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Stunned into abject shock and incomprehension of surroundings by revelation that Patrick Stewart actually reads Transmetropolitan. How come he’s never uttered anything other than the sanitized crap those Trek writers gave him to read? He could have exposed the world to the joys of Ebola Cola, or simply followed the journalistic code of monstering because he really cares about everything? What Trek fan wouldn’t find it refreshing for Picard to be hassled by Q and have him tell Data that it’s his priority to liquefy the bastard’s eyeballs and shove a bowel disruptor where the sun don’t shine with the setting on ’Shit into unconsciousness’? Or perhaps realize that the prime directive is Starfleet’s way of passing the buck back to the innocents in trouble ’cos they don’t give a shit about trying to tell the truth. Now that would be a legacy.

I don’t expect this to happen in the new movie, Star Trek : Nemesis, however. Instead, I have been hoarding a now fairly sizable collection of acid balloons to drop on the director when it becomes apparent that he has produced another load of action-bleached pap.

The traditional mayday marches in London today and all they can do to accompany themselves is blow a whistle and shout a bit? Where’s their fuck you music, then? Actually, where’s my fuck you music? I haven’t solved it yet but nu metal really is so mind-numbing now that the classic heavy albums of the nineties have no effect, provoke no gut-busting urge to scream at whatever’s around in the frustration of a banal existence, wreck a room and throw anti-viagra into a sex addict convention. It’s all I-hate-me-them-my-pets-and-those-wankers-too or some gibberish about nothing in particular. All problem, no solution, and no belief, no heart wearing on sleeves. Punk defined a solution in the seventies—anarchy—that faded away in the eighties and was redefined into rebellion in the nineties with the anthemic cries of ’Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me’, and ’Let freedom ring with a shotgun blast.’ Now we’re lost in a world of massive heaviness, bleak and unforgiving, and all we’re told is how shit the world is. I know this already. Tell me something I don’t know. Where is my solution? Where is the first fuck you anthem for the decade? Two years and counting, y’all. Rise up and take strike. Hey, that might just work…

It rained yesterday. It rained grey. Whatever it touched now contains an extra filament covering of dirt from some place because the very air is no longer the cleanest thing and neither are we. Guess it’s better than having the rain erode away another layer of the world. Another of man’s ironic mistakes. The fossil fuel godsend for industry was actually another icarus idea slowly eroded away by overuse to the point where there isn’t much left and we now have sulphurous rain which tries to destroy my jacket rather than colour it. Nature’s way of saying ’Tut tut’ to 200 years of industry and we’ve only just noticed. The real fun’s going to start when someone tampers with the effects of burning de-evolved remains. Dark days ahead and I don’t mean not being able to tell the difference between dawn and three hours later because of the low light levels. We worry about nuclear winter and global warming—a vicious circle in theory—but before either we’ll have designer hate rain. Probably encoded to your DNA.

Posted on May 1, 2002   #Brainjuice     #Nothing in Particular  

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