10:30 AM - Frozen In Time

This site, having reached 5,000 views, has gone up to heaven. By heaven, I mean we have moved to http://pisomojado.wordpress.com. Get it bookmarked. AAAAAAAAAWWWWWWW YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

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7:49 PM - He Called Me "The Chameleon" Which Made Me Simile
Current mood: catalyzed

I was out on Saturday night – a rarity – with some friends from high school, whom I hadn't seen since, well, high school. Evidently, this is even more of a rarity than a weekend spent on the other side of a bar, but that's not the point. The point is that it was Drew's birthday, and he commented on my insistence to change my personality and lifestyle - and whatever else may come to mind - every twelve minutes or so. For the first time, he (or, indeed, anyone) actually spoke of this uncanny ability in positive terms; referring to the pivotal feature of acknowledging music from the entire aural spectrum, regardless of whether I'm wearing a band t-shirt or maroon nylon suit; big hair or slicked back, faux-Bowie bouffant. As glamourous or pretentious as this may sound, the comment was provoked by me bouncing up and down Union Street singing The Passenger over and over again – the revised, poppy Siouxsie and the Banshees version which gracefully soars over the original, naturally; and anyone who is familiar with Union Street knows that glamour and pretention are completely out of place in this setting.

Following the narrative structure I have identified in every single episode of The Simpsons since 1991, where the writers start on one thread then drastically – tragically – cut into another, less interesting thread by way of tenuous link after five minutes, but are safe in the knowledge that these first minutes of footage have secured 80% of the audience in their seats for the next 25-mins-incl-adverts; this blog will now vear sharply to the left and continue down a completely different path. WARNING: PATH INCLUDES POETRY.

Not only does an extensive use of personality changes mean that I know about lots of different types of music, I retain other features and carry them along with me; useless baggage. For example: when I stop pretending I want to be a journalist or writer, I'll still use shorthand to confuse people. When I moved from Marilyn Manson to Def Leppard (why?), I kept the hair – in fact, the hair just kept going. And I just can't seem to get my mental health records changed whatsoever.

The point here is that because I used to be a Goth, I write crappy poetry. I wrote a really shitty poem the other night about the vultures that were circling in my head at the time: the fact that I can't draw for shit unless I'm really motivated; the fact that any decent paintings I do don't attract any attention; the fact that some people are better than me – which I totally cannot handle; the fact that I don't have a flashy job with a personal email address and free phone calls, yet Sandy does; Paolo Nutini style drop-smoking-habits-into-first-and-fourth-stanzas; the fact that one person walked out of my gig on Sunday and it's put me in that pissy, egotistical mood; the fact that I know big words and want to put them in a poem; and a half-quote from a half-forgotten article in what was probably The Spectator. Here is said poem in full:

Giving Up Cigarettes

Maybe if I wasn't so caught up
In self-interest
And selfish disinterest
In everything but a stained stub cross section
And the "What jeans and shoes today?",
I could work out just what I'm putting
Cigarette smoke into.
I would work out just what my psyche really needs;
What chemicals are missing from my brain;
What words are still to be written;
And who to address them to.

Maybe if I wasn't so caught up
In what I need
I could concentrate on the needs of others
But even that would be selfish.
Even a saint must have an ego
But even this ego couldn't work his way
To sainthood, for what deeds could I do
For sainthood?
Even for peace, for I am not at peace.

That's the thing:
I don't want sainthood
Nor peace.
I am restless, but it seems preferable to peace.
So I want restlessness?
Yet restlessness I have
And the answers are still elusive.

Maybe if I wasn't in the same jeans and shoes,
The same mindset,
The same cigarettes,
The same brands,
Same,
Same,
Same,
Yet restless.
So can I truly be restless,
If restlessness
Is homogenous?

To know what I want, it seems
I need to know what I want.
But my mind cannot rest
And cannot settle on wanting one thing,
Having one ideal, being one person, essentially:
One life is not enough,
And is tedious – it takes so long to get to the good scenes.
I want to wake up in another person's body.
Take notes.
Learn.
Repeat.
But this is a practical impossibility –
For believe me, I have tried.

I read somewhere that my generation does not "do".
We think about "doing";
About where "doing" will get us;
How to get the most attention,
The most kudos and ovation,
a little piece of fame,
but "do" we do not.
Maybe we think too much.
I think too much.

How can one really live,
If appearance and personality is all just an act?
But how can one appear to have a personality,
When one does not act?

I feel like a mime
When I talk to people.
And see anything that I do as futile –
Completely futile.
To do anything great, one must put all of one's energy into it.
But I am too caught up in other things.
Everything comes down to a single draft,
And who really cares?
Futile.

