Okay, so today my own life is so boring, filled with bureaucratic glitches and oh, wait, i did almost wreck my car by driving up over the curb accidentally, and boy that gets the heart thumpin', but, vehicular suicide notwithstanding, my own life is so boring, i say, that i must spare you the bore-y details. Even last night in the bar, though I thought I could pry details about last week's event with R from M, M was not forthcoming with the goods (this teaser for Exxon-Mobil Hollypiece theather brought to you Elmwoodstrip.com) But do we really want to know the bumpin' uglies truth anyway? No, none of that is very interesting. Nor is the Republican Convention, I'm ashamed to say. Yesterday evening I scrubbed fungus off my tub rather than watch the talking heads talk. It just felt somehow, I don't know, more socially relevant?

Anyway, the point of this whole thing is really just to post a joke I plucked off my sister's daisy chain. Now, usually these jokes give me a hearty har-har, especially when they're about the devil or politics, but I think, conventions and fungus and near-death in mind, this one might make you laugh:

While walking down the street one day a US senator is tragically hit by a truck and dies. (See that's funny right there --holly)
His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.
"Welcome to heaven," says St. Peter. "Before you settle in, it seems
there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts,
you see, so we're not sure what to do with you."
"No problem, just let me in," says the man.
"Well, I'd like to but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is
have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose were to spend eternity."
"Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven," says the
senator.
"I'm sorry but we have our rules."
And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a club and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.
Everyone is very happy and in evening dress.
They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at expense of the people.
They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne.
Also present is the devil, who really is a very friendly guy who has a
good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that, before he realizes it, it is time to go.
Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator
rises.
The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.
"Now it's time to visit heaven."
So, 24 hours pass with the head of state joining a group of contented
souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They
have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.
"Well then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now
choose your eternity."
The senator reflects for a minute, then the senator answers: "Well, I
would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful,
but I think I would be better off in hell."
So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.
Now the doors of the elevator open and he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags.
The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder.
"I don't understand," stammers the senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and club, and we ate lobst
er
and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now all there is is a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What
happened?"
The devil looks at him, smiles and says, "Yesterday we were
campaigning......
Today you voted."



BTW, I'm very down with Paul and Matthews Habitat for Humanity idea [inlink]paul,1857[/inlink]. I've always wanted to do it. Who could pass up the wholesome, socially-responsible fun of spackling with friends...

How nice that fall began on the first day back to school! How can I communicate the sarcasm in that statement? How could last week have been so balmy and beachy, and today well, in the words of the Long Winters, "I can't face the cold gray cold."

And how nice that I crammed as much summery fun and debauchery into my last free week as into the whole summer season. More even. I feel like I ran a marathon of parties. I should get at least the silver. Only finally is my higher brain returning to form. Well, mostly.

The beginning of school has made me put my thinking cap back on. And here is what I've cooked up. My thesis has been coming together slowly in my mind. I knew that I wanted to do a digital chapbook, i.e. a flash poetry collection, and that the topic would encompass feminism, american history, hypertext, and geography. I want to paint myself into the timeline of american women. You'll navigate through paintings, poems, videos, etc. as if you we're travelling through a map. Only it's a map of time and space. You'll see. Anyways, I think I'm going to call it [size=l]Dare, Virginia[/size] after the first person born in the jamestown colony, Virginia Dare who disappeared with the rest of them. That means that she was the first white euro "American", the beginning of a new era for this continent. And she vanished into thin air. Here she is, and where I'll be, once I repaint it with me there:

Reporting live from 567, the arts festival is packing up and heading home for the evening. It was pretty cool, but I questioned a bit why walking down a strip of chotchke tents is the highlight of my summer. Flashback to Allentown arts festival. I'm such a curmudgeon. Really my mild bitter feeling comes from the fact that there is a lot of stuff, well, at least one or two things that are so great I have an art attack-- but can i afford to pay $400 for a batik plant cell silk painting, gorgeous as it may be? Not. A struggling artist can't afford the art of struggling artists. That's funny. I'm sure I would do the same thing in their place, you have to in order to get by.

In other news last night we had the whole MFA media study thang, and guess who asked Steve Kurtz how his summer was? As soon as I said it I was like doh! Holly, you couldn't have been stupider. I was trying so hard to avoid making a gaffe I came out with a real whopper. I recovered my social graces by being rude to the waitresses and mildly belligerant with everyone else. Shit happens. But I think we should try to get a major rock band to help fund Kurtz's defense. Like someone with real money draw. Anyone out there know Micheal Stipe?

