seeing the future & it hurts

anyone who's been able to hold his/her nose long enough to like, actually read me over the last few years — whether here or at rimone.org — will attest i'm a textbook case study of anhedonia and to make matters worse, if there's nothing on the horizon to which i can look forward, i'm totally fucked and not proper fucked — hah!

right, i'm tawkin emotionally fucked, which if one cares to parse or better yet, put on that Jacques Derrida hat from the costume (y'know, the one hiding in your closet, the one you got yerself as a smarmy Lit major at Uni but still haven't gotten the stones to wear)... shit, i'm totally losted. anyway, if you do a Derrida and deconstruct your head off, digging through the morass of the messy verbal trail i've left behind over the last five-plus years, you'll end up learning — in so many cases — 'I see the future and it hurts'.

BTW, when Googling the quote and coming up with nought, something jogged my memory; i think i remember i stoled it off Mr Spragg lo these many years ago. remember: though he put me on M.O.R, Alabama 3's last studio album, Larry hates me whilst Rob and i get along just fine. then again, he'll never see this and if he does, i know him well enough to know he'll never admit it. then then then again, his lovely wife Samantha reads me but she and i have an understanding of sorts: i bow 'down' *snigger* oopsy, what was i saying again? right, i kindalike — shit! how did that get out? anyway, what i'm trying t'say is, i bow down at the altar of Mrs Larry Love and she like, tolerates meh. ;-)

which reminds me: in all seriousity, the most heartfelt congratulations and love to Mr and Mrs Larry Love of the Alabama 3 for spawning a second Liddle Love, a son called Hank. whoa, would i love to be a fly on the wall the day that his 9 years older sister Nansi — LOL, never mind. hey, look over there!:

why can't i find a photo with both Rob and Sam in it that i didn't take myself? WTF? anyway, here's Sam onstage a few months back when she was about 4 months preggers in her stage persona as Gypsy Jones.


and here's Larry as he looked the last time i saw him at Dirty South.


that's another thing i've always loved about this band: the Very Reverend D Wayne Love and the Reverend Larry Love: the two Best. Front. Men. EVar are always changing their appearances.

*obligatory* long live the Alabama 3! wait, where is this train going, again? dunno, don't care but i'm compelled to write something so maybe, just maybe, the fucking goddamned Valiums i took just now will work more betterer than the one i dropped earlier at 19,00 did — gave me three stinking hours of blissful sleep and now i'm UP and verily pissed. BTW, that's pissed as in pissed off and not the British 'pissed' as in drunk.

hey... thass not a bad idea. i should drink mahself to sleep. *glug glug* just trying to saturate even more braincells with booze to write mahself to beddy-bye so i can deal with the utter cunts from whom i ended up with four new cellphones and this is supposed to happen early tomorrow morning. wait — got a shitload o' Skunk and hash et al. *thwoop!* ahhhhh... i'm SO ripped and best of all, i am get-ting slee-eee-pyyyyyy...

'Svengali...I love you...'


errr... the Svengali bit's only my filmic Tourette's rising to the occasion. sorrr-rreee! *whispers* not really! :-) oh wait, here comes the ADD: for some strange reason, a Twitter trend with which i never bother brought me like twenty plus new followers today. whoa, are they gonna be disappointed and/or fuckin' angry (i hope both, actually) and drop me ASAP... i mean, who knew there were so many trainwreck-watchers and/or nuts out there? *snigger*

moving right along, here's Disco 2029 (which'll be taken down ASAP) an oldie but goody from the early 2000s stoled outta Alabama 3's vasty back catalogue. listen for Larry at 2,57 for my point. um, the one i think i had when i began this post but now i'm too seepy to see if it makes sense. fuck it. right, happy weekend and peace out, yo.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

state of the slum(p) VIII

i twat the above about three hours back (stoled from ronald raygun's rethug speech 'writer' peggy noonan).


and here's meh a coupla minutes ago. hah! proof i DO have self-control of a sort. i managed to keep my insides intact until the very second after Chris took off. hahaha, he'll NEVER know how ill i've really been after we saw Nashville Pussy the other night.

oh... wait. *giggle* hey, Chris. :-)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

who wants PUSSY?

