forgotten photos

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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more Hunter &c

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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the apprehensive txt sans juicy bits

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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deviousities & crudities

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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evil plans = Stuff

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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tuesday night in Brixton

after the demoralising drubbing i took at the Embassy, i split the Tube and flew down Brixton Road to meet Stevie at the Garden of Albert but before i reached the corner, i thought to glance up and stopped dead in my tracks, whipped out my newest cellphone, rather Chris' spare cellphone, to try out the camera cause everytime i find myself on the corner of Coldharbour Lane and the Oval right across from the Ritzy Theatre, it's like i see a beacon of hope which i dig thinking shines solely for me. notice me not mention the eleventy-nine dudes who approached me and muttered 'Skunk, skunk...' under their breaths as they passed, all of whom i totally ignored.

not-so-fun-fact: this is the shortest post i've ever written due to time constraints and deadlines nearing. *whispers* we won't mention the fact that apart from me being too ripped outta my fucking face — and early on a saturday morning, no less — to string words together to make whatever point in a coherent fashion especially since i've been awake for just about ninety-six hours now. *yawn*


yes, you insufferable liddle douchebag of an insatiable eating machine — RLY. *glares*

almost forgot: thanks to Pam for 'Hello Pukey Grrl', thanks to Angie for allaying my anxiety, thanks to Chris and Mr & Mrs Ifor the Engine for bending to my will for the upcoming KMFDM Show in Islington and thanks to Kate for having the sense to remove herself from the Danger Zone and split City Centre with her brains and body free of knifewounds and emotional blackmail. oh, and big thanks to Black Maria of the South Bronx for the longass missive chockful of information that began:

'Hope you and your peeps in England are chillin...' and went on to say '...Kalvin got sliced with a razor ... all over a piece of ass that wasn't his...' then included the startling '...I will be the bitch who gets payback on this motherfucker after 25 years...' and closed with her usual '...Love from da Boogie down Bronx'.

holy fucking shit — can we say 'gobsmacked'? of course we can, and in spades — geddit? spades? anyway, juicy details to follow some time later cause for a Black grrl, Maria and i shared years and years of glomming off each others' lives and very worst traits until she finally exceeded my personal best as attention-whore with South Bronx Soul. next up: The New Silver Cuff, My Heavy Metal Elephant, Literally Running Into Kate, Village People With Vaginas and Stupid Costumes in Public, The Apprehensive Text, The Needle and the Damage Done, and much, much more so stay tuned (with the usual caveat: if i remember).

last but not least, here's V is for Kitty sent me by Chris who mixed the best of both worlds; one of my all-time favorite films EVar along with my fave lithe snarly but cuddly bed-bud :


nah, i don't geddit either but i sure dig it muchly. what's even more confusing is the name of the image as posted on Photobucket: 'Scientology Cat'. yup, i know: WTF? and WHY? anyway, happy Bank Hol Weekend, y'all and happy Memorial Day. which in the States, despite 21. june on the calendar, is the officially recognised start of the Summer — if you subscribe to that sorta thing, which i don't. ;-)

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cryptic? ambiguous? moi? nah!

and dare i say it? shit, yeah — esoteric. about the above, thank you god, you miserable bastard, for giving us the finger American style and the same back atcha in spades, of course. moving right along to my own personal Current Events, i'm harbouring huge issues at the moment thanks to being summoned — yes, actually summoned — to the British Embassy for an afterhours appointment on tuesday evening (which unbeknownst to me was all for nought).


the guards laughed as i quietly fumed, wondering if it was someone's idea of a very poor joke: kinda like playing The Game Of 'Wind The American And Watch Her Squirm'. after that total cock-up, about the only positivity i was able to muster came in the form of a sexual massage — whoops, rather, a txtual message, one i first assumed was an error not meant for me but once the clouds of confusion cleared, it was one of two shiney glow-in-the-dark stars of hopeful positivity, so bear with me please. or don't cause it matters not as long as i know what i'm talking about — and in the infamous words of preznit asswipe, 'Who cares what you think?'


yup, that's an obviousity but if y'all believe in fairytales like i don't, then this is the scarey bit:

y'know what? fuck god and his/her/its stupid everchanging asinine roolz. anyhoo, there's a ray of light trying to peek through the depression: the upshot is, i'm now thinking of the one redeeming factor about which i'm not permitted to speak but believe you me, it's all good and it's one of those rare times i actually look forward to in future *gasp!* and if it goes down as i'm hoping, it'll serve a two-fold purpose as far as making up for lost time; all that Time Wasted due to Drama Queens of Outlaws Past. i'm thinking of one whose name remains locked behind the iron gates of my cold cold heart which's bound by my word until i get her say-so to spill.

