Showing posts with label porn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label porn. Show all posts
Monday, April 1, 2013
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
It's just indigestion...or is it?
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| http://www.vice.com/read/ny-tyrant-atticus-atticus |
Picked up Atticus Lish’s collection of sketches, Life Is with People, and wow, wow. I’m into art but I don’t think I’ve ever purchased an “art book.” I hesitate to label People as an art book because to pigeon-hole something this insane and unique would be doing the fine peeps at Tyrant Books a sad disservice. The limited (500 copies) print run features pleasantly thick covers and heavy-stock lined composition paper, usually one drawing per page, occasionally more.
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| http://nytyrantbooks.com/atticus/ |
As the title suggests, there are lots of people. People stabbing, shitting, cross-dressing, fucking, praying, grinning, often with a few explanatory phrases thrown in for good measure. The style of illustration is what Shel Silverstein would have penned if he’d been imprisoned in the S&M dungeon of some creeper with a serious fecal fetish then let loose amidst the dregs of an outer-borough wasteland populated by psych-ward all stars and sluttily anthropomorphic lesser mammals. Which is to say, mind-blowing. Each of the images presents a self-contained situation – a man who has ripped his eyeballs out to avoid attending a Bat Mitzvah, unkempt anorexic banshees screaming for Tony Danza, a woman hanging from a sex swing and crapping on a dude’s face in what is described as “a fairy tale right out of the Village Voice," unapologetic Susan Sontag references – that can be disturbing, outrageous, ultraviolent or misogynistic, but always funny as shit. Seriously, I was reading People in a bar and kept laughing obnoxiously, at one point dribbling Pilsner from my nostrils. The J. Crew catalog couple seated next to me must have thought I had a few chromosomes loose and when I allowed them to peruse the book their suspicions were confirmed.
The weird/amazing part is, I don’t really feel like I’m looking at visual art. Each image is more akin to a flash fiction – rough, subtle, twisting – that deserves to be absorbed for more than a casual moment. Which is why I recommend flipping through People slowly, taking a dozen or so drawings and then calling it a night. Or maybe not. I tore through the book in two extended sittings, the last one culminating in a 3am near nervous breakdown. I wanted to look at porn or hug someone, and probably both, in that order. Yet my sleep was surprisingly untroubled, devoid of the fucked up and too-vivid dreams that had been plaguing my head for weeks. And they haven’t returned. In purging his nightmares, Lish may have inadvertently helped me shirk off some of my own.
I can’t guarantee that Life Is with People will have the same affect on you. But I can guarantee you’ll love the book. And if you don’t, you’re a moron.
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| http://www.vice.com/read/ny-tyrant-blake-butler |
The book's mini-site is here.
Friday, March 2, 2012
whispers groin the chord of every scar
Got a review of Sean Kilpatrick's fuckscapes in this month's elimae. Definitely my favorite new book of the year thus far. Plus this issue is full of ridiculous people writing ridiculous things. Highly recommended. Not my shit. But other people's good stuff.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Loose meats!
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| This is Stab Pyramid's postal brethren |
Upon opening the package that contained my copy of Sean Kilpatrick’s fuckscapes (Blue Square Press, 2011), I discovered a much smaller nugget of unbridled poetical prose in a handbound black Moleskine-like cover, numbered _ of 42. Stab Pyramid by Sean Kilpatrick & Blake Butler is a treat, if you like treats that taste like “chocolate swastika-kissed anvils, seats grafted fat with toddler head all pushed from me” or “the paling below raked clit.” Grizzled domesticity championed by a father figure who delights in goring baby-skin and “sucking the pulp out of a picture of the glitched.” The mother only implores us to “stop acting like my pussy is an ambulance for the world.” And, yeah. This little fleshy gulp of sin and topical-brilliance-in-Tourettic-OCD-language-expulsions-slash-murders makes for an excellent prelude and tremor-smeared companion to the similarly themed fuckspaces, perhaps one of the fuckiest. As disjointed as they are freaky, these impure exaggerations ream me the burnt cornea treatment I’ll be unable to shake, even if I wanted to: “I slept in a newspaper wide enough to crown my wave and considered a microphone shitting sons from the knotted tunnel of a senator’s hysterectomy.” Thanks fellas.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
The MILF Effect: How Porn’s Use of the Acronym Promotes Healthy Reproductive Values
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Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Interracial porn leads to god, leads to art, leads to [*]
I watch a trashy blonde woman in her early twenties kneeling next to a beige fake-leather couch -- bleached hair, oily pores, dribbling eye-liner, small breasts, protruding nipples, apple-shaped thighs, thin growing spirals of cellulite spreading from under her fleshy ass. Her face is getting fucked by a massive black cock, a penis more suitable for certain breeds of domestic cattle. Pumping her mouth with the sheer racial force of 300 years of caged aggression. Flinging gobs of frothy saliva onto her artificially tanned neck, her hair, and the couch.
