Tag Archives: Nick Cave

The Joys of Teeny Tiny Movies!!

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Wow. I’m going to start right off with a digression.

Valentine’s Day on Instagram is quite a fertile little world, in and of itself. The things people choose to post can be just really illuminating.

A poet I follow who lives in Canada — I actually know her, but we haven’t worked together in years. She seems to have quite an eclectic assortment of vibrators. And they also seem to have some sort of seasonal appeal. Meaning — much like me and my dishes — she has favorites for various times of the year and she photographs them (just the vibrator itself) and posts it to Instagram.

Yesterday, of course, she posted a photo of her Valentine’s Day vibrator. (It was red and looked almost sort of like a heart – in a Salvador Dali kind of way).

It would never, in a million years, occur to me to post anything like that to Instagram (or anywhere, actually). (Not that I have an eclectic assortment of vibrators. I’m just saying.)

But I guess, in a way, that’s art. Or perhaps visual erotic poetry, or something like that. (When she’s not photographing vibrators for the various holidays, she photographs chairs — all sorts of chairs that she sees abandoned on the streets.) (There are quite a huge amount of chairs abandoned on the streets in Canada, in case you were curious.)

Of course, Dana Petty posted a beautiful photo of herself with Tom, and said something about love, quoting Anais Nin. And then, moments later, one of Tom’s daughters posted a photo of Tom with his first wife, Jane. (So the step-mother-daughter feud seems to be alive and well out there in LA.)

Tom, of course, didn’t post anything at all to his Instagram page this year because he’s dead.

(Although his “official page” is still alive and well.) (And kicks into high gear whenever there’s something new from WB Records to merchandize — to make money off of him, posthumously.)

(Which only always makes me think of that staggering song he wrote, “Joe,” from The Last DJ album in 2002: So burned out Johnny thinks the books are shifty/ What good’s that alky to me when he’s fifty?/ Well we could move catalog if he’d only die quicker/ Send my regards to the gig and a case of good liquor/ He gets to be famous, I get to be rich/ He gets to be famous, I get to be rich…)

Then there was the usual assortment of really, really cute animal videos for Valentine’s Day.  (And I mean, really cute, gang. From owls to koalas, to tiny kittens playing with baby pigs. Just too fucking cute.)

And, of course, the veritable deluge of Keanu photos for Valentine’s Day. Currently, they are mostly of him with his mom at the Oscars (his fall-back female when he wants the paparazzi to fuck-off). (He has taken his mom to many, many, camera ops over the decades. And she always looks so fucking good. That mom of his doesn’t age at all.)

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Keanu in 2020, at age 55; Mom, ageless

(I’m seriously hoping that he and that really cool artist woman haven’t broken up, and that her absence was only a case of her saying “no way am I ever appearing with you in public again, dude, ever” — because she seriously got eaten alive by the tabloids after that last thing at the LA Art Museum-Gucci thing.  They just seemed so fucking happy together, though, so I would really hate to think they broke up. And he still looked really happy at the Oscars — (not that I watched it, I see the world through my Instagram feed!) (I hate awards shows) — I don’t think he’s got any kind of a broken heart or anything; I think maybe he just enjoys fucking with the tabloids.)

Anyway. A lot gets revealed on Instagram. Especially on Valentine’s Day. Or perhaps even very early the following morning. I, however, only ever post photos of my various cats or what the weather looks like outside of my various windows, or if there’s a full moon over Basin Street. Always the same sort of non-committal thing. (The blog is revealing enough, I think.)

Oh, and the official Nick Cave page posted a promo for his upcoming art exhibit in Copenhagen that was very humorous — and extremely short. I watched it 3 times before I realized I was watching the same clip over & over. But it was funny.

It had all the elements of an Abstract Absurdity Production, in fact!!

Which actually was what I wanted to post about today. All that stuff up above this is just a massive digression.

Peitor and I got such great work done on the “Lita” script yesterday! And I know this will sound perhaps absurd and abstract in and of itself, but we still only got 3 scenes onto the written page. And those scenes will each last 45 seconds or less. Still, it was great work. And even though it took hours, we were really, really happy with what we had accomplished when we were done working for the day.

(And then Peitor texted later in the evening, to say that we needed a shot of “the desk against the wall once we hear the keys in the door” and, once I thought about it, I saw that he was completely correct. I know that we probably seem insane, but this movie is going to be so fucking cool. Totally absurd and abstract and even a little erotic and disturbing and also quite lovely to look at!)

(And our micro-micro-micro shorts are going to be completely awesome, gang. Every time I think about them, I can’t help but chuckle out loud. We are planning to shoot 2 of those this year. I don’t think we’ll be shooting the “Lita” script this year, or, if we do, it will be very, very late in the year– yes (!!), probably when The Guide To Being Fabulous is premiering in Toronto. Because we refuse to even consider beginning shooting “Lita” until I get that specific A-list actor that I want for the key role. I’m so absolutely serious about that, gang.)

Well, we are planning to have the Abstract-Absurdity web site launched on April 1st, and a couple of the micro-shorts will be streaming there. So, I’ve gotta  lot of work to do there. But I will, no doubt, keep you posted.

Today, I am either going to work some more on In the Shadow of Narcissa — OR — write something Thug Luckless-related! Yes, gang, he’s pushing against the insides of my brain, trying to get onto the paper, too! So we’ll see.

And I spoke at length with Sandra yesterday — she’s up in Canada, now. And, based on her rehearsal schedule up there,  it sounds like the table-reads for Tell My Bones will begin in NYC in March. Shit. So — yeah. I gotta get my mind around that. March is, like, 14 seconds away. Thank god I don’t have to cast that thing. All I have to do is show up.

(And — NO! — even though it is super-duper incredibly easy to get to Copenhagen from JFK, I am not going to try to fit in a micro-short trip to Copenhagen to see the Nick Cave art exhibit! It is not going to happen, because it will only complicate my schedule, my work, my bank account, my life — so it ain’t happening. I’m not even going to think about it, or so much as ponder the logistics of it. And all the airline-booking-deal-alerts that pop onto my computer to tell me what flight deals might be lurking in the direction of Copenhagen will simply be ignored!!)

Yep. Absolutely.