It seems like we're off to the park, and then to Bunnytown, where some friends will be performing art. Readings, music, paintings, video maybe. I've been to one show before and it was pretty hot. It's down on Illinois in the wearhouse district:

49 Illinois
Take Washington to HSBC, turn L. on Perry, then 1st R. on Illinois.

Or maybe it should be Illi noise. Heh heh.

Soyeon, i just read this as I'm about to head to UB to get ready for the year... and even though I heard about it last night, I still say ugh... [inlink]soyeon,82[/inlink]. Has anyone noticed how much all us UB people complain! Now we know why! ;) What a bunch of pretentious cocks they can be!

Roxy's was pretty foxy, innit? I see you baby, spankin' dat ass! Here's what I learned:

Gay bars are hot places for straight people to hook up, unless you're too cool for school and find such garish displays of sexuality to be disheartening. But then, someone like that also thinks tractor pulls are ironic, which they aren't, people genuinely enjoy them.

Also, here something I've just learned, like, duh: men, well, unless they are poets or performance artists or eee gads both! seem to like unambiguous signals. Who knew you could just say to someone "so are we like gonna make out er what?" And who knew boys get off on ivy league degrees?

Speaking of higher thinking though, thanks Terry [inlink]terry,294[/inlink] for mentioning the substantial topic I would write about were I not distracted by my id-- poverty on the rise, health care almost non-existent. Thanks a ton, my Prez and gov't, for looking out for little America... more later perhaps, when my hangover wanes... off to UB, see some peeps there...

In dark, crowded bars and bright, crowded coffee shops and dimly lit, not-so-crowded underground art spaces, every minute, gentle peepers, someone is getting the kiss-off. You know what I mean, you've done it and had it done to you-- the not-so-subtle trailing off of conversation that lapses into awkward silence, the anxious eye-darting around the room, looking for someone more interesting to talk to (or perhaps an escape route), the weird body tics and twitches that emerge from the depths of your id, and then the final, almost-unacknowledged moment of simply wandering off, leaving your erstwhile interlocutor thinking "hey, wasn't I just talking to someone?"

The kiss-off is not a break up, peeps, although for the rusty-at-heart, it can be almost as painful. Break-ups are obviously more complicated. A break up, at least in my estimation, is the grand kiss-off from someone you've peed in front of. But that's just my personal litmus test. So while the kiss-off is more superficial, it is no less awful at times. Oh, but one technicality, you can get the kiss-off from someone you've recently broken up with, and that one really smarts. Ugh, *shudder*, nail in the coffin...

Clearly it's a complicated beast, this kiss-off. So here is my rough guide to the getting kissed and kissing off, having gotten and given my fair share of it these days. In order from worst to least bad, here are the various stages of the kiss-off horrorshow:

Getting Kissed-Off by a Crush: This to me is the worst. You've maybe recently just realized that you are crushing on someone you've known for awhile but never quite noticed in that "way" before. One day you just looked a little too long at their lips, and that's it, bam, you're crushed. So, some night when the gang's all there you give it a go and make your hail-mary pass. When you get the kiss-off in this situation it usually begins with the person's look of utter confusion. See, they didn't get the memo that the realtionship was changing. (No one sends an ATTN: RE: Have Sex With Me note, unfortunately.) Their surprised uncomfortabilty is compounded by the desire not to hurt the feelings of someone they know and probably like. This one proceeds ahead to the weird-wandering-off phase pretty quickly, simply as a way to diffuse the whole thing without actually being cruel. Follow-up encounters tend to be dicey.

Getting Kissed-Off by Someone You've Done the Deed With: Most people, I think, would put this at the top of the list, and admittedly, it's pretty gut-wrenching. I personally feel the Crush Kiss-Off is worse only because I'm a romantic and the lost-potential aspect, the "whatever happened to a dream deferred" element, really depresses me. But, getting kissed off by somone you've been naked in front of (but not peed in front of, remember) and you know, you've touched it, well, that's pretty horrible. Maybe the earth didn't move when you did it, or maybe it did, but more in a way that made your dog howl and filled you with the instinct to crouch in a doorframe to prevent things from falling on your head-- well, the post coitus kiss-off communicates only one thing. You suck. (Or maybe you don't, and that's really the problem.) There is one saving grace in this situation, though: even after getting dissed by a former lover, you will still, always and forever, be able to say, "Yah. I hit dat shit." The deed, as it were, is never undone.

