Ginsu Wives, more or less Elastica meets Thrill Kill
Kult, meet in the parking lot to go fuck-hunting, but not before punching me
right in the nuts.
Ow …
fffffFFFFFF … ahh … fffffFFFFF …
I wish that didn’t happen. But it did, and I’m down
for the count for a while. I watch Ginsu Wives walk away from my fetal position
on the pavement, their combat boots and heels pacing confidently into the
night. Tears stream down my face as I struggle into a sitting position, then I half-crawl
to my car, scrabbling for the door handle. I reach it.
It opens.
Breathing heavily with exertion, the cramp in my
stomach blossoming into painful new experiences throughout my abdomen, I make
my way into the driver seat, eyes and mind bleary as I contemplate the
sex/drugs/violence of my encounter with Secret
Bodies of Work, an audio diary of destruction stretching from 2006 to 2019.
I turn the key in the ignition and am overwhelmed by techno rock.
My Captain Ahab
tape must be stuck in here, I half-think.
Wrong. It’s Ginsu Wives. My pain doubles.
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