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Got them all home. First words in the airport. Very loudly. DAAAAD, WHY HAVEN'T YOU SHAVED???!!!! You've got BROWN STUFF all over your face!!!!!! It's all around your mouth too. DAAAAAAAD you look HORRIBLE!!!! Ewwww no, you can't kiss me until you shave. YUUUK! Kate then proceeded not to let me out of her sight for a day or so, pulling me around the shops by my jersey. She had to be carried most places, until my arms were ready to drop off.
No official gigs this week, cause I was supposed to be in Aussie. But I'll go along on Thursday to play anyway. Unpaid. That, let me assure you, is VERY rare. One has a certain professional pride. But it's one of my regular gigs, it's fun, and I might as well go.
I heard a rumour that Tessa and Luna will be coming to Chicago too, for the party. And Jeff and Kim. And Alex. Is this all correct? Am I just dreaming here? This is all so very very cool. What a party! Why Luna though? Not that I have any objection of course, but I don't think I've ever exchanged two words with her, in game or out. Maybe she just lusts after Shep the man. If she turns up in a wolly jacket I'll know that's the real reason. Actually, I should do a Chuck here, i.e., a Chuck Pierce. I have no idea who the fuck this moron is, but he leaves comments on peoples' diaries. Badly spelled, and barely literate. Not on mine, I add with relief. I can do without that. Anyway, his comment on the Texas gathering was typical. To paraphrase (with corrected spelling) "Ooooooorrrrr.... I never knew computer geek girls were such hot babes. Ooooorrrr.... that Luna is one sexy chick... Ooooooorrrr I'd fuck her. And Conny too. Oooooooorrrrrr. I'm sexist tonight aren't I? Well too bad that's just the way it is, and if you hot babes wear sexy clothes you gotta expect what's coming to you. Oooooorrrrr.."
Yup. That's Chuck. Gotta love 'im.
I vowed not to roleplay any more in this diary, so I have to tell the real boring truth about myself. Well.. today was boring. I did nothing very interesting. Well, except chat to people online, which is always fun. Practising my flirting skills for when I finally meet Lupe. Woops. That's me roleplaying again. I'll be much too scared of Lupe to look her in the eye, far less flirt at all. I mowed some lawns. Did some work. Went to the library. Watched a bit of a terrible movie. Damn... it's so hard to tell the boring truth about myself. Humiliating.
I went to morning tea today, and stood chatting with the two head honchos around here. On my best behaviour. Ah, time for tea I think to myself. What a good plan. Tally Ho. So I made myself some tea, mind thinking of other things entirely, in outer space. Woops. Hand slipped. Tea goes *everywhere*. All over the bench, all over their papers, all over their mail, down the side, all over the floor, all over their shoes. Etc. I think you get the picture. My instinctive reaction didn't help. I stamped my foot and yelled out " SHIT I AM SUCH A FUCKING IDIOT!"
Silence fell in the tea-room. People looked. I blushed.
Aha. So the mystery of Luna is explained. But Richard is Drenn.....? I can never remember RL names. Well, except for mine. And a big thank you to Shepherd. A *really* big thank you. In fact, I am *sooooo* fucking impressed with his help here. No, really.
In line with my current policy of no role-playing on my diary, I have to say, again, that I have done nothing interesting at all. Yesterday or today. I tried to write a new tune last night, but it didn't go well. So I gave up and tried to watch a little bit of Sex in the City (with M) but I found it so FUCKING AWFUL I just couldn't watch it. I mean, it wasn't just bad, it was horrendous. Absolutely horrendous. Trite. Shallow. Pretentious. Badly acted. Not funny at all. And not just because I'm male either, so don't try that old line of "you wouldn't understand anti-penis jokes because they are a threat to your ego, and it's really a great TV show". I mean, pathetic is pathetic, and trite is trite, and only a fucking moron would think that program was anything else. Yeah, right. Don't get me riled here. Just thinking about it brings on the old red face again.
And Ally fucking McBeal. Used to be funny, but then started to take themselves seriously. Started to believe we actually give a damn about the characters, rather than just wanting to be entertained by a funny, silly, show. Started to get all emotional and deep. Holy shit. Fucking awful stuff. Well... every so often it's watchable, but usually it's not. And bloody hell, why the fuck doesn't she EAT something???!!!! Does she really imagine that anorexia is attractive? She is one sick puppy. And that awful blond ditz who croons those awful fucking songs, and all those awful people trying to dance to them, and this sick puppy McBeal jigging around waggling her bones, clearly believing that we actuallly want to see her try to dance even though she has no fucking clue, and is so fucking thin anyway that she looks about to collapse. I'm beginning to hate that program. No.. wait.. I think I already do.
