To the tune of “come sail away”, by Styx.

I’m smashing computers. Smashing laptops, with an iron crowbar. Or a baseball bat. I’m running through a building filled with laptops, smashing in their faces with my big blunt thing, pure raw energy coming out of my body, bored muscles finally awakening from the longest sleep this side of one hundred years ago. I’m smashing in the keyboards and I’m kicking the laptops across the floor, they skid on the polished concrete, fresh from their factory boxes, nary a fingerprint on their gleaming surfaces, smelling of hot plastic, of store shelves, of the puff of air that comes when you are six and you break open the clear bag that holds the mcdonald’s toy, hold it up to your nose and sniff the sweet, sweet vinyl. The Things We Make From Plastic. Milkshake straws, laptops. It’s in all of us, in our cells.

The song is reaching its psychotic, climactic chorus just as I toss a laptop gently into the air, swing the heavy bat as it falls in slow motion, propel it against the jagged brick wall. The song is so loud and I’m doing some sort of righteous good, because everywhere we are pulling our fingertips from keyboards and reaching for baseball bats, stopping one from fusing to the other and thrashing our way to freedom, dismantling the finite brain-machine so we will never, ever be able to check our myspace account ever again, and our bodies will once again celebrate the joy that is friction, heat, mechanics. Pure mechanics! Arms like cranes! Hips like brontosauruses! Pure, dumb motion, a thousand pound baseball bat in the face of father time!

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