Inauguration of the slurm

Ann Arbor citizens, visitors, unfortunately trapped spring term students, inter-dimensional hangers on and the like: you have, right here, right now, in your hands, the inaugural "This Postmodern World" millennial soap box diatribe!

Yes, I'm afraid you're stuck with me this summer. But I want this kind of one-to-many mass media diversion to be over as soon as the next monkey, so bear with me. Just wait. This Postmodern World has some pun in store.

This Postmodern World trims thin slices of opinion in succulent veal and swallows the choicest young cuts, only to comment on the bologna by the stale crackers on the tray of national concern.

TPW acts like a simile, but is a metaphor, standing on tiptoe for a peak of the irony board. And after we shovel the bullshit, we'll scrub with trope on a rope. So hopefully the only aftertaste you'll be left with is your own making.

This Postmodern World wants to break through the chrysanthemum and charge into the shadows where your eyes don't go. We're going to sense earthquakes before they shake up the pedagogical pyramids, and be ready to run up for the high view.

So what does this all mean? It means, don't listen to anyone who is gauging opinion. Don't listen to me, obviously! And don't call me naive, but we're going to try to get along for a while. You and me - wannabe hierophant to questioning reader. I'm not telling you how it will be in any certain terms, so don't expect it.

As social interaction continues its voyage down the river of strangeness, I'll just fish out the treats and pass on the trifling discrepancies.

But don't think this is going to be a one-way dialogue. I'm only as informed as I presume to be. To get this right, I've gotta be able to stick my hands inside your head and swirl your cerebrum like Jell-O from a mail-order plastic brain mold. The blood red, cherry-flavored additives should leave sanguine fingerprints between every line of this column.

So write me email, mug me in the streets and corner me to shove your finger in my face. Do anything it takes, because I want to know what's going on. If you don't, I'll never sample all the artificial fruit flavors your gray matter has to offer.

I'm not going to pretend like I've got a firm grip on any situations here. The only sane answer is that no one has more than a faint clue as to what is going on at any moment. We all know the leader-shaping machine at the center of this college town dodges categories like Stumpy the tailless Angell Hall squirrel avoiding pedestrians on a rabid acorn run. And I try to be no exception.

So, if you make like a hair and split, please come back long enough to sample my bottles of greasy conditioning agents that bind the hair, lifting, fluffing, and restoring its natural sheen. And if you make like a tree and leave, I'll grab enough leaves to light the bonfire right in the center of my brain. And just remember: defined opinion is a running gage and everyone is in the scopes.

I will love each and every one of you silent readers. I will love the loud ones too. I'm going to give it my best, and beat on my chest and bite the hands that read me. I'm going to write from my left ventricle, with my toes on the keyboard, and feel the love-loathing brainwaves of the consuming masses, sensing the coffee-eyed glare of a few thousand scrutinizing eyes.

And who's to say I might not nail down a few issues before my stint is over? Only you. Because there is always room for Jell-O. So, come along. You belong. Feel the fizz of Cuckoo Cola.

- Josh Wickerham can be berated via e-mail at jwickerh@umich.edu.