Record Reconstructor

This week:  Accelerationist anxiety, a silly amount of albums from the mid 1990s.  It used to be for me that a deadline provided a very useful starting point for a simple calculation.  If the deadline for any given task is in, say 5 days time, and it's a task that should take me 4 hours to complete, I will schedule myself to begin that task in 4 days and 20 hours time, and until I reach that threshold I would act as if that task did not exist.  It's ironic, because I'm quite serious about punctuality when I make plans with people;  at some point in the past someone impressed on me the importance of being on time for things and now I get frustrated if I am late, and very  frustrated if other people are making me late for plans with other people because their view of timekeeping is (lets say politely) more flexible than mine, but my desire not to do work often overcame my need to be on time. Over the years, I've trained myself to see deadlines as more "the am...

Dashboard! For reasons which will become apparent later in the week, I've spent much of this week thinking about my time spent at the Glastonbury music festival in the year 2000.  I'm not deliberately being cryptic, it's just a timing issue so I'll talk about what spurred my trip down memory lane when I write my post on Friday, but for now you'll just have to wait patiently for the extremely mundane prestige in forty-eight hours or so.  I first started going to music festivals in 1997, and that's a story for another time when I get round to covering Verruca Salt (the band, not the fictional Roald Dahl character) in the future*.  By the time we got to the year 2000, I was committed, and was spending my summer holiday time going to two music festivals each year;  but Glastonbury was (and still is) the apex, the UK festival to have been to at least once in your life.  In that last year of the millennium** I was involved in what's best described as a complicated...