It’s near the end of a long scene. One that involved a good amount of oral (on both actors), some missionary, doggy, reverse cow-girl, ass-to-mouth, and a conspicuous little toy called the Road Warrior that looks like an mp3 player with furry insect legs. As I sit here, hunched over my laptop in the near-dark of my parents’ guest bedroom, watching the African fire hose finally drench his visibly shaken partner in a milky rain of self-loathing, I realize that the streaming images and near-muted sound in front of me represent the closest I’ve come in a long time to having a genuine religious experience.
Religious Experience (Encyclopedia Britannica definition): A moment of wonder at the infinity of the cosmos, the sense of awe and mystery in the presence of the holy, feelings of dependence on a divine power or an unseen order, the sense of guilt and anxiety accompanying belief in a divine judgment, and the feeling of peace that follows faith in divine forgiveness.
OK, maybe what I’m feeling isn’t really a religious experience. And anyway, the Western concept of RELIGION has been a difficult one for me since early adolescence. I can specifically trace my feelings of doubt regarding Judeo-Christian tradition to a snowy, chemically ambiguous night in March 2001, a few weeks after receiving the sacrament of Confirmation and a few days after a brief, awkward, bumbling, yet ultimately gratifying physical episode with a younger female classmate. Over the years – for many reasons – the doubts multiplied, became shards of glass, bullets, wrecking balls, and finally the pound of TNT that vaporized any remnants of my grandparents’ Eurocentric faith somewhere toward the end of my last semester at college. Jesus was a cool guy, don’t get me wrong. I love most of thy neighbors, even the crackheads that sit in my hallway and spark their white flashes and demons. Basically what it came down to was that there was no way I could justify sitting for an hour every week listening to an old man who probably beats off to the Toys R Us catalog tell me that it’s a sin for me to fixate on how the right breast of the girl in the pew in front of me resembles a pomegranate, or that the five dollars my father throws in the collection basket every week is going to go to starving Hispanic children in the North End of Hartford and not toward gas money for the priest’s Lexus that’s parked behind the rectory. Then there’s that whole Inquisition thing…
In the aftermath of my dogmatic holocaust (May – June 2007), I still had this urgent need to feel something, anything, amidst an absence of meaning in the synthetic, desensitized realm of post-modern pseudo-existence. So I focused my spiritual curiosity Eastward – to the beautiful precepts of Lao Tzi, to the awakened nirvana of the Buddha, and to the sacred cookbook of Baba Ram Dass. At first, this triad of philosophies – Taoism, Buddhism, and Americanized Hinduism – seemed to offer so much comfort and sensible insight. Each renounces the worship of an arbitrary, white-bearded, human-shaped ‘god’ and instead implores each of its followers to look within himself. I can do this by myself? My own brain is the church? Far out, brahh. Woo! But after further reading, and after many failed attempts at finding my own enlightentment, I formed this general definition of Eastern philosophy:
Look! A nontheistic spirit is already inherent in each of us, an untapped resource for personal enlightenment. All we have to do meditate, meditate, MEDITATE, go vegan, stop drinking, meditate, focus on the present, be compassionate but forget EMOTIONS!!!, forget anger, forget joy, forget MONEY, forget the past, forget the girl who sleeps at your apartment but won’t tell you she’s been fucking one of your friends for the past week, forget fucking, forget the future, meditate, fast, deny good, deny evil, deny, deny, DENY your reality, meditate and then you will find enlightenment in NOTHINGNESS, in the absence of your life…
