Domo Corpusti

OCEAN: The black flag wavers for a fucking second, not safe for work, a grand glugging gets going and the waters of the world drain away.

BUSTY CACTUS: They drain? Don’t you think they’d evaporate first?

OCEAN: Naw. No. They drain. Through mine anus. Through mine geo-bio-tunnel. Which, I should add, can be quite sensitive. There is a monolithic crustacean scurrying back and forth there right now, and it’s driving me fairly batty with Enchrodinicius [flutters his eyelids]

B.C.: Aight

O: Yepp

B.C.: Wanna tangle

O: Nope

B.C.: Cooking school vacation?

O: Naw

BC: Comic book store

O: Naw. When I feel like this, all I can listen to is stuff from Apraxia records.

BC: These guys?

O: No. Where did yo find that.

BC: Tee hee the internet

O: You’re a terrible person [stabs the busty cactus in the face with a pen knife]

BC: [horrible screeming (sic), cactus blood everywhere. this is a nightmare. weeping, moaning, awful]

O: [horrible screaming]

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Continue reading “Domo Corpusti”

private post

I have a degenerative retinal condition that causes severe night blindness

normally it only affects me at night/low-light situations

this week I’ve been having trouble seeing during the day, too

it’s supposedly supposed to  slowly encroach to my “normal” vision but this feels sudden

maybe I just need new glasses — my prescription is a different joint than the condition — it’s like deck chairs on the titanic vs. poison flesh-eating barnacles on the titanic

sorry if you are here to read a recipe for Pussy Pie, or whatever, this isn’t a food blog anymore, so “fuck off”, I stopped food blogging like a year ago, get with the fucking program, food blogging is dead

that’s right, I’m angry and inappropriate and gay and uncompromising from now on on this blog

If you can’t take the heat, get out of the Google Reader (or other RSS reader of your choice)

I read almost all of Bill Buford’s Heat yesterday, instead of cleaning/working or hanging out with wonderful “locals”

It’s way fluffier than I thought, I don’t know why I thought it would be such a masterpiece, I recall being “gently surprised/kurious” that the blurbs weren’t more like “this book will pan-sear your fucking brain like a pheasant with a clove shoved up its ass, oh my god this book turned my nutz into a fricasse, I’m freaking out”——Joyce Karol Oats, the New York Review of Sexuality

This book made my nuts feel like real nuts, like marachino almonds or some shit, oh my god, this book is about food but also about life”—Steve “Marschino” Almondz, the New York Prostitute

I’m reading this book right now and I feel like Habermas or Leonard Bernstein is blowing me, I’m weeping, it’s that good” —Cynthia “French Toast Points” Ozark, The Ozick Monthly

When I read this book I feel like I’m eating — oh wait, I was eating while I was reading it, and the book and the thing I’m eating [salmon sandwich with beer] is also equally good”——Paul Rabinow, famous Foucault scholar

“When my daughter told me she wanted to read this book for christmas, I fucking punched her. Then My wife called the cops and I was jailed for child abuse. I wasn’t raped in prison——not everyone is——but I wasn’t exactly having fun there, either. I ended up ordering Heat through interlibrary prison library loan, and I read it. Reading it was like fucking a jello bagel in the back of a mercedes. unfuckingbelievable!!!!”——Richard Lewis, comedian

“Dip dip trippa slip, rumblefish, tee-pee grip. Just kiddiing. Twelve stars.” ——Calvin Johnson, the man who discovered K records

“This book is the perfect nut-sheath”——Gwen “Ifill, Triffid” Stefani

“Like Stanley Crouch and Curtis White before him, Bill Buford has eaten two consecutive lunches, and created a masterpiece of filth and beauty — very dirty, very pretty. I like. I like a lot. Gimme.”——David Sedaris, author of “The Gloaming as Wet as my Ritz” and “BeaverChattt”

just kidding, these are fake blurbs that I made up to make up for hurting your feelings earlier on in this blog post.

my “boss just walked” in, so I have to close up the fuck-up shop in a sec. oh well. I was having a lot of fun just “jazzing around”, as the late John Gardner (gardiner) would have it. fuck you–

anyway

Shellfishness

This blog has lately become yet another “Chris Ying is ineffably awesome forever” blog, which is fine by me. (He’s written a few guest posts, after all!)

