Baron Corvo

"But I revolted; esteeming it apt and proper rabidly to inveigh against these heterodoxies, affirming that I for one preferred a dignified death by hunger, rather than to transform myself into a machine, which, when filled by a pig, would produce literature paragonable only to sausages, flabby, flaccid, enervate, and obscene. And upsetting my tea, I fell over the dog (of course there was a dog); and away I went in a rage."

So in my spare time (ha) I like to study people in the counterculture in late Victorian England. Partly because I am fascinated with modernism which is a) incredibly nerdy and b)totally awesome.
There are some pretty strange and fasinating avant-garde (decadents and aesthetes) that defied and rebelled against the social constructs. I respect people who challenge the social forces around them, even if they are slightly crazy. One of these people was Baron Corvo.

He was this man who converted to Roman Catholicism and believed in it sincerely. He tried to become part of the Catholic church several times, but was rejected due to his idealization of the boy body. An obvious problem if you want to be Catholic. He was also an artist, novelist and poet. He would take this very erotic pictures and paintings of little boys as well as write these incredibly erotic and homosexual stories. I'll skip the obvious, Catholic/homosexual popular media lens and discard it accordingly. Like many men in this time period, he was rooted in Greek ideology going along the original Platonic Love (boy:mentor) relationship.
Here is some of his work.
Example:



However, homosexuality, or male:male sex/sodemny was illegal (punishable by time in Prison, and formally punished by death) and his fascination with the young male body is something he idealized for its 'aesthetic perfection." In short, he believed the little body body to be artistic perfection. This however is complicated with his religious affiliation and his increasing paranoia.

But, he was also deeply deeply antisemitic in his writings, along with being completely erotic (if you ever get a chance, read, Stories Toto Told Me). Basically, this man was incredibly talented, completely bizarre and interesting but is not covered in canonical literature. This is a shame and speaks so highly of the power forces that govern the formation of 'the canon.'

He died living on a boat, writing his books while rats literally ate at him because he was incredibly malnourished and starving to death.

Which is terribly tragic and even more tragic no one knows about him. He is brain sex for anyone who gets off on analyzing forms of writing and critically thinking what/how/who they can represent and what ideas they emobody and why.

So sometime I encourage you to read up on him.
http://www.studiocleo.com/librarie/rolfe/corvorolfe.html

/end awesome nerdy post.

I laughed so hard at this.

My friend Lauren Green is probably one, if not the of the funniest person I know. And I feel like I know a lot of funny people. Anyway After compulsively making my life into lists (because I have a problem and unhealthy de-stressing technique to writing things down in the form of lists) I read her blog before going to bed and realized it is wonderful and well written and she's incredibly hilarious. I wanted to share.


Disclaimer: Lauren, please don't hate me for blogging about your blog. We are nerds. I can't help it. I sometimes think about our conversation at The Satelite over nachos that made me ill and how we made fun of everyone and talked about the Casbah and how I fell on New Years on solid ice but was so drunk I didn't feel a thing, even though I was swollen and bleeding. And then, in all the nostalgia. I read your blogs and laugh so hard I spit my cozy-time tea all over my yellow fishing sweatshirt. Now I have to do a load of laundry and I know how much you like spit.
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Title:What not to do.
Current mood: breezy

As an update on the wallet, I tracked Texas Pete (as Levi has dubbed him) to a gas station on Division where he tried to use my debit card. The people at the gas station were assholes and wouldn't let us see if he was on their security cameras. After that, on Thursday, someone from the Child and Family services center on Atlantic called me and told me they found my driver's license in the parking lot of their work, which is awesome, but leads me to two more questions:


1. How the hell did they get my cell phone number?
2. Why would Texas Pete dump the driver's license and not the whole wallet, or other stupid things like my Safeway card and stuff?

I also called Crime Check back to fill them in on where my card was used and all that, but the SPD still doesn't give a shit enough to even look at my file, so that was pretty much all for nothing.

Weddings are funny.

Today, my boss was taking pictures of the couple, and he noticed they were being kind of stiff. To lighten to mood, he yelled, "Come on guys, show me your teeth!"

Turns out that the bride was completely toothless. Awkward silence ensued for several minutes.

