Guilty YouTube Pleasures

I can never get enough of these two.

Or the intense discomfort they cause each other.

Yes, I'm subscribed.

Quandox posts so infrequently though!


In Hell, there will be talking. A lot of talking.

Jean-Paul Sartre, eat your heart out.


Royce & Marilyn do Huis Clos way better than your ensemble did.


I saw Royce's hat the other day in the thrift store.

And got very afraid.


I wonder if most viewers wonder (as I do) when Marilyn will finally have enough and pop Royce.

Just pop her. Right upside the melon.

Autour de Lucie

I was sad because I didn't like the only track offered from the 2009 Worm is Green album. "The Politician." I bet someone else has other tracks up, even if they are fan vids but can't find them darnit.





At the beginning looks like an incredibly sad song. / En el inicio parece una canción increiblemnte triste.

Restons immobile
rien ne nous attend
rien qui ne soit plus futile
que ce doux moment

Restons sans mouvement
sans geste inutile
gardons nos forces à present
avant que tout ne file

Restons encore un instant
un instant comme s'ils étaient cent
rien ne nous attend...

Soyons indolents
(Ronflement / Humming / Tarareo)
sans effets de style
et sans mobile apparent
ne bougeons plus d'un cil

Restons encore un instant
un instant comme s'ils étaient cent
rien ne nous attend...

Restons encore un instant
un instant comme s'ils étaient cent
rien ne nous attend...

(Ronflement / Humming / Tarareo)


Probably some could remember this from the last episode from La Femme Nikita / Tal vez halla quien recuerde esto del ultimo episodio de la Femme Nikita

Musician: Autour de Lucie
Title: Immobile
Genre: Pop
Album: Immobile
Autor: Dumont / Durand / Leulliot
Language: French
Country: France
Year: 1998

Interprete: Autour de Lucie
Titulo: Immobile
Genero: Pop
Disco: Immobile
Autor: Dumont / Durand / Leulliot
Idioma: Francés
País: Francia
Año: 1998

A Little Further Back in the Halou

2006.

Love the images.

Distortion. We All Love Distortion.

Well, I do.

And feedback. And fuzziness. Fat sounds. Amplitude.

It's that shoegaze thing I guess. Although shoegaze likes chiming as much as distortion.

Shoegaze sort of reinvented the guitar. Or made it "stop acting up."

Shoegaze was like a set of parents who put their addled child on terrible drugs, which then allowed the child to discover it was a savant at introspection and possibly autistic artistic gestures.

I don't know why I'm talking about shoegaze.

This is Halou, from their 2008 album of the same name.

I dedicate this to Dru. I think they're singing about him.

The vocalist owes just a little bit to Siouxsie.

Love the album cover art.

French Giggles

Reading Nathalie Quintane's Saint-Tropez (P.O.L.) one comes upon such funny passages.

The eye of the prose is strange, and allured by strange details.

Ancient tabloidia, contemporary brochures, and other diverse documents are pitted against the actuality of the town.

Brigitte Bardot is a recurrent obsession. Orson Welles and others appear doing irksome things.

She obsesses over the sorts of odd details you do.

The ones most writers ignore when they are in the mainframe of plot, character and conflict.

But the author will have little use for these last three---this is a P.O.L. book, after all.

Here's a scene where she's sort of doing the Letterman schtick with the watermelons.

Only funnier.

Both of the books contained in this volume have that Burning Deck sensibility (I'm sure there is author overlap between these two presses) and I'm surprised the second piece in this two book volume didn't come out through Burning Deck. Une Americaine is pure Waldrop. More Rosmarie than Keith, I think.

This second book could just as easily have been titled Christopher Columbus (or I guess it would have been Christophe Colomb as a P.O.L. book). It looks at America's creepy origins. Again, the author obsesses over details, diagrams, maps. It's a curious deconstruction of the birth of a scary nation.

This funny passage with tennis socks turned deadly is from Saint-Tropez.


Pour une raison oubliee, P.Botton jette, d'un helicoptere, des langoustes dans la piscine of d'Y.Mourousi. Ces langoustes sont autant de tomettes volant en hauteur, ce qui compte, c'est leur eruption rouge dans le ciel au-dessus du bassin - ou les figures des eclaboussures qu'elles projetteront sur le bas-bord, pense P.Botton.

Un autre jour, il compte faire une partie de ping-pong chez E. Barclay, mais il est sans chaussettes de tennis. On lui en prete une paire. Il voit que tout joueur n'etant pas tennisman, et meme tout homme n'etant pas jouer, peut a sa guise en porter, que ces objets se rencontrent presque partout ailleurs que sur un court de tennis, qu'on peut y glisser sa monnaie, les nouer en balle, s'en servir comme filtre a cafe ou bonnet lorsqu'elles son bien detendues. Il en achete cinc cents paires et les lance, d'helicoptere, sur la maison d'E. Barclay. Elles brisent les tuiles du toit, penetrent par les fenetres, cassent des vases et des assiettes:

"Un carnage," dit C.Barclay.




Or maybe it reminds me of the episode of Malcolm in the Middle where the father's secret "affair" is actually with a steamroller, which he is using to fetishistically crush things all day instead of going to work.

(Later, his son Dewey discovers this "torrid" affair, and blackmails him to get crushing rights.)

And the French do love Malcolm in the Middle. (Maybe the highbrows and middlebrows as much as the lowbrows.)



I was just checking to see if this was translated (and wasn't surprised to see a Waldrop as her translator for other books--makes perfect sense to me).

I found this in English, translated by someone else..."How Stephane Berard Did Invent Penis Fragrance for Condoms," to give you more of an idea of her delightfully wiggy sense of humor. This appeared in the mag Trouble back in 2005.

Coriander, yes please. Cumin, no.

A Translation of All the Cantatas of Membra Jesu Nostri

was done by Allan Mahnke.

And it can be found here.

Buxtehude

Devotional formalism.

I've liked this since I was sixteen I think.

The first time I listened to it in its entirety anyway.




*----------*----------*
Quid sunt plagae istae
in medio manuum tuarum?

Salve Jesu, pastor bone,
fatigatus in agone,
qui per lignum es distractus
et ad lignum es compactus
expansis sanctis manibus

Manus sanctae, vos amplector,
et gemendo condelector,
grates ago plagis tantis,
clavis duris guttis sanctis
dans lacrymas cum osculis

In cruore tuo lotum
me commendo tibi totum,
tuae sanctae manus istae
me defendant, Jesu Christe,
extremis in periculis

*----------*----------*

"What are those wounds
in the midst of your hands?" (Zechariah 13:6)

***************************************************

I stole these well-written liner notes from someone online...

The first sentence is funny. Because you can tell the person is thinking of horrible translations like "Parts of Our Jesus." That's the literal thing.

I don't think that would be hard to translate.

Maybe just go with something like Sacrament of His Body.

Wiki went with The Limbs of Our Lord Jesus which does sound stilted, but is perhaps the closest one can get to literal truth without being ridiculous--or at least outre.


Membra Jesu nostri, a title that defies elegant translation, is a cycle of seven cantatas, each a meditation on Christ on the Cross, his feet, knees, hands, side, breast, heart and face. The Latin text is drawn from the Rhythmica oratio attributed to the twelfth-century Cistercian St Bernard of Clairvaux or to the thirteenth-century Arnulf of Louvain, who belonged to the same religious order. From this he derived a three-verse aria for each of the seven parts of the work,

in which the sequence of keys, C minor, E flat major, G minor, D minor, A minor, E minor, C minor, provides an element of unity.



The first of the cycle, Ad pedes (To his feet) opens with a Sonata, a brief introductory instrumental movement for two violins, viol one and organ continuo. A five-part choir sings an imitative setting of words from the prophet Nahum, with basso continuo accompaniment and the briefest of other instrumental interventions, adding a five-part setting of the first verse of the Rhythmica oratio. There follows a soprano aria, with basso continuo, Salve mundi salutare

(Hail, Saviour of the world), with a final instrumental ritornello. The second soprano aria, Clavos pedum (Nails in his feet) follows the same pattern, succeeded by the bass Dulcis Jesu (Sweet Jesu), with a different melody on the same harmonic basis. The choir and instruments end the first part in a return to the biblical text.