Granted, that may be a little extreme. There are a lot of great things about these philosophies that are worth looking into. But the ultimate problem with Eastern philosophy – like Christianity – is that the goal of the believer is not to embrace his humanity completely, but to deny certain integral parts of it, to find the ultimate experience elsewhere, and not in the physical realm of the world around us. Yes, we are taught that happiness is found in the present, but it is a present I’d rather spend eating a Hardee’s Monster Thickburger with four strips of bacon, three slices of cheese and mayonnaise on a buttered sesame-seed bun than sitting in the lotus position for ten hours contemplating how wet the rain is. Also, being a true Taoist or Buddhist would be impractical and impossible in our America-Fuck-Yeah! culture. I need money to buy food and beer. I need a job to get that money. I need to exploit natural resources in order to survive in the good old USA. I also highly enjoy television, central air-conditioning, and my new pair of baby-blue and cream-colored custom Nikes. I continue eating cheap, processed ham, regardless of how many infant pig testicles were ripped off for me to enjoy its sliced deliciousness. Call me coldhearted, but I think I’m a pretty average Westerner in most respects.
So now that I’ve basically thrown out the teachings of every major formal religious school of the last 10,000 years, what else is there? What do I believe in? Is it possible that I believe in – GASP – nothing???? BUT, watching the interracial porn, I know I feel something. Something that cannot be explained in strict scientific terms; an innate connection established through purely spiritual channels, one that goes beyond the images. But wait:
Religious Experience (Wikipedia definition): In a religious experience, or sacred experience, an individual comes in contact with transcendental reality.
Transcendental reality!!! Now that makes sense. The feeling I get from watching the porn is something that transcends the digitized pixels of the screen, the circuitry of my laptop, and the process of light filtering through my eyes to put that picture in my brain. Sort of the way recorded music transcends the physical aspects of its nature (i.e. CDs, amplifiers, soundwaves). The porn and music both stimulate my body and my mind at the same time in two completely different ways. This definition of religious experience looks suspiciously similar to another Wikipedia definition:
Art: is a product of human activity, made with the intention of stimulating the human senses as well as the human mind; by transmitting emotions and/or ideas… "a special faculty of the human mind to be classified with religion and science".
So there it is. Faith in the human mind, faith in its ability to create, in its ability to transcend our own reality, to inform us of our own reality, to embrace with sweaty palms every aspect of this reality, to fuck this reality into submission! I believe in this art, and not just in the definitive mediums – music, literature, sculpture, film, painting, and printmaking. Everyone loves a good book and a pretty picture. I’m talking about real art, human art. I believe in the Guatemalan crackhead who sits outside my building, and who I sometimes give old newspapers that he uses to insulate his garbage-bag parka. I believe in the black girls from Brooklyn going to school, carrying nine books. I believe in the character of my handshake. I believe the sticky sex angels of a Thursday drunk. I believe in my friends' success. I believe that the self-disgust and self-inflicted purgatory of this past semester served an ultimately beautiful purpose. I believe in the terrifying authority of my imagined rages and ecstasies. I believe in memories of crumpled yellow promises. I believe in my own future and the passion I have for my work. I believe in Manhattan. I believe in flights to Europe – to anywhere – and in the thoughtfulness of Iberia Airlines employees. I believe in the ancient burnt stench of camels and Moroccan taxi drivers. I believe in screaming, vomiting, dicks, and pussies. I believe that love is slippery. I believe in words that sound like scarecrows. I believe in road trips to Vermont and other Northern New England locales. I believe in chemicals. I believe in the angry Harlem PCP-fiends, howling up the stairs in my hallway for another golden fix. I believe that I may never completely come to grips with my four years of college. I believe in the sexual streetlights of 47th and Lexington. I believe in the curve of a girl’s naked lower back as she bends over to pick up her thong in the misty darkness of a gray morning-after. I believe in Santa. I believe in the elements of my life that are beautiful and sinister, creative and destructive, and I am in love with all of them. I believe that the setting sun is just an illusion caused by the world spinning around its axis. And I believe in YOU.
