Not everybody can be the protagonist in pump up the volume . . . Not even Christian Slater can

Mic check on Mr Robot, as it was the original pirate radio hack that had all the rebellious telephase initiates bursting up against a wall that would eventually be proven to be permeable. I recognize that this is digital artifact is not a fount of optimism - it has a separate function - and that recognition is emblazoned with its own neurotic twitch. Because soothsaying has its separate function too.

Not being able to help not being able to help oneself is on like page 176 of the new DSM, which I sit on at meals the better to commandeer the horizon.

But yes, bleak times. And ever bleaker by the hour. To be respected and respectable seems uncouth, in the way that not showering for days and emitting that sweet-aged tang of saturated booziness is a sign of degradation, spiritual and otherwise.

“The food is so bad - and in such small portions.” That rich send up of the cant well being gives solace. Believe it or not. And not in the same way as Delillo’s Lenny Bruce, screaming into the microphone: “We are all going to die

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What first occasioned this digressive loop of non sequiturs was a synopsis from the good man Clancy Martin, he of the padded walls and the staggering insight into lying and self-abuse:

The worry in The Idiot is that there are all really only two authentic ways of existing, being in love and killing yourself. Also: if those are the only real ways of being, what does it mean if you can actually choose either of them?

How now brown cow. In most other contexts we would need to decide whether to indulge in this indulgence and choose to accept it as having philosophic heft or choose to take treat it as enacted bad faith, stated on its own self negating and self-recommending terms.

To call this unfulfilled choice a paradox misses the point, in the same way that calling out for more pirate radio misses the epoch. We shan’t and therefor we don’t, and because we don’t, we can.