O Adele

 

 

 

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O Adele

Marketplace fatale

Painted empress

Contralto divine

Watchful gaze from Target endcaps

Assorted displays, strategically placed

Exclusive bounties everlasting

Observing commerce

Participating

Surrounding

Dominating

Squired home in plastic

Anticipation

 

O Adele

Rolling Stone

Countenance vexed

Neck, Winsletian

Face scrubbed mortal

Thou speakest in voices two:

One wrings tears from august pearls

Cushions midlife minivan misery

Comforts captives lost between teenage walls

The other brays hearty

In Tottenham strains

The language of dockworkers

And washwomen

Rutting in puddles of porter

Splashed with tobacco

Stained in the blood of sailors

 

O Adele

Butter-lunged siren tart

Crestfallen

Skyfallen

Thine cradled words envelop

An ever-present current

As we shop for poinsettias

Purchase petrol and cigarettes

Scroll numbly through clickbait

Go Macho on the Del Taco No. 4

Splash ourselves in fragrance

Chase smiles in fleeting symphonies

 

O Adele

You sing of love

But does love exist without you?

O Adele

You sing of dreams

But are we not your dream?

Did we ever know 21?

Or feel the depths of 25?

Had we ever said hello

‘Til you acknowledged us in kind?

 

O Adele

Thank goodness you’re here

Our world is in turmoil

Our goodwill shattered

All hope is gone

Lead us

Guide us

Bring us home

 

O Adele

Wait

Your album’s not on Spotify?

Huh

Hm

Well

Fuck you, then.

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The Righteous Brothers: Mysti-Bliss at 2:55

Reportedly, Phil Spector, his hand-picked marksmen, and the two Righteous Brothers hammered through “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” from August to November 1964, and you know who was alive then? Not me.

I tried to coax some context from my parents, lowly adolescents at the time, albeit to no avail. They were woefully unaware in their microcosmic dioramas that Heartbreak History was going down in Los Angeles as summer tripped toward fall, which then slid into blizzards of promenades where they and other agog-orbed everybodies heard this song for the very first time, the paint still fresh and sweet. (I cursed their luck as I begrudgingly twirled partners to the pizza-box whimper of Bon Jovi, whose “I’ll Be There for You” nevertheless crowds my senses with the nectar of Doublemint gum, Aqua Net, and post-clutch expectations.)

My first “Lovin’” rush came through the pocket-comb prism of Hall & Oates, soaped down and hollowed out, a Xerox of a Xerox of pale-faced blue-eyed soul. A few years later it tumbled into the mitts of Tom Cruise and Anthony Edwards, et al; their “Top Gun” barroom mayhem inspired scores of off-key parrots shit-deep in cheap beer and Cupid-drunk on cheaper love. Does no one respect the classics?

O’ to’ve been a stealth intruder during Spector’s grandiose construction. To have witnessed the impatient Bobby Hatfield, the Brothers’ honey-toned half, demanding to know what he was supposed to do while partner Bill Medley sopped up all the tape, only to have Spector, that bargain-carpeted pipsqueak custom-fitted over a tyrant scumbag, allegedly riposte, “You can go straight to the fuckin’ bank.”

Phil was sure an asshole, but he was an asshole with ears. His techniques and omniscience were once beyond reproach. After all, the dude had been moving units with alarming ease since he was a 19-year-old nobody leading his Teddy Bears to No. 1 (“To Know Him Is to Love Him,” 1958).

And he was right about “Lovin’” too: Hatfield is strictly support for the first two minutes — a chorus-bolster — then his tenor breaks free at exactly the right moment, when his Brother can no longer carry the burden alone. “Baby, baby, I get down on my knees for you,” Medley sighs, weary, lonesome, defeated. Into the breach steps Hatfield with the save: “If you would only love me / like you used to do,” pleaded with every last-ditch pine a pain can articulate. Spector’s Wall of Sound surge falls back to a light pulse and lets the duo do its thing.

The song plays well to both men’s strengths: Bill could testify, Bobby could beg. Who the hell with a heartbeat could resist such a combo of honest regret? When the two then rise in a back-and-forth call/response —“baby” to “baby,” “please” to “please,” trading “I need your loves” and “bring it on backs” — it’s just not fair.

