. if you think back far enough, you just might recall an amusing liddle talk we had ages ago on the intellectual level we assume belongs to those who use these things (!) we call 'surprise marks' when there're more than one at the end of any sentence these people might write. LOL, you dummy! *smirk*

anyway, i wish y'all a very happy weekend especially to anyone left standing, i mean, to anyone who's read down this far. on this particular day, my own happy weekend only goes so far as my next post will attest, so stay tuned and beware the depression.

 

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from America with hate

as D Wayne Love has often said both in interviews and in TRW, Britain is like the 51st state of America. in truth, after first hearing him, i put my hands over my ears and went 'LA LA LAAAAAH! I CAN'T HEEEEAR YOU!' cause it bothered me so much and i so wanted him to be wrong. and after living here for almost five years i'm still charmed by what Vincent Vega, the John Travolta character in Pulp Fiction, called 'the little differences' — but IMO those here in England, when compared to America, aren't little; they're massive and that's one of the major reasons i love it here so much.

but when walking home on Whiteladies Road yesterday, i looked up into the trees and though i was both drunk and very much stoned, i was instantly gobsmacked. somehow i found the presence of mind to snap above photo cause there, in living color, was one of the worst elements i'd ever want to see make it across the Atlantic: sneaker trees. *shudder*

i was freaking (still am, actually) and had one question which i twat the second i got back here: 'does this shit mean the same thing as it does in the States?' a bit of history: way back in the early 80s, drugs dealers would tie the laces of a pair of sneakers together and fling them over a lamp post or more rarely, the branch of a tree to indicate the presence of a dope dealer nearby, usually in one of the closest houses on any of the four nearest corners. in NYC these horrors were abundant especially down in the Lower East Side. not that me or mine ever needed em cause we'z so kewl we never required a road map or whatever, but others did.

back to the one i had the misfortune of spotting, this upsets me on a par with the time i saw my first plastic bag tree here. y'know, when the wind blows one of those cheapass plastic sacks into the uppermost branches of a tree and bingo — it's there for good and every time one sees it flapping in the breeze, it's even more disgusting cause it's filthier than the time before. i twat my feelings on that as well and in truth, at the moment, i'm actually experiencing that same sinking feeling just thinking on it again. what's worse, both plastic bags and sneakers in trees share the same common element: nobody ever climbs up to take em down and so over time, they get raggier and raggier until they're even more of an eyesore than upon first discovery.

anyway, asking on Twitter brought me no joy. Euripidean gave it her best shot here and here but i still wasn't satisfied, so i'm reduced to begging here: please help me out of my misery, people — feel free to mail, text or twit @slum_goddess (but not ring) me — and say it ain't so: this shit doesn't mean what i think it means. or else i'll 'bah!' until the cows come home (both a threat and a promise). there, i'll show YOU. *wack*

um... nah, i dunno to whom i'm tawking either; haven't the slightest idea who the 'YOU' above is; i just wanted to threaten 'to keep my mind... y'know... limber'. and no, i totally ain't sorry for the Lebowski i managed to force in my prior sentence. in truth, in the words of the Alabama 3, 'All The Thrills Are Gone' — apart from procrastinating continuing my latest job, i'm only tawking here to prevent reading any more way depressing mails that basically asked 'Are you dead yet?' — mails which arrived with more and more urgency and a frequency which basically took my breath away each day i wasn't online. and thankfully, they've finally stopped.

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it's big whoop time

OK, here's the scoop on the big whoop: these are the three things i first referenced the other day in The Little Slum Who Could, and then went on to inadvertently tease about in Things That Make Me Go Ooh! II before i ran outta time when i realised i was forced into meatspace to hightail it outta here in order to stock up on food and stuff.

now keep in mind that at the time, these were things that brought me joy and verily helped my badly beaten, bruised and brutalised self-esteem and ego whilst lifting me out of my latest self-imposed reclusion. fuck, who am i kidding? i'm (still) preening my ass off, thanks to all the below.

