Yesterday, Soppygit, Ibid and I decided to attend 90s night at The Venue. (Bryn could not attend due to his exam.) We had never been to 90s night before, so we knew not what to expect, but there seemed plentiful reason for going:

1. It would be a New Experience.

2. We had missed the final indie night and 80s night of the term due to exams, so we had to compensate for it somehow.

3. It was the last night we'd be here this academic year. We had to celebrate.

4. Although we prefer 80s music, there's a lot of good 90s music kicking about.

5. KWS were playing. Although I didn't know anything about them, I was informed they covered "Please Don't Go" (one of my favourite songs) and that their others weren't bad. And they're another semi-famous group to add to my list of those seen.

However. It was pants.

When I went in, "Things Can Only Get Better" was playing. I took this as a good omen, since I really liked it when it was released. But, it was a big lie! The night got worse and worse and worse! Shortly afterwards they played a dance remix of "Missing" by Everything But The Girl (never my favourite song, but ok), but for the next two hours, it was nothing but techno gubbins.

Now I actually quite like good techno. If they play it at Slimelight, I'll happily dance. However, it is a lot better when played thumpingly loud in a dark room and you are surrounded by air-punching people who look like traffic wardens with weird hair. It just doesn't feel right when you can talk over the music with ease, you can see perfectly, and you are either on your own or surrounded by girls who only buy clothes in size six regardless of their figures and pretend to be lesbians in order to attract blokes.

And so we spent all that time in the toilets, singing song parodies and wondering why, when there was such a large quantity of good - or at least cheesy - 90s music (which we also sang), they had to play this bumph.

We also came up with two new songs; one about how bad The Venue was to the tune of "Sing A Song Of Sixpence" and "It's fun to sing with L, N and Z" to the tune of "YMCA". ("Young man! Do you feel a bit bored? I said, young man! Are you feeling ignored? I said, young man! Here is something to do! Head for the ladies' downstairs loo!" "It's fun to sing with L, N and Z!" [Note: it's really difficult to do the appropriate arm movements to this.] "It's fun to sing with L, N and Z! They are totally pants, but if you give them a chance, they will show you how not to dance!")

They eventually started playing songs we recognised, even though we didn't like them, so we returned to the dancefloor. Just before KWS came on, they played "Ooh! Ah! Just A Little Bit" by Geena G and "It's My Life" by Dr All-bran, which we would usually cringe at, but came as a pleasant interlude. But KWS were evil and insisted on plentiful raising hands in the air and yelling "Ho!" and "Yeah!", so Soppygit left after the first song, and Ibid and I after the third.

Growl. I know it was the 90s when all the genres of music I dislike grew in popularity, but at 80s night, they provide us with pure pop (and I imagine the same happens at 70s night); why not as 90s night? There's already a night for commercial dance every single week, so where's our East 17 and Spice Girls and Right Said Fred? And you know, it wouldn't hurt you to play Blur and Oasis and Supergrass, because everyone likes them well enough, and it wouldn't even be unreasonable to play Erasure and The Cure and The Sisters Of Mercy, since they all had hits in the 90s . . . oh well. I'll know to avoid that night in the future.

Saturday 2 June 2001

Way way back many centuries ago - well, not long after my first term began - some combination of my acquaintances sat in my room doing tests at The Spark. And The Death Test predicted that we’d all live until at least the 2040s . . . except Bryn, who’d die on 2 June 2001.

The date stuck in my head, because it was the last day of the summer term. I made a note of it in my diary (and pencilled in his funeral for the 4th), and as it’s drawn closer and closer, we’ve been talking about it a lot. Yesterday, he was saying farewell to Graham, the secretary of the Rock Society, who’s just finished his course, and they were musing over whether they’d meet again. "No, because you’re going to die tomorrow," I reminded Bryn. "That’s right," he said, and explained to Graham how we knew this.

Now I don’t believe that the results of Internet tests are the gospel truth. After all, they’ve told me that I’m a fogey goth (when I’ve only been a demi-goth for less than a year), I’m a man, and, most insultingly of all, that my inner rock star is Britney Spears. (Since when is she a rock star?) However, I was (and still am) a little worried, sincefreaky coincidences have a nasty habit of following me around.

