Has anyone ever looked back at the style of the 80s and said to themselves, “Fair balls”? It has to be said that the 80’s was the decade of the Frankensteinian designer. Outfits defied nature, laws of gravity were flouted and the lunatic creative genius had its ravishingly wicked way with design. Many would argue differently, but the era of 80s fashion was one big, hideously funny joke made by the industry at the dumb-witted mongs that were the public masses. The designers said, “You need stupidly big shoulder pads”, the public ran out and grabbed every padded item available, giving us a comical display of pumped, rippling shoulders, quivering close to the jaw line. There’s nothing hotter than no-neck appeal. It was the blessed age of the fashion victim and as Aesop once said, “The lamb began to follow the wolf in sheep's clothing.” Fashion was fun to be the slave of and we all had a rollicking great laugh. In fact, we’re still laughing now, hair styles were ludicrous, make-up was epically dramatic, clothes were whimsical, bright, innocuous and we followed these fads in glorious succession. What was on the catwalk was in the shops, simple.
It was all so much fun, being the fashion victim, the dry humping gimps that we were, giving it some good old heavy petting and letting it ejaculate its glittering sequins and dragish make-up all over us. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was art, it was rampant, tasteless, obnoxious art, it was wonderful. Then some knob-jockey had to ruin it all by saying that faddishness was bad and that fashion victims had rights or something. Fashion became a democracy god damn it, it even got its own police force, everyone stopped taking LSD and cleaned up their act. All because some fat assed bitch wore leggings that were stretched beyond recoil across her corpulent, cellulite enriched thighs, exposing a red thong through the now pitifully transparent material. The masses revolted and wanted everything to be practical, comfortable.
Now everything’s gotten so damn boring, even Manolo Blahnik noted that, “About half my designs are controlled fantasy, 15 percent are total madness and the rest are bread-and-butter designs.” I mean seriously, you boring bitches out there condemning Mr. Blahnik to produce “bread and butter designs”, those beauties that you see in the window of his store on Sloane Street, they’re nothing, they’re pieces of shit in comparison to what he could create. Since the public has had a say in determining what sells in fashion, we have drained the life out of the creative industry. The acid-dropping, booze-inducing, vomit-inspiring, gender-fucking, sex - sex-sexing frivolity of fashion is dead, we’re grown up and sensible now. Models parade up and down catwalks in fantastic examples of creativity and fun: Galliano, Gaultier, Mc Queen take me now. It causes saliva to seep onto my tongue in a hungry, panting desire to attain and follow. I begin to quiver, I’m ready, I’m ready to run into a store and have fashion stick its big, wet tongue in my ear and say, “take it!” Just as the lady next to me is getting it up the ass, a siren screams and someone says “No”! Clothes are reformed and edited, make-ups are customised for practical every day wear and it bothers me.
That boring old sack over there has infused all our minds with the ideology that things need to be more practical, more wearable, more functional and more acceptable. That’s fine, let her have her way, I just feel that we’ve stopped caring about our image, how we put ourselves together and the visceral relationship we have with style. Yes the 80s brought us from the sublime to the ridiculous, but at least we had a laugh with it on the way. Now, as I traipse through the crowded streets of what was once a fashion hub of the world, I see well dressed people, well put together, pretty, attractive, but what the people of London lack is that rawness of emotion, that connection with creativity and style. It’s banal. London has become that 40 year old woman who was glamorous in her youth and has grown weary and tired of making the effort. Where’s the fun gone, the impracticality of madness, the joy of wearing something ludicrous? So let us don our lion heads and throw on our Kermit capes, slap a few steaks across your chest and paint those lips Mc Queen style. It’s time to get frisky with fashion again, go on a bender with it and let it let it touch you inappropriately. Let it make you feel naughty, wake up the next morning with the filthiest hangover and regret the night before with every sensible bone in your body. But every time you see that piece, it tickles you in the pit of your stomach and reminds you of the time you grabbed fashion by the balls and gave them a good, hard, raunchy squeeze.
The idea of a 'cloaking device' first came into being when Star Trek writer D. C. Fontana coined the term, ever since it has played an important role as plot devices in a number of science fiction films.
But let's forget sci-fi and move into reality because that's what cloaking technology is currently doing. Scientists are working to develop cloaking devices that could effectively have the ability to cloak anything from a human to a house, even a city or even an event in time itself.
Let's take a step back. So what is a cloaking device? Basically a cloaking device is an advanced form of stealth that could allow an object to become invisible. Now what do I mean by invisible, in essence a cloaking device makes an object invisible by masking the electromagnetic radiation emitted by an object. A full cloak would mask all types of electromagnetic radiation from x-rays to microwaves, from ultra-violet light to infra-red and visible light (the light that makes up the visible world that humans perceive). A partial cloak on the other hand would have the ability to mask a specific frequency of the electromagnetic spectrum, say for example microwaves. Below is an example of how a cloak would work, in the first image the cloak is inactive and the light that object emits is radiated and can be observed, in the second image the light of the object is cloaked and the object remains invisible.
