Saw this while limping through the grocery line. I never truly considered myself a “feminist”, even during my most liberal days at university, and I’ve certainly wandered away from the sacred literature of Dworkin et al since then. But this stuff here makes me want to burn some bras and start using the word “cisgender” non-ironically.
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This is a “Cotton Candy” Carvin B24 Brian Bromberg signature. It appeared on Carvin’s Facebook page today. Allow me to explain to you why this is brilliant.
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There are times I wonder if the entire universe is, in fact, a simulation around me, if I am the only truly real being in it. If everything that supposedly “happens” in this world is simply for the purpose of eliciting a particular response for me, if I am a brain in a jar somewhere or a trillion lines of code executing in a wetware computer of what I think of as the distant future but, in truth, would be the actual present.
How else to explain the fact that, the moment I was injured, the world around me came to a halt, and the snow rollers began to arrive?
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It’s true that I probably lost a little height in this accident… cracking three discs in your spine can drop you a quarter-inch or so, apparently. But this new video makes me look positively tiny.
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Another big snow day here in Ohio. It’s Vodka McBigbra’s birthday and all fingers are crossed in the hopes that the current blizzard will come to a halt in time to hold a celebratory dinner.
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It’s my intention for the blog to be generally work-safe, which means that I can’t actually show you a picture of the “bikini bridge gap”. Instead, I’ve chosen to excerpt an article from another site that neatly explains the idea. You can Google “bikini bridge gap” if you like, and you’ll find all sorts of images, including many of the motivational/hoax “macros” created in service of the concept.
When you’re done, come back and we’ll talk about it.
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So. It’s been just a day short of three weeks since I accidentally caught a Sonata in the passenger door. Let’s see how we’re doing.
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Insofar as having nine separate bone fractures and a half-exploded spleen has kept me from doing anything interesting outside lately, I’ve had to occupy myself doing random and/or previously-procrastinated tasks. One of those has been to watch the Yacht Rock web series. Viewed critically, the show fails on every possible level; however, as with the music “Yacht Rock” simultaneously parodies and celebrates, the point is simply to enjoy the product.
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“She Stretches And Glides Her Body Over A Blank Canvas. When I Realized What She Was Creating, I Was Blown Away.” Sounds reasonably interesting, right? Well, I give you permission to temporarily serve Moloch, the hell-spawned god of clickbait, by clicking the source link. But I’ll tell you what “she” was creating: some charcoal art made by rubbing “her” body on canvas. Does she “create” a historically accurate portrait? A landscape? A tribute, winking or otherwise, to existing art? No, it’s just some circles on the canvas, about what you think you’d get if you made snow angels with charcoal.
As The Last Psychiatrist always writes, “If you see it, it’s for you.” And if you see this article, you can assume that the people behind it think that you are an idiot of saurian proportions.
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This website is too small to encompass the larger debate on what technology has done to creative expression. It’s too easy to say that Paradise Lost was written longhand by a blind man and 50 Shades Of Grey was Web fanfiction given a thorough, anonymous remix by unknown hands before being shock-marketed into ten million Kindles nationwide. The print era gave us a lot of junk and Thought Catalog occasionally publishes something that is actually worthwhile. There’s no simple sum-up to be had.
For right now, I’d like to focus on the fact that a lot of things that would be the subject of endless discussion and hand-wringing in 2014 were simply done without fanfare in previous eras for all sorts of reasons that no longer seem even slightly relevant: the difficulty of getting actual photographic media, the limitations of reproduction equipment both audio and visual, individual degrees of freedom in the creation of high-budget, mass-market-oriented product that would be considered suicidal today.
But none of that explains why the first album from snitch-rockers Southern rockers The Allman Brothers features the band posing nude in a stream.
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