Happy holidays!
It’s near the end of a long scene. One that involved a good amount of oral (on both actors), some missionary, doggy, reverse cow-girl, ass-to-mouth, and a conspicuous little toy called the Road Warrior that looks like an mp3 player with furry insect legs. As I sit here, hunched over my laptop in the near-dark of my parents’ guest bedroom, watching the African fire hose finally drench his visibly shaken partner in a milky rain of self-loathing, I realize that the streaming images and near-muted sound in front of me represent the closest I’ve come in a long time to having a genuine religious experience.
Religious Experience (Encyclopedia Britannica definition): A moment of wonder at the infinity of the cosmos, the sense of awe and mystery in the presence of the holy, feelings of dependence on a divine power or an unseen order, the sense of guilt and anxiety accompanying belief in a divine judgment, and the feeling of peace that follows faith in divine forgiveness.
OK, maybe what I’m feeling isn’t really a religious experience. And anyway, the Western concept of RELIGION has been a difficult one for me since early adolescence. I can specifically trace my feelings of doubt regarding Judeo-Christian tradition to a snowy, chemically ambiguous night in March 2001, a few weeks after receiving the sacrament of Confirmation and a few days after a brief, awkward, bumbling, yet ultimately gratifying physical episode with a younger female classmate. Over the years – for many reasons – the doubts multiplied, became shards of glass, bullets, wrecking balls, and finally the pound of TNT that vaporized any remnants of my grandparents’ Eurocentric faith somewhere toward the end of my last semester at college. Jesus was a cool guy, don’t get me wrong. I love most of thy neighbors, even the crackheads that sit in my hallway and spark their white flashes and demons. Basically what it came down to was that there was no way I could justify sitting for an hour every week listening to an old man who probably beats off to the Toys R Us catalog tell me that it’s a sin for me to fixate on how the right breast of the girl in the pew in front of me resembles a pomegranate, or that the five dollars my father throws in the collection basket every week is going to go to starving Hispanic children in the North End of Hartford and not toward gas money for the priest’s Lexus that’s parked behind the rectory. Then there’s that whole Inquisition thing…
In the aftermath of my dogmatic holocaust (May – June 2007), I still had this urgent need to feel something, anything, amidst an absence of meaning in the synthetic, desensitized realm of post-modern pseudo-existence. So I focused my spiritual curiosity Eastward – to the beautiful precepts of Lao Tzi, to the awakened nirvana of the Buddha, and to the sacred cookbook of Baba Ram Dass. At first, this triad of philosophies – Taoism, Buddhism, and Americanized Hinduism – seemed to offer so much comfort and sensible insight. Each renounces the worship of an arbitrary, white-bearded, human-shaped ‘god’ and instead implores each of its followers to look within himself. I can do this by myself? My own brain is the church? Far out, brahh. Woo! But after further reading, and after many failed attempts at finding my own enlightentment, I formed this general definition of Eastern philosophy:
Look! A nontheistic spirit is already inherent in each of us, an untapped resource for personal enlightenment. All we have to do meditate, meditate, MEDITATE, go vegan, stop drinking, meditate, focus on the present, be compassionate but forget EMOTIONS!!!, forget anger, forget joy, forget MONEY, forget the past, forget the girl who sleeps at your apartment but won’t tell you she’s been fucking one of your friends for the past week, forget fucking, forget the future, meditate, fast, deny good, deny evil, deny, deny, DENY your reality, meditate and then you will find enlightenment in NOTHINGNESS, in the absence of your life…
Granted, that may be a little extreme. There are a lot of great things about these philosophies that are worth looking into. But the ultimate problem with Eastern philosophy – like Christianity – is that the goal of the believer is not to embrace his humanity completely, but to deny certain integral parts of it, to find the ultimate experience elsewhere, and not in the physical realm of the world around us. Yes, we are taught that happiness is found in the present, but it is a present I’d rather spend eating a Hardee’s Monster Thickburger with four strips of bacon, three slices of cheese and mayonnaise on a buttered sesame-seed bun than sitting in the lotus position for ten hours contemplating how wet the rain is. Also, being a true Taoist or Buddhist would be impractical and impossible in our America-Fuck-Yeah! culture. I need money to buy food and beer. I need a job to get that money. I need to exploit natural resources in order to survive in the good old USA. I also highly enjoy television, central air-conditioning, and my new pair of baby-blue and cream-colored custom Nikes. I continue eating cheap, processed ham, regardless of how many infant pig testicles were ripped off for me to enjoy its sliced deliciousness. Call me coldhearted, but I think I’m a pretty average Westerner in most respects.
