Genomic companions.

You mean like “Thomas Kinkade”. Anyway, Lucy, in the recent past, a couple people have mentioned that my work reminds them of Greg’s affectations. To such unwarranted insults, I swiftly and generally respond by quite vigorously head butting the culprits and/or accompanying genomic companions.

You should try it as well, as it is rather effective, surprising and amusing, especially when considering the circumstances leading to such allocutions, as one may be, with said company, engrossed in intellectual conversations relating to my original, primary and previous proposition.

Given that I am endowed with a very prominent brow, I should point out that I am seldom pained and/or damaged by such actions, which, if you care to consider the underlying implications, is rather entertaining when one ponders how much damage one can inflict with a part of the skull whose sole purpose and function is the protection of a part of the brain one might affiliate with cognitive reason and whose so-called executive functions involve the ability to recognize future consequences resulting from current actions and/or override and suppress unacceptable social taboos and conventions.

Needless to say such sudden, swift and unexpected action can be very surprising to both a Maya linguist and a theoretical physicist whose life long intellectual expectations, at the institute, have not prepared them for such violent and visceral responses to such thoughtless and mischievous affronts.

“Clown car + Vagina”

I know this is beneath me, being an intellectual and all, but sometimes you just need to leave the serious and committed artist behind and cotton up to a little R&R.
Joerg, this one’s for you, as somehow, this makes some sort of nefarious symphonic sense; as if two intemporal harpsicords strings had been plucked to reveal some inaudable cord, only cats and indonesian fruit bats can fully comprehend; but also because my therapist suggested I also do this to expunge some of my personal demons by typing random word associations into search engines. This helps us both focus and expand the scope of our analysis in between thrice weekly sessions.

A more perfect Monopoly….

Notes: Summer retreat and party plenum. Newport, Rhode Island. August 13, 1953:

We the People, in order to form a more perfect monopoly, establish benefits, insure hegemony, provide for the common stock, promote the corporation, and secure the blessings of liberty to enrich ourselves and that of our future prosperity, we do ordain and establish this constitution to benefit all multi-national institutions, and in order to better and perpetually confer onto this “system”, a set of reciprocal legal and financial obligations among our warrior and excecutive nobility.
That every man be the vassal, or servant, of his lord, that “they” swear homage to him, and in return this/these lord(s) shall promise to give him protection and to see that justice and recompense is received. That this monopoly shall be the expression of a society in which every man be bound to every other by mutual ties of loyalty and service. That said monoply shall be marked by vast gulfs between the very few, very rich, landholders and the masses of the working poor who toil for the profit of this Union…

maor
Photo by: Tom Nagy

This shall serve to confuse and dissuade our intentions of creating a more dystopian vision of a society, whereas the many, shall benefit the few ….
To promote and project a more perfect monopoly we shall promote our present policies concerning literary and artistic work, in as much as it shall be used to market a more benevolent image of this noble Union….

maor

It shall stand to reason that today’s writers and artists who cling to an individualist, arty-bourgeois stand cannot truly serve the Union’s benefits, as their interest is mistakenly and mainly focused on a small number of arty-bourgeois intellectuals whose interests are to promote themselves, and not our afore mentioned Union.

maob
Photo by: Tom Nagy

These intellectual workers should eventually be made to serve the visual guidelines of the Union, to craft a new visual and literary ideology as “The people” still have many shortcomings and have retained many arty bourgeois ideals; and while both the working class and the urban petty bourgeoisie have heartily embraced our ideology, we have still been hampered by “their” struggle to contradict. But, we shall be patient and spend a longtime in educating them and helping them to combat their own arty errors and shortcomings, so that they can advance with great strides towards our more perfect and consumptive vision.

maoa

The purpose of our meeting today is precisely to ensure that art and literature fit well into the whole beneficiary machine as a better component part and/or that they operate as a more powerful weapon for uniting and educating the people, and for attacking and destroying the “People’s” established fiduciary institutions to create a new and more perfect Union.

AAOS is in town…

The American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons – (AAOS) is in town this week, so my brother, followed these migratory birds to San Francisco to teach and learn the latest surgical techniques to the assembled hippocratic masses. Since he recently acquired his pilot’s license he rented a plane in San Carlos, twenty minutes down the peninsula, and we went flying around the bay.

I have, of course, landed at SFO and flown around the bay in a commercial airliner many times, but to do so in a Cessna 172, a four seater, is a real pleasure. Flying over downtown, half moon bay and the Golden Gate reunited us with the joy of flying and how we used to feel as kids(one I have never really lost, but still, the economy lifestyle jet set has a way of beating you over the head, after a while) when we boarded the old “Caravelle”, to fly to Corsica for summer break.

So next time you come to San Francisco, pull out your wallet and go for a flight around the bay, it’s not as expensive as you may think and it’s a great way to rediscover where you live. If, like me, you get to do it with your brother, trust him with your life, and only call your mother after the fact, it certainly is an added pleasure.

On the other hand, if you find yourself with less than twelve cents, you might want to close your eyes and try riding any free, windowless, imaginary speed boat to come to suddenly and freakishly realize that you are plunging to your death and to the cold, hard, and soon to be bloodied concrete sidewalk, below.

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Cherokee Peep Holes…!

da

Recently, I have begun to take walks in the city. It’s the rainy season and I can’t stand the rain, which, if you have ever lived in Paris for any length of time, you’ve grown to hate.
At the slightest sign of a break in the clouds I put on my overcoat and step out into the California winter haze. I leave the umbrella behind, a willful thought and hope for the best; and damn the consequences.
Today I walked straight down Market, from my house on Castro, without even stopping for gay porn, on the way. So as I said, down Market and onward to the feces district (the Tenderlaid, that would be between 6th and 7th street).
Onward…..and by Bloomingdales, by the make up counter ladies taking languorous cigarette breaks, trying not to plant face from all those samplers they’ve meticulously applied to their faces; passed Old Navy, thru the Metreon and into the light, where there it is, the: Museum of Modern Art, all brick and mortar and eighties fugliest.
Into the lobby where monitors rudely remind me that I should not be loitering here any more than those poorly covered feces I recently passed on 7th and Market. My way of saying, ‘I’ve seen this shit before and even wrote about it. So what to do? I did not plan ahead nor did I consult the internet before I left!