But that’s not even the best part, oh, no. Spector & Co. reserve the goosebump payload for the 2-minute, 55-minute mark, after the voices have spent themselves and left an open gasp for a downpour of strings and a crash of drums, an airborne soul touching terra firma following a hopeful glance that became a yes that became a freeze-frame kiss. The same DNA comprised “Be My Baby,” “Then He Kissed Me,” “Today I Met the Boy I’m Gonna Marry,” and any number of play-’em-agains bearing crescendos that carried crushes through many a suburban daydream. It was a Spector specialty, that heavy, narcotic pain, creating a lovelorn beauty unachievable in life, the musical embodiment of teenaged yearning. If only she could see me. If only she ever knew. If only I could ever express myself, she’d see that it was true.

The Righteous Brothers at 2:55 is that moment: a cocktail of heartache and hope. Bring back that lovin’ feelin’. It still hurts even now, despite the fact that I know it’s coming, as I’ve known since the song and I first became acquainted, back when I pretended sentiment was beneath me. I saw every girl then. I’ve seen every girl since. That tiny sonic hiccup and they’re all fucking there, a cruel parade of vanished futures. And then they’re gone, gone, gone. Dust, glimpses, ghosts.

Songs like this don’t grow old. They age with you, their import intact. You can hear them ’til they’re empty — examine their structures, plumb their mysteries, dismiss their formulas — but when you set them loose, they find you. They hit you where you’ve always lived.

As heard on The Essential Phil Spector (2011)

The First “No” Is the Deepest

Man, that Facebook’s a ceaseless wonder. After reconnecting with distant relatives, old classmates, former paramours, half-remembered acquaintances, and cherished childhood friends, I’ve hit yet another nostalgic milestone: the first girl I ever asked out.

I was 15 then, and way behind the curve. I’d been on dates before — don’t be silly! — but those were usually parent-finagled scenarios to get me out of the house so they and their adult friends could guzzle brandy, smoke cigars, and lament the horrid backslide of education, politics, and the arts since 1969. “Heyyy,” pops could cajole, draping a fatherly limb across my skeptical teenage shoulders, “the Colsons have a daughter about your age…” By ellipses’ end I’d find myself at the cineplex, $20 in my fist and a virtual stranger at my side. There’d be wandering glances and awkward pauses as we desperately, nervously struggled through small talk, clawing for common ground. Oh, you like Mr. Mister? Cool. Want some popcorn to hide behind for the next two hours like a buttered potted plant?

Together we’d sit like Frigidaires, me duded up, slightly hopeful, her plotting quiet revenge against all of our parents. License to Drive would cut shadows into our sad charade. She’d watch Corey Feldman and Corey Haim do their ridiculous Two Corey schtick and wonder why, of all the available Cory/Coreys in the universe, she was saddled with me.

She was lucky, though, that I wasn’t actively pursuing her. ‘Cause I was utterly hapless with girls. To compensate for an otherwise quiet demeanor, my adolescent courting technique could best be described as suicidal. When I liked someone, I expressed my affection by mocking the shit out of her. That was my surefire formula: relentless ridicule. Plumb her pleasantries for puns, lob salvos and barbs upon contact, repeat until the subject falls in love.

Hey, it worked for my hero, Groucho Marx. In my hands, however, it proved surprisingly ineffective. One girl wouldn’t speak to me for five years. (Well, that’s not entirely true: late in our senior year, she directed a barrage at me that contradicted her status as an Honors student.) Prank calls weren’t endearing, either, unless you found tiresome rounds of Asshole Telephone sexy. My exasperating immaturity cost me a few potential friendships. Somehow, my actions weren’t seen as scampishly clever.

For a Lothario in training, my track record stunk. I’d had exactly one girlfriend by the tenth grade, a relationship I demolished with my loutish behavior. She was a sweet girl who deserved far better than my phony strut for however long she endured it. When we were 12, it felt like months, when it was likely only weeks. But it was a middle-school romance and oh, so serious. Florid, yearning origami jammed through locker vents. Long afternoon phone calls to listen to each other listening to music. Communication through song dedications: “This one goes out to Cory — it’s Toto, with ‘Stranger in Town.’” Making her cry ’cause I had to be a prick. A showoff. An icehouse.

She eventually got her revenge by forgiving me. But not before announcing to our junior-year creative-writing class that we’d once been “lovers,” relaying this information with an evil grin and eyes of playful malice. Touche. (She’s a Facebook friend now too.)

But what the hell. I’m leaping around the timeline. Focus, soldier; you’re a Professional.