Later on at the reception, the bride and groom gave the DJ their own mix CD to play, which was interesting. Literally every other song on it was ABBA. And about 3/4 of the ones that weren't were Nickelback. Almost makes me wish for "Butterfly Kisses" again, haha.

But my favorite track came on at a point where most of the young people were outside having a smoke, and as fate would have it, a bunch of immobile old people were sitting at the tables. That song was "You're So Gay" by Katy Perry. If you're not familiar with it, the lyrics are basically this:

"You're so gay, you don't even like boys
No you don't even like, no you don't even like, no you don't even like boys.
oh oh oh oh
La La La
Do Do Do Bop Bow
You're so gay, you're so gay"
(repeat x infinity)

Pretty much simultaneously, all of the old people that could actually walk, stood up and left the room. The rest that were stuck there pretended they couldn't hear anything and just stared down at their tables, not talking to each other.

I was standing next to the DJ booth, laughing, but the best part was yet to come. At the very end of the song, someone had recorded a clip of themselves yelling, "WEINER."

The DJ got the most horrified look on her face, and said to me, "Ohmygod. Did it just say 'Weiner'? It said weiner. Oh my god. Oh my god."

I laughed so hard I cried.

Anyway, the rest of the wedding went weinerlessly, and everything got back to normal. Except I noticed that the using-live-goldfish-as-centerpieces trend is coming back around, and that's stupid."
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20 Min.

You know you have 20 min. Watch this.
You might just realized you 'world view rests on pudding'

I want

nothing more than to be listening to music and smoking weed out of an apple. Not working. Not typing essays. Not interviewing. Not reading. Man, time, when I find you, you and I, we're going to wrestle and I'm going to beat the shit out of you. I will give you a black eye. I will punch you so hard you will be bleeding. Time. You and I have a score to settle.

Also, I'm pretty sure I get to see Cold War Kids, Ra Ra Riot and Death Cab tonight.
I saw Death Cab in Nov. but I'm been looking forward to this show for a while.
Proof!
http://gogorunifyoucan.blogspot.com/2009/02/la-musica.html
My boyfriend is a big fan of Cold War Kids but I am far less hip and indie then him, but, I am a huge fan of ra ra riot because they are happy and write from e.e. cummings. So maybe I am hip. Yeah, whatever self awareness you might be ironic and uncomfortable!


also, I keep getting J-Smooved by men that are not at all interesting to me. I mean like, weight lifting, business, suit n tie, bull. I find this kinda funny but also a pattern I don't really like.

when chaz was high today I showed him this and then kicked him out of my room.
hahahaha.

Ok, I have a preface, a confession, a too-lengthy-verbose, comma heavy, preface:

I'm nervous about blogging. I'm well aware the fact that people, anyone can read this makes me a little... nervous. I mean, I write all the fucking time, but there's something different about blogging. It's impersonal. But, at the same time people write really intense personal shit on it. Shit that could be illegal, shit that could hurt someone's feelings, shit that could change the view of him/her. I don't understand blogging.
I don't know why I do it. It's weird to me when people tell me they actually read my blog. It's weird to me I don't have a pen in my hand and paper sitting out on my table. But, I'm going to write this anyway because rolling around and flirting with hypocrisy makes me complete.

Fleetfoxes and some beautiful Mary Jane that was smoked out of an apple happened.
After, I went for another interview.
Fuck.
And I have no idea how the fuck I will ever be able to hold a job that doesn't have some greater, altruistic purpose. Halfway through the interview I realized I didn't want to work there. What did I do? Subtly turn the conversation and steered it towards her. I learned about her divorce, her old job, why she owes the business, her education, etc. etc.
I walked away in my khaki pants and button-up biznazz shirt and clicky shoes and bought cheap bath towels. I then decided to go on an adventure and found the Salvation Army. I paroozed around there for a while until I stumbled on boxes of old photographs. Someone had dropped off some beautiful 35mm/120 prints on various sizes. And then I felt like I was looking into someone's life. They're were beautiful black and white photos. Very Bresson-esque in their candid nature. I looked at them for 45 minutes and I feel very invasive and odd about it. Even though, I really did nothing 'wrong.'

I also found an apartment guide for Seattle, finished contacting my references and will now end this ego, individualist blog with this:





Oh, yeah, cynicism.



is it weird that eddie murphy reminds me of my grandfather??

