Friday, June 06, 2003 :::
More on Guy Maddin.
::: at 2:27 PM
Urinal chatter @ work:
Lawyer: "So you taking any vacations this summer?"
Me: "Nah, can't afford it."
Lawyer: "That's only temporary though."
Me: "No, it's a constant."
Lawyer: "You just have to get yourself a wealthy girlfriend!"
Lawyer: "She doesn't have to be beautiful, you know!"
Me: "Well, at least I wouldn't have to worry about it being seen as sex for money."
Lawyer: "I don't...."
Me: "Have a nice day!"
::: at 12:47 PM
I'm having a "trucker cap" kinda weekend. What am I talking about? Well, it's NXNE, so theres a littany of incredably good bands playing all weekend, and invariably, a throng of hipsters in afforementioned headgear.
Tonight is contoller.controller (death-punk-disco, Jocko, you would love 'em), along with Tangiers (rock! nothing less, and so much more).
Tomorrow poses a bit of a problem. I've got the choice between Hidden Cameras, who I've seen a number of times (Can't get enough of back-up dancers in ski-masks and jockstraps!!), and The Rapture. I've never seen The Rapture before, and I know it would be tres jolie, but I have a feeling I'll end up with the cutsey, anarcho-faggots instead.
Yes, this is also a total cum-soaked plug for these bands, but with this kind of quality, I feel no shame (fuck off!) in a little soft pedalling.
Oh, and if you see me out, it's a scotch on the rocks, lose the straw, walk away slowly (just in case you gottsa nice little ass).
::: at 11:43 AM
Thursday, June 05, 2003 :::
Someone please buy me a ticket to Venice!!
This year the German Pavillion has chosen Martin Kippenberger and Candida Hofer, as the representing artists. The Kippenberger work is Metro-Net, his vision of a global subway system. The Hofer works are her continuing studies of empty public spaces (a pretty lax descrption, blame Artforum). The connection they've chosen is Baudrillard. Kippenberger exagerating the simulation, and Hofer offering the "desert of the real".
Excuse me while I tame my chubber here.
::: at 2:39 PM
Don't worry my little meat-monkey,
I'll let you have this one. Why? Because I already own both of these! That and dear Mr. McGinley is on his way. I hope he bathed this time!!
As for your suggestion? One word for you: BULK!!
::: at 10:47 AM
Wednesday, June 04, 2003 :::
I'm all for Martha. How could I not be?
Have you seen her demoralize her dimwitted and hapless society staff? Her compulsive cleaning when guest Chefs are on, the near-threatening tone she takes on when they start making a mess of her perfectly appointed studio? The religiously-ecstatic look she gets when she announces "...and 4 cups of cognac!"? All with the perfect mix of grace and bloodlust that sets apart the icons from the drag-queens, and makes her one of my personal favourites.
::: at 5:06 PM
"Martha Stewart has been in serious hot water for the past year, which has rendered her flavorful and juicy, just right for a savory salad or a creamy puréed soup. If Martha is on the hot seat for long enough, she might even be tender enough for skewering and grilling with sprigs of rosemary, or marinating in a delightful wasabi dressing, the perfect appetizer for a patio dinner party on a warm spring night."
-Heather Havrilesky, for Salon (aka The Rabbit)
::: at 4:50 PM
Oh, and Jonno. Go here. They've got a nice little *ahem* spread of Xaviera for you. Enjoy!
::: at 1:08 PM
I finally turned the last page on the first, in a series of books that will probably have more of an effect on me than I realize right now. I'm talking about Proust, 'Swann's Way' to be exact. This book provides what I've deemed the "thumbp!". Mainly, you meander through an idea till all of a sudden "thumbp!"...a full picture presents itself with such clarity and depth that you start giggling like a maniac and bouncing up and down on your couch, which only further creeps out your neighbours, forcing them to start a fund to buy you some proper window treatments.
I will admit that he has a habit of plodding through things like a half-sedated rhino, which is the most common complaint I've heard, but that's half the beauty in it. When else do you find something that so expertly communicates life as we live it, without bowing down to any kind of cheap theatrics. 'Eureka' by Shinji Aoyama takes the same approach. At 4 hours + long, and not much in the way of action for most of it, and since a good portion of the characters are mute, you're forced to focus on what would normaly be considered filler. How would this be interesting? Because in it the mundane chatter, and daily rituals that would normally be disregarded, are thrust to the forefront and allowed sing the tune. It in no way panders, which so many modern works do, to the side that demands constant stimuli to keep it's attention. I find that most of those works are more akin to taking a load of jizz in the face, but honey, if I want bukkake, I'll go get bukkake. Yes, this can serve a purpose, but generally you only feel cheap, used, and not the good way. ( This can be the intention in some cases, so don't bother pointing it out!)
