Saturday, June 4, 2011
Gax 0, United 0
Stayed up to see the red kits (fuck the red kits) and watched until Wolff gacked a Najar cross around 25, went to bed convinced the scoreline would hold at 0-0.
Everything I've read suggests it was (for reasons logistical, practical, and self-preservational) the correct, if horribly disloyal, decision. Blah game. Selfishly, I'm glad. Apparently Wolff gacked another chance in the second half, as did Davies. The backline threw a shutout, which is a positive even if Gax was without Donovan.
And if I'd been offered four points out of road games in Portland and Los Angeles before United got on the plane west, I'd have snapped them in a second.
Also, Buzzard Point? Fuck me jig.
UPDATE! Here's Fullback's quick observations on last night's game.
Also, I realize I wrongly assume that everyone understands my allusions and bits even if they've only got here seconds ago or been here for years, so to clarify the Fuck Me Jig: so certain am I that United will not get a stadium in DC (or within any of the immediately adjacent jurisdictions) that in a pathetic attempt at reverse god-taunting four or five years ago at one or two blogs ago I promised to do a Fuck Me Jig in front of my seat in a new stadium, a Fuck Me Jig that will be videoed and uploaded to youtoob and posted on this shitty blog.
I would be delighted to do a Fuck Me Jig in a new Buzzard Point stadium.
Friday, June 3, 2011
At Least Embarrassment Is Not an Imitation. It's Intimacy for Beginners, the Orgasm No One Cares to Fake.
Palin was discussed over Thursday Night Pints. Why wasn't Palin riding shotgun on a Harley her Dukakis in a tank moment, wondered L. She's a grifter, said D. Say, said me, she's not only a grifter but a world class grifter, a once in a lifetime grifter, a genius grifter that at this dawning moment in American consciousness of its empire's imminent collapse understands America wants one last American gold standard conman and Palin instinctively, deliberately, brilliantly, delivers?
Shame you can't write novels, said L. Didn't we have this conversation two, three weeks ago, asked D, each winning a ridiculously priced Scotch. What fascinates me, I said, is how she can simultaneously be both a rodeo clown and capitalist superstar, she transcends either/ors. The stupider she makes herself - what if she's brilliant and chooses to act stupid - the larger and loyaler her following. She brands herself as the anti-what makes her money, and the angrier we get at the tacky obviousness of it, the more money she makes.
You don't believe that, do you, L asked, that she's brilliant and acts stupid for profit. It's wishful thinking, I said, that she's a devious and subversive mastermind, a canny manipulator and brilliant actor rather than a cartoon grifter filling a vacuum in Crackerstan, a cipher and avatar of vacuous late American capitalism and collapsing American empire. There's hope in the former, tomorrow in the latter.
ABOUT FACE
Alice Fulton
Shame you can't write novels, said L. Didn't we have this conversation two, three weeks ago, asked D, each winning a ridiculously priced Scotch. What fascinates me, I said, is how she can simultaneously be both a rodeo clown and capitalist superstar, she transcends either/ors. The stupider she makes herself - what if she's brilliant and chooses to act stupid - the larger and loyaler her following. She brands herself as the anti-what makes her money, and the angrier we get at the tacky obviousness of it, the more money she makes.
You don't believe that, do you, L asked, that she's brilliant and acts stupid for profit. It's wishful thinking, I said, that she's a devious and subversive mastermind, a canny manipulator and brilliant actor rather than a cartoon grifter filling a vacuum in Crackerstan, a cipher and avatar of vacuous late American capitalism and collapsing American empire. There's hope in the former, tomorrow in the latter.
- Yes, the above holds true for Obama too. And though I posted this from Jack yesterday, make sure you go back and read the comments.
- Where is your vortex?
- Satire, meet reality.
- One percent holds thirty-nine percent. Not enough for the one percent.
- Humpty Obumpty and the Middle East.
- Train wreck.
- We're all going to die.
- Wall Street and narco-trafficking.
- Romney and the conservative elites.
- Motherfucking christers.
- Word Salad Annie.
- Pastor Sanctimonious chubbies Cameron.
- Curiosity in philosophy.
- One of the blogs that doesn't update on the blogroll is :::wood s lot ::: which provides me lots of stuff I show you. His rss feed works fine if you want to subscribe.
- People are stupid.
