Beatnik
Ah the Beatnik Bags. A rarity here at HCwDB. To paraphrase Ginsberg, I saw the best bods of my generation destroyed by douchebaggery.
Red Poet makes me want to snap my fingers and bongo to the sounds of rapid fire free association. And by “rapid fire free association” I mean two sessions of primal gnawing. On her right thigh. Cool, daddy-o. I dig it.
Clearing out the ole’ pic attic on a Sunday that finds the DB1 lounging around in his bathrobe, sipping ‘Train and OJ, munching on a big bowl of Count Chocula, and meditating on the esoteric conundrum that is “The ‘Bag Within.”
Where do we draw the line between douche and putz? If, as Jacques Derrida argues, “truth” must be separate and distinct from our notions of “The Real,” than can we ever truly comprehend ‘Bag? Or does our understanding of ‘Bag fundamentally do violence to the role of ‘Bag within the larger societal construct? And by do violence, I mean punch in the face.
Meh. Time to watch The Hills.