This particular incident took place during my sophomore year of high school, late ’87/early ’88. The girl was in my Bioscience class. Quiet and intriguing. Naturally, my usual approach would not be appropriate. I was still young, but I was learning fast. Slowly dulling my vicious edge. Honing my filters. Cooling my dickish lean. I had to be delicate, do things right. This meant handling the situation as the private me — the dope who poured poems into notebooks and harbored dreams of writer-dom — and not the stumblebum knucklehead junior raconteur. I had to talk to her at school or call her at home, engage her as a human being instead of as a straight man, and ease, organically, into a formal proposal.

I suspected that calling her at home was the easiest option. No barking-sweat visuals to turn her stomach. But still it took three nights to summon the courage. My logic was sound, I thought. Monday was too early. Tuesday was too volatile. Wednesday was just right. Weekend plans would still be in limbo and, uh — well, it made perfect sense at the time. All that was left was to actually make the call.

I was an anxious wreck, kneeled over the rotary phone in my parents’ bedroom, door securely locked for maximum privacy. The cool drone of a dial tone hummed expectantly in my ear as my fingers tapped the black beast in thought.

You poor kids today will never know the beauty of the rotary phone, the anticipation as tumblers fell into place. It was the perfect agent of suspense. The numbers clacked and spun, giving me time to concentrate on potential outcomes. What would I do if a parent answered, a protective father type demanding my name, address, and intentions? Or maybe she’d answer, first ring, and catch me unawares. What if an answering machine picked up? Would I leave a message? What would I say? Would I pretend to be a wrong number? Disconnect without a word?

Too many options, too many question. So I’d hover over that final digit, quailing at the crossroads, rewriting history, until that angry chorus of “EH! EH! EH! EH!” sent me all the way back to the beginning. CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK … CLACK CLACKCLACK …

After 700 attempts, I finally spun the orphaned number, largely out of sympathy. It looked so forlorn and untouched, separated from its tribe by a teenage pussy. Also, I’d compromised by then, vowing to hang up after three rings. Couldn’t say I didn’t try.

The tumblers settled. I was in.

One ring. OK.

Two rings. Almost there.

Th —

“Hello?”

Deep voice.

Father?

Shit.

“Uhhhh, hi!” I sang, whitening my delivery with counterfeit sunshine. “Is [NAME REMOVED] there?”

Pause. Interminable pause.

“Sure. Hold on.”

Muffled voices. Silverware? Dinner. Bad, bad form. Brush of phone on flesh and

“Hello?”

It’s her.

“Hey!” I shout for the benefit of neighbors six blocks away.

“Hi.”

“Hi!” I reply, as if trying the word out for myself. Then I realize “Hey!” and “Hi!” aren’t exactly exclamations exclusive to me, so I decide right then and there to be helpful.

“It’s Cory. From school.”

“Hi.” No discernible change in tone. Not cold, not glad, just mildly friendly.

“Hey. So, um, did you get that assignment done?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. Just wondering. Science, y’know. Like, pshoo. Science.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m sorry, did I interrupt your dinner?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK.”

“Didn’t mean to be, y’know. Rude.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Anyway,” I continue, finally seizing the reins to strangle this dying pony, “the reason I’m calling, actually, is because, well, y’know, I was curious. Would you maybe wanna perhaps, I dunno, go out sometime? Like Friday, maybe? Or next Friday? Or …”

I feel a surge of genuine shock course through the cord like Kool-Aid up a Silly Straw. Now it’s her to turn to stammer.

“Whuh — um. Hm. Sorry, but no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just — ”

“No! No. That’s OK.”

“OK.”

“OK. Cool. Well.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I will, um — I will see you in class tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, Cory.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

I hung up, sat on the edge of the bed. My first formal proposal, my first formal rejection. 0-1. Or 1-1. Why be a pessimist.

Honestly, though, it didn’t feel so bad. In fact, it was better than I’d expected. She was gentle, not at all what I’d feared — what I’d always feared: combative revulsion, angry denouncement, emasculating laughter, or outright physical retaliation at the very idea of socializing with me in a non-academic environment. It was not a harbinger of my future. It was just the word “no.”

And that, as they say, was that. We returned to class and, with the exception of an occasional bemused glance, never acknowledged what had happened. In fact, that Wednesday night exchange turned out to be the longest conversation we’d ever have.

She’s probably long forgotten it, but I carry that memory with a peculiar fondness. It was the beginning of the private me overcoming a self-conscious manufactured asshole. The process was long and painful, and I can’t say he’s gone completely — I’m still a sucker for well-laid snark; its pull is sometimes too irresistible — but I’m more civilized now and, might I add, an excellent lunch companion, so…

No? Well, maybe next time.

