Music: Songs from Momus's short-lived Presbyterian Grunge period. Which was followed immediately (at least in the New Grove article about him) by his Japanese Cosmetics Advert period.
This weekend was successful as a weekend. There is a bad reason for this: I took three days off to prepare for it. I must have been preparing for the weekend with my days off; I sure as hell wasn't doing anything else with that time. O all right, yes, I was coughing a lot. LJT and I went to the illustrious M*nR*y and danced our tuchi off. Then we went for brunch this morning. But it's not a blow by blow account of my life for which you read my journal. At least I'd hope not; it smacks of reading for plot. What I mean is, where the hell is the trenchant social commentary?
It went to Hell in a handbasket on Saturday night. [Astute club-frequenters will point out that it in fact went to Liquid in a handbasket, as Hell is Friday night, but this is the sort of factual liberty I can take, now that I'm a Gold Member.] In that I went and had fun without social angst crouching on the floor behind me and grabbing my ankles as I tried to dance. One: since I'd been righteously sodomized last weekend, I didn't regard my lack of club booty as evidence of a cosmic conspiracy to keep me from getting play. Two: I got nice and tanked as soon as I got in the door, under the kind pink smile of a nice big maternal cosmopolitan. Three: I painted my nails, applied a beauty spot to my chin, and girt my loins with the legendary purple sparkley studded belt. It wasn't going clubbing; it was a going to a club about clubbing. It was an interactive, satirico-sentimental installation piece involving my human body, DJ Chr*s *w*n, and a thousand swirling Cantabridgians.
Speaking of Chr*s *w*n, and you heard it here, too: the new Future Bible Heroes Album comes out in T minus nine days.