Robbie Williams on .mp3, hence the blog title. Manuel’s room with J-Dawg. Pasta for three.

A simple dinner.

I’ve just started trying to blog something of a nature that J-Dawg has wisely pointed out to me would be, erm, a bad idea. Actually this past sentence sounds just as bad. But I figure this is my darned journal, ain’t it? So I’ll do exactly what I like.

And I’ll do the mushy thing and write about love.

Interlude: J-Dawg and I met the dreaded gay admirer of Maran (supposedly) and as J-Dawg, again, pointed out to me, I made a pretty quick and efficient exit from his presence. Any guy who throws “My boyfriend was hard yesterday” into your face gets the vacuum formerly known as me.

Not that I’m homophobic or anything. To be honest meeting the guy was a tad bit disappontment after all the build-up. One expects a flaming queen and gets what looks like a reject from Nerdville. Harsh words, Kenny, but as an inhabitant of that town, I get rights.

Still, hasty exit. End Interlude.

Man and Monkey are discussing pasta now, go figure. I suppose love’s like pasta. You get so many different kinds, and you think you know the names of some, but you can’t know them all. You get the usual suspects (spaghetti, maccheroni, fusilli) but who’s ever heard of fagottini or ditaloni?

But, in the end, isn’t pasta just flour, water and eggs?

Perhaps.

But the best pasta, the pasta that lasts, memories of a meal well done and enjoyed, is made with care and skill from years of practice. Like love.

(God, that last one sure as hell does not make sense; we’re all laughing our asses off now!)

Let love be your energy, like you know, carbohydrates.

.

Copyright © 2002 Kenny Mah Ying Fye.