F!: An Exclusive Interview

Cory Frye stands behind a -- well, he was here a second ago.

In a multimedia press conference earlier this week, author/rake/journalist Cory Frye announced his retirement from writing, calling it a “prehistoric means of expression.”

With that change came his decision to condense his full birth name, Cory Justin Frye, into the letter “F” and an exclamation point. “I felt it was necessary to make a clean break from my shameful past as a scribe making an honest living,” he told the New York Times. “‘Cory Frye,’ as prolific as that name has been, was a necessary casualty.” F! is now pursuing his latest obsession, the “Culture of the Moment.”

We recently caught up with the former Cory Frye to discuss this abrupt re-brand.

So what comprises this “Culture of the Moment”?

Nothing. The Culture of the Moment is momentary. It’s already passed. Who cares, honestly. Adieu to that ancient rubbish. I do not watch the news, read books or blogs, or listen to music, for uttered phrases and freshly struck notes or characters are nothing but apprentice artifacts, preludes to the distant past. Even the real-time chasm between a page or a speaker and my much-coveted attention is a distance I can no longer abide. Live performance is nostalgic necrophilia, and I vomit upon its tragicomic decrepitude. I live solely for the present and the future. Now I live solely for a more urgent present and a closer future.

So are you disowning your past work?

I will not discuss my previous work. I have pissed upon it all. It’s the puerile yelp of a jackanape.

Well, but some of it is quite good. For instance, your 1999 art film, Man Drinks Coke, Does Not Die, is considered a cornerstone of pretentious independent cinema.

The 1999 Cory Frye was a potato-faced Luddite. He had no cell phone. He did not text. He enjoyed recorded music. He read books, wrote words, completed sentences. He did not tweet. He did not have a Gmail account. He made films using film, for Christ’s sake. He was backward in every respect, and I have thrust a poisoned dagger through his Neanderthal obsolescence. I will speak of him no more.

At what point did Cory Frye become F!?

I have been F! since birth. My parents meant well, but they did not understand. They wept like snot-webbed bitches when I informed them privately at the age of three that I was not to be addressed as Cory, Cory Justin, or Cory Justin Frye, that I was finished deferring to oppressive customs. I could not in good conscience acknowledge that slavish form of address. Of course, I played along at school and at work, out of a sense of convention, but now I am wholly, completely — and publicly — F!

I selected the majuscule because I find lower-case displays so boorish and self-consciously modest: “Oooo, I’m not more important than you, but I’m different anyway!” I have to laugh at poor danah boyd; does she not realize how tiny she seems, how easily she’s lost in a wild brush of sentences? The “F” helped me stand apart while also establishing my masculinity, which I stamped with an exclamation point. It is a statement of dominance, confidence, and dynamism. danah could learn much from my colleague “Wh–” — her em dash neatly gives pause. So jarring, so abrupt. So mysterious.

Cory Justin Frye was a 20th century albatross. Once free of its shackles, I was able to pursue my art.

What is your art, exactly?

You’re sitting in it.

The couch?

Not the couch, you salamander-menstruation. Incidentally, I purchased that couch for your comfort, as F! cannot sit, for F! is forever in forward motion. Which is why he is on foot during this interview and moving away from the reach of your recording device.

(shouting) This begs the question: If you’re so dismissive of recording as promotion of the past or — as you called it in OK! magazine — the “amplification of dinosaurs,” why did you consent to be recorded for this interview?

(louder) Hello?

You still in here?

(sounds of grumbling, sprinting, panting, doors opening, birds chirping, cars passing. F! is located; the question is repeated)

F! is sympathetic to your creative limitations and deficiencies. You are a word serf confined to print and digital, exhibiting static syllabic cadavers to deviants — “readers,” you call them. Therefore, you require an accurate transcript of my raw brilliance.

Personally, I would never record myself now. I’m contemptuous of words once they’ve passed my lips. I feel them fester as they tumble from cerebrum to tongue, bless their suicidal hearts.

Just out of curiosity, how would F! conduct an interview?

For a start, F! need not interview anyone but F! And F! would simply shout into the wind and let the exuberance of his words come back to him, then drain into the valley below.

Earlier I asked you to explain your art. You replied, “You’re sitting in it.” Care to elaborate?

I cannot elaborate, for your question is now a relic. To answer would be to dwell in the past.

I think you’re being evasive.

Art is evasion.

That’s a pat answer.

Art is a pat answer.

No, it’s not.

