Saturday, May 29, 2010

What does Google Say a Conch in a Dream Means?

Here are some answers...I should have guessed they'd go with the "putty=vagina" or shell shape as labial interpretation....many shells, including conchs, do have openings which are rather labial...

Shells Dream Meaning

Psychological Meaning: Shells are usually a spiritual symbol because they come from the sea, which represents the vast expanses of the unconscious mind. They are also a divine feminine symbol associated with the god Venus who was born from a shell. (The shape of a shell is reminiscent of the vagina say Freudian psychologists) A heavy tortoise shell may represent your desire for protection. Similarly, a delicate eggshell may symbolise your feelings of vulnerability. Finally, eggshells can represents thin-skinned egotism which, like the arrogant Humpty Dumpty, is easily smashed to pieces.

Mystical Meaning: According to some authorities on dream superstition, shells predict that something strange will happen to you. So if you wake to find you’ve been abducted by aliens or there’s a flipper where your foot was, it is probably the shell dream that’s to blame.

Another online dictionary gives a different interpretation, and a minatory one as well.

Conch Shell

To see a conch shell in your dream, represents sexual inhibitions. The dream may also be a warning of sorts.

And then there's the Theosophists chiming in, and interesting enough the conch has a particular importance in their scheme...

There it is a nidhi, a treasure to be sought out, and under the protection of a particular demon (or daimon, to speak more correctly).

Conch shell: Spiritual - Theosophy Dictionary on Nidhi

Nidhi (Sanskrit) A treasure; the nine divine treasures or jewels of Kuvera, the Vedic Satan, each under the guardianship of some demon -- or rather a spirit more of the nature of the Greek daimon.

These nine nidhis are popularly given as

padma (lotus),
mahapadma (great lotus),
sankha (conch shell),
makara (marine animal or fish),
kachchhapa (tortoise),
mukunda (kettle drum),
ananda (joy),
nila (a dark color or blue), and
kharva (dwarf).

They are sometimes personified as attendants of Kuvera or of Lakshmi.

All these nidhis are the objects of special worship by the Tantrikas. They differ from the nava-nidhi, or nine treasuries or jewels of wisdom referring to a consummation of spiritual development in occult training, occult life, or mysticism generally. In theosophy the "seven jewels of wisdom" are seven of the nine nava-nidhi.

(See also: Nidhi, Mysticism, Mysticism Dictionary)

If you've ready any Theosophical texts, you will know that they borrow wholesale from Hinduism and that would explain the above. Here is the actual origin of the symbol in Hinduism itself...

Ganesh Shankha is among six Divine Auspicious Shankhas known as Shad Shankhas.Ganesh shankh represents Lord Ganesha and is worshipped remove obstacles, for learning, for success in all undertakings, to get good luck and prosperity to family. It is considered a very auspicious item for protection from evil spirits and effects.Ganapati or Ganesha, the Lord of Ganas, the elephant faced God, represents the power of the Supreme Being that removes obstacles and ensures success in human endeavors. Ganesha is revered as the son of the Shiva and Parvati, and is always honored first in most worship services and rituals. Ganesha is also known as Ganapati, Vigneswara, Vinayaka, Gajamukha and Ainkaran. He is worshipped for siddhi, success in undertakings, and buddhi, intelligence. He is worshipped before any venture is started. He is also the God of education, knowledge and wisdom.

And here is the conch in Buddhism, and Tibetan Buddhism. Of course, the function of the conch as a horn since time immemoral could be suggested.

But in the dream I was probably just looking for the juicy creature itself. I don't imagine the shell would have been present. Although, it's a dream, so who knows.

There's even a caste based on the conch.

Conch Shell in Buddhism

The tibetan conch shell (Sanskrit shankha; Tibetan dung dkar) has survived as the original horn trumpet since time immemorial. Ancient Indian epics describe how each hero of mythical warfare carried a mighty white conch shell, which often bore a personal name.

It is one of the main emblems of Vishnu, and his conch bears the name of Panchajanya, meaning 'having control over the five classes of beings.

Tibet Artwork, Tibetan Conch Shell, Sanskrit Shankha, Tibetan Silver Jewelry , Tibetan Jewelry, Tibet Jewelry, Jewelry from Tibet, Tibetan Buddhist Jewelry, Tibetan Turquoise Jewelry, Tibetan Jewelery
Tibet Artwork, Tibetan Silver Jewelry , Tibetan Jewelry, Tibet Jewelry, Jewelry from Tibet, Tibetan Buddhist Jewelry, Tibetan Turquoise Jewelry, Tibetan Jewelery, Buddhist Jewelry

Arjuna's (hero of the Mahabharata) mighty conch was known as Devadatta, whose triumphant blast brought terror to the enemy. As a proclaiming battle horn, the conch is akin to the bugle. It is an emblem of power, authority and sovereignty whose blast is believed to banish evil spirits, avert natural disasters, and scare away poisonous creatures.

Today, in its greatly tamed avatar, the conch is used in Tibetan Buddhism to call together religious assemblies. During the actual practise of rituals, it is used both as a musical instrument and as a container for holy water.

Ancient Indian belief classifies the conch into male and female varieties. The thicker-shelled bulbous one is thought to be the male (purusha), and the thin-shelled slender conch to be the female (shankhini).

The fourfold caste division is also applied as follows:

1.The smooth white conch represents the Brahmin caste (priests)
2.The red conch, the kshatriyas (warriors)
3.The yellow conch, the vaishyas (merchants)
4.The grey conch, the shudras (labourers)
Additionally, there is a fundamental classification of conch shells occurring in nature: those that turn to the left and those which turn to the right. Shells which spiral to the right in a clockwise direction are a rarity and are considered especially sacred. The right-spiralling movement of such a conch is believed to echo the celestial motion of the sun, moon, planets and stars across the heavens. The hair whorls on Buddha's head spiral to the right, as do his fine body hairs, the long curl between his eyebrows (urna), and also the conch-like swirl of his navel.

Vajrayana Buddhism absorbed the conch as a symbol which fearlessly proclaimed the truth of the dharma. Among the eight symbols, it stands for the fame of the Buddha's teaching, which spreads in all directions like the sound of the conch trumpet.

In addition to Buddha's throat, the conch also appears as an auspicious mark on the soles, palms, limbs, breast or forehead of a divinely endowed being.

One of Those Stupid, Maddening Dreams

scripted by Beckett in which things are supposed to happen, but keep not happening, never happen.

Okay, that's being grandiloquent.

It wasn't that good a stupid dream.

Just I was supposed to be flying out to California (probably has something to do with missing my Californian aunt's visit to PA recently, and guilt) but then I was in California and shopping in one of those grocery stores which carry alcohol (Cali reality) and serious guns (don't think that's reality yet). And I was admiring the wonderfully stocked seafood freezers (horizontal and vertical) and all the species of fish which are so hard to find in your regular grocery store and for some reason I was fixated on conch. (Yes, I know conch is not a fish. But it would be in that section of freezer). I wanted conch. I don't remember thinking "conch marsala" in the dream although that is one of my favorites.

Just a dumb dream.

But my mother was going to fly with me to California and I had bought this house (as an investment) which happened to my dead grandmother's house (which I've always liked and where I visited often as a child). And I had installed a kitten, a foundling, in the house as I guess a mark of ownership but then somehow I was using this kitten as an excuse why I couldn't take the flight to California.

But I was neglecting the kitten because I kept getting the horrible mantra about cat survival from that t.v. show the other week about the cat which survived 911 ("can go without eating 7 days, but needs 1 ounce of water each day to survive") and I don't know what was keeping me from getting back to the house I had purchased.

So somehow in a gambit I kept switching the flight destination from California to other places and every time I did this the group of travelers who would accompany me changed. I would get frustrated if they agreed on the change of plans, and then change it again. It got quite ridiculous. I mean friends from elementary school (who were grown now) might be one of the switch-outs. I remember we ruled out Iceland, thought about Puerto Rico, possibly Turkey was suggested...just a really dumb dream I was trapped in...

So finally my evasive tactics worked because we got to the point of no return (and I think no refund) so the flight was off (or some of the people had flown out---not sure) and I raced back to my house because finally I could tend to the probably dying kitten (I had horrible images in my head of the cat dead).

But I got there and the kitten was fine. The kitten turned out to have magic powers. It had arranged dozens of water vessels around the floor and they were all filled with water. It showed me how it could leap up insane heights and open cabinets and it was quite clear I had left the house in the guardianship of a quite capable witch.

