his dick was like really big
Excerpts from this year’s bad sex-writing nominees.
Her face had taken on her nudity or rather had shed a veil it wore for the world. She said:
‘Perhaps you’d like to take off your shorts.’
They backed on to a bed that sagged in the middle, the sheets rancid with what she later identified as old sperm and alcohol in a cocktail specially mixed for Soviet hotels.
…
‘The blue veins are divine,’ he whispered. At that moment, a lifetime of unease about this ugly feature of her body was replaced with satisfaction.
…
He eased out of her again, showing himself.
‘Look!’ he whispered as she did.
…
He made her forget she was a Communist.
His chest was the size of a South American country. A slanting tongue of lamplight lit up his lap and I could see the outline of his large appendage.
…
Sebastian’s erect member was so big I mistook it for some sort of monument in the centre of a town. I almost started directing traffic around it.
‘Don’t stop,’ she clamoured; she was nearly there, it was in the bag.
For Andrew
“I always thought I’d like my own tombstone to be blank. No epitaph, and no name. Well, actually, I’d like it to say FIGMENT.”
Attributed to Andy Warhol.
Out of context
Lucy to Sheila. Friday night.
“Let’s not look like Stevie Nicks, ok? Like, ever.”
Be it hereby resolved.
from the comments
Doc:
I met Bruce Lee as a kid, summer of ‘67, out in LA; my father often traveled for work. We were outside the office where my father had met a colleague when he suddenly pointed behind me and said, “Look, *Doc*, Kato!”
Walking up the street was a slender Chinese man, not all that tall. He might have been Kato, but mostly Kato wore that mask, right? But he stopped and said hello to my father and his colleague.
Anyhow, supercilious snot that I was, I asked him if what he did on TV was a fake. He just smiled and the next thing I knew the tennis ball (white – the only color made back then) I had been bouncing against the sidewalk was being batted this way and that by Lee’s hands, fists, knees, feet and head, almost too fast to see. To this day I’ve never met anyone with faster hands (and I studied in the Norris system in San Diego later on, even meeting and taking a lesson from Norris before he got too Hollywood.) As a finale, Lee let the ball drop into his right hand, and he sort of bowed, with the ball outstretched toward me. As I reached out to take it back, Lee suddenly popped in into the air and struck it with his fist. The damn thing popped. I mean, I walked over and picked it up and it was ruptured in a straight line. I believe everything ever written about him.
Cool. Preservation.
From the NYTimes:
The Test
From an actual conversation, 28 years ago:
Cindy: If you just had to have a flocked Christmas tree, what color would it be?
Daryl: I think … … green.
Cindy: Okay, I’ll marry you.
Half-and-Half Tower
I love this image from Mary Jeys.
facial symmetry
Be sure to check out cross-eyed Johnny Cash.
(via buzzfeed)
Here is my muppet
You can make yours here.
thoughts on reading, 1
I’ve been trying to think of how to talk about the books I read that were important to me. I started a series of reviews called books I read and loved, but maybe a half a dozen in, forgot what came next. The goal was to follow the path chronologically. There seems to be a big chunk I can’t recall. Or, perhaps, I went through a relatively longish phase — the end of my freshman year in college, to the beginning of my sophomore — where I didn’t read books that stuck.
So, I’ve been trying to think of a way to talk about them, the books I loved, in a way that would impart the essence of them. That would show the why and how I loved them — why, in fact, I think you should read them; what that process would give you. What it might look or feel like.
Because, for me, the process of reading became almost physical. My appreciation for a text bordered on synthesthetic. What I was relating to was the craft of the workmanship, the way the words fit into the sentences; the sounds the words made in the mouth.
The essence of a good book was the craftsmanship; the attention to detail at the level of the sentence that left no doubt the writer knew what the fuck she was up to. You saw it in Diane Williams, Raymond Carver, Thomas Bernhard, Guy Davenport: the writer left no doubt that the craft of stitching sentences together was the essential craft. Story was not what it was about. It was primarily a question of aesthetics.
This, at least, is a start.
human nature
Now that Bob Dylan is making bad albums, I find it kind of endearing.
sleeping amazon
Nous volons des banques.
“How you? This here’s Miss Sheila Ryan. I’m Alek Lindus.
“We rob banks.”
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Liquid Plumber: Joe’s Wardrobe Costs GOP $150K
On Friday, the Republican National Committee reported receipts amounting to nearly $150,000 for clothing, cosmetic treatments, and beef jerky allocated to McCain campaign phenomenon Samuel “Joe the Plumber” Wurzelbacher.
McCain senior strategist and speechwriter Mark Salter dismissed the bills as “irrelevant” and “false” while insisting, “even if the story were true, and it is, Obama will raise taxes.”
Here comes a flocker: Lucy Foley
Hello. My name is Lucy and I have stories.
I am from Ireland and I get around. I’m a writer, photographer and singer, and when things are going well I am actually doing these things, sometimes combining them together. You can see a little flavour sachet of my stuff over at Here Comes Lucy. I blog at Lucy Takes Off, and as of today, here at Clusterflock.
So last Saturday morning I woke up in Brooklyn, and I’m still here. This past year I’ve been living in New York, in Clare, Ireland and in Barcelona, and moving around a lot has become native to me.
