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Cut-Ups

For my creative writing class, the teacher is using dastardly coercion to force me to experiment with some old Beat writing tricks. What follows is known as the cut-up technique. As the title would suggest, you “cut up” some writings, shuffle ’em around, and see what happens. What materializes is often absolute gibberish. But in many cases, some interesting word/sentence formations emerge – phrases like “We we like Paradise…You Happy.” Kind of sounds like a French/Japanese fusion, doesn’t it? It’s pretty fun stuff.

This first one that I chopped up is from a letter written by Hunter S. Thompson in January of 1992.

Dear Jann, God damn, I wish yames…O Ghost, O Lost, Lost beautiful weather with me. It gain. Right. and so much for things are beginning to die. and the Animals get in your in the crisp fall air, with guilty and most days are the grass turning brown, and my poem. It was wrong sunlight and big hot fires in it from an early work of rakes the lawn. We see a lot my own crude stamp on it, watch it a lot more, now that want to talk about fucking shorter, and darkness comes sting here at dawn on a crisp die from freezing. Oh, God! Ye football fames to start and yesterday when I finished my eak from this blizzard of some whiskey and picked up my Biographers and sickly and a ball of black opium fore these days (they are a fierce kind of joy in my even in my own bed). I an American on a day like thinking, for good or ill, Football Game, Jann – it was Poor, Jann. But we were remember that bliss you felt We were Smart. Not Crazy, farm and whipped Stanford? Wel called us late, for dinner, digress. My fits of Joy are so cheap these days, do they? and ghosts too foul to name…any fun in public is Prince could have been president, Janss neighbor – the one who forks, and I think of this, like Mike Tyson. Who knows these wild animals who dash weird to figure. You have while rifles crack in the dist men with blood on their hands dusk and mournfully call our nou were here to enjoy this and Gone, O Ghost, come back a is autumn, as you know, and autumn. The trees are diseased

This is a record review that appeared in a recent issue of Decibel. It also happens to be written by my aforementioned teacher, Rod.

Marbled like a USDA Prime steak, rising. Banger “Mistaken for Cops” and prog, THC’s reverse-engineered’s adaptation of Fight Club might of true alternate-reality rock w Prunes and 1000 Homo DJs Ariel Pink or She Wants Revenge. Raonnelly’s mimetically-intensive points of ‘70s stimulant culture to giv decisions / By driving ‘round deserve(d), or simultaneously beatime when I’m stable” and “I need a their own games, the Chicago-based as 21st century as the speed-picked of looking at the world. That Stanforversely, “Along Come the Dogs” Buried at Sea), Chris Connelly (Miniristle have chops. at all shy about legacy is hardly surpith elements of psychedelia, metal is to “Sister Ray” what David Fincher industrial music bears the standard have been to the novel had the Virginay more authority than that of, say, written it collaboratively – though Cther than recombining cultural high lyrics (from “I’m trying to reach g Bauhaus and Depeche Mode at circumstantial friend”) ring every bit quartet lays claim to an entire way guitar wash that closes the song. Cond Parker (Nachtmystium, Minsk, posits a universe where Throbbing stry, Revolting Cocks), Jeremy other manifests assets, the band’s besley (Crucifucks, Sonic Youth) aren’t inhabiting the netherworld between

Well, that’s it for this week. Minneapolis band Peter Wolf Crier was at the school last week, and this was one of the songs they played.

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