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April 17, 2007

My agent's getting back to me

Aware that I am but ounces of time away from being featured front & centre in a doubtless forthcoming "Where Are They Now?" edition of Concrete Journals, I thought I'd suspend this fate but a little by making this abrupt and sheepish cameo. Suffice to say that the following content, as ever, lacks a certain je ne sais quoi which others might term "substance", however rest assured that it will be couched in the usual warmly insipid maelstrom of lexicon being contorted beyond its natural limits. Think of these entries as a highly flavoured broth, yet without the nutrition. It should come as little surprise to those who followed my previous bottle-rocket trajectory that I should be confiding in advance that this and any sporadic offerings which may or may not follow will likely......

enlighten you little, and unwillingly, and ultimately, only insofar as concerns my increasingly neurotic yet appreciative responses to that which surrounds me, itself an overly broad category which has been enjoying a considerable state of flux since about 1998. As does anyone's, one would suppose; 1998 was a major turning point generally, really. Were ever I to formulate a mantra tolight my way through my lucklustre journalling career, it would at some point necessarily contain the command "edit less" . I shall think of these entries as being the messy and on occasion foul-smelling result of a burp which delivered more than anticipated, and rather than demurely swallow my unexpected issuance to wait for something more palatable to emerge, i shall bespatter these pages for all who care to partake thereof. What luck is yours.

In this spirit, I relate to you that I have recently been enjoying
my forays down to Inglewood IGA to ferret around in the bargain trolley (CRAZY PRICES to be had courtesy of The Fruit and Veg Department - these people are unhinged & if they don't have an HQ they should), principally thanks to the delightful window displays chez local batty charity shop run by retirees living out their autumn years in some eerily similar yet clearly distant dimension. A mere run for soy milk & juice (yes, TOGETHER) has become of late a photographically-charged reconnaissance mission, with me covertly snapping the disconcertingly-labeled wares on offer as suspicious locals sidle by laden with meat and dog food, and meat. I will not be disproportionately surprised should one of them one day slap me upside the head with a hefty tenderloin in order to view the depraved contents of my outdated digital piece.
So, suck what enjoyment you can from these, I may not be asked back for another episode at least until the season finale, when I will be required to reprise my two-line cameo for a mute role in some lead character's ominous neighbourhood-apocalypse-themed dream where I'm standing by a vaseline-smudged hot-dog stand waving benignly or groaning deeply in slow-mo warning as a gargantuan lizard emerges from behind a palm tree to spray us all with......