Dear Steve

My name is Jez D and I wanna say how much I got off on the new Bomb Culture edition of Sleazenation. Bombs are cool, man. You're miles better than that other loon. The Dog and Pony Show, however, he went fuggin crackers. Ran off mouthing. Stuff about 'greasing a grenade up Slocombe's *ss if it's all so trendy.' And - why bother, if he just rolled one down Holloway Road it probably couldn't miss. Hasn't been seen since. Loser. He's still convinced this thing is a love story. Listen, Steve - how do I get my mitts on one of those foxy Sleazenation models? Preferably one who looks like a lapsed smacknutt runaway who just spent the past five months fluffing half of Dusseldorf only to return to a desolate seaside home town to contemplate self-harm? But in an interesting juxtaposition of Alexander McQueen and Asda own-brand?

Yours

Jello Downey Jnr

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Dear DPS

A while back you mentioned bag snatching on your site and recently a lady had her bag snatched, fatally, at Euston station. You mentioned the Ramones and then Joey died. You sang a song about truckers and then they all went on strike. What gives DP? Can you predict the future in casual remarks or some spooky stuff like that?

Peace on earth

Tiffany Debord (Miss) (alas!)

P.S. I think your website like 48 hours of the finest sexual intercourse. Better go - jotting suggestions for winners of this years Turner Prize on the back of a winning lottery ticket.

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Here comes the summer. Possibly. Looks promising. Technical hitches navigated, I break into the tower of song once more. Website goes to the fortnight. The siren calls. Try to catch a party or two. Let you know if I'm having one, for those London-centric. Oh, and the nine to five. Damn. Forgot about that. So the website gets all fortnightly on your ass.

For a music website, I don't talk music much. Truth is, I look down at those six strings and I'm still in the dark. They're still a mystery. Covered in Presbyterian Youth catechism, teenage anarchy and now, sometimes and surprisingly, adult blood. A best friend but still a mystery.

Another friend said they couldn't sleep laughing at that Pornland piece. I don't want that - to give people restless nights. But if you liked it try Razzle. Thrashing through the Scrap Brain Zone. Up the tower of song. It left off on Brighton beach. Maybe I should start there. But, much more, I fancy chucking a left turn onto the barbeque.

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Gradually adding links onto an Affiliate page, so a bit about these folk: sites I read, net friends, proper friend-type friends with sites - no 'lifestyle magazine' websites dreamed up by a committee of professionals called Miranda Good-Slapping or Tarquinius Chutney-Ferret, full of grey Flash 5.0 squares moving back and forth, that only get downloaded by other Flash designers or once every six months by a stray real person whose head begins to incrementally implode with boredom as each page of total nothingness unfolds into a hi-res map of a vacuum-packed blank. Poetry's an Absolute (something pure if it's good but it gets nasty and bitchy and real sometimes and it's not out to make you a better person) - but when websites get dry I go for gonzo 'hot' over techno 'cool'.

Meenk The "thinking man's webcam girl" - which really doesn't explain my interest. First glimpsed as part of the stileproject cam crew. Meenk's writing full of similar words and themes to my songs, which aroused interest.

Momus "You know, " Nick Currie once mused as we slurped beer in London's Institute for Contemporary Arts, "I don't really understand people who admire me. It's more of a challenge if people think you're a little shit or something." Which is handy because Momus is getting smaller and more shit-like with each CD he releases.

Warning: Zeppotron will give you a hernia laughing; Freaky Trigger is a seriously well written music fanzine. Oh and you should also check out the Pavement-esque sounds of my good friends at Joes Comforters.

And if I had the techie know-how I'd find a way to hook up with Uberstar Bathtubgirl and her chums and they could do their Gerard Malanga and Edie Sedgwick stuff whilst I perform Exploding Plastic Internet music.

I do I do. Hangover. Fragile. Dull outside. I'm only sleeping. Open one eye. Sign on wall beside mattress - "Get Up NOW. Start Band FIVE YEARS AGO. TWAT." Bunker still littered with bottles and cans and plates and records and I can't move. Stay in bed all day. Head funny. Drag the laptop under the duvet and get up to no good. Think I'll take the stats counter off this thing. Not very noble to measure oneself. Against what? Check it anyway. Hmm. It's pretty much you and me, up to no good under here.

