Music, Fangirling, Art, illustration, boys and genderqueers in suits, occasional ramblings yn Kernewek. Born in London; raised in New York; lives in London. Younger than 4/5 of Radiohead and older than 2/3 of Interpol.
When somebody reblogs one of your photos, but strips all of the snide commentary off it.
Here’s a nice pic.
Happy birthday you handsome human being!
You know, it took me a good five minutes of staring at this photo to work out who it was. Mostly because… what the fuck has it got on its legs?
Happy birthday, you fuck. Your bass playing still sucks. But quitting your band was the best thing you ever did for me.
Why can’t there be a male hooter’s equivalent where male servers are shirtless and highly sexualized for their bodies and looks
Male Strip clubs. You’re thinking of male strip clubs.
No. Not a male strip club. A strip club is a strip club. I want a place called Cahones where waiters wear Speedos and are forced to stuff if they don’t fill out their uniform well enough. I want them to giggle for my tips. I want it to be so normalised and engrained in our culture that women bring their daughters there for lunch (because whaaaaaat the wings are good! Geeze sensitive much?) where they’ll give playful little nudges like, “Wouldn’t mind if you dad had those. Heh heh heh.” that their daughters don’t even understand but will absorb and start to assume is just the normal way grown up women talk about grown up men. I want to playfully ask my waiter if I can have extra nuts on my salad and for him to swat my arm with an Oh, you because he knows if he doesn’t his manager will yell at him. I want other men to pretend to like going there so I think they’re cool. I want to go to Cahones during my lunch break at work and when I come back and tell the other women in the office where I went they chuckle slightly and the men around us suddenly feel self conscious and they don’t know why.
Feeling really kinda disconnected today. After 4 days off I took an extra day off yesterday to go to Epping Forest. I was expecting there to be bluebells. (Biggin Wood, locally, is a mass of bluebells.) But there were no bluebells, and I don’t know if London bluebells are just earlier than Essex bluebells because London is 5 degrees warmer than Essex, or if Epping Forest is too full of beeches, which suck up all the light and make it so that there is no ground cover. The walk was beautiful, and it was half rainy and misty, with sudden bursts of sun, so the light was beautiful, and all of the trees are just starting to unfurl into spring, and everything is that light, ever so slightly minty green of fresh buds, like the trees are just sort of fuzzy and glowing with green, and it’s lovely.
But I got back home to no phone messages (and I haven’t checked my work related emails yet (update: nothing in work related emails, either. That’ll be a “no” then.)) and nothing about a job at all ever. Usually if it’s good news, they pester you with phone calls, so it’s a bad sign for there to be nothing.
I’m thinking of ending therapy. Partly because I don’t have the money, and it’s my single biggest expense after my mortgage. And partly because I think it’s making me *more* solipsistic, not less. It’s pretty much my only non-mediated social contact at the moment. (And even my mediated social contact is getting fewer and far between.) My Mum rings me for an hour on Saturdays, and I see my shrink for an hour on Thursdays. I don’t know that it’s going anywhere any more. I just digest the events of the week, and it’s nice, but it’s a luxury. And going to a shrink doesn’t really count as socialising, because it’s all so one-sided, and all about me, and part of my problem with making new friends is I don’t fucking *know* how to talk to people and ask them about their lives (even though I do care and I am curious) so I just rabbit on about myself all the time. I don’t know how to connect to other people, and just sitting in a room in Bloomsbury talking about myself for an hour does not seem to help me learn that.
But mostly because it’s expensive and I don’t have the money. And with what little money I have left I feel like I should really go and travel and walk in the woods and walk by the seaside instead.
I am really tempted to just spam up your dashboards with pictures of Marianne Faithfull because she is so damned beautiful, but just to ~foreshadow~ this outfit will be very very salient in Sudden-Onset Celebrity in about a year (a year in novel time, at least)…
OK, so Metropolis have crashed and burned after losing their drummer at the Continental gig. But who needs a band when you’re spending a weekend in bed, with your record collection and a beautiful girlfriend who loves music maybe even more than you do?
(I must confess, the latter half of this chapter owes a great deal to a discussion with Nick Southall where I tried to explain the difference between Production, Engineering, Mixing and Mastering. I did warn you Daniel was a bit of an author insert.)
Because I’m bored, I’m going to explain some of the names and references for the main characters. Now obviously, you can picture the characters however you like, but these people provided the names for the characters:
Why is Daniel called Daniel Asheton? (I also borrowed a lot of Dieter’s more provocative outfits from this guy.)
Put on Germany’s Most Disturbing Home Videos because now is the time on Sprockets when Dieter dances! I wouldn’t recommend touching his monkey, though, you don’t know what you’ll catch.