veteran of disorder :: 9/26/00
One hundred. She has finished counting out the drawer and the air is full of glam metal guitar. I wanna go to the waterpark. The water’s cold but the sun is hot. Veterans of Disorder indeed. The police are not here to cause disorder, they are here to preserve disorder. Hmf. Those would have been the days. She’s seen the photos of Chicago ’68— an army of dirty hippies lined up along a police barricade, hollering taunts. Maybe they weren’t even hippies. Yippies. A good bit more muscular than your average hippie boy. Thuggier. Dumber. And smarter: both at the same time. Looking like the Stooges. Well it’s 1969 OK. War across the USA. Detroit. Motor City: a ruin even then, a wasteland of garages, a machine creating tough boys as its product. Welders and hockey players and guys who know how to use wrenches. She’d like to see more of those come into the store; God knows enough hippie guys come in to paw through the Phish or String Cheese Incident or what all else. She heads into the back room, heaps her backpack on the desk, picks up yesterday’s coffeecup. 1968. Another year for me and you. She would have been negative six. Now she is the shift supervisor at a record store. There is no tear gas in the streets. Another year with nothin to do. From the floor: but then you look at it, and then you stop. The residue in the bottom is sometimes beautiful, a nebula.
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Further Reading ::
Information Prose : A Manifesto In 47 Points ::
A manifesto, outlining some of the aesthetic goals behind Imaginary Year, can now be read here.