I was so grateful and felt so much love to be reunited with my kindred spirit and we cuddled up wonderfully.

That's when I heard a noise in the other room.

When I went to investigate there was my brother (the more functional one) with his first wife, who had been such a great beauty in her youth in real life--so much that it had been a serious problem for her--she had had numerous stalkers from elementary school age. They were young again and beautiful and in bed and happy.

I was seriously pissed that they had infiltrated this house, which I had originally intended to sell, as I felt the neighborhood had "come down" and didn't want it for myself any longer. But I didn't say anything to them since the situation wasn't appropriate. They were in their lovemaking bed. My grandmother's house was a large house (she used to take on boarders--usually people who became friends and could help her, because she had diabetes back when treatment was not exactly optimal and complications were many and serious).

So I went through the house looking for other hidden people but the rest of the rooms on the other floors were empty.

I don't know what this dream means.

My subconsious seems to be telling me the most important elements in the dream were the necessity of avoiding the flight to California, the importance of the conch, the protective magic of the cat and my brother and his ex-wife (she's remarried) found in my grandmother's house as infiltrators.

It occurs to me that several of these scenes could be matched up to Tarot cards, which I haven't handled in decades.

But I can see some of these scenes as pointing to certain cards.

Also, even though the kitten was completely loving towards me and quite happy to show me the presence of its supernatural powers, I have this feeling the kitten had indeed died (the worry image in my mind might have been a "true picture") and come back to life.

Dreams with resurrected kittens. Hmmmmm.....

I remember when I did a paper once on Poe's "The Black Cat", using the Jungian animus/anima thing. Because it's pretty much a sore thumb in his text.

But this wasn't really like that.

The kitten was female I think. But I'm not sure.

It was weird to see my Grandmother's furniture was still there since of course the house has changed hands numerous times sense then.

But you know dream logic.

My grandmother was nowhere to be seen.

There was something about my suitcase not being able to be located, but I think I had deliberately "forgotten" my blue suitcase in a basement somewhere early in the dream, because I had already begun stalling tactics.

I didn't care if the others took the flight and encouraged them, since they all seemed quite happy about the trip. I just wanted off. And I couldn't find a way or the right combination of people that would plot a trip and stay with it without trying to include me in their plans.

It had to be three fliers. That's important. I forget to mention that. It was always adjusted so there would be three people flying out.

I don't think my partner was in this dream at all, although possibly he went with me to the house the first time I feared I was going to see a dead kitten. How had so much time elapsed when we had been rehashing flight arrangements that were to take place that very night? For that matter, how did I get to California when I never took any flight. Dreams. If he was present on the visit, he soon evaporated because it was just the kitten showing me all its tricks after that and how nothing was going to kill this little witch cat. The cat was really the only character in the dream that comforted me and made me feel optimistic. Everyone else was pretty much stressing me out one way or another, though I had to hide it.

This was a stupid dream.

And it went on forever.

Just like this blog post.

People, Places and Things

may be vacations from mental illness.

These are to be stringently avoided at all times.

Otherwise, you may harm your mental illness.

You who are a cloud.

Given to drifting and mute observation

of what is considered actual landscape.

Friday, May 28, 2010

According to Hustler's Recent Sexual Fantasy Survey

Fantasy # 4 was...RETARDED ASIAN GIRL.

Ideal dialogue included (spoken from the carpet): "I like to fuck and I like to color."

Important accessories: pigtails, drool cup, ANAL-EZE.

Is it Terrible that I Giggled Most of the Way Through This...

This creep has been in our area before.

I loved the line about Lady Gaga at the end.

I just find it hilarious every time another country tells him to go away he launches a www.godhatesssweden or www.godhatesireland website.

Doesn't he look like the posthumous creepy preacher from Poltergeist 2?

That church is a cult.

That church is one big fucked-up family.

I'm sure it's only a matter of time before we hear about the incest.

He's so extreme he's truly comical.

I mean some of the rhetoric is like an SNL skit.

If nothing else, I do buy the theory of Predestination of the Stupid.

Phelps is living proof.

When he finally kicks, you just know his family is going to throw a barbecue and get busy living good and dirty the way they were meant to.

Unless he pulls a Jonestown out there in Kansas.

I suppose that would be more his style.

I mean, he is God after all. Or thinks he is.

What he really is is a fame whore.

Hence, the Lady Gaga comment.

He latches on to anybody whom he thinks will get him on the news.

What does he care what a world of damned people think of him.

He believes they're all predestined to Hell.

So why blow flames up their ass now?

What's the point?

Is he God's "I told you so" man.

Does God really need an "i told you so man?"

Doubt it, Fred.

Get back to fucking those daughters' and sons' heads up.

Don't worry. The State will spring for all the psychotherapy to try to fix them once you're gone under and composting for Jesus.


They put out so many cool items.

I'm so bummed that I missed foxy Raymond Arroyo interviewing Exorcist author William Peter Blatty the other night.

I order things from their catalogue.

I telecommute to Mass.

I was thinking of an idea to suggest today for a new book for their catalogue, but I'm not sure if I should send the idea.

It was this: what if they did a Catholic version of "Where's Waldo," only it would be "Where's Waldo in Hell?"

And you could have these elaborate, horrific Bosch-type paintings and Waldo would be in each one.

You'd have to look very hard to find him, because there would be multitudes of people, and especially colorful people, because you can be sure most colorful people are going to go to Hell.

And each double page drawing could have Waldo going to Hell for a different sin.

Like, "Waldo gave in to Gluttony....can you find the glutton Waldo in this picture?"

I think it might sell.


But they would stick out like sore thumbs.

Because they would be holding up those big signs still.

What is Your Vote...

for "the most broken word in the English language?"

I think I'd vote for "Sorry."

"Sorry" should have an "OUT OF ORDER" sign hung on it.

I Rate Your Cruising Photo (Free Service)

This one's dead easy.


NEVER NEVER NEVER cut your eyes out of a photo.

It screams "SERIAL KILLER!" as surely as any van from the 1970s does.

This probably means you want to cut someone else's eyes out.

Or you are worried about facial recognition technology routinely employed by the FBI to search the internet for criminals with outstanding warrants.

Plus, the reference to Mr. Holmes in your screen name...we can be almost certain that means you are penis-challenged.

Also, remember--Johnny Wad doesn't just make us think of his superfluity of schwanz. We also remember his coke and crack addiction, the mass murder he was almost certainly guilty of, and the fact that he had AIDS.

So, Glamorama it ain't, bubeleh.

I don't know what else to say. You have a Satan's beard and a receding hairline.

You appear to be lying upon an institution bed.

Is the lower part of your body restrained in this photo? Were manacles or handcuffs involved?

This is NOT a good crusing pic.


Humans should have eyes in their photos, unless they have lost them to natural or unnatural phenomena, like bears or wars.

You are not Hannah Hoch. Put down the scissors. Cruising is not Collage 101 (more on this when we get to the egregious PHOTOSHOP cruisers).

98.57% of men and women find crazy leers unattractive in a cruising pic.

Save that for the dinner theater production of The Shining.

I trust that my advice has been helpful and wish you the best of luck in all future cock-truffling expeditions and in all future photographic ventures.

I Rate Your Cruising Picture (Free Service)


Tigger is clearly visible in the upper left quadrant of the photo.

This raises the unsavory spectacle of children being injured by your horrible, terrible, indefatigable search for cock, you semen demon.

In fact, this raises the possibility that you took this cruising photo of yourself in your child's room while other family members were engaged in much more wholesome activities, like eating dinner, constructing Legos, or assuring your parole officer that you are indeed home before curfew.

Why is there no pillowcase on the pillow? While you get points for buying a gussetted pillow (anybody who does not is simply not worth one's time, really) you lose these points as we wonder if it's spunk or possibly your wife's blood that caused this pillow to go "bareback" in the photo.

You have scary eyes. you have scary hair. You have maniacal eyebrows. The redness on your nose suggests either 1) coke use 2) rosacea, with the possible implication of immune dysfunction or 3) all of the above. Your lips are alright I guess.

What do those deep circles under your eyes mean? You wear glasses? Or is that just moral dissipation and turpitude showing (as in a Gorey drawing)?

Your head is too rectangular. A lover likes a head to be somewhat spherical as this makes embracing during kisses much more pleasant. One feels an urge much more strongly to kiss a canteloupe than one does to kiss a toaster. There is science behind this. Good science.