'When it comes to the sleaziest, trashiest, most extreme end of the rock & roll spectrum, sometimes the truth hurts. And Nashville Pussy frontman Blaine Cartwright is more than willing to spread the pain around, judging from what he has to say about his band's new album Say Something Nasty: "It's our best one yet, and we're gonna shove it up America's ass!"...'

that was written a coupla years back but it still holds true today apart from their new album's called From Hell to Texas. we got tickets for this like an age ago and last night was The Night but i was still ill from the weekend so we actually took taxis to and from the Thekla in Bristol. ill or not, it goes without saying that i did a bit too much coke which precluded my usual drink-till-i-puke — the sure sign i had a fabaroo time at whatever gig. anyway, we were right up front getting the Compleat Heavy Metal Blast but unfortunately, since i STILL haven't decided on which of my now 4 Brit phones to use, i didn't take any photos so all pics stoled from Nashville Pussy's Official Site.

how was the show? well, any show that begins by using Quentin Tarantino's words outta From Dusk Till Dawn:

'All right, pussy, pussy, pussy! Come on in pussy lovers! Here at the Titty Twister we're slashing pussy in half! Give us an offer on our vast selection of pussy, this is a pussy blow out! All right, we got white pussy, black pussy, Spanish pussy, yellow pussy, we got hot pussy, cold pussy, we got wet pussy, we got [sniffs] smelly pussy, we got hairy pussy, bloody pussy, we got snappin' pussy, we got silk pussy, velvet pussy, Naugahyde pussy, we even got horse pussy, dog pussy, chicken pussy! Come on, you want pussy, come on in, pussy lovers! If we don't got it, you don't want it! Come on in, pussy lovers!'

is IMO, two words: FUCKIN-A. OK, one word, whatever. anyway, i'm not gay but i totally fell in love with lead screaming guitarist, Ruyter Suys and told her so about a half minute after she got off her back spreadeagled onstage playing her liddle heart out.


not only did she have her licks down good as (fuck that: better than) most any guitarist dude i know but at one point i kinda mused aloud that not only would she make horse-shit outta Stevie Nicked, she'd totally out-Rock Freebase. dirty looks from one in our company ensued but we won't go there now. moving right along, naturally, to be contrary, Chris fell in love with Karen, the bassist.


unfortunately, none of the music showcased on the player at left of any page of their above-linked site shows off Ruys' chops, booooo and bah. AFAIC, it almost makes em sound like 'happy music'. oy. embarrassing. *rolls eyes*

these: Piece of Ass and I'm The Man are about the only Nashville Pussy music i've got in my iTunes that halfassedly shows the down and dirty style i've come to love em for over the years but it's like old music now. BTW, they'll be taken down ASAP cause according to last month's stats, The Chinese have found my mp3s and overloaded the bandwidth at rimone.org, so if y'all dig them, snag em whilst you can (R-click and Save) before they're deleted.

note to Chinese 'bots that've been trawling the 'Net and fucking stealing my bandwidth: i've got nothing against the Chinese in general but GET YER OWN FUCKIN' MUSIC. the Japanese have. sheesh!

moving right along, for some wack reason, NP opened for the Supersuckers (WTF?) whose only tune i wanted to hear was Whiskey River but we knew they wouldn't do it so we took off, came home and stupidly got high(er) so much so, we were up till 04,00 watching films instead of sleeping.

as they say, 'a very good time was had by all'. *snigger*

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

found in my phone

long story as short as i can: the last time i used my beloved silver Razr was at Dragnim's birthday party in the Garden of Albert, last day of august (i think) 2007. a friend gifted me with it the year before — oh Daaaa-ave, i'm tawkin 'bout youuu. :-) anyway, during the totally fabaroo party, someone spilt a drink on the table and my Razr got wet and quit working on the spot (i was too doped up to be drinking that night so it wasn't my glass, actually). now i ain't pointing fingers here but let's just say 'easy come, easy go' and leave it at that. *snigger*

since y'all have to have a cellphone in London, the next day i bought a black Razr (cause Carphone Warehouse didn't have silver). and as we all know (cause i won't STFU about it), that got stoled at Dirty South a few weekends back. after Darren, Maxine and i got kicked out of our hotel and even before we had breakfast next morning (soz, dudes), we went straight to the nearest CW where i stupidly bought a Nokia which turned out to have a nightmare of a GUI amongst other senseless shite. out of a combination of desperation and frustration, when i got back to Bristol, i got a top-notch Samsung. this too turned out to be a piecashit on the same level of UnUsability as the Nokia (example: click four screens to read a text? no reordering of icons? six clicks to get to the fucking camera? gimme a break).

