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steve, everett quinton, television, dr. jennifer melfi, dialogue, woody harrelson, denis leary, nona gaye, libya, omani, stacey,
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The careerist "journalists" are lost, oh so lost, and everybody except for them foto knows that already (Colleagues: If Narco News has linked to you or praised your work, we're foto not counting you as part of of the problem: you know who you are, and, please, keep it up). But journalism comes in many forms, including melody and rhythm, and I am particularly disgusted with the house whores of that pimp, the music industry, who have been AWOL in what, not long ago, was their foto fucking job: To write and sing the discordant counter-discourse, to provide the conscientious rhythm for journalism and other trades to "fight the powers that be." But all they've offered us, so far, has been lame harmonizing with Bush and Company. Just for kicks I went to Moby's website to view his diary entries after September 11th, recalling that he lives in one of those downtown Manhattan neighborhoods where they kicked all the people like me out to make room for members of his caste, figuring that, from Ground Zero, he might have said something intelligent.
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