Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

Photo | I like my camera and it likes me.

Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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A case of overload

A thought dawned upon me this afternoon. Finally my skills in tv-deconstruction will be put to use, that that for a good cause too. I really need those points. The class was fun, as we studied an episode of Fawlty Towers and then some old newscast. The first of those where most fun of course, you can never go wrong with John Cleese.

I sat and read two things yesterday. First was the new Pratchett, because Pratchett is Pratchett and will jump ahead in line — except if there’s a new book by Tim Powers or Neal Stephenson. The Prestige was disturbing on two accounts, first it was impossible to put down which wasn’t too good for my sleep which had to be shortened. And then it was just creepy. Really creepy, not as the end of...

Argh! Can somebody destroy that commercial, please? I hate it with such a passion that it is impossible to describe — if they continue to show it this often I might just as well take a job at the post office. And all because of the Japanese pop.

...end of. Shit. I’ve forgotten what I meant. The book is just creepy then. Then today I just had to read Don’t Panic.

Contentwise?

What the hell am I trying to say? I don’t know, but whatever it is I hope it’s good.

Criticism indulgence

As we’ve begun the semiotic part in class today I felt a sudden urge to run, not walk, to the library and borrow a whole bunch of books about literary criticism. This time though, I’m going to read them. Last time other things, evil things, got in the way — I never finished that cultural study about Cyberpunk, much to my dismay.

Tomorrow I will probably also speak in Chasing Amy-quotes. “Intergalactic Civil War?”

Semiotics is, by the way, fun. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Much sadness

Since the theory test this morning I’ve felt a bit distracted. My brain and attention span — which was short even to begin with — has felt liked hacked cornflower, old soggy cornflower. That I found out about DNA didn’t help at all. It’s starting to loosen up now, finally; thanks to This is Spinal Tap on the vcr and a very small play list of mp3s.

Memo to self: Convert more songs, dammit. And if possible, burn as many of them as I can onto a cd — to free up space on Yvaine, for the uninitiated that’s my laptop. Remember that name, if you’ve read Neil Gaimans Stardust, you might already do that.

Right now, the tape in the vcr doesn’t run, the music has stopped coming out of the speakers, and I eat tacos chips and salsa while watching a documentary about ABBA on the tv. The day could be worse, a lot worse. But I will, as I’m a being of fabulous taste, ignore the swill that’s on the other channels.

DNA has died

I just read that Douglas Adams — co-author of Last Chance to See and The Meaning of Liff and the biography-subject of Neil Gaimans wonderful Don’t Panic — died in a heart attack as so many other people in the business of humour. I wrote these titles because although he’s most famous for The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, I don’t like it as much as I once did. Mostly the humour hasn’t aged that well, and some parts feel just juvenile in a rather uncomfortable way. Last Chance to See has however a lasting effect, it is genuine or, as it would be called in a movie by the Coen-brothers: bona fide. That book contains the finest writing the man ever did. It’s also true to life without any porn-bits or obscene language, which is quite remarkable. In the end he did some of the finest stuff ever done.

Futurama: closed for the season

– Is that my beloved torso you’re chopping off? It is! It is my beloved torso!

I would, if I thought it was any use, ask why. But I won’t, the answer is too simple. They have run out of episodes. But still. I want to see more. Futurama can’t just end like that, not without being replaced with newer episodes of said show. What else is there to see on tv?

Should it just stand there on the shelf, all goofy looking and for no apparent use? Or, yes. That’s the purpose of the tv: to see movies on dvd.

Anxiety

Sitting down and reading for the culture studies exam this Saturday. And then, after that I have the literature for the class for the current class as well, Media Culture and Semiotics. It feels as if I have gotten booted to the head.

But then, in the midst of all the sunshine, a ray of, eh, sun? Not only has some of the “real” books I’ve ordered been dispatched, but now. At last. Toni and Dean — may someone pour lots of money over their heads — is done, their new record has been pressed and ready to be ordered. Curve... Cuuuuurrvvveeeee... No, normally I don’t turn into Zombie from Night of the Living Dead-fanboy mode this easy, but damn. Smoke a kipper out of me, I’m done.