Ad genua (To his knees) starts with an instrumental Sonata in tremulo, the tremulous character provided by the undulating bowed groups of notes in the strings. The choir enters with the imitative entries of Ad ubera portabimini (Then shall ye suck). A tenor aria follows, Salve Jesu, rex sanctorum (Hail, Jesu, king of saints), with an instrumental ritornello, succeeded by the alto second verse, on the same harmonic pattern, Quid sum tibi responsurus (What answer shall I give thee), leading to the third verse, Ut le quaeram (That I may seek thee), for two sopranos and bass, with basso continuo. The first chorus, Ad ubera, is repeated in conclusion.



The third part of the cycle, Ad manus (To his hands) opens with an instrumental sonata, followed by the choir's contrapuntal Quid sunt plagae istae (What are these wounds). The first soprano aria, Salve Jesu, pastor bone (Hail, Jesu, good shepherd), with its concluding ritornello, leads to a second soprano verse, with the same musical material, Manus sanctae (Sacred hands), with a third verse, In cruore tuo (In thy blood) for alto, tenor and bass. After the ritornello the chorus Quid sunt plagae istae is repeated.



Ad latus (To his side) starts, as before, with a short Sonata, an instrumental introduction, followed by the five-part setting of Surge, amica mea (Arise, my love), its alto opening leading to a homophonic vocal texture, before the imitation of in caverna maceriae (in the secret places of the stairs). The first aria, for soprano and basso continuo, Salve latus Salvatoris (Hail, side of the Saviour) leads to a second verse vocal trio, for alto, tenor and bass, Ecce tibi appropinquo (Lo I approach thee) and a third verse soprano aria, Hora mortis meus flatus (In the hour of death my soul), as before on the same harmonic pattern, with the two solo arias again using the same melodic material, The final ritornello leads to a repetition of the choral Surge, amica mea.



The fifth part, Ad pectus (To his breast), opens with a short Sonata, followed now by a three-part contrapuntal setting of Sicut modo geniti infantes (As newborn babes), for alto, tenor and bass. The first aria is for alto, Salve, salus mea (Hail, my salvation), followed by the tenor Pectus mihi confer mundum (Grant me a pure heart) and the bass Ave, verum templum Dei (Hail, true temple of God), each differing in melodic contour over the same harmonic pattern. The final ritornello leads back to the five-part Sicut modo geniti infantes.



Ad cor (To his heart) has an introductory three bars, marked Adagio, followed by Allegro imitative entries from the five viole da gamba for which the movement is scored. The movement continues with an alternation of slow and fast sections, to be followed by the three-part Vulnerasti cor meum (Thou hast ravished my heart), for two sopranos and bass, A closing ritornello is followed by the soprano Summi regis cor (Heart of the highest king) and the second soprano verse Per medullam cordis mei (Through the marrow of my heart) and the dramatically worked bass Viva cordis voce clamo (I cry with the living voice of the heart) and the final three-part Vulnerasti, differing in its last bars, when the singers softly repeat the words cor meum (my heart).



The final part of the cycle, Ad faciem (To his face), returns to the original instrumentation of two violins, violone and organ continuo, and to the original key of C minor. It has an opening Sonata and a five-part setting of Illustra faciem tuam (Make thy face to shine). The aria setting of Salve, caput cruentatum (Hail, blood-stained head), the original of which the Gerhard chorale Haupt voll Bfut (O sacred head sore wounded) is a translation, is for three voices, alto, tenor and bass and Is followed by the alto second verse, Dum me mori est necesse (Since I must die) and a choral setting of the third verse, Cum me jubes emigrare (Since you bid me go), all three on the same harmonic pattern. This is capped by an elaborate and prolonged Amen. The autograph, which bore the superscription In nomine Jesu (In the name of Jesus) at the beginning, ends with the added words Soli Deo gloria (Glory to God alone).



Johann Rosenmuller, whose Sinfonia XI is included in the present release, was born about the year 1619 at Olsnltz, near Zwlckau. and studied at Leipzig University, before taking employment at the Thomasschule, where Bach was later to serve as Cantor. Promotion brought promises of the position of Cantor, when it should become vacant, but a homosexual scandal in which he and some of his pupils at the Thomasschule were involved, led to Imprisonment and escape which brought him finally to Venice, where he remained for a number of years, at first as a trombonist at St Mark's and later as a composer at the Ospedale della Pieta, where Vivaldi was later to work. He returned to Germany as Kapellmeister at Woifenbuttel, taking up his appointment at the earliest in 1682, two years before his death. His Sonate da camera cioe Sinfonie Alemande of 1667, written in Venice, were dedicated to Duke Johann Friedrich of Brunswick-Luneburg, with a second volume of Sonate in 1682 dedicated to the Duke's cousin, Duke Anton Ulrich, with whom he may have returned to Wolfenbuttel, after the latter's visit to Venice in that year.



Of the three leading German composers of the period, Buxtehude, Pachelbel and

Rosenmuller, it was the last who enjoyed the greatest contemporary popularity. Influenced by his residence in Venice, he developed an extended opening sinfonia for the earlier publication, and with the 1682 sonatas offered sinfonia that are a step further away from the earlier dance-suite. These suggest a synthesis of German and Italian that bore later fruit in the work of Johann Sebastian Bach. Rosenmuller also wrote a large quantity of church music, which had wide currency in Germany. The Sinfonia XI, from the earlier collection, which carries the date

1670 on the dedicatory title-page, is originally scored for first and second violin, first and second violette, bass viola da gamba and continuo. The introductory Grave leads to a triple rhythm Adagio, an Allegro, a return of the triple metre Adagio. The original publication then follows with a series of dances.

Ozy Thule's Remix of Trabant's Superman

Agent Fresco

Christopher Knowles / Robert Wilson

You've just heard his words in Glass's opera.

Here's Christopher Knowles, if you've never heard his voice, in a YouTube clip (that had 12 hits after a month and a half up, surprisingly).

And Robert Wilson joins in.

I love my copy of Knowles' deliciously designed book from the seventies.

Some of it is concrete poetry, I suppose, but one doesn't have to necessarily rubricize it like that.

It could just be presentation.

Word collages and sound collages of a delicious ear.

Okay, the colored inks in the book are very pretty too.

Knowles is a great reader of the airwaves.

This is a fun clip.

Logic is always so deceptive, that sometimes it's good to speak it out loud.

Just to see how wobbly it really is.

I Go Into My Happy Place

More Clips for Creepy Cat Voyeurs. Cat Voyeurism Rules.

Are you a mouse or a newspaperweight. Seriously lame attack.

"O Mountain..."

I Will Flame You

if you send me shit like this on YouTube lol.

If he hadn't written the insincere "good poems" thing I probably wouldn't have recorded this.

But he did.

Reminds me of that painting by that Belgian kid, "I AM HUMAN SPAM," with the ectoplasmic person reaching through the computer to grab you by your chicken mcnuggets or whatever else they can reach.

Where's Zelda Rubinstein when you need her to send someone back into the Light?

I wish you the best with your novels, guy.

I really do.

I'd probably watch the M to the V or whatever if it was on LIFETIME.

Have you thought about sending these to Tracy Gold?

I think she has a mailbox at LIFETIME television.

And Meredith Baxter is finally ready for that lesbian role.

So if you have anything along those lines, her mailbox is also at LIFETIME television.

Cheers.

Don't send me stuff like this.

Please. Funny videos yes.

Odd little videos.

I love those.

Send me those.

Not shameless self-promotions.

Shemale self-promotions.

I'll watch shit like that.

Thanks.

That's all.

Some Delusional Love Poems

"Send Me a Picture"

Letters from an Imaginary Countess 10

Most Ravishing Rapistess,

I fear the entire world hath gone Plague-mad!

Such visions I have seen outside of febrility in the last few turns Helios and Selene have taken about our increasingly Strange muncipalities!

The Dwarrows showed up last night at my Hebdomadaire Momie Orgie...the one where where my companions and I snort insane amounts of Momie Dust and then haunt the lowest Tavernes looking for the Most Depraved Whore of Our Age. You surely remember this game. You always suss the winning Cum-Drab out with such sportive astuteness that my Fellows now refuse to wager money if you are to be their competition in this Pussy Pool of ours.

Anyway, since you could not Grace us with your unrivaled Hermaphroditism, when the diminutive Duo showed I wondered if the Minikins had become Aficionados of that trouser-Adder which properly belongs only to you (and those to whom you choose to delegate fucks through your most Loyal Vessel). Why other had they come to see me?

But the creatures were acting most vile. One hissed at my companions like a Madagascar Cockroach (I believe that was Maritera but I can't tell the Doppels apart!) whilst the other rifled my Vestments and squawked at me in that inhospitable Barbaric native tongue of theirs. (What are those creatures anyway? Swinish Swabians? Some blood of that mercurial ilk?)

