elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Thursday, January 27, 2005
might as well face it
you're addicted to... books?
When you're lost in the rain in Juarez... No, wait. Wrong side of the track. Reset.
When it's 3am and you find yourself -- one finds oneself, let's say -- cruising Amazon in search of nothing in particular, but finding things nonetheless like these (we call them books), one begins to suspect one may have a little problem.
While it's true that I've become interested in race lately, my research has more focused on the deeply embedded historical racism of manifest destiny, and, much later, eugenics, than on the everyday relations between what used to be called colored people and what I will call, today, colorless people. Does the historical have a bearing on the synchronic? Oh yeah. But I'm framing no hypothesis here, nor taking sides with either of the usual polarities.
For one thing, it's safer that way. I don't need no buncha good-old-boy corporate suits comin round burning red herrings on my lawn, maybe fix me up with a "necktie," you dig what I'm sayin. And this despite the fact that these two books do represent, respectively, each end of that well known, if little loved, spectrum -- though I'm guessing Yo Mama may be a bit mellower. I wouldn't know, though. I never met the woman.
Ahem. But continuing, if you can read Ebonics upside down, the "disfunktional" bit is what I found myself most relating to, perhaps (though I hate to admit it) identifying with. I can feel yet another long-winded non-explanation forming like a cold front sweeping down from Canada, ice-boxing Chicago and points East before turning in the widening gyre to come freeze my ass off here in Colorado. So let me be brief.
The dysfunctional part, the disturbing part, is that I didn't go looking for either of these books tonight. No. I was half asleep, but couldn't get back to sleep. And I was bored. These drugs I'm taking are really no fun at all. I was looking for something in more of a comatose. As Amazon is my homepage -- as God is my witness and copilot -- I randomly typed into the search box, "yo mama," hoping that this would get me off, so to speak, to a good hypertextual start. Well folks, al I can say is be careful what you wish for. And it's not what you're thinking -- that I ended up in the lingerie department again.
Nor is it that I found a pretty balanced sounding page titled, somewhat cryptically, So you'd like to... Black History: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly -- though I did, and now I know how to... well, black history, I guess. Or ugly, though I already had that one down. Anyway, it was at the tail end of the latter (list, that is) that I found the Whitey book.
The disturbing part needed that for setup. You understand how it goes by now, right? How my mind works. But even I myself was unprepared for the stream of unbidden mentation that flooded my underslept overworked mid-night brain. And it went a little like this... Maestro?
So what do you think when you think of "S&M"? Not that you think about that sort of thing, but if you did. What comes first to mind? Sex, right? Yes, yes, OK, I understand. Sex also comes to mind when you shop for vegetables or bark your shin on the coffee table. But I mean this: ever since Kraft-Ebbing, we tend to think of sadism and masochism as having a sexual foundation. But, I asked myself in this twisted reverie, need they perforce have an explicitly sexual expression?
We all know that many CEOs go to "dungeons" where cruel but impossibly alluring dominatrixes (dominatrices?) do weird shit to them: walk on their faces with spike heels, crank down hurty clamps on their nipples, make them wear leashes and beg like dogs, etc. None of this have I experienced firsthand -- not really my cuppa, truth be told -- but I have the Internet, as do we all. Yes indeed: As... Do... We... All. Am I right, dude? Dude, am I right?
So what I got thinking is what about racial S&M? No, listen, it's not half as warped as it sounds. You have all these white liberal yuppie bobo types seething with guilt that they never even had to row a slave ship and look at all this loot they're raking in! So here's how it works. A bunch of enterprising brothers set up a crack house somewhere. It'd probably have to be in a white neighborhood because most of the the black neighborhoods are either a) already staked out for these purposes, or b) way too together to let that kinda stuff go down around the kids. But it wouldn't matter, since the johns would be blindfolded and arrive in limos
driven by too-high Haitians talkin that scary voodoo shit, maybe some a them Highly Selassy crowns on they dashes. Hell, with that dewrag wrap all roun his face, man could be in downtown Scarsdale, all he knew. A white neighborhood would have other advantages. Assuming that the cops would be regulars, a safe bet given all that neurotic stress, they could be expected to lay back on the setup, maybe take a little something on the side for their extra effort to protect and serve. Man gotta live. And this way, there could be brothers loafing on the porch with their nines and spooky chicks, scare the livin b'jesus outta you!
"Light my crackpipe, bitch!" And you'd have to do it by crawling over the man's legs so you were right in his lap, literally, to get close enough with the Bic. And the brother would like put a stick down in his pants so Whitey he be thinkin my god, they do have a bone in it! Probly crap hisself. Then, in this degraded condition, he would become suddenly even more loathsome to his torturers -- or service providers, as they would undoubtedly come to think of themselves -- and one would say: "Take this honky motherfucker out back and pop a cap in his ass yo!"
Then the real terror would set in. Oh christ, oh jesus god, oh no, they're really going to "do me"! Yeah, it was you, you'd be losin control of your bladder right about then, because ever once in a while, one-a the brothers would forget they were getting paid for this and go too far, actually snuff the cat. "Oh damn, Willy, I think I mighta kilt the motherfuck."
