Ronald Reagan asked for his heart back.

I told him, I have already sold that hosed-off doll and I can't get it back.

I didn't tell him, but I sold it to a famous contortionist and I think he ate the entire thing, stitches and all.

Some people like to eat dolls. I find it reprehensible, but I do it too.

Nels and I stopped into the police station this morning. Our contact there was one Deputy Clifford Munchel in the Murdererings & Lost Children Department. He doesn't work in the precinct building, though, since there really aren't many murdererings and lost children work in his diminishing jurisdiction. (Generally speaking, folks are migrating out towards the woods and the pavillions past the woods, cities with a decent fleet of helicopters, for afforadable helicopter rides.)

The lone exception being my daughter, a lost child, of whom I'm making a point to blog about, who was the topic of our business today, her given name being Chelsea Lisbon Annity, but always preferring to go by her stage name of Aliss H, even when leaving a name for the cooks at the taco counter or when addressing herself in informal circles of horse trainers. She had a very demure and pale grace, one which definitely warranted fewer syllables.

Anyway, yes, Officer Munchel works in a separate quarters, adjacent the precinct, taking a full time position screening clientele for a tarot card reader. He's a very stout man, very rugged, with dark and sloppy features of flesh, obviously very good at what he does, since every customer who jingled through the door had no shortage of finer apparels, and each filled the small cottage with a great outpouring of expensive scents. I felt I was travelling through Spain and Luxemborg in a coach made of breaded pork, although I was firmly seated in a short chesterfield. Nels looked like he was going to pass out, his head quivering and making short rings with fluttering eyelids.

Officer Munchel noticed my distress from his desk and hopped over to where we were, giving a nervous chuckle, "All queued up are we? I'm terribly sorry about this, please make yourselves comfortable. Or you might be better off just getting a prediction from the wizard as to whether I will actually prove to be a qualified sleuth!"

I put up a hand with a finger. "No, no. Please, yes, we're fine." Nels reached over to the coffee table before us and began flipping magazines over on to their faces.

"Sure, sure," said Munchel. "Sure, I need to get back, Time being what it is. Time is time. Say, you okay, can I get you anything?" he said, very concerned, pointing at Nels. "A book or anything? A milk? Maybe a stick of sour apple gum?"

Ah, this is our guy. For my part, I had a stick of sour apple gum, but Nels sunk deep down into the sofa, until he all but vanished and was completely sat on. By a very fat woman (who could have been a very slender woman doused in minks) reeking of exquisite cabinetry. The room quickly became so stuffed with a bounteous volume of furs and cloth that we had no choice but to squeeze through the spaces down by their legs in order to find our breaths waiting for us outside in the crisp sea air.

Next week I'm going to Vegas, of all places, for work. Not much to say about it right now, except to say that now that every cell company is trying to push video down their pipes, my job involves a lot more of the "content" side ... and you can make content basically anywhere in the world.

Not sure how much longer I'll enjoy all this traveling. When I started with the firm it was exciting to go to all these places--before that I'd always said that I'd grown up in the West Coast, went to school on the East Coast, but that didn't mean I was actually well-travelled. Work takes me to new cities and new continents, but after a while it all feels like a blur ... even if you're in a different climate, with people speaking a different language, all the hotels are the same pretty much everywhere. Of course you can go "roughing it", which is fun in it's own way, but it's not like you get out of your own headspace that way anyway ... No matter where you go, there you are.

Anyways, the miles are pretty sweet. I used to do the first-class upgrades all the time, until I accepted that first-class is basically a ripoff no matter how you try to justify it, so instead I save my miles for free trips to Seattle or SF. Of course the goal is to be so rich one day that I won't mind the first-class ripoff (haha) but that day is not today.

So, more miles next week. From LAG to LAS. If I don't update before then, I'll try to blog from there, though it is Las Vegas. I may be a little distracted.

And here I am again, once again, yes again, left empty-handed. I walked all the way out to Yuri's house and I was so exhausted when I got there that he rushed out to greet me with a cold washcloth. Dabbing my eyes and nose, he said, "Oh, my dear old friend Pal, look at you, look at your face! You look like a merry little hiking man, your face, so healthy! But no, you are not healthy at all, you have boils and sores and they only appear as healthy, poor lovely Pal!"

We ran inside quickly and I sat on a stool in his kitchen while he looked through his soda cabinet for a cool and refreshing bottle of Mint Z, which he served to me in a short glass on a hot towel. "Okay, here you go, poor Pal," he said.

A moment later, he was deep inside his biscuit drawer, rummaging around for me, insistent that we share a garlic roll. All the biscuits were nicely lined-up in there, labelled, in order of practicality, and he tapped along the little rows of bread tops, wielding a smart pair of tongs with a tartan handle.

"Oh, Yuri, it's good to see you," I yelled, with loft, carrying my voice high, along the ceiling, so he could hear me there as he leaned so deep inside the drawer. "I must remember to see your magnificent animated deer. I've really found myself in a excited stare lately whenever I think about it. And at length I am! Is the deer here somewhere? Don't you remember your little deer puppet? It was about five inches tall or so. You had it in a pair of little tree trunk pants. Have you already forgotten? Please tell me you're still working on the film. I must know. Will there be a sequel I wonder? You might at least allude to a sequel. The Second Deer and The Corollary Second Potion. Oh, the happy pitter-patter of children's feet racing to get in line! I wouldn't actually produce it were I you, though. You should be done with it and retreat into the woods."

The coolness of the washcloth was terrifically invigorating and I found myself at full energy once again, wearing a most patent grin and, after wringing it out sufficiently, I draped the little cloth over my hand to let it dry in the nice kitchen breeze of the afternoon.

"If you want to see the deer," came out Yuri's voice from the drawer, "well, he has grown quite fat." His English is not so well as mine and, given all things, I think he meant that the corporeal character he fashioned for the claymation had fallen apart and slumped and now looked nearly burst from his vast swallowings of entropy. Yuri emerged with a cinnamon bear claw for me, served on a deli-thin slice of cork board. "What are deer? They run past us, that's all. But it is humans, which also run past us. But which are us!"

He waved me on and wandered into his editing room. I moved the washcloth to my shoulder, held out the biscuit, the soda, the towel and the cork board, and followed close behind. He reached down to his desk (his editing desk, I concluded) and snapped on a small monitor, a little blue screen which popped out from a boxy black shell. A razor sat on the desk as well. Also, next to the razor, so many remote controls banded together into a single, impenetrable family unit.

