stating the obvious *snort*

hmmpf... yup, i totally agree with you, kitteh. but if you're, like, just discovering that obviousity, i'd assume you hadn't been paying attention. i mean, i'm easy to please: i demand nothing but everyone's total focus and if i don't geddit, my temper tantrums rival a real 2-year old's so consider yourself warned: my journal, such as it is, will prove beyond any reasonable doubt how fucked up i am (as if anyone needed proof) but no one's gonna see the real deal until after i'm gone. *evil* heh.

anyway, this from the Department of Nagging Reminders: last time i promised sump'n about Christine's experience with an American HS or (worse yet) Uni student. she's the niece of one of Christine's neighbours and after hearing her accent, actually asked, 'IS ENGLAND A COUNTRY?' i can't get hold of the original mail (which, when it came, caused mucho mirth over here, 'mirth' of the ROTFLMAO kind) but, um... here's a PSA:

ENGLAND IS A COUNTRY, ACTUALLY (you can quote me on that).

y'all can see England here: it's between 'Inbreeding' and 'Lazy Fucks'. anyway, had i taxed my brain a bit more and not done so mucha that goddamned coke this woulda been an intristin' lead-in to the damn event i've been waiting for since my own personal Independence Day: 4, July 2009. and so on 6, November*, both TPFKAPM and i took our Life in the UK Citizenship tests, passed and found ourselves at the UK Border Control office in East Croydon last monday, 29. long story short (consider yerselves lucky): we got what we came for: Indefinite Leave To Remain. *beaming*

*fun-fact: ten years ago — 6, November 2000 — was not only the day before Gore v. bu$hCo, it's the date of the first Alabama 3 gig we were ever, at NYC's Bowery Ballroom. it also commemorates the last time i got carded — EVar. :-( after the gig, we went backstage and Jake took us on the tourbus to the Afterparty at whatever 2nd Avenue pub. i was pleased to see these Brits — my then fave band — truly interested in US pols. i'll never forget us all laughing our asses off at the rethugs' moronacy for nominating a loser like jr. ha.

a week and a day later, we flew out to SF to catch em at Slim's (happily surprising Jake et al.) and pols weren't mentioned the entire time we were with em. }-( anyway.


whoa... sharp U-ey offa Memory Lane and back to my mindless drivel ANYthing to prevent me from plunging further into despair thanks to reading pols or thinking too deeply. *cough* above pic was the other day at almost 15,00/3PM, showing how dark it gets here early in Winter (sump'n i actually dig). i was on my tiptoes, tryna get a grip on the vasty scope that particular stopping place can afford anyone with a proper camera. i mean, from that vantage point, one can see allllll across that bit-a Bristol and if you're there when the sun's setting, it's lovely to stare into the centre of that hugeass fireball and just about feel your retinas burning and shit. optic nerves? those. *no idea what i'm on about. what else is new?* :-)


fast forward three, four days later and it snowed (i was standing in just about the same place as i was two photos above), not for the first time this year, but the earliest i've seen snow in the 6,5 years i've lived here. anyhoo, next up's my mail to this dude i tell whatever shit to and, for whatever as-yet unknown reason, with whom i seem to be competing in situations demanding physical prowess of a kind):

'i was just running back from the post office in the snow and i slipped and fell on my ass, then slid down the hill (from like Regent Street/the top of Constitution Hill to the top of Lower Clifton Hill). y'know, i didn't slide round the corner, just to where it turns off. gah, what humiliation... hmmpf.

'then this dude stopped, got outta his car, came over and ended up driving me back here. i didn't see him at first; i was so surprised i just sat there in the middle of the road looking at the snowflakes and wondering if they'd stick (they were about half an hour ago, dunno about now). it didn't occur that there were cars coming or anything. *dribble dribble* ;-)

'my ass hurts, dammit. also, i'd complain moar better but my ass isn't wet anymore just cold'.


OK, compare and contrast time. wait — didn't you just hate whenever you heard teachers say that shit? every time i heard it, my heart sank (further), unsafe in the knowledge they'd pick on me for whatever answer (only cause i'd made the mistake of telling em i loved to read and write). so what say you? ja? nah? well, y'all know where i'm coming from: i hated that compare 'n' contrast shit (and once i became a teacher, i realised it was the teachers' lazy way outta whatever situ). anyway, here's The Birdcage Walk now, in the glory of the quickly deadening year.


