11th July 2003. Just a post to say that them there homespun songs are all now available on Vitaminic, albeit not in chronological order. People have different favourites - a good sign. Six strings, words don't come close. And why a weblog got too big for its boots, to be sure. Say, I can't write ten more chapters to see if me me me finds the right place, AR deserves more and feels like a third tale to me. Think I should doodle around and put myself somewhere unknown first, avoid characters being 'parents, sweethearts and serial selves' that V Nabokov talked about, delay another tragedy, which I think she is, ultimately, like her ex. And need my ass kicked. Self-consciousness, good or not good? Took Verlaine to emotional heights, yet led him into preciosity. Discuss. Meanwhile back on earth - humbled and grateful for your ears, eyes, patience, everything.

"Okay, GW. Green lamps on Love Liberia. Chuck's a Bostonian and a jailbird, GW. Makes you think what? You gotta get inside his psychology, GW. Man's a six foot riddle backstroking serious lengths of enigma thinkin' of butt naked youths in tennis shoes. Nothing else will do. That's his modus O. We hit him hard, we hit him fast, he's CNN's newest douche-bag. Africa dances and that's a whole continent. You're in-continent, GW. But in a good way. Don't let him hightail it, GW. Shoot a few, sit tight an' trust me - his fanny will cha-cha for daddy. Oh yes."

21st June 2003. Sun's out and damn this ever-changing diary. Fortnightly would be better, it's all gone ad-hoc. Was going to treat the interweb to senseless, clumpy lyrics to a tune I once wrote called 'Cindy Sherman', this mutated into musing on celebrity. That mutated into an anecdote about a link given to a website claiming to air the sleazier secrets of the rich and pandered to - the like of which you won't find in the press due to fear of litigation. Reading through, there seems to be less bite to the sleaze of late - whilst every much-loved Monday Matinee funnyman was, in fact, an 'anti-semitic wife-battering codeine addict', these days it's all 'snogged Justin Timberlake' and 'fibbed about boob job'. Where now the anti-semitic wife-battering codeine addict about town? You end up concluding that we'll never lose our inner prude - Roman orgies, 'Justine', Radclyffe Hall, suburban strip-Twister sessions and a vigorous rollercoaster of top shelf, spam (inbox or Reeperbahn?) and CabSat shenanigans - we still gurgle away when someone's nipple pops out. Context is the key, something (social, codified) happening where it shouldn't (people can see) - it's not physical at all but meanings layered over people. Often said 'We don't want to go back to Victorian values' but they seemed very unlike values, more a harness on what was happening on the streets. 'Gentlemen, I bring you Flossie la p'tit. Free of lesion, every limb is symmetry!' But, Cindy Sherman - girl arrested dressing herself an identity, nod to the artist as fraudster. Blah. Her very first portraits I saw in a room off Fitzroy Square about two years ago and it was pure play. Later, there is something seminal about 'Film Stills' that is hard to quantify. Inverted exhibitionism, analysis inappropriate. Someone (good phrase) 'in their element.' The latter material seems to be saying 'Try as you might you just can't hide' with sufficient space for interpretation, the reductive view, the nature of representation, the truth of masks. Not reasons to buy art on their own, but it validates the package. Self-casting is such a stamp of authorship, though, you end up feeling sorry for it, if she were to try something else no-one would care. Fun but oddly moving.

21st May 2003. Gone? Splendid. New here? Everything/nothing and oh fuck where now iterative fiction. It Lit. How we laughed. I've been rearranging my sock drawer and bouncing a ball off the wall like Steve McQueen in the cooler larging it up and missing the scribble. First of two part intro, another next week. Power and solitude self sufficiency. Like it? Marvellous. Your gay. A text message from the last-but-ten bit lip, infinite vortex of self-consciousness, distracting British humour, apology in glances chick I handled like stud truck stuck in top. 'Your gay'. Wish it could've been more like the movies. But - got a Westlife birthday card, found myself swaying at an Erasure-of-all-people aftershow, and have debated favourite Girl Aloud (Nicola - but not when she's in those jeans, you know the ones that push her upper thighs off the bus at Pukesville by, like, two centimetres). And writing about a Woman. Could festoon the site with clinchers: dusty Abs Cruncher, Muff Diving Miss Daisy, please no duvet set..

28th April 2003. "Easy, GW. We got tha taste. Man had peashooters. Plant sumpthin', GW. The Bin's laughin' away, guy. Go Nagasaki, GW. Wipe 'em out. Torture's old hat fer Amnesty. We got more on death row for less. Fine sumpthin' serious we weren't slappin' his back fer, GW. Chuck two dozen o'them shrapnel catchers in a skip. Capricorn One the thing. How many hospitals we coolin' off fer Operation Love Liberia in Twenty 05? Huh, you wanna stop? Everybody's Mother Theresa all of a sudden. Oh, I see. Excuse me. Pull yerself together, GW. Show some balls, guy. We got tha taste - this was jus the hors derrrves. Like in a restaurant? And that's an order."