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 | Oh, and incidentally, I know that I was in the company of somebody on Friday who became so drunk that they established and then fell into a pure channel to their own subconscious, but nonetheless, can anyone explain why I have a small puncture wound between my second and third ribs?
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| On Sunday I was asked whether I have a "type". i.e. of people whom I find attractive. I have come to terms over time with the fact that I do. How about you? Tell me.
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| Elvendrums, as we have already discussed, are a load of mouldy old cock. Elf Power, on the other hand, are a load of lovely fresh rock. I saw them play at RoTa on Saturday, at the hilariously Corduroy-Flares-Cool Notting Hill Arts Club. There was a man there in a suit with a black polo neck, I swear...
Anyway. Unfortunately I missed the game of "spot Kevin Shields", along with Barefoot Contessa, only arriving for the end of the Irish Calexico - ABBC? Something along those lines. Who were fun, in a noisy way. But nothing could prepare myself and my youthful companion for the glory that was "the Power", live and in full effect.
GASP! As Jack, a ten-year old with a trumpet wearing a The Strokes t-shirt (and thus the coolest kid ever) accompanies them on the second song!
GAPE! As Laura Carter, who epitomises receding-chinned serious-looking Sleater-Kinney indie-girl wonder, struggles not to lose it completely and collapse into fits of giggles at the might that is Tiny Jack!
COME! As they finish with a blinding cover of "Queen Bitch", and a guitar is smashed. In a really lovable way.
BLEED! At the frontman's uncanny resemblance to an indie Mike Nesmith!
DIE! As you realise that they look a lot more like elves than Elvendrums, primarily by not being porky!
Rock-a-cola, basically. And, to put the cap on the whole glorious business, we found a pub which had all but run out of beer, which scene of desolation provided the perfect backdrop for James' attempt to evoke a childhood in the wilds of Norfolk. Broads. Not swamps. Don't call them swamps.
"The nearest shop was three miles away. And that was the sort of shop where you can buy milk. Three miles from milk, and a hundred miles from indie rock."
When I ghostwrite his autobiography, it shall be called Three Miles from Milk, a Hundred Miles from Indie Rock.
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| Friday, April 27, 2001 |
| Oh my sweet rubber Christ. This page has a MIDI of "Riders on the Storm". That makes no sense. I must kill.
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| I don't know if it's exactly a candidate for Ickle, but the set of bands formed by ex-members of Roxy Music, named after lyrics written by another ex-member of Roxy Music, which subsequently performed cover versions of songs by that former member of Roxy Music...well, pretty small, I'd imagine.
Interactive quiz time - how many bands have named themselves after lyrics from "The True Wheel"? Guess.
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| Blogmeet, slight return. Turned up at 7:10 to find that, geeks being geeks, everyone was already there. Not sure if I had the energy, but owed it to 20,000 Jerichoholics in the stands and 5 million Jerichoholics watching at home to push through the pain barrier. Delighted to find Jen earnestly discussing putting the smackdown on Jerry Springer's candy ass. Cal's imaginary girlfriend revealed as a fake, which is to say real. Jury still out on Mo. Nick J not appearing as a Mexican temptress. Which may be for the best.
"Fancy a fuck?" "A fuck or a fight?".
Brooke tells her hilarious pathology stories, and then is surprised when nobody wants to go to a gig with her (although in fact I feel a bit hacked off that I just didn't have the fuel left in my tank to go with). The inevitable dick size conversation. David and Ian, neither of whom I saw enough of, the absurdly fit Paul, with his not-quite-as-cool-as-mine-but-still-damn-cool T-shirt and even-cooler-than-mine adventures-in-neoprene jacket.
"There's a bomb on this blogmeet".
Matt gets aggressive. Robyn turns out, surprisingly, to be a very short, and attractive in a very feminine way, man. I ponce cigarettes off Davo like some sort of cunt.
Having bought some of my own at last, I give most of them and a lighter to a woman on the platform at Charing Cross, and we talk about New York and Amsterdam.
Also present (code pinched heartlessly from Catherine, who is linked here anyway:
Meg, Tom, Luke, Catherine, Paul, Vaughan, Tom A, Martin, Robyn, Iain, Scally, Nick S, Matt J, Giles.