Inactive Cloak
Active Cloak
So far optical metamaterials have been used to cloak micro-objects but only in the microwave range of the electromagnetic spectrum. In other words objects that emit microwave radiation which could make it observable, have this radiation masked, cloaked and become invisible. Okay so perhaps this type of cloak could be dubbed as a glorified type of camouflage but what if you could make events in time invisible. Scientists have once again used metamaterials to do this, with conventional materials light travels through them in a straight line, but with the metamaterials the light can be broken up to leave gaps. When light normally enters a material it slows down but it is theoretically possible that the ray of light could be altered and manipulated so that some parts of it speed up and other parts of it slow down. In space light is normally curved but when light is split like this the leading part of light speeds up and arrives before an event and the latter part of the light lags behind and arrives after the event. It is in this gap that an event could occur that would remain un-illuminated and undetected, it is conceivable that information or even a person could move through this temporary gap undetected.
So let's really complicate the cloak, if we look at our first type of cloak it would be possible for a person to walk into your house and rob you, but unless they cloaked everything that they picked up you would see your laptop floating through the air. However, with the space-time cloak you could be sitting in your house and someone could walk in and reduce your house to rubble and you wouldn't have noticed a thing until the cloak closes the gap in space-time. Food for thought, cloaking devices are closer than you think...
All these words describe the sexy powers of Benicio Del Toro. He has starred in The Wolf Man, Che, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Traffic, 21 Grams, Sin City and more importantly he is the rough, erotic meat truck starring in the masturbatory rites of our daily lives. Yet my slim fingers cannot replace his chunky, hairy, Puerto Rican chocolate fingers shovelling into my erogenous zones with fiery oomph, ‘oh behave!’
One scene with Scarlett Johansson taking place not in the celluloid stages that he makes a living from, but in reality, finds Benicio turning towards Scarlet without caution. His eyes glimmering in the elevator, the metallic surfaces shivering as he moves his body toward her, takes her, takes her again and then finally releases her from his hands with her arms trembling and her heart racing faster than a rocket, his eyes sauntering locked into her star fallen gaze. Scarlet is melting, orgasms rupture through her body with beanstalk valour. In an interview with Esquire magazine Del Toro plays coy to his seductive animal instincts.
"Did I ever have sex in an elevator with Scarlett Johansson after an awards show? I kind of like, you know, I, well. I don't know. Let's leave that to somebody's imagination. Let's not promote it. I'm sure it has happened before. It might not be the last time either."
Benicio regularly and nonchalantly picks up on the lustful calls of Hollywood starlets. Not that you would know it by his ‘Get out of here, how could anyone find me attractive’ attitude, as he lops gasoline on his hair and struts out of the billowing Gurkha Black Dragon smoke.
After his latest fling with Twilight star Robert Pattinson backstage at a P Diddy concert, Magnum executives who sponsored the concert took the opportunity to take Benicio as a worldwide campaign for making their ice-cream brand ‘sexy’. Here is their vision realised in the lavish production directed by Bryan Singer (X-Men, The Usual Suspects ).
As per usual Ceephax Acid Crew (Andy Jenkinson) has us on an Acid-Train to a sweaty-convulsing music mecca. After the initial bitune/acid frenzy he slows down the pace to allow us to not only collect our thoughts, but prepare ourselves for a final acid onslaught. He achieves this with his typically playful, yet masterful blend of ad-lib music manipulation and poker straight sequencing styles. By many he is considered the bastard child of the infamous Jenkinson family, but in the post-Ultravisitor years this is now proving to no longer be the case. Since Hello Everything, Squarepusher (Tom Jenkinson) has proven that more mainstream interpretations of his music may hide the odd gem and even be considered ok, but the spirit of his earlier work has dissipated, leaving us with highly polished (near perfect work) that I feel is inherently inane and lacks the emotional depth that his previous albums foam at the mouth with. Enter Ceephax, with his ludicrously chaotic style that oozes emotional clarity, whilst also not being afraid to parody and mock the sites of this definition. He lacks the ego of his older brother and strolled casually amongst fans at his last Irish gig. We openly engaged in conversation with him at this gig about the availability of some of his earlier vinyl and his 'setup'. After this, the gig that he launched at the audience only served to fuel both the raw and frantic nature of his talent, whilst also expressing a clear sense of his easygoing personality that we had only just experienced a sample of. My advice to Squarepusher is that he should take a leaf out of his brother's book and leave the vocoder to one side and get back to basics, if not he is running the risk of shifting from the niche into the banal or even worse, becoming a mainstream puppet that casts out all integrity in favour of a fat paycheck.
As an avid Owl-Watcher I recently made a shocking discovery that I feel for the safety of fellow readers is worth sharing with the world. After suiting up to suit the emerald gleam of the forest I soon found myself lost from society. I watched animals fuck, run and chew their way through the forest always keeping both hands gripped firmly around my binoculars. After experiencing the watcher's void, the first part of a strange observation crept into focus. Through my extended eyes I could see a drunken owl insipidly staring at me from a tree in the distance. He had that look on his face that my father used to have after his T.V dinner, but before he had drank enough to paralyse his thoughts.