anyhoo, a few hours ago i decided to take a liddle break from work and started fucking about with my now-four cellphones (well, five counting the German one). anyway, i took out the chargers and my old silver & blue Motorola (Summer '04), the two new piecasashit and my beloved though water-logged silver Razr from Dave (Autumn '06). having nothing better to do than get back to work, i tried charging the water-damaged Razr and lo and behold, it actually lit up. then i raced down to Vodafone, told my story walking and after checking everything out, they said all was cool.

when i got home, i found some photos i took at Mikey's party right before my phone got fucked, photos i'd never seen before. i won't post the good ones (drunken friends flying on MDMA and acid doing dumbass yet hilarious things) but here's a dark, moody study of a pensive Dragnim (prolly bemoaning his fate and the maturity that's sure to come when one reaches 30). well, for most people.


number 11 in a series! collect 'em all! Rock Freebase bestowing kisses on the Birthday Boy.


nb: click both above for bigiousity detail. and to all Statesiders: it's not a gay thing and even if it were, who cares? truth is, British men seem to have a proclivity for kissing other men and despite most Americans' presuppositions, it don't mean a damn thing. BTW, i took the first photo above when dragged along on a *puke* pub-crawl and had a fit (one of the good ones) outside the Dali museum on the Thames. yep, that's Big Ben. :-)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

thought for the day

yup, iz stawree of mai lief, akshually. in other news, i'm halfway through editing my last coupla jobs whilst cleaning up the shitpit my flat's become, all cause Pam's visiting tomorrow and i wouldn't want ANYone thinking i'm a slob.

*OINK!* tee-hee. ;-) oh wow, the last time i went 'oink' was in the non-fiction (in R-hand column) called My Rape (Part 2's here). LOL, just sayin'.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

forbidden territory

too true, too true but i got away lucky cause unlike Lot's Wife, i've not changed into a pillar of salt. the thing of it is, last night i willingly (and stupidly) acted in direct opposition to one of my personal roolz: i looked back. even worse, it wasn't a cursory glance: thanks to the Internet Wayback Machine, i actually blew an hour or so reading the writty attached to various bare bones of the place i called Dateline: Bristol.

*whispers* i haven't the courage to link but it's the last one down under Reservoir Dogs. um... what i'm trying to say is, if i link, i'll get lost reading again and ultimately end up totally bummed, like last night but worse (especially after i found The Drunken Trollup in my files).


after a while Hunter heard me sobbing, took his sweet time looking up (appearing bored) and finally tore himself away from this fascinating bit of string i threw at him earlier on. then he jumped up and gave me a look which i read thusly:


uh, thanks little dude... you're a real comfort. here i am sitting virtually naked and weeping before you. *to self* but he's never seen me without the facade of my nasty attitude firmly in place. there are many reasons for that, the least of which has to do with the fact he's totally not the boss of me. shit! did i say that out loud? guess not; he's cool.


OK, my archives are deemed forbidden territory to remind me that pain, remorse, regret and the inevitable deeper depression are bound to result if i dare look back.


but did i listen? do i ever listen? have i ever learnt my lesson? *weeps* not bloody likely cause neither do i listen to others — even those wiser than me (i.e., everyone) — nor did i ever listen to myself and at this stage of the game, well... self-sabotage, anyone? hey! look over there — i'm hmmm-ing. :-)

hmmm... if there's an upside to looking back; it's cause i'll ingest even more booze and extra-legal stuff into my overloaded system in order to calm me down... y'know, like to take the edge off. *cough* an' thass mah stawree an' ah'm stickin' to it, Ossifer. *hic!*


editor's note: credit where it's due so thanks to DOOMbudgies for above LOL. fun-fact: i added a little note to my NHS Donor Card stating not to waste time with my liver. anyway, amongst my reading last night, i found this Letter to the Editor, a classic example of the marriage of promo and deviousity; sump'n with the likes of which we planned to seed meatspace newspapers as part of our brilliant but now-abandoned master plan to focus attention on the band. fun-fact: this was written in reply to Love God's Way/God Hates Fags.