Damaged goods

My right hand is being systematically destroyed. Bit by bit, muscle by muscle. It began a few weeks ago when the thumb hurt whenever I picked something up — even a single sheet of paper. That has since then gotten better, but sometimes it comes back without any warning.

Today the index finger began shaking, vibrating is perhaps a better word, it was however quite useless for ten minutes or so. Quite disturbing.

I think my hand is trying to tell me something. I have a few theories about what but only one seems genuine and believable. My hand wants me to play the bas more, to walk over the strings in search of the subsonic groove.

Any other reason? No. Can’t be, it’s impossible I tell you. I’m ignoring you, lalalalala.

9/5 -01

– What the fuck is he doing?
– He’s Burning Feet Man, protector of the weak and saviour of the lost. You see. He, eh, helps people finding the right directions by running around. With his feet on fire.
– He’s insane.
– It’s Tom Green. What would you have expected? A three hour long dialog Woody Allen-style?
– No, but he’s Canadian. I expect more from them than this.
– Ah! Because of Them you mean? Them with capital T, H, M?
– Correctomundo. Everything Canadian, as long as it’s funny, comes down to one thing. Todd Booster.
– Well, curse you too, Evil Galactic Warlord Larry.

Curve # 883

I need the new Curve record. I crave, in the most horrible way, that record. Sure, it’s not The Gift but that’s because of that evil record company. But, being fabulous and extremely competent, they made a new one — self released, or will be soon. It might sound as if I’m whining, but I don’t. Everyone that has heard them knows, or should know, what I talk about. That record has to be mine, or else the world will pay. Perhaps not the whole world, but at least a small bit of it. Okey, one of the small, halfdead trees outside my window is going to get a kick in the, well, whatever weak spots the trees have. But I will kick it, just to be mean and evil.

Academic choices

Sometimes I get these really bizarre ideas. Like now when I suddenly and quite unexpected decided that I need to learn how to get up crap-thirty and sleep at night. It’s hard, and in some way quite, quite mad. Sure the mind works, but not in any way it use to. But I must do this, it’s a matter of life and death of my academic “career”.

I need this, but that doesn’t mean that I want to. Because dammit all to hell, I want to watch M*A*S*H which they show far to late at night. The sacrifice is too great for me too feel at ease. Thank God that the chances are that Fox — the unbiased (because they tell me so) media company — will release the first season of Futurama on DVD.

7/5 -01

– It’s sickening I tell you.
– What?
– This is. This whole fucking thing, it’s Saturday fucking night and what do they show? The Eurovision Song Contest — the sanctuary, the last outpost for bad 80-ies-music scene. My brain rot from within, even the titles are bad.
– Come one. It’s camp-value-bonanza; it’s so bad it’s good.
– No, it isn’t. I’m not drunk enough for this — hell, I’ll never be drunk enough. Give me the remote.
– You’re not changing the channel!
– Give me the remote!
– No.
– I recorded Shooting Fish yesterday...
– You did? Shooting Fish, you say? Damn, well, why are we watching this shit?
– You tell me. You, Tell me.

Time displacement

This seems to be the “I forgot which day it is”-day. A global phenomenon that spreads with such an ease that Ebola is more like dandruff than a dangerous and contagious disease — leaping from person to person, rapidly and without much consideration to immunity-imposing drugs in the form of wristwatches, tv, or, if one likes to be truly bizarre, a regular clock nailed to the wall.

I chose none. I don’t care which day it is, not anymore. I don’t have to know the day until Monday. Sure, it’s a bit of a Catch-22, but I rely on other people to tell me when this day, this Monday that everybody is talking about, is here.

Time is not that important, not in itself. One always has more time, almost anyway. Sometime it will run out of those tiny grains, or in a worst-case scenario, they will get stuck prematurely and you’ll drop down, dead from a sudden and quite unexpected development of colon cancer.

Today, before lunch, I wasted another 80 minutes doing nothing at all. In a way it was like I was killing myself — not much but just a little bit — although it was self-imposed.