Ive tried pulling out the iPhone, instead of a cigarette, but it’s unsatisfactory.
There's an app for that. Well, sort of.
He’s dyslexic, and he knows that this big public display of news paper reading, is theatre.
I once saw a woman in an outdoor cafe drawing in a sketchbook. She quickly spotted me pretending not to look and, to my surprise, proudly held up her work for my perusal. That's when the real surprise kicked in. She'd produced a head and shoulders portrait of a German shepherd in finely rendered blue ball point. Instead of drawing from life she was working from memory.
I must have paid her work a suitable compliment, because she went on to flip through her sketchbook to reveal a whole bunch of earlier variations on the same picture. "I think they're the only breed that really look like dogs, don't you?" she said, smiling proudly.
Reading all the about page leaves me wondering which of what they publish is real news, and what’s been manufactured to order.
Wondering if it's a wise move on the Spinoff's part to run a picture of what purports to be their actual production line. A bit like hot dogs, knowing how they're made can kill your enthusiasm for the end product.
The Dim Post link will take you to the same place.
Later, I shall post photos of abandoned American shopping malls.
Everything's getting hoovered up by The Spinoff.
...a bit of retro synth-pop...
That looks like the Kraftwerk pic that NME ran at the time of their late 70s London show, with the caption "This is what our fathers died to save us from".
I'm beginning to wonder if any day now it will be revealed that Trump (and all that that envelops) is really a time expansive private conceptual art project of Gilbert and Georgian-conceit...
Something's got to give. Trump's screaming shabbiness evokes the Jorge Luis Borges dream-story Ragnarök , where the ancient gods - Janus, Thoth, etc. - appear before a select invited audience to proclaim the reassertion of their old powers. The exultant mood suddenly shifts when it's revealed that in their years of exile they've degenerated into a kind of imbecility:
Suddenly, we felt that they were playing their last trump, that they were cunning, ignorant, and cruel, like aged predators, and that if we allowed ourselves to be swayed by fear or pity, they would wind up destroying us.
We drew our heavy revolvers (suddenly in the dream there were revolvers) and exultantly killed the gods.
Holds the writer's credit for track 1, side 1 of what's indisputably the greatest album of all time.
When a monster breaks free from Dr Frankenstein's lab and runs amok...
....the peasants take up their traditional accessories and hunt the bastard down, right?