‘SUBJECT: Alabama 3 (A3 in the United States):

‘Apart from voluminous drug references, this band has a song called “Hypo Full of Love” which includes the lyric “loving mens, loving women, loving all God’s creatures”. Naturally, I’ve not listened to the song recently but when I heard it at a (now thankfully saved) friend’s home it was blatantly obvious the lyric did not refer to the saving love of the Lord Jesus Christ, but to fornication.

‘Indeed, I have it on good authority that this song is one of the “highlights” of an appallingly debased live show in which the band mocks Christ and faith in general, celebrates promiscuous and unnatural sex and promotes drug use.

‘I don’t believe Alabama 3 have much of a following in the United States — no doubt owing to the hard work of Christians like yourself and having a man of faith in the White House. However, they have a sizeable and vocal cult following here in the United Kingdom and deserve to be castigated for the perverts they are.

‘Thank and bless you for the work you are doing.

‘Yours in Christ…’

*snigger* pure brilliance! *admiring* BTW, feel free to copy and paste above message and send it off to the British newspaper of your choice in whichever town the band's gonna play. the above letter actually garnered a couple of comments, one of them being:

'How cool would it be to get the opening night of the next tour picketed by a mob of bible-thumpers?'

if only! when this was broached on the Forum, i posted to volunteer to dye my hair back to brown and dress as a straight-laced religious nut and show up to demonstrate against the band outside whichever gig with signs and shit but no one else picked up on it. *cough* iz stawree of mai lief, akshually (sorry. not really, cause i'm totally used to it). whoa, just checked the time and i'm so outta here, hoorah! but before i split, i found this next a few weeks ago and i wanna share.

WANT. and not only do i wannem, i totally needem. *fires up Word Counter* hah! i'm just a bit under my daily quota so i shall bid y'all farewell and hope your day's going better than mine has. well, in all truth, i lie cause i'm way ahead of my deadline, high as fuckall and blasting music whilst breezing through my work (completely convinced it's cause i'm already quite familiar with the subject matter). my only ri-moan? i'm (so far) unsuccessfully waiting for the chapter on the criminally insane in this Abnormal Psych book i'm helping put together and i don't wait good. *taps cloven hoof* but hey, here's hoping the criminally insane are only a chapter or two away. *clink!*

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock & AQ

nuh-uh, i'm totally not kidding cause i can watch out most any window for hours and have on two continents and one political construct. *proudtard* fun-fact: the places from which i've watched begin with a 'B': Brooklyn, Bonn and Bristol.

that is, i can watch Kitty TV as long as the view doesn't offend my AQ (Aesthetic Quotient). right, don't bother Googling cause it'll get you no where. AQ — at least, the way i was taught it — is sump'n with which one's born, as Sherlock would go on to us on whatever of his countless speed binges. he was this older Beatnik-type dude who was going for his doctorate at NYU and after years of research and experimentation, claimed it was yet another still undiscovered, unrecognised facet of one's personality and ultimately, their future happiness.

anyway, our core group had been tight with him for ages, since i was like 14 or so. we actually thought we'd be BFF, then... *memory lane time* we were a crew in perfect tune with each other especially politically and extra-legally but a casual observer saw a scarey range of freaks or whatever from impeccably dressed angry looking Dedicated Followers of Fashion (whom we dissed mercilessly and called 'The Mod Squad' to their faces even though most were working musicians) to those of us in black drainpipes (*cough* 'We beleef in nossing!' *cough*) to the one Uni Student from Central Casting (that was Sherlock and he was never in anything but a cheap suit and tie and never without a huge stack of books under one arm).

and being of the time, there were some hippie types amongst us including a breathtakingly gorgeous Model of the Moment who chose to appear like Flower Child when not at work. *rolls eyes* but we excused em for their love 'n' peace shite and let em hang out with us since everything else about them was like... we like, y'know... we like all grooved to the same vibe, y'know? *snigger* we were All As One, y'know... universally, d00d. LOL, i guess you hadda be there (and thank your lucky stars you weren't).

