Von Trier’s Antichrist
I finally found the strength to look at it. I didn’t want to look for so long. Finally, I looked this afternoon. Anyone else seen it? Your take?
The Mother Courage of Rock
She was skinny, quick-witted, disarmingly unprofessional, alternating between stand-up patter, bardic intonations, and the hypnotic emotional sway of a chanteuse, and she was sexy in an androgynous way I hadn’t encountered before. The elements cohered convincingly; she seemed both entirely new and somehow long-anticipated. For me at nineteen, the show was an epiphany.
Springtime 1976, I was living in the cinderblock building on the glorified median strip there where they split Highway 13, and one day I went over to this one girl’s apartment, she lived right by the guy who dealt me speed, and she said, “Hey, you know who you remind me of? You remind me of Patti Smith!”
Gave her a possum grin I’m still grinning.
Go Bury Money, Like Now
I’m sharing a New Year’s tradition aimed at drawing wealth to you. I have no idea about its origins.
Take a bill or some coins and put the money in a plastic bag. The amount does not matter. Bury it outside your front door while saying, “I am burying my poverty.” Mark it with a stone or something you can find the next day. Seriously, people have not been able to find their buried money the next day. Do this on New Year’s Eve, before midnight. Then, on January 1, dig up the money while saying, “I am uncovering my wealth.” Do this anytime during the 24-hour period on New Year’s Day.
If you don’t have ground outside your door, not to worry, take a pot and bury your money there and place it outside your door or on the balcony. If that doesn’t work, take a bowl and cover the money with a wash cloth and put it beside the door. This is about symbolism and intent. Do not spend the money, ever. Put it away. Some say that if you spend the buried money, you’ll lose money.
If you follow these instructions, unexpected money will show up for you in the next year. Maybe because I believe, this always happens for me. Always. At least in the years the Iowan has not found, and spent, my buried money. I have heard about people who eventually have taken stacks of buried money and donated it to a good cause. For instance, they have donated it to a church or favorite charity and report all is well.
Or you could leave it tucked away in its individual sandwich bags in a hope chest or drawer. And laugh to think about what your heirs will think to find it.
dueling banjos
from the comments
My friend Ed’s family went on road trips every summer, and they camped. I recall Ed telling me that for a while his little brother, Tom, had a pit toilet fixation. Tom just ached to know what all was down there.
not a spam name
Boogity Boogity Boogity, Amen
Easily the best Gregory Brothers song of the last year or two:
Are you going to feed him with your boob?
It looks like Beavis and Butt-Head are back:
The
belowfootage prepared for Mike Judge’s Comic-Con panel is pure fan service, featuring the return of Cornholio and plenty of idiotic double- and single-entendres, while the characters remain unchanged right down to Stewart’s Winger shirt (a joke that will probably be lost on younger audiences, but screw them). Pretty much the only sign that this was made in 2011: As a reflection of MTV’s near-total banishment of the music video, the duo now also comments on UFC fights, movies such as Twilight, and, of course, MTV reality shows like 16 And Pregnant, Teen Mom, and—as seen here—Jersey Shore.
How do I feel about this?
(thanks, Josh)
Achillea millefolium
“Common yarrow [Achillea millefolium] is frequently found in the mildly disturbed soil of grasslands and open forests.”
I snipped my yarrow at midnight by the light of the moon, standing in grasses up to my chin.
Other names for yarrow are devil’s nettle, sanguinary, milfoil, and soldier’s woundwort.
I especially like sanguinary, as one traditional use of yarrow is the stanching of wounds. When I got my yarrow indoors under lamplight, I noticed that one of the blossom clusters was tinged with something that looked like a blood clot.
Which makes the odd splotch on my chin in this mobile phone photo all the more interesting to me.
Up in the redwoods
dear clusterflock
When was the last time you saw someone in a movie, before you knew who they were, and thought, this person will be a star?
the magical iPad
Simon Pierro uses the iPad as a prop for performing magic tricks.
(via, I’m sorry I forgot)
Dallas
Carrollton man crashes, undresses, dies in second of two accidents in Far North Dallas
Man found dead in South Dallas pond after using drugs, talking about walking on water
(thanks, Patrick)
Message in a Dream
A neighbor asked me over last week to look at his American elm seeds. He is trying to grow new trees from a large healthy one that somehow has managed to escape Dutch elm disease. This is part of an effort to grow new American elms in our county in Virginia. But the neighbor has sprouted only a few seeds from dozens of attempts. And they don’t look so good.
