DIY Culture, Experimental Music and Education Scholar. Current Doctoral candidate. “Extreme music” maker. Garfield fan. Like, serious Garfield fan. HUGE Garfield fan. I fucking love Garfield, people. Label head for FTAM.
The line, apparently, was cat buttholes.
The show poses a simple question: why does western civilization still buy into this ridiculous concept of a family?
The dumpster fire that is this global pandemic, this technicolor late-stage capitalist wonderland, rages on as a certain melancholy sinks in. Whether I’m grieving or not seems unimportant.
[It's the hope that comes from] the banal routine of landing the same dumb goof over and over again, sometimes for decades.
A brilliantly human gesture filled with an insistence of beauty and power, one of many similar gestures within the group’s discography.
Since this show came out last year it no longer matters and is dead to me and the rest of the world. I spit on it’s grave and will never speak of it again. Except for all of the times that I do.
It was the easiest way for me to start this post while simultaneously flexing the fact that I have read a book.