Happy Birthday to me....!
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« | July 2004 | » | ||||
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Watching
London Burn |
"I understand that it is necessary to have a penny, because it is the smallest unit of currency, but why-oh-why a coin that represents two of the smallest unit? It's useless as I have yet to find a price that ends in .98 and, worst of all, the two pence coin is huge. As the second most valueless coin, it's also the third biggest" |
Eurotrash |
Heyrdupesi
|
Exhibit
5a |
SarahSpace
|
Boyhowdy
|
Bastitch |
Die
Puny Humans |
Lost in Hype
|
Madame
Finistere |
Casino Avenue |
Reckless
Writer |
Stefangeens |
Bandhag
|
Sashinka |
Gia
|
Peeling
Wallpaper |
ScreamingSeed
|
OnePotMeal
|
Hackney
Lookout |
Kitchentable
|
Cyber
Vassals |
Bandhag
|
SarahSpace
|
Fuck
Everything |
Stefan
Geens |
Smacked
Face |
Random
Gestures |
La
Noiraude |
Light
From an Empty Fridge |
The
Final Broadcast |
Muscle
68 |
Looby |
Billyworld
|
Creepy
Lesbo |
Rubbish
Gays |
Unluckyman
|
Exhibit
5a |
Van Mega |
Oeillade
|
3rd Engine |
Light From an Empty
Fridge |
He's
Welsh, You Know |
Too
Much and Too Little |
Shy Lux
|
Looby
|
Feeling
Listless |
Conazo
|
Breakfast
Any Time |
Peeling
Wallpaper |
Diary
of a Glitter Splashed Britney Lovin' Lesbo "Every time I venture out I always seem to
stumble upon someone who recognises me from school. Of course that means they
must grab me, pull me in all directions in some faux 'I love you' kinda of
way and tell me how good it it is to see me as I'm left scrambling for air
and a name. I finally remember who they are (4 years older, 6 years younger)
and also remember never having exchanged a single word with them, ever. Yet
here they are despereate to tell me bout there fabulous new boyfriend, their
children and how they work in an office and shag the boss. Touched as I am to
have these complete strangers reveal their lives to me, why choose me?
Because I have a friendly, inviting face? I'm quite sure not, so what is it?
Because they think in all their skinny and tannedness they are better than
me? Maybe. But most likely it's because I will sit there and listen to their
crap, take it all in, gasp and guffaw at appropriate intervals and even
stroke their pregnant guts when instructed." |
SarahSpace |
Creepy
Lesbo How
old am I? I
can tie my own shoelaces. And yet I am still unable to wipe my own arse
after a night on the slosh without dragging streaks half way up my back. |
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Watching London Burn
"Bloggers
Visual traits: None. Highly dangerous. Actually, one possible clue: wearing a Blogger T-Shirt. Unf.
Aural clues: talk about it continuously. All the f*cking time.
Dangerous aspects: all bloggers are obsessive. Anyone, who regularly writes down their most intimate thoughts to a PC must be slightly psychotic. Especially anyone who writes their views on politics, as these blogs are typically links to news articles with some of the bloggers own deranged commentary. They only do this beacuse they are unable to talk to people and engage in conversation, which would expose their lunacy. Socially retarded, one and all. Worst of all they all think they are going to be multimillionaire authors once penguin or random house find their blog. Yeah, right."
I'm still in that halfway area, where I wonder if all this dull routine is a good idea, whether I should just fucking rip up the credit card by flying somewhere improbable, when I get home, log on to write one of the last entries on my blog, when ... nothing.
Does not connect. Stupid ISP. The cheapest available in the country,
unable to deal with any customer comments by email, I'm used to ringing them
up.
Only this time is different. This time they haven't fucked up. They've
pulled the plug. I've been booted from my fucking ISP.
A summer entirely devoid of flicking through bollocks on the net flashes
before my eyes. They what? They fucking what?! For what reason? For
what
fucking reason is it pulled?
(thinks: I only called that guy on a
messageboard a cocksucker in my head, I didn't say it out loud)
For illegal use.
Eh?
Apparently, I downloaded a movie. I downloaded it, then shared and uploaded
it to others. They even knew the name of the movie. Mean Girls.
Yes, not even a good movie.
