| Anapests for the Desperate
What you want: to reduce us to one million jerks. The self-satisfied dreamers must stop pimping art and make love to the right kind of girls where they sit, waiting for lust to show up and seem dissolute. Things are too beautiful to be kept under wraps; when the money is ready the human voice slips into juicy bit parts and unscripted identities, toys with consent on the fringe of atrocities, makes business sense. But you want this with just a disconsolate edge, a nostalgia that cuts, words you’d put on your fridge before pissing in cornflakes. The childless world dodges your bullets, and most of the rest vote for Bush, their dead families valued at Hollywood’s price. Brad Buchanan |