Jakatta: American Dream

I could be in the States right now.

…

Fuck.

…

Actually.

…

I am.

…

No.

…

I was.

…

Fucking whiskey.

…

No.

…

Whisky.

…

(without the “e”)

…

And

… 

Fucking having bets with you, NY.

…

And

…

Which I fucking win.

…

…

 

NY, I don’t like your world.

…

…

 

Of riches.

Of self-confidence.

Of meeting famous people.

Of me really trying to fit in.

…

Ain’t never gonna happen.

…

I am happiest as I am right here and now. 

…

Alone in your absolutely fabulous parents’ guest room. Without internet connection. Peace and quiet. Whilst you and your so hospitable family have gone to bed.

What a bed, by the way. Mine. For now. Not for long. But I will foster it.

…

Excuse the Husten.

…

I am happiest as I am right here and now. 

Behind me Apple. Without internet connection.

With me bottle of whiskey, no, bourbon. 

It’s says so on the label.

…

Without riches.

With self-doubt.

Without meeting famous people.

With me really succeeding to shy away of …

…

You are gonna read this tomorrow. Maybe not tomorrow. Coz no internet connection. In your absolutely fabulous parents’ guest room. Without internet connection. Yet. You. Will. NY. Probably be too busy tomorrow showing me around, introducing me to yet more people, more friends, more family, trying to make me feel at ease. At some point, at least. 

Why did I ever tell you about my blog? I know why. Perfectly clear, Sunshine. Wanted to impress, now, didn’t I? May not have the riches, the self-confidence, the circle of media acquaintances, the talent, but have my vanity, don’t I? The days with which I spend. At some point, at least.

…

It’s been fabulous. An eye-opener. This Speedy-Gonzales NY visit. Just like in bed. Me that is, so you complain. 

No. 

You that is, so I complain.

…

So I fantasize.

…

You have been absolutely amazing. As was your mum and dad. In making me feel at home. But I am drunk now and we talked about it earlier, remember, trying to find a reason why I acted so awkward in front of your friends, your family. Trying to find a reason, proper New York, seventies, Woody Allen, blame-my-parents, pseudo-psychology kind-a-way. I came up with the most pathetic of reasons. But it made you smile. Made you laugh. As did your mum but she laughs with everything I say. So do you. Sometimes. Always. In my imagination. 

After I had embarrassed you in front of your friends. Or so I thought. But no one else did. Which made me feel really embarrassed. Remember?

…

I am a small-town boy, me.

Can’t cope.

…

I said it before, will say it again now. 

I am a small-town boy, me. 

…

And easily drunk. 

And really hungry. 

…

Nee chance of calling my local curry delivery service now. Don’t even dare to venture downstairs, to the kitchen, in your much-smaller-than-I’d-imagined-house. Don’t want to wake everyone up. With all them curious dogs and contemporary artwork and all that. Hugo will probably want to play. And bark. And I don’t want to look at those famous paintings by someone I should have heard of. In the dark.

Whilst barked at. In the dark.

Coz I’d be too scared to switch the lights on.

…

 

I am a small- … .

 

…

 

Can’t wait for them waffles tomorrow morning.

 

…

 

And A’s high-pitched, shrieking voice on my mobile. Her lovely, not-soft-at-all, Northumbrian accent.

 

…

 

Your parents will understand, right? 

 

…

 

I know you do.

 

…

 

Excuse the Husten.

 

 

 

 

 

Razorlight: Golden Touch

Nevertheless.

Nonetheless.

 

I spend the days with my vanity.

 

Fall On Me feels obliged to announce that V M Husten is acutely aware of his poor posting record. 

Recently.

 

There is a reason.

There was a reason.

 

V M Husten was (is and will be for some time) away.

 

Nevertheless.

Nonetheless.

 

 

Those YSL pictures are still showing prostate massage links.

 

 

Nevertheless.

Nonetheless.

 

…

 

 

A is away. And when A is away, it is just Husten and his Apple.

 

Really.

Nowt else.

 

 

So.

Therefore.

