With the economic slowdown in full kick for about a year now, we're still yet to hear any quality songs about the hard times we're in the midst of. They say that creativity thrives in tough conditions, and up until recently this would appear to be true. In the turbulent 60s Randy Newman sang 'Mr. President have pity on the working man', and during the 1980s recession middle America's musical god Bruce Springsteen (whose collar was just as blue as the denim jeans he wore on the iconic 'Born in the USA' album cover, pictured below) reached the pinnacle in his career, with a string of songs about lonely labourers and their troubles with work and women. The punk and grunge genres were famously conceived by angst ridden youth from the wrong side of the track, sick of the injustices they faced in their poverty stricken lower class. But after Kurt killed himself and the Seattle dress code of flannel and Doc Martens made it onto the high-fashion catwalks (it was at this time that grunge was officially declared 'dead'), the musical trail on our economic situations goes cold. In the midst of our financial crisis people still listen to 50 Cent rapping about his millions. If people of the future breezed over the music of today, the only troubles in our world would appear to be ones involving cheating lovers and messy break-ups, as penned by Miley and Beyonce.

One of the most contentious issues of our times seems to be that of children growing up too fast. 'Let kids be kids!' nervous parents squeal, seemingly helpless in the onslaught of skanky Bratz dolls and kiddie poll dancing classes, and terrified that their innocent offspring will morph into overdeveloped nymphettes. However, parental desire to shelter their children for as long as possible has always existed. Harking back a decade or so to when I was younger, the world seemed divided into two distinct groups- those children who were allowed to watch The Simpsons and those children who weren't. Parents who let the cartoon be aired in their homes were enviably cool, whilst those who didn't were strict to the point of dire embarrassment. (My parents were, unfortunately, the latter.) Whilst the content may have progressed since my childhood (Bart mooning his little yellow arse and howling 'Eat my shorts' now seems relatively tame in comparison with a Pussycat Dolls music vid) the principals have not- parents still try and shelter their children from what they believe are unsuitable influences, just as they have always done. However these days they might be doing it a little more often and a little more defensively.

Thought of the day: Sophie from Sophie's Books bears a resemblance to Robert Pattinson, both in looks and action, even though she's female and about thirty years older. For those who have no idea what Sophie looks like (and I presume you don't, unless you live in my hometown and have a penchant for dog-earred paperbacks) she is often compared to the actor who plays Hagrid in Harry Potter (I have no idea of his real name). Does this mean that when he's older, Robert Pattinson, if he donned the signature uniform of a battered Driza-Bone, would bear similarity to the hairy monstrosity that is Hagrid? All signs point to yes.

Roald Dahl was so ahead of his time using an acronym as a book title when he published The BFG way back in 1982. What suprises me is that there hasn't been a series of children's books in a similar vein released yet, seeing as acronyms become more and more prevelant in our txt happy society. I presume it's a only a small matter of time before The BFF and other abbreviated titles hit the shelves.

This morning I parked myself on the couch to find out once and for all about the old crime shows TV1 play on an endless loop they call 'Crime Time'. (Yes, this activity made me feel somewhat like a sad pathetic housewife, but the differences between me and them are minimal, so I don't really mind.)These shows, all set in the same much-mocked late 80s time frame, have dated badly thanks to the characters' penchants for pastel colours and obsolescent haristyles, as well as soundtracks crammed with corny saxophones, yet they fill the void for anyone too lazy to read Raymond Chandler's quintessential West Coast mystery novels (ie. me), and are so much more enjoyable than their contemporary counterparts (the seemingly infinite franchises of C.S.I. and Law and Order, Criminal Minds, Bones, Cold Case etc.) mainly for the reason that they are more subtle and pare the crime genre back to basics. Whereas today's crime shows are claustrophobic and dim, the classic crime series are set in sun soaked paradises (Dexter would later use a similar tropical location in blistering irony). Today, the emphasis on this genre is more reliant on grit, whilst back then it was wit. The storylines of Columbo et al., whilst simpler, are more clever and thankfully all occur without those crime-against-fashion laboratory glasses and a test tube in sight. With the exception of some detective noir examples (TV's Monk and film's Brick, both filled with appreciation of the detectives of yesteryear) so much current crime fiction takes place in forensics, where people use big tools and even bigger words, which leave me dumbfounded. Trying to unravel the more simplistic mysteries, such as those in Magnum P.I. and all its other dated counterparts is a lot more satisfying, and there is no better time than over breakfast. Equally as stimulating for the brain as the morning crossword or sudoku puzzle, 'Crime Time' comes with the added kitsch-laden visual delights. I was impressed.