So, I bowed to the inevitable and quickly retraced my steps to reluctantly open the door to da YBCA, or Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, as it is also known to the verbosely minded. (BTW, for yall hippies out there, Yerba Buena (Clinopodium douglasii) is a sprawling aromatic herb of western and northwestern North America, ranging from maritime Alaska southwards to Baja California Sur, and NOT what you imagined it to be).

Apparently the YBCA, in a thinly disguised attempt at placating the flower child community into driving East, from Berkeley, North from Willits and South from Venice, is now featuring some half baked exhibit curated to venerate his holiness, the ‘Dalai Lama”.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the Dalai Lama and he is certainly worth a walk down market street but besides what I think about him, the show is an unmitigated piece of shit.
Enough said, but despite what I think, at least you get to live vicariously through me, and experience, for a brief moment, what it’s like to live here, in this soiled City by the Bay.

So, I perfunctorily went thru this display, cursing my fate, invisibly mumbling words so rich in sexual degradation as it would shame me to repeat them here, with impunity….. when at the corner of my eyes, what do I see; a side chapel, a votive assembly, right there in front of me, a notebook, left by one of the artists, to share your thoughts and feelings with the him and the community; ” Bingo! bitches!”, I exclaimed, “tis not in vain that I ambulate….!”

Here you go, excerpts, with my comments (apparently nasty, I hear, DL:). From the book of life, at the YBCA. Actual comments from visitors, regular folks, like you and me, carefully noted:

We are the cusp of great AWAKENING“.
DL: Personally, I was thinking pandemic…

Let peace and love prevail all over the world. Let all people love each other beyond borders. Fight for humanity and not for land and religion.
DL: Do I detect a thinly disguised “Peace in the Middle East” message, massaged within an inch of saying it, but too “site specific”, too narrowly minded; I’ll replace it with a more non-denominational cliché?

The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams“.
DL: Fair enough, roll it, package it, and I’ll smoke it….

The world is a complicated place to live in! Yeah I know it blows, its pretty weird but it is“.
DL: I don’t know what to say but try a Garmin, it usually works for me, until it tells me to take the 10 to Venice at 9 in the mornin’ (LA drivers, you’ll know what I says, the rest of yous can ask them what I am just trying to say).

Reveal, expose, do not deny eternity.
DL: Expose eternity….! Is that a call to arms, a political statement or did you just parfumate with one of those samplers on sixth and Market.

Dear god,
Just as every stream and ocean are connected, some how I must believe…..its hard to believe in you. Bless the falling with compasion. The architecture of the sea creates its own laws; why can’t humanity create as a matter of architecture? Let us begin buildings peaceful society, NOW
-”
DL: Who does not want to chant a prayer that starts nice and easy and ends by screaming… “NOW”.

You fucking killed it brutha, you inspire the revolution. Burning free and bad…, love“.
DL: I am sensing some innate contradictions, but never-mind me, I am far too cerebral for this….

Words are not enough,enough,enough,enough,enough,enough,enough,enough,enough,enough,……….
DL: That’s the great thing about mantras, if you repeat them long enough, they start to mean something else.

Keep that spirit flowing breathe your art until your last breath. Oliver.”
DL: This one startled me for a micro-second. I thought to myself, did I sleep walk to this bitch and signed my name. No, that’s signed Oliver, not Olivier.

You are perfectly complete and whole“.
DL: (Accompanied With a drawing of what looks like a butt with flowing gas coming out of it). And I am a complete ass whole for thinking it.

I really like your exhieibit very much!” (Lightning bolt and a house drawn, a kid’s handwriting and drawing).
DL: He/she is innocent until Early Onset Adulthood.

Derek,
I have always been in awe of your creativeness. The passion for what you do always shine thru. Don’t ever stop believing in your capabilities.
You are a true artist. I knew this from the day you were born.
Love and forever
Yours forever yours sincerelly,
Mom.

DL: This one is a little tricky, as the artist’s name is actually spelled Derik, not Derek, so I am to presume that his own mother does not know how to spell her son’s name, or she did not get the memo as to why Derek is now called Derik; or some clever little trickster wrote this, but failed to properly read the wall’s” “My name is..and I did this…”

Derek,
You are now an art fag
Welcome to the club. Vital power takes you right there wherever there is, Leighton, Dad

DL: So dad is in on this too, but I find his message a little more masculine, a little more type A, in a gentle sort of way. Go get the “WHEREVER” Derek….!! I mean, Derik…!

I am done, I am complete
DL: and someone else wrote next to it, making my work easier, but more indirectly You are a fucking hippie

Thank you brother, I am so proud of you and your vision to wake each and everyone of us from the dream into the living dream of our own potential. Many blessings- reverence.
DL: Shoot the messenger, and the message.

Whoahhhh, whoahh, wwe,…..whoahh, wwwaa,….
DL: Next time I am in a museum I’ll shoot for the orgasm, the wine and cheese buffet sucks anyway.

I honor the place in you where the entire universe dwells. I honour the place in you that is of light, love thruth & of peace. When you are in that place in you and I am in that place in me. We are one. Namaste, Infinite gratitude & love
DL: Hey brother, I want to come with you but before we begin, please to point me towards the nearest consulate.

Wubba wubba ….Wubba wubba ….Wubba wubba ….Wubba wubba ….
DL: The afterglow, I presume….

