Happy 23rd!

typed for your pleasure on 23 July 2004, at 3.22 am

It’s come to my attention whilst driving round the streets ov Detroit; from looking at the vehicles, one would surmise that the ‘in’ thing is to have some sort ov body panel damage. Seriously, every fourth or fifth car has something wrong with it — a cracked fender, a dented quarter panel, a broken-and-shoddily-taped-over taillight.. If you ask me, this is just further proof that most ov the people out there need to not be driving, period..

Picked up the new Hives Cd on the way to work, and gave it a cursory listen on the way home. So far, not bad! It’s less the mix ov ‘Kraftwerk meets the Sex pistols’ that Howlin’ Pelle said it would be, but more like Devo meets the Jam, if you can dig that. It’s really Eightiesy. Gotta give it a good honest listening-to, but so far, I’d still say that ‘Veni vidi vicious’ is their best release

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(the pre-work post du jour)

typed for your pleasure on 22 July 2004, at 5.16 pm

Just woke up after a delicious set ov micro-dreams; one wherein I was giving this lass that I know a foot massage. (One thing you, the readers, will get to learn about me, is that I have a serious fetish for female feet. I’ve tried shock therapy, but I believe that only exacerbated the problem. C’est la vie..)

Also, if you’re living in or near the tri-county area ov southeast Michigan, Patrick, my best friend from Cleveland, will be performing his synthy-dancy-crazy music stylee with his band Subliminal Self over at Paycheck’s Lounge in Hamtramck on Fri, 6 Aug. Go see him, shake his hand, and call him friend

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No habla shitwick

typed for your pleasure on 22 July 2004, at 3.23 am

Here’s one for the Philosophers: Why do people feel the need to bluff their way thru a language that they don’t fluently speak? Typical scene at work:

ME: Hi, Mrs Vallejo?
ME: I’m calling from [company name]. How are ya this afternoon?
CLUELESS (nervous laughter): Wha?
ME (louder, slower): HOOWWW AAARE YOOUUUUU.
CLUELESS: Uh… I not… I…
ME (near my limit): Se habla Englis?
CLUELESS: Poquito.

Little tip: if the first sentence you hear from this strange gringo on the phone is in a language that you don’t understand, the first thing out ov your mouth should be ‘Sorry, I speak no English’. Don’t try to be clever and bluff your way thru a conversation, cos despite your sudden thirst for linguistic knowledge, it’s just not gonna work. Simply come clean, and admit that you haven’t a clue as to what I’m saying; that way, both ov us save time, and can move on with our lives.

I consider myself a thinking individual. If I were staying at a friend’s place in, say, Germany, and I was the only one in the house when the phone rang, would I answer it? No. Why not? Because for one, I don’t answer other peoples’ phones unless they specifically ask me to do so, and most importantly, I don’t know enough German to hold a conversation.
Now it could be argued that most ov the calls that non-English speakers make & receive are conducted in their native tongue, and the last thing they expect is someone phoning up and talking at them in English. Valid point, I grant you, but I can’t stand it when the person I’m calling feels the need to drag it out. Don’t keep asking me questions if you can’t understand my answers; it’s just that simple

(BTW, this is in no way railing against the Hispanic community, Spanish-speakers, or anyone who speaks English as a second language. I’m just railing against stupidity. If I had been brought up in Spain, spoke Spanish as my primary language, and was doing the exact same job I am now and getting the occasional English speaker, it’d be the same damn situation)

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I am not making this up, vol.1

typed for your pleasure on 21 July 2004, at 7.50 am

Remember, I’m merely reporting the things that I had seen, heard, witnessed, or was told by a certain ex-roommate. It could be reasonably argued that she was a pathological liar.. err, fanciful storyteller, ov Munchausean proportions.
*deep breath* Right, here we go..

Round mid-2002, when I was living at the spectacular No.23 Deafening silence, Tomas, my friend ov several years who was living in No.9 in the same apartment building, introduced me to She Who Must Not Be Named (or ‘the Slag’ for short); they knew each other due to the fact that Tomas went to highschool with her boyfriend, hereafter to be known as Capt.Dipshit. At the time, she was usually employed as a stripper — sorry, exotic dancer — and Tomas had mentioned to her that I had a goth RealDoll. Since the Slag was a goth herself (well, to be honest, a Mansonite), she was intrigued by the concept, and wanted to meet me & Shi-chan.