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| Townend manages to get some more licks in before he has to stand down. I'm curious as to whether he has been saving all of this up for decades for just this moment, or whether a bit in his head has just melted. Be good if he now decided, in fact, not to relinquish his seat after all...
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| Apparently, many unemployed dot com people are finding havens in porn. Which certainly lends a new meaning, and an entirely new subset of applicable personnel, to the admiring phrase "Well, he could do porn..."
Speaking of which, is there some kind of Blogmeet rule that somebody different has to engage me in conversation about the size of my dick every time? More on the meet later, but this is getting kind of weird...
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| Remiss of me. Not one but two UpsideClowns have flown under the bridge. Representing the past, J. is running that Word of God/Word of Gates parallelism...
In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And now look at us. Microsoft Word has more followers than most religions; people are more likely to lend credence to a Bill Gates press release than to the latest papal edict from the Vatican. In short, the Word just got blown out of the water.
Show me the logos. Terrible pun, terrible man. Meanwhile, fresh and pulsing, Neil just can't be fucked:
Cos what difference does it make anyway and why should I care when one cross won't change a thing?
He got voter apathy. And a vision of global strategy. Mercy!
I feel non-linear today. May be the effect of channeling Chris Jericho....
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| I mean, "Dragontina". Shit's sake. Do I have to beat the crap out of the entire planet myself?
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| I may go to see Elf Power at the Barfly tomorrow. However, I am unlikely ever to have a yen to see Elvendrums, about whose existence I was tipped off by the divine and delectable Kali. Indeed, should Elvendrums ever come within two hundreds yards of me or mine, I may have to undertake to kick in their shit-filled, pointy-eared crania. Fucking retards.
One more time, and I know I'm labouring the point: YOU'RE NOT ELVES. You are fat, ugly, slightly stupid humans who were socially excluded at school. It's very sad, but it's no excuse. Fuck off, preferably as an aperitif to dying.
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| At last, a schematic for the rules of Prostitute Top Trumps. 'Tute cards have been a feature of London for as long as I've been here - I remember being surprised but charmed to find exactly one in a phone box in Oxford once, with a local number but exactly the same styling. Like the lost milk carton in the video for "Coffee and TV" - sweet and sad and alone.
Particularly like the idea of the "joker" - a card whose pictorial representation is quite clearly not that of the meretrix in question. My personal favourites include Louise Brooks, Shamanic transvestite Lord Fanny and various scenes from John Willie fetish classic The Adventures of Gwendoline.
The problem with these things, as with the pornography they compulsively reference, is their banality. They appear to be a highly competitive market, but are in fact joylessly monocultural. With the sole exception of one, with whose writer I have fallen hopelessly in love. Which is, quite correctly, a tribute to Wederkind. Which brngs us circuitously back to Louise Brooks. Go figure.
(from Coffeeground, natch)
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| Can you smellllllllllllll what Venusberg is cooking?
It has been brought to my attention that the Rock is arguably no longer a WWF superstar, having been suspended indefinitely (or until his film career stiffs) by the evil Vince MacMahon. So, I am pondering instead coming as Y2J. I owe it to all Jerichoholics out there....
I'm rather enjoying all this adopted testosterone, despite its apparent societal and evolutonary redundancy. Just bring it! There I go again....
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| Curiously, in some funny-bastard-Tom-telepathy scenario, I indulged in multiple Buffy over the weekend. The episode Tom is talking about is remarkable - in parts one of the most successful assemblages of visual tropes I have had the good fortune to see. Watch out in particular for Willow and Tara turning in a beautiful duet, and Anya being slightly less dispensable than usual.
However, I wouldn't say delivering papers abroad was all that demanding. Whether it's El Pais or The Daily Star, the mechanics of fitting it through the letterbox are pretty much identical...
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| Sunday, April 22, 2001 |
| Ah, webloggers. One thinks I'm a funny bastard (as in odd rather than humorous). One wants to rip my arms from their sockets (misguidedly, in my humble opinion). One hates me, but needs me. The rest, as far as I can tell, adopt attitudes somewhere between amity and indifference. If you'd like to correct this misapprehension, tell me. That's me.
So, looking forward to the blogmeet on Thursday. I hope everyone remembers that this month's theme is come as a WWF superstar. I've already bagsied the Rock.
Finally....the Rock has come back to Soho....