Did you know they ride Dodoes through the streets now? Those Moppets have even had Accoutrements fashioned for the strange Creatures...They have riding crops they use mercilessly on the Monstrous-Billed avians. I'm told the Dwarrows race one another down all the Publick Thoroughfares. They killed a visiting Vice-Suzerain yestreen. Who knew the Monstrosities could gain such speed? I mean those Horrible Birds of Afric...not the Monstrosities ensconced atop them...

She kept screaming about that Unicorn charm you referenced in your last Epistle.

I told her I hadn't seen the damned Chimera, but she searched every part of my anatomy for the bauble. She clambered all over my Physiognomie like one of those furry Spiders that so fascinated my Father when he visited the southern parts of That Horrible Continent.

Lizabeta (I believe it was she) drank all my Slut-Mates' liqueurs to the lees and burped in their faces and then they both mounted the Dodoes they had harnessed to the poles outside the Taverne and were off in minikin bird-whipping fury.

The oddest thing is that one of my Abettors said he had actually come upon a Unicorne, in the very middle of the Maze of Penniless Nymphomaniacs whilst he was in there of Late searching for destitute Gash.

He said the Creature spooked him mightily, as it had just slain a member of the minor aristocracy and its horn was dripping the largely worthless peer's Blood.

Isn't the Department of Chimeras doing any work this Season at all? It seems they just let these creatures run rampant now. And yet Taxes wax every year like Sodomie at Sea.

It's been too long that I have been without feeling the heat of your brow against my loins, slutty Lioness.

I miss your Counsel and your Cunt Sill.

I apologize beforehand for the mundanity of this Letter, as I am in my cups and my concupiscence both. I came thrice and remain Unsated. That ephebe I purchased just now didn't satisfy me one bit. I'm experiencing the most disgusting eructations right now. I think the waif was bad. Plague is everywhere this year. Pox is the complexion of all the most desirable fruits.

I can only hope my Divine Dribbler is wandering through the same marshy Miasma of Regrets that I am right now, and dying in the same empurpled prose. Prose like a happily bruised cock. I hope my Mistress's balls are blue only for me.

A Confession: Sometimes I rub your correspondence on my cock, then enjoy the scent by rolling backwards in my bed like a self-fellating Hedgehog. I love that I can nibble the tip this way and taste your Essence.

Your Uni-Horn,


S______________

Letters from an Imaginary Countess 9

FROM THE DESK OF THE MARGRAVINE A__________:

I TRUST THIS VIRTUAL LETTER WILL MANIFEST NEOCORTICALLY-CORRECT AND THAT ALL RECIPIENTS WILL VIRTUAL-SIGN PSYCHOKINETICALLY TO CONFIRM RECEIPT.

UNIFIED FRONT: WE ARE MAKING GOOD PROGRESS, BUT THE ENEMY IS DECEITFUL ABOVE ALL THINGS, AND HAS MADE SOME INCURSIONS INTO OUR FORCES. THE AKASHICS AND THE ANACHRONISTS HAVE INTERCEPTED MORE USEFUL CODES AND COMMUNICATIONS. THE ENEMY IS CURRENTLY USING THE UNICORN AS A SHIBBOLETH. FORWARD ANY SUSPICIONS OF SHIBBOLETH ACTIVITY OR INTERLOPERS TO THE AKASHICS AND THE ANACHRONISTS IMMEDIATELY. I CANNOT STRESS THE IMPORTANCE OF THIS ENOUGH. I SOUND LIKE A FUCKING CORPORATE LUNATIC, I REALIZE. I HATE THE HIERARCHICAL AS MUCH AS ALL OF YOU DO, BUT WAR IS HIERARCHICAL. THEY STARTED IT, WE MUST FINISH IT, AND WE MUST ADOPT THE WILES OF THE ENEMY IF WE ARE TO EVER RECLAIM TIME AND SPACE.

A CERTAIN COMRADE OF OURS APPARENTLY THOUGHT IT FUNNY TO TELEPORT THE ARTWORK OF JEFF KOONS, SALVADOR DALI, ANDY WARHOL AND OTHER PHALLICIST ASSHOLE ARTISTS BACK SEVERAL CENTURIES IN TIME WITHOUT CLEARING THIS WITH THE ANACHRONISTS. I ENCOUNTERED A VERY CUNTY HANS BELLMER SCULPTURE IN A ROOM WHERE SEVERAL OBOEISTS WERE PRACTICING ALBINONI. SOUP CAN PAINTINGS WERE SPOTTED IN NUMEROUS MUCH-FREQUENTED PLACES ABOUT TOWN. THIS SAME COMRADE WAS ALSO SEEN IMPERSONATING MARTIN KIPPENBERGER IN A PROMINENT SQUARE ON FRIDAY, STANDING THERE WITH ONE ARM ON HIS HIPS, CROWS PERCHED UPON HIM AND ABOUT HIS FEET, WITH A LIVING CROW PERCHED UPON HIS HEAD.

THIS BEGAN MORE TALK OF WITCHCRAFT AND THE GLAMOUR. ALL ABOUT TOWN.

THIS WILL STOP IMMEDIATELY. I TRIED SERIOUS REMONSTRATION WITH LORD BURROUGHS TO KEEP HIS OFFICE FROM VAPORIZING OR CHRONOLOGICALLY RECYCLING THIS INDIVIDUAL BUT THE OFFENDER IS NOW IN THE THIRD CENTURY B.C. KINDLY REMOVE HIM FROM YOUR CONTACT LIST AND VIRTUAL MAIL.

ANYBODY FOUND TRIFLING WITH ARTIFACTS IN THIS MANNER WILL BE RETEMPORALIZED. NO ARGUMENTS, NO EXCEPTIONS.

THE ANACHRONISTS HAVE MADE CORRECTIONS IN THE TIME-WEAVE AND THESE ARTISTIC OBJECTS WILL BE ALLOWED TO REMAIN. PLEASE REFER TO "MICHAEL JACKSON AND BUBBLES" BY ITS NEW AND CORRECT NAME, "THE DECADENT MOOR." THANK YOU.

IT IS IMPORTANT THAT I BRING TO YOUR COLLECTIVE ATTENTION THAT PLAGUE IS UPON US. WE HAVE HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS, AND OUR CONSCIENCES SHOULD ALL BE CLEAR. PLEASE MAKE CERTAIN YOU ARE IMMUNOLOGICALLY-COMPLIANT WITH FOURTH MILLENIUM IMMUNITY PROTOCOLS. THIS SHOULD INCLUDE THE GREAT WHITE SHARK PHENOTYPE. IF YOU ARE UNCERTAIN IF YOU HAVE THE GREAT WORK SHARK PHENOTYPE, USE YOUR GEN-PEN UNDER THE IMMUNO-FLUORESCE MODE. PURPLE MEANS COMPLIANCY. IF YOU ARE NOT IMMUNO-COMPLIANT, PLEASE CONTACT THE DEPARTMENT OF PLAGUE IMMEDIATELY. SEND VIRTUAL MAIL ATTENTION P_____________. SHE WILL HAVE YOUR IMMUNO-UPGRADE WHITEGLOVED TO YOU INSTANTER.

PLAGUE SEASON MEANS THAT THE FEBRILE WILL BE ALLOWED GREATER LATITUDE. MANY ACTIVITIES MAY NOW BE BEGUN IN EARNEST THAT WERE RESTRICTED BEFORE. WHAT WAS RESTRICTED TO PHANTASM OR SPECTRE SIMULATION MAY NOW BE PERFORMED IN THE LIGHT OF DAY AND EXCUSED AS PLAGUE FEBRILITY. LET THE WALKING HALLUCINATIONS BEGIN.

LORD BURROUGHS TELLS ME HE HAS BEEN CONSULTING WITH THE AKASHICS AND THAT WE HAVE MADE ASTONISHING BREAKTHROUGHS IN READING AND IMPORTING AKASHIC CODE IN THE PAST FEW WEEKS. THE EGYPTIAN BOOK OF THE DEAD HAS BEEN ENORMOUSLY HELPFUL IN THIS REGARD, AND THIS WAS WORK PIONEERED BY LORD BURROUGHS HIMSELF. HE HAS PROVEN AGAIN AND AGAIN THAT HE DESERVES OUR ILLIMITABLE ESTEEM. HE IS ONE OF THE GREATEST FALLEN ANGELS I HAVE EVER HAD THE FORTUNE TO MEET, AND TO WORK ALONGSIDE HIM IS A GREAT HONOUR.