*sigh* yes, i know... oh, how i know.


in other news, the week after Techie-boy stayed over, cooked for me, took the test and took off, i was way pleased to have another houseguest, this time from Holland. hey, Dave! *waves* no shit, really; i actually had yet another virtual stranger as my weekend guest here and just as i knew we would (with absolutely no basis in reality apart from past experience), we hit it off as if we'd known each other for ages.

Dave's one of the few strangers who actually had the balls to write me first, thanks to FreeA3, and then here (secondary address on profile page). after initial contact, we spent all of two seconds getting to know each other before i sussed out exactly what, if any, his extralegal limits were and he totally passed and got his invited ass over here and a very fine ass it is. :-)

*cough* 'don't try this at home, kids!' *snigger* not for the weakminded, shy, paranoid or anyone harbouring even a modicum of personal safety.

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hold on — i'm comin' ♬

i gotz lotz to say but no time to say it apart from the fact i've been running — not *smirk* jogging — again. *proud* in other news, stay tuned for my next post: 'Is England A Country?' Christine was actually asked that shit by an American chick (who's somehow made it into High School — i'm thinking she fucked her professors to pass like i did, but whaddoo i know?). anyway, Christine told me this last week and i'll copy her hilarious mail here next time cause it dovetails nicely into my rundown of the Life In The UK citizenship test that Chris and i took on saturday morning (and amazingly passed. well, amazingly for me, not him). but *sigh* things are chugging along in that direction, finally — Endlich!

in other news, we're gonna be in Scotland for AlmaGeddon's (formerly Alma Tender Love's) 40th birthday bash — i don't use that word lightly (actually, i don't use it at all) but when Sir Nomad described what's gonna go down (the bands, the DJs, the venue (oh, please, please, PLEASE), the drugs, all the people including some we haven't seen for ages, &c &c &c), 'bash' was the first word to come to mind. well, in truth, 'orgy' was first, but it's sposed to be a surprise or sump'n.

after TPFKAPM booked tickets, i sent the confirming mail up North to botha the Scottish Toerags © ® ™(& Kosher for Pesach) with only a 'WOO-FUCKIN-HOOO!' up top (prolly the shortest mail i've ever written).

Alma: 'YIPPEEEEEEEEEEE!! You have no idea how happy this makes me! I don't care who else is coming now ~ as long as you guyz is there...'

me: '...HAHAHAHAHA, you liiiiiiiiie! i mean, that makes two/three of us (i/we don't give a fuck who else is coming either) — i torry. kinda, sorta. fuckit — not. :-) ...'

Alma: '..., coz, like, y'know, who'd else would wanna come? *dances* ...'

me: 'calm yourself, Alma ... but ROTFLMAO! i'll "dances" you. SHUTUP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP! nb: i'm totally straight; i haven't yet lit up cause i just got home from GP, PDSA, P.O, Oxfam shop, hardware store &c ...

'...ps, YOU ROCK! (i only seddit cause that's what the kewl kidz/hipsters *puke* are saying these days. or maybe they seddit in 1999, i forget). *dribble dribble* ...'

Alma: 'Wheeeeeeeeeeee! ... I AM over the moon that you folks are coming up for my bifday, I'm still trying to find the most suitable venue ~ will keep you posted. Laterz (I think that's wot da kids are saying these days ~ but who can tell!)'

in other news, an hour or so on we were accidentally cc'd and got to read this lovely note:

Nomad to Alma: 'oh shit... ALMA, THE AMERIKANS ARE ACTUALLY COMING — WHAT DO WE DO NOW?'

me back: 'HAHAHA, you better hide all your good shit cause i'ze got junkie habits and i'ze got sticky fingers anyway. *singing* ♬ "i got nasty habits... 'yeahhhh' ... i take D at 3..." ♬ *twannn-nnn-nng twannngy-twanngy-twang*

Nomad: 'LOL, just kidding. it'll be fuckin superb to see you both...'

hmmpf... that's what he says now — that's what he always says when we haven't seen each other for awhile. damn, i'm so gonna make him eat those words and beg for more (her too). but the funny* thing is, i don't even have to overtly DO anything... shit just happens and it all ends in tears — usually mine. whoa, now that i've seddit, maybe Sod'll come calling? YO, Sod! this is an invite — you're wanted for once! do your worst. please?