Mean Girls! But I went to see that at the cinema! (catch in throat as I nearly - nearly - say 'you can look at my blog for proof if you don't believe me'; I have enough markers of my fall from social dignity already, I don't need others).
When I installed a bit torrent client the other week, I clicked on some
movies. Idly. Playing. I started downloading them - Whale Rider, which
came down with
Spanish overdubbing, and Mean Girls. It took forever, so I stopped the
download. And went to see it at the cinema instead.
Idly. Playing. I don't burn CDs and pirate them at the local car
boot sale. Almost everyone else I know online does, as it happens. Not me.
I downloaded these two. Watched neither. Deleted them.
Of course I'd be the one they pick up for web piracy. Of
course I'd be worth the damn time and effort to raise their stupid
corporate figures on crime waves. Why go for the big villains? Why not
stand by and let them do what they like, then pick on the penniless half
insane bitch who lost everything last year? Of course. Peter Parket
(version 2) would. Forget about the little guy.
But. It dawns on me that if I fileshare on torrents or on Kazaa, then if I
fail
to delete something, it's automatically uploaded to others.
"What you need to do, madam, is to send us a fax saying you've read and
agreed to the Terms and Conditions, and to the Acceptable Use policy."
How can I do that?
How can I read the website's Terms and Conditions if I can't get online?
"Just send a note saying you have, and you can check later."
But how can I avoid breaking them if I don't know what they are to
break?
"You'll have to go round a friend's house and use their computer, then."
I sense, somehow, that it would be arguing for argument's sake to ask
what
friends?
The next doozy: "If you offer a written apology regarding your illegal download of the film Mean Girls, than give your name, signature and date, and mark it for the attention of the ISP abuse team, we'll reconnect you."
*pause for sense of shock to flood through already overloaded adrenal system*
So, it was illegal, but an apology is enough? How does that make
sense?
I
ask about tv programmes. I downloaded whole series-worth. Copyright.
What
about music. Copyright.
So I could have my ISP pull the plug for uploading
things I legally have on my PC, such as music I've bought?
If it's
copyright, yes.
But Kazaa and bit torrent clients don't check copyright,
they just upload automatically, don't they?
I'm getting worried about
prosecution as a pirate, now, as if I'm making money out of this. Mr
ISP
Bastard says "it's illegal to have Kazaa" on my machine.
No, it's not.
"Well, no, you're right it's not.
But downloading materials with Kazaa is."
No it's not.
"No, you're right, it's not.
But if the material is copyright, it is."
So it's just me out of millions? I'm starting to feel stupid, and giving up
the argument - 'what about everybody else' is a logically redundant
argument,
usually employed by morons. I prepare to buckle.
"Listen, we know everybody does it, but you've been unlucky."
Oh for riced shakes, so you're actually admitting that it's nonsense? The
admission doesn't improve my mood. Nor does the next one.
"The infraction was filesharing, but the apology required is for
downloading. Downloading a movie which isn't even on dvd yet."
So if I illegally pirated something less popular you'd turn the blind eye
you just admitted to?
Argh. Rage. Blind, purple dot-seeing, furious, fist clenching rage.
I go out. Five pm. Takes me twenty minutes to find somewhere that does
faxes. Of course the fax number they gave me doesn't work. Of
course I
didn't bring my phone. I'm the unluckiest bastard in the world, why would I
bring my phone.
Reprise. This time, six pm. Nowhere in Penge sends faxes at six pm. What
for?
Rage. Fury. Simmering resentment. Mad stare at the guy in the internet
cafe's double take when he sees I'm paying for a fax to an ISP abuse
team.
It took a shit fit in Lidl (home of cheap but necessary beer), and the simmering sense of indignity that if I had friends in England, or money, I could be slagging off my ISP in a pub by now, the discovery I can read Creepy Lesbo via my mobile phone, and this morning's realisation that there are other unlucky people in the world to calm me down.
Looking for a scrap of purple note paper on which to scrawl my fax, I'd found the following lines from an unwritten blog post, composed last February.
"There's a lot of things I could have ... or should have done. But I figured out a few weeks ago, that when you get right down to it, most of them don't make a difference one way or another. So what the hell ... why bother?"
Right, I've fired off my indignation to the internet, now. That's what you do if you don't have a girlfriend, money, freedom or friends, you know.
Next!
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Creepy Lesbo
"Another shit day.How old am I?