DL: and to conclude, MY PERSONAL FAVORITE:

I want to face fuck that girl in the video, she’s hot“,
DL:Comment circled and note added next to it ; ” Wow, how sad and insulting that that is all you got out of all this love and work. Micah(the girl in the video) the artist’s wife.
DL: No comment…..

Epilogue:

As I stepped out of the side show and into the lobby, it was now filled with old ladies, when before it had been empty. The place now smelled like chlorine, that public pool smell old people tend to retain after bobbing in it, to sooth the years away. I presume the YBCA was part of the day, a retirement tour date.

Being of less than sound mind, and urgently needing to pee, I made my way to the latrines but overshot and ended up in the women’s bathroom. After vainly looking for urinals, it finally dawned on me that I was in the wrong place. I retraced my steps, only to run into an old lady just about to step into the man’s toilets. She had seen me go in the ladies’ room and wrongly assumed the other door was where she also needed to do, her business.

How ironic, to get all turned around at the YBCA, where every other exhibit is about some gender specific group show, exploring some sort of gender based “ism-é”, or, “Feminism and the subversion of identity, bodies that matter: On the discursive limits of sex”.
…..humm, remind me not to have sex with that one, too damn intimidating.

PS: MDM, I wrote this one with you in mind, hope it helps lift your spirits, and Alyson too, they had a bit of a rough week.

Ista quidem est!

flavia

…………… those affected foragers, manipulating other, less disingenuous characters, elephantine rogues and agitators who rise to pomp and circumstance by playing to that imminent and gullible mind, of a market of believers.

Perpetrators, thinly disguised speculators, obstructionist and talented frocks, biding the acrimonious bile of some authority or power: The backslapper, apple polisher, flatterer and glad hander; within whose easy compliance lies the carbonized core of a hateful, bullying and fearful deceiver; a coddling messenger who seeks compliant listeners, like so many fools before them in respectful demeanor…. you shall forgive me, should you derive any pleasure from thy efforts, but ….. ambition often puts men upon doing the meanest offices; so climbing is performed in the same posture as crawling.” Jonathan Swift.

“Bah, fucking, humbug..!”

What have we done to deserve this? First they put a fucking idiot in office, procreate like bush rabbits… and now this….. Enough already! and the fucking thing lights up too, aaargh!

Yo, Kincade, where is that IED when you really it, I mean, really…. Thomas, next year, I promise, I am signing you up for:….. “The Running of the Car Bombs”…., and please, paint thy bird finger, and shove it up where it don’t light up; I beg you, please….!

kinky

Stick and Steak…..

What if, and if only, the intromittent sexual organ wasn’t just, a spongiform, but a muscle, prone to serve the same functions, as to produce both frequent and infrequent, voluntary and involuntary, autonomic obfuscations?

And furthermore, I am to presume that he is just simply trying to pop off the Stick and Stay, and indicate that he is indeed ready for a carvin’…..

y
Photo: Per Bernal

Hardy Bush.

Once again I find myself on Market and 16th, browsing Books Inc. As frequent readers of this electronic entity know, I am a male hetero living “In the Ghaytto”, in San Francisco. My sources tell me that the Castro is being gentrified my breeders, as older gay men leave, sadly, to relocate to less expensive pastures, Guerneville namely, at least that’s the word on the street. Anyway, that’s besides the point as I am here to discuss erotigay, as I stumble upon it, or rather, as it stumbles upon me. As previously mentioned I am quite fond of most gay specific imagery and seek it out every weekend, after coffee (on n’est pas des cochons, on se leve vers huit heures et demi le samedi).

As an aside and just in case you are reading me from a non Judeo-Christian country, we in the West have a holiday which yearly celebrates the virgin birth of a man also know as Jesus Christ, AKA ,JESUS, Jesus fucking Christ, Geeeez…uss Christ almighty!!!; anyway you get the idea. Christmas is a time of joy and gift giving in our country and come December 25th, we shower those we love with, quite literally, millions of tons of joy and gifts. I feel compelled to mention this as Books inc is peddling its annual Christmas selection of published gayrotica. This makes for wonderful perusing. I love it.

Upon entering I immediately came upon the new Harry Bush book “Hard Boys”. Whoaaaa! I very much like it. I won’t review it here since I do not do that kind of thing but you can find one here. Harry Bush’s work reminds me of what a talented pupil might have been sketching to stave off ennui, in Mrs. Perkins high school chemistry. Don’t let the cover fool you, crack it open and check out the packaged goods within. It’s definitely worth a look see.

yy

Marsasart….or, Buford Herring’s Q3.

I am currently developing a line of photography based video games with Atari. This up coming video gaming library will be available for purchase on this site in Q3.

The franchise’s titles we are currently developing and market testing are being quickly expanded to satisfy the needs of the gaming and discerning visual creator’s library.

Titles available in Q3 :

“Terry’s Pro Shooter 4”: Join Terry Richardson and shoot socialites and celebrities in New York’s heavily defended upper East Side social gatherings . Join Terry and shoot your wad on your gallerist’s tits and fornicate with up to 16 online players, featuring never before seen multi-player hotel-animatronics. New “T4™” joy sticks, deliver unmatched social climbing and positioning while you surf Lexington and 85th, survive a debutante’s dream body and join the “Crank Gang” to roam deserted streets.

“I’m Diane Arbus, bitch!”: Join Diane Arbus and Joel Meyerowitz as they challenge you to make your mark in the fast moving world of street photography, capture the elusive with startling flash photography, evade polices and street sweeps. Dive in an unprecedented 353 levels of “Street’s” and “Hobo-photography”. Redeem camera credit anthologies or clash with angry mobs in ‘The Grid”, in level 3.