RETEMPORALIZING EXTINCT ANIMAL SPECIES MAY NOW BE GRADUALLY STEPPED-UP, BUT PLEASE SHOW DISCRETION AND RESTRAINT, PEOPLE! AND WE HAVE ENOUGH DODOS TO LAST US SEVERAL AVATARS HERE, SO PLEASE ENOUGH OF THAT. TO THE INDIVIDUAL WHO VIRTUAL MAILED ME ASKING ABOUT RETEMPORALIZING SEVERAL DINOSAUR SPECIES, I REFER YOU TO YOUR ULTRANATURAL COMPATIBILITY SOFTWARE, WHICH WILL BREAK THIS DOWN FOR YOU IN SPREADSHEET FORM. AND I DO HOPE YOU WERE JOKING ABOUT THE BABY ALLOSAURUS. THE MEGALODON THAT ATE THE BOATING PARTY LAST SUMMER WAS ENOUGH RECODING WORK. AND OF COURSE IT DIED. THAT ISN'T EVEN SALT WATER PEOPLE. SO OF COURSE IT WAS DISSECTED AND THE DISSECTION CHARTS GOT PUBLISHED. ARE YOU GETTING AN IMAGE HERE OF HOW MUCH WORK YOU ARE MAKING FOR US WHEN YOU DO THESE THINGS WITHOUT CLEARING THEM THROUGH CORP?

GOD I SOUND LIKE A FUCKING BUREAUCRATIC CUNT HERE. I SOUND LIKE MY FUCKING MOTHER. I APOLOGIZE PEOPLE BUT AS I SAID WAR IS HIERARCHICAL.

IN CLOSING, I WANTED TO SHARE WITH YOU THE GREATEST NEWS.

ARTHUR RIMBAUD HAS BEEN RETEMPORALIZED AND FULLY MATERIALIZED. HE IS AMONG US ALREADY, AND WILL BE FIGHTING ALONGSIDE US!

I STRUGGLE TO PUT THESE WORDS TO VIRTUAL MAIL, SO GREAT MY JOY....

IT WAS IN THE CHAMBER OF LAUGHING WATERS, THAT RIDICULOUS IMPERIAL GROTTO WITH THE GIANT ORGAN AND THE COMPLEX SERIES OF ALTERNATING FOUNTAINS. THE ONE WITH ALL THE ALCOVE NICHES USED AS AN OSSUARIAL, THE SKELETONS ALL ABOUT IN GLASS AND SOME POSED IN ALLEGORIES WITH PAINTED BACKDROPS. I'M SURE YOU KNOW THE ONE I MEAN.

JEAN GENET ASSISTED IN HIS REBIRTH. I FELT SO PRIVILEGED TO BE PRESENT, AND I ASSISTED GENET IN BRINGING ABOUT THIS REBIRTH. (GENET IS STILL NOT SPEAKING FOR THOSE COMRADES COMPLAINING ABOUT VIRTUAL MAILS UNANSWERED.) HE IS BELIEVED TO BE IN A PHANTASMAL RECONNAISANCE MODE OF EXISTENCE, BUT TRUST US AND LEAVE HIM TO HIS DOINGS. THIS STATE IS ANALOGOUS TO THE ABORIGINAL DREAMTIME, WHERE THE NON-LINEARITY OF TIME IS APPREHENDED WITHOUT THE NEED FOR THE TECHNOLOGY SOME OF US ARE USING TO ACHIEVE THESE SAME RESULTS. HE HAS BEEN HELPING THE CAUSE IMMEASURABLY. I HAVE SEEN HIM ALTER THE GENOME OF EVERY ANIMAL IN A ROOM, HUMAN AND OTHERWISE. DO NOT CONTACT HIM WITH TRIVIALITIES. BURROUGHS HAS STATED THAT GENET IS TO BE ALLOWED TO PROCEED WITHOUT CONCERN FOR HIERARCHICAL PRECEDENCE OR POLICY. HIS CODE NAME IS "UNEDITED PROSE" FOR PURPOSES OF REFERENCE.

ARTHUR IS NOW MANIFESTED AS AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BOY BUT FULLY EMPOWERED. HE APPEARED NAKED, FLOATING IN A WOMB OF DARK MATTER. HE HAD AKASHIC CODE BURNING ON HIS FOREHEAD AND SEMEN DRIPPED FROM HIS COCK INTO THE FOUNTAIN BELOW WHICH IMMEDIATELY FLOWERED WITH IMAGES. GENET SMILED. THAT WAS FIRST TIME I HAVE EVER SEEN COMRADE G. DO THAT SINCE MANIFESTING AMONG OUR FORCES.

I HELD ARTHUR IN MY ARMS, PEOPLE. HE WAS PULSING LIKE A QUASAR AND HE GREW OWL HEADS AND SCRIBE HEADS AND HIEROGLYPHICS OOZED OUT OF HIS COCK INTO MY PALM.

I LAUGHED AND KISSED HIM ON THE MOUTH AND GENET LEVITATED HIM TO HIS BREAST.

THE BOY INSTANTLY GREW FROM A BABE TO WHAT SEEMED TO BE AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BOY TO ME AND PHANTOMS FORMED ALL ABOUT HIM. HE ENCASED GENET AND ME IN SOME FORM OF ECTOPLASMIC AFTERBIRTH BUT I LICKED IT AND IT WAS DELICIOUS.

GENET AND I WERE BOTH SMILING (I WAS LAUGHING) AS THE BOY READ OUR MINDS AND CAME BETWEEN US.

EACH OF US TOOK ONE OF HIS HANDS AND HE CONCENTRATED AND HE WAS INSTANTLY DRESSED IMMACULATELY. HE LOOKED QUITE THE PRINCELING.

HE SPEAKS AKASHIC TO PERFECTION.

THE EMPEROR WILL BE LOOKING TO DESTROY HIM, SO I NEEDN'T TELL YOU, COMRADES, HOW IMPORTANT IT IS THAT YOU MENTALLY EFFACE ALL THOUGHTS OF HIM UPON CLOSE OF READING THIS VIRTUAL MAIL.

HE WILL NO DOUBT ENLIST THE AID OF MANY OF YOU IN HIS FUTURE BATTLES. PLEASE DO NOT SEEK TO SIPHON ENERGY FROM A.R. HE CAN CHIMERIZE AND VAPORIZE ANYONE IN A MATTER OF HALF-SECONDS, SO I ADVISE AGAINST ANY SUCH STRATAGEMS. IF HE DOES ENLIST YOU IN ANY BATTLES, BE SURE TO PUT MINDLOCK IN PLACE TO MINIMIZE "MORPHBURN."

WE ARE ECSTATIC CREATURES AND WE SHALL MAKE ALL OF TIME ECSTATIC.

FUCK UP THE PROSE OF TIME!

I SALUTE YOU IN YOUR COMRADESHIP AND REMAIN,


YOUR DUTIFUL, FUCKED-UP MARGRAVINE A_____________________

The New Tastykakes Taste Like Shit

I've been meaning to write to the Tastykakes people.

But I haven't found the time.

Being psychotic can keep one quite busy, actually.

In case you were wondering.

But puhleeze.

Tastykakes people.

That was one of my few guilty pleasures that didn't involve ex-cons or YouPorn.com

I liked the white ones with the chocolate stripe.

Not the chocolate ones with the white stripe.

But now they taste like shit.

They used to have this buttery icing type flavor.

Now they taste totally synthetic. Absolutely horrible. Not even like food really.

Even the texture is different. And the color.

There's a hint of yellow to the icing now. As if they added a wee bit of nicotine maybe.

Or rubbed some off some cigarette holder.

It's just gross.

I'll never buy your product again.

I told Lee to throw the rest of the box out unless he wanted them.

I don't think he wants them either.

I guess I should put them outside for the winter-lean animals, but will they really want something like that?

The skunks and other scavengers maybe.

I know the squirrels will show better taste.

Tastykakes people, don't even bother changing back because I won't know when you do.

You thought you were sneaky changing it like that and not saying anything.

Did you really think people wouldn't notice? And retch?

Unless I see a huge apology on the box, I'll never buy your product again.

I mean, I'll need to see it as I'm moving swiftly past your product down the aisle.

So it better be fluorescent orange and say "OLD & IMPROVED! NO LONGER TOXIC!"

Then maybe we can make up.

Maybe.

My Therapist Fucks Around

Hahaha.

That was so funny.

