Week off.

Shirt no. 5
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Managed to see a load of people back in St. A. Good Friday, the Cross Keys. Paul had a set of crab claws that he found on the beach. Like, massive crab claws. They smelled really bad however. The Cross Keys ran out of beer. Dude. So we strolled down to the Lower Red Lion which is actually nicer, much nicer. Ale. Postcards of The Maltings. Hats, sticks. Sleeve Hancock cut off his long flowing ginger hair and sold it. Lady Envelopes. Image Maker. That was lovely, I got to see everybody that I have been pining for. Well, quite a lot of them.

Matt the Cripple and George are coming to stay tomorrow. Deary deary. Hide the breakables.

South World was also lovely. Small seaside town in Suffolk. I forgot about the dray and it ran me down in the street. Hundreds of relatives. Hundreds of them, all flowing about like brownian motion. My aunt told me that my hair looked like I had recently had chemotherapy. I told her that the chemo look was in this season. Another aunt told me that I was disgusting and sick for making such a joke. Alas.

Nice to go hang out in a different seaside town. Hot Cross Buns.

New housemate is cool. He has a bookshelf that has all my books on now and a barometer and he is trying to get us the internet. This may be a bad thing, this latter point.

Academic Journals are so hard to track down. I'm supposed to find an essay by someone called Isabelle Raucq-Hoorickx. Like that's a real word.

Anyway, more soon. Blatantly.

Bubblegum and Aftershave

Darsham Station
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

So I only have eight minutes to write this so I will concentrate on the Darsham Station bit. See, the picture of Darsham. Lovely. So I sat on the platform, waiting to begin my 4 and a half hour journey from the middle of Suffolk back to Brighton. The train pulls up, and I get on. Book, rucksack, I sit down. However as soon as I get to Saxmundham about 100 drunk teenagers flock onto the train in the most rowdy manner you can possibly imagine. It's chaos. They're passing bottles of Vodka and White Lightning up and down the train, making out with each other, breaking up again, interrogating other customers, hiding under the seats to escape from the ticket collector. Chaos. They ask me to move my bag because there's not enough space on the train. My telephone rings, and they answer it, so my poor mother has to speak to some drunken 14 yr old girl rather than her son. However, she's used to that because of my sister. This poor old lady called Jean also gets interrogated, and I think there's plenty a group photo on a teenage cameraphone featuring Jean (who seemed like a good sport) with her thumbs up, surrounded by these maniacs.

And then they all got off at Ipswich. The rest of the journey was uneventful.

In the last week, I've been stumbling around St. Albans, and then stumbling around the picturesque seaside town of Southwold. Nice.

3 minutes left. Better go.

Sad tale, with happy ending.

slimey...
Originally uploaded by Dr Juffwamba.

I once bought a cat for the sole purpose of seducing a girl. After she ditched me, I cut off one of its legs, and seduced a different girl with a disabled-cat-fetish.

Camera Obscura

alliagatir with andy meek
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Photography is so often such a terrible medium. The photograph as 'art', rather than the humble snapshot. Black and white. Funny camera angles. Just the right lighting. All that sort of thing. It's the equivelant of bad watercolours of landscapes. So many pictures, they're all the same. I'm not entirely sure how to phrase this actually. Show me something new. I can't hack moodily-lit cityscapes, just the right shades of orange. Stop it. Bring back the snapshot as 'Photography as art'. For how long have we had to see the 'ideal' of photography as this same old same old.

Stale Buns.

Surprise!
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

I'm actually in St. Albans. I actually made it. By the bus stop at 4.51. We made it. We finally made it.

So I actually fell over in the street at the weekend. Not sure if I mentioned that. I forwent twin sister joy. I misappropriated cafe excitement (but that was for Neighbours). I sat on the porch for an hour (due to lock-changing activity). But I'm finally here, in the fair city of St. A. Three days, it is. I leave Saturday morning for South World, the theme park themed entirely around the theme of the south.

AND WHAT BETTER THEME?

No, seriously. For those who see the 'Comments' box and wonder what the devil that kind of crazy new age talk that's about. What better theme than the south?

Answer me now.

