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The Public Blogging of Pomosexuality, Homotextuality, Homophobiaphilia, and Drear Theory (aka Career Theory) [aka Gay4Pay]. We also read the Corner and OpJournal so the right buttock will be punished as well.
All comments subject to publication. Or dismissal. Or Both.
I read this story twice before I could follow the twists. I guess you had to be there, i.e. be a 14 year old British schoolboy in love with a 16 year old British schoolboy. Of course I was there, except I was American, and I loved only American schoolboys. And the occasional exchange student. I also lacked a computer. But since everyone else did too, I didn't feel the lack. Or the exchange students either.
I can certainly understand the urge to expire in view of, or better yet, in tandem with your teenage beloveds. I would have gladly died in the arms of several of mine. Arranging my own murder at their hands in the name of the national interest was an innovation beyond my scope at the time, though. I mostly had us dying together from misty causes in cloudy circumstances. But again, there was no MSN.
This chat moment should now be included in all anthologies of the classic romantic literature:
Boy A: u want me 2 take him 2 trafford centre and kill him in the middle of the trafford centre?? thats wot ur asking?
Boy A: and just leave him 2 die in the trafford centre?
The Jurassic gaybar theory recently promoted here has taken a major meteor hit. A new study counters that there was no slow extinction but a fast, planet-wide apocalypse. The dinos' testes weren't gradually warmed, thereby skewing the succeeding generations disastrously male. The dinos' balls were burned off in very short order. Along with there heads, bellies, tails, and paws.
Spare a thought for our dino predecessors on that last, very bad day.
Let the Air France terminal stand. Which is to say, let it fall slowly (or quickly), of its own accord. Gravity and the physics of materials science will choose the speed. It will be the world's largest found art object, The Folie of Roissy, a guaranteed Venice/Whitney/World Cup biennale showstopper, this and every biennale, as we leapfrog (oops) the years from here to modernity.
How much cheaper to secure the site from spelunkers of jet-age hyper-caverns and preserve it for the unadventurous, than to deconstruct it completely. Meta-aesthetes, Beta-testers, calamity sightseers, and Japanese tourists can then regard and think upon it from a safe distance.
New collapses will continue to sculpt the piece, this enormous aleatory mobile with its unpredictable periodic shifts. If the utilities are kept alive (as they should be), it will soon evolve geysers, cascades and reflecting pools. Add the expected displays of arcing, sparking electricity to the dancing waters and France will eventually have an accidental Versailles to compliment its intentional one.
The elements, and the local flora and fauna, will do their picturesque bit, too. Rust never sleeps, damp always seeps, vines must creep, cats must leap.
If it turns out the flaw was not in the design but in the construction, then its healthy twin should be built right next door. Airport infrastructure commands it be close by, as does the logic of art in the age of mass production and duplication.
I require no great ceremony the day I sign my name (on a scale appropriate to the canvas) to the lower right hand corner of the building's most prominent facade.
If that's a deal-breaker, I will desist, though pissed.
Two tape epiphanies in one week. A new golden age is upon us:
On Wednesday I used electrical tape that comes off the roll in precut 4 inch sections. This is generally an excellent idea, since cutting the tape in the middle of a job is an endless aggravation, but it so happened that the very first time I used this tape I wanted pieces longer than four inches, so I mostly cursed this brilliant innovation. I don't know how long this tape has been around, but it was new to me.
I saw a bunch of young kids leaving a ball Friday night. Most of them were black and all of them were hyped, cutting up at fever pitch. Feeling the power of each other's company, of their relative numbers. Gay house kids were the temporary majority on that block. They overflowed the sidewalk into the street, blocking the traffic but pretending to be unaware of the jam they were causing. Must have been terrifying to drive through, if you didn't know what was happening. Maybe even if you did. If there is anything more beautiful in this world, I need to see it.
Madonna has done so much wrong, especially lately, but I could never hate her after she gave the houses their due. Malcolm McLaren was there first and did it better, but he couldn't deliver the momentary masses like Madge did. I'm not inclined to hate Malcolm McLaren in any event, but he earned a gratitude blank check from me for Deep In Vogue.
I think it can't be a copyright violation to reprint the whole thing here, since Malcolm just diced and spliced a found House monologue. And since I urge you to buy the record and thrill to its melancholy grandeur, diminshed not at all in 16 years. Though I have no idea where you'll find it. I'm not selling you mine. Or my copy of the glorious video either. Not that I know where exactly they are anyway.
Sending this out to the people of Irak (the Spanish spelling, I just saw it and liked it). It takes a long time to learn to be free. When the Baghdad's poor, gay kids are grabbing some glamour any way they can, then spilling out onto the street afterwards, you will be a good part of the way there. The best part of the way there.
Deep in Vogue
This has got to be a special tribute to the houses of New York
Le Beija, Extravaganza, Magnifique, St. Laurent, Omni, Ebony, Dupree.
In my black tights just throwing shade
Doing this dance that some queen made
I remember the first time I saw it,
Told my brother to put me up on it,
It wasn't easy no 1, 2, 3
It takes a long time to learn to be free
But here I am Vogueing pretty
In some club deep in this city
Deep in Vogue, Deep in Vogue
Imagine runway modeling, in freeze frame
At the ball that's what they call Vogueing
Vogueing is a challenge dance
Instead of fighting you take it out on the dance floor
10!, 10!, 10!, 10!, 10!, 10!, are there anymore!
Sometimes on a legendary night
Like the closing of the Garage
When the crowd is calling down the spirits
Listen, and you will hear all the houses that walked there before
Deep in Vogue, Deep in Vogue
The House of Extravaganza the House of Dupree
Who the hell are they?
They're nobody, except when they're in that little ballroom