Just now, I retrieved a message on my cell phone from my therapist.

We had missed appointments (my memory problems lately) and he was talking about setting up an appointment and he said "Let's hook up..." and there was this weird pause.

Then he continued on with the grammar of his sentence.

But it was a deadly mistake.

He knew someone could hear himself catching himself too late.

But then he reasoned in that fraction of a second that he was policing himself too strongly, and that he was being paranoid, so he let the message stand.

Or else he just decided I was an "okay" person to see the slip up.

He probably knows I would hear that. Funny little slip up.

Stet.

Slut.

It was so obvious.

This is how he talks with women and he got confused for a minute what mainframe he was in.

I don't judge him. He's divorced or in the process of it anyway.

Well, he's getting divorced because of fun like the fun to which he just accidentally alluded.

He's not very cagey about his life and doesn't take on airs, so he would probably just laugh if I told him I could see his mental processes occurring at the microsecond level like this.

Because he would know how true it was.

He wasn't on the dating phoneline, he was on the work phone.

But for a millisecond he got all confuzzed.

Probably because he had been on the other line recently.

Poor luststruck italiano.

The men thing.

Straight or gay.

The curse is there.

I know all about it.

Got nothing but love for ya baby.

Sooner or later it's a man, a couch and a refrigerator.

Oh, and dvd porn.

And the entire graduating class of three or four years ago weighing oh so heavily upon your mind.

Your benighted mind.

Ain't the Vernacular Grand?

I could think of one or two of you I'd like to add into an updated edition of this.

You know who you are.

And yes, Pryor has reissued this 1847 classic too.

My Favorite Dozen Titles in Pryor's Catalogue

Well, I just told you I love Don't.

Here are my dozen favorite titles from Pryor's decent-sized catalogue.

Don't tell me these don't sound deliciously promising.


Shut up. They do.




1. A Word to Women.

2. A Plain Cookery for the Working Classes.

3. A Short History of the Wolf in Britain.

4. Beach Myriorama.

5. Encyclopedia of British Bogies (The)

6. Why Not Eat Insects?

7. Spectropia.

8. Rescue for Passengers.

9. Secondhand Handshakes.

10. Shakespeare Birthday Book (The)

11. Full Revelations Of A Professional Rat-catcher.

12. Natural History Of The Flirt (The)


And I see they even have an edition of The Language of Flowers.

Floriography rocks.

I Was Trying to Review the Classic Don't (by Censor) on Goodreads...

But I couldn't find it.

This was brought out in a little facsimile edition (a squarish book smaller than a slice of bread) by Pryor Publications.

Pryor specializes in reissues of old, odd little books.

The head sentence of every paragraph in this book begins with the word "Don't." And most of the other sentences in each paragraph begin with "Don't" also.

It's an etiquette book which is delightfully dated and ridiculously overbearing.

It's a finger in your face from beginning to end, wagging endlessly.

It was compiled by an individual prescribing and proscribing under the apt nom de plume CENSOR. (Or is that nom de guerre? When you get a whiff of the book's tone, you might wonder.)

If you want to see the other outre books in their impressive catalogue, go here.

My fingers itch to purchase a few of these.

But of course I can find them secondhand much cheaper.

Send Me Your Screaming Poems. I Like Screaming Poetry.

Mr. Henry Sosnowski of Reno, Nevada, sent me "SCREAMER."

And I realized caps can go a long way. I realized I liked screaming poems.

So please send me a screaming poem or two all in caps as Henry did.

Send it here: Bewitjanus@aol.com.

I'll publish the loudest ones.

A Poem by Henry Sosnowski

SCREAMER



YOU DON'T LOVE ME!

YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS!

YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LIFE IS!

YOU DONT KNOW WHAT IS IS!

WHO ARE YOU ANYWAY?

HOW CAN YOU TREAT ME LIKE THIS?

WHY ARE YOU TORTURING ME?

WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?

I DO EVERYTHING I CAN TO SCARE YOU AWAY!

I DO EVERYTHING I CAN TO RUN YOU OFF!

AND YOU STAY!

YOU CALL THAT LOVE?



Yes. I do.

Wal-Mart Cartvision

Dru

No cat was harmed during the making of this video. Only his little "feewings."

I'm CocteauTwinsAddict on YouTube.

Feel free to subscribe if you would like to see more self-indulgent and cat-indulgent videos.

Panda Sleep Shirt.

Sleep a thousand years in your panda shirt.

The bamboo's growing from the panda's pussy.

That's nice.

All Your Sliming Needs

Glacier Slime.

It makes sense.

In China. It does so.

I love the way #1 is an instruction/warning and by the time we get to #3 it's "Made in China."

The End?

"A Rather Slutty Looking Bear"

I Found You

Ding Ding Ding

Red. Graininess. Ding Ding Ding.

My car is trapped in the 90s. Like VH1.

Still

This looks much better if you....

That's right....

Click to enlarge it.

Then you can see the Scissors I'm raving about.

A Breughel Detail Behind my House

When I watched this clip of myself, I wondered whether somebody would criticize my pronunciation of Brueghel.

I know it's standard "documentary" pronunciation.

See here: Pronouncing Brueghel.

But then there are the purists. That funny scene in the Woody Allen film where they argue about the pronunciation of Van Gogh. "Like an Arab!" Woody says about his exe's aspirated, mannered pronunciation.

Here's a purist but you don't have to bother going here, as the MP3 links no longer work.

Even the spelling is argued as you'll see...

BrUEgel or BrEUgel?

According to Dutch spelling rules, the 16th century Flemish painter Pieter Bruegel's name should be pronounced in the German way (MP3, ca 40K); but in Holland, it is always said like BrEUgel (MP3, ca 15K). I think most Dutchmen assume that is the correct spelling.

A Chicago University Website tells me there are three (internationally) accepted pronunciations: BrOYgel, BrEEgel and Broogel (just FYI), but now you know the Dutch way too.

I love both Brueghels. Pere et fils.

I love what WCW did with Brueghel too.

I love what WCW did with almost everything.

And the vines on the garage weren't true brambles I suppose. But they were brambly looking vines.

It looked so much better with the fanlight shape transomy type thing all covered in them.

Stuck

Barb, I Like This Still

YouTube chose this still for the video and you can see your painting better.

Love it.

I have it on a little brass pseudo-Victorian easel made in India.

I buy them for my ACEO collection.

Hehe.

Is This Any Lighter?

Maybe the video loses light when you upload it?

The Broken Key

I suppose the question is why I keep the broken key on my keyring.

I Like

that you can upload videos directly into Blogger without having to post things to YouTube (don't want to put all these on YouTube) but the video comes out all dark.

The video is not that dark in my Player.

So I guess you do have to upload them to YouTube to get a decent copy?

Weird.

I Got Mad at BOGGLE

...because I thought it rejected "haploid" as in haploid chromosome.

But I kept typing "haplid" instead of "haploid."

There was a hissy fit.

The O was cockblocked.



We won so many games on BOGGLE today it was obscene.

Yes, we cheat. Lee helps me.

Lee can find all the eight and nine letter words.


Although today I found a bunch of seven letter words and I think two eight letter words.


We still don't have our ten letter word badge.


Because we don't cheat. Not the real cheating.

If we start dominating a room, we leave to be nice.


People that use the programs are so obvious.

And they all have their ten letter word badge.


It's only every twentieth puzzle that even has a ten letter word in it.



I'm getting too damn good at knowing what words it allows and those it doesn't.


I learn new words every day though.


Did you know "READD" was a word? With two friggin D's?

My friend Da in there showed me that.



STERNSON is also accepted.

I knew STENTOR but not STERNSON.



It's the insane world of BOGGLE.

The Boggle.


I love that KING OF THE HILL.

With Peggy smuggling cocaine into the Texas prison system unawares.


Through her Boggle timer hehe.



I'm embarrassed I just liked that song by Coldplay that was on.


You don't want anyone to see you enjoying Coldplay.

Revilo, I Care Deeply For You in that Platonic 'Toon Fan Way

Click to enlarge.

Did that sound condescending?

Soz.

This was in glorious color.

But I was an inglorious bastard (sorry, I can't spell it that way) and fuzzed up when I scanned it.

Revilo, I Still Love You in this Blog Post

Click to...

Whoa.

I almost did it again.

I can't believe Lee gave Dru a Facebook page.

I went in and touched up the bio a little bit.

He said he needed him for something he wanted to do on Farmville.

He's DruidBelle Gerver on Facebook.

Feel free to add him.

Or try.

He might prima donna you.