ADD break: on saturday nights we'd meet at Times Square and Lex and train it out on the No. 7 line to the last stop: Main Street, Flushing. after they loaded up with the Bridge & Tunnel crowd, all eager to visit 'The Big Apple' (and actually had the moronacy to call it that), we'd take off back to the City and at a previously designated time, with Gorgeous Half-Naked Model Chick in the lead, we'd silently parade through the entire train and back, unsmiling and doing nothing but walking by and scaring the shit outta the gaping tourists on their big night out. the entire spectacle was Sherlock's idea as part of his study on Shock Value... another one of the experiments he so avidly chronicled. hmmpf... pity we never asked his real name. maybe he's dead?

back to his Aesthetic Quotient: at one point, we were administered a 750 word multiple-choice questionnaire to which values had been assigned to each of the possible answers. i remember this was on a sweltering day in a huge room at NYU Law School (she said, dreamily), when it was on the Southern side of Washington Square Park. still might be, actually. *shrugs*

*snaps to* after all his research was in, Sherlock concluded when a person's AQ is higher than their IQ, Big Trouble was sure to be lying ahead. *cough* AFAIC, he was totally spot-on. he did warn me, actually... that was the last time i ran into him.

hey, look over there: it's Denial! dig: i finally got my old pre-RazR Motorola phone sync'd to my Mac. this never happened before, even after the best techie minds of my generation — i mean, with whom i'm acquainted took more than one or two stabs at it a few years ago. but it was all for nought — total FAIL along with my own shite pics from today, shite cause everything's dark. notice blase attitude.


hmmm... sump'n's definitely not right (apart from myself) cause in yet another try, i lit up the kitchen as much as i could and all i got was this bit of my magnet board (not to be confused with my two kitchen bulletin boards).


then i attempted to capture one of my all-time fave photos, framed in the kitchen.


then as a further test, i moved to the LR and shot one of my overloaded bookshelves with the sun blazing on it.


hmmpf... i see yet another phone in my future and I. Don't. £ike. It. moving right along, in other news, though it's difficult to tell, i'm actually in a very good (and drug-free) mood. i find this amazing but know better than to even wish it'd last.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

sunday AM coming down

'Shaddup, Hugh'. *whispers* in truth, i did but it totally gnawed at my way too-high AQ so i figured i'd quote the Cash title and that'd be that. anyway, this's what i call a 'nothing' post, one of the quickest things i know how to toss off without really trying. now on to the important stuff.


suffice it to say, above's aimed straight at the dude for whom i proofread and edit and if i'd been the one who made it, i would've added 'grrrr...' or 'goddammit' or even 'cocksucker' at the end. i could go on — so much further on — in an endless ri-moan on this in particular, but really, why bother?

on to the third, it's a message to those whom, despite the last few hours of my pounding at the 'board here, are still strewn unconscious on my LR floor.


naturally, 'damage' is in the mind of the beholder. in other news, 'Sonny' (if that's your real name) sent me this yesterday and asked for a caption, so here y'go, dude (notice me not apologise for the semi-stoled words to which i added the 'geddit' and did other stuff).


*cough* time to move on. OK, this's last in a longass series riffing off a quote by my favorite junkie, William S Burroughs, specifically his 'A Word To The Wise Guy':


to be honest, i stoled the first bit from Larry Love but he'll never know it and if he does, i'm sure he won't mind. hmmm... it seems the hallucinations have finally stopped (including my total faves: the hieroglyphics running round the mouldings under the ceilings). this saddens me and when i'm saddened, there's only one thing to do: shout WAKE UP! and get everyone the hell outta here so i can be alone again.

