Wednesday 23 October 2002

lI'll write a happy entry if it kills me, so help me god. Q and A is good, isn't it? Easy. Let them chat, write it down, collect the cheque. Apart from the actually interviewing them bit. I'll never like interviews. I've just finished one and my did I gabber like a fool. Thing is, they always kick in like nobody's business about half-way through, when I get over my nerves, ask the inevitable groupies question, and get to the sex and the feminism and the dirt, the dirty feminism, the feminist dirt, the rock, the roll, the sleaze, the wordplay, and maybe some more dirt. By the end I'll be bigging up my website and whatever magazine the piece is for and flirting like crazy with the dude down the line as compensation for citing an early Germaine Greer article on groupie sex and claiming to have read Ulysses and taking the artist to task for idiosyncrasies on their attitudes towards lickin' the hairy pie, or whatever you wanna call it. But the beginnings, oh. O do I ever suck. BUT! Happy entry.

Well, the second disc of the new Futurism compilation is dirty sleaze electro brilliance, and pisses all over yer whiny whiteboy rappers that my sister took me to task for listening to, claiming it was the influence of Adorable Phillip, and mebbe she's right and mebbe she's wrong, but I sure as fuck am not a Jessica, and the next sister to say that gets a wristband bitch-slap in the eye, y'hear?

What's a Jessica? Jessica, man, when she was going out with a dude from a Twenties-style jazz band, with slicked back hair, and brogues, and devilishly pale skin, then she dressed in a monochrome chronograph of thrift-store threads and eye-dipping hats and the darlingest Louise Brooks bob, and, I swear to god, I was only eighteen, but I was a little bit in love with her. Right up until the second she ditched that dude, got with a raver, and wore big-platformed Hovercraft shoes and a, I can hardly say it, a tracksuit, and we realised that she was one of those girls whose whole existence is as an adjunct, a cipher, to the interests and desires of the boy. I'm sure there's a few of you out there thinkin', hey, my kinda woman! but then there's a few of you out there with tiny baby ding-dongs and record collections composed entirely of Autechre and Squarepusher records, so I ain't sayin' no more on the topic, ya know what I'm sayin'.

What? No I am *not* going to talk about the Futurism record any more than that. You want your record reviews for free? You cheap-ass. Only Careless Talk Costs Lives gets that. I've got a phone bill to pay. I've got a phone bill the size of the Empire State, and none of you cunts are helping me pay it, are ya? Bung us a coupla quidz and *then* we’ll talk music content, y'hear?

Oh! I tell you the skillest thing ever, and it is skill on two levels. The Tealpaint program for the PDA! I got given a Palm Pilot by someone who thought it might help me organise my life, someone who is worried about my life, someone who felt guilty about lavishing similar sums of cash on her other daughters, but you can't write about that shit cuz it makes you sound like the dumbest dullest trustfund biznatch, even though said insult couldn't be much further from the truth, but still, I know how it looks. So let's gloss over that and just say that I happen to have, in my possession, a Palm Pilot, that I got for free. This Tealpaint program, right? It turns your PDA into this mini-Photoshop program that you can carry on the tube! So you can do drawings on it! And colour them in! But that's not it! The best thing is that I located the program myself and I downloaded it myself and then I searched around for this other funny little php script that helps you extract the drawings and convert them from pdb files to bitmaps on the Mac. *And* I downloaded Graphic Converter. I never had to do none of that shit before because I had a boyfriend who knew everything about technical things. I mean people from miles around, friends from the long-neglected scrubbly scribbled-on pages of your address books, they would phone this dude up for computer advice. So who was I to learn how to navigate software issues in the face of such intimidating competence. But now I don't have a choice. So I did it. And that makes me proud.
So there.

What else? The temporary presence of a dog in the Hackney Housing Estate Flat in which I currently reside means that the spasticated scatalogically-obsessed homosexual kitten referred to a few entries back has finally ceased its constant mewling, under threat of a severe ass-rape from an un-neutered perma-horny Yorkshire Terrier. This is a good thing. And I found my leather wristband in the red plastic bag under the chair. And the Bpitch Control compilation finally arrived, and…

*draws blank*.

I tried.

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