TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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07.06.05, wednesday evening
The World Pillowfight Championships this year? Same grassy knolls, same creek, same mud pit. I even recognized the people. Beery smell. Flags everywhere. Sweaty sunbrowned muscled men, the kind of men you could imagine dying for a vague, bloated notion called "my country". Tattooed trim blond teenagers & their mothers in tiny bikinis. A pit of testosterone, sloshy beer cups, flesh brushing against flesh: desire, Middle America style. Stumbling out of the shade, one girl said to her friend, I don't want to watch 'em fight anymore; let's go mingle!