Sunday, September 28, 2003
Mass (throat) culture
Recently, I've had some ideas for some TV and film spin-offs. By recently, I mean over the past few months. And by "ideas," I mean the category of potentially interruptive cognitive happenings that are opposed to "fantasies." For instance: I had an idea concerning John Guillory's Cultural Capital, which I'm reading for a seminar; I had a fantasy about dragging Lucy Liu by her hair and wrenching loose her teeth with a shoe heel and a hard palm. But please, you insidious government types: this is a fantasy. I have no actual—er, realistic—desire to harm Ms Liu. Equally insidious Hollywood types, however, look no further. I would luuurrrvvve to beat the holy Christ out of Ms Liu in Charlie's Angel's 3: Operation Rugburn.
Ahem. Back to the my ideas, yes.
Slingblade Squarepants: a developmentally delayed Southerner spends his days in a submerged pineapple-shaped trailer. Drowning is not an issue, as this is a cartoon. Appropriately, Mr Pants would have a variety of cartoon friends, including a swishy vegetable peeler and an abandoned Mitsubishi minivan that can't control the volume of its voice.
Starring the eponymous HBO Sluts, Sylvia and the City—a retelling of Carrie's plights by the easy-going narrator of The Bell Jar. Most of each episode will be spent in the bathroom of our characters' favorite restaurant, where each girl will tell her story in between purges. Oooh, and lots of Nazi symbolism. Look for it.
thirty two short films about Elliott Gould. Well, actually it's 26 short films; abject failure can be expressed in only so many ways.
I'm getting tired, so that's all for now. Don't worry, I've got more. (And if you have any, let me know. Yes, yes: you'll be credited as needed and with love.)
Ahem. Back to the my ideas, yes.
Slingblade Squarepants: a developmentally delayed Southerner spends his days in a submerged pineapple-shaped trailer. Drowning is not an issue, as this is a cartoon. Appropriately, Mr Pants would have a variety of cartoon friends, including a swishy vegetable peeler and an abandoned Mitsubishi minivan that can't control the volume of its voice.
Starring the eponymous HBO Sluts, Sylvia and the City—a retelling of Carrie's plights by the easy-going narrator of The Bell Jar. Most of each episode will be spent in the bathroom of our characters' favorite restaurant, where each girl will tell her story in between purges. Oooh, and lots of Nazi symbolism. Look for it.
thirty two short films about Elliott Gould. Well, actually it's 26 short films; abject failure can be expressed in only so many ways.
I'm getting tired, so that's all for now. Don't worry, I've got more. (And if you have any, let me know. Yes, yes: you'll be credited as needed and with love.)
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Pigeon—like my language skills.
So, despite my plea, I've yet to receive any email concerning this site. That's OK, folks; in my mind, silence is love. Standing me up is love. Not returning my phone calls or letters—that's love. Better yet, it's lust.
In no particular order, meine fuckbudden, my life's most recent month:
Ass massages to relieve my back...back exercises to relieve my leg...leg lifts and stomach crunches to rid me of my pear-ness...pears in my fridge instead of peaches...nail clippings in a jar instead of people returning my phone calls (again with this shit, Dirty?)...lots of people calling my apartment asking for Kenya...bronchitis from all the unloving phone calls...and a friendly bird who, sensing my loveless life, showed his love by clawing my forehead up. Hah hah, said the folks at Neosporin.
With the exception of the bit on nail clippings in jar (I use a hooker's old fishnets lined with gaffer's tape), this is my life folks. Hah hah, said the folks at Neosporin and the gentle folk who keep me stocked with Thorazine, brought to you by the letter GET BACK TO MASTURBATING YOU DSL HOGS.
Kisses!
In no particular order, meine fuckbudden, my life's most recent month:
Ass massages to relieve my back...back exercises to relieve my leg...leg lifts and stomach crunches to rid me of my pear-ness...pears in my fridge instead of peaches...nail clippings in a jar instead of people returning my phone calls (again with this shit, Dirty?)...lots of people calling my apartment asking for Kenya...bronchitis from all the unloving phone calls...and a friendly bird who, sensing my loveless life, showed his love by clawing my forehead up. Hah hah, said the folks at Neosporin.
With the exception of the bit on nail clippings in jar (I use a hooker's old fishnets lined with gaffer's tape), this is my life folks. Hah hah, said the folks at Neosporin and the gentle folk who keep me stocked with Thorazine, brought to you by the letter GET BACK TO MASTURBATING YOU DSL HOGS.
Kisses!
Friday, September 19, 2003
In the cellophane shorts, Tom "Developmental" DeLay!
Once more, my life is odd enough to warrant some internet interaction. Well, here I am, you spermy e-trolls. Sorry about that. Sorry. I hurt the ones I love. And truly, I'm sorry about my extended absence. But that's what happens when you have nothing to do: the little you have to do becomes uniquely overwhelming. So if you want me to write more frequently, if you have fewer immediate goals than I, email me. Don't be coy about it, stupid: just move your mouse to the left and blow.
Signing off, for now. I think I might restart my usual dance in a day or two. Keep your eyebrows level, Sherman; you've seen me dance. And at least I dance better than you do—I mean, why would you even try to tango with such a leg-length discrepancy?
Signing off, for now. I think I might restart my usual dance in a day or two. Keep your eyebrows level, Sherman; you've seen me dance. And at least I dance better than you do—I mean, why would you even try to tango with such a leg-length discrepancy?