OK, no. 1: David Niall Wilson profiled me on his Tweeple site — and i was totally gobsmacked when i became aware of this. amongst other  things, he wrote: '...I've been following Rimone — Slum Goddess — for some time now ... I clicked on her profile, read the pretty fascinating bio and checked out her (then broken) website. Very shortly thereafter, we connected and talked a bit.

'The question she's most asked? "Are you in a band?" The answer is NO.

'But she looks like she should be. And here's the thing: She's never caved in to the pressure of conformity. She is who she is wherever she goes. One of the funniest things she told me was that in America, she gets stared at everywhere she goes. In the UK it's like O Hai! Culture shift.

'She is a great friend, supportive and creative, and her tweetstream (as well as her blog) are ... unique in ways I could not describe. She is a self-proclaimed "8 year old boy trapped in the body of an old punk'd out grrl". You will have to see for yourself. You SHOULD see for yourself...'

thank you, David dude... your words really helped me out of my latest bout of hermitage (kinda like wallowing in a morass of self-indulgent depression). oh, and big thanks to Boudicca (she grudgingly said) for commenting  way down the page, though she dissed me verily, but hey, i don't expect much from someone who doesn't mind — and is actually proud of — being called The Manc Slagheap *snigger*

BTW, i DM'd David after i got over my initial shock when first reading my profile on his site, in order to explicate a bit more on his 'She's never caved in to the pressure of conformity'. i did this to remind him of the flipside of that particular remark; though he's totally correct, there's that old axiom which goes sump'n like 'The nail that sticks out is the one that gets hammered down'. unfortunately for me, i'm living proof of that shit :-( but let's move on, shall we?

no. 2: Clay Shirky *gasp* (of all people!), a man i've been reading and from whom i've been learning since the mid-90s (i consider him one of my mentors, actually, though he doesn't know it); he totally shocked me shitless when i got the usual Twitter notification mail when he began to follow me. what made it even sweeter was, when checking his page, i freaked to read he has over 9,000 followers but follows back only 95 (!!!). *preens*

no wait, i ain't preening; i'm like climbing the walls, devising new steps to my usual slummy *happy grrl dancing*. LOL, what i'm not saying is i'm also virtually hanging off the balcony, attention-whoring my ass off as i shout this shit out. *to self* damn, there's that quiet bit out loud again... i've gotta get a handle on that before it returns to bite me on the ass. *giggle* i'll do it tomorrow — if i remember. ;-)

Clay and David: i'm SO totally not worthy, dudes, but i thank youse both muchly. i'm sure y'all had no idea how depressed i've been (hah! 'depressed' being a euphemism) but your interest or whatever helped lift me outta one of the worst bouts of personal horror i've yet experienced.

the 3rd cool thing to happen won't interest anyone who's not any known flavor of logophile. the other day i wrote to Michael Quinion, he of World Wide Words, a newsletter to which i've been subscribing since the late 90s back in NYC. anyway, i queried him on 'Yankwinding', cause it occurred to me to Google it and lo and behold: apart from the instances found on FreeA3 where we began using it a few years back, i found reference to it on Twitter et al. as others have picked it up as well. wonder of wonders, he wrote me back. *preens even more, if possible* 

my mail, in part, read: '...i think i've recently coined a verb: Yankwinding (or yankwinding; the capital Y isn't crucial). this came about whilst speaking to my UK friends and eagerly learning British turns of phrase. back in the States, as far as i know, "winding" is only used in the sense of winding a watch or turning a lever.

'would "yankwinding" be considered a neologism? i've Googled it and all roads lead back to the forum from whence it came but i recently used it on Twitter and have been gratified to notice others have used it as well, mostly to the hilarious detriment of those Americans who've found themselves the butt of the winding (nothing nasty / all in good fun)...'

