This might have happened.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a drug guy. The legal convict staples do me fine. If I had accepted an offer of 'organic halluginogens' on Sunday, it might have gone a little like this.

The Domain and the nearby Farnham/Jones concert (the one he promised would never happen) turmed into a vibrant and blissful mecca. Some Creepy Guy tailed us for a while, I'm assuming we were in his park, I smoked three packs of cigarettes and the housing comission flats told me how to solve the Act three mechanations of my next play. I lost the fisbee and the maybe a few decision makeing skills. Spent the next day in my underwear workshopping anew unfinanced film about homosexual back-packer rapist killers. Lost a few important layers of reality.

That Hello Kitty thing on ms fits' front lawn keeps coming into my field of vision.

The cute guy from Thunderstruck was telling me a story about a frozen six inched ribbed number he was asked to wield one night when his wallet proved to be rubber-free. He described watching it 'slowly defrost, rib by rib'. That's what I think of Valentine's day.

One of the three people who live in my flat had sex under a lamp-post the other night.

Read a depressing article about sarin-tipped bullets. I'd link to it but it's beyond me.

Another one about nanobots that can build sky-scrapers.

The future seems predictably phallic.

One would, hypothetically, entrust one's sanity to the mercy of LSD occaisionally, and only ocaisionally. One would assume.

I miss various people right now.

I dislike the kid next to me killing some other kid in Adelaide in his pretend Spitfire.

At least I didn't send That Broad hundreds of dollars worth of flowers for the sixth year running. Last year's she actually left on the street. I'll spend it on pizza and porn with fricken toys of all sorts protruding from it. And a beer if anyone's up for it. It is Thursday, non? Thursday's so the old new Wednesday. Local's night. Monday, for those who take note, is almost the new Thursday, but Sunday still seems to be last year's Tuesday and Saturday's the fuckin same.

Hit the floor and crawl to Daddy.

Musical awakening came late to me. Well into my teens I was still listening to a strict diet of doo-wop (almost exclusively Inkspots), Sinatra and Bing, occaisionally spiced, when I was feeling giddy (a combined result of my hall monitor's badge too tightly pinned and my tie too stiffly Windsored) I'd dip into South Pacific or joust with Richard Harris kind of singing in Camelot. My Dad tried to steer me towards his precious Beatles on vinyl, instead I dug out his childhood disks, lurking in older embarrassment still, at the back - the Roger Miller, the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack. I detected dissappointment when I finally convinced my father I wasn't gay. I imagine he thought it would have been cool. He was right. A shockingly pustular teenager, I had Frank and Bing written on my schoolbag, and received the draconian schoolyard punishments I rightly deserved; I was narrow minded.

The arrival of far cooler people in my life of course activated the normal hormonal need to fit in so overnight I started buying CD's from every spectrum of music and musicology. I listened to as much of it as I could even when it started messing with after-school hockey and debating finals. I still have Use Your Illusion II in shrinkwrap. There is a couple of good tracks on it but. Now I seem able to listen to fucking anything and still bop my head.

The good side of this complete cross-genre acceptance of mine (I mean I listen to ANYTHING except South American Hard Metal) is that it is kind of cool to be able to enjoy whatever lopes up on stage at the Hopetoun and spits on you, the flip side is that I seem endlessly to arrive in conversations with metal fans about the post-irony in Mandy Moore lyrics, or extolling John Lennon's feedback to Timberlake Home and Away extras, defending Cuban and Medieval influences on 'Maybellene' to Newtown junkie buskers, so on. Pop music is a gorgeous wasteland, to misquote someone I was reading last night. It all comes from the same place eventually, non?

I spose what I'm trying to say is it's okay for me to like that Killer's albumn, right?

Cotton needs convincing, he even 'hates' some tracks. Doesn't stop him humming them in the shower I notice.