I'm 28.I can tie my own shoelaces.
I can tell the time (just).
I can pick my nose and eat it (and I still do).And yet I am still unable to wipe my own arse after a night on the slosh without dragging streaks half way up my back.
Why IS that?"
Francesco posted this fantastic Proustian quote on my moblog: "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."
So my plan for week one of the summer was beholden to this quotation. And day one began thus: detention at work (I decided to do three hours work at 9am each day this week - I get paid the same if I do it or not, so the only purpose is to get me into and out of bed at half reasonable times); wander into a part of London I think I know and take photos (started with a challenge - Beckenham; difficult to find anything but listless office workers and Marks and Spencers); go see a movie (Spiderman 2 - even more a bunch of fucking arse than Spiderman 1 was - ninety minutes till it gets going, fact fans! And while 1 at least ended the torture on an interesting, very adult premise - setting aside personal need for duty ... 2 reverses this. 2's message is do what the fuck you like, and don't worry who you trample over while you do it, everyone will love you for 'being yourself'. Forget about the little guy. Aaarrrgh!); then kick back at home and write, then read, or listen, or watch something (Radio 4 are serialising 'Ripley's Game' at ten forty-five each night this week, read by Stanley Tucci - it's going to be most axcellent, it's one of Highsmith's best books. And you can listen via the web, too, fact fans).
So far, so .... well, so a plan. Plan B.
It doesn't stop me worrying that my summer is going to be so boring it sends me insane, or rather, even more insane than last year did, but it's a routine, and when in a tight spot, I've learnt a routine can save you.
My imperatives are:
I have two small cats to be devoted to, so I can't
travel;
I have less than no money to spend, so I can't travel, eat, drink or
socialise;
my mates are all on holiday, so I can't socialise;
I need to lose
six pounds, so I can't eat;
I'm a loony fucker, so I can't drink;
my car
is finally fixed and legal and only costing me back payments, so I *can*
drive anywhere, as long as I can get back the next day to feed cats.
The balance is precarious: a sense of personal injury against the world
for
my lack of money, combined with deep introspection, and a lazy
streak.
Which are the perfect conditions to create a monster: an overblogging
geeko
keyboard warrior.
*This* is the reason the blog must end this week. I can't spend another
fucking summer online because I'm busy waiting for a life to happen.
So, apart from the money issue, it's okay. When my parents asked me what I
want for my birthday, I thought about what I don't currently possess -
the
satisfaction of shopaholicism and greed, so asked for a meal out or a
new
outfit. The new outfit looks superfunkycool, which makes it feel less like
I can't afford to even park in most of Greater London, which makes me less
resentful of having to think about amounts of money I'd not previously had
to blink over.
#1.60 for a coffee. #1.30 to park outside Iceland in Penge.
#0.50 to send a fax. The minor, bruising indignities of a life you had
thought you'd left behind at 24.
I was going to bank on the sale going through, max my credit card out,
rent
a cottage somewhere, drive my cats up, then proceed to issue invitations
to
friends. This was plan A, the better plan than B.
The sudden wave of bad luck last week when I became one of the
first in the country to get my car clamped for being untaxed, and to be
fined for being in a bus lane cost me #500, in toto, and made me realise
that I *need* that spare space on the credit card - it's the last safety net
I have left.
So, no cottage. No holiday (didn't have one last year, after
I crashed my car). No sense of entitlement to Tesco Super Luxury Ready
Meals For One.
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: SarahSpace
"1. Are Spiderman?s superpowers a metaphor for his penis? Is it one of those ?I am going to fight crime with my enormous cock? type things?
2. I completely believe that it is possible to bitten by a radioactive spider and get turned into a Spiderman, but this Dr. Oct thing seems completely improbable. Why were the arms needed? What do the 4 extra arms have to do with creating fusion? Am I the only person who is bothered by the implausibility of this? And isn?t there a flaw in your thinking about creating a new power source that needs electricity to maintain itself? Spiderman pulls the plug out of the wall and everything stops?"
