Protoculture

Most of the time in life, you wish you made more of an effort to pay attention to the Arts. You know, you wish you read the Right Books, and saw Cinema with a capital 'C'. Really sought out the Cutting Edge of music and Experienced something.

Today I went to Tinderbox and sat down to have a Peppermint Tea to help settle my still turbulent stomach. Then I went to Borders and bought The Moor's Last Sigh by Salman Rushdie, Falling Out of Cars by Jeff Noon and Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut. Then I went to Reckless Records and bought some vinyl, including tracks by two guys who inhabit the same small mailing list-and-bulletin board-oriented subculture I do, whose pasts with record labels, the industry and sundry law suits I'm relatively well acquainted with, though in person I've only ever drunkedly lurched over to and casually molested. Then I went to see Adaptation, the bizarre and frankly brilliant film directed by Spike Jonze, international man of mystery. Then I came home to write about it on my website.

I feel like I've become either a parody of myself, or the superhuman version. 2003 Man. Islington Boy.

Our Father, who art Bon Jovi,
Slippery When Wet.
Sylvester come,
Bruce Willis gun,
Son of Vietnam Vet.

Give us this day
our daily steak
save us from socialism
and deliver us from masturbation.

In other news, Enronistan, a small corporation, sorry, country, in the Middle Right, sorry, East, is currently undergoing a relatively amicable shift in power as it struggles with the challenges of the 21st century. It promises to be a great year for Enronistan as it confronts new markets and realises its human capital.