The bed and the room are slovenly.

TIGGER totally makes you look like Scumdad.

You don't (properly speaking) have a haircut at all.

Practice in the mirror trying to make your face not have a serial killer stare.


I trust these suggestions have been useful and I wish you all the best in all future cruising and photographic ventures.

I Pray to St. Edward Gorey

before entering every thrift store that I may one day find a fantod.

Preferably under a bell jar.

Did I Mention I Was White and He Was Black? I Gave a Black Man Butterflies Today.

Just got back from the thrift store.

If this keeps up I might break my agoraphobic tendencies.

Last month and the one before it was pretty much only leaving the house for doctor appointments and during panic attacks to the hospital.

I think I've gone to three different thrift stores in a week. Yay pseudo-competency!

It's been a good week and it just made me remember my own most important rule for thrifting: MIDWEEK DAYS ARE THE BEST. You would think Mondays would be very good too but they put the stuff out pretty continuously and only full time antique shop owners and EBAYers can afford to be there then to get the first crack. Most of them have other jobs so they get in later. Midweek mornings is the best.

Well, I don't believe that really as at some stores they just put the stuff out continuously and it's a total crap shoot. When I found the pretty Artigau last night it was an hour before closing time and I'm sure it had just come out in the last fifteen minutes along with the other art. Somebody who had some decent stuff had probably died and either no one discerning went through his or her things and just gave it away, or else the family was so rich they didn't really care, didn't want to be bothered with the few hundred dollars these items would fetch on the market. Maybe that's not even pocket change to them. Maybe they hated even touching the art. Maybe it reminded them of the dead person and they hate(d) the dead person. I can imagine all these scenarios and many more. They mysteries of thrift shops.

Today I gave one of my best items away. Dammit! Giving hurts. I'm sure I'll forget about it soon but it smarts a little now. But I knew it was the right thing to do.

Somebody donated a shitload of those faux-Victorian butterfly collections (you know--terrariums of the dead--insectaria, whatever they're called). Most were cheesy but there was one gorgeous one that had about nine specimens (the Muses!?!) on little columns under a big bell jar. And there was a gorge BLUE MORPHO and a bunch of other iridescent ones. It was $1.99.

I snared that and a few others that weren't nearly as pretty (and usually had only one butterfly per case).

Anyway, I'm being nice and packing my own things at the front of the store (to let the cashier get on with the next person---see how nice I am?) and this black guy (did I mention I am white? Did I mention he is black and I am white?) came over and asked if he could see it. So I got that "oh no moral quandary" feeling.

He touched me on the arm in this gentle way (which made me completely uncomfortable as I'm it had nothing to do with him being black) and said his wife loves this sort of thing. She was standing right behind him pretending not to notice what he was doing (feeling abashed--but I could tell she wanted my butterflies). He apologized for intruding, saying he thought I worked there and was loading the stuff in the box to put it out on the floor. So I disabused him of that notion and I said, "When someone admires something in my cart, I usually give it to them, but I do have a collection of these so I don't really want to give it up."

I didn't know it at the time, but I guess that was a test to see if he "turned" when he didn't get what he wanted.

But he didn't. He was a perfect gentleman (did I mention he was black and I am white? I just called him a gentleman because he's black and he was a gentleman. Oh my god, that's racist talk. That's what cops say when they're arresting a black dude..."this gentleman..."

So I got to the front of the store and was prepared to go out the door and turned around and went back and gave it to him (free of charge--would have been classless to can buy it for what I paid...all two dollars)....and I could see his wife's eyes light up so the mission was accomplished.

And now I can go to Heaven.

I'm ready.

Where's the elevator?

Did I mention it was a poor black man and I, a poor white man, showed largesse.

Where's an apostle to write a book about you when you need one?

And no, I wouldn't "do" him.

But I can go around telling people "I gave a black man butterflies today."

That should be fun to say.

I wanted to take pics of all the cool shit I found today but Lee's sleeping in the room with the digicam and I dare not wake the employed.

Here's a quick run down: a really cute silver Godinger clock that goes perfectly on my second floor foyer table, a Moroccan looking Godinger silver vessel lined with red velvet...very pretty intricate metalworking on this. Godinger produces crap and then Godinger produces some beautiful items. These two I found today are nice.

An inlay piece, a landscape with maternal elephants and baby or babies worked in faux-ivory (let's hope it's faux!) and some blonde exotic woods used for the landscape in the darker wood panel.

A Moroccan? trinket box evocative of a scarab with a gorgeous enamel cover that looks like a little Matisse painting--one of his more abstract ones.

Lots of cute vintage Halloween items and a totally gay elf boy from the fifties lying down supporting himself on his elbows in a "dreamy" state. He looks like an extra from Mark Morris's Nutcracker.

A Japanese doll in a mirror box (vintage) with a samisen.

They had some newer ones too in mirror boxes but I preferred this old one. Great creepy eyes. You know how those dolls often have the creepiest eyes...look real.

Oh, a bunch of other stuff. I forget already. I went redecorating around the house having an idiotic good time for a half hour.

But the books were also pretty good today.

This is the first time EVER in my life I have found an Eileen Myles book in a thrift store. And I wanted this one, so woot.

Here's the list though I really wanted to give you a digicam photo to show you the great covers of some of these books....there was also a kid's book of pop-ups teaching young squires how to become's one of those busy books with correspondence secreted in it, maps, castle doors that lift up their portculises, etc....cute...

Gorgeous cover art on this vintage paperback in mint condition.

Cartoons by the guy notorious for his 101 USES FOR A DEAD CAT.
The sense of humor is pretty nasty in here too.
I'll have to scan a couple in. He should probably place these in porn mags since some of them are funny but in pretty poor taste.

Don't know the guy, but I like ghost stories and he seems to be getting a good rep, so I'll give these a try.

Let's talk about the Noosphere!

It's fun to read playful books about linguistics.

The story is "updated" for today's horrible world. Got rave reviews. Might be worth the read.

I'm not into that ass-trology crap, but this author gives such detailed info for birthdays and such wonderfully intricate personal affiliations, liabilities, affinities, mascots, etc., for each birthday, that I had to pick it up.


Hey, did I mention that guy was black. And I'm white. And I gave him something.


Makes the case that heterosexual marriages between gay people where the partners sleep with members of their own sex is the ideal situation.

For some reason, I think I will hear the Gogos singing "VACATION!" the entire time I'm reading this book.


I've never met an Eileen Myles I didn't like.



I guess it's about time I read this piece of crap, ay?

He does some funny stuff up there in Canada now with his house...turning it into a kitschy sort of museum. Did you see that funny documentary?

My only problem with Doug is that he's about one step away from being Garrison Keillor.


One of those "homo design books."

I think that's the review from the New York Times.

If you see any black men today, see if you can give them butterflies.

I bet you can't.

But I did.

And I didn't even have to shake my ass.

I should have turned and said in a good imitation of Charles Bukowski, "What the fuck does a black man need butterflies for?"

That could have gone either way though, right?


I mean if he didn't know I was joking.

But I guess I can live dangerously in my own home. I'm bipolar.

So no need for any of that.

Thursday, May 27, 2010


Or not?

I like some Lady Gaga but frankly I wish Lee and Chas would give her a rest.

I'm getting seriously sick of the bitch.

And I hate that "Alejandro" song.

With a Mexican passion.

These are by Francesc Artigau

Paintings from different periods.

The nude is "Volver" (to turn, turn over) and dates to 1940.

I like the way the figure in the tree seems like a dream revisioning of "Flaming Juno." Who was that? Leighton? 1895? Is my art history course memory still holding up?

And the grotesquerie. I like that one. Who's it make you think of? I'm thinking Lautrec meets the Japanese Noh tradition. But then Lautrec was totally smitten with ukiyo-e, right?

I suppose there's a soupcon of shrill German expressionism, maybe a touch of Nolde or the Belgian Ensor in here.

It's more a work of synthesis than great originality but the horror sort of holds up and it's not a bad composition.

The title of that one is "Procession."

The piece I found looks nothing like any of these.

It's from 1973 when he was thoroughly imersed in the pop art aesthetic.

It would be a great addition to a room designed in 70s retro.

You know. Like one of those Angelenos who feel the need to do something like that.

I wonder if they say "This is the Roman Polanski room" to little girls when they're showing off the house.

