Ceci n'est pas une pipe.

Ok. The story. Maybe Spam & Co. will figure out I'm not you. (Or you. Or you.) They seem to have a hard time with the idea that one man might have more than one story. Since their lives seem to lack some juice, I'll be literal here. I sometimes have to be, though it's a dreadful comedown from the people we need to be. But if Spam and Barefooted come back this way and are still having a hard time figuring it out, well... that's their loss. I'm tired. I can spare one story. Life has many, done properly.

I spent most of 1996-2002 in London. Big times, much to do politically, etc. Blair was coming. And I'd promised to come back, just to help reverse the works of Maggie. So I did.

I lived near the Heath. Hampstead Heath. There was a little cafe, down at the foot of Parliament Hill and South End Road. Called Polly's. Here. Look. Come on in.

http://www.welovelocal.com/en/london/camden/belsize-park/cafes/pollys-nw32qb.html

It was a greasy spoon. Perfect for me. So I'd fall down the hill every morning for coffee etc. Turned out it was also the haunt of Annie Lennox. Same Mendes. Minghella. Made for interesting chats. Mendes was doing American Beauty.

Thus, Annie's "the girl." When in the Eurythmics, her sexuality scared the shit out of people. The red short hair and all. When the Council tried to close Polly's down for some stupid licensing thing, Annie organized the response. We won.

The English struggle with America, and what it means. The song was her video on the end of a love affair. With America. the love's still there, but the horror got pretty thick for a while.

I'm not a riddler. Myth, I get.

But fuckitalltohell. My blood's from America. Fucking Mayflower. Fuller's. My family's back in America now. I'm not, as of yet. Decisions to make. But I feel it. And if you can't see the look in Annie's face, ricking herself in pain, in the back of that cab, and get what this has all meant to people... well. I kinda run out of words. And now.... when there's the slightest sniff of hope... to see the morons, as one-dimensional as ever, still not having figured out that THAT'S why the ship got captained by a fool, to not get that the cubic souls they've created are the very problem, and now, all of them clustering in to close hope off.... It kills me.

Do not mistake me. I think Obama carries a great deal in this time. So much so that in fact I'm sure he will fail and sink under the waves from time to time. We'll see if he also rises. Which is precisely why the dull would do well to understand myth.

There. I'm unlikely to be this literal again. Christ, I hope I don't have to be.

And apologies to all others reading. Twas "spam" that got up my nose. People who worry about multiple avatars, and then speak in the name of Christ.... I honestly don't know what to say about idiots like that. Ack. I need Mars Attacks.

OK. Barefoot is not the enemy, so you'll need to re-read the poems, and apologize. That's important.

The story:The content often summerged in the style, though I must say, that is my style too, so extra points for being obtuse. Style matters, content less so.

Seems you lived in England from 1996-2002 and worked for Tony Blair, angry that your previous girlfriend "Maggie" has undone the Brits. Maggie wasn't into the old/young thing (at least with you) so you went looking for a new girlfriend with a greasy spoon (did you have it, or did she). This took place at a lively little cafe where you met Desidero. Also at this lover's nestle were various celebrities that no one remembers. You feel in love with the one who sells her Cds on CD Baby. Her video broke your heart, and that's when you started channelling Piaf, because, as much as you like older women, she was sleeping with the headless horseman in the states. There were many talks about the meaning of life. Then you had some crisis about who you really are. I thought you were from Canada, now you're a returning Brit, but you came on the Mayflower, but not with the 'nauts. You have angst.

Desi met you at the cafe. You and he reflect on apartments. You offer yours, but the chimp wants a better pad.

You are sometimes angry. Amazing stuff. Do I believe it? Oddly, I do.

the song next time