2001-11-30 - 7:58 p.m.

�You were in the Japanese fast food, And I dropped off your Japanese lover, And you're going to the beach all day, You're so pretty when you're unfaithful to me, You're so pretty when you're unfaithful to me�

I�m always happy to assist the market research companies who call my number, despite the temptation to use the old put-down favourite, �Sorry, I�m busy, but if you give me your home number, I can call when you get home from work.� I suppose I do it for many reasons; because I feel honoured that they�ve selected me out of the many millions of telephone owners, because I yearn for any form of human contact no matter how artificial, but mostly because, in my own small way, I like to fuck with meaningless statistics.

�Of course! I�d LOVE to help!�

Once he got over my surprising enthusiasm to embark on the questionnaire, it transpired that it was about how many trips I�d taken in the last two months, and what kind of trips they were. I was straight into fantasy mode, and I animatedly told him I was a busy international travel writer and that I�d been away 7 times. There was a horrifically complicated set of questions for each one, and 30 minutes into his scripted spiel, with me being as obtuse as humanly possible, we�d only covered three and he was almost in tears (I felt bad, but hopefully it will spur him to question his career choice�he�s obviously misjudged his vocation). He was actually reading out loud the reminders set by his odious employers such as �The respondent may be forgetful � really try to jog their memory about any trips they may have overlooked.� I suddenly �remembered� a lost weekend in Monte Carlo and it was then that he said he�d have to terminate the call. For added effect, I asked him the name of his employers and pretended to make a note of it. I was tempted to ask to speak to his supervisor, but I felt my work was done. If I can save one person from a career in marketing, it�s all worth it.

He should be thankful he didn�t get my friend � he gets half way through a survey and then pretends to bring himself to orgasm. Now THAT�S cruel.

�I was talking to preachy preach about kissy kiss, He bought me a soda, he bought me a soda, he bought me a soda, And he tried to molest me in the parking lot, Yup Yup Yup Yup, I make you gray, You make me hard, Your Irish skin looks Mexican�

The other night I watched in unmitigated awe as a friend and I, drunk and watching TV at 2am, stumbled across a one hour documentary on the Pixies (And yes, I am anal enough about this band not to call them The Pixies). A drunken lunge for blank video tape because I have NEVER seen them on TV before. And then sixty minutes of pure unadulterated musical genius. Thom E Yorke, PJ Harvey, David Bowie, Bono � all of them prostrate before the altar of the band that changed everything. Us in reverential silence. (Except for when the guitarist from Travis said he was influenced by Joey Santiago - then we threw cans at the TV). They were just unfuckingbelievably good. Really.

After, we checked off all the recordings we each had and then shouted trivia questions at each other to see who was the biggest fan (Original name of the band? Exact wording of the ad Black Francis used to recruit the others? Name of Kim Deal�s ex-husband? Black Francis� real name? Answer these and I will not only marry you, I will let you touch my vinyl.). No detail is too small when you�re dealing with talent of this magnitude, no? .

Um. Yeah. I wanna be in a band again. And please, come over and let�s get drunk and lie in bed and listen to Surfer Rosa.

�Your bone's got a little machine, You're the bone machine, uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh, Your bone's got a little machine�

Today�s waves of mutilation