I grew up during the Cold War, not the black-and-white 50s hide under your school desk years, consciously 1972 on, and not once did I fear nuclear annihilation. O! the existential fear! we all were purported to feel, I never felt once.
We're such miserable fucks, we're not going to kaboom in merciful minutes, we're gonna to flay each other alive for decades. This is where I strike some as suspect: regardless whether I think the impending slow, miserable, death of Corporate is justified, I have zero zeal for the flaying my complicit ass has earned and zero faith the survivors will join the Federation after Zefram Cochrane discovers warp drive.
The small apartment was as inoffensive as himself. Like the defiantly patternless botch of colors he wore upon his necktie, signal of his individuality to the neckties that he met screaming the same claim of independence from the innominate morass of their wearers, the apartment's claims to distinction were mass-produced flower- and hunting-prints, filling a need they had manufactured themselves, heavy furniture with neither the seductive ugliness of functional pieces nor the isolate dumb beauty of something chosen for itself: in matching, they fulfilled the first requirement, as did the hopeless style of his brown pleated trousers which matched his brown coat, double-breasted over a chest resigned to be forever hidden like a thing of shame, whitening to yellowness with the years so that to show it now would be indeed offensive. It was a part of the body which he had never learned to use, never having been so poor that he was forced to feel the strain and growth of its muscles in the expansion of labor; nor rich enough to feel it liberated in those games (requiring courts, eighteen-hole courses, bridle-paths) which rich people played. Totally unconscious of itself except when something went wrong, that body served only to keep his identity intact, and was kept covered, like this room, to offend no one.
- All Fleabus photos by Planet.
- Obama owns the crisis.
- Villagers against Obama. It's grimly fascinating: it's like, don't do what needs to be done, but be seen trying anyway, you pussy.
- UPDATE! On the incompetence dodge. Few days old, but was just sent to me.
- A crisis of ideology and political leadership. The road to Serbia does run through the UK.
- It's always 2000.
- Rational choice rioting.
- The conscience of an anarchist.
- The transformation of Michelle Bachmann.
- Eye of the beholder. That Newsweek cover is a hit job.
- Motherfucking grifter.
- On crackers (and liberals). O! that was me, I meant to type "beruvian fear pucker."
- Who gives a fuck what Benjamotherfucking Cardin thinks, the fucker.
- Suckers surprised by unevenness of break.
- I think it's going to be Glen and Echo.
- Conscious unconscious.
A pinup of Rita Hayworth was taped To the bomb that fell on Hiroshima. The Avant-garde makes me weep with boredom. Horses are wishes, especially dark ones. That's why twitches and fences. That's why switches and spurs. That's why the idiom of betrayal. They forgive us. Their windswayed manes and tails, Their eyes, Affront the winterscrubbed prairie With gentleness. They live in both worlds and forgive us. I'll give you a hint: the wind in fits and starts. Like schoolchildren when the teacher walks in, The aspens jostle for their places And fall still. A delirium of ridges breaks in a blue streak: A confusion of means Saved from annihilation By catastrophe. A horse gallops up to the gate and stops. The rider dismounts. Do I know him?