Tag Archives: Manifesto

The Manifesto is itself a Revision or, I am Bubble Gum; I have poppers

When in the course of marginalized events, the necessary bonds which tie so few us to even fewer—by which I mean “you” to “me” and “here” “now”— become extraneous; become bogged down by their own absurdity or perhaps it would be more accurate to say lack thereof; become too much of a silly appropriation, or not enough of one; or one that is silly but in an increasingly more meaningless way, it becomes the inalienable duty of those assembled here— by which I mean “me” “here” and “now” and therefore by extension “you” and “here”— to break aforementioned bonds, tenuous/nonexistent as they may be, and in doing so to create new ones. Where there once was a cat’s cradle, here, find an unsolved Rubik’s Cube, a kaleidoscope with a smudged viewfinder, a different drag, a brand new joke that resembles and is deeply indebted to the previous joke, the joke that precedes it in evolutionary progression. In the parlance of another history altogether, one often falsely accused of being linear, of working in a progression (while often working with progressions): The Sex Pistols dissolve into PiL, Joe Strummer grows tired of The Clash and becomes Mescalero, NWA splits into a five headed hip-hop hydra of Eazy-E, Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, MC Ren and DJ Yella, the Jackson 5 become the Jacksons become the place where Michael Jackson forgot to grow up. Where are our Talking Heads, David Byrne? The point is: we are allowed to live under the delusion that we can change our minds about things, and perhaps even, believe that such minute rewirings are in fact and some actually objective level important. And “you” “here” are witness to such re-birthing, or more cynically put, rebranding. Tao Lin is going down, but I will remain neither. Let us then dive through this screen together, or not at all, because it is so important that it is not in fact important. Choosing from a list the appropriate emoticon, commenting on a hair cut as if it were a masterpiece in oil and found materials, writing off the undeniable tidal shifts while proclaiming a skepticism about the idea of a generational identity. Give me your chewed up bubble gum, dear readership under double digits, or give me poppers (if you even know what they are). I have teeth to rot; I have tastes to kill; I have a brand new mane and perhaps thereby a brand new name.

 

-Mark Gurarie

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By the time I can afford to live there it will be underwater

I can’t fight it; you can’t fight it; the punctuation of this city this paragraph as city is rapidly changing. That’s what it does. That’s what we does, for that matter, because we are changing into pointier shoes. My sideburns are single quotation marks, though I am not, in fact, single. Think collage or pastiche, but the samples aren’t lining up, they’ve already moved in. By all rights, those that would make moves not involving the cultivation of career or the harvesting of lettuce have no right to compete for real estate. And you know that I know that picking bugs out of your three thousand dollar credit limit isn’t what it used to be. If this were church, which, of course, we all know this isn’t, but if it were, this is where the pastor would bid us pray together. Let us then make this more irrelevant; let us then sing together; let us then let in our brothers and sisters. A sticky cheeked mafia of genetically superior children currently runs vast swaths of Brooklyn. Oh, yeah, cute to look at, sure, they were MADE that way, and they are just as ambitious as their parents project upon them. The towers of the North are falling, no new dive bars. While the dinosaurs grouse that their tattoos are irrelevant; while revelers outside of former machine shops tend to look like pre-grunge metal heads; while a dandy that works in media in midtown steps out from the greasy turnstyle (MY greasy turnstyle), I try to pull my head out of my diminutive arse. Again and again. Watching the old paint flake off and a new coat get applied is a kind of pastime. I have already purchased the proverbial scuba diving suit, though it is ill-fitting. My emotions are telecommuting, though, sadly, they will have to be downsized. There will be what I would consider a fair package. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

-Mark Gurarie