After being beaten by this distant glance I became aware that this hungover owl was not alone. In fact the trees around me were filled with abusive/tired/withered/grim/haggy/disheveled/slothy stares. Closer to where I was standing was the delicately seedy stare of a female. Who had enough composure to re-frame from blackening her collar, but had the indecency to tarnish your magnificent character the night previous. Likewise, she is disgusted about something I did, but amongst the lingering alcohol the pains in her cranium have stopped her from remembering whatever nonsense she was sipping that night. Silently she stares...
Camouflaged on one of the branches closest to me is a still sleeping reminder of one of those friends that drinks more and more in a desperate attempt at fitting in, but in the process becomes more and more invisible. Quite often these types of characters are mistaken for as furniture and often become utensils (piss bucket for the mildly self-conscious) before the night is down. By morning they rise from the room and drift outward in search of cyclical suffering. "I have it good", they think to themselves as they walk through the rain-soaked gutters with barely a single memory of the night before in their heads.
The owls that I have mentioned are but only a few in the millions that have invaded our forests with their own brand of fear and justice. Trust me, you will find everything I have just said quite serious and highly relevant if you ever have to witness or be on the scene of a drunken owl-raping. Quite often in their drunken hazes they are confusing gentle hill walkers and molesting every orifice until either they pass out or the victim stops responding to their malicious homegrown brand of forest justice. I'm hoping that after reading this article that you will have a higher awareness of these creatures and show no remorse to anything in a forest that is smaller than an average human. When going for a walk the best action is attack anything that shakes as quite often we are but one scenario away from a scene (DANGER)...
Please do not become contaminated by recent Owlaganda, that tries to present the Drunken-Owl as the new Lolcat. To fall into this trap would be a very foolish and most likely fatal mistake.
Until next time. Keep your Owls close, but your Drunken-Owls closer.
Not many people know this but Jack Nicholson recently paid a visit to Ireland. I suppose he thought he could come here unwind, and escape the incessant chime of fame that probably rings through his ears ever waking minute of the day. It was a pleasant autumn morning and the sun was easing its way over the horizon, warming up the idle dew that glossed the the green landscape that was Wicklow. We approached the usual swimming/surfing/wandering spot but were surprised to find a car was already pulled up by the side of the road. You must understand that this place is out of the way and does not get too many visitors. We thought nothing more of the large Land Rover and assumed that it belonged to a local farmer. We began the walk down the country lane only to find that it was strewn with fresh clothes. At first there was a grey blazer, then there was a red tie, followed by a pale blue shirt. Further up the road there was one black leather shoe and then hanging from an adjacent branch another shoe. We continued along the lane until it came to a clearing above the beach and in a neat little bundle there was a pair of trousers and underwear and to the right and the left of this, were a pair of socks. The beach was down a small slope and it covers a good half a kilometre. In the water we could here someone screaming and shouting like a child, but this was no child. Too our amazement it was none other than Jack Nicholson. We knew we had to get a closer look and try to take a photo of this exotic phenomena. We climbed down the steep slope hiding behind the marram grass. The tide was in so we were only about 20 to 30 feet away from him. He was now making seal mating calls and a group of curious seals began to approach him. Thrashing and splashing about in the water and barking like a seal, we could not believe our eyes. Suddenly he turned around to face us and began to emerge from the water, it was now or never we had to get the photo now. My friend Charles, who had his camera aimed and loaded took the shot. It was perfect, he was even able to get another quickly after the first.
However, this time for the second photo fate played a cruel trick on Charles and on all of us. The flash of the camera exploded into life and the beast like eyes of Jack picked up on it instantly. At the same moment he locked his heinous eyes onto us and Charles slipped and fell down the slope into the sand. Jack was furious and he charged at Charles, you could sense the blood-lust curdling in his veins. We desperately tried to pull Charles back up to safety but it was too late Jack was upon him and our Darwinian survival mechanisms took effect and we fled. In the distance we could hear Charles screaming and Jack growling and snarling, insane with a ravenous and demented rage. By the time we got back to the car the bone-chilling screams had dissipated. We knew we could not return to check on Charles in the hope that he had survived the onslaught, it was too late and for all we knew the Jack-beast could have been on his way. We got in the car and drove off as fast as we could, whilst obeying the speed limit obviously.
The surge of adrenaline quelled and the sweat cooled, that was the day we went skinnydipping with Jack Nicholson...
Whilst sifting through various fans, friends and followers myredhotphilosophy came across this little short. It is a work in progress and the first part of an up and coming comedy series called Food Critics. Check out Kleregy White's interview with Jeremiah Manderlay a reknowned food critic praised for his in depth analyses and over the top dissection and intersection of all things food and much much more. The delightful, but at times flippant, Charles Pianti also makes an appearance...
