Cell-phones, i-Pods, and Morons

Like the dweebs, nerds and librarians, technology is doomed. Sure, you see it everywhere, but do I really need to prove that I'm an award-winning fudgepacker by taking a picture of my perforated colon with a camera-phone?

I did not leave California as a Fugee-tive, as a Criminal, or as a Moron. I will say that I am a devout disembodiment of the Weed-Be-Gone California Ethic. Guam may still have claim to have the largest K-Mart on earth, but I'm still scouring the planet for its biggest head shop.

Once in a while I read a blurb about something that makes me cringe. I hate discussing popular culture and naming names and otherwise snitching, so I won't call Julie Delpy the next Paris Hilton, at least not by name. But if customs ever shook her down, they'd find surely 45 pounds of "aspirin" in one carpetbag and an equivalent amount of "goat pellets" in the other. And she wouldn't be flying Virgin.

But back to me: Wayward hippies and Berkeley moronnabies aside, I found California to be simultaneously boundless and uninteresting. Unless you're intrigued and rubbernecked by gossip and smog and pavement and urine. As Bonnie Fuller (possibly separated at birth from Jennifer Wilbanks) says, "How Can You Not Be?"

How can anyone not be attracted to Hollywood's endless atrocities and crimes against humanity? The photo-ops are deliciously bloodthirsty and unforgiving. If deserving. Size Zero is little more than a voluntary famine evocative of the ever-popular Holocaust Diet.

And I applaud those who jeopardize their lives whilst documenting these ongoing atrocities: the underpaid cell-photo-journalistas and their fearless swagger in their vain attempt to intervene in worldwide injustice, and reform it if only so that it is less conspicuous.

Smokin' for fish,
Fishnet is moody,
Ringmood is black,
Blackness be smokin'.