Ignore the date that you see up there. The end of January has been called off due to lack of interest. Go flip your calendar, right now! …Today’s date is February the minus third.

I drove my bike to the mall yesterday. I had to go to the Sony Store, because Queen Elizabeth wants me to have a video camera.

The west end is like a whole other world. I biked up a couple of streets that I’d never been on before.

On the way back, I was bootin ‘er up Berlin Street when I hit a patch of black ice. Jennifer skidded out from underneath me. I landed hard on the pavement; my leather jacket–rock’n’roll armour of the ages–cushioned my fall.

I rolled out of the way just in time, as Jennifer exploded into a dazzling ball of flame! Ka Booom!!!

Actually, her chain fell off. I flipped her upside down in the middle of the street and got her all sorted out. I was singing, it was below freezing but the sun was shining, I didn’t care about anything.

Last night I worked at some film screening at the Marquee. The whole thing ended early and I was home by 9pm. Between the club and the studio, this was my first evening at home in 2003. I was pretty excited. I could read, write… sit in my room by myself and get drunk… have a bath… Whatever it is normal people do in the evenings.

I was also thinking I could go to bed early and get some sleep. I figured that wouldn’t be too likely. Shows at the club usually start around 10:30pm. It would be like someone with an office job going to bed at 9am.

In any case, I was asleep by 11 o’clock. Maybe that’s why I’m so hyper today.

This morning I was doing some work on Jennifer. I accidentally inhaled a whole big cloud of WD-40. Now I feel sick. Machine oil churns in my stomach. Aside from a couple of tooth-fillings I don’t contain much metal. My body’s rejection of the substance reminds me that I’m not a robot.

I’m working on it though. Tonight I perform a set of live electro at the Marquee. My hands reach out to touch machinery and coax out clanking rhythms. I pulse with the heartbeat of a cyborg, programmed to make your body move. Pounding sub-bass will engulf the room with the scientific symphony of sickness…

Ahhh, I could sit and write this shit all day, there’s work to be done.