Lazy Sunday

This is ridiculous. I have so much to do, and I have been struck down with chronic lazy. I had breakfast with The Dreaded One, she left for work, I put on some music (Protoculture and an assortment of wicked psytrance) to wake me up, and I crashed out on the couch. At one point I got up off the couch and went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Then I thought this is ridiculous, got out of bed and went back to the couch.

The only vaguely productive thing I've done is get cranky and write a letter to the editor of The Sydney Morning Herald. An ex editor of the dance mag I work for wrote something called The Idiot's Guide To Clubbing in which his sneering contempt for forms of music outside his own taste was in full flight. I fucking hate that kind of superiority, that elitist music-is-a-science bullshit. Sure, get into it, understand it, but don't make out that you are somehow better than others who like other styles. He basically said that people only like house music because they don't know any better. Dude, shut up and put your head back up your arse.

It will be funny if they print my letter because the ex ed and I know each other, and everyone in the local scene pretty much knows both of us, so yeah, it will be funny.

I also found myself scrubbing the cupboards in the nude and thinking, "Fuck... imagine if I died right now. Like if I had a brain haemorrage or a heart attack and they found me lying on the kitchen floor in the buff with a scourer in one hand and a sponge in the other... at least the cupboards would be clean, and that's nice."