The Thought Cabinet

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Comments

Actual Art Degree

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Cleaning Out The Rooms

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Finger Pistols (9mm)

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Mazovian Socio-Economics

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Some Kind of Superstar

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Homo-Sexual Underground

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The Litany of Contact Mike

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Aces Low

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Guillaume Le Million

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The Jamrock Shuffle

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Problem

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Yeah, it's another copotype -- the worst one. The most savage and brutal. The Art Cop. Nothing is good enough for him. Everything is *shit*. You have to employ an armada of adjectives to depict and demean the mediocrity of the works and visual institutions around you. Really *flex* that critical muscle. Until the vocabulary for PUNISHING mediocrity becomes second nature. Here we go...

Problem

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Someone's been walking around in your dreams lately, looking for something. Tidying up, rearranging. Storing away all the unrealized dreams, putting old pains in boxes. The worst nightmares have settled down for a while. A spot of light on the bedroom door after the dark. The fluttering of eyelids in the spring sun. A thought that arises, only to disappear again. And yet there's a pattern emerging…

Problem

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You were promised a gun, that much is certain. This is why you became a cop. Yet here you are, loitering around with idle hands like some sorry-ass loser from the street. Suddenly you're supposed to be solving cases by, what, like, *talking* to people? How are they going to believe that you can protect yourself -- and them -- from savages without a firearm?! This ain't right. You need to think *around* this problem. And you need to snap your fingers at people as you do.

Problem

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People think Communism was some crazy idea that had its comeuppance 40 years ago. A fever that shook the world, never to return again. They were right. Until *he* woke up today – a spiritual corpse responsive only to the call of Commodore Red, prostitutes, and Kras Mazov. For him, Communism is still a *thing*. He will single-handedly raise the Commune of '02 from the oceanic trench where it has been resting, covered in ghosts and seaweed! He is the Big Communism Builder. Come, witness his attempt to rebuild Communism in the year '51!

Problem

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First, let's make this absolutely clear. No one is saying you're an *actual* superstar in the groupies-and-cocaine, riddled-with-hepatitis-C, strikes-a-lionesque-pose-with-a mic kind of way. You’re not Guillaume le Million or Davy Dewis, no. You're a *metaphorical* superstar. You bring that rock-and-roll authenticity and passion to a line of work where people don't expect (or want) to see it. Where, some would say, it doesn't *belong*: law enforcement.

Problem

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You see mysterious strangers in the night. Leaning against unlit doorways, engaged in hushed conversation. A shadowy cabal exchanging looks, whispering in dark alleys and unmarked locales. A radical cell conspiring against the state -- and perhaps even against man and woman. Was that a secret handshake? What’s going on? Who are these secretive people? And most importantly -- are you *one* of them? You could be. Maybe you forgot...

Problem

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It’s time once again to return to *The Twenty Things You Like To Say About Contact Mike*, the boxer who is, apparently, a paragon of open competition. It really doesn’t get *any* better than this. *Any* better. Both inside and *outside* the ring. Stop. Point at someone. Someone in the distance. Point your finger at him. He *will* point his finger back at you, vaulting an impassable gulf of finance and privilege, to...

Problem

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By now it’s clear you like to look inside containers. You like to open doors and see what’s behind them. Maybe secrets? Maybe... more juicy containers? Let’s be honest, you like *all* containers. Trash cans, utensil trays, manholes, coat pockets, secret containers left behind by the Filippian kings that hold forbidden relics. Okay, you haven’t come across one of those yet, but *one day*... Wait. Is that why you’re so hellbent on opening containers? Do you think you’ll find the Holy Scepter and the Orbe de Montagne?

Problem

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The Insulindian Civil War was not the first war to see the use of hybrid airships on both sides, but it was the *coolest*. For an entire decade folded multi-rotor fighters got into dogfights above Revachol, Ozonne, Semenine, and the Arcade Islands, spitting death at one another. They flew over sandy beaches and shot each other out of the azure sky, crashing into city blocks and setting island forests ablaze. The Ace's Low was a custom among revolutionary brigades, performed after multiple kills. Lieutenant Kitsuragi seems fond of it… why?

Problem

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Whatever happened to Guillaume Le Million, who -- with his amber mane and sparkling teeth -- beguiled the tattered remains of the nation? While you suffered and suffered, did he dematerialize in a cloud of cocaine dust? Or did he simply stand in the corner and melt into the slendering *New* lines of some starlit boîte de nuit twenty years ago? Spare a thought for his great ass too! Or wait... maybe he became a police officer in Revachol West! Hmm...