*I'm silky freckly and this is some gangsta shit!
April 30, 2007
April 27, 2007
The embASSy Assy
The Anonymous worker
1. The embASSy Assy
British EmbASSy Effarts Faggots
I got B E E F
Fisted Embasy officials are denying all foreigners the right to co-exist without first forking over four-hunred dollars and telling the embassy assy all of your most private and personal details.
The Embassy Assy approaches, his skin green like the jade, and his face and belly fattening from swallowing his oily duties as the human receptacle for british government practices. Spitting between the gaps in his yellow crooked teeth he says "In order for you Mr. uh, Whatever, to walk on this part of the earth, you will stick your dick in this tube for a few weeks or so while the Queen Blob will suck every bit of power and mystery from you, documented in triplet of course!" "And then you must pay me handsomely for it!" NOW BEND OVER IF YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT WE'RE REALLY INTO!!"
"Then I simply wave my prissy from the queen fingers and lightly stamp this piece of paper here. Then youre free to enjoy all the benefits of our great democratic Cunty, uh, Cuntry."
But I protest
"Ah tsk fart!" says the Assy, "You obviously had complete control over where you were born and under what conditions. Our Visa policies only relfect a fair and democratic process of punishment and torture for these choices," he laughs. "If you want to visit our Big Ben so bad, then you should have decided while you were still a non-existant universal particle B section F, that you should have chosen to be born British or American or French into a wealthier family that can afford to put someone else in your place."
He wipes the sweat from his forehead and rubs his hands together. Then he pulls out the smallest bit of tubing attached to some sort of modem or control box, its wires receding into the wall. "Now pull out your meat popsicle, and insert."
The tube must be an inch or two wide, I say "Um, you have a problem, my native floppy cock just wont fit in your hole. See?", I say 'accidently' swishing piles of paper from his desk with my unacceptable foreign cock.
Shocked, the Assy recoils in disgust, "Oh fuck, not another one! What's with you freaks, this tube's size is based on proper English standards!"
2. THE ANONYMOUS WORKER
The Embassy official approaches, but he cannot be seen or heard. His presence is marked only by the blue squiggles he makes on Visa applications. No name, no address, no contact information, and no hope to discover his real identity. There is a reason for this anonymity: He doesn't care or matter.
But Behind the shrouded veil of uncertainty is a simple man, with unimportant features and a rather boring life. He comes to work each day to a stack of waiting Visa applications. Above all, His job is make sure he is not fired. But his primary duty as the Embasy offical is to grant or deny a Visa to the applicant. He does not care who is applying for a visa and prefers to remain emotionally and physically disconnected from the people involved. He is only concerned with comparing information applicants provide with the standards of Visa granting or denying. All the personal information collected is browsed only to serve this purpose. What happens next with this personal information is not in his job description, nor has he ever cared. Moreover, he has no idea who the queen blob is, or his own dick for that matter. He finds comfort in imagining he is just a interchangeable faceless visa machine. A cog dispensing out your plastic visa bubble operated by the action of many coins passing through
After unfolding a stack of applications, he gets to mine.
He doesnt even look at my name.
He starts processing.
Reasons: not a tourist, must re-apply for a business visa. (all expenses payable)
He didnt see my blog
He doesnt know who I am
He wont remember this experience
An interchangeable faceless Visa machine
April 23, 2007
April 22, 2007
April 20, 2007
In a collaborative performance, Ron Athey and Dominic Johnson explore Self-Obliteration, Inner Pigginess, and Mystical Grandiosity. Starting with a palate of ideas about sex, death and sparkle, the myth of Philoctetes is transplanted into the California deserts in the heat of August, creating rituals of transubstantiation in magickal excess.
Ron Athey and Lawrence Steger began researching the collaborative performance, Incorruptible Flesh, in 1996. Like wax dummy saints blessed with the miracle of inviolate bodies, there was much injecting and powdering to be done to fight off corrosion. The morbidity was driven by the shared, long-term HIV+ status of Athey and Steger--healthy and sick, respectively. In 2006, Steger now dead, Athey and Johnson continue the collaborative process, based around the myth of the perpetual wound.
Death Valley, population 9. Endurance and delirium at 56.7 degrees celsius, making salt flats into variations on creeping hope. Parched skins threatening to match the shattered surface. Destituted, then blowing away. The body's drip system would melt a hole through the salt floor, worn out bodies peering into the grave, to listen. Once, less mindful of the harsher realities of things, there was only sex, and love, and bright lights. Now not to be consoled, two bodies at other ends of the earth are moving together, in times for which there is no sun.
Oracles never speak: only echoes of messages, too vague to discern. The flesh is quickening with love's neglected waters. Against rigid landscapes, the pains we carry tighten into brilliance.
April 12, 2007
Today is April 12, Slava's Birthday and the Russian SPACE day!
