d865 wrote:Shevmeister,

Your poignant missive addresses me with great familiarity, yet I cannot help but suspect that you have confused me with another. However even had your cri de coeur not been intended for my eyes, I would have felt compelled to respond.

Permit me to observe, though, that today the aesthete's delicate shuddering, in this case, Curtis from complete, the pathos of being different, is much more than a stock mask in the cult of oppression.

Perhaps he might have earned the right to find his job unfulfilling, but in this day and age, no fulfillment may be attached to work, lest it lose its functional modesty in the totality of purposes. Likewise, no spark of reflection is allowed to fall into leisure time, whether or not one spends it amongst the beautiful people on the electrical forum, since it might otherwise leap across to the workaday world and set it on fire. Your freetime, Mr. Shevek, witholds from you the very freedom for which you hope; it chains you to the apparatus of production, even when this apparatus is giving you a vacation.


One final note. Although the content of your epistle, portrays you as a man embroiled in purposes who yet believes in the possibility of relations without purpose, its form suggests otherwise. Instead of a letter, you send me an inter-forum communique without salutation or signatiure; instead of symbolically raising your hat in greeting, you greet me with a hallo of familiar indifference. I'm guessing that you are a po-faced independant rocker or perhaps, even worse, an emotional one. These Mr. Shevek, are the symptoms of a sickness of contact. The abrupt form of your address itself seems to say "Time is money!" so I cannot help but feel that your apparently abject note is actually, somehow, an attempt to sell me something. Believe me when I say I hope I am mistaken.

shevek wrote:All of you hipster jags who are patronizing them would never let them anywhere near your houses or your sisters.

katie, a douchebag wrote:

Ty Webb wrote:Brain-damaged people are 100% really, really into making little mountains out of their mashed potatoes. And no one's mashed potato mountains are quite like their mashed potato mountains. Their exuberance when they dig in their hands, gravy be damned, is invigorating in its childlike purity.

But they're still brain-damaged, and it's still a mound of white mush.

This thread is what happens when people listen to too much punk.

To sum up: Steve Albini and Tim Midgett don't know what they are talking about, but J.R.R. Clownfro does.

Arson Smith wrote:

shevek wrote:All of you hipster jags who are patronizing them would never let them anywhere near your houses or your sisters.

Bullshit, since I'm not one of your hipster jags... I've partied with way scarier sonsabitches before... these guys seem like good-natured teddybears, and I'd shoot the shit and have a beer with any of them. They can't be any stranger than some of my relatives/friends/acquaintances around here. (I don't have a sister, so I won't speak to that point)