“June’s Weddin’ 3?. Capture lifetime memories, indulge in our virtual 3D wedding planning and catering and try out our “Brother’s Speech Slurring” technology, catch the garter and bone aunt Mary. But Avoid our “Dry Heaves’” pit to fly to honeymooning Tahiti, but plan it well or beware of version 3’s “Her Hidden Newly Hitched Neurosis™” .

” SS-ex Freaky”, Join Michio Nobuyoshi and capture “The Money Shot™”. Explore your sexual identity within our 7 multi-player levels of split-screen love nut busting 3D virtual reality. Our unprecedented “Scratch and Sniff™” and online avatar slut technology gives you a unique 360 intensity and unheard off directorial gaming abilities.

“Call of Art Basel 3?. Follow your favorite artists and critics to Basel and Miami, drink appleteenies and make your assistants fly economy. Virtual “You Sell Them Larry™” and 3D horn rim technology. Navigate our new multi-player online HD booth technology and live the breathlessly real, contemporary cinematic fury of collectors, artists and critics.

“Conde Nasty 3?: Travel French counties for Conde Nasty and shoot lifestyle of real Caucasian “Hottie”. Our “Quaint™” technology will have your eating organics and driving antique French Citroen 2CVs. Pose near lavender fields, smiling country bumpkins and 300 kinds of stinky cheeses. Restore your peace and harmony with our new Euro-3D virtual realities.
Choose from one of our twelve traveling possibilities but start with “Richy Rich” or “Bobo Pastorialist”, and then move on to level three and “Landed Gentry”. Graduate to ” Grand Thai Whore Mongery”.

This game is also available in travel Adrenaline, Medical and Sexual tourist; breath taking gaming combinations of :”I’m Diane Arbus, bitch!”, ” SS-ex Freaky” and “Conde Nasty 3?. Shoot those adorable Guatemalan hill ladies or “Run for your life in Karachi”.

more to come….. Stay tuned to further developments and to all our upcoming gaming possibilities.

“Proud and Prejudiced”.

Since I only came to this country when I was fourteen, it stands to reason that I spent the better part of my formative years in the country of my nativity; France namely. The country which gave you the “freedom frie”*, a healthy love of ridicule and what some might contemptuously taunt as, a shallow infatuation with the sumptuous.

The later, but a reverence for craftsmanship, and a refined sense of a life well achieved, and by that I do not mean, the incessant pursuit of the feckless riches which we seem to so abundantly revere in this country, but an almost obsessive love of perfection. Because a living, is better appreciated when your hands produce an object of beauty, rather than the blood they once shed over the forced labor, king and country so cruelly expropriated in salt, and tears.

It made for a land greened and rooted in craftsmanship, only to reflect the brilliance of a nation and the humanity contained within; a trait, deeply ingrained into the french psyche. In France, the artisan and the thinker are esteemed and worshiped like no other, save for Japan, may be!

As I was saying, having spent half of these first fourteen years in a Parisian suburb(the rest in a Corsican village), I never, as much as batted an eye when the French Communist party would take to the streets and chant up and down Parisian streets, or strike the country into a stand still. I saw the communists as just another stitch in the fabric of my own birth country, another voice within our politically french cacophony. Consequently, when I first came to New York’s Duchess county, the visceral McCarthyism of these here Yankees, save for a few contrarians, neither here nor there nor yonder, made for some pleasantly stupefying head scratching to this teenage creed.

What was the meaning of these North American dogmatists, these ante-bellish certainties? Communism? How could this mirrored Narcissus, to their own puritanical absolutes, could possibly have been confused for anything else but another one of man’s own self absorbed tyrannies? What was it about the American psyche which demanded a murderous end to the constraints of someone else’s philosophy?

Was it the fear of those nuclear tipped flying machines, or the intellectual fear to compete with another, less fortunate citizenry, trying to brake loose from the tyrants, real and imagined, they had been made to worship; in duchesses and counties, where land wasn’t a plenty and the natives ever so pliably sickened by a battery of ship born diseases?
A continent twice the size of the known universe, ripe for the Christian taking, and so it goes, no one to argue with, except the remorse and the guilt, but nothing the confessional couldn’t fix, but not until those well meaning, god fearing Christianialists, came to realize that tilling and claiming such fertility, took more than a plow and crucifixes; it also took a people whose skin came better and more readily accustomed to working, in these sub-tropics.

Did we really, need afore mentioned intestinal rhapsody to introduce the poetic politics of Communism’s favorite opiated lyrics. Probably not, but nevertheless, this chant’s call to equality seems but a sad recall to the principles of our two mutually wounded and competing philosophies. I guess it never hurts to look back at the twentieth century, or the 16th, and remember that human dissonance makes for the inexorable furtherance and pursuit, of life, death, and the murderously brutal persuasions, of the living. Nevertheless, The International “is” a beautiful song, especially when harmonized acoustically.

Here is a link to the lyrics, so that you may sing along, in English or in French, given that, afterall, the tune itself was originally written in the French I first spoke, not the English I seconded, in Duchess county.

[display_podcast]

* It is claimed that a belgium born man, by the name of Parmentier, is to be blamed for that culinary epiphany, but who’s counting?

You ain’t no Condi, part deux…

New Web Site TestTo complement the post below as well as announce my intentions of personally redesigning my site, I had just wanted to add a few comments to the post below, to further refine my thoughts.

When I tuned in to “A Photo Editor” this morning I was getting a haircut. Knowing full well that the potential for hits and track-backs had been greatly heightened I promptly tore off the stylist’s robe and rushed home to post below. The resulting “do” was less than symmetrical but Jennie got a kick out of it, and besides I quickly returned so she could resume and make it just so.

As I was saying the hardest part of survival as a photographer is accepting your work’s failure to produce results. You keep repeating to yourself that some day, somehow, they will all come to their senses and finally understand what it is you think you are doing. Unfortunately, we cannot work in a vacuum, divorced from the times and the fashions which so often dictate how we must think and create to earn a living.

