It’s a sultry evening on the Plateau, and after an invigorating conference at the Deli over what the DJ monikers of all the freaks meandering by should be, I’m retiring back to the keyboard. I scan the news. Condoleezza Rice is at it again, off to Lebanon to churn up support for Chevron’s new petroleum additives, before skipping off to Israel to strike up a deal with Ehudiot Olmert over upcoming arms trading. Those Yankees sure know how to double-time developing nations. The protection racket has never been better. Stephen Harper’s probably at home having wet dreams about being taken advantage of by American businesswomen. After Powell, then Rice, I reckon they should get a black female gay to be head of the Ministry of Truth. Maybe a single mother on welfare, too. Keep narrowing the image until it’s the ultimate statement of fluffy, American diversity.
Bloc Party’s playing on my stereo. Balroom was rad last night. I seem to have leveled off my downward spiral as of late. I’ve curtailed the self destruction to what could probably be described as responsible moderation. Unfortunately, the artistic output is at a proportional relationship, leaving me with a sour disdain at my editorial and reviews of late. There were only three score wastoids and change, but, boy were we cuttin’ a rug. Balroom’s about the only place that has 85% of the clientele clapping, obstinate to leave at 3:30am Monday morning. Terrible bar, great people, unbelievable tunes.
I like how the UN will make aid appeals for
