Anyway, in the midst of my mundane Sunday travels -- which, this being Spring, involve trips to home supply mega stores to buy the deadliest, most wasp killingest substance in the known galaxy, Wu Tang Total-Death-Kill 3000X (not the product's real name, but wouldn't it be loverly if it was? Here comes your silent ass spring muthafuckas!) -- I spotted an old flame, sitting in an outdoor cafe, looking like a brown Audrey Tatou, all winsomeness and super villainy.
A sudden injection of high octane testosterone; I dramatically pulled the gleaming car over to the curb, lowered my sunglasses and called out: Lucretia! (Not her real name.)
She was annoyed. I knew the look. Who's this asshole who thinks his ride gives him carte blanche? Who indeed? A few seconds passed, there it was: that smile. She recognized me.
Old times were discussed, photos of children exchanged. What's that scent in the air? Is it, flirtation? Yes.
Small moments like these...I'll miss being alive when I'm dead...or turned into a cyborg, which may turn out to be more or less the same thing.
What does any of this have to do with postmodernism? Oh, nothing. Absolutely nothing. I just wanted to share the wee tale of a lovely Sunday afternoon, a nice aperitif before the point was gotten to.
The point being...
Amigos, I'm so disappointed, so very disappointed that we're not only having the postmodern debate, again. That's bad enough. I'm disappointed that the debate, which has once again inspired a torrent of text apparently has little memory of what came before.
For example, I thought that, thanks to shag's (among others') long-ago efforts the peculiar American-ness of 'theory' as currently pissed-upon or praised was understood. I thought that, thanks to the extended discussion of Francois Cusset's _French Theory_:
we'd moved beyond the 'here's the argument I had in graduate school' wheel level.
But alas, alas....
.d.