All is great under Heaven’s banners but financial recognition* rides a very thin line, and the more there are of us, the sharper and razor thin it is.

A more perfect metaphor for this condition might be better explained by drawing upon a non too subtle parallel with the Amazon: As you may know, there are no “large” predators in the Amazon as the diversity and abundance of rain forest life can only survive and thrive if, and only if, it becomes, over eons, smaller and more specialized.
The Amazon is a desert full of life and only those who can reduce their size survive: There are only a few large predators in the Amazon because the ecosystem cannot sustain them, as a result, random selection favored smaller, more nimble predators. These are well know facts to biologists and zoologists but little observed by artists and other such parasites.

So, until you somehow manage to become the creative primate’s equivalent of “The Jaguar”, you will have to learn how to stay small, nimble and specialized. Those skills will come in handy when self doubt, failure, life, death and the Santa Anas burned down you little piggy’s house.
Until you manage to reach the top of the food chain, you will need to feed on the canopy’s lower terraces. The trick is to accept failure promptly and adjust to the never ebbing cultural tsunami that is “Sparta”. May be some day you’ll make waves of your own but in the meantime you will need to be able to run for the hills and distill your moonshine with no other company but your own.

As stated below, I have no intention of stopping the work I am presently doing but I need to find alternate ways to fund it. A new, more “visually acceptable” and “a propos”, body of work is a good way to do so, as long as it let’s others in, on the festivities. Car jacking will have to wait until I am good and ready.

I have put considerable amounts of thought into this in the past few months and have come up with a plan to rescue this faltering financial house. If I stick to it, I’ll be fine, but that might be the hardest part of this upcoming trip. Staying happy in this business is learning to dance the very fine line between the ideal and the mundane, insults and promises.

* There are other forms as we know but without capital there is little chance of continuation, especially as a photographer. This ain’t no cheap profession.

You ain’t no Condoleezza Rice….

Overseen in San Francisco: On Castro and Market, a homeless man pulled out his member in front of “Pottery Barn” and tried spraying the crowd with a perfectly formed jet of urine. All the while screaming: “You ain’t no Condoleezza Rice, motherfuckin’ bitch…!“. This gives new meaning to Colin Powel’s famously adage to W: “You break it, you buy it”.
So, “Condi”, I guess that means, in a cosmic sort of way, ” that if the man tries to piss on your diplomacy, you ‘d better get out of its way”; but it seems that you probably already knew this.

In other news: A gratuitous and graphic image to complement above post. NOT AT WORK…! I just thought it had some, how to say, psychic similitudes to the afore mentioned scenics. I’ll have to admit, I collect ridiculous images like these.
Upon viewing, please reverse roles immediately to appreciate as it is truly meant to be. I just couldn’t find a similarly graphic image where the sexes had been flipped to illustrate my point appropriately.

Mixed Greens.

mix

This essay was written and is being used by permission. Father Ignacio Kotsakis, pictured above (not a pseudonym), is the author of the treatise you are about to read–:

Begin transcript:

“I am a cold war baby and for what it’s worth the Soviet Union used to be an altogether appropriate and useful reflection of our collective imaginations; kinda made you wipe your nose on the curtains more carefully, so to speak….
Some may say, that it’s still the case, that nothing has changed, but they would have to prove it and show me these are not simply more opiated promises. From my vantage point as an abbot, this country and most of its western approaches have become much more socially and religiously conservative; and I don’t mean it compared to the sixties, or in response to its excesses. It is not, as they meekly proclaim, the other arc of the pendulum’s swing, a spasmodic twitch, a reappraising of the consequences.

I won’t use the current administration to bolster my pieces, since so many have already made very good cases against these new century national polices, but simply put, these times are not, as they pretend to claim, a counterpoint to an overly liberal society; but a long standing need which man seems to indulge in, and often recklessly; to approach reason and humanists from an irrationally privileged and entitled need to dominate our fellow bedmates.

In the case of the United States, this was brought on by race and the perceived abuse of the concessions the majority felt they had made in good faith . Loosing some of their hard fought cultural, economic and political prizes reduced them to these great seething and consumptive masses. Law abidingly, they relented, because it had thankfully been civically ingrained, but they only did so because they intuitively sensed that the anger and hatred, of their formerly enslaved roommates, needed to be peaceably moderated.
The possible consequences of these continued inequities might just be too eminently catastrophic and brutish, to be confused for more of the same.
The rapid growth and economic prosperity of the 50s and 60s were about to be wiped clean, concessions had to be made, but not without consequences.
Legions sat bitterly and passively waiting for a lovable and popular Moses, to deliver them from the compromises they felt they had been forced to make. And It came, ever so cleverly disguised as an enlightened sheep, in economically lupine clothes; but best of all it was sincere, self convinced and soothingly reassuring to these fatherless masses.

The political shift began to swing from a society where the individual pretended to be prized and adulate for questioning the state, to elevating him for his ability to beat it, cash it and love it. In short order, opportunists, gurus and self anointed abbots began the oft mentioned and inevitable process of ridiculing the very ideas, they had espoused with such evangelistic and vigorous zeal. They began to espouse commercial incentivistic as a better and more patriotic way. From idealism to embracing “The Prince” in less than 30 days. Injecting religiosity into the brand, to transform it into a new form of political thinking, I might venture to name: “National Social Narcissism”.

A political ideology based on speculatory enthusiasm, religious persuasions, self evasion; and on the religiously implicit acceptance, of an eminently pliable and disinterested populace; geographically gated and isolated, and continuously marinated in a mildly anxious chemical haze, masquerading as change.”

PS: I also found this while surfing.

“On a bag of frozen peas”.

