I had too much to dream last night, restless, unable to quiet the day, I stared at the ceiling before rolling into a migraine. I kept thinking, no, I worried that I wasn't going to get enough sleep. Then the satanic routine of checking the clock, kicked in, 5 hours before, no, 4 hours before I had to awaken, 3 hours before, of course with 2 hours to go, I fell fast asleep. I'm usually not such an insomniac, rarely so neurotic, but Thursday is a marathon, and all that wrestling to get some rest was like the pre-game jitters. Yes, I tried my usual, surfing porn and watching reruns, but nothing. 14 hours into my day, I'm really working a caffeine coma! As the day unwinds, I can hear my neighbors arguing, their shouting disintegrates my words and interrupts my typing, reading anything of substance is impossible. Therefore, screw it, I'm going to sit down and read through the Times article on Jesse James, the creator of the much lusted after El-Diablo bike.According to scientists, This is the World's Funniest Joke:
A couple of New Jersey hunters are out in the woods when one of them falls to the ground. He doesn't seem to be breathing, his eyes are rolled back in his head. "The other guy whips out his cell phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps to the operator: 'My friend is dead! What can I do?' "The operator, in a calm soothing voice says: 'Just take it easy. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead.' "There is a silence, then a shot is heard. The guy's voice comes back on the line. He says: 'OK, now what?'"
Due to regional differences, I found the following to be much funnier:
"Texan: 'Where are you from?'
"Harvard graduate: 'I come from a place where we do not end our sentences with prepositions.'
"Texan: 'OK, where are you from, jackass?'"
So...what's funny globally?
7:22 PM :
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
Hot coffee, melty cupcakes, the buzz of fluorescent lighting. I'm sitting in the pea green squeeky swivel office chair, rocking left then right, going over mail. The air conditioning is broken and I'm ready to drip out onto the floor today, so humid. Pushing off from the desktop and around to grab more caffeine, the steam from the hot cup fogs my glasses. I packed that postcard you sent, you know things like big and little share the same name, the two of us, my nickname, who to ask for, that Diner on Clifton, a 37 cent Andy Warhol stamp. Mr. 8 dollars and 83 cents, you know who you are, you're going to get it!
"I try to make a composition that pushes photography into the realm of painting," she said. "I love the idea that you can find an amateur snapshot that someone has discarded and make it into a monumental painting."
When photography is pushed into painting, the hallucinatory pieces of self professed nerd girl Isca Greenfield-Sanders who handily utilizes her MacIntosh to create some beautiful full scale art. Here is a decent explanation of the process and her personal website with more from her catalog of paintings. I like the tension that develops between the generic imagery and the digital process. Unsettling at best.
Speaking of Macs, Wired has an interesting article titled, The Mac That Can't Be Tweaked, for years we have been tweeking our interface with Kaleidoscope, however with Ye Old Happy Mac killed by the new Jaguar Interface, it seems that any manipulation is now impossible. I have yet to have a go with CandyBar. Has anybody tried this out yet? Perhaps I just wax nostalgic for a MacSE. Hey, not that I want to revisit the past after I read you can scratch with your iPod?! Wiggy Wiggy Wiggy!
1:33 PM :
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Placing the giant size Tide on the kitchen table, I hear a splashing noise, and discover the dog drinks out of the toilet, that is so wretched. Bad dog! Anyway, Billy Blob (That's Blob not Bob) makes me very happy, watch his short flash film Karma Ghost the cautionary tale of a shiftless hipster who tempts fate in a series of ill-considered lapses of judgment that end very, very badly (check the hep cat sound-track)
SO LET ME HAVE MY FUN
Aldo Palazzeschi from The Arsonist, 1910
--------------------------------------------
Tri tri tri-fru fru fru-ihu uhi uhi!
The poet's having fun;
he's mad
and out of control!
But don't say anything bad,
let him have his fun,
poor soul:
these harmless little tricks
that give him his kicks.
Cucu ruru-ruru cucu-cucucucurucu!
What are these obscenities?
These stanzas, who can read them?
Freedom, freedom,
poetic freedom!
They're my passion.
Farafarafarafa-tarataratarata
paraparaparapa-laralaralarala!
Do you know what they are?
Avant-garde stuff:
not mere grotesqueries
but the finishing off
of other poetries.
