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April 30th, 2007

At Parties, People Tell Me I'm Scary



At Parties, People Tell Me I'm Scary -

It's brilliant.

Brilliant?


Totally.

In, like, a real brilliance? Or a trash culture brilliance?


Trash culture.

Naturally.


Don't give me your elitism, man.

We're listening to the Die Hard song--


And you're dissing it.

I'm not.


You are.

Okay. Maybe just a little. The movies weren't that good.


I like his black sidekicks.

...


Oh, come on, grow a sense of humour.

It's not that I don't have a sense of humour. It's just--


Oh, god, here we go.

--Shut the fuck up. You're getting in the way of my rant.


Perish the thought.

Look, I'm just saying, it's easy to be brilliant in a trash culture way. All it takes is a little bit of humour and a reference to something that has absolutely no artistic quality. Where's the originality? Where's that pushing the boundary to make you go holy fuck! and feel as if the inside of your brain has been cracked the fuck open?

That's the shit I want and that's the shit I struggle to find.


I seem to remember someone here really liking that River Phoenix song.

Making fun of River Phoenix's death is totally different.


Riiiigght.

Fuck off.


So high and mighty and yet so low.

Just play the fucking song again.


The Wicked Abortionist



Abortionist Ann Lohman (a.k.a. Madame Restell) as imagined in the 13 March 1847 edition of the National Police Gazette.

(I'm currently doing a bit of research for a grant application. So I pause in the middle of one project to start looking into the subject of abortion. Fascinating stuff. Depressing, though. All the topics that interest me have a long, long history of conflict. Our society has spent so long telling us how to live, through race, through gender, through thought, through so much, that it can force a person to get good and fucked up. Cheery, huh?)