Rainbows and unicorns make everything happy, even Tragic Fashion Boy! Cornify is “the number #1 unicorn and rainbow service worldwide, providing sparkles and happiness for all.”
You can download a Cornify bookmark to Cornificate boring web pages: the more you click on it, the more sparkly happiness ensues. YAY for happy cuteness!
Take that, you stupid bitches who complain that I’m full of hate!
In the current New Yorker, there is a long profile of the performance artist Marina Abramovic that caused me to wonder: Is my life actually Art?
Abramovic has been provoking and shocking people for thirty years. Next week, MOMA is hosting a retrospective of her work, with actors performing some of her most famous “pieces.” That alone is controversial; even her former collaborator and lover, Uwe Laysiepen, thinks it’s fundamentally dishonest to recreate performance art.
Most of Abramovic’s art has involved subjecting herself to pain and humiliation (a genre called ordealism.) Reading about it, you can’t help but feel that this art is beyond parody. My favorite piece is the one where she scrubbed a roomful of rotting, maggot-infested cow bones on her hands and knees, sobbing while video’s of her parents were projected on the walls of the “space.”
In another early piece, she stood still while the audience was offered a wide array of implements with which to torment her.
At MOMA, she will mount a work called “The Artist is Present,” in which she will sit still at a table for ten hours a day, staring into space, throughout the retrospective. Audience members may choose to sit opposite her at the table.
Here is the thing: I personally sit staring into space for MORE THAN TEN HOURS A DAY! I never thought of this as Art, but now I’m mulling it over. Maybe it is Art, a sort of confrontation with time and eternity, a refusal to interact with gainful employment, and therefore a statement about the subjugation of of modern Man, I mean Women.
Read the article in the New Yorker if you possibly can. It’s a transformative experience that doesn’t even require you to get up off your ass!
Branding is so important, blah blah blah. You love Godammit dot com, so imagine how much you’ll love a genuine Sister Wolf t-shirt!
Is this the greatest design in the history of the world?! I think so, too. (Credit goes to my Webmaster) I need to choose a manufacturer for this project, and then before you know it, you’ll be able to buy a t-shirt for yourself and your loved ones.
100% of the profits will go to the Cause, i.e. staying out of debtors’ prison.
YES, you would buy one; or NO, go fuck myself?
I just tried to read an essay in the New York Times that cited the words “cellar door” as the most beautiful phrase in the English Language. HUH? Normally I enjoy lists of “beautiful words” but this threw me. Cellar door doesn’t do anything for me, in sound or meaning. It actually makes me feel a little tense, since I automatically presume that something bad exists behind a cellar door, like a maniac or a dead animal.
I screwed around on google and found this list of “The 100 Most Beautiful Words in English.” Take a look! I was surprised by how many I disagree with. Usually lists of beautiful words are big on euphonious words like shimmer, iridescent, and lullaby, but this list is all over the place.
It includes “plethora” which I hate, and “inglenook,” which I think is the name of a cheap wine, but I’m not sure. I misread “fetching” as “felching,” which was a momentary shock that has ruined “fetching” for me, at least for tonight.
“Ineffable” is a great word, and so is “imbroglio.” I also like “pungent” and “woodwind” and “melancholy,” none of which made the top 100. On the other hand, it did include “penumbra” which is too reminiscent of “pudenda” for my comfort.
“Halcyon” is a lovely word that made the list, as one might expect. It would be beautiful even if it didn’t evoke a nice tranquilizer. I once told a friend that the drug Halcion made me think of people laying in the grass beside a sun-dappled lake. He replied, “They should have called it Seurat.” I nearly fell in love with him for that, but I was already in a relationship and he was a prick.
What words do you find beautiful? Feel free to list your own 100 if you love that many.
It’s on! Cunt of the Week™ will be a new feature, and you can nominate a candidate by writing to me at sisterwolf666@gmail.com.
Sting set the bar pretty high, but let’s face it, he’s not the only cunt around. Years ago, in the office where I worked with my BFF, we honored our Cunts of the Week™ by putting their picture on a nice gold ribbon we hung on the wall. It’s a lovely tradition that I will always cherish.
Here is the only criterion for nominations: The person has to have been a cunt during a given week, NOT just in general and NOT because of some behavior six months ago.
At the end of the year, we can vote for the prestigious Cunt of the Year™, and of course there will be a Lifetime Achievement Award too. (Madonna, I’m thinking of you here….)
In recent days, two idiots nice individuals have cited my hatefulness as a moral flaw in my nature (not to mention my blog.) I will point out yet again that the title of this blog is “Godammit, ‘m Mad! and I’m Getting Madder,” not “Look What I Love.”
