Do you ever find yourself wondering “What if, temporally, intellectually, spatially, and otherwise, the speed of progress and development of intellect and craft is pre-determined? What if the world has been on a steady and unavoidable trajectory towards Monsanto and Lady Ga Ga since the Big Bang?” I mean, we’ve all read books, seen moves, watched shows, or otherwise let our minds wander around the idea that the appearance of all these people places and things is perhaps spontaneous, but that the fundamental essence of its occurrence was unavoidable, right???
Ok, so maybe if Thomas Jefferson hadn’t fathered a bastard child with his house maid, maybe if Pee Wee Herman hadn’t been caught jacking off in that theater, and if I had written in my diary every single day for a year like I’d said I would way back when I was 9, Lady Ga Ga as we are aware of her today could have been avoided altogether. But, I mean, can we all agree that “the Essence of Lady Ga Ga” was going to shit all over our lives right about this historical point in time no matter what we did to stop it? Especially now that we have the hindsight perspective of what the fuck else was going on at the same time? WE BROUGHT IT ON OURSELVES, MAAAAAAN! Or did we?
Listen, kids. I don’t do drugs. I depend heavily on my friends to do them for me and then tell me what they ‘saw’ (or what it did to their ability to NOT shart their pants. Ahhhh drug/poop/puke stories. Always funny!). But I do sit and stare at things. And I also love to watch music videos. Well, videos of any kind, really. Today I encountered a music video that made me think: what if the world we occupy now were exactly the way it is… but totally different? But in a familiar way…
I’m sure you’re thinking I’m making no sense right now. Maybe in your head you’re right. All I’m saying is this: WATCH THIS VIDEO. (RE-)FALL IN LOVE WITH ROYKSOPP. (RE-)FALL IN LOVE WITH KARIN DREIJER ANDERSSON. And for the love of God, (re-)fall in love with outdoor grilling, drum kits, dudes in ankle socks, and camper trailers.
For the record, Burning Man can fucking die for all I care. In case all y’all got thinking that I want to constantly be transported to another fucking universe, MAAAAAN, I don’t. I just want to sit and stare and wonder from the comfort of my own non-clay mud, raver-bead-free, E is for effort not for tripping balls, warm and cozy castle-apartment. So there.