I had Blueberry Boat on and as is my depleted habit fought against falling asleep as if it was to invite molestation from this great lumbering axeman I found myself in grubby subterranean proximity.
Can't people get the hang of standing upright in my presence. Not blocking the exits. Not stinking the place up. Not oppressing me with their mere clumsy presence.
I didn't understand a word of it but it kept on from 2 through 1 to 2 everchanging and match mirroring my oxygen deprived zone. Seasick music. CA in the Metro whose opinion I value (hers not it), thought it was a ghastly mess. She's right from one view but I'm embracing that mess. Roping myself to the deck and swallowing some sea water, but I'm riding the storm.
It's not some I Must Learn to Enjoy This ordeal, it's a trip.
Man.
On TV just now an hour ago, there was a snatch if you will permit of Hylda Baker and Arthur Mullard's You're The One That I Want, almost certainly the greatest record ever made and in many ways although I can't think of them, a more radical statement of trouser-loosening contempt than the Sex Pistols whose over-familiar story was on BBC Three earlier. They don't get the credit they deserve, Hylda and Arthur.
And you know why. They never asked for it. Never compromised by recording something as bourgeois as an album. Got in, and got out again, and waited till they were 75 to do it.
News just in: Rick Wakeman claims he didn't try and wreck the Sex Pistols' career but that lies about what he'd supposedly said ruined his (although he seems to be doing okay).
That's nice, I found out that the theme tune to Nighty Night is Ennio Morricone, from a film called My Name is Nobody. The wistful recorder and frog pool chorus.
I wish my shoulder didn't hurt so much. I won't even mention my FACE. I wish there were 36 hours in a day and 33 of them were mine (you can have the other three). I wish I could have sex more than twice a day. I wish I didn't feel so pleased-stroke-worried that I've acquired six extra days' holiday from work.
I went for a walk...
Can't people get the hang of standing upright in my presence. Not blocking the exits. Not stinking the place up. Not oppressing me with their mere clumsy presence.
I didn't understand a word of it but it kept on from 2 through 1 to 2 everchanging and match mirroring my oxygen deprived zone. Seasick music. CA in the Metro whose opinion I value (hers not it), thought it was a ghastly mess. She's right from one view but I'm embracing that mess. Roping myself to the deck and swallowing some sea water, but I'm riding the storm.
It's not some I Must Learn to Enjoy This ordeal, it's a trip.
Man.
On TV just now an hour ago, there was a snatch if you will permit of Hylda Baker and Arthur Mullard's You're The One That I Want, almost certainly the greatest record ever made and in many ways although I can't think of them, a more radical statement of trouser-loosening contempt than the Sex Pistols whose over-familiar story was on BBC Three earlier. They don't get the credit they deserve, Hylda and Arthur.
And you know why. They never asked for it. Never compromised by recording something as bourgeois as an album. Got in, and got out again, and waited till they were 75 to do it.
News just in: Rick Wakeman claims he didn't try and wreck the Sex Pistols' career but that lies about what he'd supposedly said ruined his (although he seems to be doing okay).
That's nice, I found out that the theme tune to Nighty Night is Ennio Morricone, from a film called My Name is Nobody. The wistful recorder and frog pool chorus.
I wish my shoulder didn't hurt so much. I won't even mention my FACE. I wish there were 36 hours in a day and 33 of them were mine (you can have the other three). I wish I could have sex more than twice a day. I wish I didn't feel so pleased-stroke-worried that I've acquired six extra days' holiday from work.
I went for a walk...
posted by joe k 11:04 PM
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