Tuesday, April 21, 2009

All that irritating noise just sounds like a lullaby to me

I seem to have developed complete immunity to the sound of my alarm clock. Only recently have I come to acknowledge my body’s tendency to hyper-evolve in ways that make me late for class. I guess it should come as no surprise considering that I once slept soundly through a hurricane that caused my roof to cave in (the ceiling above the kitchen and living room was reduced completely to rubble). And if mother nature’s fury cannot disturb my slumber, certainly a puny electronic device is no match for me.

The year of hurricane Ivan was probably the best year of my life. A gaggle of men wearing surgical masks came by to assess the gaping hole in the house and decided that the best thing to do was to throw a big blue plastic sheet over the entire roof. The tarp cast an eerie aquatic glow over everything inside and for the next ten months I felt like I was living underwater. During this time I was also exposed to a miraculous amount of pornography. There wasn’t much to do but explore architectural carnage and in these gutted buildings I (always the archaeologist) unearthed a staggering number (literally tons- by weight) of smutty magazines. The best varieties were discovered inside the sailboats that washed up in the park near the Port of Pensacola. Most notably, I was alarmed to find a publication devoted entirely to photographs of naked women doing suggestive - more than suggest, really - things with pork products. Although I didn’t actually flip through the pages (which would have involved touching them), for me in all of my sixteen-year-old girlhood, the covers alone were enough to strike fear into my wee heart.

Goddamn, nostalgia makes for some wickedly tangential concoctions...the crisis at hand remains unresolved. I can’t afford to miss another class because my annoying-noise threshold has exceeded my alarm’s beeping capabilities. Currently, the most effective plan I’ve devised to make sure that I wake up on time is to bypass all of that nasty waking up business entirely by simply not going to sleep in the first place. As clever as this tactic may be, it is difficult to pull off successfully several days in a row…

So I guess I’m going to bed now.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009


The Songs of Leonard Cohen (1968)

Download Here

This album is beyond compare.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

and you know a man who dumpster dives takes his girl out all the time

a man who dumpster dives is resourceful

Photographic substantiation of my holiday in Pensacola. Not to insult your imaginative integrity or anything...

the view from my back porch...beautiful bayou.

Patrick will have none of this nonsense... with the camera and the flashing and the annoyingly incessant plea for him to smile

Derek: This guy! THIS GUY!

Zoe and Jeremy

quite the looker, this one

The End of the Line

Thursday, April 9, 2009

"[…] this metaphoric realism — or cyborg surrealism — is the excessive space of technoscience — a world whose grammar we may be inside of but where we may, and can, both embody and exceed its representations and blast its syntax."
-Donna Haraway

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Pippi Longstocking theme song (english dub)

She's my hero. The song says it all. She's got a monkey AND a horse (not to mention her own house- sans parents- and tons of pirate gold...)

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

The Mighty Boosh

"Journey to the Center of Punk"

I've been watching way too much of this show lately...

Sunday, April 5, 2009

By the Holy Dick of Jesus!

I’ve dedicated all too much time lately to thinking (long and hard…ahem) about that defining male organ. I recently finished reading a book entitled A Mind of Its Own: a Cultural History of the Penis This book, which I purchased as a lark when it was discovered by my mother at a Goodwill, actually turned out to be a surprisingly compelling discussion of gender, sexuality, race, and religion. I highly recommend it for those of you who are, ya know, into that sort of thing.

Anyway, back to Jesus.

In the 16th and 17th centuries, the penis acquired a particularly charming nickname in the Western world: the demon rod. This euphemism reflected the prevailing religious attitudes of the times. Apparently after Eve shared that fateful afternoon snack with Adam, he immediately sprouted something of a chubby where before his body had been unembellished. When he looked down at his newly formed nub, he felt embarrassed, having not attended any personal development classes to inform him that this was all perfectly natural. All men since the first semi-hard-on have been similarly burdened... with one notable exception: Jesus.

Because his mama was no slut, the little guy grew up free of that most painful brand of “your mom” jokes, and his prick reflected this point of pride. In the religious art of this period, the cock of Jesus shines with a godly force. He is often depicted surrounded by an adoring entourage who can be seen pointing to his thingy as if to say “now that’s a dick done right!” Even in scenes where Jesus obviously ain’t feeling too hot, what with the crucifixion thing and all, he is often depicted sporting an enviable bulge.

In this (circa 1511)drawing by Hans Baldung Grien,Christ's Granny plays with his wiener, fondling him under the loving gaze of his mother.

I mean, the guy's got nothing to hide.

As for those of you out there who are not so divinely endowed? I say (and I’m quite the theologian) don’t sweat it pal, so long as,in the words of Sue Johanson, “if you're gonna get funky, cover your monkey!”