Few connoisseurs of culture may trammel the earth today without mucking through the relics and imagery of a by-gone era: flared trousers, lava lamps, zoot suits, Birkenstocks, Volkswagen Beetles, ad nauseum. We have become a culture of retread, rejecting forward motion — rejecting motion at all whenever possible (“You deserve a break today”) — accentuating the decrepit mediocrity of the placid form, and obscuring the lip-biting beauty of the form in motion.
Wherefore the razor blade dance of progress? Whence the worship of unrestrained sexuality and the rejection of tired morality, exhausted spirituality, indefensible illegality? Why the giant step backward? Rolling about in history like pigs in shit clothes us in the stench of every idea and act that we once jettisoned as unworthy y finito; indeed, every verb that we conjugate into the past tense serves merely to designate a thing, an object, a concept that has been used up and disposed of; rightly do we call “history” a dust bin; more rightly would we call it a microscope with matching platform sandals; and so the pes becomes pescado.
The time has come to untether the wheels of progress from the obsolescent moorings of nostalgia, time again to roar toward the horizon with drunken glee, no caution of forethought, no sober hindsight to hearken us back. Time again to mount machinery, to let our flesh resonate in harmonious passion with the throb and tug of the salacious gear, the turgid microchip,the thrusting piston. Time now for Choler, a new flash point for the Futurist Renaissance.
We hum along with technology as it sings the anthem of the horizon, the music of the thing-to-be. We intone a hymn to glorify the holy belt-sander:
“The passionate spatula will spank the sticky cheese / when sultry fibulas menace hot key-cutters. / My slimy gardenia sneezes upon the bloody micro-electrode, / the lasting spam fears the smooth cabinet / and the strong malt liquor grovels before the loud folder. / How deathly did the nipple itch the abrasive monkey! / What a scintillating high powered assault rifle did destroy the cheap towel rack! / The Ridiculous Ninja lifted the deadly ‘Ultra Joy!’ / The aggressive roach opened the orgasmic scanner! / O! Where, Purple Empire, will you carve your next dark stain?”
Above all, Choler wants beauty — the boisterous beauty of motion that stifles stagnation’s deceitful lullaby. Let others slumber, or walk in trepidation and anticipate the standing-still. Let them fervently plead for answers while we burn Delphi and polish our rifles in the afterglow:
Why is my CS181 grader such a twit?
You talkin’ to me?
Why does technology hum?
The best predictor of behavior is previous behavior.
Why do we write?
When the keyboard is dirty, we are reluctant to clean it.
Why did the chicken kill the farmer?
Sex is the selective pressure that drives adaptation.
Who is filled with a languorous torpor?
The animal we ate.
Where is life?
Underneath my Honda.
What would happen if Hanson and the Spice Girls sang
Some girls are bigger than others.
What kinds of cognitive changes appear to be linked to the appearance of secondary emotions?
When my keys rattle, I will be heading home
What is the reason for which we live?
He pissed on them.
What comes after life?
Is wrestling fake?
I saw it on TV.
How does hunger feel?
Some fish are better left in the house.
Have you ever seen a grown man naked?
The point of visual fixation could determine if one perceives the structure
thrusting up or swooping down.
Have you ever been in an Amish prison camp?
In the afternoon, down by the dump.
A new quality of mind?
Frank Sinatra’s eyes were not as blue as they seemed.
Behold Choler a beautiful, informative, sensual creation; a mad man smashing your precious preconceptions with a hydraulic fist; a crack – smoking steamroller annihilating the passe; a cybernetic beacon that illuminates the smoldering, metallic horizon. Choler, the home of violent, passionate images that blast off the page. Choler, that shocks you with its magnesium sensuality and automates your orgasms.
Choler, that will no longer let you be a retro-spectator.