the other totally gratified me that all's not lost as the evening wasn't a total waste cause a bit of joy actually sliced through a chink in my nearly constant anhedonia when Stevie, the lovely Librarian of Love heeded my plea whilst having the decency to ignore my threats and appeared to meet, drink and talk in the Garden of Albert.


so thank you sweet grrl; your appearance was muchly appreciated. fun-fact: after glugging on an empty stomach i puked on the Tube as we neared Victoria Station but nobody noticed or being British, they pretended to ignore me and looked away as my technicolor stink wafted through the train. *cough* 'God, I love ... the British! They're so fucking polite!' *in a Kevin Kline voice* ;-)


uhhh... now, where were we? right, if you've managed to follow the trails of my virtually vomited verbiage before i began this edition — hah! 'edition'. i flatter myself but hey, that's a given. well, not really, in truth, this chapter ('chapter'? 'edition'? WTF? is this a (cancelled) TV sit-com? or a mistakenly published book? are you — i mean, am i on drugs? damn, it's a Yes or No question, one of the many i can't answer nor do i wanna go back there to 'research' more like the gossamer whisper of days long gone when men were men who lived in caves or whatever and took their omens and promises from the pictures in the nightskies way on high and speaking of 'high' (and when do i not?) here's The Fucking Weather for Bristol or any city of your choice as long as you fill in the blanks.

*whispers preening* whoa, i'm still the Mistress of the Run-On Sentence Meandering as well as Constant Contender for the Bullwer-Lytton Award. anyway, The Fucking Weather is even considerate enough to include The Fucking Forecast in your choice of I Want Fucking Celsius or Fahrenheit flavors. this way cool timewaster (brought to me and thee by TPFKAPM who throws me links he won't twat himself, resting assured that an asshole like me will not only twit em but proudtard my ass off as well as steal his thunder by passing them off as my own.

nb: please notice how i spent paragraphs and paragraphs talking loud and saying nothing above. noticed? good. *cough* moving right along and rewinding back to my most Terrible Tuesday, i shall totally omit the horrors (and need£e$$ expense as well as Time Wasted) of the ridiculous fuck-up of my Day at the Embassy in London since i don't wanna write anything that might be misconstrued as disrespect (or treason) and then return to bite me on the ass, which'll no doubt, stand in the way of my goal — y'know, the one that marks my very own personal Independence Day — which coincidentally falls upon 4. july 2009, and so i'm choosing to hide away in my lit-tle corner of South Western England and do my best impression of Good Citizen Rimone. here's a sample:


cool, huh? nobody will ever find me here unless they trawl through the virtual ashes, so rotsa ruck, fellas; if you're lucky i'll spring into action and do my best to resemble life of a sort. anyway. *cough* where is this train going? fucked if i know but i can safely say the above was taken in one of my more lively states. uh... right, 'blast from the past' (apart from i totally missed the boat, the thread and whatever the hell i was planning to write, but no matter). heh — regarding that 'no matter', sometimes i feel as if i could pound at the keyboard and if i light upon a noun followed by a verb, so goes my contrarian gland (thus far successfully hidden, lying in wait (kinda like a coiled snake waiting for contextual clues that i, alone, can decipher at will).

now... where the hell was i — soz, where in holey hell am i? right, mixing my metaphors or whatever in a transparent effort to delude myself (and anyone reading — yup, all two of you including me) for most of my life for my one and only purpose: to get my way, i mean, to spring into action upon being summoned. in truth, this might work against me especially when the context of any situation lies dormant, kinda like Sleeping Ugly waiting for the kiss that dares not speak its name.

hey everybody! i managed to compose complete nonsense above and if you've made it down this far, i'd advise you to seek professional help and pronto. *cough* 'A word to the wise guy' as my favorite junkie, William S Burroughs, was so fond of saying.

is it perfectly clear that i haven't slept since monday night? and i'm blethering pure nonsense here? anyhoo, thanks to Jem for ringing me yesterday; it was lovely to hear your voice again and i'm way the fuck pleased, more than i can say, regarding your upbeat tone and plans and stuff so keep up the great work, d00d.

