exhibit

It’s what the whole hip world does, now the Kardashians won
– Paraphrasing Hunter S. Thompson

Aint nobody even look like dat
– Flavor Flav, She Watch Channel Zero

Plastic people / Oh baby now / You’re such a drag
– Frank Zappa

What would a planet of ‘the fit’ look like? Credit cards with legs?
– Henry Rollins

Our dreams are a second life. I have never been able to penetrate without a shudder those ivory or horned gates which separate us from the invisible world
– Gérard de Nerval

“I see dead people”
– Cole Sear, The Sixth Sense

RND/ To consider Second Life’s soulless, blank eyed autonomatons as quietly, politely evil – smooth and emotionally featureless. A proto-vaporwave lament for a Dead-MMO:

It is the Near Future Now. You are trapped in V.R Hell lockdown and Second Life is what’s being piped in by the guards for 23 hours a day – a thousand subjective centuries at a time. Witness raw (always fully cooked) hyper-consumerist transhuman body fascism at play, featuring the biggest fake-ass looking munts in the fucking multiverse; a super perverse Dark Paradise of the insufferably spoilt – impossibly endowed designer psychopathy style taking backsides. Where dressing up Daddy’s little angels like baby doll princesses (urgh) proudly displays a horrible synthetic pastel innocence where the importance of ‘life style’ is everything. Nobody reads or thinks here in VR-Hell, they just shop for new faces the Surgeon General of Beverly Hills would find too creepy, posing with the invisible selfie stick they’ve permanently stuck up themselves. This is the #aesthetic at its most excellent and Capitalistically unrestrained; rich with obviousness.

A entire planet of narcissistic, hollow egos, bloated and swollen as though parasitic with endlessly ballooning self worth, sipping frothy organic decaff coconut adaptogenic mushroom rosewater and tumeric ‘Selfieccinos’ [Kill Yourself Now] while the world falls off the melting anthropogenic climate change ice cliff. Take off immediately and picawatt lazor fry the whole thing from low orbit, just to make sure.. Ka-vlappp!

Second Life:

Instant sentimental saccharine-kitch induced diabetes.
In which if Second Life was the afterlife, you’d prey for true Oblivion.
Cultists with rich interior lives befitting abandoned highway sofas and tote bags of rusty spanners.
The pursuit of Fashion Über Alles as an expression of violently bland designer insanity.
You know what they say about Utopias – that they’re all built by those who are not allowed into them.
The actual dream ideal and ultimate existential goal of bizarro newage TV shows like Love Island.
Populated by stunningly useless, grotesque alt right body parody klones direct from some off-world Elysium ripoffs of Human Ken Dolls.
Like something played by that monstrously obese guy in that awful “Gamer” movie while jerking his filthy peanut on the shitter.
Techno-Utopian ideology at its most base; welcome to hyper banal New Void Amerika. Droids will be deployed to make sure you enjoy your stay – or is that just your neighbour?
A digital crack induced daymare where smooth faced, dead brained escapees from the deepest part of The Uncanny Valley come back to haunt us for our electronic sins.
Some kind of cosmically obsolete, ultra private gated techno-colonial New Endland pastoral, fish-lipped plastic implant iPhone filter jockbro fantasy.
Unending mundane vistas of unrelenting interior decoration and carefully curated accessories, featuring endless shots of rustic wooden piers, lighthouses n’ shit.
Nothing’s happening somewhere in nowhere; so say hello to forever lost and wandering hungry ghosts of the electronic dead.
For dead stuffed mother’s basement dwelling beard-weird creepozoids and serial murderers only.
Makes the undying anti-artistic corpse of Thomas Kinkade give side eye puke.
Trapped in VR-Hell, walking lizard algorithm Mark Sugarborg joker-smiles.
Where everyone arrives pre-caricatured like modern millionaire white freaks.