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| Venusberg now comes with shiny new permalinks with every entry. Void where prohibited.
Continuing to be a blogwhore, yesterday I spent a pleasant couple of hours in Chocolate (Which is slowly reverting back to being Tactical, its much cooler antecedent, which is nice) with Catherine. This time around, topics covered included but were by no means limited to:
Songs only one person has ever heard.
The dangers of telling Leigh Bowery to shove his album right up his arse.
What the Hell Sharpe was doing at Trafalgar, anyway.
Whether "one of tupenny whores", "one of the tupenny whores" or "one of t'tupenny whores" was more convincing as dialect.
AmIHatchingAnEvilPlotOrNot?
Blakes 7 as universal metaphor.
From Blakes 7 to gay porn, and thus to Harry Potter being bullied. With a cock.
The Mechanics of Collapse.
Very pleasant. Got me out of the house, anyway.
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| Friday night - drinks in Comptons with Ian and David, subsequently joined by Matt, followed by an abortive attempt to go to Barcode, and settling up in the Rat and Arsewank Parrot again.
Topics of conversation:
How many times I walked past Comptons before entering (answer, one, but only to get to Cheapo Cheapo Records).
What does an Oxford education teach you about orgies?
Gender as performance.
Psychogeography and the impact of sexuality on urban phenomenology.
Situationism and the creation of magic.
Spellcasting - W - A - N - K - E...
No! Bag! Foot! Bag is touching foot, so I'll notice. I'll notice if you touch it, and I'll wrestle you to the ground. Foot! Bag! Ground. I'll wrestle you to the ground, and then the police will come and they'll pick you up and take you to prison, and you'll be in prison for forty years and you'll die and I'll still have my bag.
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| Friday, April 20, 2001 |
| This is important. In fact, these two things are important.
First up, are you a permalink orphan? The permalink seems to have two functions in the world o'bloggers, one critical (I enjoy this blog) and one social (I like this person/wish to feel part of community involving this person/I want this person's visitors to come to me also). It's come to my attention of late that there are people out there who have linked to me for some reason other than that I have begged them to. Which, frankly, is pretty fucked up right here. However, I love them all the more for it. So. if you are at present linking to me (and I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to check my stats in the last month or so for referrer URLs), please tell me, so I can return the favour. Unless you're Nonceblog or something.
Second up, do you live on a Northern Line station south of Clapham but north of Morden? Chris and I realized today that we know nobody who does, and have in fact never met anyone to our knowledge who does. Now we suspect that it is a huge confidence trick, and that, stepping off the train at any of these stations, you will find naught but a narrow shelf just thick enough for a human being to balance precariously against, and a fantastically skillful trompe l'oeil wall painting.
Or am I being paranoid? Tell me.
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| Why did nobody tell me about Swish Cottage? All right, apart from the people who did, obviously. The selection of the much-praised and almost never-heard (including by my own poor self) Cardinal as an album of the 90s is inspired. And I speak as one who possesses a copy of Eric Matthews' ill-fated follow up "It's Heavy in Here" (bollocks it is, Matthews, you lightweight carnt). And yes, I did put that link in purely because the owner of that Eric Matthews fan page describes A-Ha as "New Wave/Punk".
Rock and Roll fucking high school.
I am joining the Minor Earth community right dickwaxing now and there is nothing you cocks can do to stop me.
Not really working for me, this punk A-ha thing...
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| Tom, flatmate Tom rather than Tom or indeed ex's new boyfriend Tom (whose numbers are all currently stored on my mobile phone at present, in order of oddness), pointed out that there are all sorts of perfectly good reasons not to sign the aforementioned agreement not to wale on the darkies. Still, however, not perhaps tactically the wisest move on the brink of a general election in which diverse ethnic groups are enfranchised to vote...
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| Thursday, April 19, 2001 |
| Dinner and conversation tonight with Abigail, after an abortive attempt to see Becks Futures at the ICA. Maybe Saturday. Anyway, Abigail was pretty much exactly what I need - a sane and calming influence. She rocks.
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| If you want a nigger for a neighbour, vote Labour. Remarkably, three Tory MPs have declined to sign an undertaking not to play the race card in the election scramble. Nice.
