Jean Baudrillard is not dead.


Ah, the ecstacy of pomo French theorizing: it feels like sandpaper, tastes like mint, and never leaves the cold bathroom. Sometimes it's a bloody butterfly. Other times it's a tongue on vinyl. And always the future conditional pluperfect leotard. Ce ca?


And yet, the gulf may exist.

Fuck Baudrillard. Fuck Foucault. I'm going home to lie under the covers with a flashlight and review my hand-stitched limited edition of XEROX now. I hated the Matrix. Or did I only think I hated it?

No. I did hate it.

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