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2004-04-02

I�m very much disinclined to do any work today. It seems heretical, somehow, to sully my hands with labour on David Bowie Day. And as a more plausible excuse (You want excuses? I�ve got all kinds!), I stabbed my finger with a paring knife chopping fruit this morning. (Smoothies: the Silent Killer.) Oh, the pain! I can hardly type! Every word is a dactylographic exercise in sheer agony! Really quite excruciating! If only I could stop typing!

Anyway. Bowie! I�ve always been more of a gig person than an arena-rock person, so the whole freaky-big-concert thing is a novelty to me. The only bona fide concert I�ve ever attended was Metallica, whom I deigned to see for various reasons relating to the freeness of the ticket. It was a very educational experience: I hadn�t realized, for example, that you can actually hotbox an entire stadium. At the end of the show, they�d rigged the stage so that everything fell apart and/or exploded � they even had a stunt man running around in flames. It was quite a convincing display, and I�m sure that after the concert, not a few stoned bangers wandered out of the building muttering concernedly to themselves, �Whoa. Like, I hope that dude�s OK.�

Since seeing David Bowie is a lifelong dream of mine, you can probably guess the nature of my thought processes today. That�s right: I�m cantankerously hoping that the music won�t be too damn loud and that I won�t have to stand up for two hours straight. Fuck! Why, oh why am I channelling Estelle Getty? I�ve been attacked by a cool-sucking vampire! Over and out!

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