The Kiss-Off after the Awkward Hookup: So you had one date, maybe two. And you never peed or were naked in front of them. But you can't shake the memory of their sloppy lips or the arm that couldn't quite figure out where it belonged or the total lack of agreement over how much tongue is too much. Yes, the discovery that, while you might both love the Discovery channel, you are totally, incontrovertably, irreconcilably, incompatible. When you see the person again, however, there migh
t
be this little twinge of regret and reconsideration. You really did enjoy watching that Alaska documentary together, after all. So with all faith and begorum, you strike up a conversation. And then into the peripheral vision of your psyche comes floating giant drippy lips and clumsy dance moves and political opinions you find inane and all this leaves you but one choice: the one-way trip to Kiss-Off Town.

Getting Kissed Off by a Total Stranger: As far as kiss-offs go, this one is just the price you pay for still hopin' and prayin' and keepin' the dream alive. Actually, the really painful Stranger Kiss-off is kinda rare because generally people are more polite the less baggage there is between them. This kiss-off amounts to the tele-marketing pushy politness of "No thanks, I'm satisfied with my current company of potential hook-ups." You just hope you don't have to keep repeating it: "No, thanks, really, I'm not interested, no, that's a great deal and all, you seem nice, but like I said I gotta go. Yah. In the middle of something. Look! I said I wasn't interested! Alright! Sheesh!" Click. It's more like a Kick-Off then. We all hope we don't go there. This is often the kiss-off that is decidely deserved. The kiss-offer in this case can always claim self-defense. If you are that person pushing too hard, though, even if you have the best intentions at heart, we can only hope you learn something from a well-aimed Kick-Off.

And last but somehow, still, not least:

Getting Kissed Off by Someone You're Not Interested In: Now, wait a dag-gum minute you might be saying, how can I get kissed-off when I'm not really interested in the person, you ask? Maybe the women out there might appreciate this one a bit more. It's pretty sick and twisted. Here's how it goes. Someone has a crush on you, and you know it. You're not that into the idea, but a few times you consider it. You come to rely on their prescence at parties and bars to give you that little ego boost you need to look really hot. And they always linger in your mind as a kind of ace in the hole, well maybe not an ace since you'd want to play that right away, more like the Jack of Spades. He might come in handy if you don't get dealt anything better. So there they are, and they comfort you. And you are so confident in their dedication to you that maybe you even give them the oh-so-painful top-o-the-list Crush Kiss-Off. But they will have their revenge. Oh yes. They too have a power over you that you can't admit to. One day, something mildly tragic will happen. They will give up. Or find someone who won't jerk them around like you've been doing and who will actually appreciate their high-quality humanity. And then, sweet victory comes, when, with all the pent up frustration and confusion you've inflicted on them now warped into a wicked sense of irony, they kiss you off. Ha HA! Who's laughing now? This one always causes you to kick yourself as you drive home alone, thinking that all the picky things you didn't like about the person weren't that big a deal and now you realize how deeply you really and truly love them. Luckily the effects wear off pretty quickly and in the morning you should feel kinda proud of their moxy and well, a bit relieved.

There you have it, dear peeps. Aren't you thankful you know someone who has so much experience getting dissed, so that I can unravel and explicate it for your edification? Honestly, I feel better too. I'll sculpt my pain into art, and ashtrays, an stuff... yah. If you only remember one thing from my musings, though, to comfort you in your times of rejection, it's this simple universal rule, the law of Kiss-Off Karma: the Kiss-Off just keeps going around, and sometimes its gotta land on you.

So, since the party there have been eventful events in my life, that I would like to tell you about, but can only sort of dance around, since I'm discovering that I'm a very private person. Not a good trait in a blogger, eh?

Above you will see my third and final giantess painting, and I think the best of the three. Now that it is done I can invent a whole new painting style for myself, since this style is giving me a cramp. I need looser brush strokes. Anyone else love Lucien Freud out there? He's Freud's grandson and my favorite living painter. Here is a painting he did when he was my age:



And here's a painting he did when he was in his sixties:



And here's a quote from him:

"I want paint to work as flesh... my portraits to be of the people, not like them. Not having a look of the sitter, being them ... As far as I am concerned the paint is the person. I want it to work for me just as flesh does."