*not LOL-funny. :-( 'strange' or 'weird' or 'certifiably insane' funny. :-(

fun-fact: note Hunter looking pensive up top; i took the pic the other night and then went to pee, wondering why he had that face on. when i got back in here, i figured he'd been thinking 'Shall I?' and decided 'Yup' cause i found him pooping out a (thankfully) small yet stinky little turd. on the damn rug. again — it seems he's gotten particular in his maturity (kinda like me apart from the maturity):

for 5,5 years, he was happy to use the litterbox but nowadays if he's already gone, he won't go again until the damn thing's pretty much spotless. shit or piss, it matters not — if the litter's crappy or wet (even a small corner), he'll go on the rug. why do i care? cause now i'm down on my knees in the kitchen, cleaning used litter outta the box like twice, thrice daily but what's worse is, i have to make sure i remember to look before i crash, no matter how ripped or drunk i am. }-(

dig: last night i woke up about 03,00; i'd missed the end of the flick, but that's cool, DVD player had turned itself off, silent static on TV was lighting up the room and somehow i remembered, so i took Wandsworth II (warm but not hot), stood up and decided to sit right back down cause i felt pretty dizzy but since i wanted to crash like, y'know... now, i actually crawled (yup, hands and knees) into the kitchen to check out the litterbox, yawning all the way.

and there they were: Hunter's latest turds so i quickly shut my mouth in mid-yawn; suddenly i wasn't tired anymore and i emptied Wandsworth into the kettle to boil again, wrapped my hand thick in plastic bags and went a-digging, goddammit. i finished just about when the kettle began to sing, washed my hands, filled up Wandsworth and totally flew back into bed.

before i go back to my bidne$$, three more things: a) BIG THANKS TO DAVE — my Freeview box died tuesday morning and Dave was kind enough to post another the very next day. what truly makes him a star is, he and Electric Landlady are off to South Africa for their (postponed) honeymoon and somehow he found the time to do me this much-needed favour and i only threatened him like once. wait, twice (i think).

b) THANK YOU AUSSIE JOHN for sorting tickets to London and for the totally fabaroo plant you brought us me. *thwoop!*

c) last but not least, THANKS TO CHRIS: if the areacode of your Brooklyn cellphone wasn't 646, i wouldn't have passed the goddamned test. that's not all: if you hadn't txtd me that question from the train, i never would've asked... i wouldn't have known there were 646 Parliamentary Districts in the UK — i mean, WTF? which Brit do we know who actually knows that shit? *snigger* anyway, think about it — it's one-a those Sod things one can never know for sure — frustrating as fuck.

right, before i forget: am i the only human (?) bean who hates the new format here on Blogger? i mean, it's like written for morons and it doesn't do Preview properly in Firefox. if i had the time or if i wrote here daily like i used to, i'd be moaning my ass off now, mailing em on a daily basis, actually. hmmpf... bastards couldn't leave an easy-peasey, pretty much intuitive, more or less usable programme alone, they just hadda mess with it and in so doing, totally fucked it all the way up. but i showed em good — i changed my prefs back to the old way, nyah. ;-)

oh, wait: just remembered: English Dave from Holland is in the UK now and just like everyone else i know, i met him online (like, big duh — where else?). anyhoo, he'll be over on sunday (first meatspace meet). when i told Some Asshole this other dude, he actually went 'Good luck'. LMAO! but WTF and WHY?

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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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time flew II

editor's note: i couldn't resist cause of sentimental shit plus the fact i'm still gobsmacked when i think how long we've been away from US, so was gonna add the next to the post right below this but forget about that. anyway, this is Peter, the rescue kitty who flew from Brooklyn to Bonn and then to Bristol after living with me since 1991.

Petey loved to sit at my desk, hogging the chair and above pic he was doing just that but in Germany, right before an enforced three months' separation where he waited out the last half of the way stringent Brit Quarantine rules in Villa-Maunz, a lovely Katzenpension rather than crash at the nearest official Brit Quarantined Pets Centre. when we flew in to check it out, i was appalled; it totally didn't pass our inspection — the kitties looked unhappy and scared — always a bad sign — (we assumed) cause the cathouse was stupidly placed right up against the way too noisey dog-run. uh... the foregoing moan applies to the Centre in Bath (your Centre's mileage may vary and for the good of the kitties, i sure hope it does).

