Posts by Anonymous Author
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International travel perks do not exhilarate so much with their possession as torment with their loss, to paraphrase Epicurus.
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All the lonely robots, where do they all come from? / All the lonely robots, where do they all belong?
"This extraordinary Trons meeting is officially commenced", Vox calmly screeched. "Item number one: Wiggolowski Motor-Finger, you've been sounding like Trash rather than Slash of late. What's this I hear about your penchant for the sins of the flesh and the resulting poor motor-finger-style guitar form?"
"It's true," Wiggolowski Motor-Finger mumbled sadly, 'I've let logic fly out the window for some reason."
"You're UNreasonable" Swamp hit out, rolling the 'r' of you're and emphasising the 'un' of unreasonable like a flam. "You've been focussed purely on the G-string," he added with impeccable timing.
Ahhh... the sins of the flesh, in this case a rubber fetish, had indeed proved all too tempting for Wiggolowski Motor-Finger.
The '5th' Tron – a rubber and steel artist, Yokohama No. 1.0 – had come between the once tight unit at an entirely awkward moment in the band's career path. The fact that allowing his bionic eye to wander had caused Fiona Farisa's cold, steel heart significant arrhythmic distress was neither here nor there to this guitar hero. Wiggolowski Motor-Finger held no regard for their history; how they'd once shared a real connection; how they'd made sweet electricity that night. No longer could the frosty, silvery press of Fiona Farfisa's stannic lady fingers work their dynamic stimulation on the usually responsive guitarist. Instead, her attempts to rekindle the all-for-ones-and-zeroes and and ones-and-zeroes-for-all ethos of the band had triggered an existential episode in the metal maestro. His ennui, usually beautifully explored and expressed through lithium-in-water-like fretwork, had spiralled into a mechanical and leaden dirge, reminiscent of a drunk Dandy Warhol at a Big Day Out.
"Hell is other robots", Swamp 'cussed.
"Enough of this personality based bickering," the gentle Vox of reason paradoxically ululated. "We're about to tour. Now, which of you neanderthal androids are willing to put it behind us and enter this brave new world like the finely tuned musical machines we are? This is where the rubber meets the road!" Wiggolowski Motor-Finger began to overheat. Rubber? Road? Skidmarks? He was melting into a dark place. "I can't do it, I just can't" he cried like a big baby. "I shutdown!" And with that he quit.
It would appear that even robot beatles have their Yokohama No. 1.0. -
The act of reeling them in is certainly thrilling and means good eating. However, the downtime on the boat/rocks/beach – and its efficient use thereof – is also a vital part of the experience. Your post reminds me of an adage which has held me in good stead on more than one occasion: Give a man a fish and likely he'll look at you oddly before suggesting a bribe isn't going to cut it with this fisheries officer; teach a man to fish and you've got a potential customer for your second hand fishing gear. Remember though, one man's meat is another man's poissons.
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Yes, I do like what you've done with the place. Slab serifs are wonderfully immediate. It was some other well-known writer who claimed 'I shot the serif, but I did not shoot typography'. If nothing else, the redesign has enticed me to participate after merely lurking about like a ghostwriter in the machine. The law of unintended consequences perhaps?