Monday shouldn’t hold this kind of terror -I can work at home (or at least at Lachlan’s house) with a greyish tom cat on my lap, listening to The Atomic Fireballs, making decent dollars per word.
I’m nearly sticky and ill with fear. What the hell was that? A weekend? Certainly not in any human sense of the word. Sure, there was some good ol’ fashioned fun and productivity (we had a meeting with Nicole BZ and Dave Hammer re: album schedule… things are moving very quickly now), but there was a definite undertone of over the top savagery and teenage lust moving through everything.
Starting Thursday, it was a long haul through the deepest of holes, Dean’s other band, Surprise Wasp gave us all something to dance to and think about and the only reason I actually went home at all was due to Lachlan’s sage advice – “You aren’t going to get sex here, come home.”
Thankfully, even in the throws of rampant deviant behaviour, I listend to that advice and probably saved quite a bit of money, if not dignity.
Friday was to be quiet, but my old, dear friend Moon Head invited me out for a few quiet drinks with her and Mr. Springtime. I think that I possibly consumed two buckets of wine and several cocktails.
Saturday saw me and Black Omar aka Jazz Hat out and about, both nursing serious hangovers but intent on finding a new place of residence. After a whole lot of love and junk, we stopped in at a nice little place for an eye opener and killed time in a guitar store, where Black Omar got some serious grooves going – look out for The Walking Pace, coming to a dive near you.
When the house hunt was over for the afternoon, we connected with Mr. Green and began the slow crawl back into depravity, watching over 3 hours of Michael Jackson footage but listening to rough and ready music, discussing the nature of women musicians; not in any mean or sexist way, but merely as a way to ignore whatever other unclean thoughts we may have garnered.
Out on the streets and all over the town we spent our money and reason, encountering such fine fellows as Eliot Prob, Mr. Tooth, KL Conroy and an assorted cast of drunks, jerks, swell cats and bonafide crazies.
Sunday morning saw me stumbling in after sun up and out of bed two hours later. Business as ususal.
No real gaps, just the feeling that maybe the latent creep in my brain has rose from it’s reptile crouch and taken over the furry parts of my thought process.

This week in Gay Paris: Film Clip production meeting part 105, Vocal Pre-Production w/Dave Hammer part 2, Thursday night rehearsal, Sunday morning rehearsal, house hunting part 3, writing about Fox Queens and Granpappy’s Blues.

Much Love

WH

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