Actually, I see no reason why these people should not be allowed to play the race card, on condition that before they did so they announced "We're playing our race card", at which point Stuart Hall would pop up a la It's a Knockout, and with a twinkle in his eye announce that all points scored on immigration would count double, then provide a wacky running commentary to their day's canvassing.
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| The fundamental interconnectedness of all things: Darren used to have warm fuzzies for Servalan, President of the Terran Federation, Ruler of the High Council, Lord of the Inner and Outer Worlds, High Admiral of the Galactic Fleets, Lord General of the Six Armies, and Defender of the Earth, and links to this site, which was written by a quondam friend of mine, also responsible for an intimidatingly excellent thesis available here. I get an entirely unrelated mention only shortly before.
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| The more traditional arrangement also employs coloured blocks, or more generally a curved parallelogram, with a thick green end tapering through an arc of around 15%, as if describing a part of a far larger circle. The interrupted circle terminates not quite in a point, by which time the green has elided into a dull, irritated red. This shape may be described in an uninterrupted curve, or may be subdivided into a series of blocks. This makes no difference.
A heartbreaking work of staggering tedium. I'm getting to know my vehicle on the UpsideClown.
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| My turn for a Tom-style moment of exhaustion last night, at the popbitch party. Matt was there, as were his crew from work, and a more personable and attractive group of men and women you could not want. So, even though the DJ was playing "Now That's What I Call Ironic", and the bar was largely crammed with Inattention Scum, including one who just looked unbelievably, uncomfortably like an ex of mine, and I was nearly a tenner down after getting in and having one Hoegaarden, I couldn't quite work out why I wasn't my usual fizzing, mingling self.
Until I remembered that I was exhausted and incipiently ill, and pretty much the opposite of party. By then attempts to create a coterie had failed, and, after one last, longing glance at Matt's matinee-idol good looks, I was away.
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| Wednesday, April 18, 2001 |
| Everything you believed was true is, in fact, true after all. Despite the best efforts of the New Creationists.
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| Ladytron. Just do it. Seriously. They are fantastic. Rarely has electronica been so knowingly, and with such a Gernsbackian hat-tip, reverse-engineered to accelerate the fantasies of analogue electronica into the precise present. A worthwhile comparison, in a perverse way, may be very early Brian Eno, but with girls. And sex. And long walks home through Liverpool after disappointing parties.
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| The statement 'Man must be made free because it feels good when you shit' could have political or even revolutionary consequences far beyond the imagination of this humble philosopher.
He's no quitter, he's a shitter - James has a design for life on the UpsideClown.
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| Tuesday, April 17, 2001 |
| Well, any attempt to describe the Barbelith do would just be doomed to collapse in a morass of hyperlinks, so here we go with the deferred version.... Assembling at Bluu were, from the Collective, Joe, Joel, Camel (and friend) and Rollo (and friend, who by the end of days were happily planning an acoustic Kraftwerk busking experience - rock). From the wider Barbeverse Katy, Anna, Jacob, Ben, Loz, Rob and Sarah, and Steven. Imported from UKBloggers, Brooke, Luke and Catherine. Brooke seemed to have a good time at least, which is nice.
Then woke up today with what my boss reassures me is the first stage of a debilitating flu virus. Ho hum. At least this was a holiday day, so I could laze. Not in the sense of "cause light to cohere, sadly". Would have been cool. Not quite the day of action and achievement I had planned, but still...
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| Sunday, April 15, 2001 |
| As my own beloved mushroom girl recently observed, "And I thought Barbelith was incestuous!" Well, quite. The hilariously incestuous nature of the UK blogging scene has been observed before, and discussed over dinner.
However, at least from my point of view, Barbelith is still leading the field, if only because of the permeability of its membership membranes. I've swopped saliva with, I think, five Barbeloids, which will go up to six in the fairly near future, assuming (a) that the person I am expecting to join does so and (b) that I have actually had sex with him; I can't remember a thing about it, but all the evidence certainly points that way. Which, given my essential indifference to fleshy things, and my low status as a playa, suggests that everybody else has by now rabbited their way into triple figures. I'm not at all sure UKBlogging, for all its many good points, has the guns or the numbers to keep up.
Still, as microcultures both are absolutely fascinating. I for one am looking forward to the increasingly inevitable joint meeting, given Tom's deitic status within both and the increasing cross-pollination from one to the other.
