here's what I think: everyone can just shut the fuck up about dvd's. you're all a bunch of robot motherfuckers. I swear to god. people who honestly didn't give a shit about movies are now overly concerned with their 'home theatre systems' and how many fucking dvd's they happen to own. how many times are you going to watch a fucking movie before you get bored? I swear. and the masturbatory way the fucking tech press has been covering the MPAA and the studios w/r/t this stuff makes me want to throw up. woweee, for twenty-five bucks you can OWN your own copy of 'little nicky' or 'bounce', complete with multiple-camera-angle cut footage of EVEN MORE RETARDED SHIT. oh yeah and a whole separate and distinct audio track of the director talking about how great he (or she, as in the case of classics like "you've got mail") is. well FUCK YOU. that's what I had to say about that.
there I'm all sorry but I had to get that bile out of my system, as I've said before it's largely all right because no one reads this shit. or at least that's what I thought; a little while ago I got an email from someone telling me that my 'story' here was 'pretty damn gay' but 'nevertheless interesting when one has nothing else to do'. so yeah I'm glad I can be entertaining you fucking robots with my gay antics and 'stories', yeah yeah.
anyway I've had lots of dreams lately but I forget them all becuz I'm lame and have been slacking on the writing tip. it's just like that. I will tell you I have been having a virtual avalance of sex dreams, tho. it's fucking dope. like half the time I wake up to the irritating screech of the alarm clock on a weekday, it's right in the middle of an extremely photorealistic sex dream and I'm even more pissed off as I haul my drowsy carcass into the bathroom to scrub out my facial orifice before swaddling myself in layer upon layer of winter clothes and lurching out the door to the train w/ the headfones on as loud as the circutry will permit. cuz then, see, I get to my job and stare at a screen, all day.
ergh. but anyway yeah. I'm happy to report that there is more to my existence than just that shit, tho. this weekend I saw some fucked up art at PS1. the chapman brothers, who are like the sickest humans on earth, had a show there featuring gargantuan high-saturation blowup shots of their piece 'HELL' that I had the dubious honor of seeing while in london this past october. I'd tell you all about it but as far as I can ascertain even describing this shit would at the very least violate diaryland's tems of service, if not land me in jail, it's like that fantastically vile, the art that is. yeah. anyway immediately after that I got somehow inspired to make stuff, and so in what I personally thought was a rather chapman bros.-esque move I went to a used bookstore and got this old manual for high school bio labs involving the dissection of fetal pigs. let me tell you: this book is from the early 60's and the art in it is worlds away from what they have on the shelves now. like if you open up the latest Cambell bio textbook for first year college students, you see a bunch of pastelly shit that was obviously cranked out with an adobe product by some illustration slave in a basement somewhere. the shit in my pig book tho, it's fanfuckingtastic, like each picture of, say, a kidney is all shaded perfectly and detailed beyond belief, by hand. anyway so the idea with that is, the pig book plus a xerox machine plus the recent infusion of perverse chapman bros. sensibility will lead me to veer away from my usual production style for a little while. something like that. we'll see.
right like you care. you're just scrolling down to get to the good gay stories, I know you. yeah.
right. now I forget all the things I had to say. that's why I babbled incessantly two paragraphs up. it's just like that. sometimes. yeah.