hang on... this just in: i've received permission to copy portions of a mail exchange which i think crucial cause it chronicles my latest steps on the road to senility: what set me off is a friend's offhand comment:

'No one would think you already took valium... Christ, just imagine what you'd be like straight. A frightening thought!'

to which i replied 'oh my... bloody damn hell: "stick a fork in me cause i'm done". and that started my usual meandering verbal diarreah of the mouth which included such gems as 'you totally nailed it / i shouldn't be surprised but i am. dig: at the end of my last mail, i stopped myself from saying: when i was a kid going down to the Village, the most FAQ (from strangers just met): 'Are you on speed?' with these variations:

'Do you take uppers/ amphetamines / diet pills / benzedrine?' (me: WTF? what is this stuff you're asking me about?) i had no idea what it was, apart from reading these pharmaceutical names in writings and listening to friends rapping, going on and on and ON. and since i was hanging out with much older kids — the holdover beatniks, i didn't wanna show my ignorance so i read my ass off, trying to be all cool (and worthy of them spending time to culturise me or whatever)...

'...so i did a bit of reading and understood why this was asked of me. mind, i wasn't getting high at the time (that shit came later when i was 15... ahhhhhhhhh, fuck me. i'm fucking lost in the goddamned morass of my past history for a change. and here's the headline cause you flipped me out / set me off by writing what i copied above so here it is again, just cause maybe just maybe if it sinks in, i'll be able to control the negative attention in future so, one more time:

'No one would think you already took valium... Christ, just imagine what you'd be like straight. A frightening thought!'

frightening to friends but all the above is quite sobering to me; a wake-up call if you will. to which i replied: 'believe it or not, i AM straight and i don't take Vs. i just dig having em around just in case i need em (better to have and not use than to need and not have); they act as a cue, actually'. and then i apologised to the poor grrl whilst admiring her dignity and understated laid-backity (whereas i would've flipped out in the same damn position; i told her '... i'm sorry for going off like this. it's like the floodgates were opened when i read you. and as you know, it doesn't take much'. :-(

in other news, to offset my incipient senility (or to encourage it; haven't decided yet), i was sent Hedgehog Ears by TPFKAPM:


dear lord in whom i don't believe... was there ever anything cuter? *hmm-ing to stay awake* hmmm... y'know, if teh Cute were a dastardly drug, i'd have OD'd and'd be dead on the floor right now and what's worse, it'd be without the shit-eating grin on my stupid face. but *yawn* bloody hell, i'm so fucking tired... and i'm nowhere near to catching up on my work... zzzzzzzzz.... zzzzzzzz... anyone got any speed?


yeah, i wish. *yawn* i feel like the grrlaholic icon of Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlife, actually... y'know — the chick who'd been up for a hundred hours and needs at least a hundred more in order to even out but as Sod would have it, there's no sleep in sight, no respite — nothing resembling rest on the horizon. damn, i'm so overworked and overtired my vivid imagination's working overtime and those damn Jackie O shades are lying smashed against the wall — 'lying shattered on the pavement' — after being flung in a fit of anger, prolly cause her go-fer went and dared return emptyhanded or sump'n. *to self* holy fucking hell, i'm truly babbling nonsense, worse than my usual. *wack* but at least 'Converted' by Alabama 3's blasting in my mind's ears, thanks to the italic'd line in bold font above which totally set me off.


BTW, i wouldn't call this writty stream of conscious or unconsciousness; if i had to pass judgment, i'd decide on my wellworn excuse, the one based upon a mixture of the usual ADD with my Asperger's for extra added yet needless boring details, just to clarify, like. anyway, in closing, Hunter (or as he's better known: 'Mr Fuck You, I Won't Do What You Tell Me') totally has the lastest word.


no, wait, i just found a bit of txt so in one of my typically boring ploys for attention, here's me trying to be all drama queen (and as we all know, it doesn't take much), y'know, that which falls under the tired old game of trying to be all mysterious and shit, here's a bit of esoterica, so guess what situation brought out this response of mine?:

'...determined to fuck myself up or die trying...' unhelpful hint: truer words and all. :-)

and with that i shall leave y'all to try to make sense of this mess again and then decide exactly how quickly i'll be certified, boxed, caged and shipped out to the nearest Rest Home. shall it be one for the Aged or one for the Mentally Incompetent? YOU be the judge. ;-)

