Well, it’s goodbye from me …

As Spandau Ballet once sang, “Why do I find it hard to write the next line?”

My last post. 

Princess Stomper answers your dilemmas (more seriously this time)

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With only five days left until Reinspired closes its little internet doors, I figured it was time to impart some wisdom (whether you like it or not).

1. I feel like everyone’s ignoring me

Are you talking about Facebook here? Because the very tool that promised to connect you is actively keeping you apart from your friends! You’ve heard it many times by now – if you’re not paying for the product, you are the product, and Facebook is cashing us in. After getting practically everyone in the world to sign up, it’s now actively hiding our posts from each other – and I’m not just talking about the 30% or so of your friends that you’ve stuck on ignore. 

The new rules of growing old gracefully

I was reminded an old post I made here, back when I could write. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to do it, or magically been zapped by some wicked witch, but I’ve just run out of time and enthusiasm. I wonder if that’s what happens to everyone in the end. When was the last good Metallica album you heard? Isn’t the best recent Ministry album a pale copy of Psalm 69? I might hope for a good new NIN album, but we’ll likely get a dull slab of corporate dad-rock with some tinkly bits.

What happened to us all?

We got old. Rock ‘n’ roll comes with a deadline, and when you reach it, time to die or move on. You’re not supposed to still be there at 50. 

Reinspired to close at end of March

It’s been an interesting three years.

Why don’t women say ‘I’m pretty?’ Here are ten reasons

I’ve often thought about blogging about this because it’s something that has fascinated me: the last taboo among women. You can never think you’re pretty. This column by Tracy Moore at Jezebel answers the question, and it’s a welcome relief to know that it’s not just me. See, I thought I had great self-esteem. I reveled in knowing that I secretly think I am pretty – not stunning, not a head-turner, but commonly quite attractive – until I hit the knock-out blow that my friend posted: “Tell me how awesome YOU are!” and I couldn’t respond. Overlooking those pounds I swore I was going to lose by January, I have a good smile … but my teeth are crooked. My calves are a good shape … but my skin is pale and blotchy and I have thread veins from pregnancy. My eyebrows aren’t symmetrical, and my nose turns up slightly more on one side than the other. I can’t think of anything about myself to compliment without slapping some huge caveat over it.

As Tracy writes:

In response to a piece called “Why Can’t Women Think They Are Pretty?” — a thoughtful look at how rare it is for women to simply admit they are pretty, when instead they are armed with a laundry list of their flaws at the ready — I was all prepared to write at length about the fact that it would do us well to focus on anything but the pursuit of beauty, so tenuous and undependable it is.

But then I put the question to four of my twenty- and thirty-something friends instead, and discovered that rather than hand-wring about the issue, every one of them had a totally figured-out narrative about their own prettiness and prettiness in general, full of exceptions and asterisks and rules, honed over a lifetime.

Nobody gives a crap about your stupid little project: 5 strategies for surviving the internet

It was just about the rudest comment I’d ever seen: “Give up, mate … no-one gives a s*** about your stupid label and the s*** music you release…”. It wasn’t quite true: many, including me, cared quite a bit about this brave little indie, but it is a Have Not in the digital world, and with that, I can sympathize.

It’s very difficult to gauge hierarchy because it changes so fast: one week this little blog has more readers than the biggest magazine I wrote for; the following week, almost none. White Swan Events, I call them – unpredictable storms of traffic activity, but it’s dangerous to read too much into them, either way, because

Rule 1: Visibility does not equal engagement

Things no blogger wants to receive

Of all the emails I’ve received this week, this was the least welcome:

Back to school with Punkle Henry

Left it a bit late, again, to blog, so I’ll keep it brief. A few days back I considered Henry Rollins’ rantings regarding his attitudes to women, and how sometimes he could be a bit childish and inappropriate in what he said. This isn’t one of those occasions. My friend Summer just linked to Henry Rollins’ Letter to a Young American Redux, from BigThink.com, which is definitely inspiring.

How A Teen Feminist Fell In Love With Henry Rollins

I’ve never been a huge fan of Rollins, but I’ve always rather liked the guy. That’s why I was fascinated and amused by this article by Maggie Serota for Buzzfeed on her enduring love for the icon. 

How to interview

Written for Collapse Board

I start to wonder if he’ll ever answer.
“Rome,” he says.
Good, good. That’s a start. OK, get him to elaborate.
“What did you like about it?”
“It was nice,” he says.
Did he really just say that? I wait for him to continue.
He doesn’t.
Well, that’s it. I mean, I’m out of questions. Panic.

A Clam, says ex-Kerrang! man Jason Arnopp in his book How to Interview Doctor Who, Ozzy Osbourne and Everyone Else, is “the interviewee who opens his mouth to say some words, then shuts it again after saying the minimum required of him“. A 16 year-old fanzine hack, I was faced with a bored, tired Richard Ashcroft who gave only one-word answers to this rookie unprofessional.

“Zere is no reality!”
We both look towards the door. A middle-aged, portly, dark-haired woman has burst into the hotel lounge and made such a declaration, and stands impatiently, waiting for a response. I think she’s Dutch or something. European. Strong accent.
“Pardon?” says Ashcroft.
“Zere is no reality!” she repeats.
Oh, good grief. I’ll just stay quiet and let the obviously more professional one of us explain to her that we’re in the middle of an interview and ask her politely to leave us alone.
I glance over to Ashcroft.
He gets up and walks over to her … and then begins to argue with her that there is a reality and she is obviously quite wrong.
“MY CAR!” she squeaks, pointing at the window. Seconds later, she waddles out at top speed to chase the tow truck down the road.

I suppose you could make it up, but why would you? I somehow convinced Ashcroft to pose for photos in the Mad Hatter’s Teacup Ride down by the seafront – wonderful snaps long since lost – and Nick McCabe gave me a signed 10″ of ‘Gravity Grave’. A great anecdote, fine photos and a great single – but the interview, let’s face it, sucked.