Given the dead weight of this legacy, embodied in the grey spam of Callinicos and his Army of Greyness, it seems impossible to believe that even the most Hermetically gifted cosmetic surgeon could make this hideous visage the life of any party other than the Party, or at least simply non-emetic. Calling Dr. Funky, bring 100 cc’s of zany intimidation, 1500 cc’s of pop culture cred and half a crate of Wild Turkey to the emergency room, stat! Slavoj Žižek, the self-appointed heir to the throne of Lacanian Psychoanalysis, whose staggering feats of amphibianism mean he can swim in the darkest pools of obscurantist theory and yet breathe the thin air of pop culture froth and bubble, come on down. Read the rest of this entry »

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So you think you’re pretty hard and insouciantly radical, ay? So you thought writing epic poems to the passion of crack-fuelled wildcat strikes on sheaves of Derrida’s skin, with a pen carved from a bullet and with ink of bankers’ blood and absinthe, was pretty out-there? So you thought you could impress us as you snorted glass fibres while listening to Merzbow with dynamite strapped to your ass and a brick on the accelerator as the Body Shop warehouse gates loomed towards you? Then you are as reformist as a union bureaucrat’s beige underpants, because as compared to the po(li/e)tical apocalytechnics of Slavoj Žižek and Ben Watson’s Lenino-TrotskyismTOTHEX-TREME!!! Your ‘poetic terrorism’ is as a hamster’s belch to a magnetar. Read the rest of this entry »