shit... why do i feel guilty? i mean, hey, they were warned before we even got here but dunno if they believed me... hmmm, that didn't occur last night. fuck it: if they didn't believe me then, *sings* they sure do no-owwww... ;-) in all actuallity, i'm not that heartless a deity or whatever: there's shit from the bakery and a pot of freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen and the aroma's wafting through the flat, just waiting for the first bleary eye to fly open. this'll be in in a couple minutes cause The 1812 Overture's about to begin. and when people wake up here, that's when i revert to servant mode. fun-fact (to be filed under 'strange but true'): 'servant mode's sump'n i don't mind at all, as long as i'm dealing with friends.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

slashed wrists II

after messing about with one of Alan Moore's similes yesterday, i appended an editor's note that went: '... i'm desperate to meet my quota and i'm also behind deadline (for once). which reminds me, here's my message to boss-dude (after i received the first complaint about my work, EVar):


then i continued: '...Abnormal Psyche's my field, dude. YOU do the reading before you dare criticise my judgment (and check out those citations i sent — i expect a full apology ASAP)'. lo and behold, this next just flew into my Inbox and reads in part:

'Dear Rimone, After reading a bit of Abnormal Psychology, I offer my sincerest apologies ... yes, you were right; I'm sorry I didn't research the subject before I questioned your edits'.

*snigger* cause he couldn't pull a Hunter:


as i've said so many times before, AFAIK, he has no idea of where I am on the 'Net — neither on Tawdry nor Twitter nor LOLCats (apart from the few i've sent him sans URLs) — and AFAIC displays the typical dimwit's lack of curiosity and in all actuallity, that's the way things'll stay (if i have anything to do with it).

keeping that in mind, OK, boss-dude: here's another LOLCat with a message just for you.


and dude, whilst you're down there bowing and scraping and such — WTF? keep away from my toes, dammit... or don't you remember that liddle 'scussion we had at the beginning of my tenure with you? the one — in answer to your own question in that moronic email interview; the one about which i went on in great detail about my adamance (to put it mildly) on keeping my personal life as distant as possible from any business dealings... that's two strikes already, dude (and i already told Chris about the first). FFS, don't you remember?

whoa, fun-fact (y'all can thank the ADD): when i was 17, i posed for an artist whose studio was on Seventh Avenue and West 57th Street. apart from the obvious perks like discussing Art over breakfast, it got me out of my parents' hell-hole like five hours earlier than normal on weekends and the dude lent me whatever i wanted to wear from his vasty wardrobe of real models' once-worn discards.

moving right along, after six months, he'd painted over 200 mostly 11 x 14" oils of my bare feet (which he termed 'Exquisitely Egyptian'). when i asked why, he told me sump'n about them reminding him of three-dimensional hieroglyphics without the inner lines detracting from their 'exquisite' shape. he did a LOT in a classicly realistic way (and from all angles) and then began emulating others' styles like Picasso, Monet, Dali, Warhol et al. LOL, i loved my feet like Mondrian might've done em... i wish i could remember the artist-dude's name, actually.

*snaps to, back to berating boss-dude* right, are you being purposefully obtuse? or for whatever reason, *paranoid mode* are you trying to get me to quit? *cough* anyway, since you're down there practically genuflecting, do me a solid: take a good look around cause i expect you'll discover a nosering or three and i wannem back ASAP. nope, no reward, so quit crawling and wouldja forget about my fucking feet, awreddy? the only 'reward' i'm inclined to give is even more of my precious time working for you. *to self* FFS, these past few days dealing with him have been a total revelation as to his character and going by similar shit in past, i just might be jobless soon, goddammit to hell. hmmpf...


BTW, yes— there IS more than a superficial difference between above and this:


posted last week, a difference not only in wordyness but in sentiment. big thanks to those who mailed, questioning me about what the gun was meant for. LOL, to quote the Very Reverend D Wayne Love again, 'I ain't doin' it'.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

slashed wrists

LOL, how many thought this'd be about suicide or Death or whatever? i hope no one was thinking i'd actually transcribe my true thoughts about wrist-slitting here? hah! are y'all insane? anyway, this next set me off and it's here with apologies to Alan Moore (she said grudgingly):

'Sunrise over Bristol. The rains have stopped. Clouds like plugs of bloodied cotton wool dab ineffectually at the slashed wrists of the sky...'

