. . .

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.

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.

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.

. . .

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 189.

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

. . .

Germ Rot Got Hit, Page 98.

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

Can Always Give Me Directions Like These.

Third or fourth right.

Dark pillared gates.

English country-side.

Third left.

Blue house with red door.