Fan Mail
Dear LasagnaFarm,
I want to extend my appreciation for your uninterrupted and in-depth coverage (as always, awesome photos!) of NYC Blackout ’03. I sat on my Lower East Side roof with a loaf of bread, nutella, 12-pack of Mr Pibb, a laptop and the clearest signal I’ve ever received on my $200/month satellite broadband connection. It’s the age-old question, “if there isn’t a blogger to report an event falling in NYC, did it really happen?” You assured me this was in fact not one of my deer tick-induced fever dreams, but a very real convergence of technological tumult and human hope that at times felt like Altamont, a Volkswagen commercial, and an unexpected pass from a guy in the sauna at the gym.
Truthfully I did not handle the night very well and shook in horror at the bacchanalian blister that popped and pussed on the streets below me. I experienced a flashback to the bad mescaline trip I had as a college sophomore that started innocently enough with an attempt to watch the movie "Tron" but quickly devolved into a prayer vigil for the drug to weaken, night's end, or a quick death. Now, like then, the bongos played on and I waited an eternity for them to stop. The burning man/urban hippie vibe that permeated Ludlow (and the rest of the city) during dark’s hours was even strong enough to make Gawker forget about Anna Wintour for five minutes.
Who were these people with glowsticks, candles, and flashing digi-cams that revealed breaches of nudity and bad tattoos? My neighbors? Friends? Roommate? An all-consuming fear occupied my mind: Left to our own battery-operated devices the communal instinct is to act like retarded Phish fans at a tailgate.
I am confused and feel betrayed by a neighborhood, my peer group, and media outlets that don’t deserve the electrical current to operate a pencil sharpener. If this is who we are at the core then perhaps it’s time to manually flip the kill switch.
Still failing to see the light,
AK-47
Dear LasagnaFarm,
I want to extend my appreciation for your uninterrupted and in-depth coverage (as always, awesome photos!) of NYC Blackout ’03. I sat on my Lower East Side roof with a loaf of bread, nutella, 12-pack of Mr Pibb, a laptop and the clearest signal I’ve ever received on my $200/month satellite broadband connection. It’s the age-old question, “if there isn’t a blogger to report an event falling in NYC, did it really happen?” You assured me this was in fact not one of my deer tick-induced fever dreams, but a very real convergence of technological tumult and human hope that at times felt like Altamont, a Volkswagen commercial, and an unexpected pass from a guy in the sauna at the gym.
Truthfully I did not handle the night very well and shook in horror at the bacchanalian blister that popped and pussed on the streets below me. I experienced a flashback to the bad mescaline trip I had as a college sophomore that started innocently enough with an attempt to watch the movie "Tron" but quickly devolved into a prayer vigil for the drug to weaken, night's end, or a quick death. Now, like then, the bongos played on and I waited an eternity for them to stop. The burning man/urban hippie vibe that permeated Ludlow (and the rest of the city) during dark’s hours was even strong enough to make Gawker forget about Anna Wintour for five minutes.
Who were these people with glowsticks, candles, and flashing digi-cams that revealed breaches of nudity and bad tattoos? My neighbors? Friends? Roommate? An all-consuming fear occupied my mind: Left to our own battery-operated devices the communal instinct is to act like retarded Phish fans at a tailgate.
I am confused and feel betrayed by a neighborhood, my peer group, and media outlets that don’t deserve the electrical current to operate a pencil sharpener. If this is who we are at the core then perhaps it’s time to manually flip the kill switch.
Still failing to see the light,
AK-47
posted by kiddigit at 5:06 PM
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