Wednesday, January 27, 2010
It’s utterly fucking godless, like a Pop Tart and a cup of instant coffee. It’s out-of-context, like Fyodor Dostoevsky dressed up in a floral print shirt with Birkenstocks, playing a bongo and drinking a Corona. It’s ill-fated, like patching up a bad relationship with dinner at a steak house, cherry-flavored edible panties, and a hotel room. It’s ugly, cheap, and insane, like a glob of ketchup fallen from a McDonald’s hamburger on a new pair of jeans in the stands at a little league baseball game, watching a fight between the parents of competing children. It’s angrily vicarious, bought-by-the-pound, processed, distilled, and edified down to the sum total of our backwoods ambitions. It is miles and miles of sincere nothing, with no content in sight.