— rabatjoie


Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology

[ I.P. & the Stooges ]

Into the ear of every anarchist
that sleeps but doesn’t dream
we must sing
we must sing
we must sing

[ Bright Eyes ]

There is a mean poem about the Leid-Stadt, by a German man named Mr. Rilke. But we will not read it, because we are going to Happyville.

« Not butter? Then what the hell did I just eat? » Spread.

« I still say it’s butter » Spread.

« After all the damage you’ve done to this family with your habitual lying and deceit, you have the nerve to sit there with a straight face and tell me that this isn’t butter? » Spread.

« I’m pretty sure that was butter » Spread.

« I’m comfortable calling this butter » Spread.

« This challenges everything I’ve come to believe about butter » Spread.

« I’m not Entirely Sure it’s Edible » Spread.

« I’m willing to suspend disbelief about this being butter for about as long as it takes me to eat this toast » Spread.

« In the absence of actual butter, sure, I’ll play along » Spread.

« I guess you could call it butter. If you don’t put any in your mouth » Spread.

« From a distance, you’d swear it’s butter! » Spread.

« I can’t believe it’s so flammable » Spread.

« I have no reason to believe this isn’t butter » Spread.

« Am I wrong about God too? » Spread.

By Bob Shea

taken from McSweeney’s newsletter.

Oh, antville seems to be down.

Who was that, going by just then – who was the slender boy who flickered across her path, so blond, so white he was nearly invisible in the hot haze that had come to settle over Zwölfkinder? Did she see him, and did she know him for her second shadow? She was conceived because her father saw a movie called Alpdrücken one night and got a hardon. Pökler in his horny staring had missed the Director’s clever Gnostic symbolism in the lighting scheme of the two shadows, Cain’s and Abel’s. But Ilse, some Ilse, has persisted beyond her cinema mother, beyond film’s end, and so have the shadows of shadows. In the Zone, all will be moving under the Old Dispensation, inside the Cainists’ light and space: not out of any precious Göllerei, but because the Double Light was always there, outside all film, and that shucking and jiving moviemaker was the only one around at the time who happened not to notice it and use it, although in deep ignorance, then and now, of what he was showing the nation of starers…. So that summer Ilse passed herself by, too fixed at some shadowless interior noon to mark the intersection, or care.

The model currently being fired was the A3, christenend not with champagne, but with flasks of liquid oxygen by the playful technicians. Emphasis had begun to shift from propulsion to guidance. Telemetry on the flight tests was still primitive. Thermometers and barometers were sealed in a watertight compartment with a movie camera. During flights the camera photographed the needles swinging on the gauges. After the flight the film was recovered, and the data played back. Engineers sat around looking at movies of dials. Meantime Heinkels were dropping iron models of the Rocket from 20,000 feet. The fall was photographed by Askania cinetheodolite rigs on the ground. In the daily rushes you would watch the frames at around 3000 feet, where the model broke through the speed of sound. There has been this strange connection between the German mind and the rapid flashing of successive stills to counterfeit movement, for at least two centuries – since Leibniz, in the process of inventing calculus, used the same approach to break up the trajectories of cannonballs through the air. And now Pökler was about to be given proof that these techniques had been extended past images on film, to human lives.

Do me a favor, « world », and go fuck yourself.

The computer tells me it is 3:22, while my radio clock insists on 4:22. I am utterly confused. Meanwhile Will Oldham sings:

Death to everyone
is gonna come
and it makes hosing
much more fun

…cultural studies today when prof would not tell the lecture hall full of hipster girls what the difference is between structuralism & poststructuralism vis-a-vis early/late Foucault, but just gave us that datum as « something to drop into conversations at cocktail parties, which is all your humanities degree is going to be good for », but otherwise, otherwise things are nice, and the Mountain Goats songs I get stuck in my head are the tender and happy ones…