Crazy Heart-ache

February 13th, 2011

Hope said to have some MHT, so I settled down to some Ryan Bingham, Jeff Bridges & that G-gal (showing just how Secretarial bush could also do Rio wipe.) cRRRAZY hEART.  Did Jeff Bridges – fine specimen of a 50+ – really need to lose weight as suggested in that way  only  post-Hays Hollywood can do – enter Dr Marx selling personal revolution.    I was particularly insulted by Bingham’s fine performance being upstaged  by sorry, badly miscast Bridges barfin ..  but the real blow came from the useless empty chemistry perhaps? BOND b/w older git & gelt.  What a desperate, blatant eunuch the gelt  here – doesn’t she get the central message of this mush – money brings pussy.  Hard to care bout his big change since it seems his connection to her merely lights up his halcyon memories of  younger groupie girls.  Don’t really believe they’ve carved out a vocabulary of intimacy either.  It’s just:  She’s helpin him obsess on himself for a good interview, she looks really good in lingerie, she’s got a boy that reminds him of one o the kiddies he’s left behind.  I feel completely left out of the circle of self-determination here.

What is this bizarre reduction of Feminine which is supposed to drive his regeneration – or is it just guilt for losing her boy in a city bar.  Yes, it slightly asserts that she’s got big problems too – esp when she  so easily accepts his “Bad” behaviour into her life with son.   No,  I don’t drink, no he doesn’t really reek of booze  when he’s playing with my baby, yes I’ll leave him alone with my son, b4 babysitter’s  barely healed from a drunken crash – still kinda limping – on our big holiday, where I hauled my child on a plane to see this worthless bastard. No, he doesn’t really have a blue beard.

In the story of ‘Bluebeard’, the Bad Man of the house gets hacked to bits & fed to the carrion – but would we eat it?  Well yes, we did.  Wanna thank the Academy 4 Bluebeard & his Crazy Heart-ache.


February 4th, 2011


Another shit-4-breath depressive ate my cuntentines day 4 lunch. Left me in the lurch w a buncha Reclaim Love warts. There was only one place to go – Piccadilly Circus Clusterfucks – U know the one … the one without a john. Tonight it was either fuck or fight & I knew which ring I was in.

I neck chained 3 venti lattes – triple shots all around – and let the coffers fill. Soon, as the acid besieged my windpipe, I waddled over to the counter and asked in my best LL Beannie voice where I might find a toilet for customers. Stupid fuckin eunuch was lovin it – shoulda been working at McDonalds. Wavin her hooks at some fantasy mall, broadcasting my roadmap to hell, I interrupted her to ask if that was the facility she used normally. Would she care to escort me there so I didn’t get lost – since I’d been drinkin a bottomless cuppa crap just as soon as I got to their ass emporium and even paid 4 the privilege.

There was a pause I could almost taste it. AT UR CERVIX MA’AM,

“I’ll just get my manager”.Perfect. Divide & conquer.

I found another circus slave. “Say, just so I got my facts straight, Is it an American franchise this cafe?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow”

“Is this place American or English?”

“What’s the diff?”

“Put it this way, Limey, back at home we got certain standards: 3 strikes U’re out, don’t mess with Texas AND most importantly U put a pissoir on the premises if U’re hawkin diuretics. Comprende? Now where’s Urs, ASSHOLE?!”

“When in Rome, Yankee” – and he hands me a cup.

“Good ol toilet humour. Knew I could count on U, Cous”

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing Ur exchange and wanted to make it known that it is a British standard for any premises who serve food and drink to have toilet facilities, or agreed access to” says someone on my side

“Yes I’m with the tourist”, says another beside.

“No we don’t really like that kind of thing here, Madame. It could be alot worse”, from someone else

“You’re not as stupid as you look” I volunteered when the manager arrived.

We had a long, fortifyin discussion about standards of health, hygiene, waste disposal and etiquette during which we weighed my filthy mouth vs Clusterfuck’s filthy gesture – extra pointage for initiative and creative use of cup. Clearly I was the winner – he asked me to leave – so I decided to take my cup home, but not before executing a manoeuvre which would demonstrate a winner’s grace.

I parked my bike just outside the entrance, bursting with delight to share the wealth. Squatting right behind a potted plant before the neighbouring restaurant and filtered their coffee for them once again, with my own special solipsistic blend. Then set down my concoction, gingerly, whilst making myself presentable to my adoring public. I opened their door with one hand and facing them, ceremoniously lifted the golden cup before me, demonstrating Olympian aesthetic and a winner’s devotion. I brought it down in an arc from behind, and bowled my steaming, gleaming trophy into the clenching mass of city suckers, wage worn serfs and Bilderberg bastards clamorin for cover – “STeeeerrrRIKE!”, I howled.

There was nowhere for them to run, hide, mask or stifle their collective gag at my triumphant streak of pisschrist. Hallmark doesn’t have a card for this kind of feeling.