Marquis De Sade’s genes pressed down and covered in gravestone ivy. An influence so great, it would spark a thousand fireworks into the public’s collective sex organs. One son not uncovered by the leaves surrounding his graveside, is Georges LeConne. He inherited the alleles of literary genius from Sade. This is apparent in the single (one page long) and only known work to exist by his son recently rediscovered (surviving in his breast pocket in the outhouse of Robert Graves’s estate) and causing great excitement in many literary circles, cafes and underground reading rooms. Little is known of his life. I will piece together from the fragments available- an intimate picture of this man and then present you the piece not yet released already considered both a masterpiece and at the same time a piece of guava.
A short biography of Georges LeConne
Rumours are rampant and running along like stray dogs that during Marquis’s eleven years in the Parisian prisons he was held captive in, he made love every night to the grime and rust hugging the cells bars, and from these constant efforts and alchemy, out of the pregnant metal formed a baby boy. A more likely raison d'être (satisfying scientific reason too) is that during this period, a young women disguised as a night call guard of her husband or father (accounts are ambiguous on this detail), came to him and of their relations became the baby boy Georges. As a bastard child there is a rarefaction of references of him in comparison to Sade’s other children whom all get their fifteen minutes of fame in the various biographies out there.
Some accounts were unearthed by dedicated scholars who gleaned the diaries and letters of some of the prostitutes he frequented.
“Would you stop it let me fucking write, whore! Jesus fucking Christ” these expletives would then in her account move on swiftly to the sodomy he impassioned “he would pull me by the ears against the dampness of the coldest wall, where my skin was benumbed and then he would scream at the top of his lungs JESUS IN MY COCK possessing you my nymph!”
Another prostitute recounts, “He would ask me to smell his tail sometimes, drunk under the stench of bodily fluids”. The tail cost a fortune and was grafted on by a Renaissance man whose main profession and means of income was via the optician’s guild. The film maker Luis Buniel tried to film this side of George’s life, but got distracted by ants and Dali’s hankering. The censors told him when he tried to revive the project for a second time that new laws enacted in Mexico (at this period of his life he was making films there) that he would have to re-enact all the scenes of the film himself in real life before they would permit it’s making. This was under a new government initiative called ‘performance based freedom of works of art’.
Excess and winding down his dowry was to be his downfall. He was a gentleman as well as a rouge and brute, and as such had affluent tastes in clothes and food; eating at the most famous restaurants quickly got the moths on the scent of his wallet.
Some say he would have made a great family man had he not a penchant for incest which he dreamt about on a daily basis. This was his one sadness, no family meant no incest; he felt lacking in this and even developed an insecurity complex, which lead to him sobbing in the bosoms of those who charged him more and more taking advantage of his burgeoning frailty.
When his money unsurprisingly ran out he realised he had no friends, family or admirers. He had lost them all so dedicated he was to sodomy; he gave his life for it. He did not know how to do anything else, work was out of the question, so was asking for help, for these things did not exist for him, all he knew was love, rape, forcing a women’s bones to tremble and obsessive romanticisation of incest. In his later years he addressed all prostitutes as daughter. He was also very anal about protein intake, he even paid extra for those he frequented, to give them extra vibrancy in their thighs and to improve their motion in sodomy.
The exigency of Sade’s alleles wishes were realised when his literary passion was pressed upon by faith, when he was sent by the court to the care of Doctor Dupinn. It was rumoured they were quite cosy together. The doctor he was treated by soon became maimed by the mob, broke off all relations with Georges. Leaving the young man untreated and his ravenous, sexual appetite for sodomy lacking gratification. He was let free as the doctor feigned his sanity or was so insane himself as to see Georges as a healthy minded individual.
One scholar Edward Vermeer describes his last moments quite poetically "he called out for help, thought the toilet was a light, a beacon of help, but what brought him to this point? Mad and malnourished, he could not stand the bird’s singing, so sweet, perhaps in light of the character he was, seeing two animals mating would have given him the sustenance to live on, but in the remote wilderness nothing but the omens of death sung by the birds, the crazy drones of his lungs dying from deprivation..."
A more accurate description and widely accepted as the more likely to have happened, relates to an incident between Graves and Georges. Graves was enraged by an episode a few years prior where Georges embarrassed his daughter; an incident we have opaque knowledge about although there is no doubt it is related to sodomy, for Georges knew no other form of communication. Grave took his revenge, meticulous in mapping out the trail that would be Georges’ last trot. First he invited him to one of his favourite restaurants, poisoning him, silently following his trail, through the pine spiced woods. He led him to the outhouse by premeditated seduction, which involved yelping and acting out the sound of palaver, miming a young girl in distress from the direction of the outdoor toilet. He then made a chink in the outhouse, so he could voyeuristically and delightfully take in the view of his atrophied victim, who was to die in the faeces of the family members he dishonoured. An overflowing toilet, contrived three hours before and there ends poor Georges LeConne’s life.
An introduction to his work
This piece, a modern literary masterpiece in the form of the letter is a measurement of great perversity, as if Édouard Manetpainted the world into the crisp, manila envelope of man’s expressions, crystallized as a protocol of depravity, lettering a brilliant defiance of all society’s instructions. This letter is an instrument of great reverence to his father, even if unbeknownst to him his father tried to buggar him while in the womb on one occasion after he and his mother got Baudelaire vanilla ice-cream (a brand at that time which was also known as an aphrodisiac) in the local saloon (Sade was allowed a day out once in a full moon while in captivation).