"Here is what I mean, and what is amazing to me," he said, with cold conviction, peering at me with low eyes, upon a sinister but still pouty frown. The screen fired up with presentation of a little blue film about a woman who travelled from town-to-town, visiting banquets and free continental breakfasts. She had an Amtrak Gold card with Premier Coach endorsements. So she went all over, wherever food was. The breakfasts were fine, she ate conservatively and kept a low profile. But, later, at the banquet, she would wait until the lights were off and it was dark in the banquet hall. And the camera would show that it was dead quiet, dark, so very dark, and the food was still glistening, but everyone had gone home. Except her, who said she'd clean up. "See how real," said Yuri Hollops, not meaning that this was a true story, but informing me that the actors were actual mammalian peopleforms, not clay or melon.

I think what really intrigued Yuri about the film were the camera angles. This lady would go on her night binges, devouring everything except the darkness itself, plowing through trays, often without taking a moment to lift the lid, just deflecting it away with her snapping jaws. The cinematographer would get right in there and shoot the film right at the vantage point inside her mouth, somewhere along her top teeth. So the lens would peer out, catching an inside shot of the bottom row of teeth while great gobs of ranch dressing and subway sandwiches and pretzels would ooze across the screen, splattering the view, while you -- well, you're right there in the center of action. And then, suddenly the camera's clean and you're back in a nice, new mouth, diving off into a wall of lobster tails and creamed duck.

This gave us much to talk about when we retired to his dressing room. I sprawled comfortable across the sofa, resting my elbow upon the wonderfully dry washcloth, while he dissected pressing matters at hand, how mastery is ultimately revealed only by shooting film in the dark and the symbols at play when a whole theatric audience is cast, without argument, as the mouth. Naturally, legal implications, fair use (of the audience by the filmmaker.) I brought up the cleansing of the lenses -- good lord, what an undertaking -- and this provoked a very thoughtful discussion that lasted a solid fifteen minutes.

Soon I was ready to go and only required a bit of masking tape to hold shut the clasp for one of my shoes. I was out the door, propped forward on an eastward route, when I suddenly remembered the deer photos I had promised the young reporter, as well as some sneak footage, gah! I jostled Yuri's door with great effort, but it was locked fast.

i get most depressed when i play songs onstage

i feel most happy in my life sometimes when i play a song onstage

some of my most depressing moments have been right after a show

during a show sometimes i feel that the show is already over

i want to commit suicide sometimes after a show or during a show or before a show

i had a mohawk when i was seventeen

i grew up in india

i have a song called 'our job is to die'

i programmed my drum machine to do an impossibly fast fill at the end of that song

Wow, what a weekend that was. Talking, eating, drinking, clubbing and a helicopter ride!

We got into Euston about 3 on Friday afternoon. Went for a walk before we took the tube to Sarah’s. Like always I was overwhelmed by London. The buzz. The rush. The people. Workers clutching briefcases and walking with purpose. Shoppers hands full of carrier bags searching for bargains. Tourists dawdling along, looking up at the skyline, stopping to take photos. Mime artists and buskers. People riding in rickshaws. I must have looked like such a small town girl, wandering along and gawking. Then down into the Underground where the air hangs heavy and still until the trains stir it up and it washes itself around your face and moves your hair about. It was pretty crowded on the train, lots of people going home from work and I had to stand, clinging tightly to the rail, terrified I was going to fall into this old bloke’s lap.

Sarah’s apartment is fantastic, on the eight floor of a huge apartment block. The lounge has one wall that’s all glass so there’s a great view over London. You can see the Thames and everything. We couldn’t get her to tell us how much it cost but it must be a fortune. Mark, her boyfriend, works in the City. He did tell me what he did but I can’t remember now. Last year, he and his three brothers bought a helicopter between the four of them and he’s just got his licence. He promised to take us for a ride over London on Saturday afternoon.

We didn’t go out on Friday night. Sent out for a Chinese and then spent all night talking. It was late when we got up Saturday morning (didn’t go to bed till 6) and by the time we’d had breakfast it was after 4 but Mark still kept his promise.

When we climbed into the helicopter the sun was going down and the sky was all pinks and soft blues. As the helicopter climbed into the air the Thames looked like a mirror, all silver, but it had gold highlights in it from the setting sun. We flew over the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, the House of Commons and we saw where they’re building the Wembley Stadium. As we were flying around, it was gradually getting darker and the lights were coming on. By the time we were ready for landing we could see that the Thames itself was almost black but it was filled with light – whites, yellows and neon reds and greens, reflections that moved and rippled along with the water.

The helicopter ride felt so good I find it difficult to put into words. The earth below me: tiny people’s lives going on in tiny buildings, tiny cars waiting at tiny traffic lights. An enormous sky around us, going on forever. I wanted to fly off on my own, put out my arms and set off, speeding through that great sky, go places, meet people. See the world. Touch it. Taste it. Feel it. Leave my boring life behind me and take off. But I haven’t got the nerve. Or the money.

After the helicopter ride, we went to eat. Indian place called the Usha. After that, clubbing. You know when the music gets inside you? When the rhythm replaces the rhythm of your heart and you have to move the rest of your body to match it? That’s how it was. The person right in the centre of the dance floor unaware of anything but the music. That was me. Eyes closed. Feeling it. Being it.

I should have stuck to the dancing but I did a bit of drinking as well. A lot of drinking. It all became a bit of a blur. There are only two things I remember. One is snogging some guy and his girlfriend becoming so upset we had to leave and go somewhere else. And the other is me telling Ann about the poker and the debts and the unopened credit card bills and her shaking her head and saying, “In vino veritas”. I haven’t heard the last of it, I’m sure.

I don’t know what Ann meant by saying Sarah’s lonely. She has the greatest social life I’ve ever heard of. She’s mixing with all sorts of people: doctors, musicians, politicians, the lot. There’s an artist friend of Mark’s living nearby. He calls himself Helium, although I don’t think that’s his real name. Sunday afternoon he took us out on a tour of some artistic installations around the area. One of them was his. It was a huge balloon that was designed to reflect the sky so that much of the time it was invisible. Then, every so often it would turn green so that, suddenly, there would be a green balloon where previously there seemed to be only sky. Afterwards, we went to visit a friend of his, a man called Brim. He lives in a house absolutely full of stuff. Well, rubbish really but he said they’re all possibilities. He also said something that I made myself remember because it made such sense to me. He said, “It’s essential to be flawed because if you’re not flawed you’re deceiving yourself, which is the biggest flaw of all.” I’m going to write it down somewhere. I need to think about it some more.