At any rate, old Plebescite‘s got a brilliant piece in the new issue of Meatpaper, on “why we watch men eating meat”:

If the complaint about porn is that women are treated like meat, then the problem with UM/UM [unattractive men/unattractive meat] television is that meat is treated like meat.

The essay is funny and smart, Wallacean in a good way. I also love this pre-blogged chart, which the Plebiscite probably designed himself:

Anyway, worth a  look.

(I wonder too what old CTY makes of this oldish Harper’s piece on “The Food Network at the frontiers of pornography”?)

##########################################

I was camping in the Sierras this weekend with a Crude Futurist who told a story (can’t remember the provenance) of a Brooklyn-raised African American man  talking about his experience of Election Night 2008 in Fort Greene: [I’m paraphrasing] All the white people who moved to this neighborhood showed for the first time that they actually cared about something other than food.

(no violence meant here to Meatpaper or Plebiscite. I’m just laterally riffing. I care about food, too, and think it’s important. But the quote from the Ft. Greener still struck me as a tidy damnation of my entire existence. Literature is just as pointless as food, art, the rest. Sex, death, drugs, commerce, Internet, everything else. It’s important to care about something other than food, but it’s also possible to study and write about food without wasting your time. Same goes for noun declensions of dead languages, and the craft of sock puppetry.  It’s interesting, actually, maybe, how “POLITICS” can make any/every-thing else seem pointless by comparison. And there’s of course a difference between the mindless chichi consumption (of consumption) going on in Ft. Greene vs. the relatively political analysis of food, “food politics,” etc, going on in, say, Meatpaper. I’m not trying to imply that dude was damning hilarious smart articles about Food TV — I don’t think he was — he was damning people who move to your neighborhood and are food-obsessed yuppies. These are separate issues that got connected through my free-associative bloggy style. I love you guys. Chris hey help me for I have written myself into a lazy corner and I can’t get out and I am going to post this before I delete it.

Notes!!!

  • apolitical art
  • political art
  • is there any sort of sense that one is “better” or “worse” than the other
  • “food politics”
  • Pollan v. Wallace
  • Reichl v. Ying
  • the imperative for people to be engaged in the communities they live in
  • the importance of cynicism
  • the destructiveness of getting stuck in a cynical mode
  • yuppies/gentrification/blinkered existences amid “suffering”
  • accidental yet inexusable condescension
  • desire (sex, food)
  • etc (drugs, babies)
  • discipline (martial arts, Yaddo)
  • knowledge (the library of congress, obama’s e-mail newsletters)
  • selflessness, generosity (dude)
  • community service with and without condescension
  • gluttony, selfishness
  • shellfishness, spumoniïsm

two hits

  1. J. Clover on Bleach at the at the corner of creep and shame
  2. Theo-Schell Lambert’s fun essay on peripatizing the SFPL. I enjoyed this passage on the way a Richard Brautigan omnibus had been catalogued:

I noticed that its spine read “F Brautiga.” The absence of the final letter had a strange, enchanting effect. Richard’s name seemed to live somewhere between Perugia and rutabaga. Part Italian, part root vegetable.

To me it forces a comparison between “Brautiga” and Richard Fariña, endowing Brautigan with a fresh, South American flair. (???) Also, maybe: “Brautigan Comfy in Nautica.” [that is a proposed headline in the paper of record in my heart.]

I also wonder, while I’m thinking about the “ghosts of letters”, what happened to the tilde in Bolaño in TSL’s piece? The difference between Bolaño and Bolano isn’t insignificant, and I’ve been surprised how often the sonorousness of the writer’s proper name gets turned to so much “Baloney” by Anglophone keyboards! (Baloñey!) This is esp. relevant in light of the fact that an “Arturo Belano” (no tilde) appears as Bolaño’s double in The Savage Detectives and Amulet (and elsewhere?).