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LOL, i totally give up

yeah, that was me last night when one of my more brilliant friends inveigled me to the waiting taxi outside, one that patiently idled in order to whisk us down to the Hatchet. once there, in truth, i didn't get the entire sentence out cause after i squeaked the words 'Who's carpet do you have to...' i puked all over the pub floor. but enough about that (especially some minion — theretofore unbeknownst to me — flew outta the broom closet with a mop and shit and then escorted me back home, leaving my brilliant Bristol friend alone in the pub).

anyway, i've been Valium-ing myself to a near comatose state over the last few hours when i had the most excellent idea to begin uploading the kinda shit that makes me pleased to be alive (especially in light of fucking the RIAA). so i give you my second most listened tune of the month: Ministry's Under My Thumb.

yes, as i've said before i like this soooo much better than the Stone's boring original, so stuck in the 20th Century. sacrilege? what-ev-errrrr. anyway, remember, children: R-Click and Save to your hard-drive or desktop or wherever it's easiest to find again.

and now back to bed... thanks to Chris, Darren, Katie, MS Freebase et al. for enquiring. the truth is, my temp's still like 100-101 F with no end in sight for days now. just sayin'.

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state of the Slum(p) X

*ADCHOOEY!* yup, very udfordunadely, i'be sdill here (add big thaggs to everyode who bailed be over the last few days). *sigh* it's by 3rd day of 38+C fever — that's 101F in the States, FFS! *groan* by dose is all sduffed ub, i'm a bess of liquidity add daturally, i'be totally dowd for eddyode *poidig add laughig* add otherwise baking fudd of be (as i'd do you, if YOU felt like crap). and — ha ha, AFAIC it's yet adother reason why dot livig id Loddod is a good thig. *whispers* add if you sdill have to ask, you're dot ready to know, so dod't bother asking why. ;-)


anyway, how the hell did this happen? i've been asking myself over and over cause i can understand when it happens on the heels of a weekend in Brixton but on monday night this shit first hit a bit, then when i woke up on tuesday, i was totally gone. wait — *singing* 'everything you had was gone... Woke Up This Morning' — OK, on monday, i posted Power In The Blood to Tony Longworth... shit, i dunno. ooh, maybe some good'll come of this, especially if it's the defining incident that proves once and for all that i should never go out. wait... Darren rang monday night. hmmpf, i think he made me ill like by osmosis through the telephone aether and the lines and shit. wait, why am i trying to blame others and why am i saying this shit out loud?

*cough* in other news, here's my moment of repulsion for today and this should tide me over for the next fifty years: women dies after using jackhammer as a dildo.



yup, i know as well as 'the mind reels'. *whispers* i started to dissect it in return mail, actually (whilst having the Derrida hat on and hoping for Deconstruction but falling far short of the genuine article and i dunno why).


*cough* me in mail: 'she totally deserves to die (haven't read the article yet). now i've read the first 'graph, so: in other news, a) what's wrong with the following sentence fragment?:

'... found dead in her driveway after a neighbor witnessed her using a high-powered jackhammer to pleasure herself...'

keywords/phrases: driveway (!); 'neighbor witnessed'; 'high-powered jackhammer to pleasure'

b) find the oxymorons in the phrase above.

bloody hell; i stand by my first comment (writ before i read the article). and the posted comments are hilarious.' as is Pervert Doggy sent me by the same Mystery D00d. *snigger*

right, before i forget, thanks to Christine for sending me Pedro (i wish), her GF's donkey with whom she lived whilst in New Zealand. *sigh* hmmm... wonder of wonders, the cuteness makes me feel a bit better, actually.


as does this quote by Samuel Beckett: 'You're on earth — there's no cure for that'. big thanks to the dude who sent that and thank you to everyone who sent images and Get Well stuff cause i'm feeling way better. wait — shit, i spoke too soon; i'be feelig like crap agaid. this is so weird cause it like comes and goes — huh, Huh, HUH!: *ADCHOOEY!* YUK.

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reading matters to a degree

i'm about to click 'publish' and just remembered some recent moans, mostly to the tune of 'It's boring' or i'm boring or whatever. to 'Where's the band?' — i can only say 'they're centred around London, duh' as well as 'go see them at a Festie near you'. *rolls eyes* and as my sister mailed the other day: 'You do that a LOT' cause a-huh, i sure do. believe me: when i witness or am party (and i do mean 'party') to any stuff done by any member of the band — or anybody really — when not put down here it's cause it's so totally memorable even i shall never forget, so there's absolutely no reason to share.