We caught the 10.30 train back this morning. A couple of times on the train back I saw Ann looking at me and I thought she was going to start with the lecture. But then she’d sigh and talk about something else. It’ll happen though, when she’s ready. Just wait and see.

There’s always a bloody fly in the ointment.

My newest project is a religious doll, Tug Christ. Its based on a midieval Jesus sculpture from northern europe. They hammered in a whole bunch of nails into the life-size figure and then covered it with drops of blood. Recently scientists determined that the blood was real human blood. I'm not sure why it's called Tug Christ but it may have something to do with the way this blood was either collected or applied to the sculpture. It's a wooden sculpture and it was not destroyed in the Iconoclastic Riots. The doll version is not made out of wood but it is nailed full of metal and it's supposed to have real blood on it. Unfortunately I'm really scared of blood and needles and such, so I'm thinking I should just use nail polish or possibly blood from my cat. Or maybe no blood at all. I can't decide. I was commissioned to make it and I think maybe the customers will have to supply their own blood. That might even make it more meaningful. It's stuffed with insulation. When I stuffed it my hands became itchy. I still have rashes all over the back of my hands.

So am I the only one who thinks Scrubs is a lot better this season than last season? I feel like last year got bogged down but not so much this year. Just posting this now because I've been spending a lot of the weekend catching up with TiVo. Ahh, TiVo. What would I do without you.

Last night I had drinks with an old roommate of mine.

We used to live in a rundown old bungalow with spiders and cockroaches that ran over my body when I slept at night and neighbors who carried around shotguns.

Now he lives in a big mansion built as an homage to “Gone With the Wind” in the 1940s. His landlord has been renovating it for ten years, and is renting it to him for cheap. His landlord also owns the taco restaurant where he works. Once his landlord gave him a pack of underwear because he had bought the wrong size, but mostly they don’t interact that much. The mansion is perfectly secluded and, when he doesn’t work at the taco join, my friend likes to sit out back on the lawn and read novels.

Don’t you get scared living alone in an old mansion, I asked him.

Yes, I hear noises all the time at night and I have this frequently reoccurring dream in which this little girl grabs one of the broken light fixtures and gashes up my dick and then I try to chase her down by jumping out of windows.

You should write a novel about that. It’s so southern, I told him.

There’s not enough to it, he said. There’s no theme, nothing socially redeeming. Besides writing about one’s own life is cheap. It’s not like Pynchon wrote about his life. And I’m not a good writer yet. I don’t have control over the language the way Pynchon does. Everything he does is perfect. I need more practice.

(He really said that.)

So I said: You could contrast your current mansion with that trailer you used to live in when you worked at that horse farm. You could talk about the guy who lived there before you, how you found the stain from his suicide under the carpet. And you could talk about those ladies who employed you, how when they got pissed they would ride out and whip the shit out of the horses.

I can’t believe you remember that, said my friend.

Yes, and I also remember when they had you out in the middle of thunderstorm trying to keep a tree upright with a truck and you were scared shitless. And the fact that their dogs kept getting mangled in the farm machinery.

Yeah, those were some fucked up dogs, said my friend.

You could talk about your brother’s stint in Iraq. Then you could finish it with that story your told me about the beach in California, about those guys who stole the RV.

My friend wasn’t convinced.

This is the story of his brother. They grew up in the rural south and were home-schooled by their mom. When they graduated from their homeschooling, his brother went into the army to make some money for college. His brother was promptly sent to Iraq where something happened to his knee. After he was sent home, he promptly went back to Iraq to work for a private army. Now he’s back again, dating a photographer. The extended family is always asking him over for dinner and asking him to spot them some of the blood money. “You know your mom always wanted to be a country singer,” said grampa.

This is the story about the beach.

Having graduated from homeschooling, my friend fixed up an old motorcycle and drove out to see his uncle who lived in California. The last time he had seen his uncle, the uncle had just gotten divorced and they had bonded by getting drunk in Sacramento every night for a week. This time the uncle had married again and sold the truck. He didn’t really have time for my friend, so my friend drove his makeshift motorcycle out to the beach. There he met two pot-smoking guys who were staying in an RV. After a couple of days a van showed up. A redneck couple and their four kids poured out. They all spent a couple of glorious days on the beach drinking and playing poker.

One night after my friend won big in poker, the husband went to sleep in their tent and the stoners passed out. My friend and the wife went down the beach to drink. Soon he was having sex with her. It was the first time he’d ever had sex. He was totally wasted and everything was spinning. He was 18 years old. Then he looked up and the husband was standing above them cursing and crying. Then the husband pulled the wife by her hair away from my friend and up to the parking lot. As my friend lay there drunk in the dark he heard the couple gather up their crying children and tear out of the parking lot. They left the tent. He saw it the next morning when he was awakened by police officers handcuffing the stoners. The stoners cried and cried as they were shoved into the cop cars. "You're hurting my arm," one of the cried.

No, my friend said, that’s not good enough. Besides I don’t have time to write it down, I’m working two shifts at The Taco Shell. So I told him I would write it down. But I promised him some things I would leave out, like the one about the night he spent with the famous punk rock singer’s girlfriend, how he wiped her clean, how she showed him the famous bullet.

Fleur's a right excellent pause artist. No question, she's unmatched! Let's say we're present at a bar and football is up on the tube or something. It's true, she'll suddenly reach over everything, all of it, and her hand swoops through the sky and slams the button. FFFFBWHAM! The bottles rattle, commerce stops, the other patrons spring around. Now really, did that racket need to occur? And they look up at the screen, stopped at this perfect image of Tom Cruise, guns in each hand, jumping off a kitten's back and on each side in big white letters, it says "ONLY $50." Goosechills up and down the nervous system, folks. (Oh, but Nels didn't see, of course, he's trying to get a sticker off his nose.)

FFFBWHACK and we're back to the football. Hey, Tom Cruise wasn't on before or after, was he? Where did he come from? Kitten what? Many of these blokes in the audience get off on some recreational science here, wondering if the television is in the witches' realm, as if the UHF can be stirred in a cauldron or paired up with the wart of a salamander or moth's foot.