‘The convergence of Bastardization and Urbanisation’ studies came to the fore of discussions about his father s work after the letter surfaced.
Publishers have refused to release this work of art to the public, for the conceivable difficulty in marketing a letter one page long, and monetising it along with the same price for a book of poetry, letter or novel. There have been suggestions that Grove Press (publishing home of works by great artists such as Burrough, Beckett and Malcolm X) are planning a book, allocating forty pages to introduce it, then the piece itself in the middle followed by a commentary running over fifty pages long. This might possibly be released autumn of next.
Literary criticisms of the letter are mixed. Bloom spoke of it as badly written that “disappears into the dirt under my fingernails”. In comparison a more positive view is taken by Wright who admits to having only read the first two lines (his theory now named Wrightism is that all texts should be critical appraised by merit of their first two lines as the causative nature of the rest of the text means it represents an excess of the literary substance of the human experience and therefore should be ignored in analysis. Here is the essence of Wight’s view on Georges’ letter:
‘It is a beautiful epithet, a testament to man’s sexuality...a precursor to the text message and sex texts talk , such sex texts talk as “ cum babez blimb all over my sex bi” might not exist without this masterpiece, and the glorious epithets found in bathrooms all over the world, are predicated in this letter, some of the letter is scrawled on the bowl of the toilet seat as well as the paper he clung on to with dear life...’
It has been praised for a superb use of double entendre and a maddening genius of perceptive rotation like a kaleidoscope of styles and movements to name a few that have been linked with it; Fauvism, Pre-Raphaelitism, Pointillism, Film Noir, Vorticism and the Augustans. There is controversy that Georges copied the letter from his doctor and passed it off as his own creation. The fact that he writes from his doctor’s perspective makes it very appealing for study by OBE (out of body) theorists and method actors. Without further ado here is the unabridged version of Georges LeConne letter.
The Letter (estimate date written circa 1850)
Dear Georges,
It has come to my attention that you have been attending our institute for over four weeks and it is of this time, I am to inform you of your impeding faith. I will try my hand at persuading you to reconsider your position, from stubbornness to affability. Do you wish to stay here for the rest of your days? You may be allowed out half the week but the board are seriously considering detaining you here full-time, as you volunteered to come here under the court case's terms. I am to cure you as I dangle this cigar and stroke its fine brown fur, you of all people will understand the pleasure a man gets from idolising material transits. I want you to know that I will do all that is in my power to free you. I bequeath you my knowledge and I know you do not really believe you were born onto this earth by a praying mantis. I know you are an intelligent individual, the tests and our talks so far have proved thus far. But if you do not give up some of your beliefs, they will be interpreted as sadistic and will be used against you to pin you as a sick minded individual, not the same man who invented a paint that can change colour depending on the personality of the room at any given day. Your inventive mind will rot here and what I do here is not a productive exercise in humanity but one that is so futile I tell myself that these patients are meant to perish and I am their reaper. I play games with myself to make it less pointless and cruel, when I poke the eyes of patient with fruit acids and syrups made from bat hides I tell myself that he enjoys it or when I ram a rod up a female patients uterus tell myself she is a dirty slut, that she likes it, the more she screams for help, for me to stop, the more aroused she is I gather. I have called this condition institute mayhem, there is a way of things we do here, there is an order to our malefaction you have so far gotten off lightly as we have not made a decision on you, our methods would not go awry in the medieval pastures of medical profession, cleaves, drips of sewer. I examined the x-rays and as you said there were several abnormal bones lying in the pit of your stomach; I trust you now and you have my continued confidentiality. Anyway enough of the formalities- I do not get paid enough to care past the fourth paragraph- my duty is done, the board have gotten the cock in their mouths, now they say if you know a guy for over twenty hours, you are basically brothers, so as such we may flirt a bit more once the initial results and board discussions subside. Write to me, disown all your admirable beliefs or else explain your fragility in such a way to absent yourselves from this inferno. There is something I will let you know of myself that you persistently ask to know, yes I was once a patient here, who better to understand the sick impulses and behaviour than one of your own. I have had the pleasure of fucking