So I went to the goat. "Oh, the goat". Yeah, it's a bit more well lit than the good old days. Less goths. But it's not all silver lining. For a start it's a bit more well lit than the old days. Expensive. On the plus side, fine ales. Good company, Paul Pepper and Chikin Boy, plus Simon and Bokey turned up at the last moment. What, THE Paul Pepper from Can't Snorkel? In a pub with us mere mortals. Yeah, he's barred from the Met Bar since last time. Dude, my face blushes just to think of it.

So hot. So sunny.

But enough about Paul Pepper. British Summer Time is beckoning. Good Friday. Drinking fine ales in the sun. Come along.

Hecktico!

Chris and Rosie
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Again busy. Observe rapid fire of loaded pun. Or something less dreadful. Bullet points.

- Got time off work. Bribery needed. Am going back to St. Albans tomorrow. Heck yeah!

- Fell over in street. People walking past making tutting noises.

- Went to The Mitre Tavern. Faced with massive grotesque Chris Tarrent. Otherwise, it was one of those "ice in the ciders" moments. Alright here?

- Ahhh. So much to read. So many interesting articles. So much to do. So much bloody UTOPIA to write about. Only one critical work in whole library about Julian Barnes.

- Neighbours downstairs fighting with eachother. We hear it all. Which is slightly better than hearing them sexing. Actually, maybe worse. It depends. Arguing takes longer. And then Rosanne is blasting out Bjork at half past eight this morning and cross Neighbour bangs on the door and gives a torrent of abuse about the music. He is not a Bjork fan. He starts attempting to fight with us, so Rosie hits him on the head with a bit of dry stone wall we brought back from the peak district. He goes tumbling down the stairs to land in a bloody heap on the floor. Okay, not that bloody. Bit of an awkward situation. We go and threaten him with the dry stone wall until he agrees that we acted in self defence. Still not entirely sure what neighbourly relations are going to be like from now on.

- No answer from Daniel Dennett. Curse him!

- Vegan cookery. The free-gan debate. Ha.

- Lost my BLOODY PHONE. Curses! Bloody dickens heck! Darn! Please call 07866 872659 and if anyone answers, cuss them bad and ask them to return it. Stolen, it was. Who would steal that? I ask you!

- Frisbee with Jed and Doug. Doug distracted. Jed with wok. Same as usual, really.

- "Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens"; Stillness, stagnation and the strive for a rat-race utopia.

- dirty snake.

Okay there's probably more to write but I need to go actually do some useful stuff. Speak soon, no doubt. you/i will speak soon now that you are dead i am to go with them the Robertsons now that you are, long hard hands, now that you are, i will speak you/i later.

Response from Jerry Fodor!

From: "jerry.fodor"
To: Christopher Parkinson
Subject: Re: Brain Science
Date: 15/03/2005 09:05 -0500

I wish I could help, but I'm a philosopher by training and have no
information about how to get brains out of pigs. Which end of the pig,
roughly, is the brain on?
best
jf
----- Original Message -----
From: "Christopher Parkinson"
To:
Sent: Tuesday, March 15, 2005 8:30 AM
Subject: Brain Science

> Dear Dr. Fodor.
>
> I am attempting to teach a class on Brain Science at the University of
> Sussex, UK, and was wondering if you could help me out. I mean to remove
> the brain from the head of a pig, which I have already requested from a
> local meat supplier. However, in order to remove the brain during the
> class, I need to find a swift and efficient method of doing so without too
> much difficulty. What can you recommend?
>
> I hope you are well,
>
> Chris D. Parkinson
> University of Sussex.

Time Passes . . . ( )

Beautiful Fancy Dressers
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

I put a load of photographs on Flickear. Go see.

Just going to swiftly recount the tale of GENUINE MENTAL.

