butchdapper

Candygram for Mongo.



It's just that kind of day, folks! A day for tall-haired drummers and their octopads, about new jeans and old records, Corona, girls and pathological hoarding.

To hell with that angle. That's the kind of talk that belongs to the age of Knievel, when all a man needed was a motorbike, a Diablo sandwich, eight flaming school busses and a deli-ticket system of groupie management. Where are these old-world "real men" now? Are they extinct, or are they thriving out there somewhere, hanging on to the rules of their era in their own archaic way? What would you do if you met one of these guys today? What if he didn't like you? An ipod is poor defence against a motorcycle chain or broken whiskey bottle.

Tangents again. In the words of Salvador Dali: "I don't do drugs. I am drugs." The man had something right. He also wanted to eat his wife alive with a spoon, and that's no metaphor...

...and that's where this entry ends, too loose to continue.

Freeze, creep.

Edit: I mean, this.