Michael's reply: 'The word certainly seems to be new(ish) and shows some signs of life. I await its first appearance in print'. 

and so do i, dude, so do i (for my own nefarious attention-whorin' purposes). OK, fellas (i'm tawking to alla youse published writers), do me a huge solid and get busy trying to force — i mean, 'include' — 'yankwinding' into your work, in a natural sorta fashion and help thrust yours truly into making philological history. :-)

hmmm... just had like an afterthought: i wonder if i should ping Michael again and clue him into my fave dis for Americans i don't like or whom i think are assholes: Yankstain, the meaning of which should be self-evident. LOL, we shall see. anyway, that about wraps it up. sorry to disappoint those who assumed i was up for the Nobel Prize or whatever, but hey, as i always say, 'it doesn't take much'. and knowing me, i'll be squeezing the 'happy' from these three thingies as long, as much and as hard as i can... y'know, in a 'milking them for all they're worth' kinda way, just like i (still) do with *whispers* 'Klan'. ;-)

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hey, look over there...

above was the best i could do on the morning of 5. february when the largest snowfall in 18 years totally forced England to a — in my mind, unnecessary — halt. i woke up that morning, took a look out the windows, ran for my cameraphone and ended up freezing my ass off on the balcony, snapping away. later on, i sent the photos to Chris who, in all the time he lived here with me, never saw Bellevue Pleasure Gardens East *snigger* touched by any cold white stuff. well, apart from the cocaine, but we don't wanna go there.

he shot back something to the effect of how i needed a real camera. my first inclination was to demand he buy it for me but i managed to control myself and said 'i know'. :-( then i continued with '...it just killed me to see the delicacy of the branches and boughs, all lacey with snow. i so wanted you to get the full effect; as you know, i'd never seen snow like this out the windows and the details were amazing. very chiaroscuro but the camerapics totally didn't reflect that which was right in front of me...'

um... is it that blatantly obvious i'm doing a poor imitation of 'duck and deflect' cause i failed to expand on those 3 delights at which i hinted in yesterday's post? yes? no? don't give a shit? *whispers* i forgot! in truth, i no longer think they're such a big deal but after the mails started pouring in early this morning (all 8 of them) and not digging leaving whomever in mystery, i'll either re-edit the post below or write a new one, explaining my three thingies, those occurrences that initially caused me much *happy grrl dancing*. *cue* 'it doesn't take much'. to be honest, after all the stupid and unnecessary build-up, i feel like a total jackass now (nothing new there — it's my natural state of being).

at least, that's when i'm not indulging in the usual fuckwittery. and so, i'm gonna take a breather of sorts to continue on working. *lightbulb on* hey, wait... i should really get paid a much higher rate for actually working on a weekend, y'know? huh? right? *dead silence indicating nobody else agrees* well, at least, that's what i think (and that's all that matters). ;-)

nb: i have a lovely collection of photos Mr Several Species Lazyass Darren sent last week, photos he took of the Alabama 3 Snowmen the Lazy family built down in Poole or wherever, but for some strange reason, i can't upload em. but that won't stop me from keeping on trying. hang in there, Darren — i want these hilariously captioned Snow Dudes to grace the pages of Tawdry here. as we all know, it'll be an improvement on my typically self-absorbed bullshitty drivel.

um... have y'all forgotten about those three thingies yet? (she asked hopefully). jesus... it's gonna be such a letdown, but hey — they served their purpose at the time by causing me to forget my chronic misery and AFAIC, that's all that matters. anyway, stay tuned and don't say i didn't warn you when y'all come away verily disappointed.

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things that make me go ooh! II

*singing* 'I've got twoooo heads, gonna bang my heads together, got onnnnnnne leg, gonna hop to heaven's door, I got threeeeee eyes, gonna pluck one out for Jesus, and I ain't gonna have no troubles any more...

'No, I ain't gonna have no troubles any m-' oh... wait. hang on, dammit — who the hell am i kidding? and why am i channelling D Wayne Love? nah, i dunno either (but i sure wish i did). anyway, having nothing to do with anything above, i wanna get this next shit down ASAP so i don't forget. mainly cause if y'all find your life to be cursed with the misery of total anhedonia, any evidence of positivity will serve you well, especially during those long dark nights of the soul when it's way too easy to believe you're the only one alive. *shudder* 

at times like these — and the older i grow, the more frequent they get — i dig reminding myself of whatever bits of goodness i can remember. in a sense, it's like emptying my pockets and finding these beautifully polished stones reflecting whatever happiness or ego boost that first compelled me to keep em. it's almost as if some of them are engraved with my actual writty and the others are adorned with perfectly rendered images emblazoned on their surfaces but whatever... damn, i'm babbling now so hearken back to the other day's disclaimer cause i meant every word (all 33 of them, the shortest post i ever dashed off). anyway. 

