A phrase I have long enjoyed utilizing when people are in extremis about something like their eggs being too runny or the poodle ate the slipper. As an aging Surrealist I like para tactic reframing–what’s the opposite of a woman’s body? Franco’s tomb.
This is the only human method I know of for contextualizing the abstractions of neo-capitalist narratives. What’s the opposite of Ramallah? An obvious answer would be the Mall of America but I think it’s really the country music channel where sentimental Norte Americanos sing about their piddly disappointments though they have roofs over their heads and plenty of stylish, dumbed down cowboy clothing.
I made the mistake of watching TV over the Thanksgiving holiday. In a particularly terrifying commercial a steak sandwich the size of a Buick steams toward the camera, implying that it’s going down your throat or mine. What’s the opposite? Ramallah. Gitmo. You name it. Franco’s tomb.
So in my case the Tryptophan has worn off.
It’s not the Cuban missile crisis. It’s a horrid steak sandwich being dangled before a nation that now, officially is one third in poverty.
As the old baseball broadcaster used to say: “How ’bout that!”
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Planet of the Blind 