*to self* some of the stuff is like indelibly seared into my brain, actually... *cough* anyhoo, for the last time: this's for me (not you, you or you); it's stuff that happened or didn't or what i'm thinking about — Punkt, Ende. you're bored? go outside, go play, play in traffic, play in the street, play with yourself, play with each other... i don't care. just leeme alone with your meaningless (and in truth, rather boring) dumbassities. OK? *snigger* 'Okay, then...' *in a John Goodman voice*

WUTM at the way ungoddessly hour of 08,00 cause first the landline, then my cellphone, then both landline and cell kept ringing and Ringing and RINGING simultaneously until (i think) the cellphone seemed to get louder and louder as it slowly pierced through my morning miasma of daily duh and i finally came to. Hunter was at my side and we looked at each other — if he was the kinda kitty who obeyed, i would've said, 'answer the phone, please' but no. and knowing he took every one of my movements toward the kitchen as a signal he'd soon be fed again, i slowly turned away (with my eyes still locked on his), then stuck my foot out from under the covers, hoping he wouldn't notice me moving.

*mirthless laughter* he jumped on the rug and looked up as both phones kept ringing together like a shrieking Greek chorus or whatever. by that time — though my eyes were half-shut — i was in crawling mode so i slowly dragged myself into the livingroom to look at my cellphone and see who the fuck wanted me so damned early. LOL, oh my... shit! — it was Someone who reads here and who'd been warned not to ring me the next time s/he's in trouble, someone who knows how fragile i am and how hellish i'm likely to get when suddenly disturbed.


and since i'm a helpful kinda godless who's always there for friends in need or whatever (during Available Hours only), i didn't answer either phone. better yet (for me), i turned my cellphone to 'silent', pulled the cord outta the landline and peace reigned on my end of Bellevue again. well, aural peace cause by that time, Hunter was rubbing up against me, all eager for breakfast and shit but being in a foul mood thanks to my rude awakening, i stood up, turned and stumbled back to bed.

i'm lying there, trying to capture the last strands of my last dream but the thought i was sending him mixed signals began to bug me, so much so, i thought 'fuck it', got up again, fed him, turned on the coffee machine, sat down here and tapped the space-bar to wake up my Mac. *sigh* staring me in the face were all the pages of work remaining undone from last night, stuff i'd totally forgotten (which's what i'd intended when i quit typing and left it on the screen in the first place). *groan*

bah, 'groan' isn't the word; i remembered my deadline later but despite the growing knot of anxiety in my tummy, i did the unthinkable: rather than working whilst sipping my coffee like always, i began reading other stuff, then fucked off to some dark corner of the Internets (where i still am, actually) after fixating on this:

'I never expected the bleak existentialism of early Peanuts to work well with the drunken, failed machismo of Charles Bukowski but wow, it does'.

whoa, i actually remember that from even before it was posted there. *preens* *to self* hmmm... i prolly remember it cause Bukowski's one of my heroes and i take issue with that 'drunken, failed machismo' stuff, but hey. moving right along, i somehow — wait, 'somehow' cause a few seconds ago, i thoughtlessly shut the tabs that chronicled my layover points in today's chapter of self-scrutiny via desultory reading. hmmm... i guess i could always open up my History, but that's way too dangerous. anyway, i reached Progressive Boink's 10 Best Movies of 2008, scanned down the list seeing nothing in which i was interested, then landed on Synechdoche, New York.

without going into the grammar of film and film theory and other stuff i used to know in my sleep, all of which were conjured up in my head just by seeing the word, i was perfectly aware the writer dude's last line guaranteed i'd be totally sucked in:

'I don't know if I know what this movie is about, but I know that I'm going to love going back to it from time to time to try to understand it more'.