And on that note!!! I’m gonna get started here, gang!! Have a wonderful, wonder-filled Saturday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I’m not gonna leave you with “Joe” today, even though it is an intense little song — it’s a bit too jaded and acerbic for my tastes here this morning. But I will leave you with something else from The Last DJ (such a great album, gang): “Have Love, Will Travel.” So fucking beautiful. All righty! I love you guys. See ya!

“Have Love, Will Travel”

You never had a chance, did you baby
So good-looking, so insecure
And now you say you can’t remember
When the lines you drew began to blur

Yeah, when all of this is over
Should I lose you in the smoke
I want you to know you were the one

And may my love travel with you everywhere
Yeah, may my love travel with you always

Maggie’s still trying to rope a tornado
Joe’s in the backyard trying to keep things simple
And the lonely DJ’s diggin’ a ditch
Trying to keep the flames from the temple

Oh, and if perhaps I lose you
In the smoke down the road
I want you to know you were the one

And may my love travel with you everywhere
Yeah, may my love travel with you always

How about a cheer for all those bad girls
And all the boys that play that rock and roll
They love it like you love Jesus
It does the same thing to their souls

And when all of this is over
Should I lose you in the smoke
I want you to know that it’s all right

And may my love travel with you everywhere
Yeah, may my love travel with you always

c- 2002 Tom Petty

It’s So Fucking Hard to be Good!

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(Yes, yes, I know — it’s so fucking good to be hard, too. But we’re not going there! This is a tasteful blog!!) (I know, like — since when??)

Anyway. I digress already!!

Last night, at the Rowland S. Howard Pop Crimes tribute in London, Nick Cave sang “Shivers” and it was so fucking amazing. I am so serious. His voice was incredible. The song sounded so beautiful.

I wasn’t there, obviously. I was toiling away for hours, here at my mini-desk in Crazeysburg, working on Girl in the Night. But people who actually were there began posting to Instagram right away. Even Nick Cave’s wife posted to Instagram right away — a 59 second video of him singing. (Yeah, I know — I was kinda thinking: really? you think you ought to be doing that? setting that kind of an example and all?) Still, I was indescribably grateful because the song sounded so fucking good.

I knew it had to be on YouTube somewhere — the complete performance of that song. And I hate supporting that kind of thing because, in America anyway, that is a total violation of all sorts of copyrights. It’s not an American song, or an American performance, and probably not an American uploading it to YouTube, so I don’t know the actual laws on that, but still. I don’t like to support that kind of thing. However, I did find it immediately and I did listen to it twice.

Jesus, it was so good. It made me feel so happy — Nick Cave’s voice has never sounded better. Really. I feel certain that Rowland S. Howard was smiling all over that performance.

Well, regarding the new segments of Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. If you’ve read them, you’ll see that they are indeed quite different from the other segments of the book. I’m not sure why they came out that way, but they did.

I know that some of the guys and gals I met in the mental hospital will reappear in a later “Letter” and it will likely be more graphic in nature — I fell in love in the hospital, but I also did have a ton of sex in that place (and I never got caught, even though a few times, it was by the skin of my teeth, as they say. A lot of the other kids in there did get caught having sex, and when that happened, the Administration came down really hard. There was really hell to pay then, because the hospital was legally obligated to tell the parents, and so then the parents got involved and you can just imagine how awful that was for the teenagers. Anyway. I never got caught.).

(Oh, and there was this one girl in there that I really just hated and she hated me. And she was so jealous that I was having all that oral sex with the blue-eyed blond boy — and he was really cute and he did really excel at his, well, craft or whatever. But that girl was so jealous that she finally convinced him, behind my back, to have sex with her, too. But for some reason, she actually had intercourse with him. And then she told me. Because she wanted to hurt my feelings. And it hurt like crazy — although I wasn’t a big fan of intercourse and couldn’t really imagine why she thought that was better than having oral sex because, I’ll tell you, that boy was good at it. But, regardless. Me being that easy- breezy 1967-type of no-strings gal (see the recent Glen Campbell post and “Gentle on My Mind”), I tried to act like I wasn’t really, really hurt by this. Well, then…as God would have it… the girl’s Fallopian tubes swelled up! It got really bad. So they made her go to the gynecologist, too, and he of course, discerned that she’d been having intercourse and she got into HUGE trouble. Just huge. Because they told her parents and her dad was a freaking minister. Seventh Day Adventist, to boot. Really strict and conservative, and she got into so much trouble; she was put on room arrest and all her privileges were taken away. And then some other female-organ complication ensued wherein she had to have an enema, too. Poor thing. I was de-lighted.)

Okay, anyway.

For whatever reason, #6 & 7 are just really different segments of the book. And I’m going to let them stand as they are, because that’s how they wanted to come out.

Well, it is continuing to snow here — like, for real. Snow everywhere, and it’s accumulating. So that’s really nice. I love snow.

And yesterday afternoon, Wayne finally called me from NYC to tell me he loved the new version of Tell My Bones and he didn’t see anything wrong at all with the ending.

So I guess I’m signing off on it. And moving forward. It’s such a weird feeling. I know that more tweaks will happen as the readings and the rehearsals and then the play itself is actually underway, still, for now, the play is done. And it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around that because I’ve been working on this theatrical adaptation of Tell My Bones since 2016.

Plus, it also means, we are indeed finally moving forward. Wow. Exciting. I know that some really talented people are going to get pulled into these roles — I just know it.

Well, today, I’m going to get back to In the Shadow of Narcissa. While researching more potential small presses to send Blessed By Light to (in the event I ever hear back from any of the other publishers I queried and they decline it), I did notice quite a few chapbook publishing options for a book like Narcissa. So that was cool. And yesterday, I got a really nice comment from an online reader, and it sort of solidified for me that, even though Narcissa is getting emotionally difficult for me to write, it will be a really, really good thing to keep moving forward with it. So I’m going to get back to that today.

Before I close, Wayne told me the coolest story yesterday.  In NYC, a lot of people sell used books on the street as a way to make money. And over a year ago, Wayne bought a hard cover edition of Chuck Berry’s Autobiography. The guy selling it only wanted two dollars, even though Wayne offered to give him more than that because it was a hard cover. But all the guy wanted was two dollars.

So Wayne gave him the two dollars and then took the book home, set it on a coffee table and then, over a year later, finally decides he wants to read it. He opens the book and it’s not only a first edition, but it’s signed by Chuck Berry. And not only is it signed by him, but there’s also a personal inscription because Chuck Berry apparently actually knew the guy who was buying the book.

