RuKsaK

‘So, what are you then?’
‘I’m a Futurist.’
‘A fucking what?’
‘A Futurist.’
‘What’s that? What music you into?’
‘Electronic stuff?’
‘Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet – all that shit?’
‘No, I’m not a New Romantic. I like Japan, Flock of Seagulls, Kraftwerk.’
‘Ha! Is that why you dress up in all this baggy gay crap?’
‘I don’t think of that way, but yeah. You’re a Teddy Boy, right?’
‘Fuck off! I’m a Flat Top. Look at the sides of my hair – bald and spirit level flat on top.’
‘So, what music are you into?’
‘Eddie Cochran.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Yeah – only Eddie Cochran.’
‘He’s dead. You’ve got no new music to look forward to.’
‘Good – cos nothing can be better.’

Futurists didn’t use expletives. They were substituted with pouts and dyed, backcombed hair. The above conversation stand-off is an 80s real-life slither of council estate Yin and Yang. Shaving pastwards – pouting futurewards. A conversation with a wee stink of fear and anger. Gone in a minute of 1983.
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If people ask me:
‘What are you?’
I no longer reply:
‘I’m a Futurist.’
Maybe that’s because the question is not delivered with a smirk and a surprised squint at the eyeliner scratching my lower eyelid. I want to say:
‘I’m a Futurist.’
However, I usually say:
‘Operations manager.’

Fuck! I really miss being seventeen sometimes and the responsibility of choosing who to be.
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Keep voting at Mango whether you chose who you are or not.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

I am a Futurist