Somewhere in there is what I mean. His earlier painting is like mine: finished, sharp, flat, but somehow emotionally blank. It hides its own making in the smoothness of the paint. But it metamorphosizes into an image of writhing, unruled, impassioned impasto. (Sorry, so silly, alliteration.) In the later painting each visible brush stroke seems to call out "I'm paint and I'm flesh at the same time! Art is illusion, like all attraction!"

This is a metaphor for what has been going on with me, which I can't tell you about, because I'm too private. See, secretly, I'm like the giantess, or want to be. Larger than life, beautiful and powerful, yes. But also isolated and out of place in the landscapes. She doesn't quite fit, literally. She towers and the world, she wishes, cowers. And even though she's naked, is it sexy? Or is it somehow cold, physical in the clinical sense, as if she is in the "physical world" of seventh grade earth science. There's not much passion in her, or in me for that matter. I'm too much like my brushstrokes: taut, controlled, avoiding artifice. While all the while artifice is what makes art, what makes art beautiful.

Hey Folks: While this is not up to the minute information really, here are some pics from the (e:strip) (e:mike) & (e:terry) birthday party. The pics are pretty dark, so some of the delay was me correcting them in Photoshop as much as I could. I refuse to use the flash, but don't really have enough options on my camera to make up for it. Oh well. The shapes are still pretty cool. Maybe some of the photographers out there can offer advice?
Side note: (e:paul), can you make a way for us to do a whole folder upload though. Adding pictures one by one can be a pain. Heh heh. Knowing the programmer has its privileges...

Last night I went over to my friend Maria's house to watch old Bette Davis movies, including "Now, Voyager" which was excellent, and then something where she played two twins, and one was good and one was bad, and the bad one got the man, but then she drowned and, you can guess the rest...

Maria is one of the most fascinating people I've met in Buffalo. We used to work together at the bookstore, and we hit it off pretty much right away. She went to the same college as my sister, Mount Holyoke, and then to Oxford! She's still trying to finish her dissertation on Russian literature. Sometimes she's so smart my brain hurts.

We've been hanging out for awhile, but I've only recently started going to her house. It's amazing. It's like a curiousity shoppe frozen in time. Her grandparents lived in it, and little has changed about it since the early forties. Supposedly they used to have grande fetes there, which you can still almost hear when standing in the large arch-ceilinged hall. The house was originally owned by Buffalo architect E.B. Green, who had the wood panels for the hall brought over from Italy. They're from the Renaissance. Last night between movies Maria let me take some photos, since I've tried to describe the place and just can't put it into words.

The TV room. You can't see it, but Bette's on the tube acting dramatic:


Two ladies:


Two gentlemen:


The main hall (front and back ends side by side):


A Steiff puppy the children used to ride on:


Yup. Suit of armor:


A portrait of Maria's mother when she was young. They also had some Edwin Dickinson paintings of her aunt and uncle when they were little, but the picture didn't come well:


P.S. To all you cat burglers out there, I'm not telling you where this house is. Who says cat burgler anymore?! That's just the kind of antique feeling this place gives you...

I agree with Ajay 100% in his rejoinder [inlink]ajay,88[/inlink] to Paul's post [inlink]paul,1820[/inlink] on what Paul considers unsavory or even dangerous information on the internet. I thought it was so wrong I was just gonna let it pass on by... so thanks Ajay for an evenhanded response. Not sure if you mentioned this, but all Google is is a catalogue. It should be as indiscriminate as possible to the actual contents of documents, and instead limit its catagorization to user activities like linking, etc. Google should be content blind. It's the same as the library. If I were to say that the Anarchist Cookbook or Mein Kamp should not be allowed in the library, then honestly folks, Henry Miller and Huck Finn aren't far behind. Just because the delivery method, facilitated by technology, has changed, the argument about a free press hasn't. The spirit, if maybe not the letter, of the law is the same. You may not like it, but the hope is that the society is healthy enough to buffer itself against the wackjobs who want to use information contained in books like these to harm people. Do you really think it's a terroroist handbook that creates terrorists? Not, say, years of neocolonialist economic policies and one-sided (non)diplomacy? It's not the library or search engine's job to police people's thoughts, it's the police's job (and by that I mean other civic safetynet institutions, I'm just going for the pun here) to protect not only our lives, but our rights to think and write freely.

Bllomberg is offering discounts for peaceful protestors!

"Unfortunately, we can't stop an anarchist from getting a button,"