As soon as the man had been dead for a full hour, I sensed it was already too late. The first remembrances had already begun to trickle, as if they’d been stewing. Then came the voice of The New Yorker and that infinitely tweetable line—surely you saw it—by which Yauch was “an ambassador to America from our New York, which is now gone, as is he.” It was a new variation on the world’s most tiresome claim: Did you know that contemporary New York is not the place New York once was, according to motherfucking everyone who has ever lived there even momentarily? Elsewhere, isolated everyones completed the process by making explicit just how personally difficult the death of the man was, to them personally. It was a colonialization of the classic form—our object was deified, diced, and erased. In a world where every episode earns a recap, meaning comes by heaping spoonfuls. It tastes like nothing but their speed is mind-boggling. They swoop to the rescue at that very instant our lips spread to issue forth a scream.


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