You can tell it’s that time of year - the summer breaking, dragging, coming and going, roses going orange at the edges of the petals, twig-like caterpillars inching across the pavement and getting pet-rescued by me to the amusement of passers-by, settling in for days putting on your brown puff-sleeve velvet bolero jacket because it looks dandy with the dove-grey low-slung skirt and single Art Deco pixie earring, and taking it off again when the sun comes out, and trying not to wear sandals in a rainstorm - because I’m making a Beach Boys mix CD. That time of year for inflicting the most neuroses-ridden downer-driven sweetness upon some other poor soul just because I figure they need it, right? Tailoring it to their most relevant Beach Boys member (the sleazy nihilism of Dennis suits this friend the best, but what the hell, they’re gonna get some Brian and Carl too). S’fun. I made one for David McNamee some time ago. I think he liked it, despite his subsequent emergence as a Brighton electro-hipster heartbreaker and all-powerful editor dude.

Throw chronology and taste to the wind and start with Till I Die. Wonder if this friend can handle Take A Load of Your Feet. Decide probably not; it took me six years to get into that one. Ponder on the atrociousness that is Funky Pretty (my Pisces lady…) and hand-pick moments of Pacific Ocean Blue that won’t cause cocaine tears and whisky headaches at first listen. Avoid Pet Sounds for now. Ruminate upon the essay you could write and the graph you could draw summarising the relationship between rock n roll wealthdrugsfuckedupness and rock n roll spiritualityhealthfoodself-improvement. And then forget all about that and swoon at the lazy girl-group prettiness of Let Him Run Wild and lose myself in the unresolvably sublime crassness and crass sublimeness (sublimity? whatever) that’s at the heart and soul of my Beach Boys Problem. If my wife wasn’t watching Big fucking Brother a few feet away I’d be singing along. In a voice that’d becoming ever more Dennis by the day.

I missed the Plan B panel thing at Brighton Borders last night, due to a combination of money problems, work problems and friend problems. Appease - kinda - by sorting out a good list of webstuff that David and I will throw at each other a little more and then finally do something with. As my friend from Cape Town texts me when he’s on his way to band practice, “Soon Come.” Honest.