*snigger* and an 'LOL, where to begin?' oh, wait... oh shit! — i just checked the time and my deadline's nearing, boooo... i so wanted to spend an age expanding upon this. in very brief, i went to above IMDB link and after the first two cast members (Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Catherine Keener) got my mental approval (emphasis on the 'mental') i skipped down to the trivia:

'Philip Seymour Hoffman's character's last name is a reference to the Cotard delusion or Cotard's syndrome, also known as nihilistic or negation delusion, which is a rare neuropsychiatric disorder in which a person holds a delusional belief that he or she is dead, does not exist, is putrefying or has lost his/her blood or internal organs...'


heh. wait... whoa, intristin': i wonder if i've got Cotard Delusion and can truthfully add it to the long list of shit i already have? ;-)

'...It is named after Jules Cotard (1840–1889), a French neurologist who first described the condition, which he called le délire de négation ("negation delirium"), in a lecture in Paris in 1880. He described the syndrome as having various degrees of severity, ranging from mild to severe. In a mild state, feelings of despair and self-loathing occur, while in the severe state a person with Cotard's syndrome actually starts to deny the very existence of the self...'


hmmm... though at first, i got two outta three, i'm sad to s— LOL, i mean, i'm pleased to say i think i'm way too self-absorbed for that last, but hey... whaddoo i know? *giggles*

'...It can arise in the context of neurological illness or mental illness and is particularly associated with depression and derealization. Neurologically, Cotard's is thought to be related to Capgras's syndrome, and both are thought to result from a disconnect between the brain areas that recognize faces (fusiform face areas) and the areas that associate emotions with that recognition (the amygdala and other limbic structures)...'


haha, i found sump'n i totally don't have (and better yet, i can't even begin to imagine having it), hoorah! well, i don't have it yet at least. but i betcha people who do have it are way beyond fucked-up, maybe even worser than me. *cough* but double hoorah for me for sure, cause amazingly, i don't have Capgras Syndrome either:

'The Capgras Delusion (or Capgras Syndrome) is a disorder in which a person holds a delusional belief that a friend, spouse or other close family member, has been replaced by an identical-looking impostor. The Capgras delusion is classed as a delusional misidentification syndrome, a class of delusional beliefs that involves the misidentification of people, places or objects. It can occur in acute, transient, or chronic forms...'


*shouty* YES, i mean, NO! i'm totally rejoicing or whatever cause i found two mental things i can't honestly say i've got. *preens* *happy grrl dancing* then i looked back down the Google results for both Cotard and Capgras Syndromes and found a dude who calls his site Cotard's Syndrome. i should've known better than to keep on reading but by this time, i should know better than to do a lot of the things i do. anyway, the dude wrote up top as a sorta greeting or intro to flavor the rest of his writty thus:

'People with Cotard's Syndrome believe that they do not exist... how cool is that? Some Cotard's sufferers believe that they are missing major body parts such as their brain or heart... I'm not making this shit up! It's common for Cotard's sufferers to test their own mortality by repeatedly attempting suicide... Now that's one hell of a syndrome!'

i haven't the words. *admiring* but my instinct for survival or whatever, though not as strong as it should be for the long-term, is bugging me ATM cause my deadline draws near. i shall return to continue. or maybe not... it all depends if the mood strikes me. or not. whatever. nah, i dunno either but i do know i've made up a bit for the paucity of personal writty i've puked out here this month and AFAIC, quantity over quality's all that really matters. :-)


whoa, almost forgot: check out Killer Green by David Niall Wilson, the first screenplay to have been conceived on Twitter. as well, it's proof positive that the other day i actually did sump'n useful: i collected it link by link and put it all together for easy reading off the page. *proud* fun-fact: David's the latest to benefit from my totally dysfunctional (when it strikes my own life) time-consuming, nit-picking, detail-oriented Asperger's (in a making-it-work-for-me kinda way), and i'm way-the-hell proud of it, actually. LOL *preens*

as well, i'm hoping there's a way cool announcement about Killer Green in the very near future. *fingers crossed* BTW, that last link goes to Part I — y'all can find the rest of Killer Green on either one of the two links before it, so happy reading. :-)

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state of the Slum(p) IX

why am i disappointed? lemme count the ways, LOL. OK, beginning in reverse chronological order, my latest disappointment comes from... ta-dahhh! my sister, who's always interested to see the latest photos of Hunter. i sent her above LOL-Hunter, and told her the quote comes from A Fish Called Wanda. she's kind of a film-freak so i had no doubt she knew the movie, but Nooooo. *rolls eyes*

i won't go on cause that'd involve insulting people — sump'n i do in meatspace on a regular basis (and without even trying). whoa... *lightbulb on* i just got an idea: i should link to the twits i've twat — those that don't say what was really on my mind at the time, and say whatever here, secure in the knowledge that the people in question don't read me, or if they do, won't have the time to read everything. ;-)

moving right along and quickly leaving the Danger Zone (of my latest moronic idea), i made a few notes in my iPod after Darren drove all the way up from Poole to take me to London to see the band play Jamm that night. we were both way disappointed with the directions British Mapquest spit out, mostly cause he'd put in the same damn postcodes four or five weeks before but this time, Mapquest stupidly gave him a totally different approach to town from Bristol (sump'n poor Darren printed out, as i'd have done).