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Diary of a Glitter Splashed Britney Lovin' Lesbo
"Every time I venture out I always seem to stumble upon someone who recognises me from school. Of course that means they must grab me, pull me in all directions in some faux 'I love you' kinda of way and tell me how good it it is to see me as I'm left scrambling for air and a name. I finally remember who they are (4 years older, 6 years younger) and also remember never having exchanged a single word with them, ever. Yet here they are despereate to tell me bout there fabulous new boyfriend, their children and how they work in an office and shag the boss. Touched as I am to have these complete strangers reveal their lives to me, why choose me? Because I have a friendly, inviting face? I'm quite sure not, so what is it? Because they think in all their skinny and tannedness they are better than me? Maybe. But most likely it's because I will sit there and listen to their crap, take it all in, gasp and guffaw at appropriate intervals and even stroke their pregnant guts when instructed."
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Peeling Wallpaper
"I have this idea for a soft porn novel. You know the kind of book people leave behind at bus stations and train terminals, the ones with the covers torn off, the ones that catch your eye because of the provocative language, starting on page one, with very creative parts of speech for very intimate parts of the body. You?ll look down from your seat at the train station at the abandoned book on the seat next to you and the words ?swollen hamlet of love? will jump right up at you and you will think, ?well, this isn?t Tom Clancy.? "
"This morning I woke up to the sound of the telephone ring. On the other end, a person who cares about me asked what the hell I was doing in bed, and whether I thought I could write in my sleep. In which case, she submitted, then I was surely talented.
I'd like to think that I write everday, but you know what would be great? Is if every now and then someone checked in. Even a total stranger. "
News just in from Tristan about Beckham's bollocks:
Unbelievable!It is about his bollocks, isn't it?26 people so far are bidding on this, which isn't for the ball but for the CONTACT DETAILS of the guy selling the ball.
So far the bid is #510Some chancer has set up an Ebay auction in which he starts saying do you remember that penalty miss by Beckham, and then if you bother reading it it explains that this is not for the original ball, but for a ball signed by some Scottish actor pretending to be Beckham in a reenactment! #41 with 24 bids and still going strong with 9 days to go.
Meanwhile, the guy selling the real ball is currently on #2.3 million and 6 days left with 123 bidders.
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Jason: Do you feel like home is just an hour away, or is it another
world?
Victor: It's another world.
Ahmed : Ees not an hour. Ees thirty minutes. Forrim. Ees haf' an
hour.
Jason: Aye, even from Manchester.
Vic: It's half an hour.
Ahmed: Unless it's rush hour.
Jason: It's another world.
Ahmed: (firmly) Haf' an hour.
Then they chat about London.
Jay starts repeatedly mouthing "It's a harsssh worrrrld, London, a harsssh
worrrrld."
Inbetween the dips in sound caused by the potential for the entirety
of London to take offence at Ahmed's suggestion that people who live
as near to Heathrow as Elstree Studios must endure a living hell
(sic), you garner the information that Jason's worldly knowledge of
London comes from a journey once where the bus was rather crowded.
Vic, of course, sticks to unintelligible "pfft", "pshaw", and lip sucking responses, thus coming across as 'street', as 'London', and simultaneously being careful never to challenge Jason's interpretation that complete bollocks-talking is justified.
Ahmed proffers the wisdom that you should never buy a woman a drink because all women earn more than men, who are all on the dole. Jason points out that he only buys people drinks for twenty minutes of chat, or if he really really fancies someone. Vic says he doesn't buy people drinks (the charmer), and Ahmed goes on to issue his direst warning of the evils of the female species yet - if you buy a woman a drink, she will expect another drink the next time (unless you warn her, buts in Victor - nice technique, you smooth talking lad you), and before you know it she will be used to you opening the car door for her. Jason points out that it's only gentlemanly to open a car door, and the others dissolve into giggles at this break in ranks from the pussywhipped pompadour. "Doorman! Doorman!" they giggle.
Even the jungle codgers get bored of their own mutual wank society,
though, and fall into mumbling and gently singing their favourite
songs. And what a choice of songs! Jay's off in his own world,
singing Madonna's latest, enthusing about her past albums, then
quietly segues into Kylie Minogue's early hits. Can he act any more
gay?
Victor tries to rescue Jay's masculinity by gently crooning a
little R&B, but the Jungle Codger is oblivious to Victor's subtle
remonstrations - he fires up the Kylie, and turns up the volume on his
voice.
Brilliant. Please please please vote out the boring ones, and leave these self deluding nutters where they are this week.