most times it's teh suck to be me: a childlike adult (in years only) who loves playing with words but born with neither a whit of ambition nor motivation and absolutely no desire to be published apart from that which i toss off on the 'Net. traditionally writers have had love affairs with booze but flattering myself as a disciple of certain modern day authors like Hubert Selby Jr and even Jerry Stahl (see 'All My Heroes Are Junkies' in Salon; link to come later) i consider myself a 21st century loser *proudtard* cause when the shit hits the fan as it does most nights when i'm at a loss for words and end up staring at the too vasty whiteness of an as-yet unsullied but frighteningly blank page with my head totally empty, devoid of any ideas deemed worthy enough for me to transcribe, my thoughts turn to the only alcohol i consider worthy of drinking: Absinthe. 

i've got half a bottle in the kitchen cupboards right now, just waiting for me to go through the motions of my beloved ritual involving the sugar cube, flame and Edgar Lear's runcible spoon but i don't. why? cause my thoughts turn to things like laudenum, opium and morphine and those bring to mind the writerly dudes i consider to be my true kindred spirits like Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Edgar Allen Poe, William S Burroughs and Hunter S Thompson. do i flatter myself by identifying with these dope dudes? betcha ass i do, cause it's all part of my favorite ego defence mechanism: Denial.

but sometimes inspiration strikes and these proofs of positivity are like, akin to oases in the barren desert of bleakness closing in on my head. by the time i was three, i'd already learnt to squeeze out every last drop of possible happiness from whatever shite i'd written, if happiness means satisfaction garnered by my own words; those not erased (and in my case, these days, it always does). the thing of it is, especially now, the virtual oases are few and far between and when i squeeze, nothing much happens but i don't wanna go there now. fun fact y'all knew already: it's times like these when i reach for the drugs to tide me over; tide me over so i don't mind the fact i've written nothing of which i can be proud.

with that outta the way, prep yourselves for some badly needed attention-whoring and masturbatory ego-stroking in a hopefully successful effort to repair my self-esteem which has taken a brutal beating since the end of last year. nb: this is your cue to take off now, i mean, i'll never know the difference. just sayin'. ;-)

OK, let's get down to cases: what follows are three things — events, if you will — that happened this week to which i'm clinging desperately, kinda like i've been shipwrecked and hanging onto a punctured innertube. these happenings (for lack of a better word) are apart from the fact i've finally emerged from this last bout of prolonged depression, made even worse cause i expected my annual Christmas episode of doom & gloom to be over soon after New Year's Day, just like every other year. *groan* wait... i don't believe this shit:

holy goddamned hell, i just checked the time. not trying to be funny or tease or anything but i can't continue now cause writing this post has been like pulling teeth and reality dictates i must stock up on supplies before i keep writing. it's that or go hungry tonight and i'm too much of a hedonist to even entertain the notion of depriving myself of sustenance. *muses* i'd so dig liquifying any future edibles, then filling a vat with same and attaching an intravenous tube going straight from the vat right into the mainline. *snaps out of reverie* IMO, that particular method is way more dignified than sitting at table and shovelling it down and if you've ever seen me eat, you'd know exactly what i'm on about.

back to my rude awakening — the sudden disturbing thought i must re-enter reality — so i've gotta split ASAP but i'll be back in order to continue and for once, it's not 'another story for another time' cause i really wanna get this stuff down. *to self* it's typical that my timing's so off cause i wasn't even gonna post here today but a few hours back, it occurred if i don't, i'll forget and end up suffering for it. i'll reiterate the why: cause it's actually three not only decent but excellent things that involved me. i find this quite amazing cause when shit happens concerning yours truly, 99 out of 100 times, it's always bad. |-(

moving right along, i'll try to make my dreaded venture into meatspace as fastly as possible cause writing actual good shit about me is such a rarity. as usual, i'll end up editing out all this extraneous, boring explanation (if i remember and i most certainly will). it's like after 14,00 now and i expect to continue in about an hour so i'm wishing myself luck i can get the hell outta here and return with my thoughts intact. in the case they're not, i actually made a list so's not to forget and believe it or not (cause it's so not me) when i dare check it out, i find myself smiling — not only scarey to others but pretty much unbelievable. i can't get over it, actually. that three decent things happened this week with my name written all over them.