how much did we i love Peter? waaaay the fuck too much to be considered 'healthy' we'd agreed to go halvsies (and pay two rents) cause i couldn't bear to think of my poor — once brutally and horrifically abused — kitty left alone for six months in quarantine. i mean, even after all the love and patience we'd shown him, Peter still had heavy trust issues and pitiful separation anxiety. the first night i got back from England alone (after leaving Chris in Bristol to start his new job), when Pete heard my keys in the lock, he ran to greet me as always, but then kept circling round, peering through my legs and behind me, exactly as if he were searching, as if he were looking for The (Missing) Boy. even when i picked him up for hugs (as i always did whenever i got back), he was all squirmy and twisty in my arms and kept trying to peer over my shoulders as if he weren't convinced it was just me and him. bah... the guilt. *shudder*

our friends all knew i'd just left Chris and returned to live in DE with Peter. i'd been back home only a few hours when Dave called from London to ask how i were doing. it was really sweet for him to ring but was hard to hear ourselves speaking. when he finally asked what the racket was, i could only tell him the deal as i saw it: when Peter'd made damn sure i was home alone, he'd leapt up on Chris' desk, crouched on the scanner (his fave spot to watch The Boy as he worked) and commenced howling his ass off. for hours and hours. eventually Dave went 'Is that a baby crying? Are you watching anyone's kids?' and i was all 'NO — that's Pete since he realised The Boy's not playing "hide" and he doesn't like it...' *sigh* Petey cried all night and i couldn't comfort him so i crashed with earplugs but a few hours later he woke me up, snuggling into bed and purring his head off. on The Boy's side, of course (due to kitty-fur, this was like Verboten).

i got here for good in july, managed to keep my big mouth shut for the next three months and not moan about missing Peter. then in september 04 (YAY, finally!), it was time to fly back to Bonn and bring him home to England. *sigh* by that time he was like 14 years old and i truly believe the stress of us leaving him alone for three months plus the flight from Frankfurt to Heathrow — though only an hour or so — affected him badly cause after six months (when he'd just had a check-up after which the vet told me how healthy he was) he developed cancer of the jaw and died a few weeks later.

i took these next about a week before he left us; it's Petey in his fave morning place (whether in Brooklyn, Bonn or Bristol) worshipping Ra as the sun came up. he'd never missed a morning staring at the sun since 1991.

now i go cry cause i still really miss Petey. *smirk* nah, who am i kidding? i'm gonna get wasted instead (cause i still really miss Petey). um, yum... 'sbeen way too long since i crushed up Valiums to sprinkle over Vodka and what better time to do that shit but early Sunday morning? Cheers, Petey! *smirk*

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time flew

HAVE YOU SEEN THESE PEOPLE? be very wary and approach with caution but only if you must cause she bites. hard. in other, unrelated news, here're mails of the other day (subjectline: 'today'):

me to TPFKAPM: '21, September is exactly nine years since that Friday AM we landed at Frankfurt with Petey. just sayin'. *to self* OMG...'

eX-PM: 'NINE!?! Fucking christ…'

too true, too true... and then there's the alienation and anomie and ennui and those other French diseases of the soul or whatever that descend upon my head when i've spent a bit too much time by myself thinking about my life and shit so i did what i had to do to make it stop and a little later, when i came to, i felt much, much better.

in truth, since i saw the date on my Calendar, i've got like snippets of little films of scenes of that first day playing in the cinema of my mind's eye, like running our asses off from Singapore Air at one end of Frankfurt Flughafen straight through to the other end to collect Peter from Pet Cargo (joyful reunion), my amazement that German Kontroll were so lax laid back (whew), fashionably dressed elderly ladies (in their 60s and 70s) driving motorcycles ('OMG... i love it here'), casual nudity in adverts all over, cigarette machines on every corner, legalised prostitution as well as booze sold whereEVar and porn on TV after 22,00 every night. and the prices of things... *nearly weeps* i mean, they were still using the Deutschmark when we landed and everything was so amazingly cheap.

and then the next morning was our first time having breakfast in the sun with our legs hanging over the Rhein and Peter waiting in the hotel for us. *sigh* and then my shocked delight at seeing doggies — lots of doggies — in upscale department stores, pubs and restaurants (which had me mumbling over and over, 'fuck you, FDA and your bullshit "animals are dirty" propaganda'). that was also the first day i experienced what i think might be my own personal Stendahl Syndrome cause never before in my life had i ever stopped to gape and gasp and have shouty orgasms over whatever architectural details where-the-fuck-ever and the more nonchalant the natives were, the louder i was — isn't that strange?

hmmpf... has it really been nine years since America went crazy? making it even harder to go back and live there even if i wanted to? wait — who cares? cause i'm here and the insanity's back there (just as i always suspected, long before i had any hard proof).

but wait — we had this talk in Germany; he said about his room-mate at Georgetown, some armed forces guy (or a frat boy, one-a those); well, the dude was well-travelled and one of his observations had sump'n to do with the old 'You can never go home again' and it's not just cause you're always gonna be comparing places or people; in a way, the better you dig being away kinda guarantees a difficult re-integration with the culture from which you came. well, not for everyone, i wouldn't think but like, duh... why am i not surprised? i mean, i already feel enough contempt (mixed with pity) when i'm back in NYC watching people struggle through their days.