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Breakfast Any Time
"There's a lot of things I've been meaning to tell you, but I lost my notebook and now I can't remember how to spell any of those things. If you're in the Chicago area, be on the lookout for a small black notebook. Then start your own website where you just keep posting the things I've written down in my notebook. Then give me the address. Seriously, it'll save me alot of time."
Best Blo'te of the Day so Far: Conazo
"If you accept the premise that cinema provides us with vicarious experiences through which we can live out our dreams, then it would seem reasonable to suppose that you can work backwards from the movies to figure out what our innermost desires might be.
Movies tell us that love conquers all and bad guys always get their comeuppance, but what about darker, more fringe beliefs? After all, isn't the collective subconscious less Disneyland, more Arkham Asylum? What do movies tell us about half-thoughts so disturbing they have to be manacled in a reeking cell?"
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Feeling Listless
"Will it really have power to sway the voting habits of a country?
What is startling for me is how little Moore has changed the way he presents the story. Although I missed the original release of Roger and Me (I was reading about robots in disguise at the time), for some reason I caught all of TV Nation when it turned up on BBC Two and that took me into my university years. Considering the controversy, it's interesting to note how close the new film is to the short ten minutes stories which appeared on television and his previous work.
Throughout, there is still the mix of old tv footage, stunts and illustrative contemporary interviews. The proportions of each have been reduced and increased depending upon the story being told but it is very much Moore's style and just as distinctive as latter day Woody Allen."
[...]
"I saw the film at a Saturday 3:45 showing and it was full. Many journalists and writer who have been to see the film with the public to see their reaction have talked about the heckling and the applause. At my showing the only time anything happened was when a clip of Britney Spears appeared in which she was asked about the Iraq war From out of the darkness deep male voice shouted: "Whore!" He was utterly silent through everything else ..."
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Looby
"The "pub" nearest to me (I say pub, but it's really a community centre and venue with a bar attached), is somewhere I never normally go, partly because it looks like the set for a pisstake TV sitcom about yoghurt knitters. It has a strange attraction for 50-year-old weirdy beardy men, and people who suffer from imaginary illnesses like ME, (a strangely class-specific virus which somehow affects university lecturers and psychotherapists more than it does catering assistants and people working in care homes). They also have a rule of not serving alcohol before 4pm, although you wouldn't want to be in there at that time anyway, unless you want to hear Proud Mum noisily cooing things like "Ooh, seven today! What a clever boy! Yes, Leo, we're going to go and paint our ant faces now.""
No doubt I've blogged about my crush on Donald Sutherland before.
But Don't Look Now is on telly, I've eaten too many boiled gooseberries in sugar, and it occurs to me to wonder if his hair is really curly, and straightened now, or if he felt the need for a demi-wave for both this film and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. To be right for the theatrical demands of the part, you understand.
So I looked for a split screen comparison - fat old grey beard Donald with the straightening irons clamped to his silver barnet, versus permanent waved virile frizzheaded emu-faced Donald of the sixties. And found a startling reality behind the hair.
So startling, I can't even pin it down. But there's something going on - something very very wrong - with Donald Sutherland's hair.
Can these all be the same man?
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Shy Lux
"I'm only linking to this because the guy lived.
Crapweasel of the day: Kenneth Smith, author of An Open Letter to My Deep Fear That My Girlfriend Will Be Really Fat Later in Life. Kenneth, I hope you go bald, slowly, in an awkward, non-pattern baldness kind of way. And I hope your girlfriend makes partner in her law firm and leaves your skinny ass for a younger, more attractive gentleman with a smokin' bod. And that they have lots of gorgeous children, while you grow old all alone and have to move in with your mother and start wearing shorts with black dress socks that offset your pale, skinny, hairy legs. And I hope Kenneth Smith isn't your real name, because eventually your girlfriend will google you and find this public declaration of love."
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Too Much and Too Little
"I think I've been to a church twice in my life, thanks to the prompting of James, who promised that they could be "fun", and indeed they were, compared to getting a root canal without anasthestic as performed by a coked-up dentist having an epileptic fit. In other words it was so painful I could have sworn - but couldn't, because God doesn't like people to use naughty words like AHHH FUCK ME LET ME OUT OF HERE OH SHUTTHEFUCKUP WHO ASKED YOU ANYWAY - A BORING BASTARD IS YOU while in His house.