Skipped rehearsal last night. Naughty boy. Gig tonight. Freebie. Practice on Saturday night. Possible new band. The neighbours have been warned, and the sound system is waiting. Since the hotel fiasco I have heard nothing from Peter. I imagine he is so pissed at me that'll we'll never play together again. Or they've replaced me, and taken the gig anyway. *sigh*.
No role-playing. But I did have a gig last night. And I did have a fight with Maggie. And she did really piss me off. And so I did get really drunk. Hell, I wasn't getting paid, so it didn't matter if I got too shitfaced to play. Which I did. The blonde with the tattooed breast turned up again and gave the band the eye. So I flirted with her. Well, actually, I didn't flirt with her really. (No role playing now). We just chatted. And when the perfect opportunity arose to be my usual charming self, I restrained myself. Just wasn't in the mood, I guess, to declare my undying passion for her, and to laud her beauty. I was thinking of other things. Not to mention that I am totally uninterested in her, and her in me. And that is God's own truth. But Lee and I did ogle the new waitress. From north Wales. Young. Kinda cute, but Lee went a bit overboard. You'd have to hate to be a barmaid. Every time you bend over to pick something up, or get a glass, you'd be able to hear an audible intake of breath as every single old, balding, ugly, stupid male propping up the bar sucks in his breath in a frenzy of sexual excitement. Lee was just this bad, if not worse.
We discussed infidelity. An enlightening conversation. It is a difficult topic to talk about. It arouses terrific emotion, good and bad. Lee is actually a pretty intelligent kind of guy. Bit like me, really. Totally full of shit, but when the chips are down, he'll think harder about what he's doing. Won't always stop him, but at least he thinks about it first.
I went for a walk on the beach last night. Low tide, dusk falling. Still, calm water. I know that people who are 87 years old are not allowed to feel romantic, but a beach at dusk will do it for me every time. I stood in the water, and looked out to sea, little waves sloshing up the beach, moonlight in a broad band pointing to the east, the silhouettes of the islands out in the distance. Nobody else there (except three kids running around, and M along the other end, by the rock pools). Very powerful. At least for me. I have to say that the sight of a still, warm sea at dusk, is incredibly erotic. Like you really wanted to hear that. You didn't? Go to hell. You don't like it, don't read my diary.
So who the fuck is Big Daddy? Some wishful thinker? Some guy with a thing for underwear?
Isn't that always just the bloody way? The day that I *really* want to send email, I mean *really* want to send it, I can't because the fucking server is down. Grrrrr....... that is soooooooo frustrating. And the fact that I don't send it might be so terribly misinterpreted. Ack.....it makes me want to scream.
Will my sister show up today and want to go sailing? I hope so. Will she bring her four horrible children? I mean her lovely children (no role playing)? I do hope so. At least she got herself a decent boyfriend and lost the loser husband. Husband is a real twat. Didn't like him then, don't like him now. Total fucking loser. Treated her like shit. You know..... for a modern woman, my sister took a pile of shit from her husband. It's funny isn't it? My sisters are all sooooo fucking equal you wouldn't believe. But they tend to be attracted to very weak men. Don't do anything, don't get a job, don't help at all, whine like a fucking turbine, bitch about everything, and then complain about her looks. I could have killed the bastard. She supported him for years, financially, emotionally, everythingly. Drove herself into the ground. Finally, finally, finally she left him. Took the kids, left him. About bloody time.
Great philosophical discussion on Johnny's blog. Religion tends to bring that out in people. Morals, ethics, etc etc. All very wicky stickets. Which is a very unusual expression for an American to use I must say, knowing, as they do, absolutely nothing about cricket. Does Johnny P even know the expression comes from cricket? I doubt it. But NZ beat England in the latest match, to square the series. How exciting.
