"Seattle, 1993. Don't believe the hype. I find myself stranded in this obsessively health-minded, puritanical, routinized, and relentlessly cheerful city, lifelines cut, lost without my vital supply of counteracting stimulants. Yes, some of the bands are still great, despite the insidious pressures of fame: Nirvana, Mudhoney, Seven-Year Bitch. But otherwise, nothing. I strain to hear the echo of Burroughs's silent scream: "What scared you all into time? Into body? Into shit? I will tell you: the word." But does anyone even remember? These prefabricated combinations of words, and these carefully crafted, HWP bodies, are all I can find, perhaps all there is. Organicism is a myth. Our bodies are never ourselves, our words and texts are never really our own. They aren't "us;' but the forces which crush us, the norms to which we have been subjected. It's a relief to realize that culture is after all empty, that its imposing edifices are sound stage facades, that bodies are extremely plastic, that facial expressions are masks, that words in fact have nothing to express. Bodies and words are nothing but exchange-value: commodities or money. All we can do is appropriate them, distort them, turn them against themselves. All we can do is borrow them and waste them: spend what we haven't earned and don't even possess. Such is my definition of postmodern culture, but it's also Citibank's definition of a healthy economy, Jacques Lacan's definition of love, and J. G. Ballard's vision of life in the postindustrial ruins. So don't be a good citizen. Don't produce, expend. Be a parasite. Live off your Visa card, or scavenge in the debris. " from Steven Shaviro's very clever intro to his essay, Two Lessons from Burroughs.