So, wow. That was a really cool thing to get for two dollars. But then, as Wayne is reading the book, in small chunks, on subways and on city buses, etc., he was then in the Union Club yesterday, on Park Avenue, still reading the book and suddenly a $50 bill falls out from between some of the back pages! And he was, like, “Where the hell did that come from?” So he flips through the back pages of the book and there was a ton of money in it! Over $200 in 50s and 20s!! And it had been sitting like that in the apartment of over a year.

And on top of all that — Wayne said that the book is actually really good!

Isn’t that an amazing story?! All right. I’m gonna scoot and get down to work here. Tomorrow is all about Abstract Absurdity with Peitor again, so I really want to try to focus on Narcissa here today.

Have just a wonderful Thursday, wherever you are in the world. I’m not gonna leave you with what I would really love to leave you with today, but I just don’t think it’s okay to do that. So I’ll just leave you with this. It’s from an Australian news site, and I’m guessing there’s a copyright on the photo, too, but I can’t find a name (and I did look).  Okay, I love you guys. See ya!

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Nick Cave singing “Shivers” last night at the Rowland S. Howard tribute concert in London.

Such Intense Decisions!

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Do I want to post to the blog, or keep doing the paperwork for my taxes?

I’ll tell you this much — I am astounded by all my business-related expenses from last year.  I am hoping the IRS will not feel similarly. They get sort of funny when your business expenses seem a little disproportionate to your business’s income…

However. I feel confident they will have plenty of reasons to tax me a whole lot more in 2020, so onward, gang!!

And in the middle of “crunching the numbers,” I got the much-anticipated text from the director of Tell My Bones. He loved the new character arc. He is going to try to pin down Sandra’s schedule (she starts rehearsals in Stratford, Canada in 5 days), and he wants to pin down the other actors and finally get the first table-read at the Dramatists Guild in NYC underway.

Which means, coincidentally, more intense contracts that I have to sign.

Which means also another business-related trip to NYC, almost immediately. (I just went through all my receipts from this past trip to NYC, for gas stations, restaurants, the Airbnb, Amtrak trains, many many many Lyft cabs — I got kind of exhausted, looking at all that stuff. And now I’m going to do it all over again. Although I think I will fly there… Right.)

I’m just getting so accustomed to being squirreled away in the peace & quiet of my sanctuary in the middle of nowhere…

Plus — did you know I maintain five websites now?? Well, I do. Funny how that happened. It seems like it was only yesterday when I sort of lost my mind and dismantled a ton of websites, stepped down from my many Executive Director positions, yadda, yadda, yadda, and maintained a single blog. And that was it.

And now it is, once again, five websites later. (Of course, none of them are anywhere near as time consuming as the old ones were. Just nowhere close to it.) (Which is why I’m not on prescription meds, I guess! Yay!) (And I sleep through the night now. Like a baby. Only occasionally waking up to wonder what Nick Cave might be wearing, but other than that, I sleep!)

Well, the Booty Core class went up a notch yesterday. Wow, did I feel the burn. But it’s okay. It’s still fun. I’m really liking it a lot. But it is definitely intense now. To the point that, late last evening, I realized I had burned through more calories than I usually do and my tummy was empty. And wanting ice cream, of all things. So off to the dollar store I went!!

And, boy, did I stand there and ponder.  Because, you know, I don’t want to bombard myself with junk. But I really, really wanted ice cream. It’s great that they put the calorie count right on the front of the tubs now. So I went for the lowest-calorie one with the least amount of bad stuff in it that would still be considered delicious ice cream.

And as I was getting ready to pay for it, a wee tiny voice in the far back of my brain cried out plaintively: buy milk! buy milk!

But for some fucking reason, I did not buy milk!! And now I am out again! But I still have coffee to drink!!

Aaaarrrgggh… Back to the dollar store I shall have to go.

A few days ago, at the store in town, I bought a really cool looking jar of instant coffee. I never drink instant coffee. But this jar had the coolest shape to it, and it was actually made of glass. And it didn’t cost much. I was just so attracted to the jar itself. And the instant coffee made me think of my friend/colleague in Exeter, England — the musician/artist who is a Croatian war exile. (I’ve blogged about him before.) But when I stayed with him in his place in Exeter, we always drank instant coffee and had very long, wonderful conversations. So it made me think very fondly of him.

So I bought the instant coffee, and I’m actually drinking it now in the afternoons, which means I’m going through way more milk than usual. (Because instant coffee tastes terrible, so you have to put a lot of milk in it.)

I’m guessing you think I’m insane, but my point here is that it’s an hour there & back, to the fucking market, because I live in the fucking middle of nowhere. I’d really rather not buy milk from the dollar store or the gas station, unless it’s, like, right now, and I fucking have to because I’m out of it. Again.

Which sort of reminds me (only because my Croatian friend in Exeter is gay)… if loyal readers of this lofty blog recall that, early last summer, a deaf guy made me that guitar-pick necklace? Well, he is also mentally handicapped. He can speak, but he’s loaded with stuff to enable him to hear.

I saw him the other day. He said, “Do you still have that necklace I made for you?”

And of course, I do. I just treasure that thing. So much. I was astounded when he gave it to me.  Out of the clear blue sky. That he even thought of me at all.

Well, he looked depressed. I mean, he actually looked on the verge of tears. I said, “What’s wrong?” And he was very angry at his girl friend because she had called him a homosexual. And then he said, “But I’m bisexual. I’m not homosexual. It’s not the same thing. I like boys and girls.”

I was just astounded that he was telling me this. (But I blogged about this recently — how young guys have always seemed to feel very comfortable telling me about their sexuality.) I was very supportive of him, you know. Obviously.  And it sounds like his girlfriend is a bitch. I didn’t tell him that, but I did tell him that his girlfriend sounded ignorant and he might want to break up with her. But I thought to myself: wow, this is so amazing; he’s deaf and mentally handicapped and yet in touch with bisexuality.

Just kind of awesome, right? (Oh, plus, I’m old enough to be his grandmother.) Anyway, I told him that I understood what he was saying about himself because I was bisexual, too. That I like both guys and gals but that I’m not a lesbian.

And he said, “You’re bisexual?!”

I said, “Yes.”

And then he hugged me and he said, “I will keep this to myself.”

