24 October 2000
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distasteful -|-
musings of señor prod. -|-
concrete or rock
We had burned a streak a mile wide through the southwestern desert. Our manly-made four-wheel-drive
behemoths stirred the dust into an angry wake behind us, bobbing and propagating, spreading out
behind us like a stink. It was no wonder that the people who lived there, the people whose days
seemed filled with vacancy, whose connection to the world was whatever stray radiobeam happened to
cross their path, hated us. We were bringing the disease with us, the city secreted away in our minds.
We wanted to pave the desert. The dustclouds and abandoned buildings were home to us, but they were
home-as-diorama. The unclean place which these people who hated us called home was a class
project, a simple child's substitution of dust for airborne particulates with uncertain toxicity,
of small abandoned homes for vast abandoned warehouses. Where there were mesas, there were
industrial complexes, where there were spires, refineries.
musings of señor prod.
Don't forget, the Revolution's a job,
not a club or a hobby.
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