So maybe if I wasn't so caught up
In self-interest, futility and immortality,
I would get things done.
But what are "things"?
And why "do" them?
No questions answered,
And nothing changes.

1. I complain about how I do not "do" any"thing". "Thing" of course being artwork, or writing a song or a short story or A POEM. Essentially, by complaining about never writing poems inside a poem, I create some sort of hypocritical mind-bender of a problem.

2. I said that every"thing" is a first draft. This poem - which also counts as a "thing" - was actually printed as a second draft, after I unwittingly tidied up the poem. At least now it is legible.

3. "[I] see anything that I do as futile" – because it doesn't get published anywhere, or seen by anyone, or have any purpose or use or anything. Essentially by publishing this poem, the futility aspect is removed. Plus it proved stimulus for the first blog in, what, eight months or so? Plus the blog counts as a "thing", which just starts the cycle all over again.

1. I can't be arsed.

2. That would be a severe breach in copyright. I think.

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8:44 PM - Haircut

"You promised you'd cut my hair."

"I promised, but I didn't mean it."

"That's the problem with promises; even religious promises. There are no repercussions for breaking them. No tangiable repercussions for breaking a commandment, and no penalty beyond annoying another for breaking a confidence."

"Why don't you just pay for a haircut?"

"Paying for a haircut defies my system of beliefs."

"What belief is that?"

"That haircuts cost too much; that I can get them for free, for quicker, elsewhere; that I should not need to pay for the services of a stranger when you can cut my hair for me. I haven't paid for a haircut in over a year now."

"That's all well and good, but I have only cut your hair on perhaps three occasions in that time. Your hair has been cut more times than that."

"That is because I am not faithful. I am not a picky lover. Lover of haircuts. I have used anyone I could get over the past year. Anyone, male or female, it doesn't matter to me. And when I couldn't find anyone else, why, I'd simply do it myself. Five fingers and a palm. And a Bic razor. Often, in fact, with better results than when you would do it. And certainly better than doing it with a stranger."

"Then, if you are able to cut your own hair, why do you need me?"

"Well, you see, I am bored. I'm bored of the results I achieve. It always comes out the same way, in the same style. I need something new, a new position, a new fashion."

"You're so tight."

"I just don't like spending money."

"Too tight."

"I just don't have the money, nor the time. And I don't like hairdressers. They defy my system of beliefs."

"What belief is that?"

"That men should be men, that men should not worry about such frivolties as a hairdresser."

"But you cut your OWN hair. And you use anyone you can get when you are unable to. Men or women, you don't care. I don't understand you. Why can't you be linear? Why can't you stick to one belief system?"

"I am not built in such a way. You don't even know my name."

"I do…"

"I change my name like I change my hairdresser."

"You don't have a hairdresser."

"I don't right now. And therefore I don't have a name."

"David, you have a name."

"That is not my name, please do not address me as such."

"But…"

"Now please excuse me, I have to find a razor and escape this pathetic argument."

"Please… I will cut your hair."

"Please, leave me in peace. You have already broken your promise. A promise broken to God may pass without repercussion; a promise broken to man results in annoyance and conversation fenced by electric bars. You touch the sides, the electric bars force you back into the linear track between. Conversation is one sided."

"David…"

"One sided conversation cuts off human interaction to a mechanical minimum. Please do not address me as such."

"Please stop being insolent."

"I am not God, I am but man, and I do not forgive easily. It defies my belief system."

"What belief is that?"

"That God cannot exist in a human plane, that the myth of Jesus Christ is specifically that; a myth. We may have over us a God, or multiple Gods – MAY – with any number of angels and demons and devils and demi-Gods and the corpses of dead saints watching over us; but an Earthbound deity simply cannot exist. And I am certainly not one of them."

"But, have you any proof? Have you anything beyond a contrived notion of this personal religion."

"I have nothing"

"But your soul! Your soul cannot be saved by the love of Jesus Christ, your spirit will be condemned to hell for all eternity!"

"And where is your proof?"

"In the Scriptures, in the Gospels, in the teachings of generation upon generation of man!"

"Yet you break a promise. If you can break your promise, then why cannot Jesus Christ, the Earthbound deity?"

"Jesus would not break such a promise. A promise of a saved soul is not in the same league as a promise of an amateur haircut."

"And yet even you cannot say how Jesus plans to save the souls of believers."

"Insolence. Stop being insolent."

"I am not God. I am but man, and I do not understand easily. It defies my belief system."

"And what belief is that?"

"That when I pray to God, to ask for an answer to how my soul will be saved. And when I pray to God for a haircut, I receive no answer. Even on Christmas. A Christmas Prayer. For a simple haircut. God works in mysterious ways; but God cannot even work through a believer such as you to grant such a wish, such a simple wish."