My home in Brooklyn is a house on the edge of downtown Brooklyn and Park Slope that has my bloke’s recording studio on the ground floor and our living space upstairs. It’s quite a big house. We mostly play all day. There’s a hole in the roof and it goes drip drip drip when it rains heavily.
There are more animals in Clare than in New York, not counting the Brooklyn roof goats, of course. Clare also has more trees and wild grasses and fast moving water, matched in New York only by the cock-a-roaches that I sometimes squash with my bare fingers, and the humans who think at the speed of light. Oh, life is good. This city is becoming more local to me, and it feels like home, one of them at least.
Lately I’m busy doing things I don’t usually do. Things like writing proposals and making applications and sending things off in the post and giving people my business card. This feels good.
I am interested in the uncomfortable silence, the awkward social moment, the laugh, the celebration, the wait, the human ache. I’m interested in these things because they seem to me to be at the core of what it is to be human, and in exploring where they point.
On facial hair
How’s that working out for you?
There’s a whole lot of rhythm going round
Artist Xenobia Bailey, in an interview I’m editing for the journal Artist and Influence:
I like the whole concept of funk and what George Clinton has done with that. I think it has a real philosophy and that it could grow further. The philosophy of funk is like a fermented grape, which is cultivated into wine. It gets decomposed, and that decomposed matter goes into fertilization, and then that fertile matter goes into the soil. You plant another seed, and that sprouts up, the seed drops and grows, and it goes into decay again. A whole cycle is what happens with the aesthetic of funk. It’s the same thing with things within a household. Everything gets patched up, and nothing gets thrown away. Even ashes are used for the plant soil. Everything is used in this nonending cycle of life, and that is pretty much the whole philosophy that I’m using with this aesthetic of funk. You can go from the finest of fine to the funkiest of funk, and it still has its own life energy.
An Interview With: Nouk Baudrot
You may remember Nouk from a recent post. I became very intrigued with his style, and I had a few questions for him which turned into an interview, with topics ranging from personal responsibility to what exactly style is.
“You can always judge a person coming out of the supermarket, being the most hilarious fashion mishap on earth. But don’t waste your time and energy on it, eventually all the derision makes you bitter and takes away the ability to be really, and truly happy about the one person coming out of the supermarket being absolutely magnificent.”
Falling in Love Again
I have fallen in love with my work again. I have fallen in love with the business of bringing it from that endlessly in-love first process of pressing pen to paper watching the ink flowing until it is done, of taking the photograph, of receiving the idea - those sensual moments of happeningness - and now, through a five month process of moving shyly and excitedly toward each other, as I construct, edit, reconstruct, collaborate (with Ross Bonadonna, Brooklyn composer, producer and my squeeze) and make these things available for other people to see and interact with.
From clusterflock friend Lucy Foley — from Enniskilen: Initial Thoughts.
Just makes me giddy. In a really good way.
Stray Dog
I came across Nouk Baudrot on the infamous fashion site, Lookbook. His style is highly fashionable, and inventive in the oddest ways.
(1964)
His flickr contains a set wherein he dresses up as…himself from almost every decade. The pictures are processed perfectly, and his strong features find a home in every year. Something beautiful.
It’s true. Sarah Palin is in a corn maze.
Sarah Palin is in a corn maze. This does not mean that Sarah Palin is actually in a corn maze, but that there is a corn maze made to look like Sarah Palin. You have to be looking down on the maze and not in it in order to see the likeness.
Courtesy of Jamie Rhein at Gadling.
Death of a Shade of a Hue
A fun and telling exercise/game in which you line up color blocks in a row to change from one color to another. When it’s over, they tell you where you have trouble differentiating. I scored 26, what did you get?
Bruno: Delicious Journeys Through America for the Purpose of Making Heterosexual Male
Sasha Baron Cohen was escorted from a fashion show in Milan on Friday.
After a few minutes of darkness while Baron Cohen, or Bruno, was escorted off the catwalk, the show started again. Models had kept their cool but the designer was visibly upset when she appeared at the end of the show.
Wabi-Sabi Wasabi-Green Cake
For a Girls Get Together dinner I made a dark chocolate layer cake with blue and green layers of vanilla icing. It was a bit Dr. Suessy and ugly, yet the girls wanted me to pose like I was in a 1960’s ladies magazine showing off my proud creation. It was yummy and imperfect and I’d like to think of it as my Wabi-Sabi Wasabi-Green Cake.
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Which living writer
would you most like to sit down to tea and a bagel (or a cigar and Wild Turkey) with? Why? Several of my favorites have died in the past decade or so: Penelope Fitzgerald, WG Sebald, Guy Davenport, Paul Metcalf, Donald Justice. I had the chance to spend several hours last summer with Alan Garner and his wife Griselda, so I shouldn’t pick him, I suppose. I could go for Gordon Lish, but then he and I have had a running correspondence for 20 years, so maybe I shouldn’t pick him either. Maybe Louis Simpson, who at 84 or 85, might not be with us much longer. I’ve read so much of Simpson that we might not have as much to talk about, but he’s so opinionated and smart that it couldn’t help but be fun. Or should I go the other direction, a writer younger than I am? Maybe Mexico’s Ignacio Padilla. I should stop asking questions.