The 2-Minute Hate
Ever have one of those evenings, afternoons or life segments where you have absolutely nothing positive to say about anything? That’s me right now. I can go on about…
Those idiot race fans. Man, sometimes I think they are not watching the same thing i am. They see wonderful racing, I see pure shit on the track. They see excitement, I see stark incompetence. Moron drivers in cars beyond their understanding, or on a track beyond their talents, racing, bumping, grinding, wrecking to the delight of fans remote and in person. Cheers, screams of delight as idiotic pilots brake too late, hurdle into turns beyond the bounds of grip and adhesion, ripping sheet metal and dollars out of the pockets of team owners and crew. No skills on display, just controlled chaos. Pointless. Rewarding nothing but circumstance. Tickles the over-stimulated masses. Where has my racing gone?
Radiohead has a new song. I am supposed to like it. I hate it. More drum drivel and chaos pad madness thrown together in a haze of self-indulgence. When was the last time you penned an actual song, Thom? Are you really challenging me to follow you down that rabbit hole? I have followed you so very far, accepting invitations offered to dance on the hypnotic dissonance of recent years. I have found much of it rewarding. Really, I have. But this? Man, what’s the point of this? Directionless, meandering, thrown-together afterthought. No melody. Looped guitars delayed and drizzling over pop-crackle bets of tightness – been there before, But it wanders, never progressing. Unsettled. I hate it. I want to love it, but I hate it.
Another weekend, another soft landing of a big story. Kennedy is laid to rest. Nothing will happen on healthcare, though. Nothing will change, even though the masses voted for it. It will be diluted, turned to mush in such a creative piece of political poetry as to reward both sides with a claim to victory. But the corporations will still hold the strings. My insurance will not change. The stores in Coconut Grove will remain barren, empty of product and customers. It is a joke, this idea that America is getting back on it’s collective feet. It isn’t. Walk the streets, look in the stores and listen to the conversations. No one is buying shit.
My mouse is broken. Well, it isn’t broken yet, but it is breaking, Skipping the cursor like mad from time to time, making it nearly impossible to keep my focus on the task at hand. In fact, I choose this point to stop.
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