your young wife as you no doubt will agree was an even greater pleasure knowing she was yours than some other unripe muff, most don't understand how these desires work, but you will forgive me for being so excited, did I mention we did it over forty times, something I have not reached in a long time, when she awoke, I smeared the blood on her cheeks and scrawled a little symbol that you may be familiar, the phallic symbol embalmed with my urine is a true representation of our civilization. I hope she is resting well with you now, it was on my consciousness that you did not know the great pleasure she gave to me while asleep in custody that night, I remember the flecks of rain, impaling the gorse bush out back, the redness of her back increasing with every throb of my cock, it still lingers on my mind. I am glad we understand each other. I have met patients who find me quite repugnant and act quite averse so you will understand I have to show them the right, correct manner of their appointment to this institute. It was not pleasant nor will I say anymore, their names are now with the lilies out back, each and everyone, withered and defrocked appropriately. For your own sake if you persist with your beliefs, that you had to rape the father of three and you had to burn his youngest child's genitalia, for you believe art is a physical will enforced on the world by desires whispered in your ear and heart by Pigfaced caped angels that cannot be impeded for imagination and inventiveness are our fullest expression of our existence . My words will not die yet, a slumber I am looking forward to just one more thing, The board will use this against you and send you to the enclaves of criminally insane guano, either one means that the right to use your mouth is as much as you are afforded every other orifice will be used as they see fit. They have a new deal with fragrance giant Odeur Succulent, so if you are lucky you will become a bloody perfume. {smiley face scrawled but faded throughout years exposed to the elements and now resembling abstract dots, another great artistic technique not yet thought of by his contemporaries, the dots representing the chaos that is inflicted on all objects that cross the threshold of its quantum space }
Yours professionally, Doctor Dupinn
( Pier Paolo Pasolini accursed (murdered the same year as film released) by attempting to represent Sade's bastard child in the final scene of his interpretive adaptation of 120 days of Sodom)
I arrived early because I knew Daniel didn't like to be kept waiting. We were supposed to meet at 7.30, so when I turned up and saw him there already I was a little surprised, but contrary to my previous assumption he was just happy to see me and produced a warm and firm handshake. We took our seats in the restaurant who's name cannot be named and Daniel proceeded to order a bottle of red wine. It was a Chateau Lafite-Rothschild 1869- €170,000 ($230,000) a bottle and worth every cent in my opinion. Daniel was not impressed, he swirled, sniffed, sipped and spat rather than savouring every mouthful. The naked waiters rolled around on the floor desperately tried to absorb the wine on their hairless bodies. Eventually a short chef emerged and stuck his lips to the floor and vacuumed up the unwanted liquid.
Next Daniel ordered two tins of Almas caviar, served in a 24-karat gold tin, €18,250 ($25,000). The roe ran around my mouth like marbles, popping and oozing their salty embryos. Once again this delicacy failed to satisfy Daniel. Most of his caviar ended up on the diamond plate it had been served on, he was much more concerned with gnawing on the gold tin lid. He kept mangling the metal in his mouth and gauging whether or not it could fit back on the tin, finally it had been sufficiently mutilated and was unable to make a complete seal with the gold container. Now that Daniel was satisfied he made the next order.
Two 1-kg Wagyu steaks were ordered €2,500 ($3,350) along with a gigantic Italian White Alba truffle (€125,000-$160,406) and some Hop asparagus (€180-$250 per kg). The oily aromas and strong meaty flavours as well as the earthy and delicate tastes of the food made for a delectable main course. Daniel took his piece of steak and sat on it for about five minutes then he examined it closely, however, he didn't appear to be happy so he stuck it under the leg of his chair and turned from left to right. Finally when the steak had the right mix of fibres from the floor Daniel swallowed it whole.
Next we were served some cheese, moose cheese from three moose in Bjursholm in Sweden, €370 for a pound ($500). It had a very strong taste and each piece had a different texture and density. Daniel stuck most of his in his eyes or his ears before having his first taste which to my surprise he appeared to enjoy. Finally we were served some freshly defaceted Kopi Luwak coffee, the small Asian Civet joined us after his toileting and began to feast upon Daniel's scraps. Kopi Luwak coffee runs at about €40 a cup but the Civet made up for the lack of expense.
Daniel took the cheque and covered the tip and we said our farewells. I wonder has anyone else had a meal as expensive as this? €337,130, the tip was Daniel's little secret...