I think it would be funny to have David Hockney paint a David Hockney swimmer at the bottom of your swimming pool if you lived in Los Angeles and were rich.

And of course the ripples of light. Hockney could paint them in too.

Gay men visiting could look down into the pool and go, "Oh wow...David!"

And admire his ass.

His ass forever young.

The Gay Grail.

I Found a Francesc Artigau at the Thrift Store Today

Above: This is Celine Artigau, not Francesc Artigau (Segui). Isn't his art cool? I wonder if there is a consanguineous thing between them?

At first I thought I was reading Grace Hartigan's signature (yeah, I should be that lucky) even though it looked nothing like her work. But the deluded mind dreams.

I could see it was pop art right away, and rather amusing.

I should have seen the sensibility was Catalan, as one could just divine a soupcon of Miro, even if it was pop art.

It's a limited edition print, number two of twenty, executed in 1973.

And signed by the artist.

In perfect condition.

At first, I thought I had a Celine Artigau (because that name came up first) and that would have been neat because his art is very contemporary, but this is an artist of a different generation. I could see right away there was no stylistic nexus whatsoever. I didn't check Celine's birth date but he probably wasn't even born when this was done. Celine is known more as an illustrator and commercial artist, but his work is very appealing to me.

Here's a brief bio of Francesc Artigau (Segui) I lifted from some site.


Established Catalonian artist, Francesc Artigau began painting in the POP ART style, evolving later towards other trends, but always within a figurative colourful style.

Francesc Artigau studied at the Art School of San Jorge in Barcelona and was granted the award of Casttellblanch.

The artist has individually exhibited in a wide range of cities, amongst them cities such as Madrid, Barcelona, and London.

During his artistic career, he has been granted several AWARDS: - Premio Ayuntamiento Terrassa, Barcelona, Spain - Premio Ciudad de Hospitales, Barcelona, Spain.

His works can be appreciated in several MUSEUMS and COLLECTIONS: - Museo de Arte Contemporaneo, Madrid, Spain. - Museo de Arte Moderno, Barcelona, Spain. - Museo de Arte Contemporaneo, Sevilla, Spain.

I also found a beautifully framed print by Kiyoshi Saito, but I'm pretty sure it's a reproduction. But I like it. It would still sell for over a hundred or a hundred and fifty easily, framed like this.

I still have the original and rare (early) Nakayama ukiyo-e print I found last year (also in a thrift store).

I paid $3.99 for one and $1.99 for the other.

There was a lot of IKEA stuff at the thrift store tonight too.

I picked up a handful of MALMA mirrors because they seem to do well on EBAY (for Lee).

Also, there was a cute antique inlay piece done with abalone that had to be seventy-five years or more older.

I found a Wicked Witch (from OZ) bobblehead. One of those pricey ones they sell in the kitschy shops in the malls. They got Margaret Hamilton's face down perfectly. They always want twenty-five or thirty bucks for them. And they're just resin crap. But cute. I got her for three bucks and change still in the original wrapping.

Glinda was also there, but the poor dear was missing her right hand.

Here is some Celine Artigau art.

His condom ad is great.

On the dark side, my car was acting up.

I think the brakes might be fucked up.

Or something even worse.

I hate that feeling.

So I might end up even more housebound than I already am.

It's fixin to storm bigtime here right now.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010


I love the album Hats.

Every song.

This isn't on that album.

Paul Dinello's Manservant, I Am Sorry

Above: Even in the realm of cheesy pop music, Tesla comes out ahead. There is no song called "Edison Girls."


I had a couple of comments to approve and they went hither and thither, and though I approved yours I couldn't find where it "fell."

I hate that about Blogger. There should be a "Let's go there now" (Jerri voice) magic chime button.

I know you're an aficionado of dust bunnies like me so I thought I would tell you something I uncovered in my research.

The Dust Bowl America went through so many decades ago was actually a dust bunny experiment gone horribly awry.

Now, the mysterious people who control the production of dust bunnies (CODENAME: SWIFFERITES) have finally gotten control over the process and deploy them in a much more controlled and subtle manner.

Of course, it's all about the mazumah.

The Swiffer was actually designed by the Mossad.

Rumor has it that Adolph Hitler had the dust bunny bomb, but he sat on the option too long and the secret went over the Dark Side of the cleaning industry (the good news is their agents killed a number of SS--and, alas, dust scientists--in the process of stealing the science behind the dust bunny).

The really funny thing is that the atom was tamed long before the dust bunny was.

Dust bunnies are completely underutilized as a weapon now, of course.

But the potential is there.

You know what it says in the Vedas, "I AM BECOME DEATH."

That's actually a reference to a dust bunny.

People always worry about the wrong apocalypses.

The real one is blowing around under their beds, just biding its time.

Dust Bunny Apocalypse.

Which may or may not occur in our lifetime.

If only they had had satellites in the thirties, they could have seen what the Dust Bowl looked like from outer space.

It wasn't many storms at all.

It was one giant dust bunny just rolling around from state to state.

But it's like Voltaire says in that one book: if humans could fly up into space they would see a planet that "seems to belong to whales."

In the thirties, any visiting aliens might have turned back if they had seen that monster rolling around the U.S.

Tesla designed a power system that ran on dust bunnies that could power an entire metropolis for eight hours on a single bunny.

But Edison's goons had this Dust Bunny Engine destroyed by order of the President's secret Dust Bunny Cabal, who worked closely with Edison on all his projects.

Edison hated it when Tesla got ahead of him in anything.

Once Edison had his goons burn down Tesla's house because Tesla's tomato garden began outproducing Thomas's and Tesla was bragging about it.

Tesla also invented a tomato that was a calculator.

Something to do with the way the seeds would line up when the tomato was pressed in a certain way.

Some other things you might not realize were invented by Tesla (and for which he is often denied credit) are...manscaping, the Bratz dolls, blue ketchup, the Shake Weight, the crazy straw, frappucinos, tiger-striped underwear and the chihuahua. Few realize that chihuahuas in the wild who have not been genetically-modified are actually 200 pounds of canine death just waiting to meet you. They can snap mastiff's necks with one bite.

Tesla even programmed in that "chihuhua shiver" they do to make you think they are so adorably vulnerable and give you the "cuteness rabies."

How else could something that looks like a de-winged bat be seen as adorable by millions of Americans?

That's Tesla's genius at work for you.

Edison also suffered horrible pangs of jealousy towards Tesla all of his life, because (actual quote) "His name is so much cooler."

He once asked his wife, "Be honest. Which sounds cooler, Edison coils...or Tesla coils?"

She told the truth.

And things were never again the same in their marriage.

Monday, May 24, 2010

"That's Not Sesame Street...That's a Gay Bar"

My favorite moment from this week's episode of The Simpsons.

X-Ray Artists

I would like to drag a CAT-scan machine through a grocery store, but I think I might get in trouble doing it.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

IKEA Has a New Anthem

Love this parody.

"Frolic" is the right word.

This one's sort of cute too, and I respect that they managed to rhyme "Norse men" with "divorced men." That's goooooood!

Apparently, IKEA had a "Kitchen Rhythms" contest and these nice folks did a cute version of "Lean on Me"...sadly this couple is now divorced as he realized she couldn't "bring it" like he could...

If You're In Boston're already too late for this.

But I thought I'd tease you anyway.

Maybe I should have said, if you're in Boston and you have a time machine...

Oh well, it's not like it's going to be a waste of time if you stop in.

Your brain is going to explode.

This guy gets the real stuff.


APRIL 16 - MAY 22

at Robert Klein Gallery.

Sometimes I have dreams where I win that shopping cart spree, only instead of a grocery store I get an hour in the Robert Klein Gallery.

I'd so wipe him out.

Read to Page 56 of Umbrella Steps

tonight and enjoyed it immensely.

I love novels which capture the true looseness of the seventies to perfection and this book does that.

It's clear that Lolita is the inspiration for this young author--she was twenty-five and a summer beauty when Random House published this in 1972.

Julie Goldsmith Gilbert is the grand-niece of Edna Ferber.

Here's her very short but respectable Wiki entry (under "Julie Gilbert"):

"Julie Gilbert was born on July 21, 1949 in New York. Her father, Henry Goldsmith was a publisher and her mother, Janet, was an actress. She attended Boston University and has worked as a professional actress, writer and teacher. She has written biographies, novels and plays including Umbrella Steps, which became a film, and Ferber: The Biography of Edna Ferber and Her Circle, which was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award. She received a Pulitzer Prize nomination for Opposite Attraction: The Lives of Erich Maria Remarque and Paulette Goddard."

