Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
now that's a boy band
I never knew the words to this song...makes a nice poem...
Breaking away with the beast of both worlds
A smile that you can't disguise
Every minute I keep finding
Clues that you leave behind.
Save me from these reminders
As if I'd forget tonight
This time la luna,
I light my torch and wave it for the...
New moon on monday
And a firedance through the night
I stayed the cold day with a lonely satellite
Thursday, March 12, 2009
alexander mcqueen
dark provocation, as wwd said. leigh bowery lives on. "One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art." - Oscar Wilde
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
must cut down on the sugar
but i just got the girls scout cookies i ordered at the office. ok after that...
Friday, March 6, 2009
greatness: jg ballard
WHAT I BELIEVE
I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.
I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.
I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our imaginations.
I believe in the mysterious beauty of Margaret Thatcher, in the arch of her nostrils and the sheen on her lower lip; in the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; in the haunted smiles of filling station personnel; in my dream of Margaret Thatcher caressed by that young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel watched by a tubercular filling station attendant.
I believe in the beauty of all women, in the treachery of their imaginations, so close to my heart; in the junction of their disenchanted bodies with the enchanted chromium rails of supermarket counters; in their warm tolerance of my perversions.
I believe in the death of tomorrow, in the exhaustion of time, in our search for a new time within the smiles of auto-route waitresses and the tired eyes of air-traffic controllers at out-of-season airports. I
believe in the genital organs of great men and women, in the body postures of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and Princess Di, in the sweet odors emanating from their lips as they regard the cameras of the entire world.
I believe in madness, in the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the lunacy of flowers, in the disease stored up for the human race by the Apollo astronauts.
I believe in nothing.
I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Duerer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.
I believe in the impossibility of existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.
I believe in adolescent women, in their corruption by their own leg stances, in the purity of their disheveled bodies, in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby motels.
I believe in flight, in the beauty of the wing, and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, in the stone thrown by a small child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen and midwives.
I believe in the gentleness of the surgeon's knife, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the loneliness of the sun, in the garrulousness of planets, in the repetitiveness or ourselves, in the inexistence of the universe and the boredom of the atom.
I believe in the light cast by video-recorders in department store windows, in the messianic insights of the radiator grilles of showroom automobiles, in the elegance of the oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs.
I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.
I believe in the derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.
I believe in the designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, the Berlin Fuehrerbunker, the Wake Island runways.
I believe in the body odors of Princess Di.
I believe in the next five minutes.
I believe in the history of my feet.
I believe in migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks.
I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.
I believe in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds.
I believe in the death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.
I believe in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.
I believe in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion.
I believe in pain.
I believe in despair.
I believe in all children.
I believe in maps, diagrams, codes, chess-games, puzzles, airline timetables, airport indicator signs.
I believe all excuses.
I believe all reasons.
I believe all hallucinations.
I believe all anger.
I believe all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.
I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.
I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.
I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.
I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our imaginations.
I believe in the mysterious beauty of Margaret Thatcher, in the arch of her nostrils and the sheen on her lower lip; in the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; in the haunted smiles of filling station personnel; in my dream of Margaret Thatcher caressed by that young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel watched by a tubercular filling station attendant.
I believe in the beauty of all women, in the treachery of their imaginations, so close to my heart; in the junction of their disenchanted bodies with the enchanted chromium rails of supermarket counters; in their warm tolerance of my perversions.
I believe in the death of tomorrow, in the exhaustion of time, in our search for a new time within the smiles of auto-route waitresses and the tired eyes of air-traffic controllers at out-of-season airports. I
believe in the genital organs of great men and women, in the body postures of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and Princess Di, in the sweet odors emanating from their lips as they regard the cameras of the entire world.
I believe in madness, in the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the lunacy of flowers, in the disease stored up for the human race by the Apollo astronauts.
I believe in nothing.
I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Duerer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.
I believe in the impossibility of existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.
I believe in adolescent women, in their corruption by their own leg stances, in the purity of their disheveled bodies, in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby motels.
I believe in flight, in the beauty of the wing, and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, in the stone thrown by a small child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen and midwives.
I believe in the gentleness of the surgeon's knife, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the loneliness of the sun, in the garrulousness of planets, in the repetitiveness or ourselves, in the inexistence of the universe and the boredom of the atom.
I believe in the light cast by video-recorders in department store windows, in the messianic insights of the radiator grilles of showroom automobiles, in the elegance of the oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs.
I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.