*snigger* right, i haven't seen any of these in some time now but i used to think it hilarious whenever i came across adverts aimed at American expats (be they in DE, all of EU or the UK) who aren't 'assimilating well' or are totally homesick otherwise not having a good time cause it reminds me that nothing much's changed since i'd been sent off to Sleepaway Camp every Summer and i'd be the only kid all happy as the bus pulled away from the crowd of frantic parents. coming home a few weeks later and i'd be the only kid screaming my head off last kid off the bus cause i didn't wanna go home. which's totally why i knew to ignore every damn narrow-minded asshole in NYC who had the nerve to tell me, 'You're leaving the States? At your age? WHY would you ever wanna?'

LOL, where to begin? i mean, how can one make people understand when they insist of thinking of it as 'leaving' whilst i thought of it as 'escaping'? anyway, never have Neil Gaiman's words rung so true: 'The price of getting what you want is getting what you once wanted'. sump'n like that... stupidity in retrospect: i always envisioned myself living here in England but never older than in my 20s or 30s. *mirthless laughter* the thing of it is, i would never trade places with anyone... cause the shit's that's gone down, the things i've seen and done since i left US are the kinda things i wouldn't trade for the world. no regrets. I Did It My Way and i'll continue to do it my own damn way even if it fucking kills me — especially if it fucking kills me (an M.O. with which i'm totally comfortable). *smirk*


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off to a brilliant beginning

i came, i saw, i puked my ass off (always the sign of an excellent time) and when it was all over, i cleaned up catshit — my weekend in a nutshell. but really, Techie-boy and i hooked up with Mr and Mrs Ifor The Engine, Pam, Stevie (Librarian of Love) and it was a joy to see em and be in the Albert again. there were some other people who kept coming up to me all night and who (embarrassingly enough) said they remembered me though they weren't even a distant haze AFAIC. wait... there was the very lovely Hannah and this chick who once came up to Chris' with a shitload of our friends and forced us all to listen to her daughter's crap MySpaz whilst a very pissed off guitar-player from our fave group pouted in the corner. *giggle* i totally lied in her face when i said i didn't remember who she was (and then i practically ran away). right, and some cute dude called Josh who's GF's in the States being a physicist (sump'n about which i have grave doubts, but hey, he seddit, not i). back to me-me-me, the funny thing is, i don't remember why i puked my brains out cause i know that (very much against my wishes) TPFKAPM refused to gimme any blow until we ate.

damn... i know i puked all over his bathroom (i'm pretty sure — i think) but we were up in his flat a number of times (i think) and i don't remember why or when cause thanks to the extra-legals, we didn't crash until yesterday afternoon.

anyway, there was some chemically-treated reefer and the only reason i know that is cause when i unpacked my bags, i found it and some weird flakey black stuff. i vaguely remember commenting on it and then it all kinda goes dark, complimenting it, even. hmmpf... well, as long as nobody got hurt. i think nobody got hurt (not sure) cause we all had a good time — i'd bet on that though i couldn't give anyone specifics but i know cause i don't have any bruises or anything (i just can't see very well. yeah, still).

moving right along, just as i feared, when i came in this AM, there was not only a small pile of kitty-turds on one of the two best Asian rugs, but for the first time ever, Hunter was sitting next to it all proud, like. this was after the first time ever that he didn't jump into my arms after i'd left him alone overnight. sump'n's up... i can just tell by the look in his beady little eyes.

