The Drunk Subway Runs Faster

Dodgeball, it turns out, is one of the few sports where I actually hold my own. I have no theory about this. Gregor Gysi—Germany’s most charismatic left-wing politician, which admittedly isn’t fierce competition—is a genuinely funny man, but I’m still voting Pirate Party. Owe it to this corner of the internet. Iceland was better than Norway at Eurovision and the scoreboard was simply wrong.

When a friend goes into full alcoholic free-fall, I sober up instantly—some kind of hard override I didn’t know I had. The vocational board officially values a broken Fireworks dummy over valid HTML, which I’m filing under permanent evidence that the world has structural problems. Not having internet is a real handicap for a blogger. Recording this for the archive where it will do absolutely nothing.

Philipp Poisel sings beautiful songs. Ane Brun also sings beautiful songs. Both of them are doing the specific thing I want music to do—I couldn’t name it precisely, but I recognize it on contact. Late message from Montana, and I’m smiling at my phone past midnight like an idiot. Her breasts are still genuinely great, for the record.

Not everything tastes better with soy sauce. I was wrong and I accept it. I have films on this shelf I have never watched and probably won’t. Old family sitcoms scratch a homesickness I can’t locate—some version of domestic warmth I maybe never had, or wanted differently. The fake Pete Doherty is funnier than the real one. My hair feels excellent today.