Posthuman Blues

Still reeling from Gibson's new book.

Cinematic snowfall; flakes adhere to my jacket like white fractal spiders. Children hand me gospel literature as I attempt to navigate the intersection near Barnes & Noble. "Thank you..." I'm carrying a cup of steaming coffee which I could easily empty on their heads, but, being considerate, I refrain. Besides, it's the father with the "REPENT" placard I really want to get at. Push him in front of a car, maybe...

The tract, now tucked into the snow-flecked pages of "Pattern Recognition," is a tired first-person account by some almost certainly nonexistent satanist badass who found peace by finding Jesus. (Actually, that's just a guess, as I haven't read it yet. But the cover photo is highly amusing. I should mention that this is not a product of Chick Publications, whose cartoon format is advertised as "irresistable.")

I found my "OK Computer" CD tucked in the 2-disc sleeve of "The Very Best of Roy Orbison." This had been missing for a while. Tragically, I have yet to find R.E.M.'s "Fables of the Reconstruction." I'm not sure I can do without it much longer; I might have to cough up $15 for a new copy.

On with the show.