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Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
A break
I scored a job this week. No behind-the-back high-fiving deserved, though. The work is only for a few days. But hey, it's something! And then I turn back into Michael J. Fox.
The Flying Lizards—Moving on Up
Monday, April 27, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
?
I hear crickets.
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Oh, and R.I.P. Bea Arthur. The emoticon-jailbot is crying for her too.
Friday, April 24, 2009
CENTIPEDE!!!!!!!
Photo by E.Kornienko
Late one night I got home. Looking forward to a tall glass of anything I entered the kitchen, turned on the lights to find a silverfish roaming the counter near the sink.
"Ew", I thought. I promptly flattened it with my dish soap bottle. I then looked to my left and all I could do was widen my eyes and say out loud "EW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!". It was a large insectoid creature easily three inches long just sitting there dead still. I then took my trusty soap bottle and pummeled it until there was nothing left. I saw a segment still twitching on the counter and watched until it ceased.
It was a centipede and looked about the same as the one above. Unlike past insect murdering sessions, I have had no remorse. I cannot be reasoned with. Something that hideous and scary-looking must die. Simple as that. People made the devil look UGLY for a reason, you know. At the time I wasn't sure what it was but with some internet sleuthing I found that it was a common household centipede. Wait. COMMON household centipede? I've never seen those things in a house. Only in Indiana Jones and my worst nightmares. I also found that, unlike many other scary looking insects that are commonly seen in one's house, like the cockroach, the hairy spider, or the silverfish, it bites! Apparently, it hurts too, like bee sting-style. There's venom involved.
This made me feel even better that I destroyed matter, which is impossible scientifically, when I killed it. Fear produces miracles.
There's one centipede in South America somewhere that grows to be 12 inches long!!! They've found fossils of centipedes that were as large as, get this, 3 FEET long! Thank God Nature downgraded you centipedes. It's the best for everyone. Maybe the dinosaurs died because they were frightened to death of these humongous insects. Astroid shshstroid.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Fuck Fail
To address a new phenomenon, you may have seen these images on the web. They usually depict something comically 'wrong' and then there's this big "FAIL" superimposed on top.
Why say ON the image that something is wrong? If you look at the thing you can decide how 'wrong' or funny it is and then go on your merry way.
Nothing short-circuits a punchline more than GIVING IT AWAY as the joke is being told. Don't they remember the classic tenant of good writing, "Show don't tell"? It's so fucking retarded. Furthermore, most of those images are not THAT funny to being with.
These images are the equivalent of a Dane Cook joke. They are obvious and geared towards people who wear Sketchers, and read USA Today.
Why say ON the image that something is wrong? If you look at the thing you can decide how 'wrong' or funny it is and then go on your merry way.
Nothing short-circuits a punchline more than GIVING IT AWAY as the joke is being told. Don't they remember the classic tenant of good writing, "Show don't tell"? It's so fucking retarded. Furthermore, most of those images are not THAT funny to being with.
These images are the equivalent of a Dane Cook joke. They are obvious and geared towards people who wear Sketchers, and read USA Today.
Muh-ney
Dear friend,
I've been tinkering with this for about two weeks and I think I've finally closed the lid on it, more or less. I feel to be a better doodler than drawer, as it were, so your
opinions are most welcome, whether they address the technical, or the arguement itself.
Thanks
"I will contend, and you can try to disprove it, that the most important thing on this planet, as we know it, is in fact money"
——Gene Simmons
Thus the aging rock star spake on Terry Gross' Fresh Air sometime in the early 2000s. Gross, clearly disgusted by Mr. Simmons, could only hope that his assertion that money trumps love was simply fanning the winds of controversy for the sake of entertainment. For him, basic survival can be distilled into this equation: money=air. Air is necessary biologically speaking and money is not. However, money buys food, housing, and all the amenities for basic survival, making it somewhat a biological accoutrement. It is the stuff that allows multiple producers, buyers, and investors to transact assets, goods, and promises. In a nutshell, the decision to reject money, at least in a grand single gesture, is not unlike choosing to swerve into oncoming traffic.
One could do this and possibly survive, but the intended result is not guaranteed. One could self-asphyxiate to see how long the brain can survive without air, but one would be dead by the time the data came in. Yet the reasons for rejecting societal rules are plentiful, at least when the rewards are ideological or spiritual. The gesture can survive, if not the person, and mutate into a more powerful form later. Even still, it seems people are sooner to take radical risks by jumping motorcycles over yawning canyons or scaling the peaks of Mount Everest. They know they flirt with oblivion, but perhaps fame, reputation, and financial incentive serve as the true dangling carrot. Maybe even a little nookie could be around the corner.