My wife made me get my hair cut. I hate that. I hate having short hair. It looks respectable. Clean-cut. Tidy. Like a fucking army boy. My wife loves it. Oh... you're so handsome she says. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you are so full of shit, I say. I'd rather have my hair all over the place, sticking out at all angles, looking ridiculous. Because then nobody can look at me and think "well, he's trying to look reasonable, but no way, he's just an ugly bastard and it's ridiculous that he even tries." But if my hair is a mess then they can think "well, he's an ugly bastard alright, but it doesn't look like he gives a fuck". Yeah. (This is not role playing.) It's all in the image, isn't it? Anyway, long hair goes well with the clothes I wear, which are top fashion for a certain look. But I have refused to shave off my beard, no matter the long, loud and bitter complaints from the gallery. After all, first impressions are *sooooo* important, and it would kill me if anyone got the first impression that I was sharply dressed, smooth looker. I doubt I need to worry.
Perkusi and others ganged up on me on HL. I was outnumbered, outgunned, surrounded, and in dire trouble. Fortunately, SG came to my rescue and said something that should go down in the historical annals. I forgot to take a screen shot, and I forget what it was she said now, but it wasn't really really rude. Gotta be a first, that. (OK, that was role playing. To be honest, SG is usually very nice to me on HL. OK, I admit it. *sigh*) It looks like a number of persons are girding their loins to take shots at me in Chicago. To beat my ego down. To put the Pope in his place. I relish the challenge. This is not role playing.
A long weekend, but a good one. Blues band on Saturday night. Not a gig, just a rehearsal. Really really really loud. Yes! Slide blues, Jethro Tull, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Howlin Wolf, lot of 12 bar, etc. Great rhythm section. Heavy. Strong. Woo Hooo...! That band could work if we get our act together. Smoked more dope than I have for yonks, but then I had to drive home. Almost got caught by the cops. I was wondering whether or not dope shows up on their wee breathalyser thingies. If it does, I will have to be more careful. That could be a real bloody disaster, that could. Lose my job probably. Maybe. I'm not really sure. And it's a very bad thing to do in any case... but one gets excited.... one can't resist smoking a bit more... one can't resist that extra glass of wine.... and then suddenly... time to go. Fuck.
Wedding last night. With the Irish band. Hmmmm.... a bit boring. Lee surpassed himself.
The scene: two musicians standing by a table guzzling wine and eating brie cheese on crackers and wedding cake.
Muso 1: "Check out that waitress, dude.
(Pause)
Muso 2: "Uh Huh"
(Pause)
Muso 1: "That is one sexy arse. Woo boy. Very very nice. Yeah." *pant, pant*.
(Pause)
Muso 2: "Er, yeah. Right. She has nice hair too"
(Pause.)
(A short companionable silence.)
Muso 1: Not so good to lick though.
(Pause)
Muso 2: "Er... yeah"
Had to drive right out to fucking Beachlands, to a fancy-arse Country Club. Took a whole bloody hour. Hate that. Then home again in the dark, in the wind, in the pouring rain, along those little windy country roads...ugh.
I even played a little Clan Lord recently. Sleipy took a tour of people to the Abyss. You'd think that nobody would be stupid enough to believe him, wouldn't you, and would avoid a Sleipy tour like the plague. But no..... just a few sunstones and there were a whole bunch of exiles lined up ready to go. Amazing. The Txara Serene Abyss Tour. That is to say, not the tour of Txara Serene's Abyss. No. The other way around. Ahem. We all fell fairly quickly, surprisingly enough.
And just today Sleipy went along to Kismia's Island for the first time ever. He wasn't going to at first, but Vagile persuaded him. The thing that clinched it was the thought that, with Vagile there, I wouldn't be the only hopeless and confused person. Well, I probably was anyway, but I can try to kid myself. It seems that I didn't shame Baba too very very much. Tove is still speaking to me. And it was quite fun in a way. Maybe I'll try it again in 2003.
Last night (while the router was down) I could actually get on CL. Only 9 or so in the game. I joined some persons at the rocky cavern. Who kills snakes? asks Thwack. I do, says the Knight. Who kills arachne? asks Thwark. I do, says the Knight. I also kill vermin, says the Knight. And rats. So Thwack, the dear, starting bricking every single arachne, every single vermin, every single snake, even the rats, for the Knight to hit. Wasn't that sweet of him?! I eventually took pity on him and explained that he really shouldn't listen to the Knight so much. Anyway, by that time I was tired of having to kill every single little thing in the cave.