- ICC!
- Peruvian election and NOVA traffic jams.
- Blogging.
- Brettschneider! Game tonight at eleven. Might watch it tomorrow.
- Gauguin.
- I was made to read Naipaul once for a class. Suck. And that was before I knew he was a total and thorough asshole.
- Ten great authors of 1963.
- 5/4.
- Into an animal together.
- Guardian angel.
- If you were a priest.
- Globe of frogs.
- I wanna destroy you.
ABOUT FACE
Alice Fulton
Because life's too short to blush, I keep my blood tucked in. I won't be mortified by what I drive or the flaccid vivacity of my last dinner party. I take my cue from statues posing only in their shoulder pads of snow: all January you can see them working on their granite tans. That I woke at an ungainly hour, stripped of the merchandise that clothed me, distilled to pure suchness, means not enough to anyone for me to confess. I do not suffer from the excess of taste that spells embarrassment: mothers who find their kids unseemly in their condom earrings, girls cringing to think they could be frumpish as their mothers. Though the late nonerotic Elvis in his studded gut of jumpsuit made everybody squeamish, I admit. Rule one: the King must not elicit pity. Was the audience afraid of being tainted --this might rub off on me-- or were they--surrendering-- what a femme word--feeling solicitous--glimpsing their fragility in his reversible purples and unwholesome goldish chains? At least embarrassment is not an imitation. It's intimacy for beginners, the orgasm no one cares to fake. I almost admire it. I almost wrote despise.
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Thursday, June 2, 2011
Only a Dog Who Chews a Ragged Rawhide Chew Toy
While waiting for the graduation procession to begin on Tuesday, SeatSix and this guy were telling me how much this blog sucks, especially trying to read it on a phone the size of half a graham cracker - (use your imaginary whiny voice) the photos are too big, the youtubes take too long to download, the motherfucking blogroll scrolls and scrolls and scrolls, it takes forever for the fucking blog to load, and then there's that whole links won't open in another window piece of blooger shittiness (that was me). (Speaking of blooger shittiness, what the fuck is that +1 box next to a 0 box doing down at the bottom of every post? I didn't put it there.)
I agree completely, it takes too long to load, though know this: the too big photos and youtubes are non-negotiable: they stay, you go. But I've reduced the number of posts per page from ten to four and I've changed Because Left and Because Right blogrolls (which are stocked with new flavors, yo, and suggestions are always solicited) to only show the twenty-five most recently updated blogs. I have not disblogrolled you; you just haven't posted rapidly enough. Sometime, if I get around to it, I might create a sub-Because for those sites that don't feed the updating blogroller. Or not. And until blooger gives me a links open in separate window toggle switch, please right mouse; I'm not fucking with html.
It seems to make some small but good difference loading on my laptop. As always, thank you for the Kind; please nudge me if I'm not reciprocating.
SPACE STATION
Tom Sleigh
(Note: a space station generates gravity by revolving one way and then another. When it reverses direction to revolve the other way, there are several moments when gravity is suspended.)
I agree completely, it takes too long to load, though know this: the too big photos and youtubes are non-negotiable: they stay, you go. But I've reduced the number of posts per page from ten to four and I've changed Because Left and Because Right blogrolls (which are stocked with new flavors, yo, and suggestions are always solicited) to only show the twenty-five most recently updated blogs. I have not disblogrolled you; you just haven't posted rapidly enough. Sometime, if I get around to it, I might create a sub-Because for those sites that don't feed the updating blogroller. Or not. And until blooger gives me a links open in separate window toggle switch, please right mouse; I'm not fucking with html.
It seems to make some small but good difference loading on my laptop. As always, thank you for the Kind; please nudge me if I'm not reciprocating.
- Clusterfuck.
- Perpetual war: The Pentagon, trying to create a formal strategy to deter cyberattacks on the United States, plans to issue a new strategy soon declaring that a computer attack from a foreign nation can be considered an act of war that may result in a military response.
- The accidental bombings will continue.... Here's what we're doing in Afghanistan: floating the ponzi, for one, you can figure out numbers 2 through X all on your own....
- Class and common sense.
- Zombie politics, democracy, authoritarianism.
- B-movie.
- Conspiracies for you and me.
- Thick as thieves.
- Oinker.
