The old joke circulating among Lacanians to exemplify the key role of the Other’s knowledge: a man who believes himself to be a grain of seed is taken to the mental institution where the doctors do their best to finally convince him that he is not a grain but a man; however, when he is cured (convinced that he is not a grain of seed but a man) and allowed to leave the hospital, he immediately comes back very trembling of scare [sic] - there is a chicken outside the door and that he is afraid that it would eat him. “Dear fellow,” says his doctor, “you know very well that you are not a grain of seed but a man”. “Of course I know that,” replies the patient, “but does the chicken know it?”

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I have received multiple — as in more than one — emails this week concerning Wendy’s new “Premium Fillet of Fish” sandwich.  Apparently the top-dogs of the fast food world like to cater to the Lent crowd this time of year and begin to push their usually underrepresented seafood confections.  (more…)

What is it about you, Snorg Girl, that so draws me from the wretched trenches of Facebook stalking towards the advertisements, towards your company’s page, towards your image, and the inane trying-too-hard slogans of those absurd t-shirts?

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They pull all of us into the conference room around 9:30. The government’s five-thousand dollar plasma is showing the commemoration of the Pentagon’s 9/11 Memorial. On the broadcast some General is at the podium speaking in flighty words, issuing prayers and summing up all the virtues of the people in attendance. The whole presentation is more subdued than one of, say, Goebells’, but the differences in rhetoric are buried somewhere deep in the Earth next to my sentimentality. (more…)

Holetown.  The original landing spot of the alien English on this completely benign island.  There’s a small inlet, an historic police station with a centuries-old obelisk, and not much else.  It’s completely fucking divine. (more…)