OK, above pic was taken like ten minutes ago after i chased the fucking Royal Mail dude down the street cause he left me a second Undeliverable Parcel notice. when i finally caught up to him (barefoot), he pleaded innocence and went 'That must've come from the truck'. i wasn't too pleased and then (dunno how it happened) i woke up the entire street when i realised i'd locked myself out and was standing there in my shades, a T-shirt and the bottoms of my Starry Night PJs. so i did what i always do: blamed the shouty on someone else and pretended i was meant to be there (un)dressed, as it were, taking pics and shit. in socks. *wack*

hmmpf... if i weren't so pissed over the fucking Royal Mail, i would've waved to the neighbours as i passed em by, thinking i'd be sitting on my steps for X amount of time and wishing i'd thought to bring my fucking keys or at least my cigs though i did think to praise my godz that it was 16 and not below 10C out. but i made a new friend after i nearly broke his window. this happened just after i'd rang all four buzzers to the flats of the house and then, when nobody buzzed back, i leant over and banged on his window and he instantly appeared. 'oops... my bad'.

whoa... the English are SO totally not like you and i (especially if you and i come from Brooklyn or any part of NYC) cause he was SO pleasant and i was SO humiliated that i thought to make up an excuse and told him i needed to get to my bathroom and FAST. he's on his way up here now. 'for tea'. *smirk* that happened after i felt so guilty cause he was so nice, i opened my big mouth when all i really wanna do is crash but i'm gonna give him his tea and hope he gets the hell outta here ASAP. oh christ... there's extra-legals all over the coffeetable.

this is me doing my impression of Housewife Cleaning. nah, i don't see any difference either. but just like Magick, the damnable evidence is totally gone. and there's the doorbell (and i'm still in my T-shirt &c cause i've been sitting here instead of dressing and shit). *shrugs*

jesus... i hope this dude's as intelligent and interesting as he is goodlooking but chances are he's not cause for whatever reason, he's ringing the doorbell downstairs instead of knocking on the door to my flat. and yes, i'm making him wait though in my mind i'm acting out that scene in Magnolia when the music's blasting and the cop's outside whilst she's tryna get rid of the evidence within. uh, yup... the crucial words in the foregoing are 'in my mind' so make of that what thou wilt.

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going to town

'Hah! She's off to London and I'm so gonna shit on the Asian rugs if she's — say whaaaat? Back on Monday? at 02-a fucking-clock? I'm going to be ignored for two whole days and nights whilst she's away? FUCK. THAT. I'll shit the rugs anyway — *evil kitty laugh* — y'know, out of spite'.

what i wanna know is, how come he only craps (and pukes hairballs) on the good rugs? and never on the landlady's cheap ugly wall-to-wall? never. }-(

in related news, this's my first trip to London since last november right before my ex-bossdude skipped town, owing me a nice amount of £ and after failing to warn me i'd soon be unemployed. hmmpf... i hope he dies painfully somewhere, actually. anyway, fuck him; i totally can't wait to see my friends and continue my longstanding tradition of falling down drunk and puking all over Coldharbour Lane and getting so ripped i can't see straight and getting way coked up to the point of overamping and, and, and... am i excited? nah — that's my 'normal' whenever there's enough serotonin and at this exact moment, there is. :-)


wait — it's gone. bummer. :-( having said that, '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...'


yup, like almost everything i write i stoled that from here but just as i remembered his words and thought of Hunter, it was like bingo cause now i'm back to my regular 'normal' otherwise known as suicidally depressed. shit, i don't even wanna go out anymore. damn, i need sump'n... like a morphine drip cause the agony of existence has now risen to the top. again. and yeah, i've been warned...


though i haven't been incarcerated not in this country. yet i've totally not been crazy enough to get paid for it, dammit. hmmpf... i shall do my utmost to rectify this ASAP, lemme just write it down — wait. oddly enough my 'To Do' list of stuff that hadda be done ASAP has like 32 items or whatever on it, all due — 'or else' — over the past month or so. damn. truth is, i totally forget to look at the bastard list despite numerous reminders both on paper and in my iPod's Calendar. some with alerts, even. alerts that i hear, respond to and then, once i'm halfway to doing whatever, i forget what the fuck i'm doing and that's that. hmmm... how the hell did i get from London to *

*that's all i wrote before bathtime and i have no idea where i was going with it. in other words, Biz As Usual.