"And therefore you have no immortal soul? Therefore there is no Jesus? Therefore there is no God?"

"Exactly. Therefore, there is no God."

Currently reading : Island (Perennial Classics) By Aldous Huxley Release date: 30 July, 2002

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8:17 PM - Y I Rite
Category: Writing and Poetry

If George Orwell can do it, why can't I? I realise that my blog is not going to match up to Orwell's "Why I Write" essay, but I thought that ripping it off would provide much more entertainment than various other blogs I have been working on.

On that note, I would like to point out that although I have not posted any blogs recently, I have not run out of ideas; not by a long shot. In fact, I have written a number of blogs during this time; some in note form, others half finished but not up to standard, and one particular blog – an extensive list-cum-essay about what factors make an album great – which reached 2000 words before I realised that it was piss and no-one would read it.

But won't you find it far more interesting to find out why I write than for me to ramble on about why Joni Mitchell's Mingus is one of my favourite albums? Surely you'd prefer me to tell the usual dirty jokes than to rant on about my self-involved, unforgiving opinions? Journalism has turned me into a cynical, twisted, news-value orientated writer, unable to publish my writing freely; instead, justifying every word in order to boost my profits. I guess I just want to recapture my pure, childhood love for the letter: this is Y I Rite.

The short answer to why I write is that I read. When I was much younger, my mission in life – which I completed – was to read everything written by Roald Dahl (which he wrote aimed at children; I still haven't read any of his serious novels). The first book I ever read with complete autonomy was George's Marvellous Medicine on one of those long, pointless car journeys to the south coast of England. From then on, I read pretty much everything I could get my hands on; a habit that persists to this day. I read all the Goosebumps books, although I became tired of the very repetitive descriptions given in literally every edition; my heart sank every time a "sleeveless t-shirt" was mentioned. That's another persistent habit, actually: disdain for sleeveless t-shirts. That and repetitive description. That's not what good writing is all about! Imagery? Sure. The same image over and over and over? Jist naw.

I know for a fact that some of you have noticed another huge part of my writing depends on the use of big, obscure words. One of my regular readers mentioned that the single reason I spoke out during a lecture last week was not so that I could contribute to a debate, rather to make use of the word "tacit" – a personal favourite. This habit comes directly from my childhood habit of being a complete smartass. Maybe that persists today as well. I used to spend hours locked in my room reading my dad's huge, 1983 edition Collins English Dictionary – which I still keep close to hand (it's currently on my floor open at PSY-). This meant that I had a pretty extensive vocabulary and could whip my gran at scrabble and all the other word games I thought up to show off how great I was (and bore the shit out of her). Although, this did come with a down-side, like the time I was playing the smartass game with my gran and used the word "zygote" – forgetting that it related to sex and I was still a preteen. When she looked the word up in her dictionary (which I always thought was totally inadequate compared to mine), I broke out in prickly heat, turned red, and denied all knowledge of the word. Great defence, considering I brought it up.

Okay, so maybe these points don't too clearly illustrate why I write; instead they frame the origins of my writing style. I really wanted to avoid admitting this, but the real reason I write – the reason I've always enjoyed writing – is for the attention. Yes, even as the quietest kid in my school, all I really wanted was all eyes on me – and I never even realised how much I craved it until someone realised I could write. For me, this person was one of my primary school teachers. Maybe in this respect I should be more thankful of the education system. Our class was set the weekly task of writing a diary entry (again – this sounds like a persistent habit. Maybe I should give more credence to the "nurture" argument), and several times, the teacher read my entries out to the whole class, ignoring everyone else. I don't remember what exactly I wrote about, but I remember I never really put much effort into it; much like I don't need to give much thought to the blogs I write now. Writing comes naturally to me (which is perhaps why I've never given the "nurture" argument much credibility in the past), but as my entries were getting read out more and more often, I would put more effort in - I would aim to impress.

I never knew, at this point, that I was a writer. However, I can pinpoint the exact moment that I did: reading Orwell's Why I Write. When I realised that Orwell – one of my all-time favourite writers and my inspiration for trying to become a journalist – was of a similar nature to me, I knew there and then that I had what it took to be a writer. Orwell mentions a lot of his weird, writerly anomalies in Why I Write; almost every one of which I share with him. Never have I been so moved by a short essay. Reading what was essentially my own experience as a writer written by someone so famous and revered gave me a thrill that no word found in the Collins English Dictionary could fully describe.

