Well Ding Buss It An' Hebbins T'Besty

Holy fuck! What am I doing here? Fuck! Everything's so clean and white and neat.

I hardly know what to fucking say! Woah! My own place looks sort of like your first place after college with Jimmy and Bigass Billy. And that chick next door that you all banged but you feel sort of...had. And you don't know how to express it. That'll come later. When you've engaged at great length in some pursuit you come to know the terminology. You'll have all sorts of ways of expressing it in ten years and in twenty you'll be well-nigh scholarly. Yeah, you get good at Th' Language Of Disappointment.

Over here at Jingo's it's like fuckin' that Weedy Allen movie where they're in th' future. It's that open-plan thing, you know? Not like th' Clockwork Orange future but more like 2001. And still, it's all very tastefully appointed and there's lots of shelves of books in various states of aging and the contrast is tasteful.

Christing stereo is badass in here. Nice Panasonic w/ the Thruster speakers, you know? With th' turntable on top. And it looks like he's got a 500 watt sub under th' Mac.And what's that I hear? Why, I believe there's a stack of disks up on top of the spindle, falling, falling every twenty minutes like they did in 1979. Oh, check it- here's Apple Venus by XTC. "...harvest festival....harvest festival...what was best of all..." Oh, look- Ruben and Th' Jets. Next up- Doc At The Radar Station. Remain In Light. We're Only In It For The Money. Taking Tiger Mountain By Strategy. More Eno- Warmjets. A Hard Day's Night, natch. That's something Ned would say, right? Natch. He's all natch, natch, and I'm like asdfkjerewoivnb. Th' first Squeeze Album is there and so is Trust by Li'l Hands Of Concrete. Natch. Nacht. Kristalnacht.

Konnen Sie Mir sagen wo man kan pohl geschmokt haben?

When I went to collidge you had to do a writing sample and ours was supposed to be something that had really happened to you that was transformative. The only criterion was that it was supposed to be true. I made up this preposterous fiction about having a tour guide in Bolivia who got drunk and fell off a mountain. Just for th' sheer challenge of sitting across from some academic figure and lying like a Republican.

Um, what th' fuck else?

Can't resort to the usual verbal terrorism here at Jingo's! Shit! um, maybe I'll show a picture of something fucked!



Jumpin' Jehosephat! That's mentaler than shit! Is that a...a...weird sea urchin? Dude, that's just fuckin' wrong. It's just out of place here, man. Among th' books and gardening implimints 'n' straw boaters up on hooks.

So, now that you can't take lipstick on airplanes does that mean no more male dogs can travel?

Oh, what t' do? I feel like somebody just handed me their '59 Les Paul and they're standing there. I'm going to stretch up with my own brilliant upcoming post about (christ, I can't even say what it's called here it's so unspeakable). Woah! I suspect the answer is caffeinated!

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