Clean Streets

Where I'm from — every-everywhere —, we conceive, discuss and execute our own trouble, though not and never for lack of fun(ds), and only often for lack of trouble. But while our hands jack our own pockets, the gazes we summon are as steely and authentic as inauthenticity can be, and often this proves to be enough. For instance, when some small, graceless critter moaned (in passing) "I'm a walking contraceptive," we snapped his lids with a gaze so contemptuous that he either got lead or laid, and we knew we'd never see him again. Similarly, a beanie-clad bar boy with a reckless mouth:— the sap was spat up and chewed out before you could say a time-consuming word.

"No, no, no. It's fucking intertextuality, man — and I don't swear or man loosely. As a Yous seatzen might say, it's creating a — ahem — 'dialogue' with the past. Suddenly we have a circular history, wherein the long-forgotten has as much place, and I would argue more, as the still-remembered, and the lucky pieces get renewed, modernised, spun again. Master D-D-Darren Deano did the same (to more acclaim) with his ho-hum popcorn — Dogs nicked the plot, Kheel B., its natural, indulgent conclusion, nicked everything. Records are the instrument, just as valid as guitars. Of course, the unimaginative can lean a little heavily, but hey, there's been worthless musicians too. Most of all, however, it's a bed for the voice to lay upon, forcing you to listen, to lap up its cadence, revel in its dexterity, get what the fuck its on about. Clean melodies, by contrast, can get across message-less — the world's better for having both. Sociologically, the hook-jacking also reveals itself as Fuck You function, with some even playing up the perceived thievery. Similarly, the voice — in your f— face — and beat — in your Rs — prove to be enormously effective in getting across one's point, not to mention pissing people off, which is often the point. And—"
"Shut up," said my addressee.

Name omitted, plot lax, delay legendary, result puerile, points wayward, grade C-, too beautiful for words.