Oh my god. It was just too precious. Just so sweet. It made my day.

Okay, well. I’m gonna grab lunch. Finish the taxes. (I think. Maybe.) (In fact, Wayne, my ex-husband in NYC, just now texted me my old accountant’s current phone number in NYC because, clearly, this is the last time I should attempt to do my own taxes!) And then I’m gonna feel a little bit more of the Booty Core burn!!

Oh, and last night, as Kansas City was winning the Superbowl, oddly enough, I was watching the episode of Ken Burns’ Jazz that’s all about Count Basie and the Kansas City stomp/jazz/blues/swing era. Another really great episode!! So much stuff that I didn’t know about Kansas City. So I’m gonna leave you today with “One O’clock Jump”! By Count Basie and his Orchestra, from 1937. Enjoy, gang. It really swings.

Okay, thanks for visiting. Have a terrific Monday, okay? I love you guys. See ya!

Don’t Puke — It’s Art!

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Jesus Christ — what a fucking day.

I have spent the entire day at my desk, working on In the Shadow of Narcissa (the memoir about my early childhood). Or trying to.

Primarily, I was just going to reformat it today from web pages into a traditional manuscript format, but then I realized that I need to re-write the opening segment somehow, because it sounds more like a prologue right now. I’m not sure if I want to keep it as a prologue. Ideally, I want it to have the present-tense approach that the other segments have except that the first segment happens when I am only about 18 months old. And even though I remember when it happened, I’m not sure how to write from the POV of myself at 18 months old.

When I gave it a try, though, I discovered that putting myself directly into that headspace of myself at 18 months (the first time my adoptive mother physically abused me) really upset me and I spent several hours after that just wanting to throw up.  And wondering why the fuck am I writing this damn thing? Why revisit all this? But also feeling like it’s my life and all I really know how to do is create from my life. And for whatever reason, I feel it’s really necessary for me to write this little book.

My childhood — it had moments that were so beautiful. And they were the last beautiful moments I had until I got well into my 50s. Which, of course, sucks. So I want to write this darn book. Process the whole darn thing. But it also kept making me feel like vomiting.

And I also realized today that Thug Luckless is me, as well — in the sense that he’s this robot on the outside that becomes this deeply sentient thing on the inside, through sexual contact with a whole fucked-up town, whether he wants it or not. You know — I saw weird parallels with my own life. I’m okay with that, though, because he’s a character.  So I can “act out” through him. Whereas the Narcissa book is a memoir. It’s me. When I first began writing it this past summer, it didn’t bother me like this. And it’s really just this opening segment that is upsetting me so much today.

As the sun was going down, even though — or maybe because — it was getting pretty chilly out, I decided to take a walk. Just get air, you know? To stop this desire to vomit.

And, my god, I love this town out here in the middle of nowhere. First off, I headed directly across the street from my house and then stopped in the middle of the train tracks. I looked west and saw the sun going down in the distance, over those tracks that just go on and on through the rest of the entire state. It was so fucking beautiful. All the old houses in stark outline along the tracks. And the trees. The clear sky with those streaks of amber and orange, sinking way down.  And the tracks receding forever into it. A couple stars coming out. Amazing. I wished I’d brought my phone to take a picture.

And then everywhere I looked as I walked, I was just struck by the age of this town and how stunning it looked at that specific hour of twilight. Everything so darn quiet. Such old houses. Such unexpected architecture. And the sidewalk is so close to the houses that you can  look right into them. (A lot of the sidewalks are still the old brick ones from well over a hundred years ago.) I also noticed tonight that a lot of people here have dogs.

In one house, the front room light was on, the curtains were open. I saw an old man sitting at his dining table, writing something. He had tons of books everywhere.  And two boxers were right there in the window, staring at me! They startled me, because I saw the man in the background first, before I saw the two dogs. You know how they get so tense when they stare at you. And suddenly, there they were. I just love boxers.

So many dogs, watching me along the way. Too cute.

And then I turned back onto Basin Street, heading in the direction of my house, and I suddenly realized — wow, there it is. On the corner. Lights on down in my kitchen, lights on up in my bedroom. My home, you know? I finally have a home — and peace from that mercilessly mean woman who raised me.

Somehow, I am going to write this book. For heaven’s sake, it’s only going to be about 40 pages… and it deals with her in what I consider her “best ” years. I’ve got to figure out how to deal with this.

Well, when I went back inside, I sat at the kitchen table and read a new issue of Mojo that came in the mail yesterday. And watched a couple more of those old episodes of Black Books and laughed really hard. And also saw that I can stream Rocketman and Once Upon A Time In Hollywood now– two movies that I really wanted to see. So that made me happy.

Then I went back up to my room, to my desk, trying to figure out how to approach that first prologue/segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa without losing my mind, and right then, as I sat down, a little ladybug was scurrying across a photo of Nick Cave that’s sitting on my desk.

The little beetle was just there, walking across his face. And of course, it instantly reminded me of one of his Red Hand Files letters from the summertime, when he wrote about ladybugs in connection to his dead son, Arthur, and how believing in something (in signs) helps us survive.

So, I took it as a sign, you know? I tried to take a picture of it before it walked off and went down the side of my desk:

The ladybug is there on the left, getting ready to walk off of the picture.

So that’s been my day. Illuminating, I guess. I’ll try to deal with the memoir again tomorrow, before I go off to meet with the director and focus on Tell My Bones.

And now, I’m gonna go crash on the bed, turn down the lights and stream something.

I hope Tuesday was good for you, gang, wherever you are in the world. I love you guys. See ya.

Part of Basin Street, during a full moon this past September.

Why Doesn’t She Just Stop Scrolling?

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I am so bored with Instagram, you have no idea.

And if I’m following you on Instagram – don’t take that personally.

It’s just that my account is now not only so overloaded with ads for cute cat-related things and clothing I would never wear if my life depended on it (and I mean that — I’ve had a long and somewhat arduous while certainly interesting life, and now I’m at that lofty age wherein I’m either going to wear exactly what I want to wear or just opt-out of life entirely). Anyway.

In addition to unwanted ads, my Instagram feed has also gotten so long now that I can never even imagine getting to the bottom of the scroll anymore. And the non-advertising stuff that makes it into my feed is just a whole bunch of stuff from people that, you know, I don’t even know who they are. But this is only in the unlikely event that these complete strangers managed to get in a post amid the truly UNENDING number of Keanu Reeves photos that glut my feed.