At the gig last night, tattooed breast brings along her friend Nicki (and a gaggle of other ladies). "Hullo Nicki" says I. Loudly. Over the mic. "I just love your dancing, it is the greatest dancing I have ever seen, really thrilling, exciting, stimulating, erotic and all those good things" "You're not getting my phone number", yells out Nicki. "It's not your *phone number* I'm after" say I. Ahem. Blushes all around. "So you're Nicki, who are your friends? I can see a Dorothy there. You're not in Kansas now Dorothy. And a wicked witch of the west. And a cowardly lion, yes, that's you sir, sorry, and who wants to be the tin man? Right. OK. Who can I be?" "You're Toto" screams the tattooed breast. "Does that mean I get to lick you all over?" I ask. "Ask my husband", replies tattooed breast, indicating a huge, muscle-bound, aggressive-looking chap standing beside her. "Bullshit", think I, "No fucking way". Muscles just grins happily, sure he's gonna score tonight. "Woops", say I, "Does this mean no licking?" "Down, Tiger, down", yells Nicki.
This, gentle readers, is a typical conversation. Band ribs the dancers. Dancers rib the band. This, gentle readers, is called harmless flirting. This, gentle readers, is NOT hitting on someone. You see, this is now a sensitive issue as I was recently accused of hitting on ladies at all my gigs. And it's just not true, it really isn't. Yeah, yeah, I make a big song and dance about it here, just for fun, but this is now a no-role-playing diary, so the naked truth appears. If any lady actually took me seriously and tried to drag me off to bed I'd probably die of embarrassment. Well.. maybe not quite die, but it happens every year or so, and it *is* embarrassing when it happens. It really is. Because, by and large, I'm just not interested. And, of course, by and large they are just not interested in me either.
How do I hit on a lady for real? Yeah, it happens every so often. Not so often now, of course. Not for 60 years or so. But it's not by yelling obscene things at her over a dance floor, or even by pretending to be violently in love with her and kissing her hand. I just sit and listen. Get her to talk about herself. And watch her eyes. That is how *I* hit on ladies. And I don't do it at gigs. So there.
OK, time for a lecture on bar dynamics. Bars across the world all have different dynamics, different patterns. And the more you know about them, the better job you do entertaining in them. Here are the NZ ground rules.
1. Diners don't like live music, unless it's really really really quiet. Fuck them.
2. Males come to bars to get pissed, eye up ladies, and try to score. They don't give a fuck about the music. Fuck them. No wait... don't think I will.
3. Females come to bars to party with their friends. Usually they are not looking to get laid, and they find male attention irritating as often as not.
4. If you can't get the females to stay, the bar will be empty by 10.30. If you can get the females staying, the males will stick around, and the bar will be packed.
5. It's best if the females are dancing.
6. So, if you want a successful night, it's *crucial* that you provide an environment that attracts females, gets them up dancing, and gets them to stay. This is hard to do.
7. One might think that being ribbed by the band would scare females away. Sometimes this happens. Usually it doesn't. Usually they seem to appreciate it.
8. So. PAY ATTENTION to the females. Flatter them. Joke with them. Ignore the males (unless they have a female partner, in which case be very nice to both of them). But DON'T go too far, and NEVER be slimy. This will scare females away as quick as anything. This is a hard call. One woman's slimy is another woman's charming. You make mistakes. Shit happens. Hey, we're only human.
It's a hard bloody job, I tell you.
Time for the first installment of...... TA DA TA DAAAAAA BLOG REVIEWS. Brought to you by Pope Sleipnir. That's me. Why Blog Reviews? Because blogs are usually the perfect examples of human frailty, ripe for all kinds of malicious humour. They are the raw material for the Mr. Bennetts of our world, those of us who are richly amused by the follies and vagaries of our neighbours. And equally amused by our own follies, let me add. We Mr. Bennetts are non-discriminatory in poking fun.
Our first random selection from blogger.com is What the Shit?, , a blog written by a group of youthful persons, and an excellent example of why we older people all now cringe at the fact that we used to be young once. With age cometh the realisation that young people are, by and large, a bunch of total fucking idiots. Brainless, moronic, immature, uninteresting, pointless, and should be exterminated. By young, I mean anyone under the age of 30. The world would be a far far better place without such blog posts as (and I quote verbatim).. "uhhh". Or possibly the priceless "Ha haha ha Greg has finals!!!!!! Ha HA!"