But I've asked her and she says it's all those tape reels in canisters back at the television studio and she claims that some of these guys get mixed up while they're splicing. Fatigue sets in and scenes get injected during sleepwalk. Or frames from other films get used to stretch out the frame rates, slow down the sports to squeeze the viewer's intensity levels past the limits nature intended. Then we see a qualified and lucid visionary like Fleur Beckwith strolls along with the passion to see these subcutaneous collisions coming. She says it's like standing on a train and moving over the surface earth and hearing people die all over the world. And saying, "Now. Now someone has died." Or waiting a few moments and then waiting and holding on a bit longer and then saying, "Okay, now. Right there a guy died." Except you hit the pause button and freezeframe keeps him from dying for his last fraction of a second. And it's not some ordinary guy. It's a celebrity in a red cowboy suit. Something universally special.

Absolutely. The Tom Cruise stunt was today even. A fellow leaned over and whispered to his associate, "She's stealing credit. She didn't really do that." The other guy had glasses, so there's no end to his knowledge, and he confirmed, "Right, isn't it? Didn't I hear you say that a studio technician took n' piece that film together? I bet she's never touched film or camera." And they nodded and clicked glasses and did a salud. People used to say that about me, that Aliss did all the work and I just lurked in the dark pushing only one or two buttons. Or that I was only quiet because I spent all day yelling at her, compelling her to wring out music just like the Beach Boys parents. Twisted, of course. But nevermind.

They've really got it mixed. All those broadcast professionals with the headphones hooked to the curly cord are the ones making mistakes. All their flubs are right there on the TV. The picture isn't even all that clear if you look close. Then take one look at that precision when Fleur seizes upon a remote control, a flair when her arms go out and she lands the infrared right in line. And when we're in a bout of lovemaking, just at the very of top of it, she'll tap my chest for a pause and say, "Oh, right there, look, look, look," and our shadows on the wall are some extravagant mural. A cat with long human hair, bobbing its head like there's a nice little guitar tune coming across the surface of the ocean.

There's what I love. She stabs a moment and gets everyone in on it. She's very giving about it. Granted, I can't believe I'm still having sex at 57. I mean that doesn't sound right at all.

Well, no not really. Just Christine emailing me, only a day or so after I started out posting here, that a) the name of my blog is retarded and b) how come I'm not using MySpace or Xanga like everyone else and c) oh the name of my blog, by the way, is retarded. Excuuuse me, Christine. BTW you might want to ease up on the nitpicking, I've got some New Year's Eve photos from 2004 a certain someone might not want released ... It'd be so easy to finally set up a Flickr account and tag it with the right tags ;)

Anyways. Work was busy this week, but good, there are some big things brewing and it's fun and challenging ... after a few years of doing this it feels good to really know my way around, so to speak. Also waiting for Spring, I mean really really waiting for it. I'm getting ready to open the patio up, imagining all the cookouts that Bill and I will be hosting. Even more than last year if I have my way. One thing is, though, we're going to have to setup some policy for the iPod DJ'ing. 50 Asians with iPods 1 stereo system = the wrong kind of "jockeying". Last year things totally got out of hand.

I got a commment! Someone posted a commetn! Someone out there is actually reading this! Someone called Brim (what kind of name is that?) but at least he agrees with me (yeh!) , even if he does sound like a bit of wierdo (oops, sorry mate - no offence).

Hey, Brim, you might be interested in this though. You'll never believe what happened to me last night (well, maybe you would actually - but noone else would). Tim came round (as usual) {Tim - Brim - Tim - Brim - that's good isn't it! I'll have to get a friend called Jim next, or Skim, or Flim - any Flims out there listening?} A-n-y-w-a-y as I was saying, Tim came round with this thing he'd got off the internet - apparently the first chapter of a book, or so he said - he'd used up most of his brother's colour ink printing it off (there may be trouble ahead...). Anyway, he said it was really racy (his word, not mine people) so we went up to my room and he started reading it out to me. It was all a bit wierd, about some planet called Athraxes or something and I couldn't see why he was so excited about it. But then he got on to the bit about these blue coloured women who are just out for sex (gagging for it!) adn then, I swear I've no idea how this happened, the next minute the room was full of them - scantily dressed women with wierd blue faces (blue everything in fact) and they started ripping off our clothes and, well, I won't go into it, I'll leave that to your fetid imaginations - and then in what seemed like no time at all it was just us again, the room was empty, and Tim was sat there at the end of my bed with all his clothes on, looking a little flushed and just a little sweaty. We didn't dare say anything to each other, we just sat there. Then Tim said "Um, think I could do with a cup of tea" and I said "great idea" and we went downstairs and starting talking about football.

Recently, the women sold me mail - at a particularly fair price. I think it was because they knew it contained a letter I ought to read, from a Master John Wesley Stevens. Stevens wants an interview. If you're a reader of Dead Leaves, then you know the state of the publication. Stephens is looking for his big score, and an exploration of the mind of a criminal outcast is just the thing to kickstart his project.

I wrote him a short note:
"PLEASE COME VISIT MY HOUSE. I WILL GRANT YOU FULL ACCESS. IS THIS WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE? (see attached)"

Apparently, the likeness scared the reporter silly. He wrote back. "You've been following me. You know me."

"NO," I wrote back. "OLD UNCLE THOMAS HAS BEEN 'ROUND THE BLOCK ONCE OR TWICE. DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU'RE THE FIRST PRE-PUBESCENT NEWSBOY I'VE BEEN INVOLVED WITH?"

He's yet to write me back. Perhaps he thought his nature was more novel, or he hoped I would think so at least.

it feels good to get rich people to give you money

i have a song that says, 'pushing the poor off-shore'

that was with my band 'indk'

my other band is 'morning glory'

the band i play guitar in is 'leftover crack'

'morning glory' has a kind of hip-hop song

it says, 'we're sending money overseas to help the ones we bomb'

one time at a leftover crack show i wore a new sweater

the sweater was very clean

this was a few months after nine eleven

Aliss H and Her Father - The Terrible Lake

Cassettes and their flimsy little gears, such an innocent-looking spot for a song jail. And I really cannot rescue some of these recordings from such a place! Fortunately, I traded a Television Personalities bootleg online for a digital copy of this song and its friends. Aliss hated this particular era and none of the tracks ever got mixed. All of it's post-Funnel.

Actually, much of the material got leaked through cassette clubs in the late 80s, particularly the Unspun Tapes out of someways in Colorado. I really enjoyed those guys, many great artists. Stuff like Moonpail, a cane-leaning fellow who only played pianos which had been dropped into dumpsters, then he'd climb in the dumpster and supposedly the acoustics were perfect in there! And they had an English band named Hindert that never had a song longer than twenty seconds. Their best songs were only two or three, for sure. Ferocious sounds. But done. Long titles, of course. When I Grow Up I Want To Give The Queen Her Medicine From A Wee Little Bottle Decorated Like A Spaceship That's On Its Way To The Planet Where Raspberry Gasoline Was First Conceived But Not Necessarily Patented, Baby. I really miss that label!