whoa, just occurred: others might think 'big whoop' once i say, but hey, not my problem. i guess that's a warning not to get your hopes up or anything. it just might help to keep in mind how weird my tastes are including that which turns me on and maybe, just maybe, y'all won't be too disappointed by this build-up. and if youse are? soz in advance, dudes. LOL, it might help to remember who's boss around here and maybe then we'll all be happy (well, maybe you'll be cause i'm hardly ever). 

and since i despise when people are all cryptic and leave you hanging, i'll cave for a second and choose some keywords to whet yer appetites even though i'm totally aware that, without explanation, they'll no doubt befuddle. OK, here're my memory joggers: Clay, DNW and Quinion. left as is they all mean nought, right? wrong, Wrong, WRONG, but no time to expand; suffice it to say without these three events or whatever, i'd be busting my ass pretending to work whilst trying not to waste my drugs to keep my head together.

and so, in the parlance of our time — i mean, 'the parlance of the 'Net' — i shall BRB as soon as i'm able. consider that a warning, yo. :-)

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the little Slum who could

notice a theme of sorts? there's loads where that came from — as per Role Model of a Dead Grrl and thanks to my lifelong anhedonic bent, i requested Mick to shoot me muchly in preparation for the day i leave this mortal coil. continuing on this downward spiral, i imagine the above to be akin to my pose, directly before i'm shoved into the furnace of the crematorium or whatever, that which'll fire me to ashes (and i can't fuckin' wait). shit! still haven't mastered keeping the quiet bit to myself and at this point in time, don't think i ever shall, but hey — deal with it. or tip — your choice.

y'bummed yet? a word of advice: read no further cause far be it for me to depress any more of those friends which i've totally and inadvertenly alienated and/or brought down already, just by being totally honest. funny, that — when i speak the truth, people recoil in shock and horror which leaves me with the most awful of lessons learnt: try to remember to lie like a motherfucker so as not to bring loved ones down. more, even. and since bullshitting doesn't come easily to me* (apart to those in authority), i'm forced to put on a happy sappy face (scarey!) and mumble 'kidding!' (even though i'm not).

*editor's note no. 1: apart from the Aspergers verily messing me up, i believe it's called 'wearing my heart on my sleeve' or sump'n similar. in my case, it's not only my cold, cold heart; it's the impossibility to hide my true inner feelings cause just one look at my ravaged visage when in the midst of attempting a lie, betrays the good intentions within. i mean, if i had my druthers, i'd be one of those who can keep a straight face whilst spouting whatever shite. but although ideally, i'd wanna do that, i find it impossible to get over. oh, boo fuckin-hoo and poor, poor pitiful me (with emphasis on the 'pitiful'). it's pathetic, actually, but i digress.

OK, a few weeks back it all became too much and so i reached  the point at which communication with others became a dreaded chore and not the delight it's been since '96 or so when i first got online and happily ran amok. and as i've said too many times, my first night online at home turned into an unprecedented 23 hours-long marathon session. time flew by but i didn't notice — i was thrilled to discover the 'Net was perfect for someone like me: not only did it encourage my lifelong habit of desultory reading, it fed my ADD and totally enhanced it, as in 'ooh... intristin' link?' *clickety click*

'oh wow, there's another! and another and another and another...' and so i clicked my ass off as the sun set over Brooklyn, the moon rose up high and hours later, dawn broke over the squalor of my 'hood and the fairly large shitpit that was my flat and wonder of wonders, for once, i didn't notice, not even when the goddamned garbage trucks did their nightly earsplitting trashcan dumping directly across the street from me. i believe it was the first time i failed to shout out STFU! to the constantly cursing rubbish collectors. 