But I don’t want to unfollow the Keanu Reeves hashtag because it is the sole hashtag on Earth (and likely its surrounding celestial environs) that does not provoke, disturb, perplex, confound, unnerve, or confuse me in any way whatsoever. So the hashtag is staying. But, you know? Jesus. How many fucking photos of Keanu are actually out there? It is mindboggling. And even while I literally sweep past these photos, I find that I’m still able to form opinions in a nanosecond: Ooh, he looked so cute back then. Oops, a little too young there. Oh man, that was a nice one. Gosh, he looks really good these days.

And I’m literally making these assessments in anti-time — it is that fleeting — because I am trying to get past all the fucking Keanu photos. And the whole scrolling process clogs up my brain and I wonder, what the fuck am I doing this for, there’s nothing interesting here…

Although David Byrne’s web magazine Reasons to Be Cheerful  (yes, he of Talking Heads fame) had a really extraordinary post over the weekend. If you want renewed hope in everything imaginable about planet Earth, check out his stats for the decade, which include:

“Homicides fell, green space grew and your weather forecast got a lot more precise. The last 10 years were filled with positive change—really! Read our list…”

And loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that while I am slavishly devoted to Nick Cave, I refuse to follow the Nick Cave hashtag because people who use the Nick Cave hashtag are seriously intense and my brain is intense enough, thank you, I don’t want their intensities getting mixed up with my own often unmanageable intensity. And Nick Cave himself only posts maybe twice a year to Instagram. (Meaning non-promotional-related Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds type posts.) (But, still — he will do it sometimes. You just gotta wait for it…)

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Me, waiting for Nick Cave to actually post something on Instagram (all year)…

I also follow Iggy Pop, of course, and he posts a lot of opinion polls. I’m never really sure what these accumulative opinions are leading to, but I have discovered that I fit the exact  profile of the Iggy Pop fan, since I am always in among the largest group of people who click “yes.” What this means, I have no clue. Why he wants to know, I have no clue.

I will tell you, though, that even while I was never a Stooges fan, I have loved Iggy Pop since 1977, when his Bowie-produced albums, The Idiot and Lust For Life, were released. I had the German imports, too, which, back then, for a 16 year-old unemployed girl in Ohio, was quite an investment. And I also bought a fake ID in order to get into the Agora to see him and Bowie live during the Lust for Life tour. However, my point is, that I went on to buy every album Iggy Pop made after that (including his very interesting newest one, Free), and I wanted to point out that Soldier, from 1980, is a really good album.

I often sing the song “Dog Food” for no real reason, even all these decades later. It was just an insanely ridiculous and somewhat angry song that I find myself still needing to sing sometimes (and it’s super short– you can listen to it below. It lasts one minute and 50 seconds and you might find that you need to sing it sometimes, too, so it’s a good song to know.)

I also loved the song “Loco Mosquito” a lot.  (You’ll need to invest 4 minutes in this one, but it’s worth it. Especially if you, too, are “sick of hanging out with old transvestites.”)

(I remember that when his album Zombie Birdhouse came out, I didn’t have a whole lot of money, as usual. And one of my best friends had the album (this was back in NYC – 1982). I asked her, point blank, if I could have hers. I convinced her that I would appreciate the album a lot more than she did and that she should just give it to me. And even though she rolled her eyes and got pissed off, she actually gave it to me… I took it gladly and had absolutely no shame.)

Anyway. Not to confuse my initial point: Soldier was a really good album.

Okay. Well. I am on two completely different yet equally compelling wavelengths around here: Working on notes for a possible stand-alone story excerpt for the new novel Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town. As well as getting those persistent incoming images for Letter #6 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse — titled “Captivity.” (Novel vs. memoir; fiction vs. nonfiction; all of it erotic.)

So it’s a little confusing, which direction I’m really going to go in, but we’ll see how the day unfolds. My meeting with the director of Tell My Bones has now been moved to Wednesday, so tomorrow will likely just be a spillover from whatever I end up working on today. Plus, it gives me an additional day to contemplate the idea of washing my hair.

In general, I can’t complain. Life’s good.  But time’s a-wasting here, so I’m gonna scoot and get at it. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with “I Need More,” possibly my favorite Iggy Pop song of all time — certainly the one I relate to most personally.  Also off of the Soldier album. All righty. Have a really great Monday, wherever it leads you, gang. I love you guys, See ya!

“I Need More”

I walk around
I flop around
I need something that will be found
More venom, more dynamite, more disaster
I need more than I ever did before

But everything is going up in price
My life is going all right up ’til now
Even so there’s something missing
More truth
More intelligence
Ha ha
More future
More laugh
More culture
Don’t forget adrenaline
More freedom

I need more than an ordinary grind
And the more I think the more I need
More cars
I’ll take more money
More champagne
I can’t forget my brain
More floors
More doors
More mustard
Pickle and relish

I need more than an ordinary grind
Everybody ought to love his job
And live his life and keep his pride
Imperturbably happy with the one you love
With an exciting future
On the fat of the land

I need more than an ordinary grind
And the more I think the more I need
My life is going all right up ’til now
Even so it’s not enough for me and

I need more
I need more
I need more
Oo oo oo oo
Oo oo oo oo
Than I ever did before

I need to lead a disciplined existence
And play scratchy records
And enjoy my decline
With more divorce, more distance,
More future, more culture

More

c – 1980 Iggy Pop, Glen Matlock

Farewell To A Truly Splendid Year!

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Probably the high point of my year was discovering that Chesterfield cigarettes were now available for purchasing at the gas station here in Crazeysburg!! (Even though I still don’t smoke!)

I’m kind of kidding, gang, and kind of not — because it sort of symbolized to me that eventually the thing you really want, or miss, or crave, or desire, or regret its absence and fervently wish to have it return — eventually, it all comes back around. There’s nothing to fear, or to seriously regret, you know? Everything changes. And that’s a blessing we can all share in.

You know, on Instagram, I’m noticing that a lot of people consider attending one of the Conversations with Nick Cave to be the highlight of their whole year. And I think I have to concur. Especially the one at Lincoln Center.

