Shoehorn Harry Lets Loose on Nervous Nymphs

The less said about that, the better.

"What did I do?" he asked.
"Exactly," I replied.

He then flew off into the clouds and got promoted for his altruism.

Harry's Agile Wit

Obviously shaken by my comments, Harry has posted the following rebuttal on his site:

I WILL FUCKING SHOEHORN YOU ALL!!!!!!

Harry The Shoehorn Shithead

Harry The Shoehorn Shithead and his catchy name are four steps away from noosing my head. How can I live down the fact that he has been updating more regularly in recent times than me? Actually it's not as hard as you think, especially in lieu of tepid passages of uninspiration such as:

It's been uneventful of late. I'm FUCKING TOP SHIT!!!!!! I wish I had my camera. I could show you my throbbing shoehorn.

And he lives for all the pregnant women.

Look elsewhere! Stephan's site, for instance.

161st Anniversary Special!

I'm so excited I'm speechless.

But is He a Poof?

I apologise for addressing you like a person (which, as Ben correctly identified, only leads to the pitfalls of “Sorry I haven’t updated for a while, but nothing much has been happening…"), but this matter deserves to be treated on a human-to-human level. Ben (of Betweenways fame, and a burgeoning songwriting talent) uncannily, if not overtly, resembles Oscar Wilde. This is going by one small picture in the paper, mind you, but the fact that Stephan Fry, who also resembles Ben, plays Wilde in a biopic only serves to reinforce my separated-at-birth suspicions. Also, Ben arguably possess wit, which the other two have in spades. Well all right, Wilde has tenfold the amount of Fry, but still.

Leonard Cohen on a Pile of Electric Ladies

That said, there is a certain indefinable somethang that bears thinking about. But this has nothing to do with thinking.

Not including my own compositions, what is the worst song ever written? Because Of by Leonard Cohen, of course.

Cheerio.

Horsehead Lane

My lung-metre was ticking over the mooning dog-end. My tie had the dread-look. Almost blue eyes idiotically named a piece In The Wee Small Hours, which is the equivalent of saying "That's a giant big house!" But there's no feeling of regret or shame when you're planting the hard yards on Horsehead Lane.

I count Vampires among the closest. I braid proud donkeys until they are but snuffed powder. And I ate four fortnight's worth of weeks whilst holding out the mail in nocturnal military posts, each briefly-attired and temporarily-weary accounts of daily mathematics. But there's no fame to claim when you're lying teethless on Horsehead Lane.

My arms were empty (Military Triggers) and laid-off by teachers. My catch meant I had enough rain till the King lost his peaches. And my greatest feet had exclusively-clubbed cuff-linked toes. I was the least happy during morning time, mainly because the real noble and good recordings were ignored, leaving only the fauxs. But there's no one too tame or beyond blame when you're alone, unpaid on Horsehead Lane.

I was overarching the target with a gift-wrapped bow. I was fretting my lap with an arrogant crow, which was instrumental in making the blue lights blow, and confident in what agony-aunts know. But when you stop to lift the top off a red-light dame you find yourself staring at Horsehead lane.

Bedpost Leanings

I was enhancing a rowboat near my riverside recording studio (the birthplace of my Celtic meanderings with Paradise Pussies) when a yard of communiqué rattled my fingers and caused me to react. I deciphered the message with the help of my senses and told the reader: "Ho, this is Ben. Just worrying about your mental state. Heard the latest Looking For Legs record and it disturbed me. Particularly the lines I just want those unholy eyes upon my chest/With the holster slipping favour at the mutual crest. And when a stream of rockets spoils the dockets in your pockets/You'll have another excuse when your eyes fall from their sockets from All The Spoilt Positions. Anyway, I'm sure I'm just being paranoid, but I think we should have a luncheon together. Ho-up." Poor Ben, I thought. He didn't get my subversive angle. But I decided to comply with his request.

Due to touring commitments with The Pink Butterflies, I had to postpone the meeting until the following week, so it was a later Friday when we met at a modest lunch-house and began an exchange much like the one that follows.
"Ho," said amiable Ben.
I nodded.
"Listen," he continued, "I'll get straight to the point: I'm worried about your mind."
"I gathered," I said.
"It's just that I'm afraid all this isolation and prolificacy seems to have had an affect on you — and your work." Ben looked genuinely concerned, and for a moment I was touched. Withdrawing my hand, I finally responded.
"Nonsense," I said.
"Then how do you explain A pillar arose from my southern clothes and froze Rose in a stunned pose?" he asked.
"I'd prefer to let the work speak for itself."
"And it does. That's why I'm here."
"Look Ben," I said, "you've got nothing to worry about. Without entirely ruining the mystique, I will say that you have been reading a lot of my lyrics at face-value."
"Well I sure hope so. But whatever comment you're trying to make, these perverse fascinations can't be healthy. I'd understand if you made the comment once, but it seems to crop up in every song you do these days."
I smiled. "That's the point."

This encounter inspired me to begin work on a new triple album for my rock-jazz outfit Praise The Pill entitled On My Hump. After writing the opening track, Elsie Has Blown A Fuse, I wandered outside with a satisfied smile and gazed at the river. No one was about.

The steam had dissipated when I returned and I decided to wait until tomorrow before I attempted any more songs. Still, I knew that I was on the verge of something great and would soon add to my many masterpieces. I began envisaging critical reaction on my bed and almost believed that I shall be released, if only for a moment.

Pointed in No Sense

I wrote something yesterday but quit the browser before I got a chance to publish it. Naturally it was my best work.

Post to Post, L.A. to Chicago

In a haze, nay, in a daze, nay, in a phrase.

Worrying About the Room

I looked up "Prolific" in the dictionary and it turns out that it only means "Updates every so often."

Lipstick Vague

I wonder how I can sit there idle whilst awfulness is spread fat over our great sandwich, but I can. I don't wonder for long, mind you, and I usually forget the whole dirge-fodder soon after, but I'm glad I have the right frames from which to see the big picture, if only on occasion. I've heard of persons who spend their whole lives with thin glasses, and are content to just worship the flock they've been dealt. Probably die unhappy, though.