long live Maceo

totally by accident and at the very last minute, i ended up seeing one-a my lifelong musical heroes, Maceo Parker last week. *sigh* no time now to fuck about editorialise, so this's from a bit of my mail to Techie-boy on monday:

'forgot to say that the people's trunk (boot!) in which i was riding a few weeks ago (typically drunk verging on blackout as well as totally wasted), well, they took me to see Maceo Parker right outside-a Bristol. *preens* after the gig, i met him cause i was (unwittingly) rather loudly (and most prolly slobberingly) drunk at the bar and he heard my American. :-) or maybe i puked in American... dunno, don't care and don't remember.

'i really can't remember squat apart from being pleased as fuck-all at the time but from what i was told later on, i was a total drooling douchebag fanboy. thing is, i don't recall saying shit about seeing him starting when i was a little kid and he appeared with James Brown and then over the years, seeing him with Parliament, P-Funk, Bootsy et al but witnesses told me i did. nor do I remember him asking my age but apparently not only did he ask but i immediately asked him his age back. [editor's note: i only do that to regular people — had i been in my right mind, i'd never have asked him. but i wasn't.] anyway, as i heard it, i was totally truthful answering him (sump'n i'm always on this side of the Atlantic but never EVar in the States).

'after the gig, it seems i insisted on playing Ship's Mast (Mastheads?) on Park Street as well as on the A4 (?) where i think the venue was. anyway, this (and i quote) "dangerous" game gave some dumbass chick (driver's wife who never could stand me) reason for her chickenshit husband to ring on Saturday and say we couldn't hang out anymore'. *shrugs*

but y'know what? if i never see Mr Pussy-whipped again, it was totally worth it cause thanks to him, i got to see Maceo and whoa, as always, he was dynamite. my ability in maths is like totally nil but i think i can truthfully say i caught Mr Parker over a duration of like four fuckin' decades. *preens* and he just keeps getting better and betterer. :-)

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stuck in the trunk

This is Wandsworth II* and that's all i'm gonna say about him for the nonce apart from he's really a hotwater bottle. oh, and Hunter hates him (tried to eat his head yesterday) but we're making progress on that front (attempted to rip him apart later on, ended up frustrated, then ran away). why am i using a hot water bottle after decades of not knowing anyone who does? a) lost my mind; b) cause i'm old (see 'a'); c) everyone's doing it; d) doing so takes me one giant step closer to being a real Brit; e) lost my m— oops, seddit already; i mean f) cause it's fucking cold out, goddammit.

*over my entire life, for whatever reason, i called all my plush toys place-names in England and my faves ones were called after neighbourhoods in London. nb: Wandsworth the First — an attractive white lamb — is up on my bedroom wardrobes hanging with the rest of my toy menagerie.

moving very swiftly along away from the danger zone, i ran into friends yesterday afternoon and thanks to their booze (rotgut poison?) administered with a funnel whilst i lay held down prone i actually didn't shriek or shout and not even a breathless OMG crossed my lips. hmmpf... in truth, there were a few 'Tsk's but they weren't from me.

then again, i managed a few disgusting-sounding juicy *burps* but they served to scare away those who were holding me down cause from what i gathered from my captors, it was supposed i was about to puke it all up all over and wherever. but i didn't — i saved it up for when i was finally released from my makeshift prison and then i went to town, vomiting over each and every asswipe who had the nerve to hold me imprisoned in the trunk. taking a leaf from the James Woods character on Family Guy, i have my index finger (Mr Pukey) to thank. well, i showed em (as i gleefully said, 'don't bother sending me the dry cleaning bills cause no way am i gonna pay for your moronacy').


then we came to an entire street of houses all ivy-covered, like this, a glimpse of which i managed to snag when i slowly lifted the cover of the trunk boot:

yeah, i know — this is their normal. in reality/after first viewing as we pulled into one of many similar driveways, i began shouting and i was practically carted away, like, and that was the point at which i was finally stuffed into the backseat of someone's car (and GAGGED — what nerve!) after an argument on whether the proper terminology was 'boot' or 'trunk' when i discovered i was expected to STFU or sit in there all quiet for the duration of Visiting the Relatives. i didn't (STFU) and so, wasn't introduced to anyone new.

the most silly thing IMO is, whilst i sat outside in the car with my book and iPod blasting, after someone dropped the dime on me as an American, i got oodles of people coming up to the car and knocking (HAH!) and one gentle soul actually unlocked the trunk boot to get a good look (i imagine it was to observe The American). hmmpf... as if i were a wild animal locked in a cage. this coulda been humiliating but i took it with as much grace as i could muster (and pretended to all and sundry and everyone else who got up the nerve to ask, that lying prone in the trunk was my preferred way of travelling in cars).

this turned out to be not the best of ideas but more on that later (with the usual caveat — if i remember).


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