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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 So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.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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2001-10-22

I had a slippage yesterday, back to older times and danced around in the room to punk rock. Which is a bit weird, as the song was new and I have this sort of aversion against most new, so called punk-music. But the fact remains The International Noise Conspiracy has a good beat, in a certain kind of way. Today, I’ve got a headache and wish I could say as Satan in Edward Savio’s brilliant Idiots in the Machine: “I was hit in the head by Jimmy Hoffa.” And what happens next is exactly how I want to experience my next Christmas.

“I don’t understand why I can’t disseminate this information. I happen to think this is an incredible story. I might even sell it to the National Enquire.” He glanced at Kelsey. “Listen... Ion didn’t make us late. I was at the hospital this morning--”

Ion took the meatless forkful and smaked him in the head with it.

Barris looked up. “Who’s in the hospital?”

“Hospital? What happened?” Kelsey asked, waving Barris off.

Satan explained every excruciating detail — including the Indian guy, the bloated nurse, the vagrant, and the midgets... until he realized midgets was last year’s Christmas debacle.