2002-12-10 - 4:28 p.m.

The interrogation continues�

From Robin:

Honor Blackman or Diana Rigg? Also, can YOU believe it's not butter?

Well, much as I admired Honor�s Pussy Galore (was she REALLY renamed Kitty Galore in the US?), sad to say she went on to perform too many televisual atrocities in later life for her image to go unsullied (namely, the UK remake of �Who�s The Boss?�), whereas Ms Rigg, as far as I can think, has chosen wisely, and so her leather catsuit-clad goddess reputation remains as iconic as it ever was.

I have to say, my faith that it is not butter has been known to waver, but I pray to the god of low-fat spreads to give me strength. Death to the dairy-loving heretics.

From Odalisk: Irony is the ultimate defense mechanism, I think it is a disease of educated youth culture, what do you think of irony? Also - on a related note - if you spend all your time deflecting the attention of yourself and others away from the morass of roiling conflicts writhing within your troubled soul, what happens to the morass of roiling conflict? Doesn't it just, sort of, get more and more desperate and incoherent?

Irony? That�s, like, rain on your wedding day, right? Just kidding, though in actual fact �some good advice that you just can�t take� IS, technically, ironic, so well done there Alanis. There�s a club (if you�d like to go) that�s popular with the �in� crowd and they play whatever they feel like, including really bad 80s stuff that is really good to dance to, but the �hip� kids, with their asymmetrical hair and no cheeks, just scowl from the side of the dancefloor if you actually jump up and down to it, because they �get� that you�re only �meant� to like it ironically. Actually, I think thinly-veiled contempt is the new irony. So, I agree with the motion. I�m sure I was meant to be more philosophical than this.

Um, am I guilty of that second part? I guess so, though we�ll only find out when I start picking people off from that tower with a high-calibre rifle. I have other outlets for my mass of roiling conflicts writhing within my troubled soul, but whether I�m yet desperate or incoherent? That�s for the courts to decide�

From Slutboy:

Dear Pablo, Tout le monde knows that you suffer from/enjoy a specific kind of karma that is at once violent, absurd, and weirdly adorable. I am speaking of being mugged by derelicts armed only with anti-depressants and corrective eyewear, being *not* mugged by gentlemen on bicycles wielding fake firearms in posh neighbourhoods, or being smote by projectile banana cream pies on the Tube (if it hasn't happened yet ... just wait). Any thoughts on the origins of such curious propensities? What queerly shaped pebble was thrown into which little pool to render such a unique ripple effect, and where the good god damn hell are my cigarettes anyway?

Yes, it�s at once a blessing and a curse to attract the types of incident you mention above, not forgetting, of course, the man who screamed �Unholy faggot!� at me for 30 minutes on a Boston bus, the wag who launched a snowball at me from the top of a towerblock in mid-Spring, as well as the local flotsam and jetsam that mar my every walking moment. The reasons are beyond rationale. I can only put it down to some kind of mean-spirited chaos theory � a butterfly flaps its wings in China, I get roughed up by a cracked out hooligan. A monkey drops a banana in the Amazon Basin, I get a pistola jammed inconveniently in my cakehole. All I need is for all wildlife everywhere to stop moving around. That said, it does give me something to write about.

A man�s cigarettes are his own private kingdom, sir, and as such I have no idea, or was that some obtusely-worded philosophical pondering?

From Addie: Tell us this: what is your favourite brand of condoms/lube?

It�s the question on everyone�s lips, or perhaps some other, less suggestive body part. Contraception? I�m all for it. Especially that being used by me in a situation that reasonably demands it. A friend asked me if I minded wearing a condom. All I could think was, �I�m just happy to be there.� Sadly, my (ahem) favourite is the least romantic sounding condom there is, unless someone starts to market �Rubber Jizzcatcher� as a brand. Durex Gossamer are the name you can trust with the hypoallergenic formula that doesn�t cause irritation and the comfort I demand. Their unique honeycomb centre means that household odours are gone in five easy payments. Wait, I�m mixing up my commercials.

From Pinktricity: Dearest, I would like for Christmas: one story of shameful highschool/college shenanigans, plus one expose on the Pablo of 2043, plus a short piece on what your children might look like if you mated with any one of a lengthy list of celebrities.

I�ll think of a story and do it for tomorrow�s update. Pablo 2043? The upshot is I can�t really have less hair, and I�m assuming that medical science will have reached such unimaginable heights that 70 will in fact be the new 30, rendering it unimportant that I never really did get a proper job (If not that, I fully expect them to at least be able to re-attach my saliva gland. I want to go out spitting), settling instead for Emeritus Professor of Lightweight Humour at Peckham Technical College. I may even have had a date by then. Who knows, or dares to dream?

Given our stations at opposite ends of the spectrum, I imagine any unexplainable coupling I had with a celebrity might result in my having to raise the mewling tyke myself. I would love it like a child. Not a favourite child, of course � more like an spoddy little runt that no-one really likes, but a child nonetheless. Given its genetic makeup, it would probably seek out stardom but be forever thwarted, perhaps being ejected in the third round of some tiresome reality TV show. It�s difficult to imagine their physical reality, though I suspect sideburns would figure highly, which would be unfortunate if it was a girl. I don�t know how to picture them � take any celebrity and merge it with me and�what do you get? Some shaved-headed, unsuccessful half cousin of the Kulkin family, I expect.