I suppose one could think of Umbrella Steps as Lolita x 2.

But the voice of the young narrator is convincing and the social mores of upper middle class New York City (circa 1972) are skewered and catalogued well on butterfly pins, analyzed by a reliable and somewhat impartial eye.

I love the way the novel positions itself--impossibly--with regard to genre. Sometimes it reads like the darkest Judy Blume novel (the one all of her publishers would reject). Other times the young author is (unapologetically) pure Saul Bellow.

But then comparisons to either of those authors would probably be seen as derogratory by most readers. Probably she is really closer to Salinger here, to Salinger's endless fascination with the jaded young. So far, the book is every bit as convincing as Salinger tackling just that, in say Franny & Zooey.

Yes, it's a "You seduced my father, now I'm-a-gonna seduce your'n" novel, but surprisingly the novel isn't anywhere near as exploitive as that premise or the delicious cover photograph would lead one to believe (I will definitely post that shortly, when I get a digicam pic)*.

It's just totally convincing on the seventies, with everything from the crackpot psychoanalysis to the early budding sexuality of teens to the manifold proofs that the rich are different, regardless of what period we are examining.

Plus, it has "rampant Jewishness" and Jewish salaciousness. I love that about it.

I dig a young kurveh with a brain.

I'm joking. The protag is not a kurveh.

So far it's sort of a missed classic. But I think it would have had to have been noticed in the seventies by younger readers. They're somewhere else now, today's young readers. The psychoanalysis rituals of the seventies would be as foreign to today's kids as the I-Pad would be to these flower children of privilege yentzing their friends' daddies in Umbrella Steps.

If you like Augusten Burroughs' strange evocations of the seventies' weirdness (I do!), then you'll probably love this book.

I'll review it in full when I finish it in a few days.

P.S. This was made into a movie, but the movie seems to be as obscure as the novel. When I was searching for that online, I found a copy of the script for sale ($75.00). It was from the estate of Rock Hudson. Imagine.

*Can you believe--not a single photograph or reproduction of the delicious cover anywhere in Google Image Search! A Random House book from 1972. It's not the contents of the Ark!

autour de lucie..."Men can be..."

You said it all, sister.

Les Hommes Peuvent Être Lyrics
Les hommes peuvent être à femmes, de confiance, sages
Les hommes peuvent être à tout faire, orchestre
Les hommes peuvent être des petits sigles
Sur les portes des toilettes, de paroles, de lettres
Des femmes, des enfants, des hommes au sens large

Les hommes peuvent être des amis, des amants
Des amants, des frères, des pères, des fils, de paille, bleus

Les hommes peuvent être de l'ombre,
Les hommes peuvent être des soldats, des salauds

Les hommes peuvent être...

Les hommes peuvent être orchestre, des pères
Songes, de lettres, des amis, des salauds, à femmes, des pères, à femmes

Les hommes peuvent être...

What Crispin Glover Might Look Like

if David Lynch never calls him with another project?

After a few more years pass?

Just joking.

Crispin's always doing his own fascinating projects.

And I think Tim Burton's adopted him by now. So he should be good to go.

I would like to see a Dickens adaptation in which Crispin Glover played every part.

It would be so much better than an Eddie Murphy movie in which Eddie plays every part. And those are usually fun.

I love Crispin Glover to death, and only found this accidentally when I was looking for a Dora the Explorer lesbian pageboy photo.

It's Andrew Wyeth, of course, and the surprising title of the painting is "Pageboy."

All Brandywine painters are a misery. To be endured. Not indulged.

Who knew Andrew Wyeth painted Crispin Glover. In a crystal ball.

Okay, it's actually the lovely "Helga" (cough).

Talk about latent homosexuality.

Even I can get a closer shave than that on my chin. And I'm Greek.

Andrew, it would have been fine if you invited the stable boy inside instead.

A few Brandywine apples in his shirt would have salved your conscience wonderfully.

And yes, Crispin in real life is much cuter than Helga.

He's nowhere near as prognathous as Helga.

But she could be his brother.

The one who was better at wrestling.

The Deadly Purple Icing and the Two Doras

I think I ate some deadly purple icing. It was on a Dora the Explorer cake. It left a poison mark on the vintage blue Russel Wright melamine plate I was using. Because then I thought, they use red dye to make purple. Duh. Diego was nowhere to be seen. I kept the toy rings off the birthday cake. Dora was on each one. I pointed out to Lee that Dora's androgynous haircut is that worn by Emma Thompson when she played that other Dora--Carrington. And I presume they gave her that haircut on good Bloomsbury authority.

I keep trying to find that funny scene from the movie on YouTube. The one where her lover confronts Carrington about spending her life living with a gay man who can not sexually satisfy her. He accuses her in front of others as she's descending a large staircase, and Emma Thompson delivers her riposte perfectly, while staring her lover down: "Well it's always something, isn't it?"

The movie specializes in wry humor like that, but it's very tender in places too.

Who plays Lytton Strachey? Is that Jonathan Pryce? He's wonderful as well.

I find many scenes in that movie very touching.

I like Carrington's art, though she's obviously a minor painter, if a very gifted one, but almost a Sunday painter if one talks output.

I suppose it would be too recherche a reference to do a Dora the Explorer parody with Dora Carrington and a (grown up) Dora the Explorer living together under "suspicious" circumstances. Both with the same haircut. The bowl used for giving the haircuts would be quite treasured.

The Lesbian Bowl.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

"The Trees The House" by Damien Hirst: Lot 44 at Sotheby's May 12, 2010.

This one is pretty.

And the poetry of the title.

This is the first work by Hirst to come up for sale in quite some time.

Maybe he's quite as enamored of television as I am.

It's a stained glass window composed of butterflies.

As you know, Damien likes butterflies.

Dead ones.

And household gloss paint.

And Dippin Dots.

For quite some time now.

Rumor has it that Hirst's next work is going to be a blogger in formaldehyde.

Sitting at his computer typing for eternity.

It's a blogger who is dying young, a twentysomething Londoner, and Hirst negotiated a decent price for the use of the man's body and the rights to his blog.

(You didn't think the appropriation was going to stop with the anonymous pauper's skull, did you? Get real.)

Somehow the computer inside the formaldehyde liquid will be protected by sealant and will actually be powered up and signed into Blogger.

Talk about tiger sharks.

Signed twice, titled The House twice and dated 2006 on the reverse.
Butterflies and household gloss on canvas.
89 5/8" x 48".

Estimated: $700,000-$900,000
Winning Bid: $650,000
Premium: (16.9%) $132,500
Price with Premium: $782,500

Richard Prince

Lee asked me to explain Richard Prince's art and career to him but I got tired even before I opened my mouth.

If you read my blog, you know this is unusual for me.

I suppose the above video would be a good terse explanation of Richard Prince.

The only two positive things I can say about Richard Prince as an artist are 1) He is very rich and 2) He is at least appropriately very cavalier about his art and his sense of himself as an artist (see his quotes below).

In that sense, there is an ethical success where there is an artistic failure.

Oh, I don't know. I didn't spend my time looking at all that much.

So failure is a big word.

But read his Wiki.

It's probably one of the most poorly-written Wiki articles for any "major American artist."

And it's often unintentionally funny.

If you don't believe God exists, read the part about Prince's "Second House" and what happened to it.

Or maybe that just proves the Devil exists.

Because Prince got paid first.

Maybe that proves he is in cahoots with Satan. His success alone sort of proves it. Surely "Prince" is a funny name he has assumed to secretly let us know of his "arrangement" with the Prince of Darkness.

Even the oblique reference to his parent or parents possibly being in the C.I.A. would seem to fit in with this theory.

"Pleased to meet you...hope you guess my name...Woooh ooohh...Wooh ooohh..."

I guess it's often observed that God has a funny sense of humor.

Well, They both have a great sense of humor, don't They? God and the Devil? They work well together. Especially when they do schtick.

I mean The Book of Job is pretty much an early Seinfeld episode, right?

Larry David is probably kicking himself he didn't write that skit first.

Rephotography. More conceptualism.

You know you really can't be considered an artist any more if you are not a conceptual artist, because if you believe in your medium, whatever it is, unironically, you're doomed not to exist.

The Turner Prize is really given for art criticism, I always say, not art.

