richard allen morris

brian cooper

copkiller

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

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

ken weathersby

great stuff...check him out

argyle pattern

john chamberlain couch

must cut down on the sugar

but i just got the girls scout cookies i ordered at the office. ok after that...

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.

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

patrick hill

Christopher Miles says: A sculptor I know, who came out of art school at the height of minimalism in the late 1960s, once told me how a next generation of artists began to realize the impossibility of creating pure form that eschewed reference. This, he reasoned, was the natural response of artists rethinking their relationship to content, largely via conceptual art and postmodern approaches to image-making, and engagements with space and context that would come to be defined with terms like “postminimalist” and “expanded field.” Patrick Hill seems to want to revisit both sides of that juncture — to produce forms of stark geometry and purity, and to complicate them with plays of transparency, surface, material and engineering while contaminating them with the sorts of associations we attach to patterns, textures, shapes, hues and spatial relationships. Combinations of materials — including glass, concrete, wood, marble and fabric — in units most easily described with words like “sheet,” “block,” “slab” or “swath,” often stacked, leaned or spliced together, can become, in Hill’s delicate (and dangerous) handling, threatening or comforting, burdensome or uplifting. Their unions and intersections can translate to erotic or awkward. This is Hill’s talent — that he can deploy geometry that makes you blush or feel anxious, and that he additionally can make it seem fey or macho, or goth, or punk rock or hippie. As smart about construction as he is about subcultures and dress codes, and informed by both the strategies and critiques of the minimalist and postminimalist epoch — the assignations of gender, attitude, class and politics that were both teased out of and heaped onto largely abstract art — Hill turns all that into a playground, and if at first you think the gravity-harnessing and defying results seem lite, look again, for while they may not always deal in gravitas, they do pack a load.

love magazine fashion and fame

this is gonna be a really good mag. cover design is totally mid- 80s details. i can't find a jpeg on the web so maybe i will hit the archives and scan one? right. i ask you--where would beth and the gossip be with out YAZ? the article on iggy is great. every child should read it in school...

snippet: In the early Sixties, when Iggy Pop was still James Osterberg, he would listen to the radio and get annoyed. He recalls Lesley Gore’s ‘It’s My Party’ as a particular source of frustration. ‘Maybe it was a clever pop song, but I didn’t wanna hear it. That was fake! That was wrong! I felt bad when I heard that. In the top 40 I’d like one song by The Kinks and one by The Beatles but there were 38 things that made me feel the same. It was the same feeling I got later when Nixon was president – a kid just knows – he’s a psycho, he’s a scumbag, I’m not gonna fight for this any more and I laugh at it. Fuck you. So I really felt bad all the time.’

With an antipathy toward the mainstream that would turn out to be mutual, he took his gut feelings and the things he admired and set about making music that would make him feel better.

‘Well I started to make some of it; most of it I couldn’t make. ’Cause Bob Dylan made music that made me feel better, but I didn’t have those skills. “I Only Have Eyes For You” by the Flamingos – now that sure as hell made me feel better, but I couldn’t do that. Didn’t have the licks, didn’t have the chops, didn’t have their vocal chords or Dylan’s brains. But I figured I could find something. I met people later who assumed that because I’d do a song like “Gimme Some Skin”, swearing and cursing and spewing to a hyper-driven emotionless riff, that I wouldn’t like Debussy, or girl groups – but I do, very much. But you do what you can, also, there’s something to that.’

urban drift

good girls bad girls -- can anybody bring it like marc j?

stephen beal

beautiful paintings AND he's the president of cca?!

love etc. there's my valentines song

from yew tube comments: Pet Shop Boys saved my world a thousand times.
from me: Me too!

funny cuz i feel soooo human

Ballard’s genius lies in his metaphoric use of scientific jargon and an antiseptic tone, somewhere between the dissecting table and the psychopathic ward, to psychoanalyze postmodernity. Long before deconstructionists like Jacques Derrida were slinging around references to the “decentered” self, Ballard is talking, in his trenchant introduction to Crash (1973), about “the most terrifying casualty of the century: the death of affect” and about “the increasing blurring and intermingling of identities within the realm of consumer goods.” Before postmodernists like Jean Baudrillard were announcing the Death of the Real and its unsettling replacement by uncannily convincing media simulations, Ballard is claiming that “we live in a world ruled by fictions of every kind” — advertising, “politics conducted as a branch of advertising,” P.R. “pseudo-events,” et al. — where “Freud’s classic distinction between the latent and manifest content of a dream, between the apparent and the real, now needs to be applied to the external world of so-called reality.” And before neo-Marxists like Fredric Jameson and Mike Davis were pondering the deeper meanings of the Westin Bonaventure Hotel and Frank Gehry’s Hollywood library, Ballard is pondering the psycho-spatial effects of the built environment: the experience of swooping around a freeway cloverleaf; of walking through a cavernous, empty multistory parking garage; of waiting, alone, in an airport departure lounge; of walking the privately policed streets of an obsessively manicured exurban community. How, Ballard wonders, is our sense of our selves as social beings and moral actors — our very understanding of what it means to be a self — being transformed (deformed?) by the whip-lashing hyperacceleration of technology and the media, the blurring of the distinction between real and fake? Ballard was the first to ask how we became posthuman.

invitation to mr david gandy

From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals,
please come flying,
to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums
descending out of the mackerel sky
over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water,
please come flying.

Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing. The ships
are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags
rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing
countless little pellucid jellies
in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.

Please come flying.
Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe
trailing a sapphire highlight,
with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,
with heaven knows how many angels all riding
on the broad black brim of your hat,
please come flying.
Bearing a musical inaudible abacus,
a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons,
please come flying.

Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan
is all awash with morals this fine morning,
so please come flying.
Mounting the sky with natural heroism,
above the accidents, above the malignant movies,
the taxicabs and injustices at large,
while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears
that simultaneously listen to
a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer,
please come flying.

For whom the grim museums will behave
like courteous male bower-birds,
for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait
on the steps of the Public Library,
eager to rise and follow through the doors
up into the reading rooms,
please come flying.

We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping,
or play at a game of constantly being wrong
with a priceless set of vocabularies,
or we can bravely deplore, but please
please come flying.

With dynasties of negative constructions
darkening and dying around you,
with grammar that suddenly turns and shines
like flocks of sandpipers flying,
please come flying.
Come like a light in the white mackerel sky,
come like a daytime comet
with a long unnebulous train of words,
from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.

cordy ryman