This week, Johanna describes the best live performance she’s ever seen in her life—which is saying something, as a seasoned performer herself, and someone very much in the world. It’s a piece called A Year Without Summer by a recently internet-famous artist, thanks to a performance at the Venice Biennial in which she played a human dongle inside a giant bell (and so, The Bell Woman). Summer takes her out of the bell jar and into a long wet orgiastic bacchanal of carnal delight and mayhem. If Caligula had more of an eye for stage production, basically. And dear god is it heartening to know that enormous, antagonistic, unsafe unfiltered work is still being funded SOMEWHERE, and that there are artists still willing and capable of pulling off extremism without settling for Tumblr-friendly provocation (cough, Sam Levinson). Also on the agenda this week, we reel like the rest of the country as our government stops even pretending like they don’t want us all to die, and aren’t actively taking steps to make this happen (because they are). I mean, cutting public servant roles and replacing them with literal SkyNet is, um, maybe not the buzz; and yet here we are anyway, getting ready to feel the inevitable shit wave once it’s CoPilot calling the shots (and, being Nicola Willis’s preferred AI module, why not?). Lord knows we’ll REALLY be feeling that mythical trickle-down once the binary-bot that usually walks you through your spreadsheets is deciding which families are worthy of financial support, and which should be street-walking in Dickensian rags holding a tin cup out for shrapnel from strangers.

Yeah, so cool and normal aye. Also also, the rats take back their previous stance on Fritter Fest and wonder if they have the combined culinary prowess to have their own truck at the next inaugural event—whether sweet or savoury offerings is something undecided as yet, but nothing they can’t figure out over a weekend vision board. Finally, the rats mourn the loss of one of the Topp Twins, and tend to agree with the surviving twin’s AMA speech in which Ole Paul Goldstein (sorry, Goldsmith) and his pie-loving cuck-party had their 2-billion dollar defence-slice questioned. I mean, we’re not actively trying to start a war with anyone are we? Is that something we’re into, as a country? Like, there are easier more fun ways to nosedive into the abyss than friggin war (and they all involve orgies at crack dens, just saying).

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