 

 

In proper (The) Guardian style:

 

During-those-not-so-recent-times-that-Julie-Burchill-was paid-far-too-much (£100k/a year-it was-published)-to-write-a-column-in-The-Guardian-and-frequently-had-to-be-substituted-by-a-lesser-columnist-when-she-quite-rightly-so-decided-to-sunbathe-her-fat-dilettante-arse-in-some-sun-filled-beach-daydreaming-no-sorry-pondering-about-what-it-is-that-some-people-appear-to-like-so-much (gay? yes, sure, of course, but women?)-about-really?-anal-sex.

 

So.

 

Still.

 

Even better.

 

I spend the days with my vanity.

 

Nevertheless.

Nonetheless.

 

In proper (The) Guardian speak:

 

 

V M Husten is (was and will be for some time) away.

 

 

 

Jonathan Richman: I Was Dancing In The Lesbian Bar (Pt.3)

Ever been so lonely you forgot to exist?

No?

 

Neither have I.

 

 

 

The Pixies: Where Is My Mind???

Heard of a false rumour. 

Of a craze going on among Hungarian girls getting really into drunk, completely smashed guys. Finding them irresistibly sexy.

As long as they are not black. Or coloured.

 

So.

 

Still.

 

Even better.

 

I’m emigrating.

 

 

 

The National: Start A War

Fall On Me: You can be funny, if you want to.

V M Husten: Who cares whether I make you appear funny or not?

FOM: Readers will.

VMH: Fuck ‘m.

FOM: You’ll never learn, will you?

VMH: The only thing I found funny about your previous post was that porn finally made William Shakespeare shut up.

FOM: (sigh)

VMH: (wheeze)

 

 

The National: Baby, We’ll Be Fine

H: Yeah, yeah, yeah … I have to admit. It’s funny*, isn’t it? If I had enough breath left, I’d roar myself.

(*Not funny as in the age-old, tried and tested, but fortunate “this joke isn’t funny anymore”: Question: what’s an Australian’s idea of foreplay? Answer: brace yourself, Sheila.)

 

A: Oh, my poor baby, I didn’t mean it like that.

H: I know. My lungs, vocal chords, thoracic diaphragm and immune system were born to entertain people like you.

A: I really shouldn’t laugh with … I am worried about you … But your voice comes straight out of a Disney cartoon … a scary one … (laugh … very loud in fact).

H: … (sigh) … (then because of) … (sniffle/cough/wheeze) … comes with the territory as you know.

A: What territory?

H: Shagging an older man.

A: But you are a spring chicken.

H: I’ll ignore that comment. 

A: You are a …

H: Rub it in. Last week, I came from the same pre-historic era as L. 

A: You weren’t wheezing then.

H: … (trying not to laugh (very loud in fact) coz it hurts) … Believe it or not, but that somehow makes sense. 

A: I’ve got an idea, this is gonna make you even funnier.

H: Leave it, luv. 

A: Listen to what I’ve got to say first. 

H: No doubt, this is gonna hurt, right? Do you want me to eat a nut?

A: …

H: Don’t look all bashful. Like I guessed your brilliant idea.

A: …

H: Maybe not then.

A: …

H: Don’t freak me out by staring at me.

A: …

H: Go on. I’m bracing myself like a Sheila in an Australian outback toilet*.

(*As in the age-old, tried and tested, but unfortunate “this joke isn’t funny anymore”: Question: what’s an Australian’s idea of foreplay? Answer: brace yourself, Sheila.)

A: …

H: …

 

A: Sing!

H: Ey?

A: Try and sing. It’s gonna be hysterical what you will sound like.

H: Do you want me dead?

 

(Later. Much later. After she’s gone to bed to wake up in the middle of the night to find me heavenly wheezing over pornographic images NY likes and I now do as well)

(Giving me a cuddle, looking at my computer screen, the porn, licking my ear, in commedia dell’artian jest)

 

A: The few days we may have each month, you know, when we’ve got it really together, not trying to kill each other, you know, you and me, A and Husten, Husten and A, us, us two, you and me, you know … they are amazing, aren’t they? We are amazing, aren’t we?