Yesterday evening Bryn went on a pubcrawl in Ramsgate. He was to stay there for the night and return sometime before two o’clock this afternoon. I didn’t know exactly when that would be, but this morning as I lay in bed reading "Glue" by Irvine Welsh, I grew increasingly more worried. At eleven, I sent a text message inquiring when he’d return, but I received no answer. I reasoned that he might have his phone switched off, but the possibilities for catastrophe were virtually limitless:

The train might have crashed.

He was out on the town on a Friday night in the summer. He’s a goth. A load of drunken anti-goths could have turned him into a squidgy mess on the floor.

He might have become so drunk that he either became dehydrated, believed he could walk through cars, or decided that the possibility of being reincarnated as a girl (who resembles his ex, but is a bit better looking, just to annoy her) was too appealing to pass up.

They were thinking of going to a club. (That was part of the reason I didn’t go - I lacked suitable footwear.) Someone could have slipped a drug into his drink that had a fatal result - or, more effectively, some aniseed (to which he is allergic).

He might have realised, "Oh, God, I've been going out with Zed for four months. I can’t live with myself any longer. Goodbye, cruel world!" [When I later suggested that, he replied, "I’m seeing the most intelligent girl at the university. I find it a turn on." If I hadn’t already been red due to walking up the flipping hill to campus for the fifth time in twenty four hours, I would have gone that colour.]

He might have thought, "Well, if I’m going to die today, I might as well go about it in a fun manner", found a prostitute, and been shagged to death.

He might have really annoyed the people he was with, causing them to kill him in his sleep (probably with authentic weapons, since they're re-enactment types).

It was raining a lot, so he might have drowned.

The list went on . . . but eventually, he called me at 1.30 and informed me that he was still alive. He got home twenty minutes later and we walked up to campus (from which he was being collected to go horse riding). "Gordon Bennett," he panted, as he struggled up the slope. "You could die from a heart attack," I suggested. But he didn't, but that's not entirely surprising, since he claims not to have a heart.

So he’s survived the first half of the day. But now he’s gone horse riding, more opportunities for death await him. If Anthony gives him a lift, I doubt he’ll crash the car, because he’s a good driver; he just might go so fast that they end up in another dimension and get eaten by goblins.

They might get lost on the way to the stables (last time, 75% of the convoy of cars managed it) and end up driving around for so long that they die of starvation.

Bryn might get saddled (if you’ll excuse the pun) with the evil horse called Rhino again, whose loathing for his rider might grow so great that it throws him off, breaking a few bones in the process, before trampling him to death.

And so on. And even when he returns, you never know what might happen. His housemates might be so fed up with their grotty house that they burn it down, and Bryn is left with no escape. Or he might play VNV Nation so loud that it falls down. We might, erm, be so noisy that the others decide to remove our vocal chords, and accidentally slit our throats in the process. Or, he might just be feeling so gothic that he withers and dies.

Oh well, last night I discovered that in reality, I have the power of anti-verbalvoodoo. Last night, after five hours in the computer room, I returned to Bryn’s house. As I drew near, I heard an alarm of some sort, going off. I went inside, went to his room, shut the window, and I could still hear it. I took a notebook out of my bag and wrote:

"Typical. I escape the fire alarms of Eliot College and now someone across the road’s car alarm (I think) is going off and they seem to be in no danger of turning it off." Before I could finish the sentence, they did just that.

So, hopefully now I’ve written all these possible death methods, they won’t happen. But I’m going to start making funeral plans just in case. He's told me what songs he wants played; now I just have to get hold of some black clothes, because, you know, I don’t own a single garment in that colour . . .

Tuesday 12 June 2001.

Anne (to John, who appears to have Tourette's syndrome): I don't have "f***ing pockets", they're celibate!

If Fatboy Slim opened a hairdressers, would it be called "Right Hair Right Now"?

Bryn returned from horse riding on 2 June in one piece (which was still breathing) and we had a death-free evening watching a DVD of "The Mummy". A couple of days later, he took the death test again: it had hedged its bets slightly, and declared he would die on 10 January 2033, I think. Check this journal then to see if it was right or not! (I don't know which thought's scarier: still knowing Bryn in thirty two years time or keeping an online journal for thirty five years.)

Sunday was mostly spent putting stuff into the boot of Bryn's mother's car. We went back to his family home that night. Whenever I go there, something exciting always seems to happen. At Easter, Bryn's brother turned eighteen and his stepsister passed her driving test. When I stayed there after the Alice Cooper concert, his stepbrother's baby was born. I can't remember the first two times, but I'm sure they weren't free of incident. And this time, his great uncle from Australia was visiting.