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I had originally posted this poem last June about my friend Steve, who I assure you, is nothing but an entirely fictionally character and in no way bares any resemblance to himself or anyone else. I had appropriate his name and relative likeness to allow me to post the original poem below, which had been crafted to reflect my uninformed and entirely fictional views and opinions of the Art World; of which I am not a bona fide, plenipotentiary and recognizably known member.
Nevertheless, since it was one of my best poems “ever”, it really needed to be re-posted in its original form, devoid of potentially and offensively injurious references meant to humiliate, denigrate or disparage Steve’s character, honor or person.

I shall post it first, before the perniciously ironic rant directly following this short, yet lyrical narrative epic sonnet(!). Furthermore, should you decamp and choose to browse greener, less obscure pastures, I shan’t blame it entirely on you, but rather on the interminably long vituperations which follows this decidedly and purposely rank poetic odyssey. It is, I admit, long and tortuous even to those of you who might have by now become better accustomed to my professional and personal sense for self-ridicule. Those of you who may not have taken the time to ease into these mindful peregrinations might find it pretentious, offensive and bitterly pompous :

The Poem:

The Art World ; it’s like….

It’s like snatch; but sweeter
It’s got swatch; but sooner
It’s got stash; but bigger

It’s like smack but stronger
It’s like you; but better
It’s like Yak; but butter

It’s like; nice but later….
It’s got racks; like “Hooters”
It’s got back; like looters

It’s like grass and fiddlers…
It’s like ass, and fingers
It’s like mass but longer….

Next:

I decide to remove the second part of this entry and will probably not be reposting it. I am a big fan of my own ramblings but finally decided against it.

What’s that sound in your eye?

dusty.jpg#

Since all we get these days are data files and images, is it too much to ask to get to know what Mars sounds like….?

Like any self respecting fan of all things celestial, I take great pleasure in reveling in the facts that no matter how self-obsessed or delusional I may get, there is always a place, far from where I dwell, where I can go and marvel at the unmentionable vastness of the known universe.

A few weeks back, in early July, I went camping in the Sierra Nevadas where, as luck would have it, this god fearing, prostate packing, 42 year old’s tool, made him get up and take a mid-summer’s night piss on the closest evergreen he could see. Not too close to my tent as one might suffer the consequences….. le lendemain…..but not too far either, as to not fall, and off that precipitous cliff he might have imagined. Being that it was the middle of a dark and moonless night, it seemed reasonable to assume that a precipice might be harder to anticipate if your neck is cranked way back, looking up and away.

I like to wonder as much as the next guey**, but plunging to my death while relieving myself, is a stunt I’d rather wait to taste just before I finally take my last steps and kiss The Little Prince’s cape…… But when I do, we’ll kiss and greet on both cheeks, and I’ll finally get to piss on that snake, the one that looks like those hats men used to wear, before JFK caught a bullet with the back of his head (if he had worn a hat, that fateful day in Dallas, instead of baring his head to an assassin’s rifled gaze, he might have lived out a more lead free and prosperous presidency).

There’s nothing like looking up at the sky and pissing on the ground beneath it. There’s still nothing like reminding the forest and the beasts that a man will pay twenty bucks to stay the night, eat a steak and drive home the next day. It’s not every day that he gets to piss on a stump beneath the Milky way……Just another way to further remind this here Universe, that free will and a tank of gasoline brought me here, while ‘they’, will spend the rest of their natural living days trying to open garbage pales or chase down four legged protein shakes…….
At the very least, not bothering to treck on over to the latrines, at three o’clock in the morning, feels better than splitting open my chin on the bathroom sink…….and it’s good way to keep my feminine side humming………since whatever estrogen I have coursing through my veins needs as much tending, as the peaches in Voltaire’s silk breeches; those same treatises where Buddha meets Plato meets Rousseau meets snow globes or the cold wet steel of a French Guillotine (I have a hard time believing that Voltaire did much gardening and will presume that he meant it metaphorically).

As I stood there, I thought about the fact that there are millions of great images of Mars, Saturn and the Moon***, but that galactic sound files are not that easily found or downloaded on the information super highway. I understand, but regret that because there are no molecules for sound waves to travel within the vacuum of space, that there is no sweet celestial music for us to hear. Nevertheless, Mars has an atmosphere and that ought to be worth at least an MP3.

The only space recording I have ever heard came from what the Cassini/Huygens probe sent back and recorded while descending into Titan’s atmosphere. That was sweet… but in the future, can I please listen to other atmospheres.

In other news, landslide and meteor strikes; how on earth are we supposed to get out of the way if there is not a sound to be heard on either side of the Moon.

* Multi-year mission to Saturn and it’s moons.
** Guey. That would loosely translate as “dude”, in Spanish.
*** Hell, as we speak, they are sending a giant camera to Pluto which will reach the icy body in a little more than a decade.
# Also commonly known as the Red Eye nebula.

“Post-Jungian empirical naming conventions and cultural appropriations in French Canadian contemporary Photography”.

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I am currently in the process of writing and editing a white paper for submission in the “Dawson City, Boeuf/Meyer/Ju’dGazon, Neo-pictorialist Ontological Filipo-Acadist journal and foundation”; an on-line, bilingual, Canadian bimonthly publication and society, dedicated to the advancement and promotion of contemporary post-Jungian cross-gender boundaries in French Canadian neo-pictorialists. Here are a few excerpts in lieu of a preview…..