Now, all those kids I knew. All those kids I knew. All those kids I knew. Fell into. The waterfall.

I'm not a very good judge of songs, I can't grade so well. It's all Aliss to me. When she was sixteen she wrote this. I guess it's bleak. Soupy, melting fish and such. Her hair was dyed black, she looked like a little Hispanic kid from the back. She wore mostly shorts. So just imagine her with that little black crown and the shorts and tapping a tambourine on her leg up on stage. I mean that was a phase.

Post-Funnel, trying to mature maybe, trying to get advanced crazy. And the crazy did flow. When she started taking karate and playing with swords in the basement. The kind of very determined clatter that is H.

My sister Ann came round to see me tonight. She’s 15 minutes older than me and thinks that gives her the right to tell me what to do with my life. Most of the time I let her get away with it, it’s easier than arguing.

First thing she says, as soon as I open the door is, “Why haven’t you called me? I haven’t heard from you in weeks.” My answer to that, of course, is, “You haven’t rung me either,” but she takes no notice. Then I tell her to sit down while I make a drink but, being Ann, she has to follow me into the kitchen. She’s in there quicker than an ambulance on an emergency (she’s a paramedic.) “Bit of a mess,” she says looking round, “How can you live in this tip?” I turn my back on her and switch on the kettle. As the kettle starts making the whooshing noise that means the water’s boiling, I hear her opening cupboards asking, “Where’s the biscuits?” Before I have chance to say, “Top cupboard, on the left,” she’s opening the middle drawer. I mean, who looks for biscuits in a drawer? Everyone knows you keep biscuits in the cupboard.

She pulls out the bundle of unopened mail and waves it in the air. “What’s these?” she asks. “Nothing,” I say, trying to take them off her. She pushes her face towards mine and says, “What are they? Love letters?” I grab her arm at the elbow and force it to bend, so I can take the envelopes from her. I hold them behind my back, dodging her grabbing hands. My heart’s beating so hard I can hear it and I feel like I’m going to faint. “Keeping secrets,” she says, “Keeping secrets from your only sister?” “I don’t need to tell you everything,” I reply, my voice wobbling about all over the place.

She goes quiet then. She knows she’s gone too far. The kettle clicks off and she goes over to finish making the coffee. I go into the bedroom, close the door behind me and look round for a good hiding place. I don’t want Ann saying she’s going to the bathroom and doing a quick search round my room. She can be like that sometimes. In the end, I push the bundle of mail into the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and click the padlock shut. I’m not sure where the key is but I’m in no rush to open those envelopes anyway.

Back in the lounge, she looks at me curiously. “That’s not like you, getting letters and not opening them. You’re usually the first to the door when the postman comes; I’ve even seen you get excited about junk mail.” “They’re nothing,” I say, “Just ads and things. I’m going to buy a shredder and get rid of them. Data protection and all that.” She waits a minute, her face crinkled up and her mind ticking over. “How do you know what they are if you haven’t opened them? There’s something suspicious going on. Maybe I should talk to Mum.” “Ann,” I shout, “For God’s sake, I’m 35. Don’t start threatening me with Mum. You wouldn’t like it if I did that to you. Let’s talk about something else.”

There’s a long silence. I can’t think of anything else to say and I’m at the point of thinking I’ll switch Coronation Street on when she pipes up with, “Are you working this weekend?” “No,” I reply, “I'm on a late tomorrow, then a split on Tuesday.” “Do you fancy a girly weekend in London?"she asks, "Go down there on Friday and come back Monday morning?” “What brought that on?” I ask. “Remember Sarah I used to work with?” she says, “She’s just moved down there and she’s feeling a bit lonely. We could go shopping or clubbing or just chill out in her new apartment. She tells me it’s pretty special.”

It sounds good to me but, “I’m broke,” I tell her, “I can’t afford it.” “Course you can,” she says, “It’s only money.” I’m about to say I definitely can’t go but then I remember I haven’t played poker in a while. That must have saved me a fortune. Not only that, I haven’t had a treat in ages. “OK,” I say, “Let’s do it.”

FIRST CHAPTER RELEASE!!!

Dear readers, I am releasing the first chapter of my book. I've decided to take it in a space-erotica direction, which of course means that in order to keep children from viewing it, I'll need to collect a nominal $5 fee from PayPal.

Also, if anyone would like to meet me at Starbucks for a "release party", go ahead and leave me a comment.

From 9 to 5 I have to spend my time at work

My job is very boring I'm an office clerk

Bored, bored, bored, bored. It's only 11 0'clock and I'm already wishing the day was over. Blah blah blah. Still haven't had any comments on my blog. Still haven't got rid of this cold. At least I can have a hot bacon sarnie dripping with pig fat soon. And another coffee. Very strong. Everyone's talkign about going bowling tonight but no'one's mentioned it to me - not directly. Expect they might remember me at the last minute, as usual. Oh, yeah, Jez, you can come too if you want. Like they really want me. As if they hadn't forgotten I exist until they need someone to make up the numbers. ANd drive them all home afterwards. How does that always happen? "You don't mind do you Jez," nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh. GOod old Jez - the one that always does what he's told. ONe day I'll get some real friends. ONe day I'll press this little button on my computer keypad - that one with a funny squiggle on that you don't know what it means - and all their heads will blow off in a glorious syncronicity of blood and gore and brain bits which will be spread all across the boring grey carpet and the boring white polystyrene ceiling and will drip off the matching grey desks and clog up the eyes of all their stupid little teddy bears and mementoes of paris and pictures of their braindead boyfriends that they all keep next to their stupid computers and

A reporter from Dead Acorns came over yesterday for an interview. It's a magazine that's been in town for centuries. Started by the primary schools. The reporter who came by was seven years old. His name was James Wesley Stevens, he wore a very smart tartan cap and swung a refurbished reel-to-reel by his side.

He wanted a chair tall enough so that he could look directly into my eyes. I fetched the stairstool from my back porch and took care to slump the remaining inches when I plopped down on the big sofa. He set the recording machine on the table between us. Then, once he got comfortable atop the stool, he digested a butterscotch and asked me to click on his recorder.

"Alright, then. Bravo! And shake of a leaf, turn of a fortunate twig," he said, in a glossy, happy tone that really brightened up the whole room.