I went for a drink with this crazy mentalist this afternoon. We went to a party the other weekend and me and Rosanne sunk deep into this big soft bed and I passed out. I woke up at about half past seven in the morning with World Serious memory blanks and no glasses in a strange house. Got glasses back the next day. (This is recounted below in the MISSING GLASSES bit)

Also got a text from someone I had no idea who they were, saying, "Hey, I had fun last night, etc..". I thought it was probably Alex playing silly buggers and replied saying "Dude, I have massive memory blanks. Don't remember. Unless this is someone playing silly buggers.". They respond saying "I know you were [pot-pourii]-ed but I thought you would remember me. O well, see you around some time". So I think little more of it until this crazy mental girl accosts me on my way to Waitrose and drags me into the Hampton for a drink. "You got my messages?" "What messages?" "You know what messages. Shall we go for a drink?" Jolly good, you may think. No. She was Severely Mental. Seriously. She gets a pint of Guinness, I get a half of Harveys, she demands that both of us remove our glasses, and starts ranting at me, saying "I know what you're like, you like playing mind games, I work for Golden Virginia, put down that Cutters Choice, you work for Cutters Choice, stop it, don't move your hand, I've got the king and the ace but there's something up your sleeve, put your hand on your head, what does it feel like, stop." You get the idea. Asks me to put my thumb up my nose and sniff. Puts her bloody thumb up my nose. Hands me a kinder surprise egg. Asks me to sniff. I do so. She says "the kinder surprise egg's for you. Go get some tissues and blow your nose, you can't sniff properly". I go get some tissues (seriously, there was no arguing with her.) Come back and the kinder surprise egg is all broken. "Why did you break that?". Then she starts calling me Simon Dogsford. "My name is Chris", I say. "Maybe I have the wrong name", she says. "Oh well, it was you I came to see." and it carries on. At one point she brings her arm down and hits me on the head after claiming that my head was so soft she could push her arm right through it. I'm beginning to wonder what the hell is going on and what I'm doing in the hampton with such a mentalist. Then she tells me that I make her sick and asks me to leave. I wonder if she is serious. She is. I leave.

She didn't appear to be on any drugs or anything, she actually was just a GENUINE MENTAL PLAYING DRUMS IN A REAL BAND. Except for the bit about the drums. I have no idea what to make of the whole situation. In some ways I'm thinking "dream girl". But in most ways (like, 90% ways) I'm thinking; dude. What a maniac. And she seems to know who I am. I am quite confused. Where did she come from?

(Sorry, I totally cut and past that mostly from an email.)

Jacob's birthday. Much stumbling around and irish cream. Phone Mast Dave. (possibly also counts as Irish Cream) Spinning. Wine out of a teapot. Cross Neighbours. Jerry Fodor breaks the toilet. Jeddy bokes up everywhere. So does Rosie. It was a laugh and a half. Probably write some more soon but I'm in a bit of a hurry.

Word.

Jam Packed With Thousand Island Dressing

Jam Packed With Thousand Island Dressing
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

This is what a fox would look like if it was forced into a tube. Now the most effective way to control foxes.

Parapraxis

Sleep. Sleeep. Got hijacked by disgruntled customer. Rescued by kindly man with drum. Sleep sleep. Passed out. glass breaks. Hell. Language. Autobiography. Sleep . . . a stutter of language, not just language but of a language. Break lines appear. The language, as HOLLYWOOD letters, shaken but not stirred. The step from hearing somebody speak to understanding their utterances. I uttered a mutter.

Stand. Sleep. Stop.

Sleep.

Old Uncle Fodor has bats in his attic

Old Uncle Fodor has bats in his attic
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Ohhh, Jerry Fodor.

Tea Party

We had a tea party as well. I made a cake. Proper cups with saucers and a bad teapot.

Annie and Danny.

Ha ha ha. Annie Hell and Daniel Taylor. G. I. O. Ha ha ha.

Hunter S. Thompson, alas. We bought loads of rum and citrus fruits and wore big sunglasses. Me and Rosie had some K.F. midnight snack breakfast and sunk deep into this big bed. The next thing I knew it was half past seven in the morning and I had lost my glasses and sunglasses and my shoelaces were tied together and I was in a house with people I didn't know.

"PLEASE IF ANYONE FINDS MY GLASSES CAN THEY CALL ME I AM BLIND WITHOUT THEM"

Thank god someone did. Walking home in the snow at half seven was fun too. It had settled and it was about to melt so I might have been the only person ever to walk in it. Well, I exaggerate. But there were no footprints ahead of me and it was gone by eight. That was cool.

Even the sunglasses turned up.