Just tell him you have sour cream on a spoon and need some help.

He'll see the light.

Revilo, I Love You

Click to enlarge.

I can't believe I keep saying that.

Revilo, I Love You

Click to enlarge.

If you need me to tell you that, you're even worse off than I am.

And buddy--or sister--that's bad.

This is Sad

Bad health day. Bad series of mental health days. This sinusitis is driving me fucking batty. I guess I should just cave in like other people whose Immunoglobulin M is in the basement and just take antibiotics all the time.

But I know I'll end up altering my body's flora and fauna. That's when people get all those creepy yeast infections.

Well, is it worse than a creepy bacterial infection working at your skull?

Right now I can breathe fine through my nose but my Eustachian tubes keep collapsing (I hate that sensation) and I can feel it working the one sinus in my forehead. It feels like a morass. Boggy. A heaviness there.

And I cut my tongue on some fucking candies that shattered like glass last week and it's so slow healing. Those little cuts are still there. More like slashes. It bled like a motherfucker when it happened. Don't ever buy those fucking things. Little pastilles in a tin can. I hadn't bought those since I was nineteen. I don't know what I was thinking. Bipolar impulse night at the grocery store. Don't let bipolar people shop during mania.

Anyway, that's not what's sad.

Revilo's book was making me laugh like an idiot.

He's an artist who does cartoons for Hallmark and others.

This book is Talk to the Tail ('cause the whiskers ain't listenin'!).

The kind of book you give someone in a hospital.

My life is a hospital so it seemed apppropriate to give it to myself.

Now if you're all literate and shit you think of that Baudelairean quote here. About the hospital. And the patients hoping to change their position. Hehe. Passive aggression. Just Google it if you wanna know. Then you'll know it better than I do, because if I remembered it verbatim I would put it here.

The only change I would make to Revilo's book is that I would spell the subtitle this way: (cuz the whiskas ain't listnin').

I'm assuming Talk to the Paw was already taken.

It's not like that wouldn't have occurred to someone, right?

He's a funny guy though. His bio is very cute. It includes these lines....

"Revilo is Oliver Christianson, creator of Big Dreams, a line of Hallmark greeting cards featuring some of the most intriguing cartoons ever to be sent via U.S. mail. Revilo is also the author of the classic cartoon book Pigs in Love and has published goofy things in The National Lampoon, Esquire, People, Vogue, Cosmo and other suspicious publications."

Here's what made me sad even though Revilo's book made my day much better.

The dedication.

I found this at the thrift store!

Booquee must no longer love his adorable Moazer who gave him this adorable book!

Or else he died.

Or else she died and it was too painful to remember.

Or else they both died.

In a car accident on a bluff by the sea when they were so lost in one another's eyes they didn't notice the road ended but gravity did not.

That happens you know.

The road ends but gravity does not.

Sigh.

Coming Soon

Mousy, the novel.

I want to write a novel populated entirely by mousy people.

Because I just watched this documentary, and was laughing because I realized everybody in this dramatic story was mousy.

The killer was mousy. And he was a bigamist. A mousy bigamist. All his wives were mousy. The detectives who hunted him down and the district attorneys who prosecuted him were mousy. All his friends were mousy. All his ex-friends were mousy. The interviewers for this true crime documentary were mousy.

Everybody talked to each other in mousy tones.

Everybody talked about how horrible his crimes were in a mousy manner.

Their vengeance was mousy.

Retribution was mousy.

He's probably sitting in a mousy prison with mousy fellow inmates eating a mousy lunch right now watching this mousy program about him on a mousy little television set.

That would be a cute idea for a network: Mousy TV.

You'd try to find the blandest programming you could find.

And even the commercials would have to tone it down.

No zest or excitement.

Just wall to wall mousiness.

Scarriet Apparently Liked My John Ashbery Poem

Hehe.

I love that there is a Scarriet to answer Harriet.

And I noticed they also have a Foetry Poundation.

They added this adorable Mickey Ashbery graphic to my poem.

Ashbery is actually cute like that.

Thanks guys. Or gals.

This was months ago.

See, I told you I'm terrible at Googling myself.

I don't check myself regularly or even have a logical method.

Logic is a distant cousin I have fallen out of communication with.

I deleted those stupid auto searches that email you.

Scarriet, thanks for the graphic. Love it.

Yoshi Oshi

on Overstock.com...

Are these prices really that good?

Because I paid less for my Yoshi Oshi timepiece and it's way cooler.

Was that one really going for fifty bucks.

Hard to believe. Because I bought mine at a mall kiosk and I think it was like twelve bucks or thereabouts.

I got the Cat God with the upraised fist, Stokely Carmichael style. He has a clock nested deep in his fat little belly. It looks like an old mariner's instrument down there in his belly.

But i do sorta like the cow.

I'm just going to the YoshiOshi site.

The really cute items are doubtless there.

Here. Just go here instead.

March 2nd

Worth finding.

It's his Selected.

So many Charles Bernsteins.

The strange parodies of the didactic verse tradition he does so well. Rhyming his way through nightmares of the actual. His lick-splickety plasticity in the early poems--almost Vorticist. But a funny Vorticist. Don't think Vorticism had that many funny ones. He is. One.

And the left is right political jabs.

Everywhere in his poems.

He's funny. Even when he's grim.

"Nothing is absurd when people are being killed
around you like flies"

And of course he knows manifestos are schtick and does them that way.

Gotta love the longer poems in which cultural diatribes reveal themselves to be only highly medicated ballrooms at sea, and unmoor and float away from their vessels.

The political landscape is seascape.

He undoes rhetoric so beautifully.

Language in deshabille.

The pretend modesty of the real gets mocked.

The irreal's at the wheel.

Rough trades, indeed.

When Dad Chimes in with Critiques of the Fun You're Having with Queer Kulturkampf Nazis and the Other Kind Too

After Wendy Ho's San Fran controversy last year, her Dad chimed in at the QueerToday site.

Wow! lol.

Or is this a hoax.

Californian intellectuals are so good at perpetrating hoaxes like this.

This does sound just a little bit like a Los Angeles intellectual's idea of a joke. (A funny one, mind ya.) But still.

Yet I think it's probably genuine.

It did move me.

Hmmmm.


Comment by Howard Smith on July 8, 2009 at 12:50pm

Hello, I am Wendy Ho’s father – I really am, and as such, I cannot help but feel partially responsible for the angst she left behind in Frisco. After all, it was MY doing that she spent many of her formative years in the Royal Village Mobile Home Park on the outskirts of Toledo, Ohio (7519 Dorr Street – that’s with two Rs, not Os.)

It was last Sunday when I learned of Wendy’s “Racist Tour of America” and I promised myself that if it were still being blogged about after the holiday weekend, I would weigh-in. With respect to context: I’m an accountant in my mid-50s and have been married to Wendy’s mother for 32 years – the last 17 of which have found us living in northeast Kansas.

Honestly? I can’t believe it’s taken this long for this to become an issue, but up until now, I’ve written that off as my own lack of contemporary sophistication – what with my never having ventured west of Abilene. Unlike many others who’ve taken offense at something that has been said or done, I am NOT going to ask, “Where’s the outrage?” because if there’s anything life on this earth has taught me, it’s this: We ALL keep our outrage in our hip pockets. Access is easy, but more importantly, DISCRIMINATE.

Despite being the most liberal voice of our family, I love Wendy anyway. I recall a time last year when I chided her after reading “Hey Hillary, go make me a sandwich!” She was quick to ask me how people would feel about the statement, “Hey Barack, shine my shoes!” NOW I have to ask: Was Wendy using HER racism to combat MY sexism?

I commend the vast majority of the bloggers on this subject for being polite, thoughtful, logical, and for the most part, free of name-calling. (With the exception of “Tracey” who is convinced “beyond all shadow of a doubt” that my daughter is a “racist weasel hiding behind the get out of being called a racist ass free labels of parody and satire.” If I am guilty of wrenching this out of context, I would truly appreciate it if someone would point it out to me AND perhaps explain what the latter-half of her quote means.)

Mr. Freeman: your blog was outstanding – your questions, quite thought provoking. You might get me to agree that certain people are culturally ADVANTAGED, but culturally EMPOWERED I can only equate with lots of money – the kind one would NOT find in “dive-bar” entertainers (as another blogger so kindly put it.) Maybe that’s just the accountant in me though.

