It's always late at night

Well,

As a dedicated Mac user and somewhat of a devotee, it was something of a shock to hear of Steve Jobs little dabble with the old cancer surgery. It is in fact late at night, so late that the sun's come up. Insomnia spell is about to break. So though old Steve can't hear me, and probably couldn't give a rat's ass who the hell I am, get well soon, buddy. You're smart and you've got style. That's important.

Wired News: Apple Fans Pull for Jobs

Guardian Unlimited | US elections 2004 | Advertiser drops Whoopi after Bush sex joke

Man, you know, this is getting a little scary. Joe Strummer said in Know Your Rights that you have the right to free speech, as long as you're not dumb enough to use it. Now, as she mentions, Slim Fast has a right to protect its business. But it seems like there's something particularly insidious about the media over the pond these days. Granted this is a Guardian story -- i.e. them Yanks sho' is crazy -- but this makes me nervous, along with the last entry here. OK, I know it's not Night of the Long Knives stuff, but as the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, there seems to be very little of the above in both decisions.

It's bedtime again. G'night.

I was reading the Guardian, and of course listening to the radio when I came across this strory of an obssessive scientist who terrorised a load of public service workers because he was somewhat unbalanced. I remember hearing about it, and then figured, my god, a life sentence for stalking? That must be some pretty heavy stuff. And actually, it was that heavy. He firebombed people's homes and cars and drove them completely nuts.

What else is new? Well, listening to Radio 2 an awful lot these days. As I am right now. And it's a little distracting to be frank. And it makes me feel a little bit old. But the other thing I do like is that I'm going to enjoy Jonathan Ross's lovely radio show.

All Saints. You know, I'm really happy that Shaznay has finally come along with shimmery, wonderful pop that she does. I am kinda pissed off that I read somewhere that she's to become the British Beyonce. Bollocks! Ditto Jamelia! As much as I like Beyonce, Shazza and Jamelia, I'm fed up with our obsession with the USA in that, "we can grow a cheap imitation of anything that they do" kind of way. That's definitely how we do in the UK. And you know: it sucks. Like the umpire that Mark Phillipousis recently had a go at at Wimbledon.

Bejeezus, talk about an inferiority complex and a lack of national direction.

I'm always incredibly happy to find out the folks at Angry Alien have something new up their sleeves. Okay, this isn't new, but it's one of my favourite things to see on the Web. Silliness and the Web go hand in hand.



Cartoonist's Block.

Last thing, I really do have a hankering for Fall Dog Bombs the Moon by David Bowie. Get well soon Mr Jones, stay off the burgers and fags, too.

I've quit trying to write at night because in the end, you sometimes just want to crash out in your bed and sleep and sleep and sleep.

I need to think of what I'm going to do with the day today. Besides sit under my loft bed and write about the various things computers can do for creative folk. To consider how a neo-mullet's peculiarities can be rendered acceptable but for the grace of Flash and Photoshop. Oh silicon, who art in my processor, hallowed be thy motherboard on my bus as it is in my bedroom. (Or creative studio of course.)

Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Microsoft, I shall fear no PC, for Apple art with me.

Yadda yadda yadda.

Now then. I'm sat here under the loft bed listening to my favourite radio station and in some peculiar way, there's a Dido track on.

I've got this peculiar Dido problem. It's like something about yourself about which you can feel shame. Not dangerous shame; not like paedophilia or something. But it's just that I have a bizarre sexual fantasy about Dido that makes me feel that I not only have lost my mind, but also my taste. There's something peculiar about the way she smiles when she sings, and I'm absolutely captivated by the fact that her name is Dido, she makes these coffee table albums, and she talks like, excuse the horrid turn of phrase, but fuckin' 'ell, a pikey. This rearranges all my wires and the only way I can reconcile is by imagining her in a pair of polka dot granny pants. Yes. Deranged.

Other good things. A conquering of my miniscule tobacco problem. That's happiness. A general feeling of physical fitness, a rediscovered liking for housework, and the ability to let go of all the stupid earthly things that make you miserable. Oh, and my new iBook arrived!

Okay. So now I've done the stupid blogging thing. I've sat here and written about the drivel in my life that I imagine the Web needs to just have a piece of. It really needs to know about Dido and granny pants. Wrong. But on the other hand, the other thing I've decided is a good thing is to say sometimes, who gives a shit?

Colony Models

Have just found this site, and for no reason, I find it spectacularly rivetting. Perhaps it's the geek in me, secretly. Maybe I really do want to have my own model railway, or even, God forbid, I'm a trainspotter after all.

Indeed!

Okay, it's not late at night, but I've also realised this can be a good way to get the wheels of the writing mind greased up.

So let's see. What should I consider before heading into the latest greatest article writing stint of all time?

Today, it's PJ Harvey. What is it about her that freaks me out? I think of her as a champagne or a stinky cheese that somehow you're pretty sure you should like, considering oneself a London sophisticate, a groovy metropolitan metrosexual (whatever the fuck that means!!) and all that, but I just don't. I don't get her. Don't really like her music all that much. Kind of arty, ungroovy, self-indulgent though worthy. Just doesn't grab me, no matter how much I open my mind. Oh well, that's life.

Anyway, time to get back to work and shuddupa my face.