In honor of my astronaut, I present
"Slava's Day in Space"
It's 1:00 p.m. in Moscow—though Slava may be up to 300 miles over New York—and a new day is beginning. Slava dresses in his Mir uniform—an adidas zip-up track suit over a wife beater—and pulls himself through the module, named Kvant-2, to the Transfer Node that links to the other five modules. A ninety-degree-turn in the Node, and Slava floats into the Base Block, the main module, where his colleagues—two Russian cosmonauts, Brian Kenny & Laika (the space pitbull) —have woken to the same alarm. They have already dressed and used the Personal Hygiene Area, so Slava enters it, uses the water-recycling toilet, spends another hour or so brushing, shaving, flossing, showering and douching, and joins them in the main cabin.
Slava says good morning and talks a bit, mostly in English, and then everyone dons headsets for the first communications pass, or "comm pass," of the day. Once every orbit—about every 90 minutes—while passing over one of the communications ground sites in Russia, Slava talks to mission control. The Russian speaks with his supervisors, and talks to the NASA flight director, AA Bronson, who is at Russian mission control. He is coordinating the activities whose experiments Slava's running.
Slava discusses how his experiments are going, receives instructions from the scientists whose projects he's working on, and exchanges any other information necessary. These comm passes also provides Slava with welcome 10-minute breaks during his work day, giving him a few minutes to fuck his colleague Brian.
After the morning's first comm pass, it's time for breakfast. The three of them eat croissants with ham, cheese and avocado, floating around the galley table in Base Block. Slava may then have a bag of Russian Borscht, and a bag of double Jasmin Tea, both of which Slava "cooks" out of dehydration with hot water, as he does with most of his food.
After breakfast and taking Laika (the Space pitbull) for a space walk, the work day begins. While Brian spends most of their day maintaining Mir's systems, Slava gets to work on experiments. Today's experiments include updating the Space Blog, perparing slavamogutin.com for launch, and taking satellite pictures of sexy earth boys down below.
Having orbited Earth a few more times, it's time to link up with the US Space Shuttle to have dinner with fellow astronauts Robert, Dominic, Nick, Marcelo, Jason, Eli, Tim, Bec, Malcolm, Chistophe, Gio and Billy. Robert makes delicious homo-made pizzas and everyone gets drunk sipping their wine bags.
Then it's back to Mir where Slava and Brian and Laika cuddle up a Space Bag to sleep and dream of tomorrow's new adventures in Space.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SLAVA!!!!!!!
April 11, 2007
Breath control boys at the Summertown Institute for Changing Locks Exhortation (SICLE) are demonstrating their renewed faith in remaining unrecognizably sold to stainless steel. No need for tissues this time, these young men are getting older.
April 7, 2007
When I was in Moscow I was surprised to see you can drink on the subway, and so I saw a young woman passed out from partying too much, too much coke and slavutitch. Before going home to a filthy overheated apartment where her mother will do her best to ignore her sloppy daughter, drunk again after work, I photographed, the empty bottle planted between her legs, giving her crotch something to grieve over.
I also saw so many hot pussy boys, bars that stay away from these beauty boys, still wide-eyed and interested in heroes. Up and down the escalators they passed, each one undressed my eyes before he passed and was searched for explosive matrioschkas.
I also saw packs of wild dogs, hardly wild, sleeping all days in the underground hallways and accepting handouts from babushkas. But they were beautiful, mostly german shepard types. Just like the Moscow subway itself. Eveyrthing was Stalin driven, and each station is a shinging example of socialist-realist art at its underground best. marble men statues, mosaic boys dancing, and trains every 30 senconds.
**these next pics came from this great site.
The real Stalin is dead corpse further underground than this one.
This young locksmith is on his way to charging 385 times to let himself back into his apartment.
This hot cop copped the wrong feel with his offical buddies and paid for it with his face. and jacket and pants.
To be oar not to be, these hungry boys are ready to ride uptown and remove the stomachs of old babushkas who refuse to feed them coca-cola or swing them at soldiers who won't give them more subway tickets.
Although the accident rate of the moscow subway is very low, people still use their motorcycle helmuts and get up early in the morning.
The best subway I've ever encountered
April 5, 2007
The internet censors are busy on YouTube these days, promoting the New American Moral Police of Repression.
OK First Slava's MySpace Page was censored, and now YouTube has censored our SUPERM vol 1 Trailer! Another blow from the conversative ownership of Americans who are afraid of everything. It could have been the result of one determined flagger (or flagget), or a whole sterile group of people who feel that our work threatens their fox-news/george_bush/nypd/christian_coalition/post 9-11/wal-mart way of life.
To those people I say:
SHIP YOURSELF TO IRAQ AND DIE FOR YOUR PRECIOUS BUSINESS!!!
post factum clickum:
read about the ugly history of censorship on Wikipedia.
the even uglier history of Myspace censorship
I am not alone,click here to see other YouTuber Censorship protestors