That's what would keep it fun and edgy though. The not entirely knowing.
And of course, everything but the "sessions" themselves would be conducted in a professional, even cordial, manner. A snifter of VSOP after, say. A cigar. A tastfully rolled spliff. Perhaps even a hip and easy chat with the "bangers," who now be goofin, cleanin they pieces right out in plain daylight, sayin hey you really work on that Exchange? Shee-it, we not chargin you enough, my man! And everbody laugh all friendly like. You go back out to the limo, the driver who brought you is now all "Yes, Sir" and "No, Sir" and "Same time next week then, Sir?" But of course, you can't wait that long. You love it. You're back in control. Black people aren't really all that bad. And afterwards you have your most productive week in years.
Seriously, I think there's big money in this. Believe me, if I were a person of color, I'd launch the first franchise chain. Maybe call it "Forty Acres and a Fool."
Spike'd like that one, yo.
6:40 AM | link |
—clocke, 27 January 2005
there is no place to stand
to move the world
no pivot point, no leverage
tragedy dead along with god
and love gone begging for a table scrap
of human kindness
when did it all begin to slip
there is nowhere to run
to go so wrong
the wound too tender still to touch
the heart too sensitive to beat again
to flog the day with hope
and the doctors on grand rounds sweep by
there is no cure
their Sphinx eroded, Oedipus in rags
dispensing mania and desperation
synaptic flash of serotonin all they know
of the anatomy of melanchoy
as acid etches glass you carved my face
there is no going back
no turning at the mouth of hell
to melt into the sunshine of your final madness
too hot too cold and this time too far gone
rivers of gold replace what I once was
1:45 AM | link |
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
4:10 PM | link |
||Beavis: hey, I know. when they fall in the water, let's eat them.
Butthead: eat them, yeah. good idea. eat them. heh-heh.
1:33 PM | link |
halley as a teen!
yeah right, look at that ecumenical gleam in her eye.
clik here to see where Christians really meet (trust me).
if you don't like that answer, clik pic for second opinion.
4:00 AM | link |
what's a girl to do?
why so few men subscribe to EGR
"Don't get me wrong. Chuck's really a great guy and all. He's always a gentleman and he makes me feel safe when we're out together. And he buys me lots of nice things, so it isn't that, either. It's just... I don't know, I feel like there's something missing in our relationship."
OK, now let's look at what Tami is trying to say...
a mind is a terrible thing
3:22 AM | link |
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
another satisfied subscriber
what can I say?
Natalie feels that blogging is a legitimate form of journalism. Are you kidding?
8:17 PM | link |
you'll never guess
10:43 AM | link |
the art of water
I woke up late tonight, or early this morning, getting hard to tell. And for some reason, I started fooling around with this stock photo site called Dreamstime. Cheap. In fact, extremely cheap as these things go -- a buck a pop via PayPal. Of course, everything is watermarked to prevent bastards like me from ripping it off. I bought a half dozen or so -- one is in the previous post, slightly modified and hugely reduced; they're pretty hi-rez. At first I was frustrated that I couldn't see the details through the damn watermarks. But then I began to notice that some of these watermarked pics looked quite cool in their own right, especially those with dark backgrounds. So here, for your viewing pleasure, is an unintended, but well intentioned, advert for the outfit that sells these.
DISCLAIMER: nothing to disclaim at this time.
3:04 AM | link |
while you were out
1:55 AM | link |
Monday, January 24, 2005
I found this on the site of a poet who was recommended by Madame Levy. I like it.
it is a dark flitting thing,
can turn the black sky white-grey
soft sheets into fluffy clouds
that wrap tightly around the neck
blue blood into red rivers,
wet mouths into dry tourniquets,
skeleton trees into shimmering ravens,
forever seeking what's not here.
I called it love once.
but it was only the distorted reflection
of me in your late night pane
if I were a Gothic policeman
perhaps I could arrest it
with painted handcuffs
as it rests briefly
on the lucid ledge,
plotting its next move.
Posted by ray sweatman January 22, 2005
(Via You Live Your Life As If It's Real)
3:16 PM | link |
no wonder you're on the rocks. click image for detailed explanation.
This advertisement paid for by the Republican National Committee.
2:39 AM | link |
Sunday, January 23, 2005
oh blondie of all blondies. call me. it's been too long, too far. Qzxwisd, sweet darkness of my dreams, do you recall how on our home planet we planned so joyously for this trip, all the adventures we'd have together, the earth gris-gris we would absorb and revel in... and then... what happened? the akashic shunt malfunctioned and I was born in the wrong city, on the wrong continent, to the wrong parents, into this incomprehensibly wrong life. try to remember. we were mindgelbs in the ice caves of Centauri II. we were fated to be together always and everywhere... and now this. I listen to your records and weep. call me. call me!
Originally uploaded by Nikola.
1:20 AM | link |
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||More of Chris Locke's photos
Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of.
I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos."
It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.