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7 March, 2004 / Erik

Another Mancunian Saturday Night The assorted p…

Another Mancunian Saturday Night

The assorted pubs and clubs along Oxford Road and Oxford Street have rolled up for the night, but the Young Men still have fires in their bellies that drink could not defeat. They will not sleep it off, but ramble down the streets cheering, poorly singing, and laughing. All the while, the women with them laugh and consider their options with the prime examples of the male half of the species. The sirens become more common and the shouts are actually abnormal, like something about March is bringing out more than just the usual malaise and anger in the countrymen. Tonight, the mentality I have dubbed “it’s my road, fuck off!” has been replaced by some strange need for spectacle. It is lingering into the wee hours where the pints are still doing their job and going home to a warm bed seems like a betrayl of the promise of the night. There are still kehbab places to frequent and other people walking home to harrass.

Meanwhile, in Number 13, my throat continues to impede on plans and I scarfed down ninety pages of Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72. PKD’s old freak out about the Empire never ending seems to ring true as Thompson and the pudits talk about electability and the urgency of removing the incumbancy from office.

I wonder if my illness allowed Kerry’s ascension or if Kerry’s ascension brought on my illness. The Farker’s are calling him “Lurch” and I have less savory words for this play by numbers Democrat. The od saw of the Youth Vote is still displeased by the poor showing, and throwing at us people who remind us of that one math or history teach who would ride us for no good reason than their own emptiness. The hope of grinding out the soul of youth is their only motivation for getting out of bed in the morning. This, it seems, is Kerry’s secondary motive. Primary is war chests and control and men in white urging him on. The question is, can we ever wrestle control of the party from the entrenched kingmakers and old men that have no vitality to their runs and look not unlike the partially reflective substances that stand for “mirrors” in the Republican’s Barbie Dream House.

And what do I come home to? I’m tired of England, but its troubles of soul will probably be our own in a few short years, if not already.

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