Friday, March 26, 2004
This machine kills fascist accessories like a "Reaction" purse opens to dentata donning frock-jock. Mission accomplished, mes bugaboos protest oppressive system!
Along this axis, a few dandies dance all night at le "Improper Bostonian" party, in itself less coy than brushing off dandruff from my one beloved mutt. Gutting social program for you, I betray rhetorical anxiety. Shadows of "too rigid" or "too loose," "not enough makeup," "le grande et gros goose."
"The handicraftsmen of democratic ages not only endeavor to bring their useful productions within the reach of the whole community, but strive to give to all their commodities attractive qualities that they do not in reality possess. In the confusion of all ranks everyone hopes to appear what he is not, and makes great exertions to succeed in this object. This sentiment, indeed, which is only too natural to the heart of man, does not originate in the democratic principle; but that principle applies it to material objects. The hypocrisy of virtue is of every age, but the hypocrisy of luxury belongs more particularly to the ages of democracy.
To satisfy these new cravings of human vanity the arts have recourse to every species of imposture; and these devices sometimes go so far as to defeat their own purpose. Imitation diamonds are now made which may be easily mistaken for real ones; as soon as the art of fabricating false diamonds becomes so perfect that they cannot be distinguished from real ones, it is probable that both will be abandoned and become mere pebbles again.
This leads me to speak of those arts which are called, by way of distinction, the fine arts. I do not believe that it is a necessary effect of a democratic social condition and of democratic institutions to diminish the number of those who cultivate the fine arts, but these causes exert a powerful influence on the manner in which these arts are cultivated. Many of those who had already contracted a taste for the fine arts are impoverished; on the other hand, many of those who are not yet rich begin to conceive that taste, at least by imitation; the number of consumers increases, but opulent and fastidious consumers become more scarce. Something analogous to what I have already pointed out in the useful arts then takes place in the fine arts; the productions of artists are more numerous, but the merit of each production is diminished. No longer able to soar to what is great, they cultivate what is pretty and elegant, and appearance is more attended to than reality."
-- Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America
Friday, March 19, 2004
On second thought, revolution schmevolution. Let's all go out and grab as much argent as possible. I study your installments of "The Apprentice" with power tie handy, lurking entre dark hubs of hubris and "money shots".
La revolution will be broadcast from the stench of my cyber-armpit. To be at once sleek and damned, picking through rags of the old code, antipodes. Too many visages in a metrosexual slurry, Scully. You think they're aliens but they're really le group-mind, power lines snaking in from somewhere autre. Heck, let's expose everybody as such a sham(an). I find I cannot stomach Kentucky Fried Enlightenment fiasco.
Remember when people used to say "Let's go out and get cultured" as in, "Let's go out and get fucked" ? I miss that.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Remember when we used to gather on your terrace for croissants and du burre? I liked that, you fucker.
Puppets are funny because they're replacing real government. Avoir saddle, will blow this place skyhigh, you Draconian stinker. Fool enough to faire le cours as distraction segues into Howdy Doody time.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Making sense is tres tiring. If we could only separate your pilgrim from his musket, pard.
"When you pry my cold liposuction Senator from the handle."
Then we go out and eat Fribble-shakes in gnat-dusk.
I found a used object in the street. I will use it, naturellement: "Nos peches sont tetus, nos repentirs sont..." but here it breaks off, sans accents, bits of encrusted asphalt stuck on Coolatta and detective music. Crowd of qui sont, qui sans, parading to a dim bulb, empty haunt.
What do I know? It seems le ciel is falling but it pretends to ecrit the donut chain-store Rimbaud! Turn left at next monument of interest, Baudrillard bump it, bump it. I wander through your parks and am blinded by extreme preppiness and house-buying plumage, to beset and direct one in this root. Meanwhile I float, as electrical impulses apply a "Buffalo Wings" decal to a plain screen, a screed.
There is goop dripping from my nostrils. I pray that it is normal goop. I sulk in shadows of police profile footnote, hoping someday to emerge and "Rock With You." False podiatrist, the entire dirigible is made from wax! I MUST obtain access to my own cell phone tourniquet...
Strange puppetry of Carol Channing, introduce me, in whose voice I approach your stacks of coffee cans, toothpaste, dry rot, mobile home catalogues, a lot of hooey. Circuit breaker, pretending to be fun with a je ne sais dumpy attitude. If vous etes charisma-laden then I'm a mobile bacteria. Shed your skins, o thug cabals of serials and Lawyer Flakes!
Hello, my name is Karl Merleau-Marcuse. I am a Franco-Germanic poet who has recently immigrated to America. I am doing my best to make sense of this confusing, alienating capitalist culture swirling around me every day. Join me and my friends as we discuss contemporary American poetry and other vital cultural matters.
Monday, March 01, 2004
Conspirateurs has a political "I" in the spire of wanting a new plan, but I would advise you: go rub your face in fresh dung instead, parce que I am rapscallion and radish seeking mass asylum!
Alors, all votre incorporated jerkoffs:
Nous allons faire write ourselves into a big mess this time, Tarzan. In April, he say to my lovers, "Je ne suis pas maudit, je suis plus bon" as ungrammatical as shit. No kidding, plastic signs all around me dangling hula of wanting presence, everything mobile as bathtub duck fools around with le grande magazine. No pidgin, no edging into undiscovered territory. Cracked open, scrambled, thick non-stick coat pricks you too, sugar.
My stomach still hurts, I can only buy the bland foods. I encounter your supermarkets distracted by thirty-five brands of toothpaste, blinded as a mole-rat seeking the sumptuary laws. Vouloir buy the lettuce crisper, too many cluster bombs, in clusters, the violent broccoli, its weight protruding from my left wrist, unspeakable hootenanies at another's expense. Is that all it comes to, a pop-pop-popularity poop? I shingle myself between this circuit and a salvaged organ-grinder, dancing at the pyre of dead fascists, whatever those may be!