There has been a restless drift inherent in most of my blogging since the beginning. (I still remember the greymatter interface fondly.) I started up Lost Pages in the summer of 2001 and shut it down around 2004 when I switched to textpattern and was far more interested in writing about comics. I cut down on the number of non-comicblogs I followed, and later, even more as I stopped writing in English all in all. When I did this, I also lost track of many other people whom I loved to read.

I have no real explanation why, I just know that it happened. I still feel a bit bad about it. I lost contact with people I liked. I still haven’t found everyone — the easiest one’s that still cling to the same domains was easy when I dug up the old link-lists. But the others? I feel as if I abandoned them. This guilt make me both try a bit too hard at interacting here I think, as well as keeping the distance. Yeah, those two shouldn’t work together at all but they do. I don’t want to miss everyone. Not again.

It’s a bit surprising that I now and then I’d stumble over a few of these wayward people here. The Internet is only as large and vast as one makes it — it can be a very small place. I like that. And even if you might not remember me, I do remember you. I hope. It would be a bit awkward otherwise, but I’m all for that as well.

The most important meal of the day? The midnight bowl of Ramen noodles. But don’t take my word for it, trust the popular culture. Would J. Pauline Spaghetti, the billionaire noodle queen, in the old Batman tv-show be so rich if it wasn’t good for you? I think not.

My nose is colder than the rest of my body. Last night it was really cold, you know, as a wet dog nose? Like that. I was thinking about getting a hat for it, knitted and with cute flaps, but no, then I remembered. All nose-wear are the property of clowns, and I don’t want to be associated with that lot. And I really don’t want to stab my face when I see myself in a reflection — which would happen if I even for a second thought I was a clown. Horrible beasts.

It telling that all my nightmares lately has been of music. The last one, I’m a bit ashamed of it really, as it is quite stupid. Not the thing that normally gets passed around as nightmare

Many of my friends went to see the Mekons live without telling me, I missed that they should play and then I found out that they even played at my favourite venue on a date I was out of the country. In Hungary. It makes no sense. Hungary? Why?

Sure, I like the language even if I understand nothing, and there are a few talented photographers from there — the whole Eastern block actually has lots of photographers who’s style makes me tick. But back to the dream.

I was devastated. Why didn’t anyone tell me this? Of course everyone thought the Mekons’ were excellent and I started to cry. Do I have to spell out that the pillow was a bit wet? Hello mental stability, you’re welcome to drop in anytime…

In this evenings game of Arkham Horror there was an incident. The big bad was Yog-Sothoth, and my librarian —  of course — went into the Abyss and the tentacles… They left me with one in stamina. One! Insanity! Except that my sanity was full so I guess “typically ironic” would be a better phrase. Also, a shot-gun wielding librarian loaded up with magical spells, that’s the very definition of kick-ass. There are things you don’t taunt, even if you’re an Outer God that lurks between time and space. As Ash said in one of the cuts of Army of Darkness: “Good? Bad? I’m the guy with the gun.”

“Hi there. Humour me on this and pick one living musician you'd fuck, one you'd marry and one you'd kill. Thank you dear.

— pikkutiikeri

Living?! Ok, then. I’ll humour you. This is how bored I am people. I wasn’t kidding that I’ll answer (mostly) anything.

Kill is hard because there’s so many of them. But I think I’ll be rational and do society some good and chose the Knickelback-moron. Hero of the people, that could be me! No longer the freak in the tower, people would sing my name. I could get used to that.

Fuck. This is a tie. 1) Ritzy in the Joy Formidable. She’s Welsh, they have the best pronounciation of “fuck” ever. She plays a mean guitar too, which is a big thing. 2) Kata i Mammút. Seriously, that Icelandic accent? Fuuuuuck. Yes, I like the way people talk. 

Marry. Ingrid Michaelson. She likes cookies and chocolate in a rather spectacular way, and she likes good music. It’s imortant to have a few common interests. Have no idea how she feels about socks, but religion is not that big a deal.

So the dead list!

Kill. Elvis, because even dead he’s not dead enough to ruin birthdays.

Fuck. Because decomposition is a bit important here it’s hard to answer. Also, I’d like to wait because I can’t remmember any musician recently deceased that I’d be comfortable dicking.

Marry. Laura Nyro. Not interested in the money, but then I’d be able to spend my own (heh!) money on new lavish editions of her albums and bring joy to those who hasn’t heard of her.

I just had a dream about laying on a sofa and listening to the commentary track to Leverage season two. Seriously. Help…?

Not sure who said it first and I can’t really find it now anyway (read it on Usenet aeons ago), but this is one of the few really true things about the universe:

In retrospect, “let’s get the goat drunk” should have been my cue to leave the party.

You know, call me paranoid and controlling if you must but really, I’d like to know more about the people reading this thing. (And I hope to get an answer from at least somebody.) I’ll start even: I’m Nicklas and suffers from terminal shyness (although I’m beginning to be able to fake being not-shy in controlled circumstances). I like the Mekons more than you do, and I think in photography and words. There, that wasn’t hard at all.

Now, your turn. Present yourselves, do it well and I’ll probably even follow you back. Because I know I’ve missed looking up some of you when you started to follow. And just so you know: I won’t change my content just because you read. The thing is this though, it’s more fun knowing something about the “audience” and actually be, you know, in some sort of dialogue. I don’t bite unless asked to.

(This is mostly aimed at people who hasn’t said a peep, but you lot I know is reading and liking stuff might also chip in. I don’t discriminate! Except if you’re a pineapple, then I’ll shun you to Hades.)

About the pineapple thing. People keep asking so I’ll probably have to explain.

It all started in kindergarten. They made a bowl of fruit for afternoon snack and each time I got a pineapple piece it made me squirm. Of course they said, “eat up” and “don’t be silly” in that way adults usually do when they think they know best. Allergies were the only real option out, and I didn’t have that to food. Anyway. I still feel sick from the pineapple taste, the sheer memory of it makes my stomach knot and the throat get that sour pre-sick itch.

Pineapples are my nemesis. They’re ugly conservative politics to my lefty-pinko progressive, undead to my Ash, Gorgs to my Fraggles, Daleks to my Doctor. I hate them and everything they stand for.

Had a dream about tumblr people. It was cute, awkward, featured a lengthy discussion about the awesomeness of Lu Edmonds. You who were in it can rest assured that it was not dirty at all. (Damnit. Shouldn’t dreams be different from reality?!)