In other notes, I originally delivered a ‘pre-print’ version of this paper, in lecture form, to the Supreme First-Nation Tribal Gerontology Leadership Council for the Preservation and Advancement of Pre-Columbian Lingual Atrabilism and Gender Representation in Sub-Arctic Agrarian Atavistic societies.*1

Synopsis:

“Post-Jungian empirical naming conventions and cultural appropriations in French Canadian contemporary Photography”. Authorship by Olivier Laude, ‘Proboscis Annum’ Post Doctoral recipient of the Judith Butler Gender Prognosis Honorary academic medal, awarded yearly to an outstanding post-doctoral candidate involved in the promotion and dissemination of academic excellence in the fields of Lingual Atrabilism and Pre-Columbian gender representation in sub-arctic neo-agrarian consanguineous societies.

Begin excerpt*2:

Post-Jungian literary critics have only recently started dissecting the contemporary ontology of sub-arctic still-pictorialists and are presently adopting interdisciplinary gender-branding polities to deconstruct social and cultural post-reconstructivist cross-gender appropriation theories in urban and pre-urban socio-representative agrarian societies. Once the exclusive neo-conformist stomping grounds of post-modern gender theorists these institutionalized social constructions, or “artifacts”, have recently been adopted by Acadians, who, ten to twelve years ago started using the pictorial representation of their “non de plume” as boundary cannons; itself a revolutionary and transformative ontological construct designed to outline the regenerative nature of perceived cultural exploitations at the hand of filipo-lingual deconstructivists…………..Unwittingly, subsequent generations of Acadian pictorialists quantified these empirical and cultural appropriative naming conventions within the same socialized interpretative and anti-deterministic “artifacts” as their filipo-lingual theoritical nemesis……….More recently, an ethno-political fracas over the abuse and overt use of Antonio Gramsci’s theory of hegemony has both prefigured and enriched the current social and resulting filipo-Acadian discourse by injecting much needed Durkeimian dialectics between Filipo-lingual pictorialists and Filipo-Acadists……….. Might we be living in a time when these feuding and long standing epistemological rifts between Filipo-pictorialists and Filipo-Acadists are to be resolved once and for all ? We shall see……

In the meantime, I am looking forward to seeing you all next spring at the 53rd annual convention of the “Dawson City, Boeuf/Meyer/Ju’dGazon, Neo-pictorialist Ontological Filipo-Acadist foundation”, in Dawson City.

*1-I understand this method is unorthodox but ‘in the text’ annotations were deemed necessary to these pre-journaled intrusions .
*2-Courtesy of the “Dawson City, Boeuf/Meyer/Ju’dGazon, Neo-pictorialist Ontological Filipo-Acadist foundation”.

Dredging canals.

Here are samples keyphrases internauts have used on popular search engines to find me. I harvested these by accessing my very own web statistics. I’ll have to plug them in myself and see what transpires as some of them seem rather unorthodox. Some keyphrases are mundane and to be expected while a few others appear to be the figment of sleep walking incidents.

olivier laude, fifi abdou, olivier laude blog, filles des mers du sud, laude, www.olivierlaude.com, filles des mere du sud, tippler pigeon video, boris yeltsin, loretta lux, ky michaelson, oliver laude, weatherford cliff notes khan, monkey train dot, 206, photographer people, shakespeare candle maker, photography sf olivier, dear diary introductions, taryn simon philosophy, taryn simon philosophy, damien hirst, small old, the edge of insanity, alec soth, play the oculist, fairy grandparents, candle makers shakespeare, les filles des mers du sud, magma ghandi, forbes magazine photographer, jeff wall hedge fund, grass waffen-ss new yorker, my trip to kabul, images des mers du sud, fuck, millbrook new york, video archives dear leader, cipro, easy manner, dear diary intro, raining rats, tahiti images, 105, loretta lux scope, what would trotsky do, blog/olivierlaude.com, tight ass, has anthropology influenced weatherford s view khan, nexium, filles de bora bora, leader fuck, loretta lux curriculum vitae, dear leader olivier, how i spent the war grass, jeff wall photographic tableau, tenuate, up magma com laude history.

Photography is a beautiful lady.

For the past fifteen years, I have had the pleasure of seeing the photography industry transformed into more of the same. One thing by now is certain, it’s that, if anything, necessity is the mother of invention and invention is the bastard chump of imitation. Consequently, and if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery it might just so happen that flattery is to photography what imitation is to its means of production.
Categorizing is by no means one of my strongest points. Generally, any attempts at organizing my thoughts rapidly lead to roam.
So, if you, out of boredom, have decided to read on, you will surely come across my inner curmudgeons. No need to point them out, they are already known. I was born with an extra helping of curmudgeon; making any agreement to provisionally suspend judgement, in exchange for the promise of entertainment; a cantankerous proposition . So here it is, Photography as I see it, it’s all the buzz, and yet, I can barely hear it:

1- Nombrilism (fancy for navel gazing):

Historically speaking, these folks would have done well in the British Navy, given their love of uniforms, square meals and the sea’s deep blue immensity. Practitioners of this dark and thoughtful art are beloved, the world over, by sadists, MTV and non-profits. Naturally, they generally remain unseen when your cabin needs a good sweeping.

2- Fetishism:

Itself a great sin, Fetishism is undergoing a revival of sorts as an offshoot of afore mentioned category. Modern Fetishism is a daftly concocted reduction designed to cleverly shift attention from the navel gazer and his/her reflection to the relationship between them and their material possessions. This is the cult of the “Casual observation”. It is devised to bring attention to the everyday travails of inanimate objects.

Casuallity, as it is also known, is defined as the relationship between one object (the casual) and another object (the casualette); itself the consequence of the first object casually informing, suffice it to say, the narrative* tension of their respective and repetitive daily usage. In other words, if said “Casual” cannot be easily defined by its relationship with its afore mention “Casualette”, an observation may become delightfully and casually complex. Nevertheless, should such an unfortunate object occur, quickly turn lone object North North West and chant: ” I don’t know you that way”.

To be continued….maybe…!
* I’ll get to that later.

Dear Diary. Let me begin with an introduction.