- Oinker. Gov. Chris Christie arrived at his son's baseball game this afternoon aboard a State Police helicopter. Right before the lineup cards were being exchanged on the field, a noise from above distracted the spectators as the 55-foot long helicopter buzzed over trees in left field, circled the outfield and landed in an adjacent football field. Christie disembarked from the helicopter and got into a black car with tinted windows that drove him about a 100 yards to the baseball field. During the 5th inning, Christie and First Lady Mary Pat Christie got into the car, rode back to the helicopter and left the game. During a pitching change, play was stopped for a couple of minutes while the helicopter took off.
- I'm certain the media will focus on his budget-cutting credentials. And yes, I know he's not the first, the last, of either party, who's done, is doing, and will do this. The fucker.
- Sarah Palin is authentic. The issue isn't the fork, the image is the fork.
- Sarah the angry bear.
- On Palin.
- Motherfucking Democrats.
- On the above.
- Oinker.
- He likes girls.
- Boatload of links.
- Things you might have missed.
- I wonder if Boorman knows about impending Captain and Tennille.
- Worms from hell!
- Of course. Since the first female boss.
- Little Bennett! Some decent hiking.
- My future hell.
- Purple line.
- Where I and Landru and Elric went to high school!
- I'm not going to blog Gold Cup like I blogged WC10, though I'll post things like this if I see them. And yes, fuck Bob Bradley.
- New word marks for Maryland.
- Johnny Halladay.
- John Fowle's typewriter.
- Notes on the future of academia.
- HEY! Look what Irwin played yesterday!
- Followed by Amanda! Listen to Amanda. Both of them. And Joel Clark and Dan Tullis. Fuck it, listen to the entire show. Start to finish. Do it.
- Because you won't, after that song and Amanda and then scramble he played this. At least listen to it loud for me. No; for you.
- Pardon my heart.
- I know what I want and I want it right now.
- Finally we are no one.
- The same mistake.
- Obscure Sound's best of May.
- Where I'd be if I could be (music, not the lectures).
- On Feldman.
- Crippled Symmetry.
- For John Cage.
SPACE STATION
Tom Sleigh
(Note: a space station generates gravity by revolving one way and then another. When it reverses direction to revolve the other way, there are several moments when gravity is suspended.)
My mother and I and the dog were floating Weightless in the kitchen. Silverware Hovered above the table. Napkins drifted Just below the ceiling. The dead who had been crushed By gravity were free to move about the room, To take their place at supper, lift a fork, knife, spoon— A spoon, knife, fork that, outside this moment's weightlessness, Would have been immovable as mountains. My mother and I and the dog were orbiting In the void that follows after happiness Of an intimate gesture: Her hand stroking the dog's head And the dog looking up, expectant, into her eyes: The beast gaze so direct and alienly concerned To have its stare returned; the human gaze That forgets, for a moment, that it sees What it's seeing and simply, fervently, sees... But only for a moment. Only for a moment were my mother And the dog looking at each other not mother Or dog but that look—I couldn't help but think, If only I were a dog, or Mother was, Then that intimate gesture, this happiness passing Could last forever...such a vain, hopeless wish I was wishing; I knew it and didn't know it Just as my mother knew she was my mother And didn't...and as for the dog, her large black pupils, Fixed on my mother's faintly smiling face, Seemed to contain a drop of the void We were all suspended in; though only a dog Who chews a ragged rawhide chew toy shaped Into a bone, femur or cannonbone Of the heavy body that we no longer labored To lift against the miles-deep air pressing Us to our chairs. The dog pricked her ears, Sensing a dead one approaching. Crossing the kitchen, My father was moving with the clumsy gestures Of a man in a space suit—the strangeness of death Moving among the living—though the world Was floating with a lightness that made us Feel we were phantoms: I don't know If my mother saw him—he didn't look at her When he too put his hand on the dog's head And the dog turned its eyes from her stare to his... And then the moment on its axis reversed, The kitchen spun us the other way round And pressed heavy hands down on our shoulders So that my father sank into the carpet, My mother rested her chin on her hand And let her other hand slide off the dog's head, Her knuckles bent in a kind of torment Of moonscape erosion, ridging up into Peaks giving way to seamed plains With names like The Sea of Tranquility —Though nothing but a metaphor for how I saw her hand, her empty, still strong hand Dangling all alone in the infinite space Between the carpet and the neon-lit ceiling.