Oh.

Listening to Sigur Ros watching this sunset was a perfect way to end this weekend.
Absolutely Perfect.
Today I also went exploring on my bike and got caught in fishing nets. Don't ask. I just don't want to be inside anymore.

And then I remember!

Sometimes, with nostalgia seeping its way into my memories, making them lacy, frilly and infinitely more beautiful than they really were, I often forget why I left an environment behind. I position the memories comfortably in my past, tuck them away, fold them and place them neatly in my desk drawer.

Then sometimes, nostalgia fades and reality slaps me so hard in the face it leaves a welt. This demonstration took place at the outside same place I had my senior prom, the venue I saw Neil Young perform, saw Broadway's Lion King & The Color Purple. It was, in fact, the very same venue that I graduated High School from. The fact that I like socialism, (but realize, I don't think the U.S. has the needed cohesive whole mentality to make it happen) makes me kind of glad that I left this city. Makes me really fucking glad. So, when I'm sitting in Seattle in my shitty apartment, drinking shitty beer, eating cheap shitty food, getting shitty small paychecks, I'll remember it's a fuck-of-a-lot better than living in a city that... does things like this:

I avoid political discussions like the bubonic plague. One mention of a political institution makes my nerves stand up and my confidence cower and wilt. I do however, like socialism. I just don't want to talk about it.

"Eastern Washington kind of reminds me of Jurassic Park. You know, there's trees. And mountains"

So I'm just going to pretext this starting out extremely shallow but eventually moving onto something, so just be forewarned.

So while I was visiting empty spaces, wheat fields, tall sparse pine trees, suburban living with cable, I stumbled on Lady GaGa's new video, "Pokerface." I think she's fucking hilarious and totally euro-trash. So I watched it. About two minutes and thirty seconds into the video, after she does her failing wannabe Peaches rap, I noticed a beautiful man lounging both awkwardly and sexily in his underwear.
See for yourself http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAoPJxTvZOQ

And at this point, after the dog, and a bathing suit thing, coming out of a pool with a masquerade mask, and light up glass, I'm just really confused about the hella sexy, super awkward hot man. But I'm pretty sure I'd make shity music if I could have that hot of man lounging around in his underwear awkwardly. Mmmmkay.

And then I shake the vapid nature (its just not my thang) I think about an interview with Joni Mitchell I just recently read about the production of music in a Capitalistic Society

Interviewer:This is why your body of work has such quality. You were developing your imagination and your voice before outside commercial pressures began. Now young people instantly covet the recording contract. Unfortunately, the fabulous music-video revolution of the '80s degenerated and turned music into image and posing.

Joni Mitchell: I heard a record executive say on the radio that they were no longer looking for talent but rather for a look and a willingness to cooperate, because with Pro Tools they can fix anything. There's always been a disposable quality to this business.

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1285/is_7_35/ai_n14870832/

And then, I think about art in relation to production and 'quality' (or measure of beauty) and of course, William Morris. Yep. William Morris the Socialist the Neo-Marxist, that dirty dirty man who made wallpaper and furniture. And I like him. I love his ideas. And then I relate him back with the hot man I want in my bed. Without his underwear. (oh, how risque!)

So, here is the thing, the super sexy, almost naked man in the Lady GaGa video, represents a lot of the problems that the music industry (if you consider mass music to be art, is another question)has with production, consumption and quality of art in a capitalistic society.

http://www.marxists.org/archive/morris/works/1885/manifst2.htm
William Morris= love.love.love.

So, if you take Morris's ideas about quality and the laboring individual in relation to materialism and wages, and apply those theories to the degenerative quality of art, it makes sense that the hot man was in the video.

and just to continue the cycle of aesthetics--

mmm Isolation.

This island didn't have 'real' social structure. People drove drunk. People hit deer and drove away. There was no 'legal' drinking age. No cops. No laws. The biggest thing that happened that summer was people got caught smoking cigarettes at the lake or ran across the airstrip. Society you are cool, but sometimes not for me.

http://marinas.com/view/marina/2857_Blakely_Island_General_Store_WA

!