I was in Sunday School when I was in kindergarten and it was a horrible experience, involving many picture books of white people in heaven mingling with tigers and bunnies and stuff. It was part of my mom's nefarious plan to make sure I would never be religious and it worked."
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: He's Welsh, You Know
"I have a recurring anxiety dream in which I get the opportunity to work for Radio 1 legend John Peel. I suspect the pay would be miserable, but I would drop everything for the opportunity. However, in this dream, John eagerly asks me to book for Maida Vale my "mate from the pub" who sings an amazing rendition of the gospel tune "Salvation on Faith."
"That is such a beautiful song. I really look forward to hearing your friend's rendition of it," John says excitedly in his gravel voice.
"Oh fuck," I immediately think to myself.
That's just a song my mother used to sing to me when I was a kid. I've never heard anyone sing a particularly stunning version of it. Then I wonder if perhaps I had at some point drunkenly bragged to John about having a friend who does a sterling version of the song. Because I would do something stupid like that -- tell an all-out lie just to garner the attention of John Peel."
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Light From an Empty Fridge
"As I said, nothing happened today.
Nothing significant, anyway. Nothing that, when it comes to adding up lives at the end of the universe, will even produce a pause of the pencil. ?Alive, alive, alive, yes yes, same again"? flick through the pages? ?ah! he fell over a bollard in August! That?s plus one funny points. Another four hundred and ninety and he gets a toaster".
I wouldn?t mind a toaster."
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: 3rd Engine
"Only a few minutes later, my math utopia was compromised to reality. You know the kid who no one really wants to sit by, but one unfortunate soul has to because they straggled into the room too late to choose their choice seat? Well, this was me and my friend ?Big Popa?, as he likes to be called I guess. The lad is about 6? something-or-other, and he?s about 180 pounds of pure wigger. He had it all: the velvet jumpsuit, the sideways baby blue baseball cap, and more ice than the Atlantic ocean. About five minutes into class, we had to create our own name tags for our designated area of the tables. I spent about two minutes on mine, merely writing ?Ty? at first, in big, smeared, black mechanical pencil-y letters. I guessed that at a point, someone may inquire as to what my last name was, chiefly the teacher, so I promptly wrote another line of sketchy letters a few spaces away from the freshly created disaster to the left after much deliberation. ?THURSBY?, all in caps. Now they?d know I meant business. My wigger friend decided however to take the high road by writing ?(Big Popa)? above his real name, which based off his funny glasses and towering white kid frame was no doubt Arthur or Clark. We?ll just have to assume because I never actually saw. The only words of conversation this kid would provide was cursing everything under his breath. Any excessive direction from the teacher, any assignment given by the teacher, any stupid joke made by the teacher. Essentially, just anything the teacher did prompted a good, ?What the fuck?, ?Shut the fuck up?, ?Fuck this?. This kid is clearly oozing with substance and I can?t wait to see him everyday now."
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Oeillade
"Quietly, softly, it finds its way in
To play down your virtue and highlight your sin.
The weights are all hung and the tunnel's in place,
We'll help wipe away that fat smirk from your face.
How long can one spend intending to fly
If two in the hand is worth one in the eye?
Come in from the outside, come in from the cold.
What use is your pride if you're not bought and sold?"
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Van Mega
"One of the main ways listeners propelled artists was through the art of the mixtape. According to George, mixtapes were huge, and shared extensively (don't forget CD's and the internet was kinda rare and still quasi-cutting edge back then). George then argued that today?s music climate was now in a position to take on the same exciting diverse traits of the early 90's. He the presented a challenge to the viewer to not just get back into making mixtapes, but getting selfless about it. He challenged everyone watching to regularly make mixtapes and mix CD's, featuring the bands which they personally felt were vital and interesting, regardless of if they were obscure indie groups or glossy major label types. Most importantly, George challenged us to share and give away the mixtapes *to strangers*, as a way to spread the word. You know, just leave them lying around in a classroom or wherever, and see who picks them up, and see how they get passed on. Kinda like a pay it forward kinda thing, but the currency is sonic.
[ ... ]
I challenge other bloggers to publish a mixtape. Do it up, you've got an audience, spread the word (or whatever). Get in touch with me and let me know when you step up and publish a mixtape. I'll cherish your mix and link your ass, like whoa."