I believe in the derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.
I believe in the designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, the Berlin Fuehrerbunker, the Wake Island runways.
I believe in the body odors of Princess Di.
I believe in the next five minutes.
I believe in the history of my feet.
I believe in migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks.
I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.
I believe in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds.
I believe in the death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.
I believe in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.
I believe in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion.
I believe in pain.
I believe in despair.
I believe in all children.
I believe in maps, diagrams, codes, chess-games, puzzles, airline timetables, airport indicator signs.
I believe all excuses.
I believe all reasons.
I believe all hallucinations.
I believe all anger.
I believe all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.
I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.
sweet..tim sullivan
11 Things: 144 Things I Love
Tim Sullivan
Thursday, March 5, 2009
1. The sky to the east at sunrise. 2. ShamWow! 3. Iced coffee. 4. Fresca. 5. T. Rex. 6. Club Six. 7. "The Magnificent Seven." 8. Dirk McQuickly. 9. "The White Album." 10. 10cc. 11. Root beer. 12. Root Division. 13. Funston Ave. 14. Hubris. 15. Dustin Pedroia. 16. Jack Boulware. 17. Jack Kerouac.18. J. Georgie's Donuts, Teriyaki and Hamburger. 19. The pink elephants at Zeitgeist. 20. The Hemlock jukebox. 21. The Homestead jukebox. 22. Bicycles. 23. Home. 24. Mary Lynn Rajskub. 25. Okonomiyaki. 26. Dubaku. 27. Spoon. 28. Spooning. 29. Leaving. 30. Returning. 31. Burlingame Museum of Pez Memorabilia.
32. GETV. 33. The 33 bus. 34. David Ortiz. 35. Rich Aurilia. 36. Gonzo Grape Bubblicious. 37. Gonzo journalism. 38. .38 Special. 39. Sutro Baths. 40. Sutro Tower. 41. Mabu dofu. 42. Bouncer. 43. Bubbles. 44. Breaking rules. 45. Pedro Martinez. 46. Pancakes. 47. Darkness. 48. The Dark Room. 49. "Donnie Darko." 50. Shabu-shabu. 51. Poutine. 52. Protein. 53. "Damages." 54. Brutal honesty. 55. Tim Lincecum. 56. Moxie. 57. The Roxie. 58. Joan Jett. 59. Tina Weymouth. 60. "Neat Neat Neat." 61. Nihilism. 62. Narcissism. 63. Bibimbap. 64. Bartender Johnny Davis. 65. Virginia Woolf's "The Waves." 66. "I Don't Care Anymore." 67. Qwitter. 68. People who hate Muzak. 69. The Armory flags. 70. Oranger. 71. Oranges. 72. Lemons. 73. Lemonade. 74. Lemonheads' "Lick." 75. Lick-Wilmerding. 76. Ding Dongs. 77. 1977 Mopeds. 78. 1978.
79. "1979." 80. "Women and Children First." 81. "Fair Warning." 82. Philip K. Dick. 83. Charles Bukowski. 84. Coincidence. 85. Drama. 86. Dramamine. 87. Beer. 88. Meatwad. 89. Time capsules. 90. "Time the Avenger." 91. Running through the N-Judah tunnel. 92. Angus Young. 93. Neil Young. 94. Cy Young. 95. "Forever Young." 96. Innocence. 97. Incense. 98. Peppermints. 99. Irina Slutsky. 100. The Scorpions. 101. Trader Joe's. 102. Trader Sam's. 103. Trader Vic's. 104. Repercussions. 105. Reverberations. 106. The Replacements. 107. Pokey Reese. 108. The hokey pokey. 109. Health. 110. Insurance. 111. Health insurance. 112. Writing. 113. Rewriting. 114. Fretting. 115. Dave Chappelle. 116. Dave Roberts. 117. The James Gang. 118. Rick James. 119. Sweet Polly Purebred. 120. Underdog. 121. The Undertones. 122. Underwear. 123. Pants. 124. "24 Hour Revenge Therapy." 125. "Bivouac." 126. "Unfun." 127. Fun. 128. Jerry Harrison. 129. Jerry Roberts. 130. Robert Frost. 131. Robert Duvall. 132. Robert Levy. 133. The walls at Connecticut Yankee. 134. The golf course in Golden Gate Park. 135. The elevator at the Fillmore. 136. The elevators at the Westin St. Francis. 137. The nurses at St. Luke's. 138. Lust. 139. Hal Hartley's "Trust." 140. Rajon Rondo. 141. "Blue Rondo a la Turk." 142. Words. 143. Newspapers. 144. The sky to the west at sundown.
