This week, amongst all of the noisome volume slurking along the information superhighwayz, I extracted just enough to turn my stomach against Donald Trump. He's been dancing around the nuclear options. It reminds me of the broke virgin pretending to be a journalist just to have a flirty interview with the hookers hanging outside the 7-11 on Sunset Boulevard. Nothing good can come of it if the whore accepts, as they are likely to, both high and low premises simultaneously. The virgin's journey is for a story, but in fact he'd rather have the requisite $100, or electoral votes as the case may be. In the end the whore isn't rescued, either in the tender story revealing the underbelly of street, or the tender touch of a clumsy lover seeking expertise. The only thing of interest is the addition to the ontology of passive aggressive repartee, one more seductive set of phrases. The market for democracy is oblivious. The universe doesn't care about motives. It's whores and johns all the way down.
Men with thin arms and concave chests stare in disbelief at the suspension of the ceiling, the vault of sky above them. They have forgotten about gravity. They float through life long enough to forget their disbelief and compliment themselves that they are not the jailers of Galileo, complicit as they are in their ignorance of the infinitesimals comprising the universe of small manufactured tokens they trade in their affected affections. So what if China enslaves the polishers of iPhone glass? They stare at Times New Roman reviews of Rattle and Hum, reminiscing about the crowd they attended when the singer said 'Martin Luther King'. Because these particular white boys appreciate the blues they have appropriated for the loss of a rent controlled apartment in Chelsea. It's good enough to have a woman, these modern women seeking to be had. So why not take one with balls, with the nerve to tear down the invisible pillars holding up the sky? It's only Western Civilization. Everything is worth criticizing. Nothing is worth violent defense. No fights for science. No fights for tech. No fights for fruits and vegetables. Just scrounge through the inherited pile and GoFundMyDaydream. Have enough credit to purchase the proper totems. The real fight is for the right coffee, ironically.
So if the rhetoric fits, tweet it. There are clever lyrics to be heard in the fever swamps of the city, and you can jump up and down under the proper influence.
When love comes to town, you gotta catch that train.
With craft beer brown, gotta drown your brain.
In the headphone sound, sublime, surrender, surround.
Give a bro a pound.
Give a bro a pound.
A generation says that history is all a lie except for the pre-shrunk narration of the depravity. Today it's all good except for everything old except for whatever money is scroungeable. You don't have to believe in riches if you see where I live. A dorm is as good as a ghetto and no matter what you study everybody just wants to party. The after party; it's all good. Emoji that out. Share. A generation ghostwalks a living dream where the best reality is under the control of apps. Really nobody listens to the lyrics any more. It's the beats. A generation finds its disgust in all ancien regimes and only neo-paganism is acceptable when you can buy the eggs from the mercado and not have to swipe them from actual hens. A generation finds in nature something to jump on, jump from, jump to. Capture the moments of big air with flair. Surfing Siberia. Catch the hair swinging in slow motion. Tatoo the nakedness to show the new nudity. It's real. A generation finds no need for greatness, a crowdsourced crowd will assemble itself into raves with the minimum amounts of technology. A generation finds no inspiration for greatness beyond a great party.
Neither party is great. Nor can they produce that which might make America, as much as they would love to remake it. America is the most overused cliche applied to odd cluster of recognizable high school cliques. We have 8 cubed three dimensional overlaps of psycho-ethnic, religio-regional, poly-social, sexo-economic diversity mappings. The greatest crime is not murder by identity theft; who on earth are we supposed to be? The data scientists still haven't figured it out, after all, its still only one's disposable income and leisure time that matters in a post-industrial, post-social aggregation of friends, acquaintances, audience members and comment section pseudonymous entities. So there is no definition of great. The ancient Egyptians postulated seven souls. The soul of America is somewhere in the attic.