My new-ish album. Wrote it while I was serving time for ‘indecent public behaviour’. Apparently, describing nudie mags to old blind pensioners is considered “illegal”. I suggested The Old Man & the Sea, but they wouldn’t have a bar of it. They can be quite persuasive; age certainly does not weary them.
Anyhoo, mostly a selection of jazz standards done in the style of Kanye West & Kenny Loggins.
Hmm maybe. Please don’t judge me and my occasional use of public transport…if that is in fact me…which it probably is…maybe.
Found this envelope in a second hand copy of Patrick White’s Voss while travelling through a town called Mogo in NSW sometime in 2008. Most likely used as a bookmark, it’s overall smallness, age (it’s postmarked August 21st 1980) and the fact that at the time, someone would have had to stamp every envelope with the motto “Electricity: Makes Life Easier” is somewhat endearing to me.
—- themanwho once again speaking out of his arse - Today, 3:34pm.
(An out-of-the-blue phone call)
Penny: Albert Hammond is my spirit animal.
Henry: Jnr. or Snr.?
P: Why, Snr., of course. The baby Hammond is too curly for my liking.
H: Got some interesting tunes. Nice voice, though.
P: I’m sure he does, but his old man does it for me everytime. Mmm. Hello darling.
H: Hello Pen.
P: It’s truly been too long, pet. Where have you been all my life?
H: Here. And there. But mostly everywhere.
P: I have missed you. Started to think this prolonged absence may have had something to do with something I said.
H: No. Nothing scandalous like that. Just been…out of sorts.
P: Lovely to hear your voice again. You sound different. Can’t quite put my finger on it.
H: That’s what she said.
P: You are terrible.
H: Bless you.
Found these mystical looking balls in a garage sale somewhere near Greenslopes. The old woman who sold them to me said that not only were they magical but if you roll them around in your hands, they increase hand strength and co-ordination. She just wanted my money.
—A newly married work acquaintance explaining his joy about his recent union over lunch - Yesterday, 12:45 pm.
Found it on a bus a few years ago, somewhere in West End. Appears to be a stamp of some kind. Never used it. Thought about it, though.
A couple o’years ago, when the great George Harrison passed away, Jim James from My Morning Jacket released an EP called Yim Yames - Tribute To. It’s this ethereal collection of Harrison songs and it just so happens that he covered what I consider to be the quiet Beatles finest song, which is a divisive thing to say when everything he produced was perfection.
So…
That’s usually how I seem to start a lot of my conversations these days. Bad habit, that. And now it appears to have infiltrated the limited output of turgid writing that I seem to be conjuring up every now and then too.
Where have all the stories gone? All the wonder has vanished and I’m left only with a sense of quiet distrust for my ability to write.
Who the fuck is to blame?
Why society, of course. But that’s too easy of a target. Probably Adventure Time, if not the invention of the double-chocolate covered Tim-Tam. I am surrounded by distractions or so I’ve led myself to believe.
Most would just chalk it up to being a lazy shit with diminished inhibitions. They’re probably right, but who gives a solid fuck about them?
So…I seem to be prattling on again. Didn’t mean too. Just needed an outlet, of sorts.
Oh, I had a dream recently where Robert Smith saved me from a house fire. So…there.
I miss these Shins. James Mercer needs a slap, though.
Bumps in the road let my body know I’m traveling. To where at this juncture, remains to be seen. Definitely not awake by any standards, but I know when I’ve been hurting. Semi-coherent noises start to reach me from the ether; the radio, expletives from the front seat and the constant pounding sounds of a horn tuned like a banshee from hell.
My good eye flickers and the world comes into view. A cab, of course. The driver is yelling at me in a language uncommon to my ears. He seems pissed nonetheless. Keeps gesturing to something on my front, while attempting to drive like a rational being. I look down at the bloody mess below my neck. Stabbed? On a Tuesday night. It’s deep. I feel an uneasy tickle from my spine. Could be shock, could be giddiness, probably both.
My red mess has found it’s way onto my hands, the door and the already putrid seat. Not in good shape. I ask him to calm the fuck down, to no avail. He will not hear a word of it tonight. No, not tonight. At least he could change the station.
We continue to weave through the night via the congested streets. A smoke…eureka! The cure to all life’s ills. I fumble for my pocket, the fingers tremble as does my resolve. The blood has turned black. Here comes the bile and alas, no smokes for me. Not a single one. Night is ruined.
“St James Infirmary, my good man”.
My head slumps back onto the headrest. My eyes stare out. My, the night sky looks cluttered tonight.
Bullshit.
Still alive in 2013 it seems. themanwho lives on!