Thus, the answer to Y I Rite is Why I Write. And that I'm an attention whore, but that was pretty self-evident. Hopefully this is understood by now, but perhaps it is not completely clear Y I Blog. As I mentioned before, I write for attention. Where better to blog than a website populated by potential readers, with a hits counter and a comments section? Oh, and subscribers – hint, hint. The original MySpace blogs – around 65 blogs ago, check them out – tell of how I struggled to find somewhere suitable for my attention-craving cause, and my archaic "Better Than Diaryland" headline is evidence of this. This is also another reason my blog site has been untended to recently – sure I've been busy, but MySpace is dying. I know I could publish these blogs elsewhere but to be honest, I like this place!

Of course, I never thought of starting a blog off my own back. In fact, I was inspired – right down to the 1,000-word blog word-count – by one Mimi Smartypants (of Diaryland). Her blog was one of the first blogs to be published in book form, and gathered her thousands of fans worldwide. Fame and fortune, ooh yeah! Not only was she the inspiration for my blog, but she was also a more overt inspiration for becoming a journalist. She describes, among pretty much everything else that is newsworthy that happens in her life, her job as a magazine sub-editor, and obviously, my wish to emulate her whole life depended on my selection of the BA Journalism course.

I continue to blog because although my circulation figures are dropping at a similar rate to live MySpace profiles, writing this crap provides a much more immediate release than any other form of expression. I'm a perfectionist, so anything under the vague titles of music and art becomes frustrating. Plus both take so much time, whereas a decent blog can be knocked up in an hour. I change interests very rapidly – I used to be (and, actually, still am to a lesser extent) criticised by friends for changing my favourite bands, style of clothes, choice of lifestyle, favoured races and religions etc. constantly. Blogs allow me to rant about anything on the same format, but stick to a general style and avoid complaints that I would garner from the pretend-artist community. Maybe the most important thing to me about blogging versus painting-or-whatever is the functionality side of it: neither music nor art allow the same number of viewers and therefore do not offer the same opportunity for scrutiny (and praise). It just makes art seem totally pointless and a completely needless expense. That was my main argument for giving up on my juvenile plans for going to art school - that and flunking art (and everything else) in the latter years of high school.

So overall, the reason that I write is that I thoroughly believe that I am a writer. And the reason that I blog is that, regardless of how many times I post my blogger's resignation on Bebo, I just can't let go of the thrills of posting. Besides, as I said, I have not run out of ideas – not for a long shot.

Currently reading : Tess of the D’Urbervilles (Penguin Classics) By Thomas Hardy Release date: 27 May, 2003

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7:35 PM - Kaci and the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Band

This Summer has went in really quickly, and I guess that's how Summer should go. It feels just now like it's winding down, what with the days becoming shorter and the longing to get back to the old routine.

I actually miss the routine for once, since this whole summer has been an endless string of working and debauchery in other people's homes. The old routine of the Rev Brigade, based around visiting the same clubs on the same night of every week, has been usurped by drinking copious bottles of wine in unfamiliar locations, courtesy of the holidaying friends and relatives of Housesitters Anonymous.

Housesitters Anonymous is the collective name of Robert, Ange and I. The whole summer, we've lived in other people's houses, used their televisions, raided their fridges, drank from their glasses, shat in their toilets, spilt booze on their carpets, searched their cupboards and drawers and lost their pets. Although this has been fun, there has been no real structure to the Housesitters Anonymous – how can there be, when all our boozing was based on opportunity (and the surprising selection of wines in Aldi)? Also, for no good reason, it was just the three of us most of the time.

So perhaps that's what I miss most: the people I haven't been able to see. I think that the old routine may correct this. Certainly, I'll have my uni buds back, but after the entire summer of having most of my other friends missing-out-of-action. The Rev Brigade built up after the end of summer last year, and so history may repeat itself. At least now everyone's talking. It's almost like the beer has finally evaporated from our clothes.

Over the summer, I haven't been completely alone – I've met loads of new people at work whom I can fraternise with and stalk. Because I work in a fancy-ass restaurant for millionaires, some of the regulars speak as if they're living in a novel. I've been reading a Huxley novel over the Summer - taking my time over it while reading other books in between - and I've noticed parallels between reality and this other world, set among the upper classes of early 20th Century London. In text, it fits, but in reality, the needlessly formal, measured language can be at times hilarious, and sound as if it has been mulled over for hours to get the tone and word order just right.

A simple description of horse racing by one of the snobs came out of his mouth as a slightly slurred, derogatory poem: "What is there to understand? There are four legs, a tail, a jockey – some try, some don't."

Either the novel or reality, or possibly a combination of both, has affected me, essentially turning me into one of them - in Kathy's eyes anyway. Apparently, this manifests itself fully when I'm very drunk, such as the night I got wasted at work and couldn't recall getting home. I lay on the floor, in my winter coat (remember this is in Summer), and as I vomited red wine boak all over the kitchen, I told Kathy not to worry about the mess: "the staff will clean it up."