Because it always goes to the artist with the most conceptualist lean, the thinnest material production, and the most hypocritical use of irony (hypocritical because even irony is dead, but artists have to cling to something).

So hypocritical irony is as good as it gets in the art world anymore.

How else could you explain the Turner Prize shortlisting an artist like Yinka Shonibare and then passing him over.

They couldn't possibly give it to an artist like Shonibare--all that content, all that sense of history and moral address. Good God. They probably had nightmares. Only art history counts to the Turner Prize.

Insular (not grease) is the word.

Damien Hirst is starting to look more and more like an unadulterated, indulgent sensualist every year.

Because he is pretty girly about at least making pretty things, isn't he?

Or finding them.


Damien Hirst is the Master of Whatev.

Here are some Richard Prince quotes.

I don't think he would deny that most of these quotes bring to mind the word "sleaziness."

I mean, if your aesthetic is a conceptualist head-butting of sleaziness, then it's pretty much the glass slipper you want people to put on you, right?

He'd probably just laugh.

Again, ethically I'm impressed with the lack of pretense here and the self-knowledge, the awarness that he is (to quote the Electronic song) "getting away with it."

Richard Prince Quotes

"Art should be made with cocktail umbrellas."
"I am a liar. And I cheat too. I make things up and I can't be trusted. It's not my fault."
"If you're going to steal something, you know, you go to the bank."
"I'm surprised at the reaction to the 'Nurse' paintings. I’ve never felt that I had to put out work that I actually liked... just because it’s out there doesn’t mean that I have to stand behind it."
"By rephotographing a magazine page and then developing the film in a cheap lab, the photos came out very strange. They looked like they could be my photos, but they weren't."
"I don’t see any difference now between what I collect and what I make. It’s become the same. What I’m collecting will, a lot of times, end up in my work."
"It would be strange for me to think I’m being ripped off, because that’s what I do! In those days, it was called "pirating." Now they call it 'sampling'."
"I think celebrity can be dangerous. The big advantage is that I no longer have to worry about whether or not I can afford to buy that extra paintbrush when I'm in the art supply store. The other advantage is that I can take time to experiment. I can fail a bit more often. I don't have to put out the work that I don't like."
"Living in New York feels like you're always inside.. inside buildings, inside subways."
"The subject comes first, the medium second."
"A lot of it’s experimental, spontaneous. It’s about knocking about in the studio and bumping into things."

The Frick Called Me. Unheimlich Hummels.

I have no idea why.

I have no acquaintances that work there (of which I am aware).

I haven't stolen any paintings.

Unless I did that in my sleep.

But the institution was on my caller i.d.

They can't leave a message.

Nobody can.

I avoid so many complications that way.

Today Lee, Chas, my Mom and I went to lunch. Then Mom and I went to a thrift store while Lee and Chas visited a library. Then they caught up with us at the thrift store.

Then Lee, Chas and I spent a long time in TARGET analyzing the summer trends in all departments.

I bought Chas a candle. Lee didn't want anything.

Somebody complimented my taste at the thrift store--the lady in front of me in line. She admired this funny framed Hummel print I was buying. It's one of those scary ones they did in the seventies. It's hard to explain why it's a good painting but it is. Hummel stuff is mostly crap (did you see they are one of the collectibles seriously nosediving in value--no wonder--they're crap). But the painting is of the little couple coming out of their house and they have this almost malicious glee on their faces. It's almost a parody of Hummel prints. It doesn't look like any of the others I've seen really. They look like post-coital Hummels emerging from their play house. It's creepy and unheimlich. When the lady admired the print (it's pretty large, ebonized wooden frame, early seventies I think) I offered to move it to her cart but she refused.

She saw I had found some bowed glass (reverse-painted) silhouettes (seaside souvenirs) from the twenties or more likely thirties that were really choice. I wasn't going to move those to her cart as they make collectors go rabid when Lee sells things like that. Plus, they were very (unconsciously) gay-themed and that would increase their desirability for Lee's shoppers. But when somebody admires something in my cart, I usually offer it to them.

I found a penny on the floor and picked it up and less than twenty seconds later (ten seconds?) I also saw a miniature Maurice Sendak book on the floor as well.

I've never had the proverb come true so quickly and efficiently before!

If I hadn't reached down for the penny, I never would have seen the Sendak. It was hiding under the opened flap of a cardboard box, in shadow.

It's Alligators All Around, a first edition from 1962 brought out by the oh-so-cute Nutshell Library.

This can easily bring twenty-five dollars online if I decide to part with it.

I do have a fetish for miniature books so not sure about that.

I looked and looked for others, hoping it was a boxed set and they were about but no such luck.

I got a bunch of other great books, mostly children's books.

The book I look most forward to reading tonight is Umbrella Steps, which is apparently a very exploitive Lolitaesque book about two young sluts competing to seduce each other's father.

I figured it would be fun to psychoanalyze the author (who was a very pretty young thing when she penned this potboiler). She is the daughter or niece of somebody famous or something like that.

I don't think this book is well-known.

I'll Google it.

I found an absolutely gorgeous and completely comprehensive book of Whistler's paintings, drawings, everything.

Whistler and Turner were probably two of the greatest prophets of abstract painting in that century.

People are now pretty aware of that about Turner, but I think people miss how far Whistler went because they are more familiar with his really mundane paintings, the boring signature ones.

Lee brought home an article from the Wall Street Journal which charted changing prices in the art market--it showed who was going up, and who was going down.

It's absolutely ridiculous that Munch was downturning. You could buy a decent one for 1.4 million this past year.

People, if you have the money go for it. I can't imagine a market correction more inevitable than that regarding Edvard Munch's work.

Basquiat was surprisingly up (surprising not because I concur with Mr. Hughes about the value of his work--I don't) but because I think it's probably likely many of those paintings were produced by the kids getting paid eight bucks and hour to do that (see the Vanity Fair expose).

Richard Prince was down (yeah, who cares). Damien Hirst was down--loved the lancet stained glass window of his made of butterflies, "The Trees the House," the last work of his to sell. But he's so fucking rich he could just stop producing altogether and still be Crassus the rest of his life. I have to admit the pauper's skull set with diamonds was a pretty funny autobiographical gesture on his part. I think that is the equivalent (in terms of nakedness) of some of Caravaggio's most confessional works.

Bonnard was down. That's not surprising, is it? I love the Intimists, but that doesn't surprise me.

It's unlikely you're going to lose any money on any of those artists anyway, if you have a decade or two to spare.

I mean they were all canon figures. They weren't talking about anybody like Peter Max or someone like that.

I also got an interesting monograph on the Ottoman Empire that promises to explain a lot in a very little space.

I fell into reading it and the little poem explaining the organization of the empire amazed me. The entire Empire's philosophy is summed up in like ten lines of poetry that seem pretty smart to me (if brutal).

I have to go watch Legion now.

I like movies about fallen angels, demons, etc.

One of my many "to do" books involves a book about a school for young demons---it would follow them through their tutelage (it's pretty tongue-in cheek).

I have a feeling all the good scenes were in the preview for Legion.

I hate when that happens.

