if you live, shoot

oh, Norman Mailer.

At different points in his life Mailer was a prodigious drinker and drug taker, a womanizer, a devoted family man, a would-be politician who ran for mayor of New York, a hipster existentialist, an antiwar protester, an opponent of women's liberation and an all-purpose feuder and short-fused brawler, who with the slightest provocation would happily engage in head-butting, arm-wrestling and random punch-throwing. Boxing obsessed him and inspired some of his best writing. Any time he met a critic or a reviewer, even a friendly one, he would put up his fists and drop into a crouch.

I wish I could say I miss you, but I'm only left with a distinct feeling I should have known you better. 

rest well, old man.  it's been a long, rewarding life.

Slavoj Zizek must be having a field day with this:
http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/11/11/europe/balkans.php

finally, I can stop holding my breath. it's out today.




I am more excited than...um....Cooper gets about coffee and that damn fine slice of pie.



I still maintain that Heather Graham killed the season, and consequently the show, though. ugh... to this day I shudder when I think about her performance as Annie Blackburn. ENUNCIATE, woman! stop swallowing your sentences! and it wouldn't hurt if you could put a little emotion into your delivery. I mean....really.

anyway, maybe now I can scrap my VHS set for some cash....

hope the special features are good. and that they improved the sound. the audio on the VHS transfer was god-awful.

Netflix, I love you!



can't quite describe how happy I was to get this in the mail today, but...uh...extremely will have to suffice for now.

[extended alternate entry here.]

but, boy, am I glad I did.

no wonder Nina self-identifies as Ashkenazi.

is what life's taking.

whatever.

sometimes things cheer me up:



sometimes I just need a particular someone to talk to.

it's hard to find love when you're bought and sold.

[and harder to keep it, if that's at all part of your history.]

I just had this terrible dream that I was being raped by Tony Danza.  I was on a couch at a party in a room full of friends and family.  he was sitting right next to me, making small talk, slowly pulling a comforter over both of us, and the next thing I thing I know, he's uncomfortably close and I'm pushing, pushing with my side, with all my weight, but he gets me to turn and I find myself trying to push him away with my hands and my feet, but he's so much bigger and he overpowers me.  his hands are in my shirt and pants and I can feel them grabbing and groping and fumbling and I'm scared and angry and crying and screaming  "NO" and "RAPE."  no one pays any attention really; my grandma looks over once, coldly, and then she looks away.  and so I'm beating him and kicking him and my hands and feet just sink into his doughy, flabby flesh.  and I'm terrified and enraged, and I feel him shift to pull his sweatpants down and I feel his skin getting closer to mine and I just keep screaming and pushing and beating him with my fists and tearing at him with my nails, but he's nose to nose with me and breathing on me and destroying me with this super-dominant, nasty, menacing, victorious look in his eyes.  but I can't avoid it, I'm scared to close my eyes or turn away or let down my guard, but his hands slip onto my throat and I'm crying and fuming and whimpering and pleading and start looking around and I see friends I see my friends out of the corner of my eye, Andrea, Kathy, and I'm trying to call out but spit just trickles out of my lips and I'm scared and desperate and  he's close close close too close and just as he grunts and thrusts, and he's flush against me, I wake up.

and now I'm sitting here and shaking and sticky and covered with sweat, and I'm feeling sad and confused and angry and humiliated.  and the bed is soaking wet and there are tears on my face, and spit in my mouth and dribble on my chin.  and suddenly, I'm terrified of being under the comforter.

I will never be able to watch Nick-at-Nite reruns of Who's the Boss? ever again.

for some reason, on a day when most well-adjusted people enjoy reveling in gushing displays of love as if it were some busted fire hydrant uncontrollably spraying a city street on a scorcher of a day, I couldn't help but think of the bitter social satire of Sarah Silverman, who's become an inspiration to me as of late.  I guess that makes me maladjusted.  or would maladjusted be if, in my head, the metaphorical fire hydrant was showering the streets with blood, and puppies and kids were playing in it anyway?  (hey, it is Valentine's Day.  got to keep in the holiday spirit somehow.)

anyways.

