Having made all my friends listen to Gang Gang Dance, I skipped out on their Spitz gig. I texted a friend to tell her one of the reasons why and the pesky brain of my phone told me that I had “ant trouble”. I stared at this for a moment and couldn’t work out how I had made the mistake. This, as much as anything, forced me under the big blanket, where I watched both Paradise Lost films, back to back (and came away swollen eyed, thinking, as one of the subjects wails, that West Arkansas is indeed hell). while everyone I knew went out dancing to Gang Gang Dance. Except, as Horton tells me the next day, people weren’t dancing. How could they not? I asked. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this report? Because there is something wrong if people go stand around to Gang Gang Dance. I am concerned for our solemn youth.

In the spirit of spring hibernation, ant trouble, melancholia, whatever, I vacillate about the Cul de Sac show tonight, and inbetween vacillations scratch my ears with some weird shit from Dublin on this here label. These double adaptor dudes purport to be a miniature improvising electronic bar band, which sounds rather lovely. I think of tiny creatures hunched over tinier laptops and brandishing teeny tiny saxes. The sound, appropriately, is small, but in a good way: a tight knot of frustration and laughter. I like it. My head hurts. Ant trouble.