Okaaaaay, we've hit a slight technical bump here (since corrected 14/02/07). Turns out my relationship with computer technology is about as tenuous as Scotland's entry into the next World Cup. I hoped I could get a colour version of these pictures posted onto the blog, but it's taken longer than I thought to decipher the myriad settings on the office scanner. 'Fraid you'll have to make do with some atmospheric black and whites in the meantime.
And so no prizes for guessing the identity of this devil-may-care character. VD, mate, you should be damned lucky I don't have PhotoShop software at my disposal here, coz I could have a lot of fun with this portrait. And one can only wonder what the fuck he's doing wearing a tie; I think he may have been undergoing a Road Warrior mentoring programme at the time. This guy also has an invite to co-author, but so far he hasn't risen to the bait.
Which leads me on to our next exhibit here (below) in which our man is accompanied by a woman well-known to both he and this blogger for being totally fucking barking mad, as in certifiably howling-at-the-full-moon-carpetchewing-padded-cell-fly-catching-face-twitching-urine-collecting type of mad. Very pretty, granted, but a sandwich short of a full hamper basket, a kangaroo lost in the top paddock, a few tiles missing from her spaceshuttle, a semi-tone flat on the high notes, one hot pepper short of an enchilada, and any other synonym or cliche you can think of. In which case, you should watch out Johnny Rotten, as the last I heard she was stalking the grounds of Barrandov as a production accountant or something along those lines. Click on the images if they're too small - can't work out how to turn them into jpegs rather than bmps.
3 comments:
Okay let me clear a few things up: No doubt BA was wearing a tie because he had a court date...he's a very gentle human being until you load him up on absinthe and bad jazz and then its ZANG! Not hard but real!
And then an anecdote about the lovely lady Kivak trenchantly referred to as "...totally fucking barking mad, as in certifiably howling-at-the-full-moon-carpetchewing-padded-cell-fly-catching-face-twitching-urine-collecting type of mad...a sandwich short of a full hamper basket, a kangaroo lost in the top paddock, a few tiles missing from her spaceshuttle, a semi-tone flat on the high notes, one hot pepper short of an enchilada..."
In a little-known incident, yours truly Rotten almost became the first English-speaking male of the species to get fanged by this black widow. It was about half-way through my first year in Liberec, a Saturday evening in Zanzibar, where Road Warrior and I were propped at the bar, discussing the usual topics of those innocent days...the categorical imperative...Hume contra Descartes vis a vis the non-provability of human existance...black's better option when countering the King's Nimbo opening: do you prefer the Sicilian defense, or the Luzhin...?
Anyway, interrupting our tete a tete was the above mentioned young KooKoo, who we at the time had no way of knowing was mad as a bucket of spiders. She immediately approached your humble Rotten to inform him that he had 'big muscles...' Lads, she may have been crazy as a cut snake, but her perceptive powers were acute. Of course at the sight of a lovely lass blowing clean past him in favor of Rotten the Rookie, who was a lowly high school teacher at the time, Road Warrior just had to intervene with his best attempt at a buddyfuck.
"Ask Rotten about all his guns," interceded Road Warrior.
"Guns? 'Guns' jako 'zbrane'...? You like guns???" asked the lady.
I was a naive young man, gents. If I had it to do again, I'm sure I would come up with a better response than the one I opted for on that fateful night.
"Guns? Fuckin A!"
And I will also concede that my views on the Right to Bear Arms were not, emmm, particularly nuanced at this point in my life. Somewhere during my attempt to catalogue the Rotten Arsenal of Democracy (a Colt 357 magnum, a Colt 45 bought at a cop auction, a Ruger 9mm and a Ruger 10/22 fitted with double banana clips, a Remington 12 guauge shotgun cammo taped for turkey shooting, a 357 five-cylinder snub nose and a 38 special (inherited from my grandfather, remnants of his days at the 1st National Bank of Arvada, Colorado, back in the days before the FDIC and when the firm of Smith and Wesson was the bankers' choice for deposit insurance) and of course my beloved Egyptian-made kalashnikov w/custom fitted high-impact plastic stock and foregrips), somewhere in the telling I lost any pretense to affection from the lovely (and we now know clinically insane) bird who had so promisingly accosted me. In a mere instant I had gone from being a clean-cut All American boy with 'big muscles' in her lovely eyes to a heavily armed and dangerous triggerman, a rabid, pistol-toting werewolf...
And for no small length of time afterwards I resented Road Warrior's provocation, fiendishly clever it was, too, in that he knew I couldn't resist the bait...I viewed it as a nasty plot to keep me shag-free for the evening...a card dealt from the bottom of the pack...a vicious cockblock...
But with the passage of time I'm now grateful that what appeared to be a low-down buddyfuck turned out to be a huge favor on the part of Road Warrior, whose low intentions kept me on the high road.
I thank you, sir.
(Although any relationship with the above mentioned Kookoo for Koko Puffs chick and Johnny R would not have endured long, as it would have no doubt run afoul of Rotten Family Rule #1: No one is allowed to be loonier than daddy...)
PS: Kivak, if you would like to claim this story happened to you and use it for the answer to that question on your government agency job interview sheet, "Describe a time when a relationship was damaged by your stand on an issue?" feel free. I won't say a word.
Rotten
Alright, a few things on this. Leading off, the top photo has the distinction of being the single worst picture I have ever seen of myself. Absolutely frightening combination of bad grooming choices, uncharacteristic neckwear, and hit-with-a-board-dumb expression. Priceless. My faint hope is that the expression was an intentional mocking-stupid response to something one of you dumb bastards had just said, rather than a genuine brew-induced end-o'-the-evening visage. Over all it is a stark pictoral statement of just how far into the ether one could get in those days.. Its probably fortunate how much of that time I have forgotten..
Next, no debate about Kivak's characterization of the lovely-looking lady. My only addition would be that the diagnosis was unknown at the time of my introduction. Can't say the same for you, Kivak, I'm afraid. Crazy is as crazy does. The more fortunate point is that we can now look back on it as a bullet we eventually had the sense to dodge. Sometimes smart takes time.
JP's story does remind me, however, that it was Road Warrior himself who initially introduced me to the aforementioned femme fatale. What's the deal? Wielding that girl like a weapon against his buddies. Sad my man, just sad. One day revenge will be mine, oh yes.
Yup, fair cop there B.A. It's true that I was warned well in advance of blithely and bloodymindedly throwing myself off the precipice of sanity to blindingly fly into that spidery web (too much?) And as an overly-remunerated civil servant I can say that in terms of solid impact outcomes, the results were paltry, leaving aside the deep gouges that were carved out of my psychological well-being and the three-month insomniatic depression that led to the extreme measure of returning home. But hey, it makes good copy.
Of course, I thought I knew best, and in hindsight I think my unconscious 'saviour complex' had kicked into overdrive, only it was me who needed saving at the end of it all. But then again by that stage of my Second Coming I had already raked over the embers of my past fires and thoroughly extinguished even the faintest glow. In other words, I was up for anything and there were no limits to what I would do. As we say in this part of the world, I was perhaps "young, dumb, and full of cum", only I wasn't so young by that time.
And if I may say, at the risk of entering potentially hazardous territory here, that despite the attention I showered upon our damaged damsel the reciprocal efforts made to tame the raging priapic beast were few and far between and perfunctory at best. Is this a familiar story there, B.A.?
Actually, it wasn't Road Warrior but rather a certain vertically-challenged and reformed lesbian who delivered me into the arms of said volatile vixen. And that come soon after the wedding of Irena. Hah! Now there's another story. Any news of the wee one anyone?
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