So now that I’ve basically thrown out the teachings of every major formal religious school of the last 10,000 years, what else is there? What do I believe in? Is it possible that I believe in – GASP – nothing???? BUT, watching the interracial porn, I know I feel something. Something that cannot be explained in strict scientific terms; an innate connection established through purely spiritual channels, one that goes beyond the images. But wait:
Religious Experience (Wikipedia definition): In a religious experience, or sacred experience, an individual comes in contact with transcendental reality.
Transcendental reality!!! Now that makes sense. The feeling I get from watching the porn is something that transcends the digitized pixels of the screen, the circuitry of my laptop, and the process of light filtering through my eyes to put that picture in my brain. Sort of the way recorded music transcends the physical aspects of its nature (i.e. CDs, amplifiers, soundwaves). The porn and music both stimulate my body and my mind at the same time in two completely different ways. This definition of religious experience looks suspiciously similar to another Wikipedia definition:
Art: is a product of human activity, made with the intention of stimulating the human senses as well as the human mind; by transmitting emotions and/or ideas… "a special faculty of the human mind to be classified with religion and science".
So there it is. Faith in the human mind, faith in its ability to create, in its ability to transcend our own reality, to inform us of our own reality, to embrace with sweaty palms every aspect of this reality, to fuck this reality into submission! I believe in this art, and not just in the definitive mediums – music, literature, sculpture, film, painting, and printmaking. Everyone loves a good book and a pretty picture. I’m talking about real art, human art. I believe in the Guatemalan crackhead who sits outside my building, and who I sometimes give old newspapers that he uses to insulate his garbage-bag parka. I believe in the black girls from Brooklyn going to school, carrying nine books. I believe in the character of my handshake. I believe the sticky sex angels of a Thursday drunk. I believe in my friends' success. I believe that the self-disgust and self-inflicted purgatory of this past semester served an ultimately beautiful purpose. I believe in the terrifying authority of my imagined rages and ecstasies. I believe in memories of crumpled yellow promises. I believe in my own future and the passion I have for my work. I believe in Manhattan. I believe in flights to Europe – to anywhere – and in the thoughtfulness of Iberia Airlines employees. I believe in the ancient burnt stench of camels and Moroccan taxi drivers. I believe in screaming, vomiting, dicks, and pussies. I believe that love is slippery. I believe in words that sound like scarecrows. I believe in road trips to Vermont and other Northern New England locales. I believe in chemicals. I believe in the angry Harlem PCP-fiends, howling up the stairs in my hallway for another golden fix. I believe that I may never completely come to grips with my four years of college. I believe in the sexual streetlights of 47th and Lexington. I believe in the curve of a girl’s naked lower back as she bends over to pick up her thong in the misty darkness of a gray morning-after. I believe in Santa. I believe in the elements of my life that are beautiful and sinister, creative and destructive, and I am in love with all of them. I believe that the setting sun is just an illusion caused by the world spinning around its axis. And I believe in YOU.
Happy holidays!
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