This was a bit of a geek post, wasn't it? To quote another dear, sadly mislaid friend of mine, "Just remember that everyone is basically nine years old, and you'll be fine".
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| paceGraybo, I wouldn't suggest for a second that Meg & co saw my post of the 9th, and immediately set about creating the quarterback of elegance that is dinnerblog. I think it is simply a case of the same idea cropping up at about the same time in two different places, one of which had a dining table. And the ability to cook. And mates.
Still, note that the web of my obsessions is broadening. Which, given that Matt now has to employ bodyguards and draw a chalk circle around his underwear drawer, should be a cause of concern for all.
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| The fundamental interconnectedness of all things. Meg draws our attention to this article, en route to a disquisition on the Krankies (whose homepage is in my favourites - more evidence, if it were needed, that I am an antimatter parallel of Meg, who is herself an invention of Graybo, who is but a pawn of Mo Morgan, who is Matt's evil twin (or vice versa)).
We are Blorg. You will be assimilated.
But better yet, even than the fact that the woman in question is called Treva (what?), is that the only other person I have ever encountered named Throneberry was the immortal "Marvellous" Marv Throneberry, notable for his involvement in perhaps the most embarrassing single moment in the history of my own beloved New York Mets.
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| Tuesday, April 10, 2001 |
| Astonishing serendipity. A mere day after I suggested dinnerblog, there it stands, gleaming gently in the light. Now, the secrets of the human mind shall be ours to explore.....
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| So, what could two young gentlemen (well one young gentleman and a snarlingly pissed programmer. Well, Matt and I) find to talk about with representatives of Ohio's independent scene? Well...
Paul Simon trying to sound South African, while Paul Simon's South African backing band tried to sound like Paul Simon. The general, if unbelievable, conclusion that this made Gracelands somehow good.
The unstoppable rise of electronica and vocal music.
The fact that, although black music may be cool enough for white American kids, black people are not.
Limp Bizkit and Britney Spears - effectively indistinguishable.
Anglophilia, expressed through the medium of golf.
Acceptable codes of behaviour for drummers, and the correct term for a man who hangs around with musicians.
Pop Will Eat Itself, and the strange fate of Clint Mansell.
The status of Columbus, Ohio, as the source of the pure American accent.
Matt's assertion that Canada was the 54th state. The lengthy discussion that followed, eventually establishing the identity of the previous three as Puerto Rico, the United Kingdom and American Samoa.
If it had a harder rim and a higher brim, it would be a golf cap. It's twill, you know.
Cincymusic.
The illegality or otherwise of absinthe. The futility of Baker Street station and the first ever telephone.
When people discuss the constitution, I take the 5th.
The international language of kebab meat and objectivism.
Prince Charles - best-dressed man on Earth?
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| So, anyway, the devil's eyes. We fell in, as one inevitably does at this point, with representatives of not one but two American indie-rock bands, Crosley, who are playing at the Garage on Wednesday, and Sean, from Clabbergirl, who was along to support, take photographs and wow the women with his spectacular soul beard. A gang of thoroughly nice fellows, and if you happen to be passing the Garage, Highbury there may yet be an impromptu blogmeet. Haven't heard much of the music, but it seems like melodic, rocky mojo - check it out here. Coldplay, U2 and Radiohead were mentioned as beloved bands, along with the Beatles. Fancy trying some rawk'n'roll tomorrow? Tell me.
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| Last night I decided that, on the whole, a cold-brewed lager or four was probably the best way to deal with the world, so headed down to Mosco about 9pm in the expectation of finding Matt sitting there with a pint and some coworkers. What I didn't expect was to find Matt slumped with three half-empty glasses of Bols, a largely inedible tin of wierdly salinated olives, and the Devil in his eyes. Ooo crikey.
More soon.
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| Monday, April 09, 2001 |
| Quick contest - match the speaker and the speakee of the Blogmeet quotes. Some of them are easy, some slightly obscure (For the record, the leg did not have all spunk on it), some utterly absurd (news in Latin my arse), many misquoted but none entirely fabricated. Any takers?
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| So, anyway, the ansafone.