Mr. Snyder: (Yes, I saved the best for last – and admit it, you would have been quite disappointed had I not mentioned you.) I was wondering if you were planning on calling out Showtime’s “I Can’t Believe I’m Still Single” for having Wendy as a guest star earlier this year or Eric Schaeffer for referring to Wendy’s work as genius? Or how about "Nip/Tuck’s" Jennifer Coolidge whose character “Hot Coco” recently sang a song (“Yo Stink”) that was remarkably similar to Wendy Ho’s “Bitch, I Stole Your Purse?” If you are as fair-minded as I think you are (ANOTHER VICTORY, perhaps?) you will offer BOTH You-Tubes to your readers and ask for comments.

Finally, can a dad objectively describe what his daughter is all about? I doubt it, but I’d like to give it a try: Wendy is a wise, brave, strong-willed, hard-working, fun-loving woman who looks for the BEST in others. Like most (if not all) of us, she’s a sinner and a pilgrim wandering this planet in search of comfort and joy. That being said, I would be remiss if I did not add this: cross Wendy J. Smith, and you are likely to have her middle finger shoved in your face. (WENDY JO!) I’ll have to work on that with her…that and her grammar.

Sincerely…Howard Smith (Yep, my first name really does begin with HO…damn.)

Hahahaha

Pavros Esteban Olivarez commented on Wendy Ho's status:

"Girrrrrrl did you handle that Abortion yet .... I sure hope you did cause um Babies fuck up the sex! and gettin yo coins ya hear "

When Intellectuals Fall in Love

When intellectuals fall in love it is usually at a great distance and a great remove. This might be Paris-Los Angeles. Or the predictable Los Angeles-New York. Helsinki-New York. Paris-Rome. London-Istanbul. Berlin-Chicago. And there is a seesaw. A very long seesaw between intellectuals. And the fulcrum is in some imaginary middle. And the intellectuals who are about to be in love have to agree to jump on the seesaw at the exact same moment, of course. You know how this giddy leap of faith works. And then it's Thrillsville! Wunderbar! They find they can lift one another up to such incredible heights. The rushing upwards through space as the other one descends to earth. And vice versa. Her hair is flying about her face. There is a pit in his stomach that is confused with sexual excitement. Publishing is involved. Videoconferencing. Soixante-neufing. But invariably when one of them is stuck down there with his or her ass on the earth in a depressed moment or a moment where it seems the 69 it turning into 68, you know what thought is going to occur. To that seesawer. That evil, delightful little thought. Begins to gnaw at the brain. Look at that Frenchman up there in the stars woohooing. What would happen if you just stepped off the seesaw? You could pretend somebody called you. There's always some excuse or another. Some of them are actually valid reasons. And to imagine his rush downwards to earth. As the seesaw becomes a deathtrap. Too funny. Go ahead. What is a little tragedy between immortals? Besides, he wasn't springing his legs nearly as hard as you were. You didn't make it to the intellectual troposphere. But he did. There's no referee in art. There's no Muse of criticism. What do the French say? Oh yes..."VLAN!"

Conflict

"I can't do Thursday the fourth. That's my Window Lickers Convention."

I Took a Comprehensive Vocational Skills-Inventory Test

And the result was "paperweight."

I wonder if world travel is one of the perks.

Thank You fur Submitting Your Resume...

What the fuck? What is that? "Fur." Sarcasm? Germans? I swear to God that was the subject heading on the email. Huh.

Resume

Apparently, "foxiness" is not a good word to use in a resume. Apparently, "multiorgasmic" is not a good word to use in a resume. Apparently, it is not a good idea to use the phrase "can occasionally be a sarky prick" in a cover letter. Even in reasonable jest.

Toothpaste

Toothpaste is not a sexual lubricant. Toothpaste is a sexual lubricant with a grudge. Guava jelly is not a sexual lubricant. Guava jelly is a sexual lubricant for shits and giggles, for entertainment purposes only. Saliva is a sexual lubricant. Saliva is a sexual lubricant that says I am interested in what you have been doing for the last ten to twenty years and the next twenty years. Or else I am very drunk. Or this is prison sex. Some men have prison sex with their wives. Some wives have prison sex with their husbands. Sometimes prisoners engage in a menage a trois and pretend that it is spice. Like bringing home a pumpkin pie to surprise somebody. Honey, I picked up a thug on the way home. Oh fine, put him on the dining room table. Somebody is probably drowning, though, or somebody is just a slut who isn't comfortable with being a slut and needs to grow up before their childhood has a body count. Language is not a sexual lubricant. Language is a sexual lubricant for the more experienced players. Because we're going to pretend. That there is something lubricating. You lubricate yourself. You self-lubricate. Men do it. Women do it. Different places. But toothpaste? You're either fourteen or patarded. Fluoridated orifices. I think it has bleach. This isn't even on the fetish Rolodex. Get a real pathology.

Hehe Rachel

I love these photos of Hello Kitty transplanted northwards to your office. (These are fabu, Rachel. Love how Kitty is doing thought transplantation with the Slinky. If I had an award to give, I'd give it to you for these awesome pics!)

She's a New Englander now!

Watch out, Rachel. That one's motto is I Gonna Press Peopleses Buttons."

For those of you who don't know, the Hello Kitty Sisters lived in my house.

The two of them could get up to some trouble and they had that love/hate and competition/jealousy thing going on, and unfortunately this was often played out on the football field of men.

So when Rachel agreed to adopt the "less troubled" Hello Kitty sister (she got Courtney Love Hello Kitty. I kept Frances Farmer Hello Kitty) I figured it was a good idea.

And I got a great bonus as she sent these adorable pics of Hello Kitty trying to make a career of it in the office. You can see more at Ms. Sephyrus's blog (see blogroll at right. They're all great.)

I felt it only fair to warn Rachel about CL Hello Kitty...



Did I send her birth control with her?

don't let her sit around and text all day.

she'll tell you it's her mother but it's a married guy. a real chester. i figure he's too lazy to drive up to massachusetts so she'll be okay but watch out she doesn't steal your car and take off after him.

she has "issues."

xo b

This One Reminds Me of African Art

Or a child's stitching in say Boston in 1811.

Definitely a landscape with trees and animals.

That vertical way to tell a story's progress.

Here I Took a Left Turn at Albuquerque and You Became Mayan Glyphs

Or something.

Huh.

Kiddo 2

This one you're even more fractally.

Kiddo

Here's the first attempt. There's still the ghost of a figurative element and it's neither all black/white nor fully op art like I wanted yet. It's op artish. But let me keep trying.

She Shot Him

She said it was because he wouldn't stop doing the Peanut Butter Jelly number from Family Guy. He was completely naked when he was doing this, and it was generally conceded by a third party witness that Joel was doing it to irritate Meghan. He was waggling his penis around like a stripper does with her pasty. He wasn't aware Meghan had Josh's gun. They were trying to clean up the crack vials in a panic when her Mother came in the apartment in that Cruella fur coat she always wears that Meghan hates. It was only then that Meghan began crying. Josh was using a Dust Buster and Meghan was using a broom and tray. Meghan covered Joel's face with a book because it's the first thing she could find. This was a coffee table book of Nan Goldin. This made Josh laugh and Meghan's mother picked up a pencil sharpener and threw it at his head and that's how he got the scar. Meghan couldn't attend his funeral (not that she would have been welcome) because she was still in lockdown. Brian the Dog had actually been doing the dance on the t.v. at the time this all started. So Family Guy is to blame. At least in a way. Or the Cartoon Network. They all loved the Cartoon Network. Most junkies do.

In a Gallery

I like the chihuhua. I like the El Greco reference. I like the Frito Lay guy down in the corner there. I like the shrug. I like the naked kid. But she scares me. I like the way she's looking at him over there. I know, right? Like she's thinking he's a tard but she might love him anyway. And there she's killing him. Pretend in bed. You know they're in love if they do that sort of thing. That's gay. Two by four to the head. Ouch. What time is it? Cartoons are used a lot in the relationship paintings, I noticed. There are no windows. And here it's just her staring. Uh huh. Right. I'm gonna go over here, okay? Oh. Nice plant. I almost didn't see you there. Sorry. Oh. Godzilla. I need tea with honey. My pussy hurts.

Complaints Dept.

"But these are not Ralph Lauren snow bunnies.

Not Ralph Lauren snow bunnies at all."

FACEBOOK

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DONE


WE ARE ALL COMPLETELY INDIFFERENT TO YOUR EXISTENCE.

HI.

SEE ABOVE.

HI.

GO AWAY.

BYE.

