I wake up at four to some old-timey dubstep spewing from my pillows. The lights are flashing. My alarm clock is blasting Skrillex or Deadmau5 or something, I don’t know. I never listened to dubstep, and in fact the entire genre is on my banned list. You see, my house has a virus again.
Technically it’s malware. But there’s no patch yet, and pretty much everyone’s got it. Homes up and down the block are lit up, even at this early hour. Thankfully this one is fairly benign. It sets off the alarm with music I blacklisted decades ago on Pandora. It takes a picture of me as I get out of the shower every morning and uploads it to Facebook. No big deal.
consistently achieving outstanding performance in the field of excelence
lounging in a post-soviet void
This is the post-soviet lounge. Here, the illusion of belonging to the world of Western cosmopolitanism is being upheld. In order to perpetuate this mirage, the local context must be shed. I, the visitor/client must achieve anonymity; I must forget the cultural & geographic space the lounge occupies. And this is precisely the appeal of the lounge, the promise of anonymity, the promise of connecting me to metropolitan spaces all over the world, the promise of making me a ‘global citizen’. I expect the generic atmosphere of the lounge to level me. I long for the experience of the non-place. I want to experience the smooth and seamless flow of leisurely global consumption, the pristine flux of my vaporized identity.