With regards to my previous post: one of my most faithful readers found it disturbing. Given the fact that she's neither prissy nor naive, I wondered what in hell could have caused her to pucker up and shake her head while reading it. I respect her opinion very much, you know.
Two options: option one, that she may have thought I actually tried the practice I discuss with my boss in said entry (inserting you-know-what you-know-where). .Well, if that is the case, no i haven't. Not that I think it would be despicable, I'm just stating a fact. Option two, that certain taboos are tough to beat, no matter how open-minded or experienced one is. In this country, I believe, there's a gap of knowledge, awareness, acceptance when it comes to ... the S. (I know I haven't discovered anything new. I know this is only true as far as the general public goes, we're not talking about Madame Styx here)
With regards to another S-word... as I told my man Avenger, someone at the New York Mag clearly isn't getting any: for the second time in a little more than a month their cover story is about sex. From the February, 6 issue: "Love and the Ambisexual, Heteroflexible Teen by Alex Morris - Researchers find it shocking that 11 percent of American girls between 15 and 19 claim to have same-sex encounters. Meet Alair, her unconsummated crush Jane, their friend Elle, her bisexual boyfriend, and the rest of the heteroflexible gang".
Off the top of my head, again, is any of this new? Or is there only more awareness, due to a greater media coverage (oh, the beauty of coincidences: see, the "Brokeback mountain effect") and an increased tendency to speakout (and showoff) among teens?
Monday, January 30, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Do I get a medal at the end of the Game?
(in case you were wondering, it IS a quote - Reality bites, Winona Ryder's line, kinda sorta)
The following conversation took place this morning, as I was massaging my boss' wife. Just before discussing the practice of inserting pieces of ginger root into the anus, bursting pleasure guaranteed (it's like Dentyne fire for ass), with my boss. No, I'm not an intern at Fleshbot, alas. And massage and discussion occurred at different times. And I don't have sex with my boss either although I happen to discuss it, for various reasons (preparing his interview with Hugh Hefner, commenting on the humongous hickey on my neck, courtesy of .amp).
M (Me). BW (Boss' wife).
BW (after 2 minutes of shoulder rubbing) - WOW, you're really amazingly good at this!
M (always the modest) - Thank you, thank you.
BW - No, seriously, it's fantastic! So, wait a minute ... your men get THIS?
M (trying hard not to crack up at the thought of what else my men get before, during and after massages) - Well, yeah (sigh)
BW - WOW. You spoil them.
M - Uh, you think?
BW - Yeah. I mean, too much, too soon. It's like with dogs in training, you know? You can't stuff them with treats when you just started teaching them not to piss on your 2K$ Persian rug.
M - Well, I guess. Of course, that would explain a lot of things.
BW - Such as?
M - My love life, for the past say TEN years?
BW - Share with the class.
M - Well, I'm always the best fuck they've ever had (I guess I was already transitioning to my following convo with boss here). The most arresting smile they've ever seen. The most beautiful face they've ever set their eyes on. The best cuisine they've ever tasted. The most supportive friend. The most elegant woman. The smartest brain.
BW - Ok?
M - Then how come I'm alone?
BW - Well, it's always you leaving them right?
M - Not the ones I really want. Those, for one reason or the other, slip through my fingers.
BW - Well, there you have it my friend.
M - Too much too soon?
BW - Too much too soon.
M - Yeah, I guess you're right. Sometimes I feel like I'm a a car-dealer trying to sell a used La Sabre. Actually, I feel like I'm the used car, trying too hard to sell itself.
BW (turning around, actually tearing up) - Aw... don't say so or you're gonna make me cry! If YOU are insicure, then there's no hope for the rest of us.
M - So, I mean, so WHAT? Like, I'm too perfect or something? Do I get a medal at the end of this game?
Because ladies, you know, it IS a crying game. Sans Forrest Whitaker.
Ok, off to discuss gingerized anuses now. See ya.
The following conversation took place this morning, as I was massaging my boss' wife. Just before discussing the practice of inserting pieces of ginger root into the anus, bursting pleasure guaranteed (it's like Dentyne fire for ass), with my boss. No, I'm not an intern at Fleshbot, alas. And massage and discussion occurred at different times. And I don't have sex with my boss either although I happen to discuss it, for various reasons (preparing his interview with Hugh Hefner, commenting on the humongous hickey on my neck, courtesy of .amp).
M (Me). BW (Boss' wife).
BW (after 2 minutes of shoulder rubbing) - WOW, you're really amazingly good at this!
M (always the modest) - Thank you, thank you.
BW - No, seriously, it's fantastic! So, wait a minute ... your men get THIS?
M (trying hard not to crack up at the thought of what else my men get before, during and after massages) - Well, yeah (sigh)
BW - WOW. You spoil them.
M - Uh, you think?
BW - Yeah. I mean, too much, too soon. It's like with dogs in training, you know? You can't stuff them with treats when you just started teaching them not to piss on your 2K$ Persian rug.
M - Well, I guess. Of course, that would explain a lot of things.
BW - Such as?