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Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Orbiting in the Void that Follows After Happiness
A truly wonderful day with Earthgirl, my parents, my brother SeatSix, and this guy at incredible Planet's graduation (and excellent dinner with a favorite aunt afterwards).
As for yesterday morning's despondency, once we engaged with the event Planet's lungs ached less and my back unseized and Earthgirl's grieving evaporated.
That's it for today. Got home around eight, had no urge - felt no obligation - to aargh-bait or bleggalgaze or otherwise confront my complicity. All will return tomorrow, probably, Friday is the latest I believe I could keep from scratching, and when it does return it will include the poem that contains this post's title.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
As a Child I Never Understood How an Animal Could Sleep Standing
Planet graduates from high school this afternoon. Planet is celebrating with a fever and aching lungs, me by whacking my back cutting the grass, Earthgirl by still mourning the death of Rudy while poxed by ridiculous family realities and their politics, the weather by scheduling heat index temperatures in the 100s.
As a graduation present I'm giving Planet a world where assholosity isn't an unfortunate necessity but a highly sought after and rewarded attribute. In the greater arc of Capitalism's ruthless and soulless life span I'm sure the significance is minute, but in my blinked lifetime the toggle from pejorative to honorific of the word greed is astonishing.
I am a titanic rube. That admission supports my point.
HORSE IN A CAGE
Stanley Plumly
As a graduation present I'm giving Planet a world where assholosity isn't an unfortunate necessity but a highly sought after and rewarded attribute. In the greater arc of Capitalism's ruthless and soulless life span I'm sure the significance is minute, but in my blinked lifetime the toggle from pejorative to honorific of the word greed is astonishing.
I am a titanic rube. That admission supports my point.
- Ignorance is strength.
- This is not a form of brainwashing.
- War criminals.
- Post-legal America.
- Seeking an expiation of guilt.
- After the crash: Obviously, both Republicans and Democrats are agreed to do nothing more that quibble over insignificant margins of so huge a deficit. Meanwhile, they perform live political theatre about their "deep concern about deficits and debts" for a bemused, bored and ever-more alienated public. Neither party can shake off its utter dependence now on corporate and rich citizens' monies for all their financial sustenance. Therefore, neither party imagines, let alone explores, alternatives to massive deficits and debts. After all, government deficits and debts mean: first, the government is not taxing corporations and the rich; and second, the government is, instead, borrowing from them and paying them interest. So, the two parties quibble over how much to cut which government jobs and public services.
- Robert Reich on the American economy.
- Another category error by Krugman.
- Neo-conservatism's founding asshat.
- I enjoy Larison's Eunomia, but why he would think Walter Russell Mead an honest broker makes me feel not so embarrassed by my motherfucking roobiness.
- Asked without a drop of self-awareness or irony.
- Character assassinating Bradley Manning's mother.
- Their cave.
- How we tell each other it's not so bad.
- To be fair, I'm also giving Planet four years at a high-priced credentialing factory, one of a liberal bent, where greed isn't taught to be honorable (as at, say, Amherst) but a distasteful if necessary skill.
- Subjectivity v Objectivity and science: There is so much confusion surrounding the notions of objectivity and subjectivity that I need to say a word to clarify them. In one sense, the objective/subjective distinction is about claims to knowledge. I call this the epistemic sense. A claim is said to be objective if its truth or falsity can be settled as a matter of fact independently of anybody’s attitudes, feelings, or evaluations; it is subjective if it cannot. For example, the claim that Van Gogh died in France is epistemically objective. But the claim that Van Gogh was a better painter than Gauguin is, as they say, a matter of subjective opinion. It is epistemically subjective. In another sense, the objective/subjective distinction is about modes of existence. I call this the ontological sense. An entity has an objective ontology if its existence does not depend on being experienced by a human or animal subject; otherwise it is subjective. For example, mountains, molecules, and tectonic plates are ontologically objective. Their existence does not depend on being experienced by anybody. But pains, tickles, and itches only exist when experienced by a human or animal subject. They are ontologically subjective. I emphasize these two senses of the distinction because a common mistake is to suppose that because science is objective and consciousness is subjective, there cannot be a science of consciousness. Science is indeed epistemically objective, because scientific claims are supposed to be verifiable independently of anybody’s feelings and attitudes. But the ontological subjectivity of the domain of consciousness does not preclude an objective science of that domain. You can have an (epistemically) objective science of an (ontologically) subjective consciousness. Much confusion has been created by the failure to see this point.