However, just to remind anyone who doesn’t know what a fucking cornucopia of love I am, here is a list of fifty people I love, in the order they popped into my brain:
Patti Smith, William Borroughs, Van Morrison, Vermeer, William Bouguereau, Aretha Franklin, Thomas Hardy, Elvis Costello, Edith Wharton, Flaubert, Emmylou Harris, Gram Parsons, Kingsley Amis, Mervin Peake, Johnny Depp, Ingrid Bergman, Chris Rock, Richard Feinman, Arthur Lee, Bob Dylan, George Eliot, Amy Winehouse, Denton Welch, Balzac, Vivienne Leigh, Brigitte Bardot, Prince, Amanda Palmer, Donna Summer, Paul Erdos, Frida Kahlo, Bert Jansch, Fred Neil, Iris Murdoch, Joan Armatrading, Tolstoy, Otis Redding, Ravi Shankar, Oscar Wilde, Karen Horney, Derek & Clive, Neil Young, Tim Buckley, Leonard Cohen. Robert DiNiro, Alice Miller, Yukio Mishima, Ricky Gervais, Larry David, Tony Duquette.
See?
Now, who do you love that I should love too?
Thanks to Hammie, I now know what actress should play me in the movie based on my life: Catherine Keener. Perfect choice, Hammie! She is definitely an idealized version of me…an attractive, mature hippie type. Or as I like to call her, the thinking man’s Demi Moore.
Years ago, my sister’s husband had an “adventure” that I won’t go into, except to say that afterward, my sister and I liked to secretly cast the movie of it. The title would be “On the Lam.” We figured that Karen Allen or maybe Debra Winger could play us, and Sam Neil could play her husband. I can’t remember how we cast the other characters in our lives, but it was a great game.
The other night though, I saw a movie with Debra Winger, who is now an old hag; she’s definitely out. And I have remarried. My husband can be played by Carlos Santana, since he’s been mistaken for Carlos Santana more than once.
If for some reason, Catherine Keener is too busy to play me, I would settle for Dita Von Teese.
Who would you cast as you in the movie of your life?
I was honored to serve as the Los Angeles premiere* of Kate Battrick’s short film, “Dress Up,” this week. Kate is known to some of you as the author of Make Do Style.
Her film is a charming and ambitious look at celebrity, aspiration, fashion and status, told through the chance meeting of a young couple who misread each other’s expectations.
When Kate becomes a famous auteur, you can say you remember her start in film-making. Great job, Kate!
*Sweater from my Grandma, shoes from SWEAR London.
The other night, I saw the film Blow-Up for the first time. What a piece of shit!
Don’t you hate it when a movie you’re supposed to revere turns out to be crap? Blow-Up is the boringest most pointless movie I’ve seen in years. I know it’s a landmark movie of the 60’s but seen today, it’s just ponderous and stilted. David Hemmings can’t act to save his life and never changes out of his bright white jeans. After an hour of nothingness, all I wanted was a different pair of pants.
In the end, David Hemmings comes upom a group of mimes and pretends to return an imaginary ball to them. The End. Fuck! Reading the reviews now, I wonder if everyone was too high on acid to figure out what a stupid bad movie it was.
Black Dynamite, on the other hand, is delightful! It’s a loving homage to blaxploitation films, just funny enough to provoke laughs without devolving into a winking satire. When a sexy lounge singer tells Black Dynamite “I get off in about 15 minutes,” he answers “I know you do, baby.” My husband and I are still having fun saying, “I can dig it.”
Much more entertaining than a Beatle-haired photographer sulking around his apartment or staring into space. One review of Blow-Up explained that it was about meaninglessness. I think that’s just a euphemism for “Huh?”
What classic or cult films have failed to live up to your expectations?
Just look what happens when you take away Mrs. Palin’s trademark big hair! It’s like Samson after Delilah got through with him!
A genius over here altered some pictures of Mrs. P by removing the long hair (along with the glasses and trashy earrings.) Voila, she is instantly disempowered.
Without going into my Nobel Prize Exegesis on the subliminal sources of Mrs. Palin’s magnetism (because I haven’t written it yet) I will just say that without these totems, she loses the medley of conflicting archetypes that serve to resonate with both her fans and detractors.
With the Big Hair and other accoutrement’s, she is simultaneously a Vixen, Church Lady, Librarian, Dominatrix, Stripper and Mommy. Take that shit away and what do you have?
(I know Mr. Duff will have a good answer.)
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