last night, as i procrast- reread Alan in an old issue of Swamp Thing, it set me off, sent me back to first reading that sentence in NYC, i thought he'd made it all up in a poetic licence kinda way cause we only get one-color skies back there and at sunrise, if we're lucky, we get orange at one end gradually blending into blue on the other (if we're lucky). so naturally, being from Brooklyn, i called 'bullshit' until i saw skies like Alan described after moving here, saw em up close and personal for the first time EVar.






plugs of bloodied cotton wool clouds weren't as ineffectual as Alan assumed cause they seemed to have staunched the bleeding, going from this last gasp:


editor's note: nope, no time to see if this makes sense cause i'm desperate to meet my quota and i'm also behind deadline (for once). which reminds me, here's my message to boss-dude (after i received the first complaint about my work, EVar):


Abnormal Psyche's my field, dude. YOU do the reading before you dare criticise my judgment (and check out those citations i sent — i expect a full apology ASAP). LOL, the nerve.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

WTF? a DEATH QUEEN?

my recent writty on Death and dying apparently hit a nerve or sump'n *shrugs* cause people crawled out of the proverbial woodwork. to those who called me any variation of 'crazy' for even thinking about such things (and more so for posting em here), first of all, Thank You and secondly, i'm totally used to it (iz stawree of mai lief, akshually). *cough* anyway, this is my place, so *giggle* my roolz. :-)

thing of it is, i don't care if anyone reads this as opposed to how i feel about those who might wanna get into my old notebooks and diaries or whatever in meatspace. well, in truth, the only books i'm pleased to show em are my Film Journals and my Lucid Dreams Looseleaf, all of which have detailed illos that i totally enjoyed drawing. jesus, i once had things like 'concentration' and stuff... *sigh*

anyway, the Dreams book is a three-inch thick, maroon vinyl-covered, triple-ringed notebook covering 1997 to early 2000 and filled with content brought to me (sometimes five or six times a night) by the good folks at Wyeth Labs who produced Effexor. *giggle* damn, those dreams were totally amazing... anyway, prior link lists Vivid/Abnormal Dreams as a side effect for only 3-7% of Effexor users. *gazes off* fun-fact i just remembered: the first comment i ever left on the 'Net was on a forum devoted to Effexor. yup, that'll be on the test so make a memorandum of it.

*snaps to* anyway, at this point in time, my writty has to be like, here cause twelve years at home on the 'Net have totally ruined my formerly too-large scrawly but legible handwriting. hmmm... i could always fire up Neo-Office and use .docs or whatever and stash em in a folder somewhere, but that'd go against the first law of attention-whoring and holy hell, we can't have that.

right, my mail: there were a few rays of *smirk* sunshine (so to speak), one of which went:

'...all the great writers and philosophers have written about death ... which puts you in great company...'

O RLY? betcha none of em had what i have. well, apart from the ability to post yet another photo of myself.


but thank you for saying, um... Nameless One. why is s/he nameless? cause of this ps — 'Please don't put my name on your site' — LOL, don't worry, you're safe from the noxious taint of SG; your reputation's intact and you can thank me later, O Nameless One. anyway, i got more commentary but there was one mail in particular i thought verily worth sharing from — um... let's call her Suzanne after the dog-felching toerag who demanded to be guestlisted — plus 1! — when Alabama 3 were in town, then after the gig, never spoke to me again. as well, she took off with a cherished book i so stupidly lent her and totally ignored my mails and texts, the last of which went sump'n like 'Rock Freebase wants to thank you for permitting him the honor of guestlisting you both last weekend'.

wait, what am i talking about? i'm so all over the place... LOL, for a change. anyway, i didn't think much of it at the time but when last i saw her, it was after the gig when we were waiting for Freebase outside. her BF looked a bit paler (and more insignificant) than usual, which i chalked up to all the booze. it didn't strike me then but thinking on it now, he appeared shocked, shaken, stirred and sullen when i asked em to come along to the Afterparty with us.

looking back, she and i'd talked about him way before the gig in reference to the 'problem' (her word) he might cause since she'd already signed on to see the band before she met him. anyway, she didn't strike me as a dummy and before Damaged Dude, we'd even gotten close enough to have dinner out with Chris one night when he was visiting me here in Bristol. whoa... i'm way the hell off-topic. anyway, i'd assumed she had the brains to prep him for what was IMO their Best. Bristol. Gig. EVar.

moving right along back to present time and the mail in question, her situation's similar to others with whom i've talked lately, like there's a relative or friend living under a death sentence with X weeks or months to live... so sad, so depressing *remembers massive Sloan Kettering Hospital fuck-up in 1982* anyway, before i get angrier, take it away, 'Suzanne':

'He's in a lot of pain, poor guy, and while his wife was on the phone, he whispered to me that he wanted to shoot himself. He has a gun and a place he goes to across the railroad tracks where he sits and drinks beer in the woods.