Andrew is a man with an astonishing CV. A search on the Internet for his name will reveal him cropping up in vintage car rallies, the rowing team of Upsalla University, a series of affairs with academia utterly at variance with the image of the dilletante he so effortlessly projects. In fact, if a member of my intimate circle is ever murdered, I firmly intend to bring him in as consulting detective. He's bound to have some relevant if recondite area of experience which will provide the single, fateful clue. No worries. All this wrapped in an easy-going, approachable, calmest-man-of-action-ever skin.
And I haven't seen him for years. So, despite him being on the other side of London, despite my being utterly fucking exhausted after a really pretty full-on evening o' chaos, what the Hell could I do? He was leaving for India in the morning (inevitably) and needed people to drink wine and watch him fail to pack, how could I refuse? How could I want to refuse? I did not, and I did not.
Were it not for the immanent sense of imminence, that this was a brief interlude before the team broke up again (as it did by 9:30 on Sunday morning), it would have been pretty much the paragonic evening with old friends. Still, damn fine couple of hours in extremely good company, and an opportunity to get out of the box (rather than simply out of mybox).
And when he returns, if he returns, we'll tear the town down and rebuild it in a shapelier way. While drunk.
Mind you, I am fucking glad I turned down the absinthe. Oh yes.
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| A brief inter-anecdotal post. I think perhaps the world needs more goodwill ambassadors, assigned on an individual level. People like Commissioner William Regal. I swear, when I truly understand pro wrestling, I shall truly understand America.
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| Speaking of tantalising snippets: excerpts, often approximated or elided, from the Blogmeet last, which in turn shaded into Neil Upsideclown's party, which shaded into watching CD:UK on Saturday morning, which shaded into a quest for a decent cup of coffee in Central London. Identities withheld to protect the Ann Nocenti.
"Will you wear Dan's coat? Then you'd look just like Dougie Howser in Starship Troopers. Which will make me happy."
"I'm sleeping with your wife. Beat that."
"No, seriously, when I was a kid I used to listen to Radio Helsinki every Saturday for the news in Latin."
"Yep. All that and the capacity for Leonard Cohen karaoke too. Astonishing."
"You're pure evil, aren't you? Fantastic...."
"What is this thinly-veiled Depeche Mode tribute band?" "Um, Depeche Mode."
"It's very cold and very meta, and I don't do it any more."
"Yes. My leg has all spunk on it. How much did your hair cost?"
All of which tells a story, after a fashion. Then on Saturday evening, when I returned home with Katy for an evening of pizza, Buffy and inactivity, I found a message on the ansafone, of which more later.
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| I become increasingly convinced that Luke, Davo and Meg need to set up dinnerblog. At the moment, we are given only the most tantalising details both of the menu and of the topics of dinnertime conversation, when a very serious scientific need exists to study the socializing effects (and otherwise) of the BigBlogger house.
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| Don't wanna visit Rome, don't wanna die in Venice
Don't care for Wimbledon, and all the stars of tennis
I only like those guys who live to study matter...
I'd like to listen to the high-energy physics-based songs of Les Horribles Cernettes, but I really don't think I dare.
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| Although Chicken Soup for the Compulsively Masturbating over Pictures of Plane Crashes Soul has yet to progress past the planning stage - history will prove me right - this will do for the moment.
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| A double dose of clown today, as Blogger went Kablooey when last I tried to make the vital connection. Fittingly now located firmly in the past, Neil is making stones cry again with a tale of love:
I stared at the innocent-looking globe for a few moments then nonchalantly flipped both switches with my thumb and took my hand away as the familiar snapshot of Paolo, looking over his shoulder with a half-smile of surprise, unfolded through three dimensions.
The sound of a heart breaking in the future will not be much different. Bring on the ET.
Meanwhile, Matt has all the time in the world,and no time to waste:
What do you expect, closure? Time isn't space, you know. As much as it feels like a build-up, climbing up a hill towards your birthday, unable to sleep for excitement (or nerves); as similar as it feels to break through that barrier in time and then roll down the other side -- as much as you think you're walking a path, crossing (and burning) bridges, days like years or years like seconds; as much as you feel like that, it's not.
Time and tide and time and tide and time and tide and the increasing nonlinearity of time and tide.
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| Thursday, April 05, 2001 |
| Grant has favoured me with his URL. He, you may remember, was the one who furnished me with my sexy new graphics. And he is feeling a bit down at present. So pop over there and show you love him. If necessary, with erotic photographs of yourself. I have already improved his day by not sending him any of me.
