The music video stares back at me across the five feet breadth of the living room; the singer called Pink is dressed in an elaborate goth white alice-in-wonderland-dress; she has a white wig with bangs over her eyes and a nose ring and she is in a white room; the song is acceptable, but what I like is the image and the sound hitting me at once. It is rich — a rich experience — and its no surprise that its the quintessential addiction of the postmodern era — sounds and visions beamed directly into our cerebral cortex — who needs LSD when you have three hundred channels with high production values.
In other news, frantic job-seekers have crashed the NYU Law website.
Last night, on my way back from New Haven, I was in a cab driving through Times Square. What is there to say about Time Square in 2009? It is unspeakably beautiful — an image of the future and how far we’ve come — but where? 21st Century. Karl Marx is dead. The Heroes of the Paris Commune — forgotten. The blood of the dead have dried.
There are trees here in New York City. They grow — grow in the lights and the sounds and the smells of New York City. We walk beneath them, not noticing them for the buildings.