Jean Baudrillard is not dead.

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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?

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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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