The sun still shines in New York, but I am inside, glooming a little. Limbo is my least favourite place, even if I do have a PC and Acid and Soundforge and Fruity to play with now. That Dogg and I mashed out three tunes yesterday, and I wrote words for one, tentatively (and groundbreakingly, I’m sure you’ll agree) called ‘New York’.
I guess you will like it, since it is very good. Hopefully I’ll record it later, if I get some money and get out of this space. I woke up late, and the place was deserted – my people are away. I have the only key, so I can’t go out, cos they can’t get in then. And go out for what? I have a couple of quarters and a suntan. I guess you can go pretty far with that sort of ammunition round these parts. I open my mouth and watch the faces change. My alien nature is my trump card. I am almost beginning to loathe my countrymen, their closeted, cynical, sardonic nature, their fear of love, or at least its physical form. The British lie cowering behind irony, firing off bitter barbs and feeling unhappily superior to the world. I am in awe of a people that is not afraid to tell its brother when it is a cocksucker and when it is a thing it would like to fuck. That feels no shame and silliness in talking to randoms on the street.
I wonder if a Britisher would have made Farenheit 911. I suspect not. Those from back home lucky enough to understand a little of the nature of the world mock Moore’s “simplistic” approach, and his passion, ignoring the fact that the vast majority of the world does not share their knowledge. People DO read The Sun, and they DO believe it. Over here, people DO watch Fox, and they DO believe it. …911 is fucking awesome, and I cried on the way home. It wasn’t like I wasn’t aware of most of the content, unlike most people. But seeing it… seeing America’s poor, hearing their voices, having the whole thing laid out in such a human context, made it more real to me than it has ever been before. On the way home Wade and I saw one of those New York exchanges I always assumed to be fictional in basis – a man and a cabbie, exchanging “fuck you’s” and “cocksuckers” and fists.
Things that will happen over the next few months: The swine in charge will “find” WMDs, and the swine in charge will “find” Pretty Bin Laden. I have realized that Sage Francis is an uppity prick, and my admiration for Mr Moore grows daily. Sage once told me that he would never promote himself heavily, appear in teeny magazines, etc., because “whoever needed to hear [his] message would, eventually”. Bullshit. If he really has anything of value to say, it should be heard by as many people as is possible. If he actually wants to help. But he doesn’t. He wants to keep it in the clever clever club, where they can sit around slagging of Cheney and feeling superior. Fuck that. Just because people are taught to be retard robot scum by school and TV and their parents dopes not mean it is their fault, and that they ARE – how dare you elitist cunts think you have a right to knowledge over the rest of the world… How dare you consider yourselves better than ANYBODY. You pricks. You are worse than the people running things. You are their smug accomplices, keeping things just how they like it. Fuck you. I spit on you. I will wear your bleeding hide as a coat on the cover of TV Hits.