Now, don't get me wrong. Young people are not *necessarily* moronic. Just because they usually are doesn't mean that it is an unvarying fact of life. Some, for instance, are quiet and say nothing. This is good. Some are reasonably intelligent and respect the aged in our community. This also is good. But those of the young who can say things like (and again I quote verbatim) "thanx dude", and mean it seriously, are to equated rather with the cockroaches of this earth. Maybe lower. And should be squashed whenever possible.
And on that happy note, I bid ye all adieu, leaving you with one last verbatim quote from the lucky first selected blog. "I say excellent. (x-sell-int)". Thank you for sharing that thought, Robbie Pat.
Tune in next week for the next episode of BLOG REVIEWS.
A dull weekend. I can't even make up any exciting stories to tell here, cause that would be role-playing. Oh, except for the Bulgarians. Dinner with them on Saturday night. This is my PhD student, the one of the famous racist comment, and her husband and child. Bulgarians. Apparently they always start with salads. And LOTS of vodka. Or rakaia, which is what they drink in Bulgaria mostly. So... we ate salads. And more salads. And drank vodka. Lots of vodka. Some indeterminate time later we had lamb and rice. And red wine. And more vodka. And white wine. Then cheesecake and more wine. Holy shit. I hiccuped in the car all the way home. Sarah said "Why are you hiccuping Dad? You sound like you're drunk." "Well, Sarah", said I, "I am. Just a little bit". "Oh", said Sarah. I don't think she approved.
I have trouble with vodka. The last time I drank it in quantity was over dinner with a certain lady called Caroline. Ouch. Nasty. This was some years ago. We both got rather drunk, and she behaved in what turned out to be a particularly cruel way. I cannot now drink vodka without thinking of that night. It makes me wince. It has ruined vodka for me. Totally.
We drove around the Waitakeres yesterday. Lovely scenery. But I fucking hate driving. I hate it. I'm a terrible driver, too. I think of other things, drive too slowly, etc etc. So I spent the whole time in a foul temper. And then we almost ran out of gas going over the Piha hill. Shit. Nasty place to get stuck, that. But Piha beach is lovely. Big surf. People drown there often. Last one was a 12 year old girl, over Xmas. Rip got her. Out to sea. Nasty. People just don't learn, don't listen. Don't swim without flippers. Don't swim if you are too young, or too old, or not a very strong swimmer. Always swim between the flags. But people think they can handle it, think they are better than they really are, don't understand the dangers. And so they die in droves, every year. Nasty. And Piha is one of the worst. As I said.. a big surf... lots of rocks... strong rips.
Once again nothing interesting to report. A dull life I lead, no matter what Polerand thinks. That rogue sent me a wonderful email, claiming that my present dull presentation is due entirely to political reasons. Me protecting my arse so to speak. Well, his was not the first complaint about how my protestations of good behaviour are not believed. Pfft. What can I do? If I make up interesting stories about what I do then some complain about the total absence of truth, while if I just tell the dull reality, others complain about my hypocrisy for not telling the juicy details. It's a harsh and cold world we live in, isn't it?
Quite frankly, even if I *was* doing anything particularly juicy I wouldn't write about it here. I ain't *that* dumb.
Well. Dull is dull, and I have been dull recently. Gig last night was not good. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe it was because Johnny Boy fucked up badly, I yelled at him, he got all resentful, so I had to apologise. Mind you, he *did* fuck up. Just play the guitar, mate, play the right chords, play in time, and don't pretend you're strumming a fucking daffodil. It ain't rocket science. No, no... I really like Johnny Boy. And I enjoy his band. Just every so often.....I lose patience and explode.
Marital troubles raise their ugly head and then subside again. My patience is less, recently. Lack of sleep, too much work, too many gigs. Too busy. Too many demands on me. I feel stretched. Maybe it's the One Ring affecting me. The Red Quill server melts and we lose everything. To top it all I started riding my bike again, whereupon I promptly aggravated an old injury, my body packed up in a number of places, and I was wincing for fucking days. Still am. I think that my body is trying to tell me; don't ride your fucking bike, mate. Sometimes... just sometimes... I really hate being 87. I would rather be young and handsome. I really would.
I need a name for a blues band. Suggestions please.
I have been outed. By Polerand, no less. He has amazing acuity for one so young, for one so insane. His powers of perception are extraordinary, unbelievable, amazing. He is absolutely right that all my talk about cycling injuries is just so much twaddle, so much bullshit. He knows that a different story lies beneath. Ack. I have been outed.
So, here is the *real* story.