"Pardon me?" I asked.

He discreetly shielded his mouth with a tilted flat hand. "It's our service greeting. We always open with it."

"Oh, right, sorry," I said. Then, for the cassette: "Turn of a twig to you, Mr. Stevens."

"Yes, great," said Young Mr. Stevens. "I'm visiting with our friend Pal H today, a man who lives on the block of 6th and Empress, well within our school precinct. I believe there's a school bus stop right here behind the oyster bar. Tell me: does the rustle of little uniforms ever echo across the alley way and into your eardrum at 6 o'clock in the morning?"

"I've not noticed. All of 6th is crowded with trees at any rate." I contemplated bringing up a fun little tale of a school bus fire crashed into a laundromat from eight years past, but things were moving along, so.

"Good to hear! The readers of Dead Acorns Magazine are very well-behaved and respectful, almost to a fault. Though we are also known to scare up our own special blend of irreverence, even many of us have an acute sense of rebellion which befits our youth and pays tribute to the levity of children from all ethnicities throughout the ages." Without missing a beat, his voice descended into a grave tone, near murmur. "Children worldwide love the movies. Tell us about your good friend Yuri Hollops. He's making an animated feature film for children called The Deer and The Potion. Our readers sit in quivering anticipation of this film. I personally have a lot of fervor vested in its release. Have you seen the film?"

I pulled my ear. "You know, I've been very busy lately, I haven't seen anything but the part where the deer drinks the potion. I've also seen another animation where a passenger train gets up off the tracks and starts dancing. But that might not be the same film, I don't remember."

"Oh, well, you can definitely tell which clips go to The Deer and The Potion," said the child. "The entire cast of the film is made of melon balls, animated in the stop-motion fashion. Did the train appear to be made of fruit substance?"

"I really don't think so. It seemed to be more of his clay works. I remember he had the train up and dancing about on its wheels. Clay, I think. And all the passengers are waving out the windows. It's very detailed. There's a female shellfish, or a kind of crawdad, who plays partner, but I don't think the creature or the train or any of it was done in melon."

"See, that's it. It looks like clay at first, but upon deeper viewing you can see he's used some of the rinds in the landscape. And there's a gloss of citrus painting over the top to give it a pulpy effect."

I shrugged and sort of scratched at my head. "I've just been too busy, my daughter's gone missing," Aliss H, I emphasized, "and I've just finished clearing out her refrigerator today. Awful stuff going on in there. An open can of fried beans was particularly at war with the cantaloupe."

He shook his head sorrowfully. "Lots of melons in the news right now, that's for sure."

"I suppose," I said, but then I didn't know quite what else to say. I rather wanted to start into a description of Aliss H and some of my theories about her whereabouts, but I figured most people had heard it already. And those who hadn't probably didn't care enough to listen and find out in the first place. And beyond that, these were just children who were concerned about deers and potions and a natural curiousity about what happens when deers stand upright and guzzle various sorts of potions for a few hours duration. Which is all fine with me, they are in that vital stage of their lives. And I'm in this stage of my life, the one where I am left with nothing at all, except perhaps minor affects which will shortly be disappearing as well out through exits I cannot see and which are all around. It's all an exit out there.

The boy had reached down and stopped the recorder with the tip of shoe. "I don't know about you, but I'm not getting much out of this. I'd really hoped that you'd seen the film," he said. Very disappointed, very dark eyes.

"Look, let me see if I can pop by tomorrow and see if Yuri's around. When does your paper come out?" I asked.

"We go to print at the end of the month," he said, "but I need your testimony a week previous."

"Wait, I've got to intercept calls for the ballet tomorrow," I said. "Give me three days and I'll go see the film. I'll get a picture of the real deer and everything, okay? It sounds like he must have a very interesting pile of melons over there as well. How would that be? You could have diagrams and graphs, a real insider's view, the inside scoop on the melon balls, alright? We're okay, then?"

He nodded and came down off the stool and then paused and looked up at me again. "Thankyou," he said and held out his hand and I reached over and wiped a smudge from the crease right under his cheek. Who knows, maybe I could get this kid a real frothing goblet of potion!

Whenever I think of the internet, I imagine a globe covered with people sat at keyboards, all linked by silver threads. How fantastic is that? It still amazes me that I can talk to anyone, anywhere at any time. Like last night, for example. I was in a chatroom talking to a woman who was supporting a man under house arrest. Charles his name is. I don't know which country he's in. I don't think he's in England, we don't have that sort of house arrest over here. I was going to send him a message of support but then I found out he killed cats so I didn't want anything to do with him. But, even so, without the Internet I wouldn't know of his existence or be able to talk to someone connected to him.

I used to do a lot of chatting on the net and I've met all sorts of people over the years. Up to about six months ago I spent most of my evenings in chatrooms. Sometimes even all night. I don't do that so much now, I'm more into poker but I'm on a bit of a losing streak so I'm trying to take a break from playing. I'm missing it though.

This evening I received my visitors, two of them, in the kitchen. I had spent all day rearranging Brim's containers. They're remarkable flexible units. I arranged them into a kitchen table and stools. I sat around the table with my women. Again, they wanted to trade - to buy and sell.

The first one looked at my container-furniture and caressed it tenderly. There was beautiful ethereal rock music being piped in. "This," she said, "is a kitchen of distinction."

"I'm charmed. Do want to hear a story? A story of how I came to this glorious age of my house arrest?"

"Of course," she said. "Why do you think we visit so often?"

"Well I can't tell you the whole story. That wouldn't end well for either of us. But it did begin with killing cats. I was damn good at it. And people admired that. And that's how I came to love her, the girl that led to my house arrest. I met her at the municipal pool. We spent so much time in the water that I couldn't avoid the topic any longer. I told I could kill a cat quicker than any man she knew. She said she wanted me to teach her. So, I did, and she learned well. I liked that about her."

The first woman smiled, impressed.

The other woman, the second one, offered me a book. It was called Fuck World Trade.
"The idea might have appealed to me, at one time" I said. "But now that I'm a part of them, the international markets - I'm sold on them." I let her keep her book.

"If you want to help me. Get in touch with Brim. Find him, call him. Tell him I'll give him anything it he knows how to get me out tof his house. Tell him I can kill a cat quicker than any man he knows."

The women looked at each other. Finding Brim wouldn't be easy for them.

The other day I hid my face. My women visitors tell me I'm beautiful, but how can I trust them?

