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Michael considered fate at 15:00   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

In some other candy-coated world where raindrops taste like sweet rosewater and soda isn't sticky there are stripclubs where they play nothing but the beatles over the sound system and the announcer tells you about 'Candy's day job. The likes of AC/DC is saved for muddy dark bar dancing, football games, and outdoor ampitheatre concerts. Chrome on 50 year old motorcycles always shines the most brightly and stock broker is a bad word. Arcades are still cool, pro-atheletes play skeeball tournaments for charity, and celebrities eat mac and cheese. It's illegal to watch tv by yourself. "Broadcast flag" marks social and community requirements of the citizenry, not corporate lockdown. iPods never made it because most towns pump pixies and nirvana over loudspeakers on the street and if you're frowning at the thought of a rip in your jeans the prolitariat police zap you with an electric shock in your genitals - in a good way. Nobody washes their hands after eating barbeque ribs.. In some other candy-coated world.


Instead, here we are. We have to take what we've got and work with it. Otherwise we're just writing stories about far away places that trump our freedoms with later last-calls and cheaper cigarettes, not knowing or seeing what is floating in front of us; brand new jeans manufactured with holes in them - brilliant - I don't have to do any of this living crap myself. This is where we're at, completely near-sighted so that our tunnel vision blocks out anything around us, blurs it all to a state of uncomprehendable cost which we must pay for, pay for, pay for, more. Money. money. But ah, over there, to be over there with those later last-calls and cheaper cigarettes I don't care that the holes in their jeans are real holes in their jeans and it's the jeans themselves that are fake; levy's "fiver-ones" for trademark reasons because even though it's over there, our money - the money we pay for more and more pay for things with our money - it reaches far, like a spider's giant hinged and hairy legs reaching out with three, four, five spindly appendages at a time to wrap and spin those people up over there in a cocoon of our choosing, a cocoon where the holes in the jeans are real. Like a nice cake, a pie that you can have and eat too, a piece of circular reasoning, it all makes sense if you sit and think about it long enough, listening to the beatles while Candy dances up on stage with her full fakeness in your face, her fake holes in her fake jeans as it were, jiggling juggling about in front of you... In a candy-coated world.