October 30, 2006

. . .

Posted by dean at 05:38 AM

October 24, 2006

She Told Him He Had Tired Eyes, Grabbing His Shirt And Pulling Him Into The Used Electronics Store.

"Get me something special for someone in the '70s," she said.

He stared at the stock and his face fell.

No help, the owner in the corner scratched his side, folded the back of a French-to-English dictionary. Air hissed out his mouth and wires and boxes bulged under his shirt.

She adjusted her feet.

"I don't know," he said.

A couple of wasps banged on a light, killing themselves.

"Come on, weaponize," she said, backing towards the door.

Posted by dean at 08:35 PM

October 18, 2006

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 250.

Sooner than just about everybody, McLaren grasped that the rise of portable playback technology would make music more omnipresent in people's lives, but less important, and that it would eventually become mere disposable software for sleekly designed, highly fetishized pleasure-tech devices, such as today's mp3 players and iPods.

Posted by dean at 09:39 PM

October 15, 2006

The New World Is The Old World, And The Old World Waits For Something New To Happen.

The shelters were in the wrong place.

Take the arsenals out of the equation, and you have two super-nations obsessed with each other like ex-lovers, stalking and jealous and sad and angry.

A world-war split-up.

Posted by dean at 06:52 PM

October 10, 2006

. . .

  

Posted by dean at 11:46 PM

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 189.

"All possible processes. All channels open. Twenty-four hours alert."

Posted by dean at 07:04 PM

October 08, 2006

. . .

Posted by dean at 08:39 PM

October 05, 2006

Germ Rot Got Hit, Page 98.

"I spent four long years training salmon to swim upstream and search for forest fires."

Posted by dean at 07:09 PM

October 04, 2006

Can Always Give Me Directions Like These.

Third or fourth right.

Dark pillared gates.

English country-side.

Third left.

Blue house with red door.

Posted by dean at 08:39 PM

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