The old man trundled his legs up and down the gravel outside the castle, unsure of himself and his ability to distort his audience. The truth was, he didn't really have an audience yet. The weather was grey and faded green like his long overcoat, billowing all around him like a torn canopy. His coat belt struggled to keep order. Every now and again a howl of wind travelled down the pathway, grabbing at his coat tails and dragging them upwards: a shadow of something almost intestinal or phallic or limbic swung between the old man's legs at times like these. What was that? A minority audience gathered around the tall grid windows/faces aghast/rain dribbling down the panes. The old man stopped. His face angled 37 degrees toward the sky. His face was hard and glossy. His face had narrow eye slits, and a muscle structure that appeared to have been sprayed rigid with varnish. Maybe the old man just finished his old shed, and decided to give his own face a lick of the smell he enjoyed so well? The audience of three at the windows grew disinterested, probably a forced disinterest: I know it is happening, but it is better if I don't know anymore! They returned to the photographic portraits, humming about which ones were pretty or cool or both. One of them readjusted his show lace. No disarray would be welcome in the castle's regal interior. The anxiety returned shortly to the three early-adopters of the old man though. A large cube made of mirrors (this is true) reflected a gathering of light onto their retinas and subsequently their optic nerve and into their brains, which interpreted the gathering of light to be similar, if not the same, as their old friend, the old man. I am not a scientist, so do not hold the simplification of optic biology against me. But please! Do realise that the old man was now indoors, away from the billowy wind. They caught a glimpse of his boots: socks and strange skintight trousers Tucked Right In. One of the boys was taken with the muscular calves, and considered the scent of the seat of the old man's overcoat. He shambled toward the door of the room that they were in. Now leaning on the door as his plastic face gazed the room at his favourite angle: 37 degrees. A few viewers gasped, and threw their mink scarves around their eyes to block the eerie vision. Just get out, one cried, unsure of herself. The organisers relished the moment: PLEASE! QUIET! The old man walked up to the Famous Photographer gracious enough to present himself to the banal characters the narrator hasn't even bothered to mention yet. They are inadequate, and ancillary to the story - just remember there were near-25 of them. Some of them left, tiptoeing around the gaze of the old man, and fetched themselves something to hold: a mobile phone or a glass of wine, or even a pamphlet, despite knowing well this was no bloody time to be reading will you look up and keep an eye on that old man he could be dangerous he could come over here and snatch that bag off you and get away and then how would you get home you have no bus fare and it's a long walk especially in this weather! Ok I'll put it away, I'm just uneasy! I think he has something under that coat, there's a strange erect bulge there, or many! The old man walked into the midst of the ancillaries, and then past then. The old man sat down on a window ledge where the trio watched him earlier and sighed. A pathos entered the room as those there felt a sadness for him and his weary legs and plastic face. He stood up. He's going to do something now I know it, I'm worried. Whispers echoed around the room. When we whisper we pronounce our S and T and H and certain other letters as high frequency or white noise sounds, which actually makes it easier for people in the mid-range to hear what you're saying rendering your whisper pointless. Hissing/whispering. Nevertheless, the old man didn't seem to notice: he continued his business of undoing his coat belt. Gasps, faints and feints, glasses clinking, pamphlets rustling, and a crack of an old chestnut off the pane of glass startled and unnerved the ancillaries. The old man continued. Maybe there are no ears? His hips began to gyrate from left to right, then with motions in no uncertain terms dissimilar to the encircling of an aureole in a passionate moment. This gyration quickened in an orgasmic pace, the plastic smile seemed to grow slightly maybe it isn't plastic maybe some renegade doctor injected his face with a gallon of botox in protest at his vanity? Left foot on heel. Then right foot on toe, he undid the last clasp of decency and revealed his appendage. The last of the women and six of the men gave in as they say perhaps four, five or more children's dolly legs dangling off his midrift like a demented insect sex act. Feet at broken angles, ankles plastic like the old man's visage. They bounced of his fat body suit like gelatin or a fly just caught in a cobweb - ever see that happen before? After the last mouth shut, the old man buttoned up and left.
The other day I bought a magazine, for fear of helplessly gawping at random strangers on the tube. It’s not something I do on purpose, gawping that is, but constantly find myself doing it unless otherwise occupied. It’s not quite gawping in the threatening or seedy sense of the word, but somehow when, the person you were unintentionally glaring intensely at in the reflection of the window catches you right between the eyes, you begin to excessively blink and shuffle in an awkward kind of way, in a pathetic attempt to make it look like you weren’t gawping, in turn looking like you are very guilty indeed of having a good gawp. So this time, as I placed myself neatly on a vacant seat, I felt all cock-sure, with the magazine on my lap, that gawping was definitely not happening today. I flicked nonchalantly through the pages becoming increasingly frustrated by the fact that I had reached page 34 and still had not read a single line of text. “This is a fucking joke” I muttered to myself, exasperated now by the amount of ad campaigns I had just sloshed my way through, until I reached an ad by none other than the sacrosanct Tom Ford. I couldn’t help it, I gawped.
I bet you had good gawp too.
The prolific designer, renowned for his explicit advertising techniques and enthusiastic promotion of the “sex sells” manifesto, has done it again, except this time it’s sexy, in a weird way. To say the least, it’s a bit fucked up. Julia Kristeva’s own nipples would be tingling with excitement at how dominant the abject features in this image. It is as though Tom Ford has complicated the simple sex strategy to the more convoluted, abjectification of sex rather than the objectification of it in earlier images. Kristeva notes that the, “[Abject] lies there quite close, but it cannot be assimilated. It beseeches, worries, and fascinates desire, which, nevertheless, does not let itself be seduced. Apprehensive, desire turns aside; sickened, it rejects.” Although simultaneously accepting the controversial, artistic nature of the image and rejecting the blood, nipple, beak scenario, we remain intrigued. However Ford’s previous erotic campaigns have transcended from trashy chic (if there is such a term) to arty “psychoanalytical” farty. The following image is a ”closer” (I say this with caution)look at two of Ford’s previous campaigns for his eponymous men’s fragrance....
.....Cripes!!! Something about these images in particular brings me to Martin Amis in his 1984 novel, Money, when he writes, “Shame is a chick who blew you in the can that time. Ooh, she is so shameless. Watch her make a lunge for your nuts! Every so often fear fucks shame for something to do. He’s not frightened. She couldn’t care.”I snigger upon reading the controversial lines because I know not much has changed since then. It is a good metaphorical summary of capitalist culture and for all its grim, demoralising nastiness, it is an honest observation. It looks like Tom Ford made it literal.
