Theiving The Orchid Thief

All life is replication & adaptation.

Finding myself royally stuck in traffic thismorning, and receiving little consolation from whatever morning radio was blasting over the local airwaves, thought I'd turn to tuning in some kind of podcast through new Google Listen on the Android phone.

First result was an interview with Susan Orlean, straight away that name raised an army in the brain. If you haven't seen Adaptation. go watch it now.. I can wait.

Eyes off the road a split second, a quick search for the first thing that came into my head, Twitter of course. 5.81 megabytes later of mp3 encapsulated audio data, replicated itself there on the SD card. Chickens, Twitter, and a new follower in the biblical sense.

Dear @susanorlean, yes I did once -- a long time ago -- download your Orchid Thief book without paying for it. I did however read only about a page or two of it. Does that make it less wrong, or more? Never fear, I'm buying a copy now from Amazon.

Figure it may be of use, along the road somewhere. I'll keep it in mind.


Stealing likenesses of soul

Pegged To The Line

Another going away..

We all felt a little pegged that morning after. Pegged to the line, as they say. Or perhaps some might say someday, as part of the newspeak. A generic phrase forged some sunny afternoon between Muggins, myself, and Dan, thinking of a variety of new slang and generally observing the backyard washing line.

Emotions ran high, burnt hot. Goodbyes to Mel & James again, off to become Londoners, pick football teams, get into bar brawls. Some prophecy looms that they'll be back before six months is through, though we wish them all the best on their journey across the pond.

And so, still strung out, we hang, out to dry, on the line, pegged, waiting for our day in the sun.


And maybe I seem a bit confused. Well, maybe.. but I got you pegged

The BJ Mascara

Stomach still in one of its twisted states, a stock standard result of the night before's many twists of fates.

Thought we'd be late to the early dinner, though as it happens we were somehow the first of all us latecomers. The entourage arrives in due processional, the usual suspects, one last supper.

Off to the show we go, caged creatures at The Zoo. Brilliance erupts on stage. The Brian Jonestown Massacre mass sprawls curtain to curtain. Matt Hollywood brings back the classics.

Off to Rics post-show-haste. All a bit hazy by then. A couple of BJMs wallow with the locals. Chatter, chatter, chatter. Unsure of arisings, but before we knew it the flock was on the move. Rics had just called last drinks. Everyone back to ours at Hynes Street. I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Needless to say, some chaos times. Neighbourly understanding approaches zero proportional to the rising sun. Another breach for the Hynes St kids, and threat of eviction. It won't stick I'm betting. Lay low for a while.

All in good fun.


Impromptu Afterparty

Raptors In Space

Tragic news shoots its way through over the airwaves, mysterious in nature, details uncertain. Next Thursday's Velociraptor show put on by the new Club NME is no longer. A reschedule perhaps. Here's hoping.

Transient jam last night before hitting the night's delights. A new song of my own entitled Neil Armstrong's Wife fared reasonably well in the seven strong flock of guitar-wielding birds of prey.

Still, next Wednesday at The Troubadour should see some (upwards of twelve perhaps) raptors in space, sky high, with random attacks of ultra-violence. Velociraptor is the band you always prayed you'd never find yourself in.

But you can never ever come down. And it is great!


ROAR!

Ponderings

The antidote falls upon us, temporal remedy for recent waves of heat, the ebb and flow for those of us below. Stranded at work I write this; some such release for the mind that has been absent for some time. The Vespa provides no shield from these heavenly waters.

So begin the ponderings of the season, of what mysteries may await. Too long methinks have I witnessed the rain pattering concentricities around this little fish pond, year after year. Soon I'll push send and start the chain reaction, to the beginning of the end, here at the local watering hole. Well overdue perhaps.

The future evolves still in the mind. Here begins some kind of journey it seems, into uncharted waters, following the dark undertow. The weather current seems unable to decide, whether to pour down or subside.

May make a dash.


The Pond & The Stupa