before we knew we were in for it, we blithely breezed along the M4 for a coupla hours (assuming we'd get there on time). this very positive but in retrospect, asinine attitude lasted till we got right outside London, then the first signs of trouble arose when we became a bit of the parking lot that was formerly the highway and were held up for a good twenty minutes. believe you me, i tried my level best not to growl and snarl and he tried to keep up his dispassionate British front, but i could tell he was cracking (not due to the sudden traffic jam but more cause of my moaning). after the first few minutes of almost 1,000 vehicles playing Statues, we heard, then saw cop-cars fly by on both sides and then came the fire-engine, preceding the ambulance. :-(

we looked at each other with mounting anxiety (well, i felt anxious, at least) cause we'd promised to meet others 'in a bit' then joined a kinda chorusline when all three lanes of that part of the M4 crowded against each other as they first swayed left, then right, and then back left again (in place!) to allow the cop-cars and other accidental official vehicles through on either side, then we inched by and passed what looked like a six-car accident but i didn't gawk cause i was busy thanking my godz it wasn't us. but wait, there's more! *roll eyes*

forget it, i won't go into the boring details but suffice it to say it took us THREE DAMN HOURS to get down to our hotel... three hours of wasted time driving round town as i tried to keep patient (FAIL!) and civil (DOUBLE FAIL!) and all the other niceties one's supposed to have mastered before s/he's let out to join society. here's Darren the morning after when he'd calmed back down to Normal Nice Mode:


um... crap, i really hate to do such an un-SG thing, but i shall. *cough* thank you, Darren, for going all the way outta your way to take me to London. :-)

it was already dark as we hurriedly parked, checked in (another half-hour wasted thanks to the dumbass hotelclerk), unpacked our stuff, changed, then finally met Chris and had dinner at my latest fave restaurant: The Asmara on Coldharbour Lane. it was my second time there and whoa, my mouth's like watering again, just thinking of their delicious Eritrean food and ambience and stuff. then after a brief hassle (cause they didn't wanna but i was cold), i got my way and we took a taxi up to Jamm, saw the band and met up with old friends (my only reason for going to London anymore, actually). LOL, i was sooo ripped when i finally recognised Jake and Fran arriving and then bored poor Jake senseless with my endless blether.

but i actually did a good thing: Willie decided not to make the long haul down from Glasgow and for some strange reason, he txtd Darren (not Mark) to say, so thanks to my big mouth Mr and Mrs Ifor got into Jamm on Willie's not-used guestlist (big thanks to Mark and Willie for different reasons). *cough* right, i won't go into the 'whys' here but after the gig we flew back to Chris' and only left him at 06,00 monday when he got sleepy.

then both Darren and i flew back to the hotel and stared at the ceiling of our room, whispering stuff to each other every half-hour or so until it was time to check out (and since i'm me, i finagled a very late check-out) *preens* so we split not at their unrealistic 10,00 but at a more reasonable 12,30. a few minutes later on Clapham Road, i took this next pic through Darren's windscreen, pretending to be minding my own business as i silently wheedled a ride down to Brixton.


my amazing very un-SG quietude actually worked: Darren went back to Poole after leaving me in the midst of Brixton and i flew straight to the Albert to meet up with Stevie. :-) Chris and i had Bloody Marys with a very leisurely dinner in the Prince of Wales and then back to the Albert to drink more, even. right... Sir Eddie Real was there with some dude called Digby. *snigger* i really can't say what went on in conversation between him and myself (cause i don't want this post to come back in future and bite me on the ass) but let it be known that my street-cred totally won out over his. *preens even more, if possible*

whoa... is that the time? *in a Mark Sams voice* i'm really disappointed, so much so, i've been rather quiet lately, like licking my wounds. *snigger* not really. ;-) but dammit, i so wanted to copy the txts in my phone, a series of hilarious missives sent from all over 'the wrong side of the Thames' — as we were told — down to Brixton sunday evening, txts which began with me wailing 'we're losted' (and ended with me moaning 'we're losted. again') but unfortunately (not for youse, but for me) there's no time due to the usual: i'm supposed to be working ATM. *sigh*