Friday, May 21, 2010


Lee gave me a 10 Schilling coin. It's pretty. It looks like a lady who is going to be beheaded. Early in the morning I did domestic things, cleaning things like dishes and stairs. I watched a documentary which debunked many myths surrounding the Pearl Harbor atttack, and revealed many fascinating facts about the true nature of the attack. I had it all wrong. Like you probably do. I saw a documentary about the last days of Hitler but I already knew every single fact in the documentary. It's hard to get news about Hitler. Stockard Channing narrated the Pearl Harbor thing. I bought a lot of books tonight. Mostly children's books. I want to rewrite some of them and keep the images. Rereading Gorey and enjoying it. I almost got up enough gumption to trim the horrendous hedge (it's declared war on us, clearly) but couldn't manage. I did get weeding done out front the other day but now I see an evil singular weed was hiding in the hydrangeas and is outpacing them in its rank growth. Everybody's outside suddenly. It's hot. My brother was vomiting in the background when I talked to my mom early this morning. We were going to go to IKEA but apparently this is not happening. I want to make it to the flea market on Sunday by 7 am for once. The one nobody goes to. Near where I used to work. Where everything is so damn cheap and they beg you to take the stuff. I decided I should make a concerted effort to masturbate less as "everything is connected." I was embarrassed when I realized the comfortable slinky polyester "slut shirt" that feels like silk I like to wear is actually a Sean John shirt. Lee pointed this out. I passed a SCHOLASTIC BOOKS van on the way home as it was getting dark and I could see Clifford. He comforted me. We hate AMERICAN IDOL but we watched some of it anyway. None of us cares who wins. We all hate them all. I had a grilled salmon salad tonight with tuna added in and some deep dark balsamic vinaigrette. We all shared calamari as the antipasto. I got good news in the mail. I bought an old Shaker cookbook (hardback). Do you think they make all the food plain and bland deliberately? I'm afraid that will be the case. I bought an abecedarian butterfly book with huge close-up color photographs of details of their scales. I bought The Phantom Tollbooth, which Jules Feiffer illustrated. I bought red and black "wheat glasses" from the fifties (two of each). Some creepy guy about my age tried to talk to me in the thrift store about Captain Kangaroo but I talked to him at a fifty-five degree angle to make him go away. I bought a detailed manual on apiculture, how to raise bees. Lee and Chas looked at me with that funny look. Someone said, "That is likely." I don't know if I see myself as an apiarist, but I could enjoy the fashion statement. Look what Sylvia Plath did with that as couture.I looked at pony beads again today and coveted them. Oh, I found two old crucifixes tonight at the thrift store. The smaller one was much cheaper but should have been priced much higher. I bought two cast iron painted bookends that are footballers wearing the old leather helmets. They look very old but they're probably just vintage (like sixties or seventies). Nice though for the right person. Not I. Lee said the shipping would have to be listed at 10.95 for the one set price USPS box. Aren't those commercials for those dumb? Condescending? Make a mental note. They got confused by the size of the Jesuses. I ordered an antique rosary online today. It's from France. The 1920s. I told Lee there has to be a horror movie out there about a haunted rosary. I probably just bought a tormented ghost. So now there will be two. Me and he or she. I didn't feel very bipolar this morning but as evening came on I began to feel very much so. I think saying the rosary (the real complicated one where you go through the POWERs and APPARITIONS and all the guardian hosts) might help me more than bipolar medications and will certainly have less toxic effects on my body. I don't feel like being a petechial Etch-a-Sketch again for Depakote or any other fucked up drug. Bad blood between me and some drugs. Literally. If you think about it, Shakers were the human version of the air plant. I keep writing this funny children's book in my head but I'm afraid to start writing it down.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

The Death of Emo (2010) by Christian Boltanski

Conceptual art rockstar Christian Boltanski is at full artistic zenith.

The release of the lastest Boltanski masterpiece in search of lost time and identity was timed to coincide with a significant anniversary of David's Death of Marat.

Boltanski says of his The Death of Emo, "Wittgenstein once quoted me: 'Whereof one cannot speak, one must fall silent.' And what is more poignant than the death of ecstasy itself? Ou sont les kandi kids d'antan? Each pony bead is a witness to the finitude of pleasure, each bracelet speaks of the "raving" desire to live in these kandi kids who have now been swallowed up by death, legitimate career choices or a walloping monthly mortgage payment as surely as the ideals of the French revolution were swallowed up in the power-mad minds of souls like Marat and Robespierre. I am frequently moved to silence by silent things. It is my genius and my gift."

This display will continue in the Louvre through June 18th, at which time it will be replaced by Fifty Years of Ronald McDonald, Friend to Children and Inspiration to John Wayne Gacy!

Crack that Wiki! There are Fates Worse than Emo.

Or should I say Wiki, that crack!

Wikipedia often reads as though it were written by people on crack.

I wanted to see if "pony beads" had its very own Wiki entry, which I think would be awesome, but instead I found the entry for Kandi Kid.

Did you ever hear of this?

Here, read this: Kandi Kids

Wiki has rightfully flagged this article for quality standards. It's clearly an advertisement or started out as one.

The paragraph about the "tactile aspects" is such funny bullshit. It's so clear that was generated as advertising copy...bad advertising copy somewhere.

I think they should feature more attractive Kandi Kids if they want to make this "lifestyle" (sic) sound appealing.

Repackage. Reissue. Repackage.

Re-evaluate the schlumps.

There are things worse than emo.

There are fates worse than emo.

The Man Whose Brain Was Made of SPAM

No, not the pink stuff.

The email stuff.

Just thought it was weird that when I signed into an email address for the first time in a number of days, I have this email with the subject heading BEADS, and here is this seller of beads online offering some great deals.

I was staring at pony beads at WAL-MART yesterday and suddenly feeling this strong urge to buy a lot of them.

The email couldn't be based on bots reading my blog since the email came before I felt the bead fascination.

So now SPAM has learned how to anticipate what the hell we are going to be thinking in a few days.

I had no idea spam is a crystal ball, spam is a MAGIC 8-BALL, spam is the gypsy mannequin in the boardwalk booth.

Spam is a soothsayer.

Spam is a realm of prophecies.

Was it Ford who said "History is mostly bunk?"

Well, I say history is mostly spam.

Those aren't memes you're soaking your brain in. They're spam.

We only want history anyway because we want to believe there's a rope bridge swung out across the darkness.

We want to believe we're somewhere on a trajectory.

Thank God for thoughts, writing and music that are not linear.

Thank God God isn't linear.

Otherwise we'd definitely need to split like earthworms to get away from ourselves.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Happy Birthday, Paul!

I just realized what day it is.

Not sure how often you stop in, but if you read this you will see that I am a sensitive soul.

As if we ever had any doubt.

I thought about wishing Paul Weidenhoff a Happy Birthday since I liked the metaphysical tang of that.

That would be a book best written by Milan Kundera or somebody Czech and iffy like that.

But I suppose I should just wish you a Happy Birthday.

May you live to be a hundred and still enjoy the toy department at Wal-Mart at that age.

I have discovered my new fascination is actually the crafts aisle.

I find I have an unwholesome attraction now to pony beads.

The hippie chicks who also like pony beads probably think I am a pedophile cruising them in that aisle. But no. I am actually just standing there coveting pony beads.

I almost bought some yesterday but resisted. But I will fall soon. I want the beads with the letters on them. I want to wear bracelets that say sentences I have strung together. I want the coroner to be puzzled when he or she finds twenty strange messages on bracelets, anklets and necklaces.

That would be a funny reality show premise, now that television has lost all pretense to being an even half-moral medium. Practical jokes played on coroners with corpses.

Like have one corpse filled with gummy worms when they do the autopsy. Or have a male corpse made up female. Write a funny message on a dead guy's ass. Or a phone number with CALL ME in Sharpie. See if the coroner calls the number. Have a girl waiting and make the coroner think he's gonna get laid. Things like that.

Run it on that network that says it's for guys with lots of testosterone. They'd think it's hilarious. What's it called? REPRESSED HOMO TV? No...SPIKE TV. Same difference.

Okay, if it's too dicey for America run it in Mexico. They love death down there. Death is HUGE in Mexico. They throw it a picnic every year. Frida Kahlo's paintings weren't considered morbid by Mexico. She was just doing interior decorating according to the Mexicans. Like those werewolf eyebrows of hers. It's all good down there.

I'm on my slow computer or I would add the video of the best version of the song (Altered Images, of course!)

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Christian Peet Gives Me a Way Not to Feel Too Bad about Watching Ridiculous Amounts of the Investigation Discovery Channel

Christopher eruditely writes, "The story behind the "staircase" one is the subject of a long (six hour / eight part) documentary called, well, _The Staircase_ (or _Soupçons_), by French filmmaker Jean-Xavier de Lestrade. Perhaps one of the best crime documentaries I've seen, along with my personal favorite, _Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills_."

I will now appropriate this information and pretend familiarity with these works whenever anyone casts aspersions upon my layabout qualities.

See? Investigation Discovery has a pedigree.

Thanks, Christian.

I had nothing.

Somewhere Between Billy Joel and Rufus Wainwright

is Matt Albers.

Maybe that's why I begrudged listening to him for so long.

Lee's been a fan.

Plus, this video is a little hokey.

As are the lyrics.

But tonight I grudgingly admitted it's a good song.

He's no Rufus, perhaps closer to Billy Joel (which isn't exactly saying high in the pantheon in my book).

But s'nice.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Daybreakers was Great Fun

Lee and I both enjoyed it very much.

Ethan Hawke is great in it, because he plays a wussy vampire scientist to perfection.

It's great fun watching him getting his ass kicked by both humans and his fellow vampires.