- Tim Sullivan, tsullivan@sfchronicle.com
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/03/05/NS1E165RSS.DTL
This article appeared on page F - 3 of the San Francisco Chronicle
Tim Sullivan
Thursday, March 5, 2009
1. The sky to the east at sunrise. 2. ShamWow! 3. Iced coffee. 4. Fresca. 5. T. Rex. 6. Club Six. 7. "The Magnificent Seven." 8. Dirk McQuickly. 9. "The White Album." 10. 10cc. 11. Root beer. 12. Root Division. 13. Funston Ave. 14. Hubris. 15. Dustin Pedroia. 16. Jack Boulware. 17. Jack Kerouac.18. J. Georgie's Donuts, Teriyaki and Hamburger. 19. The pink elephants at Zeitgeist. 20. The Hemlock jukebox. 21. The Homestead jukebox. 22. Bicycles. 23. Home. 24. Mary Lynn Rajskub. 25. Okonomiyaki. 26. Dubaku. 27. Spoon. 28. Spooning. 29. Leaving. 30. Returning. 31. Burlingame Museum of Pez Memorabilia.
32. GETV. 33. The 33 bus. 34. David Ortiz. 35. Rich Aurilia. 36. Gonzo Grape Bubblicious. 37. Gonzo journalism. 38. .38 Special. 39. Sutro Baths. 40. Sutro Tower. 41. Mabu dofu. 42. Bouncer. 43. Bubbles. 44. Breaking rules. 45. Pedro Martinez. 46. Pancakes. 47. Darkness. 48. The Dark Room. 49. "Donnie Darko." 50. Shabu-shabu. 51. Poutine. 52. Protein. 53. "Damages." 54. Brutal honesty. 55. Tim Lincecum. 56. Moxie. 57. The Roxie. 58. Joan Jett. 59. Tina Weymouth. 60. "Neat Neat Neat." 61. Nihilism. 62. Narcissism. 63. Bibimbap. 64. Bartender Johnny Davis. 65. Virginia Woolf's "The Waves." 66. "I Don't Care Anymore." 67. Qwitter. 68. People who hate Muzak. 69. The Armory flags. 70. Oranger. 71. Oranges. 72. Lemons. 73. Lemonade. 74. Lemonheads' "Lick." 75. Lick-Wilmerding. 76. Ding Dongs. 77. 1977 Mopeds. 78. 1978.
79. "1979." 80. "Women and Children First." 81. "Fair Warning." 82. Philip K. Dick. 83. Charles Bukowski. 84. Coincidence. 85. Drama. 86. Dramamine. 87. Beer. 88. Meatwad. 89. Time capsules. 90. "Time the Avenger." 91. Running through the N-Judah tunnel. 92. Angus Young. 93. Neil Young. 94. Cy Young. 95. "Forever Young." 96. Innocence. 97. Incense. 98. Peppermints. 99. Irina Slutsky. 100. The Scorpions. 101. Trader Joe's. 102. Trader Sam's. 103. Trader Vic's. 104. Repercussions. 105. Reverberations. 106. The Replacements. 107. Pokey Reese. 108. The hokey pokey. 109. Health. 110. Insurance. 111. Health insurance. 112. Writing. 113. Rewriting. 114. Fretting. 115. Dave Chappelle. 116. Dave Roberts. 117. The James Gang. 118. Rick James. 119. Sweet Polly Purebred. 120. Underdog. 121. The Undertones. 122. Underwear. 123. Pants. 124. "24 Hour Revenge Therapy." 125. "Bivouac." 126. "Unfun." 127. Fun. 128. Jerry Harrison. 129. Jerry Roberts. 130. Robert Frost. 131. Robert Duvall. 132. Robert Levy. 133. The walls at Connecticut Yankee. 134. The golf course in Golden Gate Park. 135. The elevator at the Fillmore. 136. The elevators at the Westin St. Francis. 137. The nurses at St. Luke's. 138. Lust. 139. Hal Hartley's "Trust." 140. Rajon Rondo. 141. "Blue Rondo a la Turk." 142. Words. 143. Newspapers. 144. The sky to the west at sundown.
- Tim Sullivan, tsullivan@sfchronicle.com
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/03/05/NS1E165RSS.DTL
This article appeared on page F - 3 of the San Francisco Chronicle
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