Now, the characters presented in this work are the things that electrify me most. I've rarely seen such apt descriptions of human behaviour, from the honorable to the uncomfortable and embarrasing, they're all there. Most writer's simply create a new character for every emotion, rather than giving any amount of depth to the ones at hand. At most you get the great epiphany at the end, after you've been forced to watch the damn thing flop around for 400 pages, and you're somehow supposed to feel so vindicated and relieved with their great triumph, when really you only got 2 dimensions and another hour of Oprah telling us how "moved" she was by the "strength and courage". About the only book that I've seen go through the Oprah Sales Machine, that is at all palatable is 'Fall on your knees' by Anne-Marie Macdonald. This is actually a fantastic book, 'palatable' would be a great insult to it, mainly because of the delectable writing (she's also a playwrite), but it still err's to far into pathos and "look at my cheap anguish" for my liking.
I will admit that I'm a tad (stop laughing) biased when it comes to authors. Save for some theorists and poets I've been quite happily out of the loop when it comes to modern authors. I find most are pedantic cry-babies, eunichs (Mr. Sedaris, are you there?), or po-mo feminists (Margaret Atwood) who sing that little (thank you Sturtle) "wah, wah, my pussy hurts" song that I'm so fucking fond of. Female ejaculation is fine and dandy, but again, I'd prefer if you aimed away from my face, dear.
About the only author I've been getting excited about lately is Alain Robbe-Grillet. The surrealist voice that seemed to be dying off finally has a new home, and this bitch is one hell of a tenor! Repetition is one chewy little book, mostly because it owes so much to Kiekegaard (full disclosure: He's my favourite philosopher, so there's yet another total bias), but framework aside it will give your mind a much needed feast.
I know I was just supposed to give a little nod to dear Marcel, but after reading something like 'Swann's Way', and then taking a look at the Salon book pages to see what all the bedheads are raving about, I can't help but get a little apopleptic. Sure you can gab with that girl/guy in you're Psych class about Egger's (premature ejaculation, cries after sex), and you can have boring but "beautiful" (her/his words) missionary sex, and see 'Down With Love' and have a real "like, cool" time together, or you can chat about Barthes with that girl/guy in that Structuralist Theory class, the one with the magic hair and sexy eyes, who you know has the dirtiest mouth in bed, the one that know's where or will find you're G spot, and show you just how sexy T.S. Eliot really was. Your choice kids!
::: at 12:35 PM
Tuesday, June 03, 2003 :::
Easy Ways to Reach Me:
photos+clamps+and+oysters (My fav!!)
faggot+beating+fun (Try me bitch!)
hot+men+staion[sic]+having+sex (So horny he's dislexic. Or means that other stallion??)
::: at 4:17 PM
I refuse to buy anything else that is marketed as being 'Made in Siam'.
Why? Well, for starters you have to perform elaborate sacrifices just to get the damn things to load film, and live goats ain't cheap, let me tell you. Then there's the added bonus of 'possesions', wherein the image you later receive in no way resembles the image you had been pointing the damn thing at earlier. I'm now the proud owner of several photos of what appears to be the spirit of a cantelope, leaving it's earthly shell behind. Is this what I get for being a vegetarian? Eternally haunted by the ghosts of my sweet, fragrant, and juicy victims? Maybee I should just stick with hookers? You never hear a peep out of them.
After you've finally had enough of the above, you're instructed that no earthly human can actually fix your little pandora's box, so you're told to ship it to Bhutan, where the appropriate changes in space and time can be made. When it returns (in 6-8 Earth years), you're forced to battle some sort of serpent that's been enclosed in the box, to see if you are, infact, worthy to be the carrier of such a magical fetish. After battling the hydra, and performing the 'Las Ketchup' remix of the Book of the Dead (coming to a club near you!), you can now actually load a roll of film into you're little spirit thief. I will remind you that this is best done while wearing the monkey's head provided, you can never be to careful, especially with those little Bhutanese motherfuckers. One wrong move or mispronouced incantation and you'll end up being carried off by demons, or stuck in a time warp with one of those Welch's Grape Juice kids (even the Children of the Corn have taken up Affirmative Action!)
Now, you're ready to shoot...yourself. Or at least take some snazzy Bruce Labruce style shots of the four 'virgins true' that you had to offer up while getting the rangefinder to work. After all of this you're half expecting Indian Jones to break through you're apartment window, and after making sweet, sweet love, telling you the great evil that you wield in you're hands. Well, yes, that too, but he's talking about the camera!! Alas, majority of the time all you get is your Super wondering what that smell is, or some band of disenfranchized Nazis, looking to acheive world domination. Either way, you're gonna end up in somesort of adhoc porno, and fisting is de riguer by the way.