and soon there came the glorious day when i realised i was able to drop lit-tle turds (disguised as posts and comments) anywhere i pleased on teh Internetz. LOL, whoa! the power! now back to present time: when i finally got hip to the fact that my annual Christmas depression was inexplicably dragging well on, into january, apart from turning my cellphone off, the paucity of Tawdry posts and my total absence from Twitter clued in those of my nearest and dearest into digging why without having to ask.

thankfully, nobody held this against me: one of the most excellent reasons why i consider these people my friends. result? they failed to plague me with 'WHY?' — and that was the hugest of reliefs. but (no offence to everyone else), as the endless days dragged into weeks, more and more people began to mail and text, most of whom i ignored. if y'all fell into this last group, i'm sorry i didn't acknowledge your queries and please believe me — i can't find the words sufficient to thank you all for caring. *love* *weeps tears of near-joy*

for the most part, i thank the London Crew, like Techie-Boy and the rest of the Brixton Posse: Dragnim, Topchick, Mr and Mrs Ifor the Engine, Pam, Avengin Angel, Stevie (Librarian of Love) and Mark — the one and only Rock Freebase as well as THE guitarist of the Alabama 3. i'm also tawkin' Willie up in Glasgow, Alma Tender Love outside Edinburgh, Christine and Michael on the West Coast, Abeizer, Jem and Boudicca & Jeff, all living in Manc (not together, mind).

right, before i forget, the warmest of wishes to Boudicca on her birthday last week. had i been in my right mind and felt more communicative, i would've said in a post, but hey, better late than never. continuing with those who cared enough to send the very best, no, worst, no, best (?!?), there's that stingy horror of a dude whom we all know and despise as Lazyass Darren in Poole, way down South of here. and then there's the lovely Euripidean up in... York? y'know... where 'it's grim up Naarth', and Dave in Nottingham (notice me ignoring Electric Landlady — LOL, *evil*), Black Maria in NYC and three from my adopted hometown of beautiful Bristol: Aussie John, his lovely wife Megan and my punky little kindred spirit, Kate. once again, i thank y'all cause i am so totally not worthy! and off the top of what's left of my head, if i've forgotten anyone, please don't take offence — blame the senility.

right — at this point in time, i wanna send a special message to my ex-BF and oldest friend in NYC, so Happy Birthday, Roger. as John Goodman said in 'Barton Fink', 'I could tell you stories...'  without getting into too much personal detail, this is one of my fave Roger stories, one that's sure to warm the cockles of your hearts: it happened whilst driving on Route 66 on our way from California back to NY State. after stopping to ask directions, we were signalled to pull over on the outskirts of Amarillo, Texas by a black (!) State Trooper. after he checked our IDs and such, we calmly obeyed his order to follow him back to the sheriff's office where we ended up watching — in near-horror — whilst five or six of his uniformed compadres used sledgehammers and crowbars and commenced to demolish our van.

the hubcaps were prised off first — as if we were stupid enough to assume they'd be the perfect place to successfully hide anything worth stashing — and as time went by, we felt comfortable enough to smirk — both at each other and at the troopers themselves — whilst watching their desperation grow. the entire enterprise was made all the more amusing by the frustration reflected on their angry faces, faces growing redder and redder as the tension mounted (not our tension — theirs). *guffaws in a gutteral manner at the memory of Cops Humiliated*

we were innocents back then and should've known better or at least felt a bit of paranoia. y'know... it being Texas and all. but revelling in the security that comes with the territory of Attractively Freaky Youth, our arrogance had no bounds since we were dead certain we'd soon be released (with only a warning) when it became apparent our van was drug-free. adding to our hubris was the unstated conviction that being from NYC, we were lightyears ahead of any redneck Texan as far as brainpower goes. i mean, this was the same state in which, just about a year prior to the Amarillo Incident and driving towards California, we were ticketed for (get this) 'Exiting the wrong way from out of a one-way parking lot'. i shit you not. *wack*