Picture, if you will, a nerd sitting at his desk. Feet up on the desk.... a cup of hot tea in his left hand... having wild and passionate phone sex with a beautiful, sexy, young, willing and eager human female. Who is this paragon of earthly beauty? (The female I mean, not the nerd. The nerd is actually rather ugly than otherwise.) Well.... let me try to think. It might have been Amanda, but then again, it might not have been. It might have been the other Amanda, the one who was so badly named at birth (she is definitely NOT an Amanda). Again, I doubt it. Perhaps it was Singular? Hmmmm..... Perhaps it was Shepherd, pretending to be Singular? Let us hope not. Perhaps it was Tove? Oh dear, I really don't think I should have said that. Ah well..... Take your pick, gentle reader, for I certainly shall not say.
So...... the phone sex, being hot and passionate, is reaching a climax. A peak of intense excitement. The nerd's trousers are undone, the phone is cradled in his ear, and his right hand is ... well... never mind about that. The breathing is heavy. The hormones are raging. The temperature is rising. Woo Hooo... YES! This is the life for every nerd!
But wait! What is this he hears? A knock on the door? Aha... thinks our nerd... no problem. Door is locked, no sound will get out. They'll just go away again soon. Dumb fuck students. But such was not to be for our hapless hero, for in his haste to indulge in telephonic self-gratification he had not checked to make sure the door was properly closed.
The door, under pressure of the knock, slowly opens to reveal the scene described above.
Oh shit.
Our poor hero, caught in the act, swings round in his chair, desperately trying to hide the rather messy results of his telephone indulgences. Unfortunately, he forgets about the tea in his left hand which, when swung, slops all over his exposed genitals. The tea is still very hot. In an agony of pain the nerd jumps half way out of his chair, his foot slips on the desk, the chair tips right over backwards, and our nerd crashes to the ground, twisting his back. To add insult to injury a tender portion of his anatomy catches on his zipper, and suffers a painful and bloody abrasion. The cup follows him down, emptying the remains of its contents all over his trousers.
The office visitor, who just happens to be the Head of the Institute, stands and looks. The nerd blushes, and doesn't even try to explain.
So, gentle reader, this is the real reason I am hobbling around, with a torn muscle in my back and inflamed, painful, and infected testicles. You asked. I have answered.
I do still have my job.
Pity me, oh gentle reader, pity me, for I have been forced to sing a soppy love song. And, what's more, I fucked it up. Not even on purpose. Dr. Hook I believe. Now, one might think that someone with a name like Dr. Hook would be writing raunchy stuff. Cool. Hip. Non-sappy. But no, not at all. He wrote a disgusting pathetic cringe-inducing vomit-making song called Years from Now. And the Bride and Groom wanted it specially. Sung. For them. To dance to. Fuck. Well, anyway, we tried it on Thursday at the pub, and Johnny Boy fucked it up so badly that I said, no way, I'll sing the fucking thing if you can't do it. He couldn't, so I had to. Oh dear. So try to imagine me.... ME! ... singing a song whose lyrics begin "Years from now... I want you years from now... loving you years from now... like I love you tonight...." Holy fuck. Pity I couldn't just sing the fucking thing years from now too.
At any rate, then or now, I fucked it up too. And then started to giggle. I had this picture in my mind of Tove singing it to me on HL. Oh dear. Then a picture went through my mind of certain other persons seeing this little vignette, which made me giggle even more. Then I forgot the words so made some up. Of course, it being the wedding couple's favourite song, they noticed, and LOOKED at me. Bad, bad, James. More giggles. Finally I gave up and just played a violin solo. That went slightly better. Slightly. The groom had a kilt on and the bride stuck her hands up his kilt and lifted it right up. That's right, nothing on under the kilt. *Nasty*. Stop that I said, no, no no..... we do NOT want to see Gavin's bare arse. Trust me, we don't, keep your hands out of his kilt. So what does the bride do? Pulls down the front of her wedding gown to give me a full frontal view of her breasts instead. I kid you not gentle reader. I couldn't make this stuff up. Which would you rather have she asks. Er.... I say... I'll go for your tits, not his arse. A big cheer all around. The dance goes on. I sing another chorus and (with relief) end it in a dignified manner.
Tove assured me that if I sang this song with feeling, with passion, and with sincerity I was bound to get laid. She said that women go for this kind of thing, you know, the sappy crap. Well... damn... I tried. I felt. I was passionate. I was so fucking sincere you wouldn't believe. And did I get laid? Did I? Huh? Well..... guess. So much for Tove's theory. She doesn't know squat.
