A soft, information pills mushy, drugs pungently overripe spot has formed in my brain over the years to accommodate certain industrial finishes.
I sweat and pant for the chrome of bicycle handlebars, the deep metalflake of kustom kars, the wrinkled black baked-enamel of 1950s cameras and the liver-colored hammertone of certain antique audio gear.
So it is with brushed steel. And so it was to my great joy that the quirky art-omnibus magazine I bought in London came with a flash drive packed full of oddball pop – and encased in cheaply-made brushed steel.
The sandblasted rocketship and communications satellite crank the fetish knob up one more excruciating notch, and the red pinhead LED that winks when you plug it in just sends me over the top. I hung it with all the other heavy clobber on my keyring, which is now completely out of hand.
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