The E/N website. Attractive but difficult. Everything/Nothing. Is that Everything And Nothing? Everything Is Nothing? Everything Divided By Nothing? Quantum. Light behaves as both a particle and a wave dependent upon how it is measured. Though we can predict both behaviours with absolute accuracy - it depends upon who is measuring and how. So if no-one were measuring which form would it take? True Light - science bathes with Zen. Poetry's more my Absolute, but it puts laser in your CD player. Either way.

I read the Guardian newspaper every Saturday. I love it, it can give me a headache sometimes but I love it. This Saturday there was a piece by Martin Amis about pornography. I'd just come back from a break to Brussels, which is chock-full of the stuff. Seems every secondhand CD or book store I went into first required me to climb over a mountain of used Big Uns.

So I wrote a reaction to pornography. A letter to Pornboy - the stileproject.com fan; male most likely, and probably a bit younger than me. The Pornstar t-shirt wearer. I'm sure most of us have first hand experience under our belts but porn represents something to you that it doesn't to me. A statement, a symbol. Flag of Pornland.

I'm trying to add an explanatory 'who is' or 'what is' page at the moment and I fucking hate that. I should just put my feet up on an imaginary Late Review and yarn "Absolutely, Mark, it's a Houllebecqian Peer Gynt for the MP3 era, a digital totem tale existing in real time." Or "It's a self-destructive three disc exploration of entertainment-as-corruption. But finding a positivism and means toward greater expression by pulling out the roots of metal, punk and pop to test the elasticity and potential of irony." I'll probably just do a picture of a cock jumping up and down. Write how I feel.

Here are some peculiar long-standing misunderstandings, while we're in www.me-me-me-me-me.com:

posh* catholic*nihilist*bag-snatcher

posh "I wasn't hard done by, I was watching TV". Oooh. La-di-da. Building car-bombs not good enough for Mr Jean Luc frigging Godard, eh? I've got better things to do than excuse or use class. And I don't give a shit if something is 'high' or 'low' brow. That in itself probably makes me 'middle'. Cool. My dad scraped human beings reduced to beef patties off the streets and walls of Ulster (probably after some over-zealous cousin had left them there) and into the back of an ambulance. My mum was a barmaid, sales assistant and 'homemaker.' I was token prole at a Grammar school, won but turned down the art prize in a fit of righteousness, got an honorary expulsion, then watched those who'd had eighteen years of, essentially, private tuition from their parents zoom ahead at university. I got into bands and into getting wasted. That's about it really.

nihilist "Out of ideas markets are made" - Deutsche Bank. There is no -ism in any Dog And Pony Show song. Trust it enough to go where feelings take me. Do that a lot and then chisel it back and arrange it till it makes some sort of sense. Let everything in. And out. Maybe that is an -ism but I don't see why utilitarian disciplines additional to the basic human codes are necessary. Unless you don't trust basic human codes. They're often another way of practicing Maximise Yourself In The Urban Marketplace. You Are Nothing But A Walking Breathing Curriculum Vitae For Yourself. Applying to Only A Masochist Would Actually Like Me Inc for the job of Senior Patronising Cuntbucket.

bag-snatcher Small but worrying observation. Without fail, upon boarding the tube, for example, at least one woman will pull her handbag further up her shoulder, hold it closer or check that it is fastened correctly. This is just a reflex and I guess other guys get it and no offence is intended and one can't be too careful. But do I strike people as a bag-snatcher? Huh? It seems to make no difference if I'm shone-of-shoe and smiling kindly out the top of a smart suit, tote safety must be satisfied. I doubt it would make a difference if I chained an anvil to either leg and swung through the doors waving a pair of tightly bound hands and announcing through a toy microphone wired to my face, "I am trustworthy, and not on drugs. Kindly re-close your eyes and envisage your 'happy place'. Shhh. Waves lapping on a beach. Mmm. Nice. Shhhh. Look, a gull. Caw caw."