After the initial meeting, which went rather well, we played phone tag & fired the occasional Email at each other, and then kinda lost contact for a bit. Then in early 2003, I discovered she got a job working at NOIR Leather, our local tri-county area fetish emporium, so I’d pick her up from work periodically. We’d hang out for a few hours at No.23, then I’d have to deliver her back home (she had no vehicle ov her own, y’see, and Cpt.Dipshit worked dodgy hours). Round this point, she was growing tired ov being involved with the Captain, as she claimed that every chance he’d get, he’d berate her for something or other. He’s an ex-Marine, and bipolar, she explained. So I would persuade her to spend the occasional night round at mine; we would sleep together, but we never had it off. In retrospect, that was probably for the best.


SWMNBN was 23 years old at the time I met her, and a Gemini. She had a mum who was a teacher living in Ferndale, and she claimed her father left them at an early age. (I never saw any evidence ov the man, so this could be true). The Slag claimed that she was 50% German-American on her mother’s side, and 50% Native American on her father’s side. She had also, on several instances, stated that her great-grandfather worked in a concentration camp during WWII, and had smuggled one ov the famous ‘lamps with shades made from Jew flesh’ when he came to live in the States. The Slag, who claims to be ‘sensitive’ to spirits & apparitions, stated that when she had seen the lamp, that she knew it was the genuine article, due to the bad vibes she got from it.

She claims that at an early age, her mother used to enter her into those creepy JonBenet-style beauty pageants. Shortly after, she claims to have been partially brought up by a strict Victorian grandmother, as she was made to wear corsets at an early age, the results ov which were a buggered-up ribcage. On one ov her birthdays (sorry, can’t remember which one; I’d say sometime between her twelfth & fifteenth one), she was told by her mother that she had a big surprise waiting for her. The surprise was a stay in Havenwyck, a mental institution, for several years. The Slag claims that her mum didn’t know how to handle such a rambunctious child, and was having problems dealing with her husband running away, that she decided the best thing for all concerned was to institutionalise her daughter. It was there that The Slag met fellow Mansonite & problem child Twiggy (cos The Slag was nicknamed ‘Manson’ whilst in Havenwyck, y’see). Several years pass, and instead ov being released for good behaviour, The Slag decides to break out ov the institution, with the help ov a lass she knew on the inside, and this lass’ brother. Some misadventures involving the brother driving all three ov them off in a stolen car, and subsequently being captured later, The Slag was back in stir. Later, she claims, she & the Captain cross paths (forgot how that was developed or explained), and after filing several stacks ov papers, she’s released under his custody, where they stay with his father. She & the Captain weren’t in love to start out with, but eventually they fell in love, and got an apartment together.

For brevity’s sake, I’ll leave out the bits in between then & now, as they’re pretty inconsequential. In brief, she lived with the Captain for a while, got into a row with him, moved out, and ended up being back with him again. Over the two & a half years that I knew her, she will have tried to leave the Captain four times.


Please address all questions towards the Comments link, as over the course ov these installments, I’ll undoubtedly leave some detail or other out, due to those parts ov my memory being mostly locked away for sanity’s sake.

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typed for your pleasure on 21 July 2004, at 4.48 am

Making up for a shitty day at work — I got written up for pulling a recent no-call, no-show — when I got home this eve, my package from Merlin Enterprises had finally arrived. w00t!

it’s Punitive Guillotinna, a character created by another one ov my favourite artists, Yasushi Nirasawa. The guillotine actually works, too!
And until I can suss how to add permanent outgoing links to this blog (I don’t think this template supports links, but it’s aesthetically the best one on offer, so I’m not changing it), here’s some links to sites by friends ov mine:

+ Five Dollar Beer – Patrick, synthesiser boffin from Cleveland
+ The BackroomMonti, screenwriter extraordinaire
+ The House of Rotating KnivesJeff, Wellesian archivist & Arsenal supporter
+ Kitten with a Whip! – my Synthetik Mistress & sex slave 😉

There’s gotta be a way to add external links. I’ll check the forums & see what I can scare up. Wish me luck

EDIT (1.22am): That was deceptively easy. Look to your left!

