Whatever, it needed saying and I'm eternally grateful for it's presence.
Glasgow Diamonds American Football team make a video in which they prove for once and all that white men can rap (but they sure as hell can't fucking dance, not these ones anyway....)
I know we don't get much sunshine up here in Glasgow, but surely they could have waited for a slightly brighter day to shoot this......No?
The tash on the singer is a thing of great beauty and wonder though. I shall grow one just like it!
Thought for the day. Does anyone have John Reid's number so I can text him and tell him to fuck off and get a job as a Rocksteady events steward? Or I could be blunt about it and tell the cunt to leave the country.......
Yes, I know it's old news, it's been at least 24 hours since that fart in the wind broke......
The iLL Man spits on topical relevance.
Say hello to these chaps, runners up in the British Eurovision heats (Northern Finals) 1979.
Not sure what became of them.....
Ok, not a lot else to be said, so I'll leave you in the hands of 'Mr Chinaski', thirteen years dead yesterday....
One For The Shoeshine Man
The balance is preserved by the snails climbing the
Santa Monica cliffs;
the luck is in walking down Western Avenue
and having the girls in a massage
parlor holler at you, "Hello Sweetie!"
the miracle is having 5 women in love with you at the age of 55, and the goodness is that you are only able to love one of them. the gift is having a daughter more gentle than you are, whose laughter is finer than yours. the peace comes from driving a blue 1967 Volks through the streets like a teenager, radio tuned to The Host Who Loves You Most, feeling the sun, feeling the solid hum of the rebuilt motor as you needle through traffic. the grace is being able to like rock music, symphony music, jazz . . . anything that contains the original energy of joy.
and the probability that returns is the deep blue low yourself flat upon yourself within the guillotine walls angry at the sound of the phone or anybody's footsteps passing; but the other probability-- the lilting high that always follows-- makes the girl at the checkstand in the supermarket look like Marilyn like Jackie before they got her Harvard lover like the girl in high school that we all followed home.
there is that which helps you believe in something else besides death: somebody in a car approaching on a street too narrow, and he or she pulls aside to let you by, or the old fighter Beau Jack shining shoes after blowing the entire bankroll on parties on women on parasites, humming, breathing on the leather, working the rag looking up and saying: "what the hell, I had it for while. that beats the other."
I am bitter sometimes but the taste has often been sweet. it's only that I've feared to say it. it's like when your woman says, "tell me you love me," and you can't.
if you see me grinning from my blue Volks running a yellow light driving straight into the sun I will be locked in the arms of a crazy life thinking of trapeze artists of midgets with big cigars of a Russian winter in the early 40's of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil of an old waitress bringing me an extra cup of coffee and laughing as she does so.
the best of you I like more than you think. the others don't count except that they have fingers and heads and some of them eyes and most of them legs and all of them good and bad dreams and way to go.
justice is everywhere and it's working and the machine guns and frogs and the hedges will tell you so.