"The Porn Song" could very well be the story of my 'romantic' life.  or at least, the "pro" phase.  thank god that's over.



the lyrics cut painfully close, and had I heard this two years ago, I probably would have broken into tears.  but, uh, I'm just surprised at how incredibly perceptive the song is.

of the more pointed selections:

"your vagina has so many penises in it that you might as well talk about the times there are none in it. 'cause those are the times that are more unique."

"do you ever take drugs so that can have sex without crying?...yeah yeah"

"there's a dream in your head that will never come true, there's a stickiness all over and it didn't come from you.  you wish your dad had been there but more oftentimes he was not, you can't put your arms around a dirty gang-bang cum shot, but that's all you get.  that's all you get."

and, of course, the closer, which is still terribly relevant:

"there's a hole in your heart where the sorrow pours out.  there's a hole in your heart where ambivalence sets in....all the penises in the country, all the penises in the world, all the penises in the galaxy, won't fill your heart hole...."

to end this on a happier note, though, here's "I Love You More":


which I'll dedicate to my Jewy partner.  ...um, I love you more than I love pussy?

noooooooooooooo.

and I'm already exhausted and emotionally drained.

so, I have class six days a week, from Monday-Saturday.  (fucking poor planning.)  additionally, most all of my classes address trauma in one manner or another, some on a personal level [The Politics of Sexual Violence, Trauma and the Arts], some on a general level [Abnormal Psychology]. and some on a level vaguer still [Women in the Economy].

it's going to be a rough semester.

for those who care, Jodorowsky event at the Castro is currently underway.  the last night of El Topo is tonight; The Holy Mountain begins tomorrow, and continues through Monday.  wanted to go, but I'm so so very tirrrrred.  we'll see though.  also, there's the Emily Haines thing on Monday...

fuck.

whatever.

and now some stuff you might enjoy:

[note:  Nina sent these to me, through Randy.  I love Nina.]


somewhere, someone at a sex-worker media watch group is cringing.  I know folks at TES must be.

...then there was the whole Giselle thing.

blah.

had a seizure last night.

every time I hear the stimulus I get so freaked out that I have a panic attack because I'm so fucking terrified of having another seizure.  it's so goddamn debilitating.

I am so fucked.

I need to get out of here.

well, shit.  it wasn't anything that some beer and booty shakin' couldn't fix

I have no desire to write except in code. and even at that, I fail.

the heart's causing problems.

I need someone to talk to.

echo echo echo.

be seeing you.

from a convalescent home.

at least it sounded like him. it was, more likely, a poor old Slav digging his long, ragged nails into death's edge. at any rate, it was one of the most surreal experiences I've ever had.

"I know your faaaa-therr is on va-caaa-shun. Aussstraaalia , the Phiiill-i-pines , and all this...."

mid-nineties indie movies make me want to kill myself.

...

finished the hand detailing on the ladybug for the ladybug skirt. used black thread for the black dots; should have used white thread for contrast.

stupid movies. stupid thread. and while I'm at it...relationships are pretty stupid, too.

has anyone heard anything about Bernard Rose's new project?

I could only find a link to these images.

if he's accomplished what I think he has, I'm jealous. and in awe. and I can't wait to see this film when it's released.

[side note: rediscovered Paperhouse tonight. loved it.]

it was just something to think about. demise as a plot device to keep things running smoothly.

foam puppet, foam boobs. a whole lotta dying going on.

---
...as an afterthought, but on the snip and slash theme:
only one t-halter is finished. still have to do prep work on, oh, twenty more. also in the dream stages: one "trucker" flap skirt. one potential a-line. so much work to do.

finishing up the stitching and hand-detail on the "motorcycle" skirt. found that I can thread a needle while in a fast-moving car far better than I can when things aren't in motion. how fucking punk.

considered making kid's clothes. for profit. along similar lines to current work, but more child appropriate with requisite wink to parents--stuff like "I love my daddy's motorcycle. vrrooom."

Bava's lighting is absolutely wonderful. I can't believe that I never fully appreciated it before.

meticulous to insane amounts of fill, and always in just the right spots--streaks of hair, the lips, the cheek, the breast, the thighs--like brushstrokes. his women pop. (and his curtains are fabulous.)