The bulk of Monday was spent moving the rest of his stuff from Canterbury to Sittingbourne. It took three journeys. I think the figure "Number of stairs Zed has climbed in her life" doubled and suddenly, for the first time ever, I have muscles in my arms.

I was also photographed, against my will. I know that I've implied that I like being photographed, but having now seen the results of said photos, I have changed my mind.

David (Bryn's brother) asked me how I felt rabbits. I answered "neutral", and he asked how I'd feel about holding one and being photographed with it. He needed someone to do this for his A Level photography project. I said, "I'd be fine with the rabbit, it's the being photographed part I'm not so sure about. Why me? Why not Lynsey[sp?]?" The rabbit in question, did, after all belong to Lynsey, his girlfriend.

He replied that she would dump him if he took her picture. I asked after a few other people. Why not, for example, her mother? She too, apparently, was just as cameraphobic. Why not Bryn, then? Lynsey wouldn't let him near her house. (Which is understandable. Bryn has a talent for breaking everything he sees, to such an extent that I want to run a sequel to the television show "Jim'll Fix It" called "Bryn'll Break It".)

So, I thought, I will be charitable and be photographed. So off I went to Lynsey's house, and was photographed about ten times.

When the results came back, I could hardly stand to look at them. Since David is a lot taller than me, they all captured the top of my head, and my parting and the sun-bleached bits of my hair look like bald patches. Since I had both hands on the bunny, I couldn't push my hair out of my face, so in most it looks very messy. And in several I have a very prominent double chin.

David said I could keep any of the surplus photos. I declined. My only fear is that he'll go through with his threat of putting one on his website. Lynsey has threatened to dump him if he does this to her. But what can I do? The best I can do is dump his brother, and I really don't want to!

Anyway, on Tuesday, Bryn and I went to central Sittingbourne, so I could buy birthday cards (for my online friend Helen and my Grandmamma), and Bryn could arrange to have a contact lens appointment and get some work the following week. In the event, I not only bought birthday cards, but two books and two pairs of stripy socks (I have recently developed an extreme fondness for striped footwear); Bryn was given a contact lens appointment the next day; and the employment agency declared that he needed some passport photos.

And so, on Wednesday, we returned to the shopping streets of Sittingbourne, only to discover that the contact lens appointment was actually on Thursday. Four passport photos were acquired and handed over; however, he only needed two. The woman in the agency insisted that I kept the other two. I was less than plussed. If I ever have to take a soppiness test, I will have to answer yes to the question "Do you have a photo of your significant other in your wallet?" Besides, Bryn, when not wearing make-up, does not photograph well, and in these, he looks simultaneously bemused and miserable. On the other hand, photographs of us exist where we look almost identical, so perhaps if I ever need photos of myself, these will suffice.

Bryn debated with himself whether to buy the computer game "Black And White" and eventually the evil side of his conscience took over and he parted with £35. It then became the fourth computer game we'd played excessively in as many days, and I discovered that no matter how advanced computer games get, they will still have a repetitive annoying line of dialogue. In "Return To Zork" (or whatever it's called), it's "Want some rye? Course you do!" In "Dune II", it's "Harkonnen Harvester deployed". And now it's "Need more homes!", although "We need offspring!" is almost as bad. At least his disciples have fairly good taste in music.

On Thursday, we had to go back to Sittingbourne's town centre. As it was the ge(e)neral election, Bryn voted. I didn't, since I couldn't be bothered going to Canterbury or Brampton to make two crosses. I don't even know if I'd have bothered to vote if I lived next door to a polling station, since the only parties I have any sympathy with wouldn't get in, either nationally or locally. Anyway, while I waited, the three official people standing outside commented on my boots.

Bryn had his eye test; then we went into Sittingbourne's toy shops for about the fifth time in three days. I was quite impressed to see that all the toys I liked as a child are still available. However, I resisted Bryn's offers to buy me Sylvanian Familes, Sindy dolls and Polly Pockets. Worse still, he found The Evil Newt!