Born:
In France, in Lille, France, October 2nd, 1964.
Wild ass is slaughtered and turned into sausage to celebrate afore mentioned nativity. Quadruped’s name withheld from public records.
I shared this date, but not the sausage, with Mahatma Ghandi, Sting, Charlie Chaplin and umpteen other bitches.

Important dates:
Summer 1970: Buggers first goat as rite of passage in Milaria; a leper colony bathed several hundred nautical miles in the Mediterranean sea. Goat is subsequently butchered and polished off by villagers in bacchanalian feast reminiscent of Pliny the Elder: A roman historian whose claim to fame was his pyroclastic entombment in Pompei; not to be confused by the ” Pyro-Classics”, Virgil’s first poem -a four books lyrical odyssey, ostensibly about farming, which he wrote during the terrible civil war following Julius Caesar’s untimely death in the BC (that’s hip hop, for Before Christ).

1968 to 1979: Suffers the wrath of God in numerous Jesuit schools but survives with personality cult intact, besides his being easily medicated and plagued by minor neuroses. Psychosis avoided by vacationing with fairy grandparents, herds of Bovidae, honey bees and like minded urchins; in pastoral mountainous ranges.

1979: Ships to the United states as wretched human cargo in container ship from Le Havre, France, to Brooklyn shipyards; escapes from said metal box with mini blow torch, like creme brulee, but harder.
High School in Millbrook, New York.
Enjoyed Physics, Biology and rearranging ice flows on frozen Hudson in failed attempts to communicate with clouds that looked like hamsters.
Became very cross country runner, masturbation a must. Great loss of DNA.
English language mastered; further DNA disbanded.

Education:
Skidmore College
BS in Art History
Class of 1986.
Graduated Magma Cum Laude in Art History, but dem bitches did not award a prize for that, so no cigar for this record.
Magma cum MaryJane. I’d like to thank the Otis elevator company for providing me with a safe and secure place to smoke between classes. Je voudrai m’excuser aupres des handicapes.
Failed philosophy twice, some photography classes….
Graduate with a 1.7 GPA; I tried to do better but my subsequent corporate sponsorship with the Otis elevator company conflicted with regularly scheduled classes.
Ate large amounts of cream of wheat; cause: no money. It’s nutritious and nourishious.
Bring water to a boil, dump in stomach size lump of cream of wheat, cook until good enough to consummate, flavor with glucose heaps, eat 3 times a day. Ruminate.
Lived in the woods in turquoise 1978 VW van but sometimes parked on school property. Showered irregularly.

Employment:

1986-1993

Managing Editor.

Ax Grinding Quarterly: A Journal dedicated to the use of hand-held implements used for felling trees or chopping wood.

1993-1993 and a half:
Publius Ovidius Naso biannual festival coordinator and CEO:

Duties included discussing Ebonics with or without Bernard Henry Lévy, french philosopher and noted intellectual. Often referred today as BHL, Lévy was born in Béni-Saf, Algeria on 5 November 1949. He became part of a group of French intellectuals who were disenchanted with communist and socialist responses to the near revolutionary upheavals in the France of May 1968. It articulated a fierce and uncompromising moral critique of Marxist and socialist dogmas years prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Frequent and often epistemological arguments lead to a palace coup and to his forced removal as Chairman and CEO of Publius Ovidius Naso.
Publius Ovidius Naso filed for bankruptcy in 1994 under a cloud of suspicious financial wrong doings, money laundering, and naive realism; itself a phenomenalist aberration rooted in empirical relativism.

1993 and a half- 1995

Special economic adviser and compliant side kick to his Majesty King Taufa’ahau™ (since 1965). The Friendly Republic of Tonga™.

Duties included shouting down Samoans, berating Tahitians and belittling those fools on Easter Island. Could have gone as far as deriding the “Good People of the Galapagos”™ but there is some kind of sanctuary there, crawling with leaf eaters. Adroitly advised the King to stick to bipeds, a euphemism, of course.
My position was terminated after a vicious, all out, tropical food and flotsam fight during Sunday service at ” Our Lady of Perpetual Desalination”. I was mercilessly set adrift on a jute raft from Nuku’alofa as punishment for my crimes but was picked up by a drunken Russian freighter plying the Cook Islands, trawling for signs of desperation.
Due to their severe inhibriation I was mistakenly identified for a wahine but once again managed to escape their advances by leaping onto a nearby Korean shrimp farmer. Those years with the traveling circus finally paid off as I became their favorite pet monkey; a perfect leap into the unknown but a brilliant career move.

1995-2001

Executive Pet Monkey to the Korean Ship farmer ” Atlantic Platypus”, a semi-aquatic bottom trawler with Liberian plates.

Duties included, pretending to be a coconut, peeling plantains, curling both lips to reveal a set of comedic brown teeth, massaging a wary crew with fish oil, collecting algae for the tender, which housed a magnificent exclusive spa and retreat. Other duties included translating “in screeches”™ what the lookout thought he was spotting, far off on the horizon, as well as delivering much needed supplies to Afghan refugees marooned on Christmas island (unfortunately, the irony was lost on our mostly Buddhist Kampuchean crew).

2001-Present

Managing Editor: ” Punjabi Represent”™,The Cole Valley Middle Aged Men’s Secret Society Magazine.

Duties include: Mixing bleach with ammonia, befriending pigeons to further my communication skills, shouting liftoff to my avian friends all the while encouraging them to reach for the sky, trampling underfoot and marching with penguins.

Special Skills:
Using agricultural metaphors in political speeches for the advancement of the hard of hearing and the Bisexual, Gay, Lesbian and Transgender community.
Making life deliberately hard for friends and family, so that they can redeem themselves through labor.
Legal latin. Try this at home: “Ab Initio, it should be said that there is a good prima facie case for my decision to forgo this curriculum vitae”.