Content Starved

That's the name of this post and that's how it is in chez-p, by which I mean the space between my ears which of late has lost its vibrant cottage cheese in a bag feel in favour of some kind of raisins in a wet sock vibe which is neither conducive to work nor play. (Or for that matter posting.)

I hear your tremulous queries: But why the disintegration of your uncommonly high-grade mentus, p-man? and I respond, carelessly: Huynnngh?

It may be the perpetual stream-o-snot trickling down my philtrum. It may be but I do not think so. I enjoy the flavour. And texture. Looks great on sleeves!

It may be the book I am reading. I have threatened to read it for years and now I am reading it and it is confusing me and maybe the conceit of the novel will soon collapse but it has yet to and oh man I may go first. Magic fucking realism.

It could be the cds I purchased surreptitiously last week when I was downtown. (Sorry, honey!) Also produced in the modern Europe of 1972-3. I cannot say if I would describe Ege Bamyasi as "larded with whimsy" or "totally fucked up!" which will explain why I am neither a so-called "rock writer" nor a record label pr hack. This band are gorilla! Fucking Stockhausen.

Whatever it may be, global heating, Buckley's Mixture, or the inevitable mental decay occasioned by consuming the avant-art of the early 1970s, I don't know, I just don't care. There's nothing the matter but I can't even muster the strength to compile a worst of 2007 list... and so much of 2007 sucked intensely! More Buckley's... maybe that's the ticket.

PMO