The pews are half full this water glass is quaking. How many of the bereaved give good massages? Why oh why were there no traces of drugs in our dying beehive? What a waste of horn-rimmed devotion. Our rockers are neither consummate partiers, nor barely not derailing train-wrecks: they live-blog and focus on social media. Our tattoo artists have often been described as “professional to a fault.” Let’s, children, turn back to the twin decks, to the beat and the rhythm, to the absence of ego in disco-lights and to an orbit, to vertigo. The robots are better at wall-paper, they choose no longer neither rock nor scissors. I would like to be remembered as the founder of the Great Trance Room In The Sky as well as a person on the goddamn list with a plus one and a complimentary vodka drink. It is not so much to ask in retrospect and forever mumbling, caressing a feather, but I lay my case to the velvet rope. When I saw postmodernism I told myself now that’s a t-shirt I can wear. Inappropriation is a thing of the future perfect as imagined in the future imperfect. This jacket feels lined with infinite possibilities, seventeen kinds of sunshine in the heart of a hurricane. I saw a trail, wept in the key of C# and between 70 to 110 beats per minute. The failure of the double-rainbow concept costume this year will be the blight that marks our generation that is not a generation as a generation. Or at least stains our proverbial favorite pants. The meme is no more a way to memorialize the dead than carrying a torch. The Olympic flames we’ve lost by way of inefficient jogging habits and a poor attendance record, the kinds of kids that’ll scratch the mirror in order to offend a friendly but exceedingly shy peer in an un-politically correct manner. Amy Winehouse, you belong just as much to the bullies as the bullied even though you were probably pretty simpatico. You could’a served as a warning, a sad case, viva la meltdown, the forgotten lyrics, pill bottletops all scattered on the Venetian tile. The 4 am paparazzi would now like to hack into your phone and explore your textual relationships. You have become a document, a ghost in the celebrity machine, a wonderful supernova on the gall bladder of cultural production otherwise known as Soul-Nova, the New-Old-New, the Inflatable Horn Section of Berkeley Grads, the Kill-it Groovily, the Williamsburg Wha-Too-Sie, the British Invasion of 1776, Another Argument for Bee-hives and Baby-dolls, and just about anything with swing in the idea of it. At night you might still be clocking security guards in Shoreditch, getting the hell out of Camden, or maybe just singing a little bit and to yourself.