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Citta Violenta.

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Toward a radical middle

a time for fear
Monday, January 12, 2004  
Bad Diet

Large Quarterpounder with Cheese Meal. French Fries like shriveled fingers, lashed with salt effect. A glutted mausoleum; hard mirrors, molded seats, the soothing stench of fat and chemicals. Just like slipping into fever. Once, a friend of mine brought me a McShake, watched me suck at it for, like, an age, and when I'd finished, my head full of cold gloop, said "you know how they make their shakes so thick, don't you? Chicken fat."

A French lady on the radio, of good intelligence, just said: globalisation is way of denying anything natural, from body smells, to food smells. Talking about deodorant and a disgust of garlic.

Drinking cheap wine, with dedication. An inverted wine connoisseur, I can expertly navigate the worst wine for sale in London. Currently quaffing Villa Radiosa Rosato Salento ("brilliantly coloured, richly scented 'Rose' with delicious ripe fruit. It has good acidity and is consistently fresh and fruity") which tastes like nail varnish. Extra long spaghetti (Buitoni), crushed tomatoes in a tin (Napolina), spring onions tied with blue elastic, loose mushrooms flaking earth. Chop, chop. A Mediterranean diet. Perfume and hot pavements, perfect hemlines, tiny islands and temple ruins (and all this in Bow). Really, reduced to bad bacon, when you fry it fat and water seeps out and boils in the pan. Currant buns. (Remember crumbs in bed? My tray and a pot of tea?) Welsh Butter (a clot of salt and cream) and Guernsey goldtop milk. Yemenese honey, with crumbling comb.

Yasmine Bleeth is fat and addicted to coke: her belly spills over tracksuit bottom elastic. I find that so sad. I think she's a nice girl with extraordinary blue eyes and good lineage: her mother, Carina Bleeth, escaped the Algerian War, moved to New York, and used her sharp wits to cut out a niche in the fashion shark pool.

7:15 PM

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