They have too much to gain.

i like the internet

i live at c-squat sometimes

c-squat is a squat on avenue c

we have the internet

i am in three bands

one of these bands has a song called 'heroin or suicide'

the name of that band is 'leftover crack'

'leftover crack' is an oxymoron

before it was called 'leftover crack' it was called 'choking victim'

there is a song called 'choking victim'

it goes 'you don't have to choking / to become a victim'

it's a ska song

is that I'm not very soft physically speaking, not a superhero or a doughboy. The Softest Person is just the name of my company. Right now I'm working on a doll with bullet-holes for eyes and a mouth sewn with a nail. Head pillows are great fun. This one is the presidential pillow. My girlfriend is asking me to make a Genet doll. It has an iris in its chest. My girlfriend loves carnations. She works in an office building and drink gin-and-tonics. She loves me for my money and I love her for the iris in her chest. She's a great swimmer. Once I almost drowned and she saved me. Once she almost drowned a kitten in a pond but I stopped her. She's a great swimmer, but she doesn't particularly love animals. She has a tattoo of a bled eagle right above her right butt cheek. She says this is a reference to her patriotism. She's very patriotic with a knife, but most of all she's patriotic with her hands inside the cabinet. We both love Indian pop music that sounds like the Beatles. Especially that song from the only Bollywood film set in Sweden. The actors look cold. That's what we like about that movie. And the music.

I drove out to my mother's house in the country today. With Nels, who came along. It's only but an hour's drive, but Nels couldn't make it, got impatient. Particularly in the knee region. He said he doesn't like a lot of pointless time and really laid into me about spending a full hour in the car. In atrophy. Without vitamins. I offered him some sour apple gum, but he declined. It gives him stomach acid.

So, we stopped for omelets in Altvistle. I wasn't sure why omelets had a point and jaunting through the country watching the clouds move overhead didn't.

Anyway, the clouds happened to make their way over our dining, and I found myself quite content to browse around the pastures and mills that outlied the Loaf 'N' Wheel. A number of cows had gathered on a hill level with the Loaf 'N' Wheel, just out the glass, providing me with a rather sublime view, should I choose to accept that cows were generally pretty in some way. They do have a dark and lumbering quality I guessed. So I resolved to discover their beauty and immediately found myself somewhat taken aback by the contours of their shape. Their haunches, for instance, have a very pleasant pair of bones jutting up on top. And the colored tags on their ears add a nice flourish.

By Wheel, they are referring to a wheel of cheese. There was not a true wheel of cheese in the establishment, though, nor a loaf of any kind. Most folks have lamb, at the waiter's recommendation. With the exception of Nels, who had an omelet with a side of olives. The waiter had offered lamb, but Nels had given a look of reproach. Well, this was not the waiter's business at all. On my part, I don't think Nels really understands what waiters do.

We drove up to my mother's around dusk, having spent four and half hours stopping at various spots for Nels to take pictures. Many of the fences and trees along the way looked much like my mother's fences and trees. In fact, hers were assuredly more stark and vivid, what with the mountain sweeping it all up and over the house, whose shutters puffed out like the real wind was inside the house. Like the mountain also concealed the great lungs of the little house.

We walked up to the house arguing about where Nels would sleep should we fall prey to a sudden flood (my mother being in close proximity to a river which joined the sea) and Nels being afraid of the upstairs room, its ancient bathtub and the fact that none of the light fixtures had nice glass encasings, but appreciating the elevation it would give from the rising waters. I was glad to see him argue so naturally, he rarely sports any kind of assertiveness, and I rebuffed him with points about proximity to the scuba gear and offered the tertiary solution of a cot, then oblidged to let him work the remaining conversation out himself, while I sat with mother in her knitting room and talked about the disappearance of Aliss and how I felt that it was time to really strike out after her on our own.

Bloody typical. Here it is, Sunday, nothing to do and the whole day to do it in, and I've got a stinking cold so can't enjoy bloody anything. Tim said I looked like something from the Day of the Living Dead last night - that helped a lot, thanks Tim. And he wouldn't let me share his pizza in case I infected him, unfeeling bastard. And he made me watch the entire second series of The Next Generation (though only the episodes with Borg in cos he wants to be one - wish he was bloody assimilated already and out of my life) - anyway I think the first series was better, when the women were all still wearing very short skirts]

Oh god, here comes my mother with another disgusting hot toddy or somethign (wish she;'d at least put some whisky in it). At least I can have the pleasuer of infecting everyone at work tomorrow - ha ha

Oh and another thing Tim. Next time you mention that nurse from Manchester I met at Martin's party and how I might have been married to her by now if I hadn't lost her phone number I really am going to hit you. Very hard. Anyway, she's still got my phone number, so who knows. Wish I could remember her name though...

Woke up this morning and thought of what I did to find myself under expatriate house arrest. Stared it right in the face. I didn't flinch for a fucking second.

Then I answered the door; it was my lady callers. Today they had a new idea. They would sell me things, and, some of these things, they said, I could sell to other women who visited me. I could be a successful businessman without leaving my house. Other things, I could keep for myself.

The first items they offered me were several shrink-wrapped Ezra Kire albums. His early albums. I passed. I hate fucking caucausians from the subcontinent who make that cloying crap music that they all make. He's the worst of the bunch, too. But this did tell me that I was probably living in a third world country, where they still play Ezra Kire's albums at restaurants and coffee shops, and set it to videos of local youths involved in voiceless melodramatic tragedies, involving forbidden love and cars and cliff edges.

The next thing they offered me was a collection of plastic crates. Admittedly, it was an impressive collection. This too I was going to pass up, as I need to save my money to buy transitors. I'm going to need a lot of transitors to get all these radios working just the way I need them to. But, then the lady told me who the crate collection's previous owner was - a man named Brim, from London. SOLD!, I said.

One of the woman stayed and spent the afternoon with me in my bedroom. When I came back downstairs the crates where stacked in a single flush column in the corner of my living room. They still wait there, begging to be rearranged.

Normally I don't think about where my house is. I'm under house arrest, so the outside, my municipality, nation-state, whatever is of little concern to me. But today, it struck me: these women, my visitors, are from another country. Which means, I'm living in another country, for whatever it's worth.

The way I could tell is their physical features. They're differnt than mine. This is what I, Old Uncle Charles, looks like (you've probably seen me on the news):
But the bone structure, the skin tone of my visitors is different. So they're foreigners, I figure. Or, actually, I'm a foreigner, I guess.

It makes sense they'd move me out of country. My criminal case, it was too high profile, touched too many nerves. It was probably just easier to ship me out to ... wherever this is.

