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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.
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This may the greatest boy-lipsyncing-into-pc-cam video ever. But I've thought that about approximately four-hundred and seventeen other incarnations of this most modern, and aesthetically pure, art form. Who cares that revolution won't be televised when it's already playing on youtube.
Our hero here is lyrically shaky sometimes (then again he's trying to do overlapping vocal parts), but when he grabs the cam for his psych-out, he produces the p.o.v. shit outta the thing. And his spoken coda is even ballsier.
If I'd had a pc cam when I was 14, if there'd been such a thing as a pc cam when I was 14, or 28 for that matter, I would have made a hundred of these vids. The world has a right to feel robbed.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The Excess of Your Presence Is Requested
I'm reading a biography of Pasolini. When I'm finished, Pier Paolo will be the first (and I predict only) person I will have read two bios of. I'm not quite sure why him, except for my fascination with his death (so you see, I am sure).
I only know one of his novels, The Ragazzi, which does have an ending of grim genius, its final scene is the most pathetic thing, banally narrated, I've ever read. Buy it and see, even with my head's up, if Paolo's sucker punch doesn't take you down.
I've watched half the movies and didn't like any of them much, except for the Decameron. And maybe the Arabian Nights as soft porn. Pigsty and Salo are masterpieces of sustained others-loathing and gigantically perverse artifacts of franco-italo co-productivity, so if you're in the market for that, you'll want to add them to your shopping cart. I don't know the poetry except for a few stray encounters. And the political/cultural journalism not at all.
The book I'm reading now is much better than the one I read many years ago. It especially makes me want to find a volume each of triple P's pomes and openyawns. I liked the poetic fragment the biographer invoked to set the stage for that final night's miserable adventure:
In reality, I'm the boy, they're the adults. I who by the excess of my presence
have never crossed the border between love for life and life... I gloomy with love, and all around me the chorus
of the happy for whom reality's a friend.
I copied it exactly, don't ask me to explain the layout or the ellipsis. I could point out some of the landmarks on the border between love for life and life, though.