Cosmos curdled like cheese to life and mind. Celebrated human ghost font fixed width teletype ISO-8859. Simulated terminals.
“Everybody has one.”
“Well I won’t say it, but it rhymes with rocks and runts (tee-hee tee-hee, chucklechuckle, chucklechuckle, tee-hee tee-hee, chucklechucle chucklechuckle),” teased Mrs. Robinson (played by Barbara Bush).
“Believe me I can help you if you’d only let me in…” pleaded the Graduate (played by Bill Clinton).
“Not by the hair of my botox chin quim.”
NOTA: the medium is not the message, the medium is a box. The message is ashes to ashes to dust to self-loathing failure to become, to measure up; to beat the clock. Failure to find freedom. Failure to get out, failure to flee vinyl placards of dominion: flags on the Moon (and everyplace else).
Wave their flags (on the Moon and everyplace else), die of their dreams, fight their wars, wretched creatures of habit, lost…
Mumford, page one, volume one of Technics and Civilization, says we are less than, says we are no more than, says we are mere semi-rational components. Of The Machine.
Mumford’s 1967 hard-cover first edition beside your Doors and Sargent Pepper back of the van Summer TIME magazine dubbed “Love.” Draft card in your pocket. California dreamin’ mega-technics and the demigods who love them.
Suckers. Where is your Chicago Seven now?