So we’re the cock called Fear, Ford; the hot chick called Shame. Shame’s a clever bitch that sucks us off in the changing room, spraying herself across the clefts of our collarbones and smalls of our wrists. So we fuck her and pay the money, we’re not afraid, so what. She doesn’t care as long as she sells. And so it is, we’re bumming Ford, when really Ford’s bumming us, we’re all delightfully bumming each other in the erotic euphoria of fragrance and sex and style and beauty, until Shame starts breast feeding a crow.
Please listen to the song whilst reading the review :-)
Somewhere between a spring drum and a pulsing void, I find myself being consumed by the abstract and the minimal noises. Dragging me lovingly by the cheek, they rub my body off the translucent spherical walls. (The song seems to manifest some kind of cylindrical space in which I am contained, but moving). My ears start to wobble dangerously, somewhere between a car crash and a last minute mirror hair fix. This frequency elevates the pressures of the growing momentum and soon finds itself harmonising with the now haunted spring drum. Then like a dream, I am dragged out of this corridor with a final heartbeat reminding me of my existence. The screeching persists with agonising velocity until finally we are left with one final compressed moment of Hades that drowns us in ambiguity, until finally we are left in silence.
‘Ajumma’ in Korean actually refers to any married women, but amongst foreigners it has become a term specifically referring to older Korean women (usually older than about 55).
Settled in a cosy land of 'paddies' (not in Ireland), I have become comfortable with the sight of these so-called 'beings'. These things, these shrivelled, crispy bacon pieces of flesh. Hunted by the sun and chased by the Ajoshis, these creatures amble about street corners or stumble down roadways carrying what looks to be a load of neatly flattened cardboard boxes. The critters sometimes gather in forces on pavements trying to muster up the energy to sell crops, here and there, to the odd Upright. These Stoopers are easily spotted a far by an Upright, due to their favouritism in very clashy wear with orange and pink, mustard and lime green, garish florals and stripes, luminous geometric patterns and polka-dots etc.
Usually donning their masks of darkness, the Stoopers often cower when light is strong and they tend to wear cotton or silk upon their claws of labour. However, they sometimes are saved when they have, in possession, a crawler's carriage as they often shrink behind them with their load of recycle-ware, nutritous delights, cans of aqua or as a matter of fact, nothing at all.
If these daunting creatures are not squating on raised platforms or sidewalks, they are hazardly tackling crowds and exhibiting a style of 'herding' behaviour where groups and public spaces are squashed of positive space.
Nonetheless, my love for these Stoopers has only thickened as I find them mysterious yet intimidating. Brief moments of a glance into their eye brings a tickle of wee to my Joy.
From afar they may seem like just another nutty Stooper but their kindness and generosity continues to warm my heart!
On the 16th of November 2010 one of the worlds most fascinating mysteries was finally solved. Scientists for the first time obtained real video footage of the Loch Ness monster. A team of physicists had been testing new sonar technology when the 26 metre beast appeared on their screens. At first they assumed it was just a school of fish but its motion patterns were to localised and consistent. Below is an image of this illusive and mysterious creature captured on Tuesday morning.
Once Professor Harold Schultz of the Department of Advanced Physics and Materials in the University of Berne, Switzerland realised the significance of the image on his screen he proceeded to run to the front of the boat. It wasn't long before the prehistoric creature emerged from the water and it's head, neck and dorsal fin could be clearly seen off the bough of the boat. The Professor new he had to act quickly if he was going to be able to capture the creature. He made a quick phone-call and requested back up. In the mean time the boat followed the creature using the new sonar which compared to conventional sonar was actually able to detect the Loch Ness monster. Thirty minutes after the Professor had called for assistance the worlds heaviest fixed-winged aircraft the Antonov An-225 arrived on hand to capture the beast.
Professor Schultz and his team fired three heat seeking harpoons and managed to pierce the creatures tough skin with only one of the darts, penetrating the creature just below it's ventral fin. The line was then fixed to a cable that descended from the Antonov and with very little struggle the creature was raised 250 metres to and loaded into a specially prepared aquatic environment in the cargo hold of the plane. The Loch Ness monster then began it's two hour flight to Switzerland. The creature has been released into the protective custody of the scientists at CERN, the worlds largest particle accelerator. The scientists are hopeful that they will have set up an experiment by the end of the month which will allow two highly charged beams of particles to race around the tunnels of CERN and collide with the Loch Ness monster. Scientists are hoping that this collision could lead to data which may successfully merge quantum theory and general relativity.
An eye witness, William McGregor described how he was taking his dogs for a walk "when I heard this great commotion coming from the Loch, it sounded like a thousand bagpipes all playing at once, and when I got to the shore of the Loch, there it was as sure as day a gigantic plane pulling the beast from the water, and within thirty seconds the plane had swallowed it in it's belly and roared off into the sky".