On further reflection, this is just one isolated incident among many; I'm affected by novels, films, music and - I assume, by extension - any other form of media. I don't mean simply listening to sad music when I'm sad, happy music when I'm happy and Joni Mitchell when I can't decide between either of these primary-colour emotions.

The most basic example is when I'm walking and listening to music: an aeroplane is mentioned, and I see a one trailing across the sky; a colour is mentioned, and someone wearing the mentioned colour walks past me – you get the picture. When I read a novel, occasionally there will be similar events or themes in my own life. Further, tragically, I find that my life is reflected in part by the outlandish plotlines in Hollyoaks. I wonder where this consonance comes from: whether it's predestined, in that I have some higher link with Sarah Barnes (God forbid); consequential, in that I'm affected by what I see, and essentially create the first steps in establishing this consonance; or that I'm mental, and none of the events I hear, see or read about have any correlation with my own life, and I'm just making it up in my own head.

If I'm correct in either of my latter ideas, then I would surely be affected regardless of what I was exposed to. Similarly, if it was the first option, I would either be controlled by some higher power into reading the books I am predestined to read; or there are other novels and music which deal with the experiences Bukowski and Joni Mitchell don't cover, and I'm just missing them. Anyone up to date on the plot of Emmerdale?

Then again, as a British student, perhaps I shouldn't give too much thought to the chance of being inexplicably linked to the British student characters in a soap opera. Just because they're going back to uni at the same time as me doesn't mean there are little green men watching my every move - but that kind of thinking is just a little too rational for me.

Currently reading : Pulp By Charles Bukowski Release date: 08 July, 2004

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5:21 AM - The most chronologically ordered blog I have ever written.

All I seem to do just now is work and work and sleep. That's been my whole summer. If I'm not working, I'm sleeping. Therefore, I don't get out as much as possible, even though I have the money to do it. What a strange paradox.

Anyway, I did manage to get out the other night for Gibb's birthday which made up for many a lost night out. We ended up at the Garage, and for once, I wasn't raped by another man or sexually harassed by one of the bouncers (although I did witness both of these events taking place). Then again, it was a Tuesday night, and I guess the Garage can't be in full STD-ridden swing every night of the week.

Of course, the night was consumated (not literally, thank God) by Gibb's and my attempts to pick up women too old to be in the club anyway, who had Sharon Osborne style hair and no friends. For some reason, that idea seemed really funny at the time – probably because of the weird cocktails which had previously led to our anti-social, drunken behaviour and the ensuing swift ejaculation from Wetherspoons.



Arbitrary sectioning of blogs is back in style, mate!

Man in the Garage toilets: "Haw ya fanny!"
Me: "…Yes?"
Possible George Michael-a-like in the Garage toilets: "Aw sorry mate, I thought you were someone else." – That's right – a man looking for undercover police called me a fanny.

Ginger Chris: "Yes Davie I do like Joni Mitchell, I just don't know who the fuck she is."

Fat, old chick in the Garage: "You look about 12!" – Foiled again!!



I did mention that we were chucked out of Wetherspoons. Ordinarily, I'd be a little more apologetic, even remorseful about the stuff we left for that poor waitress. However, she was a bitch and gave bad service; my pint had too much head; and they didn't have the chablis I wanted and had to settle for sub-par pinot grigio. Besides, all she needed to be rid of our mess was one of these lovely signs. I don't imagine anyone would ask any questions.



Hypocritical ranting about the service industry

It really freaked me out the other day when I had to serve Moet rosé to a gay couple. The hoofters added insult to injury of my belief that men should not do anything together beyond pee (and at that, should not speak while doing so!), by leaving without paying. Probably found a 12-year-old to kidnap and molest. The moral of this story is that we should never have brought in those God-forsaken civil-partnership laws.

Okay, well, that's enough right-wing ranting – here's some good stuff I've seen at work lately. Some hot chick wandered into the guy's toilets the other day, and I don't think she realised she was in the wrong. How I laughed. And how my boss laughed when I fell over a big yellow warning sign like a total fucking geek.



Gay ass diary shit about my "feelings"

My Granda died, like, years ago. He was totally complex, and I realised the other day that although we got on really well, if he was alive just now, I'd get on with him so much better. We have similar tastes for the exotic and the upper-class, and I think we'd have a lot to talk about now. He used to work abroad most of the time as a scientist, notably in Luxembourg and Tunisia, and had tastes for straight whisky and blue cheese – to which I can totally relate. He was a musician and from what I can gather, a photographer as well. I realised that I don't really know what sort of books he used to read or anything really personal about him, since I was too young to really appriciate him. He was a total philanderer and apparently spent a lot of money keeping my uncle out of jail on drugs charges, so I'd like to have been able to ask him about those things. He used to watch the travel channel a lot while he was dying and give me advice on things I didn't think mattered at the time. I guess this is an extension of the themes in the blog I wrote about the afterlife. I guess I'm wondering if he's still around, or if he's just gone forever.