I'd be lying to say that I'm not a bit curious to figure out what country this is, just for kicks. I've got an idea about how to pull it off too. They let me bring my collection of antique transitors radios with me. And if I place them in an advantageous position, their frequencies seem to scramble my bracelet, and extend my allowable range. I'm thinking, if I place my radios just right, I'll be able to step out front and have a look around. But I don't know how to do it. Yet.

I'm told there's a man in London named Brim, who understands how to reorder aged household technology for new purposes. To date, I've been unable to locate him. But my women, my visitors, say they will help.

i steal melodies from the beatles

my music is upbeat

it sounds happy

one song is called 'gimme heroin'

i talk about jacking up in alleyways

kids make fun of that

they say jacking 'off' in alleyways

i have a song called 'school is bullshit'

on the messageboard on the internet

kids made fun of that

the kids are sarcastic

Yeah, so enough of my friends bugged me about me keeping them up-to-date that I just decided to start a blog again. Hopefully I can stick with this better than the last time, a few years ago, where I tried to start one and we know how well that turned out.

Anyways, I got back from London last Monday and I still think I'm a little jet-lagged. I know I shouldn't say that out loud because Jen will just tease me more about being a wimp, but that's the truth. Then most of the last week was spent playing catch-up. Last night was the first time all week I really got to "cut loose", bar-hopping downtown and then finishing the night in K-town, for old time's sake.

As for tonight, who can say? Hit me up if you're out and want to meet up sometime between, say, 10 and 6 ...

Here I am back home between shifts. There’s a pizza warming in the oven and a bottle of red wine on the kitchen table so I’m spending a few minutes back on my blog while I wait for my late lunch to be ready.

One thing began to worry me this morning. I put my real name on here. Which I suppose is fine, it’s not like I’m a criminal or anything. But it struck me that here is the place I plan to open up and I’m not going to be able to do that if there’s a chance that someone who knows me might read it. So as soon as I came in I took my real name off.

Then I began thinking again. I don’t want to go under the name of Smooth Blue. It’s not a people name, it’s a blog name. I don’t want to be anonymous either. I’ve decided to use the name Mandy (I know it’s the name of a song by Barry Manilow but you can’t have everything!) I’ll add Mandy to the three other names I use on the net. What did I say before about split personality?

Anyway, I’ve just heard a ‘ping’ from the kitchen so I’m off to eat, drink and watch a couple of episodes of ‘Scrubs’ on DVD. Talk to you soon.

Hey look, I've got the date written in Romanian - how cool is that!!!

Come on girls, its been five minutes and no-one's sent any comments yet - what's the matter with this internet thingy? I thought it was heaving with girls in hyperdrive or whatever its called.

Anyway, just thought I'd tell you all that its sunny here in Ulanbaatar (bet you don;t know where that is, do you).

Diddly eye do diddly eye do - wonder if I keep typing forever will it fill up the whole internetxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxhfgyroweuir;idsafkjsfsoeroewfjsoiujoru

(There isn;t anythign that bad in my underwear drawer, by the way, just in case anyone's reading this
who shouldn't be :-( [that's one of those clever sideways face things, byt the way, in case you didn;t know - see I do know how to do all this stufff)]

Hellow world! Hellow universe!!! Its me, the Jez-Meister, here to entertain, inspire and confound you with my tales of derring-do (no, seriously) and the fearless exploits of a fearless man in a fearful world. Come along with me, and I'll show you the entire contents of my underwear drawer (oops, maybe not) and let you into my secrets on how to have a wild night out and live to tell the tale. Heh heh heh...

damn, I think I've pushed the wrong

testing testing 123

I'm feeling good today. Had a bad night but now I’m raring to go. It’s been a tough few months: I’ve felt like a tiny boat being tossed about on a stormy grey sea. But this morning, I believe I can get it all under control. The future spreads out before me like a smooth blue ocean under a cloudless sky.

This blog is one of the things I’m going to do to make my life better. Not that I think it will solve everything but I know I need to talk, to let go the things that whir round my head at night and stop me sleeping. It’s not that I don’t have people to talk to. I’m not a Billie-No-Mates. I have lots of people to talk to. Friends at work, friends on the net, my mother (if I was really desperate and didn’t want a sensible answer) or my sister. But they aren’t the right people to talk to about the things I want to say. They wouldn’t understand or they’d lecture me about it or they’d know exactly what I needed to do but it wouldn’t be what I wanted to do or be the right thing to do. Or they’d understand exactly what my problems are but they have the same problems and they’re not admitting to them in public either.

And I have to say, most of these people don’t really know me. They think they do. They see this sensible, level-headed, career-oriented nurse who works hard and occasionally plays hard. Who never lets things get her down, never steps beyond the boundaries of what is sensible, never takes a risk, never makes a gamble. But when I lock my door at night and turn on my computer then I become someone else, someone they don’t know, maybe even someone they wouldn’t like. I’ve turned into a split personality.

Oh no. I’ve just looked at the clock and realised it’s time to get ready for work. I’m working on a split today. 10 till 2, then 6 till 10. But don’t worry. I’ll be back. (Who was it who said that?)

I live alone. And the state (or wherever it is I am) says I can't go outside. At least, not past the plastic wood shed.
So what? I'm having a great time. Even if no one around here believes me. Even if my family says I need "counseling" to deal with what I did.

I still get visitors. Often. Not loved ones or anything. Even better -

Women. Fucking crazy women.

i grew up in india

i am white

i felt alone in india

now i am a squatter in new york city

young people enjoy my music

i have three bands

these are punk bands

two are ska bands

i have a drum machine

The Dwellers of Athraxos

In order to get a better grasp of the world of Athraxos, you should first read this short guide to the races who live there.

First is the religion of the Sand Dwellers. They worship the first Sand Dweller ever born, who is said to have come from the egg of the egg-laying giant Xylox; his name is Xyloxsun, which in Sand Dweller language means Son of Xylox.

Second is a race of shaggy, buck toothed, green trolls, who appear to act quite wacky to we humans. They often wear bright clothing, and will often provide comic relief to those tough moments. They have funny, high-pitched voices.

Thirdis the religion of Sirenia. The Sirenians are a race of blue-skinned nymphs, all of whom are female, and they must mate with other races in order to reproduce. Most of the erotic parts of the book involve Sirenians, and I will charge $5 per chapter involving Sirenians. I'm sorry I must take this step, but I do not want children viewing adult content.

First post! Woo!