I bought 2 t shirts, shorts and some bits of crap in a Mad Harry’s type store. In the shop, which has some guy’s name, Frank I think, the intercom is constantly broadcasting messages to the indifferent clientele. Most are about the fact that new ready meals should be in on Friday, so there’s no need to worry if you can’t get what you want: just come again, and come often. But then the voice meanders off into some history of the company, starting from the moment Frank, or whoever it was, decided that cheap ready meals, kids’ socks, and plastic tat from China was all that stood between America and a Utopian vision of happiness. Years he devoted to bringing this dream to life, years of toil and perseverance. Undaunted was he by the fact that there are 300 other firms doing precisely this same shit all over the country. For his vision was different: his vision was that America needed a more regular delivery schedule for low cost ready meals. Men called him a dreamer, mocked his passionate striving, or else ignored him coz it’s only fucking ready meals and there are already thirty on sale in 300 other low cost low quality emporiums of trash.
Either way he built his empire and sold me some socks.
All the paper money is the same colour and none of the coins have numbers on them: they should sort that out, and if some idiot in Arkansas thinks it’s a communist takeover then so much the better.
The apartment is a cave, Plato’s cave: the building is three semi towers, thrusting out of the main body demanding to be noted in a way that used to seem Victorian, but that now, I think we are safe in calling Suspiciously Compensatory Imperialism. Moscow does it very well too.
The apartment I am in is in the shady corner at the back of one of those towers, looking out onto a wall full of people looking back in, and it’s always dark. A man could write post punk angst ridden dystopian pop here. Then evening time casts golden sunshine on the wall opposite and for an hour you can look out and imagine the truth of things.
Of course I could go out there and look directly into the face of the truth of things, even glare it at accusingly, but it never takes any notice. Besides it’s hot and loud and scary out there, with Americans everywhere being American and doing so quite deliberately from what I can see. You have to be together to deal with that shit, and a sleepless night followed a mexican herbal breakfast is no preparation for walking into a living Michael Bay film. You just know some many tentacled, titanium space evil is about to materialise above Macey’s at any moment, you can’t fool us, we have seen this shit a dozen times.