Mixed Company

That man had a tongue like a parrot's. It was deformed, hideous. He opened his mouth and it came out like that strange parody tongue the parrot has, that deformed penis in a parrot's mouth. I expected him to hold his claw out in front of him the way that autistic bird does. Right in the bar. This makes me want to throw up just thinking about it. It was like something they should have put in that Puppet Master movie. I mean it was worse than that puppet that spits out the leeches. And then my friend said, "He's fucking thexy!" How do you politely staple your stomach shut in mixed company? Is there a little Emily Post etiquette maneuver where you pretend to tie your shoes? Mixed company is fine. But interspecies can get iffy. I suppose it's always somebody's cuppa. Monster sex. Guys get so bored. It was a Tuesday night.

Oh, Im Sorry...

Didn't anyone tell you there's no referee in art? I'm laughing so hard. Dude. My milkshake just did a money shot through my nose. You are sorta sexy when you yell "Offsides!" like that in the prison yard. It's only prison rape until the guy kisses back. Watch now. Oh! Dayum!! There he goes...

Mom Said Share

Making snow bunnies in the yard. An altogether lovely afternoon. The tea service should be coming out shortly. The teapot with the elephant spout is my preference this afternoon. The neighbors lied to you. They do that in packs. Hence, a pack of lies. And they walk off in a pack afterwards. Like repeated punctuation. Their legs a bunch of explanation points in a row in a comic book. In their catalogue boots. Like a news crew. You wouldn't answer them with their plaid questions. Bravissimo. They played "good cop bad cop" on you again, didn't they? The "good cop" said that snow angels would be just fine. But the Tolerance Act did not extend to snow bunnies. It bothered them terribly. Something about the sheer numbers of them. There is no "township ordinance" against snow bunnies. They lied about that. Make as many as you like. I counted 142, but that was just the backyard. I know you've been working out front. It's amazing you can do all that with just a spoon and a paintbrush. I guess you could use a mold but then the bunnies wouldn't be individuals, would they? These aren't Ralph Lauren snow bunnies. I appreciate the hand of the artist in every one of them. And don't think I missed the details. That one over there bit that one by the garbage can. Right? I saw the hole in the right ear. How the aggresser looks a tad abashed now. Nice touch. What was it you said to the pack of neighbors? Oh, right. "Mom said share." That too puzzled them. Who is Mom? They looked nervous then, as if Mom might be watching. Some of them scanned nearby windows. Then back at the snow bunnies with that look of burgher horror on their fat faces. "The Lord likes me down on my knees." That got some gasps from some of them. We had best start filming the warren, the colony, before the nutsiest ones venture out in the moonlight tonight with shovels. I promise to hide behind my curtains and film them. In the blue air hacking. Trust me, I know. We went through this in Sarajevo. And Susan Sontag is dead. So whom should we call now?

Sex Ad

If you want really nasty, borderline-legal, too dirty and messy even for a cheap motel-run-by-cheaper-Indians sex, call this number exactly five years, seven months and twenty-three days from now. After 11 p.m. Please be real.

Lee is Playing Good Toons on His Puter

I don't even have to gear up my MediaPlayer.

Robyn was just on.

God, I love her babyvoice.

And then she has other voices.

She's so damn funny.

"Konichiwa, Bitches!"

I love that song.

It's going to be in my head all damn day though.

Just like Mika's "Toy Boy" yesterday.

Singing it all over the damn city.

Some songs are so damn infectious.

the narrative was all beep beep beep

the narrative of the relationship introduced into the office is always tricky the death of a thousand mental paper cuts is funny. still. the narrative was all beep beep beep truck backing up through a migraine in the office looking out the window no I don't want to fuck you. no I don't want you to fuck me. it wasn't a grammar test. are those sparrows or are those little fat sculpture birds? they don't move. no I'm not just fucking with you either. did you think it was a fuckme flirt in a miniskirt posing as a no. no you dumbfuck it was a fuck off posing as a polite sentence. titter titter. who taught you how to read the air? still I do find your napoleon dynamite autism just a little sexy. every cubicle wad. has some up his sleeve. sometimes i want to try all the flavors at the checkout. slut i know. it's only fun if you let me learn your pathology and then the normal parts of you that work properly will really bore the shit out of me. superfast. at least when you fuck the IT guys you know they have the computer programming of sparrows. i mean sex. so a great relief. then you go to bed at night you'll still hear the truck backing up won't you beep beep beep goes the narrative warning you you're about to smack your ass your metal ass against the building. that's really something. your complete faith in conversation as a bathmat to put down under the really good really messy sex we're so not going to have.

I Will Pay You

I will pay you to drive to his town. I will pay you to drive to his town and go to a grocery store and buy all the things I've put on this list. I will give you money for all the things on this list and tell you which aisle these things are in, so you won't get frustrated and stop shopping and have moral compunctions or something in the cognitive fuzzy areas between looking for items. I will keep you streamlined and hard for this. I will pay you to take all these things and go to his house. Don't forget to park several blocks away. You will need to be in good physical shape to run fast afterwards, so make sure you've been working out. I will pay you to take these things to his house and then you must follow the script exactly. You know what I want you to do and how I want you to do it. To the letter. You might feel a sudden urge to edit or feel you can take artistic liberties with the script, but if you're that kind of frustrated little Fellini, we can just call this whole fucking thing off right now. I mean, are you the type of asshole who tries to direct a blowjob? Alright then. Well, I will pay you to drive to his town and park a few blocks from his house, and take the items from the grocery store and take up your position behind the hedgerow as indicated in the drawing and wait. And when he passes the window on the way to the kitchen, you will throw the snowball. The snowball is everything. It must hit the window so that he looks out the window with a frightened expression on his face. The beginning of everything. And you must have the video camera ready. I won't pay if I don't see the "snowball reaction" on the videotape. Don't even think you can fuck with this detail. The last guy thought that. Think of all the other stuff as fudge topping. I'm serious. Do not waste my time if you don't think you can aim a snowball properly from that short distance. If the snowball hits the brick with a little pfft instead of the glass window, where you will see he keeps his fucking ceramic clown collection he calls art or something, you might as get back in your vehicle and drive home. I don't care if you get your own jollies while doing this, but don't harm the cat. That's a good cat. Place the cat in the bedroom that I have indicated on the second drawing and make sure to put his litter box, his food dish and his water dish in there with him. If the cat his harmed, allowed to escape from the house, or not correctly quarantined with the above-mentioned provisions, you get nothing. Nothing. Don't think I won't know. And make sure he's still conscious when you do the writing on the wall. Don't dribble or slobber on anything. Watch a couple Forensic Files first so you get good and paranoid in the right way. Don't ever call me again. Oh. I need to see the maraschino cherries up close. And don't forget to read the poem. Practice in the mirror beforehand. Or you get half of what I said. Half.

Short Story

Shenanigans is the name of a club around here where people get herpes.

I Dreamt Punching Yourself in the Nose Became Sexy

I dreamt punching yourself in the nose became sexy. And people started to make videos of themselves doing this. The "perfect pop" was if you could make your nose bleed on the first throw. Of course, you do this completely naked with the camera showing a full body shot of you. And you have to really psyche yourself up and laugh when the blood fountains out. The laugh is a release almost like an orgasm. And the blood is very sexy. Don't tell me you don't think gay men would like this. It's a new genre. We need more orgasm substitutes. YouTube would be so confused. "Dave, we don't know what to fucking do about these videos?!" Its parenting skills would be sorely tested. I get hard just thinking about it.

I Dreamt Jennifer Aniston

was on the box of Lucky Charms. She was wearing green leotards. So she would look like a leprechan. She did. And she was only sexing it up a little. That subtle Aniston way. But she had died. And she was in her open coffin. She was covered in Lucky Charms. But the good parts. The little colorful moons and stars and four leaf clover and horseshoes and whatever else is in there I forget it's been a while. Not the good for you parts. And boxes of Lucky Charms with her on the box were placed all around the funeral parlor. A big fucking advertisement. And I felt so terrible for her. I hope she finds the Pot of Gold. I do. Is is really Brad Pitt's testicles as the media says? Some sort of Eurydice in the Underworld narrative that goes on and on in tabloidia forever. I dreamt this because I think I saw you at Walmart at the express checkout. Well, maybe you saw me. But I didn't realize you were watching me. Until I dreamt I guess. Oh girl. Chasing that magic cock again. Right on the cover of magazines. I mean Vince Vaughn. John Mayer? You're a pretty girl. But now you're starting to scare me. Do you know about The Boggle, Jenn? We have a cocksucking widows group. Would you like the brochure?