On Thursday night, we were collected by Anthony and taken to Ramsgate, to stay with Anne (Bryn's Lord) and John, since there was supposed to be a filming of re-enacting types there the following day. We later discovered that this wasn't going to happen at all; instead, they were to walk up Canterbury's High Street, advertising the event that would take place on Saturday. *Then* they learned that it would be in Herne Bay instead. It didn't sound like many people were going, so Bryn warned me, "You may end up in kit." "Fair enough," said I, for I quite like dressing in a silly fashion.

Bryn and Anthony stayed up until four in the morning, trying to succeed in "Gran Turismo 2" with a Subaru 360, one of the cruddest cars going. On Friday morning, we went to Ramsgate's vast market. Bryn discovered several other cuddly toys available from the campus shop, but couldn't find The Newt.

In the afternoon, we went to Herne Bay. We got changed and I quickly discovered that wearing silly medieval clothes wasn't as fun as I'd thought. First, they made my remove my glasses, in the interest of authenticity. Then, despite the vast length of the tunic/dress I'd worn at the banquet, my New Rock boots were clearly visible from underneath it, so I was told to remove them. Geenic Bryn had forgotten to bring any olde lookinge shoese, so I was to go barefoot. I protested that my feet were exceptionally tender and I was scared of walking on broken glass (not being able to see wouldn't help me avoid it) - could I at least keep my socks on? Nope, they said. I was offered some authentic bandagey type things, but when I tried to walk in them, they instantly became unravelled.

Fortunately, we didn't have to walk up and down the high street; we just had to be photographed in a variety of locations. (In one shot, Anthony fell over backwards, and nearly killed the photographer with his sword.) However, getting to the beach, the painfulness of which I already knew about, was bad enough. Beforehand, I'd been somewhat inclined to join the group (probably not to fight, since I get injured all to easily as it is, but to weave or make chainmail or sommat); now, all temptation was gone.

Afterwards, we went to Wildwood, where the show the next day would be held. A number of people there commented on my boots. We went back to Anne and John's house, where John couldn't get over the cruddiness of the Subaru 360.

On Saturday, we went to Wildwood. The day mostly consisted of a lot of messing about. There was a training session in the morning, but Bryn was feeling ill (probably due to something he'd eaten) and Anthony was feeling uncoordinated (due to staying up too late), so the three of us walked around Wildwood, which is a wildlife park, instead. I don't remember seeing any newts, fortunately. The battle occurred at three o'clock; there was supposed to be a filming session two hours later (to be shown on "Songs Of Praise", apparently), but our party couldn't be bothered sticking around, so we returned to Ramsgate. There was another session on Sunday, but since Bryn and I had to be in London by Sunday evening, it would have been a bit of a rush, we travelled back to Sittingbourne then.

On Sunday evening, it was the Rammstein concert, the main reason I'd stayed daan saath (down south, for those of you unfamiliar with British accents) for so long. We got to London at 5.20. London Astoria, where the concert was to be held, was only a couple of tube stations away. Doors opened at 7; Bryn wanted to get there early, but he thought we'd be a bit too early if we got the tube, so he took my heavy bag, and we walked.

And got lost.

Before the concert, we'd wanted to eat and drink and make merry, although we weren't so bothered about the making merry part. However, we didn't reach the venue until 6.45, and by the time we got there, the queue was immense. (Although it doubled in length during the time we had to wait.)

We waited, and waited, and waited, and got hungry and thirsty and achy (from bag holding) and shifty (from need of toilet) and bored. Actually, I quite enyojed people watching. It was amazing how dressed up some people were, given that it was only a concert: I know some goths are dressed up all the time, but even compared to the metallers pressent, I felt very underdressed in my black leather jacket, black skinnyfit t-shirt, black lacy longsleeve top, black jeans, black New Rock boots, black dog collar and silver ankh. My mental list of Clothes I Must Own grew longer.

Everyone started to wonder whether the show would go on at all, and eventually, at 8.15, it was announced that it wouldn't: there were problems with the pyrotechnics, and the band refused to play without them. I was glad of their stance - the show without the pyrotechnics would have been disappointing - but annoyed all the same. They'd reschedule it or refund the tickets, but if it was rescheduled for a time I'd be in Carlisle, I'd be unable to go. Also it was a wasted journey, although at least I hadn't come too far to get there; there were people from other countries present.