However, I think if I had to distill it down to my absolutely favorite moment of all of 2019 — even while I still wasn’t smoking! — it was after that show at Lincoln Center was over and I was back in that strange Airbnb in Midtown Manhattan, alone in my bed in the dark, all the city lights shining through the Venetian blinds regardless. And I was listening to the Boys Next Door on YouTube, singing “Shivers.” Nick Cave had sung it during the In Conversation that evening and he’d done such a stunning job of singing it, all these years later. And it was so cool to sort of let time evaporate for a little while and see Rowland Howard alive again, too, and everyone just so darn young. And it is such a beautiful, beautiful song.

That moment in my bed, listening to that song, was my absolute favorite moment of the whole year.

It was such a good year for me, gang. The best year of my whole life. Not that there were a lot of highs in it, because actually there weren’t. There was just a steady feeling that I was making it out of the darkness for good. And the only really low point of the year was Daddycakes dying in the spring, so unexpectedly.

Here is a photo of him with Huckleberry. It’s at the old house, at the top of the stairs.  Probably around 2014. It’s sort of a strange photo but I just love how Huckleberry is looking at him with so much love.

Okay. Have a really wonderful time saying adieu to 2019 and hola to 2020!! You know what I’m leaving you with!! Thanks for spending time in my room this year! I love you guys. See ya!

Shivers

I’ve been contemplating suicide
But it really doesn’t suit my style
So I guess I’ll just act bored instead
And contain the blood I would have shed

She makes me feel so ill at ease
My heart is really on its knees
But I wear a poker face so well
That even mother couldn’t tell

And my baby’s so vain she is almost a mirror
And the sound of her name sends a permanent shiver down my spine

I keep her photo against my heart
Cause in my life she plays a starring part
All alcohol and cigarettes
There is no room for cheap regret

She makes me feel so ill at ease
My heart is really on its knees
But I wear a poker face so well
That even mother couldn’t tell

And my baby’s so vain she is almost a mirror
And the sound of her name sends a permanent shiver down my spine

c – 1979 Rowland S. Howard

Weirdest Dream, Ever!

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I overslept just hugely this morning. I didn’t wake up until almost 8 o’clock. I had been having a seemingly endless and very weird dream.

I dreamed that the Chinese government had somehow made my blog radioactive to children and it was up to me to somehow warn children who might be visiting my blog to not touch any links, otherwise the children would become radioactive.

It was an extremely difficult thing to try to figure out how to do — protect all these unseen children from all over the world who might accidentally visit my blog and click on something. But it was of dire importance. And I took it really seriously. I was working with some scientists in a brightly lit white laboratory, who were trying to come up with some type of implantable code that could undo the radioactivity within my blog, but also try to save children in the meantime.

Oh god, right? Really relaxing, peaceful sleep going on there…

Some of you readers who are new to the blog perhaps don’t know that about 15 years ago, I was looking at 5-15 years in a federal prison and something like $35,000 in fines because I had founded an  erotic authors association and had then begun an online publishing company specifically to publish hardcore erotic books from our members that no other traditional publishers would touch; and there was a new federal law, under George Bush, Jr., that made it an imprisoning offense  to publish any of this kind of stuff online without creating hugely expensive barriers to keep children off the site. (Anyone under the age of 18.)

I did not think it was constitutional to keep anyone away from reading those books if they wanted to. I didn’t think it was my job to determine what young people could or couldn’t read. (It’s so weird to think this actually happened back then, when you see all the things kids can easily access online nowadays — but of course, this is just what the Government was hoping to avoid and people like ME(!!), along with a bunch of my colleagues across the States, fought the law and eventually made pure unadulterated porn widely available to children everywhere!!)

Anyway. It wasn’t funny back then because I seriously did not want to go to prison, and I had already worked with & for other publishers and producers who had gone to federal prison on obscenity charges and had been wiped out financially.

I’m guessing that maybe somewhere in my subconscious, something connected to that was happening in my dreams last night. I don’t really know. But it was just one of those relentless, godawful dreams where it was up to me to try to do something completely impossible. (I still don’t care what children read, but I don’t want children to become radioactive for any reason whatsoever.)

You know, back in the late 1990s, when a production company hired me to write for a really cool adult multimedia project they were producing (DADAhouse), it was illegal to ship porn movies that had explicit anal sex in them to various cities in the Deep South. If you had produced a movie with anal sex in it and it got shipped to any one of those cities, you could go to prison — and some video producers up north actually did serve time for that.

Also, back then, it was illegal to produce movies or make photographs of anyone involved in a BDSM practice that showed any type of sexual intercourse or sexual gratification being derived from the BDSM thing. So you could show people suffering or being tortured in some way, as long as they weren’t depicted as getting off on it sexually. You could go to prison for that, too, back then. Which was why stories about that stuff — BDSM & actual sex — were always wildly popular, because that law didn’t apply to the written word — only to images.

Only 20 years ago — and so much has changed, hasn’t it? And everybody I’m sure knows by now, that a story I wrote in 1988, based on my own self as an 11-year-old girl who had been totally in love with an older neighbor-girl who had been my babysitter (and I cannot help that I was just this wildly imaginative, oversexed little girl), anyway, a story based on me and my own mind got me into very deep water with the FBI. I eventually rewrote the story as “Daddy’s Girl” — same story, really, in a way — I just made all the girls in it of legal age. (I won’t say what the title of the other story was, but I will say that if you see a story for sale online that alleges to have been written by me and there is a little drawing next to it of a young girl holding a flower — don’t click that link!! If you do, the FBI is going to pay you a very nasty little visit…)

Okay! Well! It seems like my morning here isn’t going much better than my dreams went…

On a cheerier note — there was a really cool photo all over Instagram this morning  of Nick Cave backstage with Elton John in Melbourne last night (or some night really close to last night — I still can’t figure out the time zone stuff and what day it might be over there).

Oh, and I’d like to thank one of my fellow bloggers in England for pointing out that I might not like having spiders in my bedroom if I lived in Australia… Point taken!! (I remember truly icky stories my first husband used to tell me about growing up in Singapore and the types of enormous insects that would get into his room at night and scurry across the ceiling over his bed…)

But this is Ohio!! Our insects here are of humble size and weight…

Another happy thing — it is snowing here right now! And it’s cold enough that it isn’t going to melt any time today. (And right this minute, a freight train is barreling past so I’m not sure if I could be happier than I am right at this moment…)

And that company in France which sells me all that stuff that keeps me looking light-years younger than I actually am — sent me more new products to try! One, a sort of mask that, if used twice a week for 5 minutes, will make me look “radiant.” We’ll see. I don’t actually ever have anyone telling me that my skin needs to look more radiant than it already looks…

But they also sent me this “nutri-plumping lip balm.” Not crazy about that name. I’m guessing it sounds better in French. However, it’s made for ladies of a certain age (of which I am one), who have thinning lips (I have always had thin lips so I’m not sure they can get thinner); anyway, it’s supposed to plump up your lips.

