GLASTONBURYOFTHEMIND

AL GORE BONO ETC - now with added playlist Went to Vermont for the first time. Not the place - the restaurant in Los Angles opposite a Los Feliz Taco Stand. It had been an exhausting 24 hours and it wasn’t over yet. Shining diamond solace was found in the very DIAMOND sparkling eyes of the one bred from the one that broke the heart strings, coming in strong, in the nineteen seven tee frees and seven tee fives. Mister Lowell George’s daughter Inara - musically abundant at the mo with 3 or 4 excellent projects including her solo hook. Inara’s avidness talking of the animal kingdom was sure a pleasing respite from the unmitigated self-preening that goes on hereabouts. Grinning Rick Rubin bred moonies holding court like some Emperors of Spoilt Brat “Art”. What is Rubin, this emperor of everything, going to do to with Bono’s ego when he gets a hold of it? Set it in aspic and make us quiver to our liver at the frightful gaucheness of Ballymun Blarney? I would expect its more n possible. Bono will use the relationship to polish off some lines of not worthiness in the light of the Johnny Cash saviour arrival at U2 command control central. And amen to that. All stand. Or kneel/Neil (McCormick) and prey. On the corpses of a culture ripe for the plucking will the unworthy feast. Elvis, Cash, MlK, BB King. Oops this one’s still warm… The tune is Clarence Carter Soul Deep We await the U2 Rubin goobin with trepidation… meanwhile the fashionistas are creeping us out at the upper Sunset Marquis cottage poolside. It’s a hot day in March and retinue of crotch exposing flat chested chickenstock, with the inevitable beer bellied stroking ugly older men in tow, are catching the rays. Spreading the legs and ordering chicken patties. Talking on the phone. Wiggling the buns “She’s got a great bawdy,” he says stroking the ass of some uber myth nymph. All around the pounding of drills, the cutting of concrete tiles, the blades a-whizzing, the sun beating down. It’s a building site backdrop to a sort of creeping sleaze fest. The Tune Here Is West of Hollywood by Steely Dan The Amazing Alex Osman - beatific and rising above it all -returning with the best sort of interview, the most interesting perspective, a singularly sharp star in the city of impending gloomy night and no nothingness. Link have delivered the goods. Alex is upgraded. In actuality and in the collective consciousness. The tune is Van Morrison Sense Of Wonder So it was nice to talk of the humanness of Chimps, the mystery of frogs, the trouble with skunks and raccoons with the daughter of the man that wrote The tune her is Long Distance, Love. And her easy natural grace and flair of her hand on Alex, something to see. Then the English PR posed a question of preference. Deadly serious he was asking for a preference between penetration by a curly pig penis and the oral relief administering to a horse cock so large it would be hard to insert the appendage into a mouth, even one that was wide open. Such is the sign of a supturating culture of a hopelessly vacuous whats it all for effluentathon. Such is the cuntree that produces the team we watch in a Santa Monica English pub being roundly humiliated by Israel. WE sit beneath a pic of Noel Gallagehr and give the money collector (a Scot) 20 dollars for 50 minutes of tedium inducing English footer. Back at the poolside the Sunset Marquis is like a building site the long delayed pool refurb like the scene of the murder covered in white plasticated tarpaulin. The delay seems to be because of some Design/Organization/Ability and Desire to complete problem. Meanwhile the hotel is robbed of its focus and you are left to ogle and gape at the extraordinary cavalcade of freaks and reptiles that move through the lobby. Ross Halfin, whose photos are all over the lobby, gives the shocking news of a crash involving Others of our number whisked here from Londiminium jet lagged and onto the street, crossing the road and bang. Lights out blood. Cedar Sina Hospital. Jet lag is a reality dude. One things for sure - burning the airmiles in the quest for copy as easily engendered on the phone will, if Al Gore, or his ilk, ever gets in, result in the much less easy passage of journos and Prs (pronounced P arse) cross the continental divide ending. BY which time it may not be the world that Al is trying to save… but time itself. I want to tell you a Gorey…. The Tune is James Brown Public Enemy NUmber 1