- The end of the subject is not the end of me.
- Because it's there.
- Climbing the mountain.
- Walter Johnson sent out a stern note on graduation dos and don'ts, including this line, about a full graduation ceremony including the reading of 650 kids names and march across the stage: The ceremony will be over in two hours. Heh. This is going to suck.
- Craig Bellamy, manager?
- Heh! Hey, Ives, fuck you for the groupon pop-up, eh?
- Wedding the locksmith's daughter.
- my father moved through dooms of love
- Parent's pantoum.
- June light.
- Dan has moved. Change your bookmarks and blogrolls, or not. Beyond that, I'm turning away an awesome opportunity to bleggalgaze. Fuck it.
- Not all thoughts turn to words.
- Silliman's always generous lit-links.
- Gil Scott-Heron.
- Gil Scott-Heron. I also agree in principle: Bob Dylan, while noting Dylan's obvious influence. Beyond that, I'm turning away an awesome opportunity to bleggalgaze. Fuck it.
- Ends.
HORSE IN A CAGE
Stanley Plumly
Its face, as long as an arm, looks down & down.
Then the iron gate sound of the cage swings shut
above the bed, a bell as big as the room: quarter-
moon of the head, its nose, its whole lean body
pressed against its cell . . .
I watched my father hit a horse in the face once.
It had come down to feed across the fence.
My father, this stranger, wanted to ride.
Perhaps he only wanted to talk. Anyway,
he hit the ground and something broke.
As a child I never understood how an animal
could sleep standing. In my dream the horse
rocks in a cage too small, so the cage swings.
I still wake up dreaming, in front of a long face.
That day I hugged the ground hard.
Who knows if my heartbroken father was meant
to last longer than his last good drunk.
They say it's like being kicked by a horse.
You go down, your knees hug up.
You go suddenly wide awake, and the gate shuts.
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Monday, May 30, 2011
Portland 2, United 3
Full disclosure: I saw the first forty minutes and the last twelve minutes plus three and a half minutes stoppage because because, and what I saw I got on pirate internet, so fuck Omcastcay, yo, blacking out Direct Kick, fuckers.
I'm not sure how much the league has come back to United and how much United has improved. United wouldn't have won, probably wouldn't have tied a similar game against a similar opponent last season, so I didn't see this coming, especially with the reserve squad line-up. Consider, though, last season's similar game again a similar opponent on Memorial Day weekend, when United lost 4-0 to Kansas City. Here was the starting line-up.
- D.C. United: Perkins, Talley, Jakovic, Wallace, Najar (Allsopp), Morsink, Quaranta, Simms (James), Castillo (Khumalo), Pontius, Moreno.
versus yesterday:
- D.C. United: Bill Hamid, Perry Kitchen, Ethan White, Dejan Jakovic, Daniel Woolard, Andy Najar (Fred 87), Stephen King, Clyde Simms, Chris Pontius, Blake Brettschneider, Joseph Ngwenya (Josh Wolff 51) (Brandon Barklage 91+).
Hamid's an upgrade over Perkins, White a major upgrade over Talley, Kitchen over Wallace (though I think Wallace can be useful, though not so much after today), Wolff over Allsopp (which speaks more of Allsopp), Brettschneider over (sorry) Moreno, and Olsen's 4-4-2 over Onalfo's 3-5-2 by a BANG!
St Benny, I'm getting carried away. Have some notes:
- I don't doubt that if Portland had scored in 13th minute instead of United United would have lost by three.
- I didn't see live the Cooper PK dramatics, though Kenny Cooper has always been a prick, and it pleases me he's not in the USMNT pool of shitty strikers (which isn't deep, yo).
- No Nodax, three goals. Just saying.
- For the first time I really saw what United sees in Kitchen, and the goal was nice but that's not it. He literally ran Portland players, with the ball at their feet and their backs toward Hamid, two-thirds towards Portland's goal. The back line - which is still not better than now and then good - looks to Kitchen as its captain, and Kitchen's transition to true holding mid is only held up by the need for him on the back line.