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| Although indubitably grand, Ian is, it must be pointed out, not old at all. He is in the prime of life, as any good Athenian would tell him, and as such is just being silly. However, time does hit the hardest blows, and it hits them below the belt, as uncle William told us, and no amount of villanelle will change that.
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| A correction:
Yes, yes, no, yes, yes, yes, yes, no, yes, yes, yes, no, no, no, yes, no (because I'm not scum) yes, yes, yes, yes, no, no.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
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| Wednesday, April 04, 2001 |
| Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear. I really don't want to do this. But I have to. I'm so, so, sorry.
John's not mad.
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| Speaking of pearlescent jism, solid if uninspiring article on homoerotic fanfiction. For when you just gotta see Kirk and Spock doing baroque things to each other's penis.
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| I think I may be rather glad that I didn't make it to the earlier stages of the blogmeet on Saturday last. Much as I normally enjoy being covered - covered! - in pearlescent jism, I had a clean top on that day. The fact that the simple showing of a not indecorous amount of chest spacehopper (tm) can spark such a response in such a normally mild-mannered man as this is a widdle bit disturbing.
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| I for one have no idea why genug was searching for "her strong legs give piggyback rides", but in his quest he came across a poem about...a lovely horse.
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| Ralph responds in his traditionally laid-back and moderate fashion to Tom's critical input. Bless.
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| Lessons learned tonight:
Takako Minekawa is almost certainly the second-coolest single human being on God's green Earth. Whiskey Priestesses should, on the whole, keep a better grip on their keys. And, however much he may want to believe that I am hot for his bod, Matt is in truth just bitter that I am better at slapsies than he is.
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| Monday, April 02, 2001 |
| Spaced is just such a happy thing. It fills me with love for the entire Universe. Which I know is pathetic on about a dozen different levels, but discovering that glacial comics femme fatale Sophie has a Buttercup stuffed toy made me want to hug the world's soul. And how can that be bad?
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| Meanwhile, the hunt continues for the least essential movie of all time.
As we already established, the Prophesy 2 had a lot going for it in terms of sheer inessentiality, but fell at a number of hurdles, namely involving Christopher Walken, who is always worth watching, and by being so compulsively ludicrous, particularly as the sequel to an already utterly inconsequential flick, as to attain a sort of inverse necessity.
Man's best friend, on the other hand....this woofer involves a genetically modified dog, with the powers of an owl, a chameleon, and so on - must have been one hell of a party - terrorizing Ally Sheedy. As if one could not have drunk the special FX budget and achieved the same effect with some pies....Regrettably, this turkey is saved both by the presence of Lance Henriksen - the man to call if you can't afford Christopher Walken - and as evidence in the eternal question of whether Ally Sheedy can, in fact, act. I am hamstrung by having not seen High Art, where apparently acting happens big-style, but the question remains a burning one.
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| Over the weekend I caught the tail-end (or possibly the midsection, depending how long everybody else stayed) of a webloggers' meeting. Present were Mo, Paul, Graham, Cal, Catherine, Nick and Vaughan. Probably the highlight was one blogger (who shall remain nameless) attempting to arrange all the others into order of how much he would like to fill them with baby blogger juice, causing slight but tragically avoidable offence, Vaughan's impassioned plea for stalkers, Mo's fluffy pink limousine and the highly inspirational genesis of Nonceblog.
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| The revamp of the site images comes from Grant, who will no doubt e-mail me his URL if he wants a link. Cheers, cobber. I particularly like the presence of a self-portrait in radioactive jism (which I will resize to avoid that irritating grey line size change thang when I have a moment)...
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Venusberg.org finds Blogger very attractive...
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elsewhere:
Interconnected
Plasticbag
Oh Skylab
Barcablog
Orbyn
moreover:
Brainsluice
Mo Morgan
Mothninja
Tajmahal
Wherever y'are
Prandial Post
thereafter:
Toby Kay
McCargow
Blogadoon
LinkMachineGo
Methylsalicylate
Hammersley
Joeblog
Grayblog
the Collective
Nick Jordan
Kooky Mojo
Betty Woo
Moth
Mr. Thomas G
the author:
danATvenusberg.org
and finally...
the archives
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