I listen to the BBC broadcast nearly everyday when I wake up and I glance over CNN.

but then I read this and laughed
http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=4771571&blogID=481648635

Bourgeois Rant

My day has been along the lines of The Flaming Lips “Bad Days” song. Yeah, that’s right mothafucka’s I’m comparing a daily experience (my daily experience) to music. So, go ahead force on your skinny jeans, ironic t-shirt and simmer the fuck down before you hastily judge me. Hell, in our ironic self doubt maybe we could ride our bikes and talk about trees and love and vegans. I might make fun of you, but only with loving subtle stabs.


Power. Money. Sandy beaches and Lips.

Power: I walked out this morning/afternoon to a cop writing me a parking ticket. Yeah, I saw him. I approached my car, he looked at me, pressing his fingers firmly on his electronic ticket-spitter and tucked the ticket under my windshield wiper and walked away. Thanks. I don’t fucking care about rules, and so I’ll pay for it. In my half dazed state, I know I gave him the “If-I-suddenly-had-a-superpower-for-one-minute-I’d-laser-beam-you-with-my-fierce-laser-gaze” look. Alas! Don’t worry, the gaze wouldn’t kill him, just temporarily knock out memory and thus allowing me to successfully avoid the parking ticket and continue breaking the “rules.” So Power. Intangible. I dislike it. I think about Foucault’s adaptation of Bentham’s Panoptic Prison. Power, when used wrongly, in the metaphor of society being like a biological organism, is degenerative.
Hey Nerds! Go here--->http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panopticon

Money: Dear Alumni: Please stop yelling at me when I’m using my nice voice to ask you to help with scholarships. I don’t like being yelled at. I hate my nice voice. But, you see, I will use it anyway. I don’t have any money either. I don't have scholarships. I don't have a B.A. yet. So you and you’re four or five year committed partner, Bachelor degree can go sit under a tree and cuddle. Bachelor probably gives you backrubs and paychecks. So. Just, please, for the love of all things holy (or not holy) just stop yelling at me. Please. Stop. Yelling. It makes you look like an inconsiderate asshole that humanity wipes itself clean with.

Moral is, well, that there, wait, what? There is no morality? Well, shit. Moral is Corona tastes like piss. Or what I’d imagine piss to taste like. A sick person’s piss. Disgusting piss. I would not want to drink Corona sitting on a white sandy beach, despite what your marketing techniques tell me.


But. As The Lips tell me, despite the lack of sandy beaches and beer that tastes like hypothetical piss, the yelling and the lack of cuddling with Bachelor, the bad days will end. Thank you.

The Flaming Lips - New Music - More Music Videos

Writers Bloooooock

I don't know what it is. i have the kind of writers block that no amount of wine consumption, lo-fi indie music playing, running around in your underwear (being a complete cliche) can unblock. this is a problem.
I need some fucking gin.

Speaking of which, or rather, on NOT speaking of which,

Yesterday I talked to an artist in Seattle, a Design major who had to take a job as a contractor (right after layoffs) at Microsoft because people stopped buying his art. If he made a living off his work, I can only assume that he was talented. Or people are idiots.

So I know Microsoft recently laid people off. Would him being a contractor make him somewhat of a scab? I've done some research, I'm pretty confident in saying, "yeah, yeah he's some form of a scab..." People were laid off, Microsoft hired contractors to cut costs.
Fucking. Shame.
I know what you're thinking. Who I am to judge? When pennies are pinching and the economy is bad, take what you can get. I mean, if want to be an individualist, yeah, go right ahead. You first. Me second. That's right, I'll even give you a pat on the back as you pass me by in your business suit. I'll firmly shake you're hand and softly whisper, "oh... congratulations on being an individual" and run my fingers through your hair seductively.

On lighter news,

Oh haaaay Teen Captain America, you're kinda sexist!

Oh, Joni!

Recently, I've been listening to a lot of Joni Mitchell. After having an extensive conversation about music with my dad, (whose musical knowledge of the 70-80s classic rock is so vast, its astounding. Im jealous)he told me to listen to her song, "Coyote." I haven't listened to anything outside of Blue but I found "For the Roses" the release after "Blue" and I think I have a major crush on this woman.

That song is almost narrative, lyrical genius. Telling story through song is hard, a lot harder than most people realize. I know I'm a sucker for singer/songwriter, so I'll get off the soapbox, but if you've never listened to her, I highly suggest you do.


(and just because im a sucker for bbc performances)