'Well, he said to me that he'd told the nurse he was going to commit suicide (he should NEVER have told her) and now they want him to go to counselling or something ... it made me angry, like you're not even supposed to consider suicide EVEN IF YOU'RE IN PAIN AND DYING OF CANCER!

'So he told me all this (wife was still on the phone). What could I say? Telling someone like me, of all people — me: who's been thinking about things like Quentin Crisp's Ministry of Death and the concept of the Instant Death Booth, it seems I've been thinking about suchlike forever. Anyway, I wanted to say "GO RIGHT AHEAD". Instead I said, "I wouldn't blame you at all if you did, I can really understand if you did decide to do that, especially since you're in so much pain"...

'...It's something that's not talked about in America... Euthanasia, I mean... Later on, his wife confided the nurse had told her about it and now she's worried he might take the gun with him next time he crosses the tracks...

'...Just wondering what you would say if someone was seriously thinking of killing themselves — even religiously speaking (not that they're religious) ... It's NOT a sin to kill yourself when you're in horrendous pain — what would be your advice to him if you were me, O DEATH QUEEN!?!'


'Death Queen'? Death Queen?!? *preens* LOL, you want my advice? *snigger* oops, soz... *cough* in all seriousity, i imagine if i were in a relationship with someone living under a death sentence, i'd wanna help him out of his pain instead of prolonging his life so i could have him longer. like after i learnt Petey had jaw cancer, the vet said i could keep him alive for a month or three or put him to sleep. though it destroyed me inside, after three weeks of my beloved kitty becoming more and more listless, as if he could feel my vibe, the morning came when he wouldn't eat and that was that — i cuddled him whilst crying to the vet, Chris came home from work, the vet came over and Peter was no more. *sigh*


oh wow, it's Death ADD cause i just remembered this Winston Churchill quote: 'I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter'.

yup, exactly how i feel as long as there even is a maker, sump'n i've doubted for almost as long as i've drawn breath. *looks off dreamily* was gonna say sump'n about an oasis in the non-stop series of self-inflated ego-driven drivel of details or whatever... wait — a river of details? drivel of details... my memory is teh suck... LOL, but 'It's the little details...' — it's an Aspie thing (i think). wait. holey hell, where is this train going? this is worse than drinkin' & dialin', this is typing-faster-than-thinking and the censor's on holiday. hmmpf... if i had my way, that's all i'd talk about actually cause i'm the thing i know best. i'm the only one who knows All About Me. *snigger* oh, shit! 'Did I say that out loud?'

notice how much room i took up above going on and on about nothing, all to meet my daily quota, haha... oh, i'm so clever, all for an extra 177 words not counting this sentence. *cough* anyway, back to That Question, in order to return a proper answer, the best advice i could offer, i asked for more information; some personal questions, stuff about the dude's religious beliefs and whether or not he believed in heaven and hell.


or if he was a 'hell on Earth' kinda guy. and i hadda find out what his thoughts were on fairytales, specifically that lackwit they call god and if so, was his god a forgiving, loving god or a vengeful one.


y'know, crucial stuff i needed to know so i could kinda get the lay of this guy's mental land, like, before i offered up my opinion. and that's where it stands... stay tuned (i guess) for my answer if 'Suzanne' (LOL, you dog-felching thief) gets back to me.

in other news, i was totally april fool'd when i came across this and posted it on Twitter, thus putting 'paid' to those who were still undecided about what a dumbass i am. but amazingly, i engaged a real geek to tawk to me... two, actually: him, as well. *preens* LOL, y'all don't have to say it — but i shall anyway: it doesn't take much. ;-)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *