Haute Couture Grotesque, or Talking About My GenerationAfter the mild war, the war that seemed to only last an hour, we noticed many different types of sky. Each advertised ![]() its own demise: one atomic, one apocalyptic, another ironic. We learned to live with it. Here in the Year of the Bore, ![]() the Year of the Stethoscope, we are told the weather will go from balmy to brutal in twelve hours flat. We are told ![]() It's a miniature winter, but it's a winter that keeps on happening. It's one long cough on the way to April; our lungs are their own ![]() carcinogens. Some of us subscribe to the Chicken Noodle diet while the rest swear by Wonder Bread, the vodka-cigarette ![]() method, the Quaker Oats technique. We are told Try to get some sleep. In retaliation, we hit the town and make requests: ![]() I'll have a Sidecar, a Greyhound. I'll have an Old-Fashioned. Despite the drop in egg count we are forever photogenic; ![]() we've found a way to bottle the juice of the pomegranate, we know all sorts of synonyms for stimulus. Though ![]() the opposite of a mirror is what we're looking into, we've evolved past our need for eyes; we're hoping ![]() the skies will implode after last call, that we can still hear the weather, that someone will tell us what to expect. |
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