M - My love life, for the past say TEN years?
BW - Share with the class.
M - Well, I'm always the best fuck they've ever had (I guess I was already transitioning to my following convo with boss here). The most arresting smile they've ever seen. The most beautiful face they've ever set their eyes on. The best cuisine they've ever tasted. The most supportive friend. The most elegant woman. The smartest brain.
BW - Ok?
M - Then how come I'm alone?
BW - Well, it's always you leaving them right?
M - Not the ones I really want. Those, for one reason or the other, slip through my fingers.
BW - Well, there you have it my friend.
M - Too much too soon?
BW - Too much too soon.
M - Yeah, I guess you're right. Sometimes I feel like I'm a a car-dealer trying to sell a used La Sabre. Actually, I feel like I'm the used car, trying too hard to sell itself.
BW (turning around, actually tearing up) - Aw... don't say so or you're gonna make me cry! If YOU are insicure, then there's no hope for the rest of us.
M - So, I mean, so WHAT? Like, I'm too perfect or something? Do I get a medal at the end of this game?
Because ladies, you know, it IS a crying game. Sans Forrest Whitaker.
Ok, off to discuss gingerized anuses now. See ya.
Monday, January 23, 2006
what I want to see next at Moma
Pixar exhibit at Moma with my man .amp, had NO idea so much work went into the pre-production of animation. Before opening a door (a-ha! Monsters Inc's doors bridging the world of monsters with little kids' closets... genius) on John Lasseter's world I thought colorscripts were upgraded versions of the color palettes used by fashion designers and home decorators. Uh, nope.
Loaded with visual endorphins I asked myself: what exhibit-art installation would I like to see next? Easy. Movie posters. Must have been the conversation with Shepard Fairey, the mind and monolithic trait behind Obey-Andre the Giant. All he had to do to flip that switch was mention one name: Saul Bass. Because Hitchcock's "Anatomy of a murder" is not only Ellington's score. But also Bass' poster. The dream sequence in Vertigo? He directed it. Vertigo's poster? His. Etc etc etc.
And after that? Cd covers, all-time best.
(not an all-time best, but not bad either)
Loaded with visual endorphins I asked myself: what exhibit-art installation would I like to see next? Easy. Movie posters. Must have been the conversation with Shepard Fairey, the mind and monolithic trait behind Obey-Andre the Giant. All he had to do to flip that switch was mention one name: Saul Bass. Because Hitchcock's "Anatomy of a murder" is not only Ellington's score. But also Bass' poster. The dream sequence in Vertigo? He directed it. Vertigo's poster? His. Etc etc etc.
And after that? Cd covers, all-time best.
(not an all-time best, but not bad either)
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Best music writing
For beginners, aficionados, voyeurs and whatnot of that elusive genre that is Music journalism I warmly recommend my reading for this past holidays: "Best music writing 2005", Da Capo press. Provided they can get over the fact that it's edited by the artist formerly known as... JT LeRoy. Swallow, if you can, this jagged little pill. Swallow with grace, I'm sure you can, we've all swallowed much worse than that in our blazing, vicious lives. And you'll be blessed with two of the best features on the Clash - and the year 1979 as watershed in punk rock - I've ever read. Long live the Queen.
If on the other hand time is your problem and you only bite into what can be read during the average human crap (quote, "The big chill", Jeff Goldblum) then I URGE you to sit down with your sphincter and a copy of this week's New York magazine. Jay McInerney's cover story on The Strokes? Forget it. Makes me wanna bury myself in that bathroom - with MY sphincter thank you very much - and never resurface again, at least not to write anything about music.
Lines like: "it's always 3 a.m. in Casablanca's voice"
"I thought I was going to have a contact anxiety attack"
Just read the LEAD for Chrissake: "Hiding behind a pair of of big aviator shades and clutching the mike stand, Julian Casablancas can hardly tell if he's singing or not, the monitors are so murky, and lead guitarist Nick Valensi feels like the bass is some kind of malignant force swallowing all the music..."
IsItFinallyItForTheStrokes?
I mean shit like that makes you feel like shit. Makes your ego be that jagged little pill you can't seem to swallow.
If on the other hand time is your problem and you only bite into what can be read during the average human crap (quote, "The big chill", Jeff Goldblum) then I URGE you to sit down with your sphincter and a copy of this week's New York magazine. Jay McInerney's cover story on The Strokes? Forget it. Makes me wanna bury myself in that bathroom - with MY sphincter thank you very much - and never resurface again, at least not to write anything about music.
Lines like: "it's always 3 a.m. in Casablanca's voice"
"I thought I was going to have a contact anxiety attack"
Just read the LEAD for Chrissake: "Hiding behind a pair of of big aviator shades and clutching the mike stand, Julian Casablancas can hardly tell if he's singing or not, the monitors are so murky, and lead guitarist Nick Valensi feels like the bass is some kind of malignant force swallowing all the music..."
IsItFinallyItForTheStrokes?
I mean shit like that makes you feel like shit. Makes your ego be that jagged little pill you can't seem to swallow.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
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