>Monday, Monday, so good to me: Smile like you mean it.


Thank the lord it’s Monday. Cheeeez. I did and said so many retarded things this weekend that when I woke up this morning I had to do a double-take in the mirror. Ah yes. I’m only human after all. Please excuse my use of a Parlotone lyrical quotation here. It is Monday after all.

I faded very early on Friday night after The Sleepers and Foto na Dans, who were both spectacular. I’m so glad that Foto decided to finally play Zula and despite the kak weather the place was full. I spent most of the night with Feds and drummer boy’s daddy, who looked on in adoration as his boy beat up his drum kit. LMG review to follow where the night with be discussed indepth. So after a tequila that almost made me taste myself (gosh doesn’t that sound pleasant?) I made a quick pit stop at Mercury and The Shack, before heading home. And then Saturday rolled around. And it carried on rolling. And rolling. And rolling. And before this becomes some kind of weird Limp Bizkit revival, the night rolled all the way into Sunday morning. Accompanied by some sort of verbal diarrhea on my part that made me talk about things that I would rather just forget. Oh yes.

When I was in high school I started writing a book. On floppy disks. Which naturally, I didn’t have backups for. Yes, yes I knooow, stooped. Anyway this book AKA the-glorified-diary-from-hell-about-the-people-I-didn’t-like was lost forever when my computer crashed, in a rather literal and dramatic fashion after the removals retards dropped it very ceremoniously outside my new front door. It never turned on again. My point to this story? I’m glad I lost it. Because trust me, high school has NOTHING on the people I am surrounded by now.

One day, when I do eventually punctuate the last sentence of my autobiographical masterpiece (which will be a real book and not some retarded Microsoft Word rant), I will pay tribute to the alcoholics, the Italians, the bipolar screwballs, the musicians, the good friends, the poets, the recreational coke addicts, the exs who fuck friends (and vice versa) and the people who have left us long before their time. I hold nothing against any of them and they all disserve their dues. We all make mistakes, right? I know I do, a shite load.

I’m only human after all. Sorry. Couldn’t resist.

Happy birthday Mr Fantastic. If you ever end up reading this, I want you to know my birthday present to you is an apology for the amount of times in the last week that I have slapped you. I’m all outta scarves.

When times are tough, remember the good old days Pope.