- Portland's second goal was soft, but Bill Hamid is a keeper keeper.
- As long as Woolard is healthy, he should beat out a healthy Burch.
- Best game out of Simms in a while.
- I'd love to see Brettschneider up with a healthy Davies.
- When United is really good again Quaranta will be elsewhere.
- Pontius. Best player on the field.
Gax next Saturday in LA (when they will wear the third red). Donovan will be with USMNT for lame Gold Cup (and there will be no Gold Cup blogging here beyond an in-post comment and probably not) I didn't think they'd get a point out of this road trip. Motherfuckers, now I want six.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Baby Food, Tractors, Rat Poisoning
I root for Fucking Madrid to lose to any fucking Italian team to lose to Chelsea to lose to Manchester United to lose to (once upon a time) Liverpool to lose to Bayern Munich to lose to Arsenal to lose to Barca to lose to very soon City to lose to anybody else, and holyfuck, did Manchester United look like old yellow British teeth next to Barcelona's fabulous smile.
Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?
It's true! and they're playing this afternoon at motherfucking five o'clock, though it's not their fault this time since the game is in Portland Oregon.
Hey, advice sought! Three weeks from now I'm flying to England with Earthgirl and Planet and three of Planet's friends. Before you begin wagering on whether this will be the best ten days or worse ten days of my life tell me, what do I need to do to set up rental cell-phoning in England, what's the best, most reliable vis a vis $$$ (reliability trumps) cell phone option. Any suggestions welcome.
MY GREAT UNCLE ETC, PATRICK HENRY
James Tate
Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?
It's true! and they're playing this afternoon at motherfucking five o'clock, though it's not their fault this time since the game is in Portland Oregon.
Hey, advice sought! Three weeks from now I'm flying to England with Earthgirl and Planet and three of Planet's friends. Before you begin wagering on whether this will be the best ten days or worse ten days of my life tell me, what do I need to do to set up rental cell-phoning in England, what's the best, most reliable vis a vis $$$ (reliability trumps) cell phone option. Any suggestions welcome.
- One of two Maryland senators who will never again get any of my money, time, or vote.
- Benin approaches a truth: In fact, now that McConnell has admitted it, Democrats should probably let the public know. The talking point isn’t complicated: Senate Republicans will create a recession unless Democrats agree to Medicare cuts. Of course, the talking point will ineffective if Dems decide to go along with McConnell’s hostage strategy and pay the ransom.
- On the above.
- Seeing the elephant.
- Rick Perry.
- Rick Perry.
- On Rick Perry for POTUS.
- A frothy mix of lube and fecal matter.
- The GOP's Uncle Joe Biden.
- Petticoat Junction's Uncle Joe.
- He's a movin' kind of slow.
- Corporate propaganda.
- The littles.
- No dancing at the Jefferson Memorial. (h/t Lisa)
- It's not a bug, it's a feature.
- Miracles of modernity.
- Filter bubble.
- When we think we lead we are most led.
- I live in awe of serendipity; I found this trying to make the earlier lame joke. (By the way, I thought Bobbie Joe the hottest by omfgful.)
- Happiness.
- More Cedar Sigo. I've ordered a copy of Stranger in Town through ILL, should have it next week. Will post a poem of two when I get it.
- Handke, for those of you who do. I've a professor acquaintance who says if you can't read Handke in German don't bother since Handke's main interest is the language. When I said that's true of all translations she said yes, but it's especially true of Handke. I've no idea.
- El Camino Real.
- The Magic Place.
- Vow.
- Flown.
- Low Bay of Sky.
- Dreaming.
- Traveling.
- Lost Wind.
- The Tale.
- Gotham Lullaby. (Yes, Bjork covered it.)
MY GREAT UNCLE ETC, PATRICK HENRY
James Tate
There's a fortune to be made in just about everything
in this country, somebody's father had to invent
everything--baby food, tractors, rat poisoning.
My family's obviously done nothing since the beginning
of time. They invented poverty and bad taste
and getting by and taking it from the boss.
O my mother goes around chewing her nails and
spitting them in a jar: You shouldn't be ashamed
of yourself she says, think of your family.
My family I say what have they ever done but
paint by numbers the most absurd and disgusting scenes
of plastic squalor and human degradation.
Well then think of your great great etc. Uncle
Patrick Henry.
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