It actually does work — kind of. I can feel a difference but I don’t think it’s actually noticeable. But it doesn’t sting and burn like the old lip-plumper glosses used to. Those old lip-plumping glosses had one of the same ingredients in it that Viagra used to give guys erections. So me and my girlfriend (who shall remain nameless but who currently lives in Brooklyn…) would put that gloss on certain little places on our female bodies to see if they, too, would plump up and get more erect!! It worked!! But it also stung and burned like crazy and you couldn’t just wipe it off…

I guess the only thing that was better than being a weirdly oversexed young female creature was having a girlfriend who was as weirdly oversexed as I was. We were really blessed in that regard, I think — to have found each other at all. We were mostly out of our minds but we had a lot of fun.

Okay. Off I go. I need to get some actual work done here today since yesterday was a complete bust in that department. I hope you have a wonderful Wednesday, wherever you are in the world! Thanks for visiting. I’ll leave you with a song that was hugely popular when me and the Brooklyn gal first started hooking up.  Play it LOUD, gang! Otherwise it won’t work correctly. All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

“Modern Love”

I know when to go out
And when to stay in
Get things done

I catch a paper boy
But things don’t really change
I’m standing in the wind
But I never wave bye-bye

But I try
I try

There’s no sign of life
It’s just the power to charm
I’m lying in the rain
But I never wave bye-bye

But I try
I try

Never gonna fall for
Modern love walks beside me
Modern love walks on by
Modern love gets me to the church on time

Church on time terrifies me
Church on time makes me party
Church on time puts my trust in God and man

God and man no confessions
God and man no religion
God and man don’t believe in modern love

It’s not really work
It’s just the power to charm
Still standing in the wind
But I never wave bye-bye

But I try
I try

Never gonna fall for
Modern love walks beside me
Modern love walks on by
Modern love gets me to the church on time

Church on time terrifies me
Church on time makes me party
Church on time puts my trust in God and man

God and man no confessions
God and man no religion
God and man don’t believe in modern love

Modern love walks beside me
Modern love walks on by
Modern love gets me to the church on time

Church on time terrifies me
Church on time makes me party
Church on time puts my trust in God and man

God and man no confessions
God and man no religion
God and man don’t believe in modern love

Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love
Modern love walks beside me
Modern love walks on by
Modern love walks beside me
Modern love walks on by
Never gonna fall for
Modern love
Modern love

 c – 1983 David Bowie

More Merriment Has Indeed Arrived!!

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I just couldn’t be happier, gang.

Partly because it started snowing last evening and then snowed all through the night, so it actually built up a bit out there and is still all over everything this morning!

It makes me doubly glad that my birth mom came last week and helped me decorate for Christmas, because if she hadn’t been here, I definitely would not have followed through on it — I would have put everything immediately back into storage because I was too overwhelmed by the past once I’d opened all those boxes.  However, now — here in the present — the tree is up and decorations are scattered about and there’s snow outside! Yay.

I recently discovered that I own the video of Cocteau’s 1950 film Orphée. I knew I had seen the film on video, but for some reason, I thought I had rented it.  Long ago. Apparently, though, I had bought it, long ago.

How fortuitous!  Since I had really enjoyed re-watching Cocteau’s other Orpheus-related film a couple weeks ago (see some other post below) and it, of course, made me think of his first one. So now I’m excited to watch Orphée  again!

I found the video when I was going through all my old movies, looking for the Christmas ones so that my mom and I could watch Christmas movies — we wound up watching Kubrick’s The Shining. Not really a Christmas movie (to put it mildly), but it does have a heck of a lot of snow!

And while going through all the old movies, I was kind of astounded by the number of movies I’d forgotten I owned. The Shining being a case in point. In fact, I discovered that I own a boxed set (DVDs) of Kubrick’s “greatest hits,” as it were: Lolita, Full Metal Jacket, 2001, Dr. Strangelove, Barry Lyndon, A Clockwork Orange, and The Shining. Honestly, I had no idea I had all that. All quite excellent movies for watching with Mom (!!), however, the only one we watched was The Shining. Which was excellent enough, thank you.

It’s still such an intense movie, even all these years later. Also intensely long. Probably the only movie in that collection that I actually love, though, is 2001.

Anyway. I’m also happy because my new speakers for the iPad arrived!! They are just what I wanted. (And as an added bonus, I was able to give the empty shipping carton to the cats as an early Christmas present!) (I try not to let the cost of something deter me from giving generously.) (But they do love that empty box. They are already taking turns hiding in it and they are so freakin’ cute.)

So I’m really eager to start streaming a bunch of new stuff over the holidays. My watchlist is really, really long. You have no idea. I’m going to make a serious effort to watch this stuff and not keep circling back to the old reruns of Perry Mason and everything imaginable re: Nick Cave that I’ve seen ten million times. I know for sure, though, that I’m going to watch Charlie Brown and Rudolph over the next couple of days (on DVD) because I just love those movies. In fact, I might even be motivated enough to buy a new flat screen TV just because I love those two movies so much…

Okay, well, we’ll see. I do have to keep reminding myself that I have to go to NYC, Toronto, and LA in 2020 and that will cost me a fortune, when it’s all said and done. A new TV can wait…

So. Yesterday, late afternoon, guess what came to me? Letter #6 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse! I was actually pretty surprised by this. I wasn’t expecting it at all because I’m still just working away on the story notes for Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town. Plus, since my birth mom left, I’ve just been feeling sort of frustrated, angry, depressed. Wanting things to change in my life. Trying to just be patient; knowing that things are coming. Then. Suddenly, the new “letter” dropped into the forefront of my brain and I was incredibly lighthearted and happy. So that’ll be interesting.

