On the site: Rob Clough on Papercutter 17.
Next up, a guest writer takes the wheel:
When Dan Nadel hit town it was an easy task to slip him a wipeout pill and slide him into the penetrator chair. After that pulling his thoughts out onto the chalkboard upload was as simple as peeling a banana. Today’s Nadel brain reads smooth, a baby’s bottom,
“I consider a parking ticket a badge of honer. In fact I am proud to have collected two of them whilst whisking about The City today before my trek north. North, where the ice giants live. North, where the water is clear, fresh, untouched by mongrel man. North, where Santa Claus greedily gobbles up the wishes and visions of youth, grown obese on the exchange of dreams for plastic, the exchange of hard earned cash for the unwanted sock/clock/pet rock. Out on the highway I commanded my Honda Not a Civic, sitting low, dancing past traffic jams like a mouse in the mall(food court). A cigarette lounges lazily on my lips. Just kidding hahaha. I don’t smoke mom. But every travel writer knows that a cigarette is the portal to romance. The smoke a shield to block interaction, no, incarceration by the unworthy out to latch onto a man with a mission. The haze obscures the gaze and when you can’t see past your nose you’re left with nothing but the imagination to reveal a path. Me? I choose imagination over reality any day. I choose the untrod lands. Give me a freeway to Providence and I’ll take the drainage ditch. In fact, that’s why I spent half the day upside down dangling in the stern grip of the seatbelt, my small two door passenger car wedged within the calloused arms of a poplar tree off 95 not so far from Groton, Connecticut. A town with a name that sounds and smells like cheese. Sounds and smells define a man. I sound, I smell. I survive. Thank the gods no one stole the tape deck, I’m reaching for Slayer Decade of Decadence, no need to hear the sirens call my name.”
-Brian Chippendale, live from the arm of the penetrator