I'm still waiting to try out Payphone's approach. Couldn't be any worse. Singular has also promised me a few tips. They are *bound* to be useful.
Lots of interesting new content on red-quill.com. Fuckers. I guess some men pay money for this kind of thing. Weird. I just don't know why. I really don't. Brains are funny things, that's the only explanation I can think of. I mean, you all know how desperate and sexually frustrated I am... but not even *I* would stoop as low as watching Tina's web-cam. Not even I. Well, at least not on a good day. .oO(Hang on... where did I put my new credit card...).
Overheard:
Paul: Watch out, watch out, I have to get to the loo. I'm busting to do poose.
Sarah: Hey Paul, come here quick, there's something really cool on TV.
Paul: Hey, cool, OK
(Paul turns around and runs back to the living room)
Mother: PAUL!!! Go and do poose right now!
Paul: It's OK Mum. I can suck it up
"I don't want to write my essay" moans lazy Kira. "I'll write it for you then", says noble nerd, "but you have to promise to hand it in". "Fine, OK", says lazy Kira, willing to do anything to get out of doing her homework. I couldn't believe it. She agreed. How lazy can you get? She's as bad as the students *I* see every day. Maybe worse. I expect she actually wants a decent job at the end of her degree too. You know, one that is interesting and pays real money. Maybe she hasn't yet worked out the connection between homework now, and good job later. I guess not.
Anyway, so off I went to write it. I'll happily write anything. Just for fun. Just to relax. I love to write. As you can tell by the quantity of bullshit that appears in this diary.
But I got caught. It was about Shakespeare. And I just *love* Shakespeare. His language is just so.... so....well, perfect. So I got sucked into the essay, ended up reading all my favourite bits of Macbeth over again, commiserating with Lear, and laughing along with the Porter. I so desperately wanted to just be rude, obscene, cynical and annoying. I could only be three. Cynical I couldn't manage, as I love the Bard too much. I hate it when that happens. It spoils my image.
Barbie band rehearsal tonight. Hard bloody work. Here's the tape, learn these fifty songs. I mean *learn* them. The riffs, the changes, the road map, the whole fucking lot. Four rehearsals. Bam. Done. OK, nine gigs now. Go, and fuck not up, ye wretched sinners. "Excuse me", say I, "you're not serious. You really expect me to play all these notes? Really?" Brian just looks at me. Barbie just looks at me. Jason just looks at me. Daniel just looks at me. "No fucking way, those riffs are a real fucking bitch to play", say I. Chromatic. Really fast. Synchopated. Barbie looks. Brian looks. Jason looks. Daniel looks. "Oh right, and fuck you all too", I mutter. "Holy shit". I now have three days to learn them. And two of those nights I already have gigs with other bands. Not to mention a real job. I suspect this wretched sinner will just fuck them up.
Blog Reviews. Episode II
Well, in response to huge demand from my reader, I bring you the next installment of BLOG REVIEWS!!! (Organ music please).
This time, in response to some unkind jibes about easy targets, fish in a barrel, etc etc, I have decided to forgo the random nature of my selection and choose a more challenging target. Or one that, at least, appears to be more challenging although (as we shall see) actually isn't.
Where best to start? Nosuch, of course. So I hop on over to the perve's place and have a quick look at the first link or so to another blog. Not allowed to be a CL person. Who should pop up but Doc Searl's Weblog. Aha. A much harder target you would think. Only for five seconds, or however long it takes you to read his entry for Wednesday, April 24th. We start with a pretentious quote from some pretentious wanker called Michael Wolff from the pretentious New York Magazine. How do I know this magazine is a pretentious load of shit? Easy. I used to live there, gentle reader. This is followed by two more links to other pieces no doubt equally wanky and pretentious but I couldn't stomach actually clicking on them to see. Who needs facts to form an opinion? Not me. After all, I don't give a fuck what Joshua says, he doesn't give a fuck about me, so we're pretty much equal.
Move on down a bit. What comes next? Oh dear. He is wearing a "Deep Fun" hat which gets "warm and positive responses". And then he quotes some fuckwit called Bernie who apparently used the phrase "**********(censored)". Quite frankly, fuckwits like Bernie should be shot, not quoted. That's why I didn't.