All righty! I’m gonna scoot. I slept in really late this morning — 7am!! So I’m behind here. Thanks for visiting, though. I leave you with the breakfast-listening music from this snow-covered morning!! And if these don’t make you stupidly joyful then nothing will!! Okay! I love you guys. See ya!

Okay! I’ve Had My Bath!!

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And now I’m thinking about getting into bed and streaming an episode of the old Perry Mason TV show, and just being happy as all get-out.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that I never get tired of this TV show — the one from the late 1950s-early 1960s that starred Raymond Burr as Perry Mason. I have seen every single episode of this show more times than I can count, and yet I never get tired of watching it. Ever. And now it’s included in Amazon Prime. So there you have it: Me — addicted to it again!

Okay, well, I have nothing to really report today but I didn’t want the day to end without me popping in here to report that I’m just super happy, for a change, and I had just a really nice day.

And the thing with my healthcare provider got straightened out, even though it was still a holiday weekend. And the potentially huge bit of horribleness I was worried that I had caused to my bills got straightened out, also. So I’m just really relieved about that, and I’m going to try to come up with some sort of — I don’t know what — some sort of way of not being intensely caught up in my head anymore and just pay closer attention to the actual calendar. You know, so that I can be part of the same world that most other people are part of. I really need to get a grip again and stop doing weird stuff that freaks me out.

I am getting so excited about my mom coming — she comes a week from tomorrow. It’s all I can do to keep myself from putting the tree up before she even gets here.

When I packed up all my Christmas stuff after my last Christmas at the old house, I knew I would be in a new home the next time I unpacked it all. I thought I was going to be back in NY, but I never dreamed it would be three years before I finally unpacked everything again, so I’m eager to see what kind of Christmas stuff I actually have.

I don’t really have too much that has sentimental value, because Wayne got rid of all that stuff when I left him. I had asked him to please keep it for me until I could get settled somewhere and instead, he threw it all away because he was angry that I left. I wanted to kill him when I found out. That was all the stuff that had true sentimental value for me and could never be replaced. So the stuff I have now is just stuff I’ve bought since then that I liked. But it will be nice to see it all. Poignant, though, because Fluffy and Bunny and Daddycakes have all died since then.

Anyway, I’m so excited to see my mom again and put up the decorations with her.

Tomorrow’s phone chat with the director has been moved to Wednesday, so tomorrow will once again be just about me and whatever I feel like writing. (I’m trying to sort of storyboard Thug Luckless.) And I’m hoping to get a better night’s sleep tonight! My uncle is on a cruise right now and he texts me almost every day. But this morning, he was somewhere in Israel and texted me at 3:30 in the morning, and it woke me and I couldn’t really go back to sleep.

So I’m really sleepy and I’m going to close this now. I hope you’ve had a really terrific Sunday wherever it took you and wherever you are in the world!!

Thanks for visiting, gang. I guess I’ll leave you with the song Tom Petty wrote for his daughter, AnnaKim, when she was just a baby and he had to leave her again and go back on the road. And I will  also leave you with the song Nick Cave ostensibly wrote for his son Luke when he was little. Feel free to contrast & compare!! I love you guys. See ya!

My favorite photo of Tom Petty and AnnaKim:

 

 

 

 

 

 

And my favorite photo of Nick Cave with Luke:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers “It’s Alright For Now”

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds “Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry”

She Could Benefit From A Brain Monitor, Don’t You think?

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Jesus, you know?

Not only do I need a keeper (and a handyman) but now I think I could use someone who limits the number of ideas my brain is allowed to have in any given year. Or day. Or perhaps every hour.

I’ve been working on Thug Luckless today and feeling like I don’t want him to just be a porn novel. Because I love this character. (He’s an AI sex robot in a post-apocalyptic town full of jaded, sex-starved broads.) And I’m really unsatisfied with everything I’ve written so far, because I want to rewrite it now with an actual story arc and a character arc, even though I want to keep the overall plot the same.

I simply cannot continue with it without making it a better book.

And then, of course, once I realized that, I wanted to bang my head on my keyboard because that means a whole lot more work — meaning brain work — is going to be involved. So, like, what the fuck?? Right? I have so many fucking projects.

But now that I’ve come to this understanding about Thug nothing less is going to satisfy me. So it’s just frustrating, you know? Especially since I live in a drug-free world and have to rely strictly on the adrenaline I was born with — except for caffeine…

Which reminds me that there is this Nick Cave thing on Instagram and I can’t really figure out what it is. (BTW, this sudden segue has nothing to do with drugs, it has to do with ideas.) Every Saturday, it posts a brief audio clip from one of his In Conversations. And even while I like listening to it (today he was answering a question that had something to do with his ideas), but it makes me ponder where this audio recording comes from. (The last several have been from his Conversations in NYC. With one from Helsinki.)

I’m not sure why I have to ponder absolutely everything. I can’t just, you know, accept a thing at face value and move on with my life. I have to bring everything to a grinding halt and look at it and examine it and wonder: Who’s doing this? Where’d they get this from? How come they’re allowed to upload it? How come I’m following this  — how did I find it in the first place? I have no clue; I only know I’ve been following it for a while. And its tag line is “The Secret Red Hand Files” — so what does that mean?

Anyway. It posts every Saturday. And I thought today was interesting in that I, personally, am getting a little overwhelmed with ideas, here, that could easily take me to the end of my life.

So, as I completely re-think Thug and try now to sort of outline it as actual fiction and not simply regard it as “porn,” I find my mind just wandering like crazy. You know, I start just staring at the wall and suddenly wondering if I could name my Top 5 favorite Tom Petty songs. I’ve never tried to do that before and it turns out that it’s really hard. I would need to have room for at least 10. Because, you know, my Top 4 would probably be “Runaway Trains,” “How Many More Days,” “Rhino Skin,” “You & Me,” and then suddenly I need to cram about 6 more songs in the number 5 slot. And then I’d have to cram the entirety of his album Hard Promises in there, too.

And meanwhile, Thug Luckless is not getting re-written, and the director is texting to schedule a chat with me for Monday so that we can get a plan in place for the first workshop in NYC re: Tell My Bones, and Sandra is texting about the Christmas promotion and my brain starts wondering when I’m going to do those final needed revisions on the play?

So this is where I decide that I’m gonna go take a shower…

Okay. Hope Saturday’s been good for you! And if you’re one of those hardcore football fans (which I am not), I hope your team’s winning. See ya.

Can you say 1979?