Currently listening : The Idiot By Iggy Pop Release date: 29 June, 1992

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7:22 PM - A lapse in both reality and in posts of any entertainment value.

Until very recently I've never given any credence to the argument that once we die, there is nothing. I've always believed in an afterlife, regardless of what form it may take. I've given a lot of thought lately to the idea of nothingness and how it is just as credible as the presence of an afterlife. We have no concrete evidence for either argument, since both are based on the immeasurable and the metaphysical.

As I said, I've always believed in a place where we go once we're dead. I've always imagined that we will not go to this place in our present form (since we are in control of a physical body which will die), and so I don't think that our present appearance would play any part in an afterlife, rather our metaphysical consciousness would live on, possibly without physical form. Also, casting aside Western religion, I've believed strongly in the past that this metaphysical consciousness can live in certain different bodies over the course of its lifetime, being reincarnated for each venture. The rationale for this repetition of lives would be to learn and experience as much as possible.

The metaphysical being may be infinite and never die, or reach a certain level of learning that living on would be of no benefit, allowing it to become a higher being, such as an angel or spirit guide. The Earthbound being may also live on other planes, perhaps in other planets or other dimensions, since our Earth would only allow a soul to experience life in this water-based, air-breathing planet. However, this is so far out of my league that I don't want to either discuss it or give it any thought.

When we reach this afterlife, I assume we become more than our human selves, since we first came into this world with no prior knowledge, yet may have experienced it all before. This means that we will return to the metaphysical form, and have to deal with the knowledge of several lifetimes returning at once, and would have to be a higher being than a human to even understand.

We may have set out a predestined life in which we will experience what we can from a certain type of lifestyle (rich, poor, diseased, retarded, gook etc), or the type of life could be completely at random and outwith our control. We may also have metaphysical guides who will help us through life such as angels or spirit guides.

Once we die, we will have (hopefully) enriched the planet with our positive presence and left a legacy we can look back on which will help future generations (which of course, we may become part of at a later date). Famous writers, philosophers, scientists, rock stars and porn stars will reap the benefits of fame and world-enrichment in this afterlife, then get to live it up in a later life.

I've been thinking lately that we may just be completely alone with no destiny, no control and no afterlife. Just nothing. It could be blackness, or just a still picture, stuck in the era in which we died. Van Gogh would never know that he could sell for millions and Shakespeare would still think his words were understandable.

Maybe the more recent thoughts are a little more morbid (and more popular), but the really curious thing about either option is that both lead me to the same basic philosophy on how to lead one's life: Life is either for learning or enjoying or… Learning and enjoying! Maybe I'm missing something, but there seems to me to be only one way to go about life, and that is to learn, enjoy and leave as much of a legacy as possible. Even if you can't reap the benefits of your artwork or any other positive output, at least be confident that it is there and ready for when the world is ready to appriciate your genius.

Currently listening : The Hissing of Summer Lawns By Joni Mitchell Release date: 25 October, 1990

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7:24 PM - I tried this just last night after hearing rave reviews about it.

Due to the ridiculously out-of-date-ness of my profile, I think I should clarify at least one of the glaring errors. The Rev Brigade is dead. Not even still-warm dead, we're talking cold rigor with maggots crawling out from where the eyes used to be dead. And a junkie has fingered the corpse in the bunghole. And peed on it.

Thus, I retire almost a full hour's work from my Myspace profile, the ironic emo-heart taking on a deeper meaning, as I consign the Rev Brigade to memory, living on only in my <3 and mind.

Currently reading : Court And Spark (33 1/3) By Sean Nelson Release date: 20 December, 2006

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8:58 AM - Generic Rant .59

You may have noticed, as I have, that pop culture has come to a screeching halt. Sure we have new music and art being produced, but frankly, it's not really all that new. Everything's retro these days. How is "retro" new!? It seems we're caught in the void between modernism and the 1960s futurist view of the year 2000. My angle? Post-modernism bites.

Frankly I see the idea of post-ironic humour as beneath me. Why would anyone in their early 20s and beyond actually choose to wear clothes emblazoned with Spongebob Squarepants? Why the sudden shift towards holding up Melissa Joan Hart as a martyr for days of Nickelodeon gone by?