H: You are. 

A: But seriously.

H: We can be, could be. And if we can’t, couldn’t … well … (wheezing) … it’s like Shakespeare wrote: “But if we … “

A: Shut up! Got nowt to do with your wheezing … your Shakespeare.

H: Why? Let me finish my quote. You’ll understand what I … .

A: No! (looking at my screen). Shut up.

H: …

A: …

H: I quite like this shot, don’t you?

A: Click on that one.

H: Phwoar! … (wheeze) … Nice ankles.

A: Nice dick.

 

 

 

Badly Drawn Boy: Once Around The Block

On the mobile.

…..

Noise, lots of it (but with a Northumberland, not Geordie accent)

Can’t hear a word you’re saying, luv.

 

Noise, lots of it (and with a Northumberland, not Geordie accent)

Call me back when you’re outside, I can’t … 

….

Yup, still awake and relatively sober.

(.)

You want me to do what?

(.)

Luv, if I had to drive now … get a cab and I’ll pay for it.

(.)

…

She is knackered. I know she is. Exams finished, all big plans to have a massive one tonight, but then biology kicks in. 

I know. Been around the block, me.

Funny how she always rings me.

L. must be out of town.

…..

….

…

Half nine, a bit early for you, innit?

I have been out since one this afternoon.

I can see.

I need food. And alcohol.

Can do both, nee problem.

…..

….

You feel a bit better now?

Thanks, Husten.

…(.)

How do you think you did overall in your exams, like?

(Shrugging of (sexy, almost naked, bar bra straps) shoulders)

You’ll be fine, trust me.

..(..)

How is your asthma?

My hayfever is killing me, that’s why I’m not drinking.

…

Not too sure you going back to university would be a good idea.

Why?

Well, why would you? You’ve got a fantastic business for yourself. It’s not that you’ll get a better one.

Because I want to. I need to. My life is driving me mad.

Everything drives you mad. Even your mum whom you never go to see.

We’re are not going there, lovely, you’re too young to make a comment like that.

..

I’m off to bed. Make sure you set the alarm for nine.

I will. Goodnight, lovely. Gonna listen to the radio and finish this chapter. I’ll join you soon.

.

(Four hours later) 

Will I fuck. Join her, lovely, soon. In my warm bed. Warmed by her. By her sexy figure, her strong legs, her not-so-peachy arse, her flat tummy. Her kind always forgiving, dreamy smile.

Can’t go and wrap my arm around her hips. Breasts if she is not sleeping on her belly. 

Coz.

Wheezing like a dying hamster. Wrong. More like Darth Vader. Haven’t been able to sleep since trees and grass thought it would be a good idea to shed an extra load of pollen come April/May this year. Especially May. Especially late May. Not to mention early June. You know, just for the fun of it. To make sure V M Husten’s life is as uncomfortable as possible.

And millions of others.

 

 

 

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds: We Call Upon The Author (Pt.2)

Dear oh dear. Posted some pics about Yves Saint-Laurent as a tribute five minutes ago. Don’t know if it is the same for your browser but when you hover your mouse over them, it comes up with links for prostate massage. In all of them. 

 

So WordPress associates my blog with prostate massage, does it now?

 

[The words used in this post will expose Fall On Me even further]

 

I wonder if Mr YSL would have a chuckle about that?

 

I had.

 

 

 

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds: We Call Upon The Author

 

 

Timbaland: The Way I Are (Ft. Keri Hilson & DOE) Pt. 2

(The mirror reflecting what she does not want to see)

 

A: My thighs, they look massive.

H: They’re just fine.

A: Don’t like this skirt. Shall I wear my black trousers tomorrow?

 

…

 

A: I am tired. NY hasn’t used my toothbrush, has she?

H: She had her own, what do you think?

 

…

 

A: Did you really pass 137 university exams?

H: Failed three, so 134.

 

…

 

A: Oh My God.

H: Here we go again.

A: What?

H: OMG What?

 

A: I’m shagging a freak.