Still, there was one benefit: Bryn and I hadn't been sure what to do after the show. If he could get back to Victoria station by 23.05, he could go home. If I could get to Euston station by 23.20, I could go home, although I wasn't sure how thrilled my parents would be to pick me up from Carlisle station at 4.30am. If not, we'd spend the night in a cybercafe. Now, there was no hurry. We went our separate ways. A bloke on the northbound platform at Oxford Street asked me if my shoes were heavy to walk in.

When I got to Euston, I went to buy a ticket for that night, only to be informed that there were no more trains; to travel on the train at 23.20, you had to go all the way up to Glasgow and then return to Carlisle the next morning. Forget it, I thought, and called Bryn. Fortunately, he was still at Victoria station. I joined him there, and we went back to Sittingbourne. At least I got a good night's sleep out of the deal.

My journey back to Carlisle the following day was event-free. While I waited for Dad to collect me, a boy outside Carlisle station asked me about my boots. When we got back to my parents' shop, one of the employees said, "Nice boots!"

The moral of this story is, if you want the power to compel strangers to strike up conversations with you, get some New Rock boots. No, they're not hard to walk in (especially if you've rollerbladed before), they're lighter than they look, the springs work but only if you weigh more than about nine stone, and you can get them for £100.

Friday 15 June 2001

I received my exam results. I think the term we should use to describe them is "sickeningly good".

Possibly even more "stupidly good" than usual. You see, with GCSEs and A Levels, they just told you what grade you got. So although I got nine 'A*'s and two 'A's, and five 'A's respectively, they could have been sorry excuses for 'A's and 'A*'s that were nearly 'B's and 'A's. However, this time they told me the percentages.

You need 70% for a distinction. I got 100% in Geometry, 97% in Calculus, 100% in Mathematical Methods, 100% in Algebra, 98% in Discrete Maths And Probability, 98% in Sadistics, 76% in the coursework module (a large proportion of this mark was for getting out of bed, which I'm not very good at) and 93% in Computing.

Everyone will hate me now. I shall never be able to complain about how difficult my work is again. If I get a question wrong, lecturers will say, "Tut tut, you should know better." Woe!

Saturday 16 June 2001

It is my brother Noj's birthday on the 19th, so I asked what he wanted. He told me, and I said, "Righty, I'll go into Carlisle then. Can you take the handbrake in the car off for me?" (For he always puts it on so firmly that I can't move it. Oh yes, Noj passed his driving test a few months ago. First time. Geen.)

"If you're going to Carlisle, can you get me something for Father's Day?" he asked. I agreed, glad he'd asked, since I'd completely forgotten.

In Carlisle, I bought the new Marian Keyes book and "The Colour Of Magic" by Terry Pratchett, as I have decided to read the Discworld series. I bought some Quality Streets and Wine Gums for Dad (11 out of 10 for originality, there). I actively did not buy a card since he is so thick he would probably eat the card and put the sweets on the mantle piece. And they would look a bit lonely, since, to the best of my knowledge, he doesn't have any other children. Actually, he does have one, but not one who goes in this card and present buying palaver on a regular basis, or, at the age of 32, has anyone to force him to do this. Lucky geen.

I completely forgot to buy a card for Noj (but he said he didn't care), but I went to Virgin and bought his present. (Note to uninitiated: Virgin sells CDs (and videos and stoof), not Dodgy Toys.) I then began to look around the shop for my own evil purposes. It was then that I made A Great Discovery.

The freak population of Carlisle appears to once again have doubled in my absence. Virgin appears to have taken notice of this and created a separate metal section! Right at the front of the shop too! (Unlike the one in HMV in Canterbury, which is hidden at the back.)

Admittedly, it seems to mostly consist of overpriced Iron Maiden albums they've had in stock since they opened. To compensate for this, they included items by decidedly non-metal bands, like Ash, Blink 182 and Britney Spears.

All right, perhaps not Britney Spears.

This said, since the only type of music I particularly like at the moment is metal (and a bit of electro, but try searching for that in Carlisle), this was exceedingly convenient for me. (Also, I like freak-spotting, and this was a honey pot for them.) And consequently, I found two albums that interested me.

The first was "Mutter" by Rammstein, because on the off-chance that they rescheduled the gig for a time when I could attend, it would be nice to be familiar with what would probably comprise the bulk of the set.

The second was "Roots" by Sepultura. Now this would have interested me at the best of times, but the price label on it said "£4.99".