Art is negative and argumentative.

Now you’re being a pseudo-clever prick.

Art is the vessel of pseudo-clever pricks.

And now you’re just mocking me.

Pish-posh. I am transforming your banal observations into something more sublime. You’ve supplied the basic strokes; I am taking those strokes and expanding them into an auditory Matisse that would have fetched $20 million in auction. Connoisseurs would hail it as three-dimensional post-millennial vaudeville, praising my ability to wring divinity from your wretched mediocrity. However, I have let the moment pass without exploiting your handicap for profit. I am an artist. I piss on my genius with genius.

Will this “Culture of the Moment” produce anything lasting?

Culture of the what?

“Culture of the Moment.” It’s your new religion, remember?

Since when?

You announced it Tuesday.

Can’t be bothered with Tuesday. F! has moved on.

So what’s F! moved on to?

Macrame.

Anarchy in the U.K. (A Phish Tale)

“And I can see there’s something wrong with you
But what do you expect me to do?”
— Sex Pistols, “Problems”

“I look into my finance box
Just to check my status”
— Phish, “Golgi Apparatus”

24 Feb 2011

Attn: Her Majesty the Queen
cc: Prime Minister David Cameron
Ricky Gervais
The cast and crew of Cranford

I never thought these scenarios were real … until it happened to me.

Now, look. I’ve never set foot on your continent. But I’ve seen enough BBC to grok the gist. Aside from Basil Fawlty’s sputtering lunacy, Vyvyan Basterd’s two-sticks sneer, and Jeff Murdoch’s creepy libido, I’m confident you’re an island of manners, couth, and grace.

But some of your subjects — my God. I understand you’re not responsible for every rapscallion’s behavior, yet you must be apprised of a rapidly worsening social epidemic.

Everywhere I turn I hear awful stories about Americans impulsively traveling abroad only to be assaulted by your countrymen, stripped of their wallets, then left only with access to Facebook to share their harrowing experience with friends, often in stilted babble that sounds completely unlike them. Their desperation is heartbreaking, their anguish overwhelming. In their discombobulation, they’ve forgotten specific details about their own lives, details like longtime e-mail addresses or personal/intimate histories.

Forgive my impudence, Your Majesty, but the U.K. sounds like a goddamned nightmare. I picture alleys of scoundrels, blackjacks and pistols ready for action. Apparently, the police are useless because they’re still fuming over the way we good-naturedly mock their sartorial resemblance to Rowan Atkinson in The Thin Blue Line (hey, that’s Ben Elton’s fault! Go rob him!), and our embassy twiddles its fat bureaucratic thumbs, rendered immobile by bangers, mash, and kebabs.

Right. Fine. We’ll give Tom Hooper all the Oscars this year. We’ll cast Colin Firth in everything. We’ll retroactively apologize for killing only English- and Irishmen in The Great Escape. We’ll make a movie with Jason Statham, Brendan Gleeson, and Liam Neeson beating the shit out of the Rock. Now, will you please let us roam the Piccadilly unmolested?

Honestly, you never hear about such violence in America. I’ve never been pinged by an English acquaintance: “Pip-pip, chappie, I’ve been robbed at gunpoint outside an Allagash bed-and-breakfast and I’m in dire need of lucre to settle my bill.” Instead, it’s more “What-ho, I’m chuffed, they’ve sold me a marvelous jar of local preserves!” That’s how we do in the colonies, bro. We limit the beat-downs and swindling to our own, each and every week on Jersey Shore.

Seriously, though, are you guys broke or something? Even with all the world’s eyes on your upcoming royal nuptials? Good Lord. Imagine the horror as news cameras capture, over Prince William’s shoulder, Kate Middleton’s uncle pulling a knife on Kanye West! How do you think this anti-American trend will affect your international press, not to mention your tourism and diplomacy?

I’m not that tight with the White House (yet), but I know a few gofers at my local city hall. I can certainly get the ball rolling, see if we can’t get you back on your feet. So the next time one of my friends bounds across the pond for some needed R&R and decides to chat me up after two or three years of irregular contact, we can have a weird conversation instead about how lovely and generous your people are. How perhaps I should visit myself one day, for badinage over a spot of tea. And then I’ll give you my PIN number.

God save and keep the Queen,

Cory J. Frye

 

P.S. My gratitude to the Guardian’s Richard Adams, who helped me make sense of a phishing attempt this morning and who, for some odd reason, follows me on Twitter.

