Misty radioactive memories

Red and blue flash, the Fourth of July out of time, in miniature. The bus moves closer. Perhaps a water main break, a semi-annual sales event along the burning river. Or is it the thin white line, the splattered pink and crimson of a corpse crisscrossing yellow chessboard patterns. No, the northbound lane is still open. Elephants. There are elephants strolling down E. 9th. No, not Limbaugh and Beck and Spray-On, but actual honest-to-Cthulhu elephants that almost made me late this morning. That speedwalking correspondence course really paid off.













I don't have any particular memories of the circus, or even clowns, save the fact that some people are terrified, or, at the very least, greatly unnerved, by the latter, which always brings a diabolical smirk to my mug.

What also brings a diabolical smirk to my mug is loud music about stuff blowing up. Part of the fabric of growing up Brady Reagan. Sure, there were dozens upon dozens of tunes about global thermonuclear war, but one of my absolute favorites has remained so because 1)it crushes and irradiates like a motherfucker and 2)these were the pre-internets days, so the discovery of underground acts was a much more labor-intensive, therefore satisfying, process, word-of-mouth, leafing zine after zine from the big shining cities on the hill, even from the limeys and the krauts, you spoiled whipper snappers with your The Google and MySpaceTravel, this is my space. Hard to believe it's been twenty years. Fuck, I'm getting dessicated. Anyway, for your listening displeasure, Brazil's second-greatest export:


















Don't worry, my lovely, you'll always be number one.



















"Ahem, I was pretty good, too, or have you forgotten the Cosmos?"

Sorry, Edison, you're not a babe, and as far as I know, you never wrote any spine-melting riffs. Good job in the World Cup, though. Oh yeah, the tune.



That's beautiful, man.