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OD-ing on Cabot Tower

a few weeks ago, i posted a photo of Cabot Tower i'd taken a week or so before. (editor's note: above pic was taken within a minute or two of the one at last link.) since i did, i got mail from two or three people — 'Anonymous Cowards' as Slashdot so nicely calls em whilst i'm a bit harsher — 'Unspecified Chickenshits' cause these ball-less wonders used throwaway addys and needless to say, they didn't sign their names. what totally kills me is when this stuff happens (and it happens a lot), none of em have proved they've got the imagination to even make shit up, all of which i find highly insulting cause i'd love to believe that those who find fault with me have at least a modicum of brain power, but no. anyway, i was accused of reposting the same damn pic i had here ages ago. (not this one:)


hmmpf... anyhoo, one was vague: 'You used it before...' (not this one either:)


one was tryna be nasty: 'I don't know when I saw it but I know it was on that thing, your so-called blog'. and one (my fave) — welp, as i read his/her missive, it was easy to imagine huge globules of sweat flying off the no-neck wonder as s/he shook with (what i hope was) rage. i'm only gonna quote a bit (2nd grade spelling corrected by yours truly): '...You have the nerve to write your incessant drivel about your nothing life?' um... guilty as charged, Yer Honour. but hey! ten points for using 'incessant' though it was spelt 'insessant'. *cough* 'Who wants it?' hey, i don't know either. 'Who would ever read it?...' *shrugs* nb: that last bit left me totally gobsmacked for reasons of obviousity. but wait — there's more!

'...You SUCK.' *whispers* too true, too true. but then came the coup de grace or whatever: 'Why don't you and your hero Obama go fuck yourself?' *stunned into momentary silence* What. The. Fuck? but yeah, anything for a fan — c'mon, Barack — i'm wait-tinnnnng. *taps cloven hoof impatiently*


newsflash, y'all and back on-topic: i've got shitloads of photos of Cabot Tower taken over the last six years, some through the gate up top of my street and the rest from off the balcony



at various times of whatever day or season or month or year



or whenever the mood strikes me to brave the elements (after fortifying myself with massive doses of Vitamins C, D and E or 'X' taken whilst waiting for me and Obama to go fuck myself).


and since i'm such a nice dude, here's a Public Service Announcement, especially to those Unspecified Chickenshits: since i wouldn't want your heads to asplode, you better quit reading here or just suck it the fuck up — it matters not. oooh, wait — here're two more, taken a minute apart early one february morning. can you say silhouettes? *whispers* hint: the 'H' is silent!



moving right along, here's one-a my fave mails (which i first posted here but it cracked me up when i found it whilst looking for sump'n else just now), thanks to my little sister (the VP ad exec who'd be starring in Mad Men if it took place now and it was chicks instead of Jon Hamm & Co):

'...Let's face it, fat people are in denial. It's like "lose the fucken weight already" so you don't have to even CONSIDER large sizes. But nooooooooo... They now post calories in fast-food places (don't ask how many calories Dunkin Donuts are); it's like the Surgeon General stamp on cigarette packs. These assholes KNOW all this shit is bad for them, but they keep doing it anyway. So fuck 'em... if they want to think they're really a size 10 when they're a size 84, let them. I don't give a shit. They still look like crap. All I know is I am SO over this stuff... I lost my weight almost 17 fucken years ago and am STILL a size 4. Eat your goddamn hearts out, fatasses!'

whoa — the venom! *admiring* but in all truth, *whispers* not only is she the kinda judgmental NY-er (outta millions and millions) i'm pleased to have escaped when i did NYC, i've totally forgotten what the hell brought that on (and i'm too damn lazy to look in my Sent folders cause i'd have to look thrice: once on my iPod, once in my Mail app and once rereading the original post). but the thing of it is, i actually spit out Absinthe (yes, again) reading her just now and not once but twice. no, i lie... um, rereading her mail made me waste my fucking Absinthe a number of times. oh... i guess i failed to say i've gotten back into drinking to excess and been getting totally fucked up and sloppy every night which's gonna be a real surprise to my friends when i'm in London this weekend so they better have drugs.

hmmpf... with a mouth like hers, there was no way i minded sitting in whatever overpriced Lexington Avenue coffee bar (totally not Starbuck's) as she tore apart the outfits worn by passersby on countless saturday afternoons. the thing of it is, without her knowledge, she was helping me while away the time until my dope dealer woke up but hey, that's a story for another time (read: never).

wait — this post and all its venom disparity needs some balance, so here:


it's the first photo i ever took of horizontal rain (cause i never hearda such a thing before i witnessed it here). not balanced enough? dig the Art Nouveau-ish lamppost i found on Pembroke Road and proceeded to make a fool of myself yet again by shrieking 'OMG! OMG!' until the neighbours came running and asked if i were hurt. and thanks to said lamppost and me being all shouty i've made even more friends here, some of whom asked me in for tea the last time we met. it was SO fuckin great — i totally felt British. English, even. *preens* then again, after that particular afternoon, they prolly run when they see me coming for reasons i don't care to get into now but as long as i'm not aware-a that we cool.