Now, its actually cool to be interested in what were once pop references on Roseanne, such as retro video games. It's cool to like Bon Jovi again (except for anything they've made within the last 10 years, since Bon Jovi epitomise my theory that since about 1997, popular culture has become stale and meaningless. I mean have you heard anything off their latest album? Jesus kiddy-fiddling God!). Hell, it's cool to like Warrant! When I wear my Whitesnake t-shirt, I just naturally assume now that people think I've heard "Here I Go Again," remembered it from my childhood, and went on a post-moronic-humour consumerist bender, and I am being ironic.

I blame Kurt Cobain, as usual. Indirectly, of course. Here's Matt Groening to beef my argument up:

"This reminds me of an exchange between two teenagers at a Lollapalooza-style rock festival on an episode of the Simpsons --

1 Teenager: "Yeah, these guys are really awesome."

2 Teenager: "Dude, are you being ironic?"

1 Teenager: "I don't even know anymore."

More or less. Memorial reconstruction."*

Anyway, with the internet, we have the potential to create new and exciting forms of entertainment and whatever. However, this potential has been squandered in the same way television has in recent years – it's all about the fast route to your 15 minutes of fame. Andy Warhol was tragically right. With television we have Big Brother and Jade Goody. With YouTube, we have videoblogging and Nornna. With MySpace, we have… well… Hyphy Ghetto Mami. So maybe I shouldn't complain, since my entire existance revolves around this blog, but I genuinely wish we had a more interesting popular culture instead of bland indie bollocks on the radio and Banksy. When Gordon Brown and Joanna Lumley on Classic FM are making attempts at audience-grabbing by namedropping the Arctic Monkeys every five minutes, don't you think there's something going wrong? Particularly when the Arctic Monkeys seem to have already faded to obscurity (15 minutes over; gateway to fame locked.). This is the honest to God truth – the most memorable new song I've heard in the last year or so has been that song by that band whose name I can't remember… Possibly Manic Street Preachers? They sang it with Charlotte Church, and it was crap, but I remembered it.

Anyway, I was on YouTube earlier, and I actually found a whole bunch of videos revolving around filming yourself playing Sega Megadrive and Nintendo games. Is this not just a total waste? Why would anyone watch this crap? Sure, I used to enjoy the old Sega games, and was watching someone play Streets Of Rage on Youtube, great. But seeing that it wasn't finished within three minutes, and that there was an actual half hour of Streets Of Rage footage to come, I went back to watching pop videos from 1985.

Seriously. People actually play games for hour long sessions, film it, and post it on YouTube. What the hell!? Where is the need? And there will surely be parodies of people playing games posted as well… Oh God, the post-ironic vortex never ends. And there was me thinking Geek Chic was its limit!

I guess Streets Of Rage does have some merits… I do still find it funny when Blaze screams as she dies.

*This is an excerpt from bloggingtherenaissance.blogspot.com. I actually feel dirty about posting from this website since it actually goes against what I was whinging about in the blog. I mean read what some freaky chickdude wrote:

"At 3/20/2007 02:27:00 PM, Anonymous wrote…

I'm an undergrad taking that teen comedy course and have a final paper due in a couple hours that question the rise in popularity for these teen picks. I still have no clue why these films were so popular in the 1980s, died out and came back with Clueless and Meangirls a decade later. It was a great class, but we didn't discuss its historical connection in the quarter, and now have to conjure it all up for the final. (sigh)*"

I guess, like most of my blogs, I will finish by reiterating this sentiment: Most people who use the internet are fucking dicks.

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6:17 AM - I wonder what the total number of blogs I've posted is.

Okay, so since my last blog touched on capitalism and unjust spending, I guess these ideas have been playing on my mind. This is possibly also something to do with my recent increase in salary from "nothing" to "some," which is once again allowing me to fire off tens and twenties in the directions of cashiers left and right (yet I still refuse to pay for a decent haircut, hmm…). These themes compounded have led me to think up some blogworthy material – a list of all the stuff I buy (or find, whatever) which I really like. Then I realised that the opposite – a list of all the stuff I buy that really, really sucks, and deserves to be trashed on the internet – would be way more fun for everyone involved. Observe:

LOVE:

Tapas Al Minuto

My undoubted favourite product of the century is Tapas Al Minuto. These Spanish goods were discovered by Rab in our local Aldi, and have become a regular source of nourishment. The Spanish company make like 30 different types of tapas (Aldi only sell four types currently, but seem to be buying in more after the recent increase in tapas sales…), which of course goes hand in hand with my whole "lets pretend I'm foreign to get people's attention" kick I was on when we found them. You just take them out of their box, jam them in the microwave for one minute, watch the boiling bag expand into what appears to be a malignant tumour, then once the tumour has burst, all that's left is to eat the delicious cancer it contains. With options such as chorizo, chorcitos and lemon-flavoured-chicken-on-a-cocktail-stick, you just can't go wrong with a little Tapas Al Minuto!