and so, that which ensued came as a big surprise: after ripping our van apart — both inside and out — in their fruitless search for extra-legals, a brilliant idea seemed to dawn in the morass of fuck-knows-what passes for a State Trooper's brain: they decided to hoover the rugs. at that point, Roger whispered something like 'This is their last gasp', (which totally cracked me up) so as punishment for that particularly heinous indiscretion (LOL), we were physically separated. this led to much more LMAO, something that was termed 'disrespect' when we finally stood before the judge at our arraignment. about the judge himself? imagine a stereotypical redneck motherfucker complete with the lowbrow Southern drawl and a beer belly his robes couldn't quite conceal cause it appeared to be the size of... well, the state of Texas itself. 

anyway, my 'disrespect' grew louder and louder thanks to my typically smartass mouth (read: straight outta Brooklyn) and i made no effort to STFU. even if i wanted to (which i didn't), it would've been nearly impossible to do so, mostly cause for a minute or two, they failed to find the proper key to unlock the handcuffs which attached both Roger and me to the near-empty courtroom railings. they finally managed to unlock his cuffs and dragged him across the room, unnecessarily pulling him by the ends of his nearly waist-length blond hair. just remembered: at that point, i'd lost track of how many times Roger was called 'faggot' — a word bandied about freely by those oh-so-sensitive defenders of public morality.

back in the courtoom, seeing that hair-pulling shit, i got all shouty and made a(nother) scene by bellowing 'Police BRUTALITY!' over and over, as is my wont. so there we were: Roger handcuffed to a desk on one end of the room and me on the other, cuffed to a chair, a chair which i dragged around behind me to get a better view of the demolition scene going on outside. i think i remember the first pangs of fear as i watched the vaccuum cleaners appear (though i giggled, seeing them realise they needed very long extension cords, things that weren't readily available). so we watched each other from across the room whilst waiting for some lowly cop who was delegated to run to the nearest store and return with the longest extension cord he could find). 

result? whilst we laughed at the sight of the cops using vaccuums, our jaws dropped when the evidence collected weighed in at less than a gramme of seeds and sticks, all mixed in with the usual carpet lint as well as dust, sand and other detritus blown in from the desert we'd recently crossed. then, bingo — busted! dunno what it's now, but way back when, the penalty for a first offence for possession of pot was... wait for it — 25 years to life — (she remembered grimly). *wack*

editor's note no. 2: as most of us now know, there've been countless articles written since then, all of a theme loosely based on the fact that one can abuse the crap out of one's kids and even commit murder but according to Texas law, get off nearly scot-free, compared to the penalty of being caught in possession of any illegal smokeable. but hey, that's yet another story for another time. further, anyone who cares to have read my drivel over the years, whether here or at my real site, will know i rarely ever expand on these stories i leave for 'another time' — my personal code words for 'if i feel like it' and i rarely do, but truth be told (and for future reference), i'd be happy to continue these verbally, in person. :-)

back to our Texas Trauma and skipping over the sordid details, it was thanks to Roger that after a coupla weeks of prison life in Amarillo, we finally got our one phonecall each. a day or two after, we woke up one morning and wonder of wonders, found ourselves living a true rags to riches story: we were not only bailed out, but emerging from the courthouse, we were greeted by reporters and television crews, then immediately whisked away; limousined over to Toad Hall, the mansion belonging to Stanley Marsh, a millionaire who, at the time, owned the local ABC TV affiliate station, KVII. incredibly, we made headlines in all the papers and watched ourselves on TV news that night (and for a day or two afterwards). it turned out that this wasn't only confined to the news in Texas but much to my parents' shame, it was broadcast nationwide. and once again, that's a story for another time. *snigger* 

editor's note no. 3: i was pleased to see our story covered not only on TV but in the papers themselves. the only quibble i had was connected to the veracity of the reporters' descriptions of us and our lifestyle. those damn lazy journos insisted on referring to us as 'hippies' when we were so far from that, we'd thought it obvious to anyone paying the slightest bit of attention. and though loathing labels, we always preferred the term 'freaks' cause the hippie ethos or whatever was the furthest thing from the lives we led and at that point in time, the only thing we had in common with the hippie dippy masses was our stance against the War in Vietnam. in private we considered ourselves the next generation of Beatniks but try to explain that to any journo (when interviewed at Toad Hall during that first night of freedom, we tried to explain this but our words fell on deaf ears). the journos' blank looks told us we were like pissing in the wind and when we persisted, were ordered to shut up and answer their questions. naturally, i took them literally and STFU after announcing the interview was over, but hey.

