Beastmaster
“The cultural grease drippings of the 1960s will no longer be applicable in the twenty-first century. But class politics will. Anti-industrialism will. Redneck rural individualism, once thought to be a sure sign of mental retardation, will seem wise in the face of seething overpopulation. There are a lot of first-class philosophers hiding in the hills, too smart ever to come down into the city. Exit the white liberal. Enter the redneck. The avant-garde is the Old Guard. The East Village is a dead zone. San Francisco is a bombed-out crater. The Left Bank has slipped into the river. Bohemia is scorched earth. But the hills are still standing.
"Up, up, ye mighty trailer park. The hills are alive with the sound of muskets. A stink rises from America like steamin’ horse manure wafting through the cornfields. Can you smell it, my friend? A rebel yell echoes from the hills and into the greenish glens. Can you hear it, my friend? The shit's gonna rise one day. The trash is only starting to strike back.
"The fog lifts. The sun burns through the clouds. The necks slowly sizzle to red.”
--Jim Goad, 1997 (via)
Future? Present? Past, and everything thus?
Will this indelible human spirit we're so keen to trumpet triumph? Or are we just beastmasters.
Silver Surfer, take me away.
"Up, up, ye mighty trailer park. The hills are alive with the sound of muskets. A stink rises from America like steamin’ horse manure wafting through the cornfields. Can you smell it, my friend? A rebel yell echoes from the hills and into the greenish glens. Can you hear it, my friend? The shit's gonna rise one day. The trash is only starting to strike back.
"The fog lifts. The sun burns through the clouds. The necks slowly sizzle to red.”
--Jim Goad, 1997 (via)
Future? Present? Past, and everything thus?
Will this indelible human spirit we're so keen to trumpet triumph? Or are we just beastmasters.
Silver Surfer, take me away.