It was unseasonably warm outside today. Kids played blithely on the streets, teenage girls wore high waisted denim shorts and watch faces refracted the sun and glistened. The feeling of the day was comparable to that of wearing no underwear, sleeping at the opposite end of your bed or looking around a room after having just rearranged the furniture- slightly titillating, but not quite right.

My grandmother sure keeps her finger on the pulse. At dinner last night she managed to keep up with every topic of conversation from emos to Facebook. To make sure she wasn't just putting on a hip, educated front, I questioned her further when talk turned to The Ivy. "What do people do at this place?" I asked. "They swan around, swim in that disgusting pool and take drugs," Grandma replied without missing a beat. She may be ageing, but her sense of perception is still so very ripe.

Just heard a hip-hop song on the radio with the lyrics 'I'm trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful'. I almost died on the spot. Surely the singer is being ironic (highly likely, as after Googling the lyrics I discovered the song is called "Sexy Bitch") because after all, isn't hip-hop's entire premise based around the antithesis of treating women with respect?

There is something so admirable about Peaches Geldof's desperate and unending attempt to be cool. Peaches has gone to great lengths to try and attain cool (a coke addiction, a flippant Vegas marriage, numerous rock star tatts and a move to Brooklyn) and at times seems on the cusp of achieveing it (she seems to possess an enviable list of hip friends and a reasonable intelligence). However, it's as if Peaches was born with some kind of birth defect where she was missing the cool chromosone, meaning that no matter how many indie musicians she marries or how many references to obscure movies she posts on her Twitter, she is unable to attain this allusive quality for which she strives and centres her entire existence around. However, her diligence in this situation should be noted and respected.

I GOT REALLY BORED AND MADE ANOTHER BLOG YOU CAN SEE HERE TO PUT MY PHOTOS AND MAYBE SOME OTHER THINGS ON. IF YOU ARE AS EQUALLY AS BORED AS ME (DOUBTFUL) YOU SHOULD CHECK IT OUT.

Proof that my days as a teenybopper are well and truly over:
-I don't know a single song by the Jonas Brothers.

-I had to ask a friend who Kristin Stewart was.

I often plan to maximise the potential of my days off work by outlining a full to bursting schedule of activities. However, in reality these schedules evaporate and I spend these precious days at home in my dressing gown, like Hugh Hefner, but minus the Playmates.

Dash Snow (1981- 2009)

Snow's explicit portrayals of the sexual and drug-taking excesses of his circle created a popular stir, but divided critical opinion. His detractors thought of him as just another rich kid with a Polaroid and a drug habit. Yet his fans – of which there are many – believe that he was one of the most talented artists working in New York. Benjamin Godsill, a curatorial associate at the New Museum, said Mr. Snow’s work “captures this period bracketed by the fall of the World Trade Center and the fall of the financial system.”

Why is it that all children who die young- murders, brain tumours, freak ski accidents- are described as popular? Is it the most virtuous adjective we can label someone as? And they all seem to be reasonable looking. The fact that these children have competently avoided common pubescent tragedies (an undesirable physicality, loneliness), but seem to possess an errie magnetism towards the greatest tragedy of all- premature death- gives their passing an added weight.

Perfection.

My friend Claire is hosting a a nineties themed party, which got me to thinking about all the noughties themed parties of the future, of which I have a few questions. When is too early to host one? 2012 or 2013? Or do we have to wait longer before we fold this decade away, and visit it wistfully and only occassionally via an exaggeraterd costume and a set of iconic songs? And who will everyone dress up as? Which of today's personalities will transcend the temporary and become icons forever wrapped in an aura of nostalgia?

So disappointed to hear they're making another Sex and the City movie. The first one was horrific enough. And I doubt there's room for Carrie Bradshaw in the next decade. Her character is so quinetessentially aligned to a particular time (New York, when the Towers still stood and the Bessette-Kennedy's were royalty; way before Mary Louise Parker uttered the 'c word' in Weeds and the cast of Gossip Girl made Bradshaw look like a prude nanna). A new movie would be like the Beatles releasing an album in the 80s or The Breakfast Club coming into cinemas now- it just wouldn't fit. There is a time and place for everything, and sadly it has passed for Carrie and her troupe of fastidious fashionistas.

Brodan: I just ran out of ink!

Me: For the quill or for the printer?

Just a regular conversation with Brodan.