fun fact: having trashed our vehicle in their desperation to find whatever contraband, it never occurred to Amarillo's Finest *smirk* to remove the headlights (behind each of which Roger and i had the presence of mind to stash a coupla kilos of the finest weed in San Francisco). watching the troopers get more and more upset was a total joy and though it was a shame to see all our hard work go to waste — we'd spent the prior month readying the van for the long haul back to NY state; it was tip-top mechanically and apart from the latest and greatest of sound systems, we enjoyed most of the comforts of home. welp, that is until they destroyed our peaceful little den of iniquity on wheels but as i said, it was a total joy, especially seeing those dumbass redneck, shit-kicking, freak-hating, dog-felching fuckwits getting more and more agitated until they were reduced to hoovering the damn Asian rugs.

oooh, just remembering this shit verily lightens my emotional load, so much so, that i'll repeat: in their haste to bust us, it never occurred to remove the headlamps and so they totally missed finding the kilos of delicious top-notch weed we'd had the presence of mind to stash before we left California. there, sit on it, you dumbass rednecks. i laugh and point in your directions (as we did the first night we enjoyed our freedom, kicking back at Stanley's glorious mansion). BTW, we kept that shit a secret until we were safely esconced at Toad Hall. 

after a lovely dinner at which Roger and i were guests of honor, we'd asked the Marshes, 'How can we ever repay you?' — and then, it was as if a lightbulb went on, a lightbulb which Roger and i simultaneously experienced. words weren't necessary; we exchanged a smirkful significant look and both of us went 'Be right back'. we flew out to our then-wreck of a van and were back in the dining hall within minutes, lugging our prizes behind us. Stanley and Wendy (and all their friends) were momentarily puzzled at the sight of these brick-shaped, burlap-wrapped bags. we dumped the contents on the top tier of the dessert trolley and even before the unwrapping, the aroma instantly filled the huge room as we were high-fived and hugged over and over and over again. suffice it to say, a good time was had by all. and to dip into the vernacular, boy, were we fucked up good and plenty, as were the rest of the dinner guests. :-)

anyway, in the words of Larry Love: 'one mo' time for the people' — Happy Birthday, Roger. just thinking of you released that shitload of memories above, things i haven't thought about for years now and i thank you for that. *love*

wait — what's this? *knock knock knock* hey, i'm not expecting any compa— *BANG BANG BANG!* whoa, what's the statute of limitations again? someone's at the door! — kidding! *snigger* anyway, due to our experience deep in the heart of Texas, i hold a special place in my heart for that particular area of my country, a special place that includes a tacit fuck you to Texas (apart from Chuck, Futech, Stanley and Wendy Marsh and all other Alabama 3 fans who live there).

moving right along, there's more i wanna say including one of the biggest ego boosts my poor self-esteem — which's never been lower than recently — has virtually been crying out for, but no time now since my 3rd deadline's due in a bit, so i shall edit in further info sometime before midnight tonight (UK time). right, with the usual caveat: 'if i remember'. *snigger* hey, it ain't my fault i suffer from old age. a word of advice: it'll happen to youse but being the mean-spirited grrl i am, very unfortunately, i won't be around to laugh, point and gloat. and if i somehow manage to stick around, i shudder to think of the decrepitude and decay which's already begun and so, i won't be in a position to do what comes naturally: indulge my Schadenfreude at whomever else's expense. ;-)

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disclaimer

i am no longer responsible for anything i write from this point on... i've been without sleep for over 80 hours so i'm beyond simple fatigue... the hallucinations have finally stopped — praise Jebus. :-)

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