Money = Air is surely a nasty proposition no matter how you spin it, yet we try to make the best of our hallucinations. We have methods to cheat the system temporarily and symbolically; but like PAC-MAN, one has to keep munching units (money!) to prevent the ghosts from closing in. It's the burden of being a part of any financial system—and the art world is no exception. Taking this into account, it is disturbing to see the painter Richard Phillips moralize institutions for having to be PAC-MEN. He's imagining himself as a monk hailing "truth" from the belfry, when in fact it is from the mother ship of all galleries, Gagosian. In the press release, Mr. Phillips states his intention:
The essential moral conflict, according to Mr. Phillips, is between critical and cultural institutions, (e.g. Frieze and The Kitchen), and their relationships to money. For these institutions to appoint themselves to enact the greater good for culture is an act of duplicity. The subtext of these paintings frame these institutions as greedy hypocrites with their fingers in the mouths of speculators, who suck on them as if they were straws. In one painting a Frieze magazine literally becomes a straw and is inserted into the vagina of a cooing harlot. In another, a woman is bending over with her vag exposed in front of multiple logos advertising The Kitchen; and in another a sexy woman is looking seductive in fascist military garb. Meanwhile, these bad-boy paintings (bad boy=extra hot air!) will sell for the price of a Cadillac Escalade and Mr. Phillips will buy a new house with the proceeds.
To momentarily forget Phillips' own hypocrisy would not make these paintings less appalling. Using the female tushy to sell things is nothing new in culture; as problematic as that is, Phillips takes this stereotype a bit further by reinforcing that prostitution is a grand symbol of immorality, and that the institutions are whores for flashing their 'goods', as it were. It is especially odd when an artist, setting out to question the socio-economic assumptions of art, takes perhaps the OLDEST stereotype regarding women, which so happens to be a very sensitive one, and goes to town on that without question.
The sloppy forethought that went into this show—–which is generous to assume—–pales in comparison to the greater charge: political and artistic hubris. To quote an old idiom: now that's the escort calling the prostitute a slut!
I've been tinkering with this for about two weeks and I think I've finally closed the lid on it, more or less. I feel to be a better doodler than drawer, as it were, so your
opinions are most welcome, whether they address the technical, or the arguement itself.
Thanks
"I will contend, and you can try to disprove it, that the most important thing on this planet, as we know it, is in fact money"
——Gene Simmons
Thus the aging rock star spake on Terry Gross' Fresh Air sometime in the early 2000s. Gross, clearly disgusted by Mr. Simmons, could only hope that his assertion that money trumps love was simply fanning the winds of controversy for the sake of entertainment. For him, basic survival can be distilled into this equation: money=air. Air is necessary biologically speaking and money is not. However, money buys food, housing, and all the amenities for basic survival, making it somewhat a biological accoutrement. It is the stuff that allows multiple producers, buyers, and investors to transact assets, goods, and promises. In a nutshell, the decision to reject money, at least in a grand single gesture, is not unlike choosing to swerve into oncoming traffic.
One could do this and possibly survive, but the intended result is not guaranteed. One could self-asphyxiate to see how long the brain can survive without air, but one would be dead by the time the data came in. Yet the reasons for rejecting societal rules are plentiful, at least when the rewards are ideological or spiritual. The gesture can survive, if not the person, and mutate into a more powerful form later. Even still, it seems people are sooner to take radical risks by jumping motorcycles over yawning canyons or scaling the peaks of Mount Everest. They know they flirt with oblivion, but perhaps fame, reputation, and financial incentive serve as the true dangling carrot. Maybe even a little nookie could be around the corner.
Money = Air is surely a nasty proposition no matter how you spin it, yet we try to make the best of our hallucinations. We have methods to cheat the system temporarily and symbolically; but like PAC-MAN, one has to keep munching units (money!) to prevent the ghosts from closing in. It's the burden of being a part of any financial system—and the art world is no exception. Taking this into account, it is disturbing to see the painter Richard Phillips moralize institutions for having to be PAC-MEN. He's imagining himself as a monk hailing "truth" from the belfry, when in fact it is from the mother ship of all galleries, Gagosian. In the press release, Mr. Phillips states his intention:
"At its core, this show is the conflict between capitalism, fascism, and communism. It looks into the nature of representation, propaganda, and misinformation, and how they redirect the ideologies of institutions."
The essential moral conflict, according to Mr. Phillips, is between critical and cultural institutions, (e.g. Frieze and The Kitchen), and their relationships to money. For these institutions to appoint themselves to enact the greater good for culture is an act of duplicity. The subtext of these paintings frame these institutions as greedy hypocrites with their fingers in the mouths of speculators, who suck on them as if they were straws. In one painting a Frieze magazine literally becomes a straw and is inserted into the vagina of a cooing harlot. In another, a woman is bending over with her vag exposed in front of multiple logos advertising The Kitchen; and in another a sexy woman is looking seductive in fascist military garb. Meanwhile, these bad-boy paintings (bad boy=extra hot air!) will sell for the price of a Cadillac Escalade and Mr. Phillips will buy a new house with the proceeds.
To momentarily forget Phillips' own hypocrisy would not make these paintings less appalling. Using the female tushy to sell things is nothing new in culture; as problematic as that is, Phillips takes this stereotype a bit further by reinforcing that prostitution is a grand symbol of immorality, and that the institutions are whores for flashing their 'goods', as it were. It is especially odd when an artist, setting out to question the socio-economic assumptions of art, takes perhaps the OLDEST stereotype regarding women, which so happens to be a very sensitive one, and goes to town on that without question.
The sloppy forethought that went into this show—–which is generous to assume—–pales in comparison to the greater charge: political and artistic hubris. To quote an old idiom: now that's the escort calling the prostitute a slut!
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