Everything is in place now, you're prepared to let lose your little terrors on the world, to be the great plague that finally brings mankind to it's knees...actually, they're still in make up. Have a smoke and chill there, bub.
No, really, I have lots to do today!
::: at 1:01 PM
Monday, June 02, 2003 :::
Or, I should say: "If that doesn't whet you're appetite, you suck!"
Democratic and eloquent? What a combo!
::: at 2:28 PM
Some more info on " The Saddest Music in the World":
"Maddin's newest film, The Saddest Music in the World, which is currently in post-production, is based on an original screenplay by Kazuo Ishiguro (author of The Remains of the Day). Starring Isabella Rossellini and The Kids in the Hall's Mark McKinney, the film is set during the Depression in a Winnipeg brewery where a legless matriarch holds a contest to see who can create the world's saddest music."
If that doesn't whet you're appetite, I dunno what will.
::: at 2:25 PM
As for the rest (the active word here) of the weekend, I for once chose a somewhat more demure approach and stayed the hell indoors. Fri was a passed out drooling on couch by 10 kind of night. Sorry to everyone that was trying to get a hold of me, I unplugged the phone so I wouldn't have to pretend to be guilty for not answering.
Sat was jazz, food, wine, wine, jazz, wine, food, mmmmm. Good times! I regretted re-installing the phone when I immediatelly received a call from J, who spent the next 2 hrs prying out the details from Thu, and chiding me for some of my mistakes.
J: "Did you talk to anyone about funding?!"
Me: "Well...I think I asked some guy to get me drink cause I was out of money. Does that count?"
J: *annoyed silence*
Everything to J is a marketing oppurtunity, she can hear a cheque being endorsed from 100 ft.
I wasn't really in the mood for a conversation about "overhead costs" so I hung-up on her. This is how all our conversations end, but we're both used to it. I'll give her a shout tomorrow. All will be forgoten.
Again, drooling on couch. Good times!
Sun. was a write-off. That and some jack-off. I accomplished absolutely nothing, save for crawling out for cig's and coffee at one point, right in the middle of brunch. Brunch in the gaybourhood is just what you would imagine, packed! I wasn't in the mood for any advances so some unfortunate souls got a few growls and barks. Seriously, when I'm tired it only comes out as growls and barks. I figure if they're pussies they'll run off, if they're turned on, then they're enough of a man for my liking.
( I find that last sentence funny because of the little incident with the gorgeous man at the Powerball on Thu. I make fun of people that run from me, but when I turn into a stunned ass, it's funny. Well, it is funny! Christ, when the fuck am I not in the capacity to hit on something? Especially when they're magazine quality sexy, with a killer eye for clothes to boot. I could say that he was just obviously to stuck-up to see the humour in the situation, and that if he was really right for me he would have stuck around and at least gotten some shots in, but that would be reaching. So everyone now, and 5-6-7-and reach... Harder now R-E-A-C-H!)
::: at 1:35 PM
So I'm happy to say that the fallout from Thur (and Fri) amounted only to one day of still-soused-work, a scraped arm, and only a few "What the hell happened?". Even those kinds of questions were only so that people could figure out where the hell they were at that moment in time, rather than the more pervasive accusational tone. So here's the long and short of it:
-The whole thing was a video installation gone arry. It did, however, include the new Guy Maddin film "The saddest Music in the World" starring Isabella Rosselini. It was quite good, and I will post showing as I hear about them Oh, and confidential to no one: You get to see her breasts fondled
-Peaches performed. Of course she floored everyone. Later when I was talking to her she said that she was very sorry she didn't have her strap-on, which is probably for the better. Remind me to tell you that story.
-I missed the other performance (Anthony? Serge?? I dunno) due to Buick-back-seat fun. I forgot how your skin sticks to pleather. I also forgot that if you then try to shift, there' a good chance you're going to rip off the layer of skin that has adheered to this heinous fabric. He asked if he should "give it a kiss", I said that we were veering into 'Crash' territory with that one.
-I'm still searching for the identity of the guy that whipped the drink at Captain Optimism (see Fri. post). If this is you, or you know this person, please get in touch with with me. At the least, we should have sex.
-Best thing I heard all night: "Fuck art. Let's dance"
-Worst thing I heard all night: "I wouldn't even thinkof dating any man earned less than $75, 000"
-I met a bassoonist. I have never met a bassoonist before, ever. (I'm not even sure if I'm spelling bassoon correctly??)
-Despite well passing the 'teens' in the drink category, I was still able to form complete sentences. This is all second hand though, as I can't remember.
Most of the rest is a blur, some smatterings of conversation, and forgetting my new phone number for the 5th time that night. Classy, I know. I should have just done as N does, and throw business cards. All and all it was a great time, especially since I didn't pay for a dime of it. Actually, no one I knew there had payed for anything. Don't you just love fundraisers!
::: at 11:28 AM