Weirdness

Hey,

Today I finished reading The Invisibles, which did end a little flatly. But Epic Apocalyptic conspiracy tales usually do.

Strangely enough when I was at Tesco late last night, I made the mistake of joking to the night staff that debit cards would one day be unnecessary because we would all have tattoos on the back of our necks and microchips surgically implanted on the back of our hands.

It was a mistake not because I came across as a paranoid lunatic, but because the cashier was a member of a hardcore Pentacostal Church that seriously believes every word of Revelations is going to come true, one way or another, and that we are in the last days. D'oh. I really have to learn not to talk about religion to people. Not when my own religious beliefs are so weird, not to mention prone to incredible reversals, dualities, internal contradictions and the like.

Personally, I'm not inclined to fell that the end of humankind is any time soon, no matter what people tell me. I'm just not the type to believe that we're going down without a serious fight, come hell or high water (and we've all seen plenty of the latter).

To defuse the situation a little, I mentioned something that somebody told me at STJ After Party a few weeks back, that being that in antiquity the trade routes through the middle east invariable took traders through the Plains of Megiddo, therefore the writer of Revelations would have believed that whoever controlled the Plains of Megiddo would control the world.

And then I bolted.

My cousin always said never trust anyone that is crazier than you are.

No, actually she said never sleep with anyone crazier than you are. A guideline I've never been good at following.

Back to our regularly scheduled Pogrom: after finishing The Invisibles, I cleaned up my room a little (not to self, buy more magazine racks) and threw some jeans in the wash before hitting The High Road to do what I've been meaning to do for a couple of weeks: spend £10 to buy another 10 kilos of weights for my barbells from the gym on the High Road.

I might have mentioned about that particular Gym before. Previously the bloke behind the counter was surly and sarcastic, even when I was buying stuff. A couple of months back I noticed that there were spelling mistakes on the signwriting in the windows: 'Need to Loose Weight Fast?' etc.

I took this as proof that Steroids Don't Make You Smart.

It might have been a better bloke today, or maybe he had actually learned to be nicer to paying customers.

So now I have ten more Ki's to play with. Of course, I know from experience that upping the weights on your barbells is addictive, so it's entirely possible that by Summer I'm going to look like Popeye.

Here's something funny: following a link of somebody's myspace page, I found one of those silly take-a-quiz type personality test pages.

I am sad to say that I only came in at 47% Punk Rock, and I wasn't as much of a Tortured Artist as I thought (fair play, I haven't cut of my own ear lately), but I was happily surprised by my Evil Genius score:

I am 91% Evil Genius.

I am pure evil. I lie awake at night devising schemes of world domination, and I will not rest until all living souls bend to my will.

Take the
Evil Genius Test
@ FualiDotCom

I always knew it was true.

Tonight I either go to a Salsa Dancing Class or go to Leicester Square for some more Stand-up Comedy.

I may or may not flip a coin to decide.

In another window I'm looking at some nice artwork by a scandinavian fastasy artist called Par Olofson. His style seems familiar but I can't seem to find anything about him in the usually limitless resources of the net.

I was also looking at the official website for a London Magazine called The Naked Punch , which one of the STJ kids was writing for. It seems to be just the wrong side of pretentious intellectualism for my taste (and that is a pretty broad border for me).

Their structure seems to have a hell of a lot of Editorial Staff and not a lot of contributors. Which is pretty damn weird to me, even though I haven't actually seen a hard copy of the magazine to check it out.

I did look in the article archives and find an article titled 'Why Marx matters to Artists'. I didn't read the whole thing, but from the first paragraph, it seemed that the writer had it the wrong way round. The case he was really arguing was 'Why Art should Matter to Marxists'.

I tried to sign up to the Events Email Newsletter for the magazine, but it repeatedly rejected my Hotmail account address. Shall I make the comment about classwar and internet, or does someone else want to.

[time passes]

My sister emailed me the link to the SixFtHick myspace page. The two songs on there are cool, of course, but what strikes me most funny is that their page reveals that Roland S Howard now has a Myspace Page.

Read that again: Roland S Howard has a Myspace.

I wonder if Nick does?

Hmm. The mind boggles. 'Hi, I'm Mozart, and here is my Myspace Page. Thanks for the Add.'

That's enough meandering from me for one day. I'm up and off.

Over and out.

J