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Can’t believe I have never owned a guitar! Had plenty of friends with them but not me. My ukukele lessons were doing fine, but I was finding the sound of the uke annoying, a bit too kerplinky-tink - but what do you expect from an uke?

So I decided to ‘enlarge’. I looked at four string tenor guitars, but they are hard to find cheap. This Ovation was advertised at a good price on Craig’s list. I got the seller to knock $25 off so I ended up with a very nice acoustic/electric Celebrity at a very reasonable price. I know doodley-squat about geetars but I have always liked the look of Ovations and the laser cut sound holes are really cool. Mine is red quilted maple by the way - very purdy.

It has a much bigger sound than I expected and is more than loud enough played acoustically. I will put off getting an amp until I am a bit more proficient. Learned myself a couple of chords tonight, C & D, ordered the Hal Leonard Complete Course book and will change my uke lessons to guitar.

I am very excited about this and hope to enjoy it for a long time to come. Practice, practice, practice.

Having growed up in Alba, where all we did was shiver in the damp outside chippies, the concept of the Senior Prom is a bizarre one to me. What most intrigues is the staggeringly terrible dress that is worn on both sides but principally by the male.

We went out for dinner last night to Culpepper Steak House in Rockwall, a very average steak house with great pretensions. They served me a rib-eye that was so eye-crossingly rank that, if we had been dining alone, would have been more than enough to exit post-haste or have the chef and manager come and wiff the offending steak and try to offer an explanation. I could smell its foulness as soon as it was placed in front of me - how the hell does that happen in 2008?

Don’t waste your (considerable) money at Culpepper Steak House in Rockwall - I hope Google spiders that.

Anyway. As we entered the restaurant a young couple, dolled up to the nines, was leaving. He in a white suit with black shirt and cream tie - her in a figure-hugging iridescent confection in beetle wing blue. Inside, behind H, was another couple. Both with fine Nordic blond locks. He in black shirt with cream westcot and cream tie, she in another iridescent gown with a lovely lattice back a la Renaissance Fayre. She had a floral arrangement attached to her wrist.

I understand that there is no irony reflected in these prom outfits…

H with the Nogs behind him.

Enjoying my birthday riding my motor bike around town, eating Indian food, going to computer stores and generally fucking off. listen

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A pall hangs over our house. Our master and mistress are fair despondant for wee Nick is nae mair.

Nick was a great wee fechter. He never really kent his own size and was always ready to let us know that although he may appear wee he had the heart of a great beastie.

For all the times that I have writ of his fowl breath it pains me, and Finn, that he breathes the stench of Hades no more.

But I fear not for the squirrel-like one. We have a greeting that we exchange when we pass or meet another of our kind - “May we meet again by the far post”. Thusly we are saying that when we pass on we will meet again, as friends, by the pissing pole on the other side.

And so I say to Nick “May we meet again by the far post.”

Lord Angus of Melrose.

Spend most of yesterday looking for wallet. I am reaching that age by this seems to be common place. Oh my god! I’m using Jott to transcribe this phone call into a Blog post. It is quite incredible how it works. Press the link to hear my brother plastic voice message. Good bye. listen

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Incredibly deep social web browser. Almost overwhelming in its options. side-bars etc etc. Interesting though. New version kind of integrates Gmail which is now my main mail client - i.e. no more desktop based mail clients…

Get Flock here.

This post created in Flock by the by. Only bummer cannot choose categories as far as I can see. Oh hang on - yes you can when you come to publish. Very clever.

Spare us from another stupid old white guy. I just couldn’t stand it. This guy wouldn’t know Zeitgeist if it kissed his fluffy comb-over.

I moved hosting accounts and what a bolocking snafu that turned out to be. I like the new company - Aplus.net - as they give you great control over stuff. But with great power comes great responsibility and in a fit of dufferness I erased a database that had my friend Robert’s blog on it.

Oops.

I thought I could save it but not. I blame Aplus.net for not letting me give my databases meaningful names - leshall-1 and leshall-2 aren’t exactly cogent.

Oh and all my images that are hosted on snafu are farked up. They are saved but the database is looking for them elsewhere. Bugger, shit, damn! Do I really want to go thru 168 posts that have images?

I must say though that this new Wordpress 2.5 is most excellent.

Dear God

Mine Master is sore livid with the ageing cod-face mongrel that my Mistress calls Nick - a scurrilous, namby-pamby moniker if I ever herd one. I make a quip for my given task in life is to herd - how droll.

The fish breathed from Hades little rodent is ageing badly - I amuse myself by creeping up behind him when he is in one of his states and barking in his cock-eyed ears! Finn and I guffaw to see him elevate a good inch. His nocturnal perambulations are growing quite tiresome and I have taken to biding in the water closet on the cool hard floor of the rain-making booth.

The little shite-mouse has been sick at the bowels lately. His grey slimy evacuations are left each morning for Master or Mistress to step in bare socked. Mistress even tried to cast blame on me - I would never excrete such slimy, small, snails of shite. So he is loose in his troos.

Because he has the poncey hair of an Afghan, all silky and lovely, his fowl emanations become clarted on his buttock beard. Master has a good nose for odoures and noticed a fetor about cod-faces arse. As usual cod-face had built up a plug of fur & shite so resolute that no straining of his anus could dislodge.

Poor Master in a mighty out-flowing of choler launched cod-face to the water making pipes and took the twin knives that click together and excised the abominable bolus from cod-faces buttocks. There was much imprecation from Master. Some of his wordes I had never heard before such was his perturbation. Then, using his bare hands (my Master is nothing if not brave - and soft in the head for I would never touch that hell with even Finn’s paws) and some soft smelling foam he dowsed cod-faces arse and washed it like one might wash a fish-wive’s nether regions.

Cod face looked much chagrined by this enforced ablution but probably more comforted than dis. Master is well nettled by our kind and later I found him gazing at pictures of cats on his scrying glass in his lap.

There is always one who blights the pickings of others.

Lord Angus of Melrose.

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I’m also trying out Flock - a new kind of browser.

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