Sell the Kids for Food. Weather Changes Moods.

Entry Music: Guitar solo, Ear-Splitting Shriek of Women in Crowd.

Lights: Strobe and Green Lazerbeams.

Clothes: Leather Pants, Mesh Shirt, Boots with Large Soles for Extra Height.

Extras: Head-band, Gloves with Fingers Cut Off, Nipple Piercing.

Initial Interaction with Crowd: "Fuck Yeah!!!"

Trademark Moves: Michael Jackson-esque Crotch Grab, Gene Simmons-esque Tongue Poke, Iggy Pop-esque Freak-out-and-sprint-around-the-stage, Kurt Cobain-esque Guitar Smash.

Songs: King Of Wishful Thinking - Go West, How Can We Be Lovers - Michael Bolton, For Whom the Bell Tolls - The Bee Gees, Two Out of Three Ain't Bad - Meatloaf.

Between-Song Banter: Blink 182-esque Tom-foolery, Black Label Society-esque Derision of Other Bands i.e. "U2 fucking sucks!!" and "Let's go kill Bono!!"

Crowd Disaster(s): Stampede/Crushing, 18 year Old Overweight Girl Suffers Heart Attack, Skin Heads Bashed by Non-Racist Elements of Crowd (Not really a disaster, more of a triumph).

Items of Womens' Clothing Thrown at Me: Three Pairs of Granny Panties, Two Pairs of "Naughty Panties", Three Large Cup-Size Bras, One High Heel Shoe.

Items of Mens' Clothing Thrown at Me: Two Beer Bottles, One Pair of Man-Pants.

Number of Marriage Proposals on Large Signs: Four.

Crowd Reaction: Ridiculously Awesome.

Overall Concert Rating: Off the Fucking Hook.

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So on to the serious stuff. Contract negotiations have finally begun. This could be a protracted and lengthy process. I am a tough nut to crack. Probably because I'm cracked beyond repair already, so any attempt to crack me further is akin to trying to crack a speck of dust.

A family reunion of sorts tomorrow. Hopefully my anxiety stays in check so I can go down and help clean up the family homestead and do various lifting of heavy objects, being the muscular individual that I am. Would be nice to have a couple of beers with the uncles, aunties and cousins also. Put on a brave face, smile through the waves of terror inside my head and talk about bullshit all day. Sounds like a typical day for me.

Still feeling reasonably good today. Got to speak to Freckle briefly. She is shy and cute as hell. Gave me an 8 out of 10 for awesomeness in the literary game! Joy inside my heart. Feel like I'm writing everything in bullet-point format, or in a robot voice. Danger! Danger! Bullshit radar going haywire! Need better content ASAP!

Jeeze these are short paragraphs. What became of the sprawling blocks of words that flowed like rolling hills across the page and settled at the edges of the lakes of perspicacity that poured from my brain like tropical down-pours? What happened to the imagination that had us taking on the world like a couple of hard-headed warriors, sword and shield at the ready to slay the dragons that we'd surely encounter on our travails? And what about the entertainment value? Are these entries a vital part of your day? I truly hope so. I wouldn't mind a little recognition.

Hook a brother up!

Privatisation of State Assets is on my mind tonight. Dull reading but very interesting to think about. Frustrating also that rich business men can so calmly and blatantly pass off their propaganda in the media without so much as batting an eyelid that they will be proverbially shafting the rest of us when they sell our important assets and leave us at the feet of insurance companies and multi-national conglomerates. Dun dun dun! Better stop now or you lot will start suspecting that I not only have a brain, but also a moral-conscience of some repute. And we can't have that now can we, petals? I am supposed to be the dashing and debonair online-scribe who very occasionally lets his emotions get the better of him; who despite a natural reticence can't help but pen scenarios that he hopes one day will come true, casting him in a romantic light that he knows is accurate, but is nonetheless a little embarrassed about. I'm supposed to be a hard man, you pretty things. I'm not supposed to be so vulnerable.

But I guess beggars can't be choosers, as they so often say. That would throw the balance right out of kilter. And I'm happy to be whatever it is you need right now. You would do the same for me, and indeed you are: A far-flung friend and ally, a perfect mix of beauty, brains, compatibility and the dreaded curse of being off-limits. We are a strange breed, that is for sure. But sometimes we're just meant to be right for one another. At the very least, we deserve a chance to find out, one way or another.

If a Butcher is 5'10" tall, what does he weigh?