October 13th, 2003


Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk

Ardennes Mediterranean pate is a contradiction in terms. A contradiction that led me to the bathroom in the early hours. Not much sleep after.
One junk message for me this morning contained the following information:
Robertson, Your special invite to a wild evening, lay siege to their chief city, Ismarus, which he took, and with it much spoil,
I didn't click on the link, partially because it was addressed to a Mr Khan. Ismarus was a city that Ulysses attacked after leaving Troy, much in the manner of a Serbian paramilitary group, killing the men and keeping the women. But the sender was almost a friend's name. Does anybody compose these messages or is there some program which arbitratrily cuts and slices text from random literary sources. I've never read anything about the true origins of this kind of garbled message and who is behind them. Either someone sends them or they just replicate themselves around the net and perhaps in the hunt for understanding. They're slowly getting to grips with language through imitation and repetition, just as some are devolving into "Du´®ƒxxx bes pic ru s2393?'. But for all I know, those ones could be saying something far more profound. Unfortunately for them, their obsession with sexual issues is off-putting to many. An entity circles the planet. What would make a suitable gift for these people, it thinks. Why, pictures of themselves having sex obviously, they seem to be very popular. I come in peace. I love you...

An afternoon down at the Fiddler's Elbow. Okkervil River were playing. They were alright, but I kept noticing that the lead singer's eyes were too close together and the bass player's too far apart. There was a strange symmentry in that. I had one eye on the cryptic crossword that lay on the table.
I read an interview with Rufus Wainwright in the Sunday paper as I drank Guinness and friends drifted in. He was coming clean about a crystal meth problem he'd had until recently. This warmed me to him once more. Finally there was an actual celebrity in recovery from crystal meth. I don't mean it callously. I am just glad that now I can say 'You know, that thing Rufus Wainwright had a bit of a problem with.' What a choice poster boy for the cause - unlike Rush Limbaugh for hillbilly heroin when he cleans up. If I was 14, I would plaster my room in pictures of Rufus, take to playing opera loudly at all hours and try and affect his accent. So much of the interview rang true with my own story. I can't say I ever hallucinated a box full of Jerry Garcia porn mags though. Today, Rufus, I am entirely in love with you and promise to buy your new album and annoy 98% of my friends by playing it ceaselessly. It will be perfect for autumn. Good luck.

I ended up searching for Denis Lavant fans, there is only one and he is , who, together with his lover , have the misfortune to be at odds with much of the modern world around them. I fear the battle maybe lost unless a time machine transports the two back to Paris sometime roughly between the fall of the Commune and the establishment of the Vichy Republic. I do hope he won't object to the inclusion of this one line recounting part of a visit to France/Belgium, I loved their holiday:
"Amar was in the midst of preparing dinner for us. He speaks little English; after a couple of hours I felt like I had exhausted my entire French vocabulary on him, finding excuses to use words such as fosseyeur, seringue, and marteau de forgeron."

This, together with Rufus and the alcohol, helped assuage the memories of Amanda. I took her photograph to the pub, I was worried that the house might burn down and then it would be lost forever. I couldn't take that thought. There are more stories to tell, but not quite yet.
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