The look of the film is...well, it's one of those blue films...I know, the oldest cliche...but it works...the director seems to have been influenced by the look of Almereyda's version of Hamlet (also starring Hawke) and possibly Blade Runner.

It doesn't shy away from the Grand Guignol and those scenes are really funny and gory.

Okay, it only got a 66% on Rotten Tomatoes but fuck them. They hate everything. It's not Shakespeare. It's just a fun little fluffy vampire flick. Maybe I'd rate it differently if I had paid movie theater prices. But as a rental, sure...

Then there's some Holocaust undertones and social commentary going on, but nothing too heavy-handed--the movie doesn't forget that it's ultimately a dippy vampire flick.

Willem Dafoe looks great. He's had work. He plays a goofy character that was probably fun to play (and very easy for an actor like Dafoe, who's used to much more challenging fare). Dafoe was good in that vampire flick about the making of Nosferatu a few years back. He was really funny in that.

Sam Neill plays his usual creepy, controlling character. He's the new Christopher Lee for some time.

Anyway, if you like vampire movies with a sense of humor this one's a great one to rent.

Lee keeps renting these ATROCIOUS loose interpretations of Poe stories by this gay director and they are just the worst sort of shit.

I struggled through The Raven a year ago, but this time he rented an "adaptation" (yeah, right) of "The Fall of the House of Usher" and it was the worst piece of crap.

It took us three days to get through a half hour then we gave up.

Softcore gay shit that should just keep its grubby catalogue boy paws off Poe.

Please don't make any more those films! Seriously!

I mean Ed Wood at least made funny films.

I just Wiki'ed him. I told Lee the director's name was a fake one (with the reference to the "knife") and sure enough he works under a bunch of different names.

He pretty much churns them out, but at least some of the films listed here at his Wiki are watchable and fun. Glad to see these "arty" (yeah right!) pieces of Poe-abusing shit aren't the only thing he does. I'm sure a fun "DeCoteau" appears now and again on the SCI-FI channel.

David DeCoteau is a Man He Dreamt Up

Here's an interview where he reveals himself to be a sharp businessman and a guy with a pretty humble perspective: David DeCoteau Talks about His Modus Operandi

I Love Micachu (and the Shapes)

I think she's the most amazing songwriter out there.

How did she know how middle-age people feel? She must have an old soul.

I go around the house singing "Turn Me Well" with its perfect lines.

"I'm a tired soul."

And "I didn't think I would last this loooong."

But there's that lingering love of life when you GET to me...and turn me weeelllll....

Vacuum cleaner sucking out life and feedback energy field. Perfect.

The way they have her head styled in that video she reminds me of Apollinaire for some reason.

Love the English teeth and the fuckall attention to things like zits in her vids.

But compositionally. Wee-hahw!

It's as though the best parts of the Beatles at their most experimental, Bjork and Syd Barrett all came together in this beautiful young androgyne who is such a handsome boy (even if she was born female).

And the voice of an English sailor lol. On more than one song I thought the secret influence by actually be sea shanties.

And I love that all my favorite songs by her come in right around 2:40.

I've always said that is the perfect length for a pop song lol.

Some Yiddish Words I Liked

Above: former yentzer Ad Rock (ne Adam Horovitz) and son of a pretty decent playwright (Israel Horovitz).

Yes, Leo Rosten's The Joy of Yiddish was published in the late sixties and there are sections where the author seems somewhat unenlightened concerning other minorities.

I read the Wiki on him and saw he had a pretty successful career that included screenplays.

I also saw the book had been republished after having been re-edited--no doubt as much for the changes in shades of meaning and orthography, etc., of many of these Yiddish words (as well as Leo's sometimes cavalier and injurious comments).

Anyway, here are some words that I've liked so far--ones that seem to want to hang around in my head.

Warning: I haven't followed up on these words to see if the spellings have changed, etc. Feel free to Google them. I'm taking Mr. Rosten's word for it, and I noticed that many of the Yiddish words I already knew were spelled in very unusual manner in this book (they had usually evolved towards spellings that would seem logical to a typical educated American user).

1. mazik...NOTE: all pronunciations here given are Leo's helpful "rhyming ones"..."Pronounced MOZZ-ik" to rhyme with Fosdick"....a smart kid, a whiz kid, used in a positive sense. Compare this with MOMZER...which is literally, a bastard, or one who acts like a bastard (in the vernacular sense)...Leo says, "He's a little momzer" can mean he's a clever little rogue.," or "He's a little bastard. He's a mazik" describes a little devil not a diabolic child."

Mazik is also applied to one given to gamble or take risks, a prankster or a restless, "happy-go-lucky" type.

Rosten points out that applied to an adult, mazik usually mens "a hell of a fellow, a live wire," without the negative connotations.

2. miesse meshina--"to rhyme with "Lisa Farina," German, mies: "wretched"; Hebrew: meshina: "fate" or "death"

An ugly or unforunate fate or death. Used either as a lament (act of warding off) or a curse on someone.

3. farblondjet--"rhymes with car lawn kit." Accent on middle syllable.

"Lost (but really lost), mixed up, wandering about without any idea where you are."

(Looking down at map with no clue) "We're not just lost. We're fucking farblondjet!"

4. schnorrer--rhymes with "snorer." German schnorren: "to beg."

This can be a beggar or pandhandler but I like it because it's also a compulsive bargain hunter and bargainer (hence, a lover of thrift stores and yard sales). So I identify. I am a schnorrer. It can have darker meanings, like a chiseler or cheapskate. Alternative spelling shnorrer.

5. pilpul--ironically rhymes with "fill full," accent on first syllable.

"An inflated form of analysis and debate used in Talmudic study; i.e. unproductive hair-splitting that is employed not so much to advance clarity or reveal meaning as to display one's one cleverness."

Most literary criticism and blurbing rarely rises above this.

6. ongepotchket rhymes with "Fonda Lodge kit." From German Patsch, a "blow" or "smack."

"1. Slapped together or assembled without form or sense." (Applies to most blogs including this one).

"2. Messed up; excessively and unesthetically decorated; overly baroque. 'She wore her new diamond earrings, a necklace, bracelte, two rings and a brooch. Oy, was she ongepotchket.'"

7. einredenish--rhymes with "fine bed of fish." Accent on first syllable.

"1. Something, utually wrong or unwarranted, that one has talked oneself into believing."

"2. A delusion, an idee-fixe. 'She has an einredendish that he hates tea.'"

8. krich arein in di bayner--Prounounced KRIKH (aspirated kh like Scottish loch) ah-RINE in dee BAY-nair. German kriechen, "to crawl," Bein, "bone."

"(Literally) 'Crawl into the bones'; to get under one's skin. To trespass on one's innermost and sensitive areas."

Er kricht arein in di bayner. "He crawls into your very bones."

Krich nit arein in di bayner! "Don't crawl into my very bones!"

Zi kricht arein in di bayner. "She worms her way into your most private affairs."

9. yentz, yentzer--rhymes with "rents," "rents'er."

To fuck, basically.

And then, by extension, to screw someone over, to defraud them.

Not for polite company (in 1967 anyway).

Yentzer can be the guy who screws you over, but it's also the hot Jewish guy, the promiscuous one, and also the one with great sexual prowess.

Think of Adam Horowitz back in the early days of the Beastie Boys. A real yentzer in those days.

I think Jewish guys are hot, but it never ceases to amaze me how they are the living embodiment of David at 25 and at 35 they look 63.

What straight guys say about Russian and Eastern European women in the most piggish, sexist way I'd have to say about hot young Jews.

10. alter-kocker rhymes with "Sol the mocker." Accent on first syllable in each word.

What I just said at the end of the last entry leads me naturally to this term.

It just means "old shitter."

Old guy.

Old fart.

He spends his days in bed the entry says (Oy, that's me!)

11. gridzeh--rhymes with "Ridge-ya." Accent on first syllable.

"Literally, to chew or to gnaw, the way an animal does, with sloppy, slobbering sounds; to grind one's teeth."

"As used, gridzeh conveys the idea of carping, beefing, complaining, nagging. The grating sound of the word is itself unpleasant. 'Stop gridzhing.' 'All she does is gridzeh.' 'Es gridzhet mir,' means 'It gripes me."

12. oysgematert--rhmyes with "Royce besotted." From German matt: "exhausted."

"To be utterly exhausted, worn out. 'I'm oysgematert!' 'After what she went through, who can blame her for being oysgematert?'