hmmm... dunno about you but i see a myriad of sexual possibilities along with the sinuous sensuous curvacious movement and biolinearity of the... uhhh... heh. lost my train-a thought there. *smirk*

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sunday AM coming down

my Sunrise/Sunset iPod app said Sunrise was at 06,39 today. having stayed up all night before, i managed to kinda come to — late though i was — and snag these on the balcony whilst facing East and tryna not to go blinder. above's in time, even the second one on which i sat on someone's shoulders stood on my tippy-toes atop the wrought iron rails. here's like an hour later:


now, please forgive — or don't cause i don't really give a shit — the fact that since i had first-time guests sleeping over here at Hotel Hunter, i roused em all and had em follow me about whilst taking the same damn pics i've been taking for nigh on six years already. over six years, actually (but hey, we all know what a boring person i am and my photographs of the same damn thing proves that shit over and over and *yawn* over again). directly below, we found ourselves at just about 08,00 whilst everyone — my guests — the inconsiderate fucktards — actually had the nerve to yawn in my face and it was even more attractive cause not a one bothered to cover his/her mouth. but hey, that's class and don't i know it. thing is, there was a shitload of coke on the tray on the table but they were so tired, they'd totally forgotten. but i didn't! *smirk*


by the time they remembered, it was 'gonnnnne, bay-beh' *in a D Wayne voice* which brought me to a place at which i don't feel too comfy apart from when extra-legals are concerned — bullshitting friends, be they true friends or the kind that were here last night, but hey — needs must and all. and at the very least, it meant totally more for me

moving right along, since we were all too wasted when they arrived last night for me to give em the Grand Tour, they were forced into submission and yawned trailed along after me whilst i shot pics, first off the balcony, in fronta the edge of Bellevue Pleasure Gardens East. *smirk*



and then came the whinging and moaning, all to the tune of 'It's COLLLLD!' which i answered by sniffing 'it's only like 10C, pussy-pussies...' but when it all got too much to bear, i led em back in and demanded they follow me round whilst i shot at least fifty photos of Hunter doing the same damn thing: lying there as well as the glorious wrought iron shadows through the mile-high blinds and all from the safety and relative warmth of the flat. i believe the guests were warm, despite i'd opened all the windows pleased. but i was pissed. wait... in truth, they're only ten-foot vertical blinds — same dif IMO (no biggie).




oddly enough, the most of the pushing, shoving and bitching hassle happened in the kitchen and i dunno why possibly cause i'd hid the coffeemaker late last night but the aroma gave it away. but they still couldn't find it (which guaranteed their rapt attention for as long as i wanted it) and whenever i got the chance, Selfish SG stepped up, pushed rimone outta the way and slurped coffee whilst Uninvited Guests choked on their tea.

these next three represent The Contretemps in the Kitchen or as i made the mistake of expressing it: The Tempest In Their Teapot. *ducks*




*snort* am i high? take it with this grain of salt: i haven't slept since early saturday, so you be the judge. to my very patient guests (if 'patient' means they learnt to keep their big fucking mouths shut whilst i fucked about and in my own damn home whilst they drooled, which i guess denoted how hungry they were. starved, maybe. dunno. don't care cause to my innocent eyes, each of em could've easily lost like at least two stone and still appeared healthy), my fondest wish as far as y'all're concerned: i hope i shall never see you within these walls again. or anywhere in Clifton. no, in all truth, make that alla Bristol. *snigger* :-)

'You're welcome, dudes... anytime'. *snort*

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when the whip comes down

shit happened — if by 'shit' i mean either some kinda freaking out or messy or too-loud anti-social childish behaviour or extralegally overdoing what-the-hell-ever but i ain't saying cause i'll never forget. uhhhh... anyway, this so-called shit happened all over the 'hood — over here, at the top of Bellevue, whilst i checked out Cabot Tower and other places as well and all quite recently.



this was over a period of like about the last week or so and the marks are still there for anyone to see. for whatever reason, it all continued into my flat and out onto the catwalk. in the damned rain.



here's the point at which i gave up and actually sat in the wet and kept clicking away.



in other news, it doesn't take much©®™ to set me off down Memory Lane but that'll wait for now *snigger* along with all those columns or stiles or whatever they are, those stone thingies at the end of driveways that i've been all orgasm-y about for ages already. fuck it — six of like over a hundred leaving out my encounters with the neighbours.







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