Bubububu-fufufufu-Friu-Friu
It hasn't a shred
of wit -
so why does he write it,
the block-head?
Bilobilobilobilobilo-blum
Filofilofilofilofilo-flum
Bilolu. Filolu-U.
It isn't true they have no meaning,
they mean something;
what they mean
as when
one starts to sing
and doesn't know the words . . .
a very vulgar thing,
and yet it's to my liking!
Aaaaa! Eeeee! Iiiii! Ooooo!
Uuuuu ! A ! E ! I ! O ! U !
But young man
will you tell me this:
isn't your act a pose,
to claim with such little justification
you're going to cause
a conflagration ?
Whish . . . . . whish . . . .
Shoo shoo shoo Koku koku koku
But how is one to understand?
You make pretences that are meant to please,
but all the same they sound like Japanese.
Abi, all, alari,Ririririri! Ri.
Don't go off on a spree;
it's better not to be so free.
Your fun will cost you quite a bit,
and you'll be called an ass for it.
Labala falala falala and even lala.
Lalala lalala!
The risk is certainly great
to write the way you do.
Like guards at every gate
the professors are watching you.
Ahahahahahaha!
Ahahahahahaha!
Ahahahahahaha!
When all is said and done
I�m right, the times have changed,
And men don�t ask a thing
Of poets anymore,
So let me have my fun!
Bigger Harder Faster Stronger, who said Futurism is dead? Not I! Thank goodness funky design isn't dead either, 70's Space Age Design makes me very very happy, look Dave, your hand chair?! Photos by Dick Behlau @ the Friday-Box Shop in Cologne.
2:38 PM :
Monday, September 30, 2002
Have we clicked on Nina yet? Cosma Shiva will give forth pleasurable MP3 experience in the form of a song called XIXAX.
8:29 PM :
And the city, darkness bleeding, seeping in from every corner unraveling the light. Opacity and reflective shiny surface caught cloud bursting entry into the weekend. The rain moved north spreading the sheet metal rusting and oxidation of factory central. Midnight Friday caught me looking past highway interchange, traveling past the grandma houses lined with weathered Maryola and lawn ducklings, ensconced behind yards bursting with gladiolas. Do not go gentle into that good night, instead rage quietly inside the neon light, glow in search of diversion. Let the black and white film flash develop, grime not glamor, art and the noise, raw desire that grinds the gears and sputters. I question if everyone who wears a tie secretly wants a revolution, wants to blink, shift, close eyes and jump into the unknown. Ah mystery is just a fantasy, but dreaming equals a certain sedation, be careful, step easily so the knee jerks don't catch and use the explosive trip wires. Standing around in boots and jeans, an old Woolrich flannel jacket with blood stains from a fight, that bloody nose, the black eye from long ago. The haze collects a gluey crowd, the air heavy with the delicious scent of clove cigarettes, the ashes and light of a steel mill mica embers flaring. Slo-mo I feel goofy, odd and contagious, diluted and beautiful. The jukebox quiets, the bass line kicks, growls and guitars are blessings and cursings rolling around grunting shave headed boys flinging twirling bodies central. T-shirts and thrifted trousers cubic violent planes poetic rattle and rumble, amass amass amass for several more numbers as testosterone grimace blue eyed snarling snake charmers. Nascent super-stars fall and I endure the chaos a little while longer, staring at a boy with a bottle of beer tucked into his back pocket, the deconstruction of rock n roll is my restful lullaby and contrast to a work week. Don't learn too late to blaze like meteors, inebriated by frail deeds. I ducked out early for the black dog with an unconditional love, the after-hours blues show broadcast, melting into the bed, television on, sound off.
Translation: Friday, I went out into the rainy night to see a few bands, watch some boys slam around in the pit, stayed out late, enjoyed the soothing noise of great music, fell asleep with the TV on.
Saturday up early, in the gym by at least 10:am, realizing that long distance running and powerlifting don't mix. My legs are getting huge, I can get my ass in pants but over the thigh is problematic. Something has to go...or a few things need to be brought down a few notches...what? Balance you say? I see! But...everything is a cathartic experience, it'll come down to one endorphin high against another. Moderation who me?
Art Forums Top Ten is always enlightening, especially if AA Bronson is trying to make your modem blow up. See AA BREAKFAST, 1995, an "aerial view" of a companion's erection taken during American Airlines' in-flight breakfast service!
12:40 PM :
