plasticbag.org

In a classic example of poor quality interactive design, the BBC’s Oscars 2001 microsite allows you to vote on the winners of the major categories, but will not reveal the results of the poll until the day before the event itself. There’s no place for people to subsequently investigate further after voting, nor is there any way of alerting people to the fact that the results have come out. More than likely, people will stumble upon the site, vote and then leave – never to return and never to recommend it to anyone else.

I spent a certain amount of last night compiling a minidisc compilation for my little brother (15) who is at boarding school. I don’t exactly know that I got the balance right, but I’ve been playing it to myself over and over again all night, so it can’t be that bad. Track listing (with links to Napster) follows:

Freaky Beatnik:
1) America (Simon & Garfunkel)
2) Simple Man (Lynyrd Skynyrd)
3) Dirge (Death in Vegas)
4) Shallow End (Morcheeba)
5) Momentum (Aimee Mann)
6) Theme from Narc (Pixies)
7) Unreal (Unkle)
8) Like Dylan in the Movies (Belle & Sebastian)
9) American Dream (Jakatta)
10) Morning Theft (Jeff Buckley)
11) Da Funk (Daft Punk)
12) The Wind (Cat Stevens)
13) Bohemian Like You (Dandy Warhols)
14) New World (Bjork)

In which, suddenly fascinated by the term “nostalgia particles”, Tom decides to do a search on Google, and is most entertained by a link to a Ulysses 31 site.

Message for Max: This is possibly related to my current heady state of workless thinking and relaxation. Or perhaps there are too many nostalgia particles in my mind at the moment. Or perhaps not. I’ve been listening to Jeff Buckley a lot over the last couple of days. There’s a song called ‘Morning Theft’ that I’ve been listening to a hell of a lot. Just have a listen, okay?

Meet me tomorrow night, or any day you want.
I have no right to wonder just how, or when.
You know the meaning fits. There’s no relief in this.
I miss my beautiful friend.

Mr. Big rears his head once more. After much deliberation, and with a guessed e-mail address, I decided that I should drop a ‘thank you’ note for an entertaining evening. In the e-mail, I thought to myself, I would explicate my apparent teenage gawkiness from the previous day as the consequence of being mortifyingly embarrassed and hapless. It occurred to me that I would probably be more able to present myself through the written word. As I wrote it I found myself smiling – I was striking an elegant balance between professionalism and lust, between being aloof and being a prat. As I finally sent the e-mail, I felt finally satisfied. For good or ill it was over.

Twenty minutes later the phone rang. When I picked up the phone I didn’t know the number on caller-id. Just a vague number that looked vaguely corporate. A voice leapt in with ‘Hello’, but didn’t say a name – just a firmly worded, confident, ‘how are you’. For a moment I thought it was Will, who I had lost contact with a while back (semi-purposefully) after a particularly annoying weekend. My voice steeled itself for a moment, before suddenly recognising that I was completely off track. Big had rung.

Oh my god. He wasn’t supposed to do that. Caught offguard, I reached back into the depths of wit and opened my mouth, only for nothing to emerge. Words pounce from the phone, “What are you doing today? I’m blowing off work today to go for lunch and hang around.” My replies, in turn, stumble from my mouth as if unfamiliar with walking, shielding their eyes from the harsh light of day. Some crap excuse or other: “I’ve got a list. Things to do. Learn SMIL. Have a haircut. I can’t do anything but those things. That would be … er … bad.” There’s some kind of distraction at the end of the phone. He’s trying to make conversation, but I’m behaving like a chimp trapped in a cage. Noises emerge but they make no sense. Ten minutes. We agree to a vague drink sometime next week and the phone goes dead. I sit in absolute silence for five minutes, drool oozing from a corner of my mouth. Then I howl with glee. Then my eyes widen and I have to have a lie down. What the fuck have I done…

I have a conundrum about my Mr. Big – the guy of last-night’s long foretold lip-collision. The conundrum is, having been deserted by a man who won’t take your phone number, but who looks on while his companion asks you to leave a message with your contact details at his office (ostensibly regarding a job opportunity), and then leans forward and kisses you, should you: a) debase yourself by ringing and leaving a message or b) feel strangely affronted, as if it were being implied that the attachments (power discrepancy, financial discrepancy, office, power … whatever) were generating the interest, or that they were generating a divide, or that because of it one’s life was somehow shabbier and less interesting and pointless and for that reason, why on earth would he really have any interest in you when he could have anyone he wanted? Your thoughts?

I’ve just finished reading Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell’s From Hell [Salon Article]. It’s a savage and at times difficult to read book about the people involved in the Jack the Ripper Whitechapel Murders in London. I recommend it.