By now, gentle reader, it is dawning on me that we have yet another fish in a barrel. Not a juvenile one, granted, but a SERIOUS one. So fucking SERIOUS. He takes himself seriously. He takes other twits seriously. He writes seriously. And he clearly loves deep and meaningful economic and political commentaries by wankers. (Is there any other kind? Anybody who writes a political commentary is clearly a fuckwit by definition. I am a great believer in my father's philosophy. NEVER vote young man, says my father. NEVER vote. If you do, the politicians will think you take them seriously. Damn, I love my father.)
OK, move on down. Worse and worse. A discussion of..... printers? Holy shit.
Move on down. Oh dear. An expose of magazines. Including Harpers, whatever the hell that is. One thing though. I know, for sure, that if Doc Searl reads it I'll hate it. Instant magazine evaluation.
I give up. No more Doc Searl's weblog for me.
But wait, maybe I can help him. Maybe I can learn more about him, get to know him, get inside his head, see where he's coming from, take him to therapy, that kind of thing. Maybe I can teach myself not to condemn out of hand but to approach his weblog with a kinder gentler approach, one more consistent with his abused childhood or something. So, let's have a look at About Doc. Bad move, Pope, bad move. Beginning with an attempt at self-deprecatory humour (oh, OK, OK, I admit, the title is kind of funny. OK. I admit it.) he then proceeds to drop a slew of names, all of which I suppose are meant to impress, but entirely fail in my case. What the fuck are The Linux Show, CNET Radio, ZDTV, CNBC, KOMO-TV, KING-TV, and ZDTV? I have no idea, and care even less, leaving aside the fact that by attempting to drop names poor old Doc gives us a wonderful insight into his personality. He probably didn't want to give this insight to someone like me. If he wants to impress with a resume he should label it RESUME. Works for me. Then at least people are expecting the kind of bullshit resumes contain.
Here endeth my second blog review. OK, who's next? Stay tuned, gentle reader.
I tire of continual rudeness. Here are two blogs (?) I like greatly, although do not read often. Tomato Nation and Burningbird. I found them while muddling around looking at random blogs. Mostly a total waste of time, sometimes interesting. I note that Kira finally got some from a nice young Brandeis man. I note that Alex is a TV freak. I wonder if Mary is OK. I laugh at Singular's blog as usual (laugh with, not laugh at, I suppose) and write silly comments in profusion. I laugh at Noam Chopsky and admire the sheer brilliance of the construction. I read Cold and Snowy religiously and think of Le Pen. I marvel at children in the Garden and with Felicity. The usual round of online friends and acquaintances.
I work in the garden. Uprooting palm trees, taking out hedges, getting bitten by mosquitoes. I look out over the sea from the kitchen window and wish I could be out sailing. I organise all my music for the Barbie rehearsal tonight. I don't want to fuck up again, but I probably will. I play the guitar, just to relax, and think of the comment in Tomato Nation in her delightful rant about "sluts". Not a word I ever use, but a fine rant. She makes the remark how women pretend that men don't suck on guitar just so they don't scare men away. I always suspected this. Play the guitar for us, I hear, go on, play the guitar. Oh, you're really good, you really are, even though I know perfectly well I'm not good at all, I suck. Now I know why. They are being kind to me, being gentle with my feelings. Trying not to scare me away. This is kind. Actually, overall that is a wonderful rant. Some time ago I would not have understood it very well.
I mope around the house. I drink tea. And then more tea. I think about all the work I have to do, about all the deadlines coming up, about all the things I would infinitely rather be doing, about .... oh, I think about a lot of things, not all for public consumption. I am not as brave as most bloggers. Or maybe I am. How would I ever know?
I think of Kira's comment, how she writes for herself, not anybody else. I cannot agree more. I write for myself, and yet there is a fundamental inconsistency. If I were really writing just for myself there are many things I would say, many thoughts I would bring out in the open. But I don't. I hide them. Not from myself, no, I'm not that inhibited. But I hide them from my diary. Which means that the readership does have a great effect on the content. Thus, I write for my readers, no matter my protestations to the contrary. I find this annoying. Unsatisfactory. I need to have a diary that nobody reads except myself. But I know that I won't. Or maybe I will. It's not a bad idea.
I am a total fucking idiot. Once again. I fucked up badly and did something really really stupid to someone I respect and like. Something not nice. I am soooooooo embarrassed. I hate comments. I hate them. I hate them. I'll kill the little fuckers. Every single bloody one. Bastards.
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