£4.99? Surely I must be misreading it? This wasn't the bargain section. And they couldn't charge £4.99 for a still-popular band's album? Certainly not for what is considered said band's best album? Surely they had missed the 1 off? I consulted other copies of it, but they too were £4.99. And when I bought it (of course I bought it!), I was indeed only charged £4.99.

I found out why later. The Rammstein album was most satisfying, although it makes me wonder if the music of industrial bands is used to teach people to count in German these days. On Covenant's "United States Of Mind", despite mostly being in English, the opening lyrics of "Dead Stars" are "ein zwei drei vier!" (Despite repetitive hearings of this, Bryn still insists that the word for "four" is "trei". He is Strange.) "Mutter" is aimed at slightly more advanced students: "Sonne" begins with the singer counting to neun.

The Sepultura album was also good, up until track 14, at which point it started skipping like a schoolgirl on speed. On a first listen, grr! And on the second listen, it started skipping at track 11. Double grr! It was cheap because it was dodgy!

Tuesday 19 June 2001

Noj turned eighteen today. When asked what he wanted, he answered, "A hundred thousand pounds, a helicopter, a set of steak knives and a box of those little black squidgy things that go meep meep meep!" (It's a quote from "The Young Ones".) Therefore, Mum presented him with an unuseable Euro cheque for a hundred thousand pounds, a Lego helicopter, our steak knives, and a bag of cut up bits of black drinking straws.

Friday 22 June 2001

Bryn is away fighting for three days. Mimph. No AOLIM conversations for me. However, I do have two dates: one tonight to see "Get Over It" with Smill; one for Sunday to see "Bridget Jones' Diary" with Marion. I am so popular!

Thursday 28 June 2001

Did you know there is a piece of music called "The Pied Viper"?

Yesterday, I had the Sorting Hat's song (from "Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone") and "Bryn H*******" stuck in my head. Not Bryn H******* the person, for that would be excruciatingly uncomfortable, but a song I wrote the previous day, parodying "Bank Holiday" by Blur, which was merely annoying.

Today, I have "Hot Dog" by Limp Bizkit stuck in my head. I really wish it was still yesterday.

Friday 29 June 2001

"Dear secretaries of schools and county councils,

"Please could you stop stapling your cheques to your payment slips? I want to put the cheques in the bank and the payment slips in a folder. This means removing the staples and almost ripping the cheques (and my fingers) to shreds, which is something I want to avoid, through fear of pain and upsetting my Mum / boss and the people in the bank.

"If you are seriously concerned about your cheque and payment slip being separated, a simple paperclip will keep them together. I know paperclips are slightly more expensive than staples, but you personally don't have to pay for them, so what's the problem?

"I won't be working at my parents' shop again until at least December. This should give you plenty of time to re-examine and change your usage of stationery.

"Bryn's faithfully, Z."

Did you know that there is saint Ambrose Barlow? And that he has a school in Manchester named after him?

Random wondering: why is a recorder called a recorder when it blatantly doesn't record anything?

Ever since Monday, I have had an ulcer in my mouth. It is getting more and more annoying. I have been eating Rinstead Mouth Pastilles, but 1) they have a nasty long-lasting aftertaste which is so bad that I've been dreaming about it, 2) they only provide temporary soothing and I can only have one every two hours, and 3) I've run out of them. It hurts to clean my teeth. It hurts to eat. It hurts to talk. It even hurts to just lie there doing absolutely nothing. It had better go by Sunday, that's all I can say, because Bryn's visiting them, I fully intend to him and I don't want this to be an agonising experience.

Saturday 30 June 2001

Is it just me, or is the idea of Livejournal t-shirts a tad disturbing? People don't go round wearing t-shirts saying, "I use E-Bay" or "I use MSN Messenger" or "I use a Mac" (admittedly, I have an Acorn t-shirt, but it's very subtle: it has a picture of an Acorn on the front and the word "CLAN" on the back. Besides, it was free) or "I use my girlfriend" or "I use a red toothbrush".

So why Livejournal pride? Are you supposed to walk the streets, spotting people wearing them, and thinking, "Wahey! Someone else is as sad as me!" Are they supposed to be a way of getting more readers: "LIVEJOURNAL" and a picture of Frank on the front; "~USERNAME - add me to your friends list" on the back?

No, I know: they'll say "I'm Obsessed With Livejournal" on the front and "Comment on this" on the back.