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typed for your pleasure on 20 July 2004, at 4.39 pm

A signed & numbered Trevor Brown silkscreen for only $100 USD?? EGAD!!

crash babies silkscreen
an extra print not included in the crash babies portfolio above – six colours – 28 x 36cm – 160 signed and numbered copies

price includes postage!

I am so buying this with my next paycheque. Or maybe the cheque after that

EDIT (2.11 pm): Okay, so I just bought one. I’m so weak.
In my eyes, this kinda makes up for the fact that I wasn’t around in the Sixties, and therefore unable to buy art from another fave artist, such as Andy Warhol. Whenever I read about how back then, he was selling original pieces for like $75 or $100, it’s like a punch in the bollocks. But NOW! Now I have a really cool piece by the notorious Trevor Brown, for an entirely reasonable price. To give you an example, I have one ov his books; ‘Forbidden fruit’. 80 pages, $50. A lot ov his books are kinda up there in price, and most are limited edition. But I’ll be looking forward to prominently displaying my silkscreen up on a wall! Once I move into my own place, that is

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typed for your pleasure on 20 July 2004, at 4.15 pm

I mentioned in a previous post that I was slightly depressed. It’s an on-again, off-again kinda ov thing; nothing clinically serious, but it’s insidiously ever-present. I’ve pretty much been this way roughly since January ov this year, and it all started because ov a girl. But I’ll get to that in a moment.

Currently, I’m thirty-one years ov age, and living back at my parents’ house, which is a quarter-ton barrel ov fun, believe me. I’m attending courses at a nearby community college so I can obtain a degree in court reporting/broadcast captioning, as my current job ov fundraiser *coughtelemarketercough* sucks an incredible amount ov cock & balls. I decided to go into the court reporting thang, as I did some looking into it, and it fits two essential criteria ov mine perfectly:
1) it’s a lucrative job
2) you don’t have to deal with a lot ov people if you don’t want to.
Round December 03, I enrolled in the Elsa Cooper school of Court Reporting, where I was told this story: One ov their graduates has a job where she works four hours a day — from noon to 2pm, and from 6 to 8pm — doing the onscreen captioning for a local television news programme from her home. This woman makes about $65,000 a year. Yeah, that cash register sound? That came from me. See the $$ signs in my eyes?

Ever since the Telecommunications Act in 1995 was passed, stating that all programmes shown on American television have to be close-captioned by 2005, there’s been a huge job field open, and the best people to do this would be those trained as court reporters, as they have crazy typing speed. But there’s currently a lack ov court reporters available. See where I’m going with this? So I signed up at Elsa Cooper, one ov the preeminent schools in the nation. Trouble was, they were undergoing some changes; they were being bought by another company, and changing their name to Key Institute, which would hopefully allow them to offer financial aid to students, as they weren’t an accredited school. So I signed up, paid my entrance fee ov $95, and took & passed the entrance exam in December, with classes beginning in January. January rolls around, and they delay the start ov classes for a fortnight. Two weeks later, the school closes its doors after 44 years. Apparently, the deal with the Other Company That Was Buying Them Out fell thru, and they had to close. I was advised to look into classes at Oakland Community College, as their classes are the most similar to Elsa Cooper’s. Needless to say, I was crestfallen.

So yep, I’m at my parents’, not paying rent so I can pay for school. I’m jumping thru some serious fucking hoops right now to try to get a grant, which I’m sure I’ll touch upon in a future entry. But I guess between my telemarketing job & the person I used to live with, my experiences with them were so hideously unpleasant, that it drove me to say ‘I need to do something to get out ov this situation before I kill her, and then kill myself’. And if I’m dead, how would I be able to move to Toronto? There’s no such thing as a ‘corpse visa’. So I suppose I should thank my ex-roommate for being such a despicable slag, otherwise I would be much more miserable, and probably in prison, or decomposing. Thanx, you ridiculous tart!

Oops! We’re out ov time! Heh heh. 🙂 I’ll get to the details ov the Slag later. TUNE IN NEXT TIME!

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