"Gibson, William - Disney Land with the Death Penalty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gibson William)

local Gap clone, they're a handsome populace; they look good in their
shorts and Reeboks and Matsuda shades.

There is less in the way of alternative, let alone dissident style in
Singapore than in any city I have ever visited. I did once see two young
Malayan men clad in basic, global, heavy metal black - jeans and T-shirts
and waist-length hair. One's T-shirt was embroidered with the Rastafarian
colors, causing me to think its owner must have balls the size of durian
fruit, or else be flat-out suicidal, or possibly both. But they were it,
really, for overt boho style. (I didn't see a single "bad" girl in
Singapore. And I missed her.) A thorough scan of available tapes and

CDs confirmed a pop diet of such profound middle-of-the-road blandness
that one could easily imagine the stock had been vetted by Mormon
missionaries.


"You wouldn't have any Shonen Knife, would you?"

"Sir, this is a music shop."


Although you don't need Mormons making sure your pop is squeaky-clean when
you have the Undesirable Propagation Unit (UPU), one of several bodies of
official censors. (I can't say with any certainty that the UPU,
specifically, censors Singapore's popular music, but I love the name.)
These various entities attempt to ensure that red rags on the order of
Cosmopolitan don't pollute the body politic. Bookstores in Singapore,
consequently, are sad affairs, large busy places selling almost nothing I
would ever want to buy - as though someone had managed to surgically
neuter a W.H. Smith's. Surveying the science fiction and fantasy sections
of these stores, I was vaguely pleased to see that none of my own works
seemed to be available. I don't know for a fact that the UPU had turned
them back at the border, but if they had, I'd certainly be in good company.

The local papers, including one curiously denatured tabloid, New Paper,
are essentially organs of the state, instruments of only the most
desirable propagation. This ceaseless boosterism, in the service of order,
health, prosperity, and the Singaporean way, quickly induces a species of
low-key Orwellian dread. (The feeling that Big Brother is coming at you
from behind a happy face does nothing to alleviate this.) It would be
possible, certainly, to live in Singapore and remain largely in touch with
what was happening elsewhere. Only certain tonalities would be muted, or
tuned out entirely, if possible. . . .

Singaporean television is big on explaining Singaporeans to themselves.
Model families, Chinese, Malay, or Indian, act out little playlets
explicating the customs of each culture. The familial world implied in
these shows is like Leave It To Beaver without The Beave, a sphere of
idealized paternalism that can only remind Americans my age of America's