Ten Karaoke Numbers Performed in Beer-Soaked Esprit

U2, "In a Little While"

1. Al Green, “Let’s Stay Together” (with and without handkerchief)
2. Georgia Satellites, “Keep Your Hands to Yourself”
3. Bobby Darin, “Beyond the Sea” (bonus points: performed on an actual cruise ship)
4. The Rolling Stones, “Emotional Rescue”
5. Queen, “Fat Bottomed Girls”
6. Stories, “Brother Louie” (pre-Louie)
7. Undisputed Truth, “Smiling Faces Sometimes”
8. The Temptations, “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone”
9. Bonnie Tyler, “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (as a duo with an OSU football player)
10. Benny Mardones, “Into the Night” (mullet optional)

Soothsayin’ Daddy Cold Tells Like What It Is

Everybody’s rappin’ about the future like the shit’s already here. But we know that ain’t right. Y’all remember when Nintendo used to huffpuff that jibjab about “The future is now”? Fuck, mang, compared to the crunk we smoke in the Nine, them graphics in the wayback sucked the freckles off an Irishman’s bro-mounds and the gameplay was stiffer (all whitebread Kenny G bip-bop-bipzipple-zwiddlyoof) than the same cat after his last gulp o’ Guinness flattened him Frankenstein.

See, the future wasn’t then, man; the future then was now. But the future now ain’t now; it’s somewhere else, baby. See, future’s a tee-hee motherfucker, a spoiled sprite playing a mucked-up version of hide-and-seek where it’s never your turn.

Aha, but, you say, the future is tomorrow, is it not? (Fuck you think you are, Adrian Monk?) Aha, but, I retort, tomorrow is just today with a 24-hour extension, and that goes for all our today-tomorrows linked to tomorrow-todays, and on and on and on. It’s a string of reprieves from a ridiculously sympathetic landlord.

So when does the future get here? I mean, does it call ahead? Will it be wearing a nametag? Is it shtupping Aunt Martie? Does it like onions in meat loaf? All perfectly legitimate questions. Like my man at the corner used to say: lucky for you, I got the shit.

People I agree with say I’ve got vision. Well, I don’t know if I’d go quite that far. I’m more of a prophet for a daring new age in communication innovation revolution revelation. But I’ve always been that way. One time when I was a kid, a klatsch of my homeboys flapped into my rumpus yapping about a road trip to Woodstock to catch Janis and Joan. “Off the jock, slick!” I snapped. “I’m learning WordPress.”

That’s me, daddy: forever looking forward. My car don’t go in reverse; the street flips over. When I stop at Little Caesars for fatty comestibles, sometimes I read right through the menu into the pharmacy across the street. In fact, I’m so future I posted this in 1974, but your eyes couldn’t handle it till now. I’m so future I’m dead. If you call my number, a recording says, “Move on.”

And movin’ on’s hard to do, especially for the troglodytes in the media and pretty much anyone who’s never been inside my house. Now, hey, like, man, I used to dig the paper trip too, right? But that shit’s tired, Lambada tired. If you’ve got atoms anywhere near your aura, you should probably just blow your brains the fuck out now. There’s no place for you in the future. Eject that noise right out of your life. Burn everything that sucks.

downsized_0922091805

Teach others to let go too. When you’re out massaging kumquats and feeling up the Cheerios, if you see someone jackbooting down the aisles with a physical shopping list, with ruled lines and ink and human-looking script, snatch that jazz toute quick and throw it away. There’s an app for that, you dumb fucking bitch.

Walk into your local newspaper office and seize the first unoccupied desk you find. Should someone gob off with monosyllabic stupid like “Who are you?” clock him in the offending trench. Shit, these people call themselves reporters, asking questions like that? You’re a breath of fresh Fourth Estate air, that’s who you are. Tweet the local scuttlebutt, fire everyone who still keeps pens in their drawers, then measure the staff conference room for a bed and flat-screen (i.e., the stuff you won’t burn), and a shelf for all your Pulitzers — that is, if we even have Pulitzers, for I have foreseen in their stead a bounty of Burger King gift cards and a cheek-peck from the Target-sponsored Chris Anderson Hologram. If you’ve loftier aspirations, barricade Conde Nast from the inside and blog as James Wolcott until Graydon Carter’s too drunk to care.

Of course, none of this shit’s gonna matter once the unicorns return. You may chortle now at the idea of a fantastical equine struggling with the safety on a Glock 21, but you won’t be able to tweet your amusement fast enough to grok your fatal mistake.

Onward!