If you could take five minutes to scratch off the polythene surrounding your life, you would see that what you're doing isn't new, unique, individual, or exciting. It gives me a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach when I see a room full of people who spend £25 on a tshirt with "Working Class Hero" printed on it, Jeans that cost more than most peoples outfit, and a haircut that cost three times the amount of the mangled pair of boots I'm wearing. Dancing like a prick ironically doesn't make you funny, clever or cool. Ironically, it makes you a prick.

But what's worse is watching those people sing along to "common people". Modern "indie" music, at least in the UK, is possibly the biggest one finger salute to the working classes. Why buy an "iconoclastic" t-shirt saying "make love not missiles" from topman, when you could make one yourself? "Oh, but the design is so cool, look at the font! the A doesn't have a hole in it!" Yeah, but I can see a pretty big A-hole (That was clever and witty and not a lame pun in any way) wearing the goddamn shirt.

The prettiest girls at these kind of things are the ones who sit quietly and uncomfortably in the corner. Who only came along because their idiot friends wanted to, and dragged them with them. They're the most interesting as well. And don't dress or dance like they want the next guy with jeans so tight you can work out if he's circumsized or not to stick it in them.

Patrick Bateman is my hero.

An accompaniment

As you've probably guessed from my initial post, I like music. In fact, I'm the cartoon stereotype of someone who likes music. The black, unkempt hair, poor attempt at facial hair, more often than not the fault of lazyness, the worn leather jacket, and the headphones. I fall somewhere between Questionable Content's Marten Reed and High Fidelity's Rob Gordon. But this post isn't about me, as you will have had enough of that already.

This concerns the assorted smattering of tunes that follow me with the observations to be made in this blog. Of which, one of the first will be what a stupid, ungainly word "Blog" is. As I assume you've gathered, I fall into the "counter-culture", the "underground", or whatever stupid adjective they throw to group together a bunch of people they can adress as a marketing group. The kind of scene that gets sold as a £25 shirt in Topman, or some self important "indie" chain like Cult.

As a cover-all, I could, like most other people my age, claim I like "a bit of everything", or "Everything apart from classical jazz and country", except I should probably throw in a needless exclamation mark, or add LOL to the end of the statement. The truth of the matter is I don't like everything; and am probably more biased and closed off than most people are about music. I like "indie" music. I like rock. I'm happy listening to one guy with an acoustic guitar complain. But not the stuff thrown at us through radio1. I like smatterings of classical music, something I should probably investigate into further, particularly due to the amount that was played to me as a child, as my father fostered my fascination with music. I like jazz, particularly bebop, and hot jazz. I'm not a huge fan of vocalists in the genre, though. In short, I have a broad taste, genre wise, but an isolated one, when you get down to the individual genre.

Introductions

So this would be the writings of an inane babbler. Inappropriate musings whilst intoxicated. You must understand, that this is not written to be read, although that statement alone, with its acknowledgement of readership alone destroys it’s credibility. But, I suppose it would be read, as I choose to publish it online.

I have nothing to write of merit. I live a life perpetuated by stereotypes. I have the general appearance of someone who permanently needs a haircut, or a shave, or both. I spend nights staring at a glowing rectangle, tactfully positioned in the centre of a room, with nothing running through my head but white noise and a curiosity as to why we so regularly allow it so much of our time, which always seems to be far too much, but always ends up being far too little. I sit in lecture theatres, and come away with pages of notes, consisting entirely of scribbled messages to myself, reminding me to pay my rent, fill out forms, and other, mundane, ordinary occurrences, or drawings. I wonder around in a tattered leather jacket, with oversized headphones on generally looking discontent, and slightly lost, gathering worried looks from old ladies, and disparaging looks from young men, whose leather jackets are in far better shape, and far more expensive than my own.

I also have a tendency to deviate at tangents, go on for far too long, and write over-long, self indulgent paragraphs concerning myself, in order for anyone who would happen upon reading to build up a rather heavily biased, self-analysed image. Anyway, that’s my introduction. It’s pretentious, says more than anyone would be interested in, and contains effectively nothing. Welcome to my time waster.