Fine, featherhead. You want to scoff at the requests of a mortal, go right ahead. You're the one who has to live with your seriously stick-in-the-mud company for futures to come. Teardrop.

Naboo, you never gave me an answer. I'm not asking you to do anything, I just want to know if it can be done.

Anyone got this boy Kirk's digits?

What is this? Oh, right, the reason for my latest personal crisis. Not that things aren't jam and cake for Dajvey. I've been in America this last month, cutting a swath as guest promoter for Trident Music Festival, which is why tenderfoot Tilly McGillis has been gracing your Snoopy Beats screen instead of me. My network execs are now properly ( Read more... )

Oh my god ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod

I've got a

OH MY GOD IT WORKS

help oh oh jesus mary and the demons

i must be dreaming the crazy dreamings again

Fucking gangsta paradise whatever. I've got two broken ribs and ten broken nails. Thank fuck for percocet ( Read more... )

In the supposed realm, I'm meant to be up at Carling Weekend at Leeds with the film crew, but I went ahead and sent them up without me. I'm drinking a mimosa SpLAshed, that L.A. based boutique shop? T-man is refreshing his wardrobe after his luggage had the nerve to wrinkle his duds ( Read more... )

Life without Inga continues at a gallop. As much as she was icy and invisible to my warm and blinding, she kept me on the rails. Without her I take on too much, I go for hours, I overheat. Sizzle. Then burn out ( Read more... )

In my hand - Leash in one, ketel one and diet coke in the other. Caff and roll, sailors ( Read more... )

My schedule's been like gay porn this last week: all these balls at my face (not yours, Shaman), messes to clean up, getting the shaft. Not to mention I don't know what direction I'm facing or who's on top of me or beneath me. I missed an interview with Cold Bread, the Icelandic duo who sing about carbohydrates? Doesn't matter - saves me from ( Read more... )

My producer just rang and dropped a nice little bomb. Now there's a hole blown wide in my schedule: a hole two whole hours tomorrow night? Freed. It seems the Pussy-eating Pussies ate some bad you-know-what in Moscow and are too bent over the toilet to make their flight to London. I was set to catch their gig and exchange words in the after, but ( Read more... )

Back in Londonfog after doing a segment at this year's Pieface Showcase. One universal truth continues to hold: the third stage is the only one worth checking out - up and comers rather than the peak and fizzlers. Watch for my interview with the Ruffians. Madrigals, lutes, and blood-letting make for a head-spinning carousel ( Read more... )