My yard was very conservative when I moved in last summer. Within weeks it was bright and beautiful with exotic flowers that bloomed until December, then burst into life again a couple of months later. This earned me a bit of a witchy reputation. But my experience is limited to flowers, fruits and vegetables. I am not a tree person. But I told the neighbor I would see what I could find out. I started researching online. I found some information, but it was confusing. I was frustrated. Later in the week, I had a dream. I was walking with my father in the woods. He was the kind of person who could go straight to a stand of trees that had been declared extinct, or nearly. No big deal. It was like he could smell them out.
In the dream, my father bent down and started digging with his hands in the forest soil, pulling away the organic matter on top. He pushed deep into the packed earth and pulled that up in his fists. He held out the rich soil to me. I woke up thinking about the elms.
Yesterday, I told the neighbor I wanted some of the seeds. I mentioned the soil in the woods where I often roam near the trail near here (the Iowan sits on the bench and waits for me to get my fill). I did not mention the dead father and dream. But, I said, “I’m in.”
Lured Despite
I haven’t been tempted to reread Dune since that vacation on Padre Island when I was fifteen, and I couldn’t stick it out to the end of David Lynch’s film, but hey — I have this thing for Alejandro Jodorowsky, so I’m thinking I’ll want to see this documentary about his failed attempt to film Dune back in the seventies.
tweet of the day
You are listening to Los Angeles
Okay. My 24/7 soundtrack. Ambient music and live LAPD police radio.
(Thank you, Mr. Ledgerwood.)
Last Night I Dreamed…
Before bed, Danny and I purposely measured our vodka. We went to bed early. I didn’t fall asleep as easily as usual. I slept the night fitfully. Between brief dreams, I was awake with eyes closed, thoughts came and went. I dreamed I was in a car with people. It seemed I was on a highway in North Central Arkansas. I was driving ahead of, or into a thunderstorm. I took the car off the highway into a little town of quaint neighborhoods. I stopped.
Suddenly, crazy, amazing lightning lit the town, then thunder. People came out of houses around the car looking up to the sky. I looked out the car window as lightning bolted and hit a man standing just outside the car, lifting him into the sky and letting him go to fall somewhere nearby. Enormous thunder boomed. “Oh, God! Did you see that?” I called to folks in the car, “He was electrified, enlightened.” A girl-child was at my side. She asked, “What happened to him?”
“Oh, honey,” I said. “He was lifted into the sky. It’s time to move!” I put the car in “drive” and squealed around. I woke up. I don’t know if I was headed away from or into the eye of the storm.
O’Reilly Gets Memed
The Order of Myths
A film by Margaret Brown. Trailer:
Read more
Country Church
I am fascinated with a tiny church that hugs the bend of a narrow country road in my hometown, in Hazel Green, AL. If you were driving too fast, under the influence, maybe, and looked away, you might drive right into the building. There are no windows. Not one single window.
When I stopped to take the photos, a man at a house nearby was wrangling leaves with a gasoline-powered leaf blower. He never looked up. I was nervous because I heard warning barks from dogs. I saw one big white dog, who seemed to be taking his cues from an invisible dog leader. The big dog never left the fence-less yard.
As I drove away, I finally saw the alpha dog. It was a dachshund, who chased my car for a bit. But again, the dog never left the yard. Maybe the surprising location of that tiny church has a taming influence on all who pass that way.
Father Christmas fucked my pussy (Christmas pussy song)
(thanks, Aaron)
Fire in My Belly (1987) | David Wojnarowicz (Music: Diamanda Galas)
You’ve got to sign in via YouTube or Google to view Fire in My Belly, the 1987 video by David Wojnarowicz that was yanked from a show at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Portrait Gallery this week. I urge you to do so.
On December 1 the National Portrait Gallery celebrated World AIDS Day by capitulating to the demands of the Catholic League and of conservative Republicans and removing Fire in My Belly from an important exhibition about art and sexual difference, Hide/Seek.
Electricity | Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band
Deron and I been going back and forth about Walt Whitman, and and now I am meditating on Whitman and my other main man, William Blake. Sometimes one or the other of them feels present to me in a way that is electrifying.