BTW, please notice the lack of curse words today (there's actually a very good reason for that). note to Darren: you can thank me later, d00d. :-)

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WOOP WOOP!

thus twat setmajer: 'little something to get y'all in the mood for this weekend's Outlaw...'

thank you, d00d, and muchly so — not only did i LOL but i hadda hold myself back from RT (retweeting) as well as sending everyone i know in meatspace over to see it individually and checking it again reminds me: once upon a time, 'I made this!'



right, since i'm working like fuckall to make up for the two days i'll be away the long bank hol weekend, this post'll be a quickie (but unfortunately without the sex).

in other news, i made a new friend and she's a grrl. :-) needless to say, being who i am — arrrghh! *deep breaths* 'Calm, calm...' (as TPFKAPM used to say). OK, i gotz t'let it out: 'Being the man I am...' *in a D Wayne Love voice* damn, the relief is totally worth going off like that. *wack* with that outta the way, being who i am, i'm still amazed at this shit; that i have actual GFs — who'd a thunk it? anyway, she contacted me earlier this week (great detective work, BTW) all inadvertently thanks to (and i'm quoting myself off sump'n i twat): 'HIM — HISSELF — DELTA SLIDE BLUES BOY — ROCK FREEBASE...' or rather *cough* '...Ⓒ (TM) Rock Fuckin' Freebase (Kosher for Pesach) ☂ Reg. US. Pat. Office...'

i think he was pleased. *preens* :-) um... *whispers* now's not the time to go into the reason why i OD'd on attribution in the first place... hey! look over there ——> i especially dig the fact nobody asked me WTF the umbrella symbolised. *snigger* damn, now where was i? right, thanks to Mark, the beautiful Lucy Kate found me here a few days back, so i WUTM, hit my mail and Twitter-@s page, then almost pissed my trousers when i saw a double header: two of her avs in a row. written last but read first, she twat:

'just read your interview — really fascinating — I sent u a DM about meeting up in London...'

*preens even more* naturally, she didn't link to it but an attention-whore who's worth it'll seize any opportunity, no matter how tenuous, anything to boost his/her — well, in my case it's LSE but i don't wanna go there now (or ever again, actually). anyway, an hour before the above, she'd twat the next which really freaked me out in a *still milking it for all it's worth' kinda way (cause i am — i'm the one who linked, duh!):

'I love the Klan — can't stop listening to it...' *smirk* then i questioned her musical tastes, but as i've learnt (and sadly so) over the last six years, 'it's different when Brits do it'. *rolls eyes slideways* let's move on, shall we? right, here's me in NYC after i hit 35 but before i crossed the Atlantic (hopefully for good):


in other news, here's your moment of repulsion: believe me when i tell y'all that if i'd been brought up by the family in this photo — and pay special attention to Little Sister fondling Daddy's penis and balls — i'd be way more successful as an adult than i am. Chris sent it over a few weeks back and after i got over my shock, disgust, dismay and, ultimately, the usual depression (but worser), i mailed him sump'n similar. i think i remember he agreed. :-(



here's the Clorox — i'll race youse to the loo so we can wash our eyes and brains out, imme- LOL, so long, suckers! 'I'iii-iiii-mmm fii-iiirst!'

*cough* last but not least, i stoled this next offa the 'About' section of Q's site, BunnyGlitter.com.



after reading a bit down, i told her she should profile herself as the IPOW, but knowing her, she prolly won't so in a feeble attempt to demonstrate why i think she's way more intristin' than most, here she is in her own words:

'...The Q is a nacho-loving ultra-liberal American Muslim internet junkie, writer, blogger, activist, wife and mother. She loves wearing sequins and patchouli; enjoys talking about religion and politics at inappropriate times; and looks for opportunities to cuss. When she is not dwelling in cyberspace she lives in Austin, Texass. One day, The Q is going to write the world’s greatest novel, visit Goa, India, and meet Jon Stewart'.

:-) but this's where we totally part ways or whatever:



hmmpf... *envious* everyone knows i can't stand most people cause i find them incredibly boring, stupid and/or petty and being an idealist, i'm constantly disappointed. as well, having not a whit of patience, they bring out the worst in me — and now that i'm old, i can't and won't coddle em whereas before i at least made an effort, as anyone who knows me will tell anyone who asks.

*cough* whoa... 'Did I say that out loud?' *in a Hunter S Thompson voice* happy weeeeek-end! *smirk* Punkt, Ende. ;-)

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