Cossack hairspray

I'm pretty sure this came from Aldi too, since it looks and smells so cheap and has a really cheesy name that I laughed at for literally half an hour. However, Cossack hairspray has a dirty secret – and it's not nuclear bunkers hidden in Siberia! Cossack hairspray is in fact the most effective hairspray ever – unlike other hairsprays, it makes your hair go really, really straight. Surprisingly, the biggest of all the oxymora relating to Cossack hairspray isn't the juxtaposition of Mother Russia and a hair salon – no – it's the fact that although it smells overpoweringly feminine, the Cossack range advertises itself as "effective male toiletries." Perhaps Cossack is made so cheaply that they didn't even bother to spell-check and missed the incorrect "effeminate."

Paco Rabanne expensive deoderant and aftershave set

Okay, like, I totally didn't buy this, I kind of found it while I was moving my furniture out of my room. But someone said I smelled nice the other day, so it's totally in the "Love" section.

Dulux paint

I'm painting my room, which is why I have no furniture, not because I was paying off gambling debts or buying drugs with a pawned wardrobe, aight? Actually, I only wanted to mention Dulux paint because I was in Homebase, and I stole one of the Dulux colour charts (which are free anyway, but I like the verb "steal"). In the very back of the brochure, they included a few sample colours, which Dulux claimed to be their favourites. Keep in mind these colours are for people's walls: two really depressing, boring blue shades; two shades of dark brown; some other nondescript crap; and BLACK. Way to boost sales of your least popular shades, Dulux. The brochure, by the way, was of no use and did not help me in any way. Was it not for their callous, unobtrusive and quite possibly effective advertising, Dulux would have been in the other list.

Aldi's grape juice

It comes in white and red grape varieties, is too strong for it's own good, is possibly the most expensive item in Aldi (minus the plastic bags, weirdly), and yet, it's in the love pile. Why? Because it's fucking excellent!

HATE:

Gallo wine.

Gallo wine is stalking me. This began when Kaffy slammed her trolley into a "cheap wine" stall in ASDA recently, and walking off with a couple of the undamaged bottles after knocking several bottles off the shelf in selfish disregard for the safety of others and financial loss for the company. The wine was left in our kitchen for quite some time, since in defiance of popular belief, neither of us actually drink very often. During this time, I was out looking for more wine in Sainsbury's, and noticed that they had Gallo wine as well… Then noticed a billboard in Central Station advertising the same wine. When I did eventually drink one of the bottles, I discovered that Gallo wine is actually really, really disgusting. I drank it anyway. I was feeling quite disenchanted by the whole Gallo franchise by this point, and kept seeing billboards and adverts which made me feel frankly ill. The second and LAST EVER bottle of Gallo wine was a rosé which was supposed to be drank by Rab, Angela and myself, but since it tasted of nothing but watered down vinegar, I was once again stuck drinking the whole bottle myself (woe is me). Anyway, if you take nothing else from this blog, never trust: (a) Advertising; (b) Kaffy's choice in wines; and (c) GALLO WINE.


Disney Fairy Princess juice boxes made by Calippo

Don't even ask. Regardless, yaaaay!

Sainsbury's food

When they built the Sainsbury's in Hamilton all those years ago, I was so excited because I'm a total elitist when it comes to food. I used to demand that I got all my food bought from there, since Safeway was just too common for me, and option B, being Lidl, was completely out of the question. Now, I find most of their food to be Expensive For The Sake Of Expensive, and really not worth buying. Their goat's cheese, for example, is just crap. Almost entirely liquid. Yes, liquid. Who the hell do they think I am!? I don't want to drink my fancy cheese! And their macarel is horrific. I wouldn't eat that tasteless crap if I was drowning in it (ditto the liquid goat's cheese, which would be totally easier to drown in than a big vat of fish.).

Marks & Spencer food

This is basically the same rant as the one against Sainsbury's, except that M&S seem to have made the spectacularly bad decision to stock only steam-in-the-microwave goods. Or what were formerly goods. Now they're just bad. Very bad. I can't even imagine where this horrible trend will end, with Aldi and Asda actually stocking better food at lower prices than the higher-class supermarkets. Never did I think it would get this far when I realised that Asda's grapes are all-round better than those of Sainsbury's. Nothing is sacred anymore.


Disclaimer: This blog is totally out of date. The belated publishing of this piece is due to me actually having a job and a big design project. In other words, my blogs are suffering due to me actually having a life. Harrowing.

Currently reading : Eyeless in Gaza By Aldous Huxley Release date: 01 July, 2004

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