Finally, I wonder if I’m supposed to pronounce Schell-Lambert’s name in the French style, with the final consonant acting as a solid, silent ghost, as in “Lamberrrre”? Or does it rhyme with Humbert?

TO ALL THE SECRET BLUSTERERS

ALL-CAPS NARRATOR: I LOVE FITTED BASEBALL CAPS, YOU’RE ALWAYS PISSING AND MOANING ABOUT HOW FITTED BASEBALL CAPS CRAMP YOUR STYLE, BUT THAT is YOUR STYLE, YOU ARE A HUMAN FITTED BASEBALL CAP, SO WHAT’S THE BIG IDEAL?

[A newt enters wearing big sunglasses, walking cool. He didn’t sleep the night before. He carries his own autobiography in a plastic bag.]

NEWT: A man told me that to be a man carrying your belongings in a plastic bag is pathetic, ‘who the fuck does that, what kind of man is that.’ But I’ve had famous friends as long as I can remember, and still I carry my belongings in a plastic bag. What does this make me? I begin to remove objects from my plastic bag.

[NEWT takes a tattered New Yorker, folded over to a ‘random’ page, out of the bag] Sure, I wanna read something on the subway. [Lets magazine drop to the floor. Takes a copy of Henry Green’s Loving out of the bag.] And other times periodicals aren’t good enough. Dey ain’t apposite. I need something a little more ‘lasting.’ [Takes a portable televison out of the bag.] I love infomercials. I’m an avant-gardist. [Takes a horrible banana covered in furry mould out of the bag.] But I’m no ‘hunger-artist.’ [Stands there for a sec, just ‘digesting.’] To be an avant-gardist with your objects for the week crinklingly bound in a plastic shopping bag is a contemporary phenomenon. I’m the genius with an air of the indigent. I’m so great. I’m the best. La la la. The world’s accumulated memories of me are so, so great and so fun. I’m a clown; a million birthdays were made awesome by my pratfalls. My every appearance on recorded film, VHS or digital, is so much fun to watch. I’ve got more teeth than the three of you combined.

NEWT [CONT.]: This is a failed passage. The crew, in their attempt to sail the boat across the channel, didn’t make it. They sank. All the reams of literature they were ferrying to the new world wound up floating on the paper-thin surface of the ocean. Reading my writing, especially if you know me, is not fun. Imagine a metal washer floating on the surface of your mug’s coffee. Imagine a possessive noun getting roughed up from behind by a transgendered princess. Imagine a hurt buttercup’s feelings, perfectly intact. Dude. Pointlessness: C’mere. Slather a thesis in tahini, and cry in frustration that you’re not entirely at peace. Your friend’s feelings mirror your own, and therefore they disgust you. Making sense, particularly in the summer heat of NE Ohio, is a canard. Making out with kismet is the best Memorial Day present you could have asked for. What are your totemic power-words?

  1. Shower
  2. Louche
  3. Loaf
  4. Necklace
  5. Break-neck*
  6. Shibuya
  7. Hatchback
  8. Cower-leaf
  9. [leaf]
  10. Providence
  11. Spine
  12. Shame
  13. Leery
  14. Weed
  15. nudity
  16. frame
  17. Shrine
  18. Darshan
  19. Sproul
  20. Wicked
  21. Phish
  22. Batista
  23. St. John’s Cathedral
  24. Skulptcha
  25. Moons
  26. Labia
  27. Nile
  28. Niles [Frasier]
  29. Niles [Multiple-worlds rivers]
  30. Dick [P.K.]

Batista

BOSTON SPACESHIPS ARE REAL

if the members of Vampire Weekend weren’t in a band, you could easily imagine them working at a publisher or a small, cool literary magazine a la The Believer, ie. exactly the kind of thing some of their Ivy League peers doubtless went on to do after graduation.

What might have been for the boys of Vampire Weekend
What might have been for the boys of Vampire Weekend