Blogging is public sex, or masturbation in the least (yes, I’m still God’s little virgin. Bless me), albeit one without the physical excitation save for the orgy of triggered nerve impulses in my retina.
Disturbing, I know, but if I cannot even state what I have in mind (which flashed for but a second) in the virtual world, why I might as well join the Skulls and Bones Brotherhood (a secret society with a secret unbeknownst to this testosterone-filled intelligentsia but me: I am WOMAN, one and only, hear me not).
Rosie the Riveter
So why the bawdy, South Park worthy analogy? Why not compare it with the more innocuous acts of singing, of breastfeeding, of smacking gum? Singing, my dear, has its many modulations (unless you’re Ken Nordine singing droning ‘Orange’) and can be a ticket to gaining popularity and security in reality. Yes, the virtual world with all its colours and adjustable lighting and offerings of global surfing and non-archaeological Diggs is not real! The very notion of us bloggers’ desires to increase traffic is inconceivable; If all the governments in the world are to announce the implementation of halt/ increase traffic policies worldwide simultaneously, a Guinness world record of the highest number of mouths agape will be broken… and being the Delphic wonder that I am, I’m forecasting the record will be broken at peak hour.
No, seriously.
But of course, I’m deliberately omitting the magic word ‘blog’ here. As for breastfeeding from what I’ve unwillingly perceived throughout the years, it is quite all sucky business for both sides. The sound of smacking wads of gum need I really say, is galling, oh-my-god-I’ve-recreated-my-neighbour-in-my-caput stuff even to the chewer himself.
Perhaps blogging is just that, blogging, and is so incomparable it transcends all attempts to categorise it.
Does this though, elicit any particular response from you?
Might I also say, Wikipedia is quite the Don Juan?
Quite the Don Juan, indeed.
I guess my blog isn’t really much of a turn-on in the long run until recently. Blogging once in a blue moon gives way to days of extravagant blogging which is also reflected in:
Shut your eyelids!
It stings the blogger’s pride too when an expectant day of blogging is ignored by readers. You hear me? This is coming from one victim out of billions worldwide, of blog impotency. Despite the ubiquitousness of the Internet, Blog Viagra® is alas, non-existent as of April 2010.
I’ll end this unorthodox rebel of a post with an excerpt I found on http://scienceblogs.com/isisthescientist/2009/04/brief_scienceblogs_in-fighting.php and let it suffice to say that ‘Tottering in the Zephyrs of Escapism’ will not be as distastefully explicit in the future- I am seeing myself as a male eighth-grader, with face made craggy with zits and eyes secretly occupied with crumpled copies of Playboy. Oh no!:
“it seems to me that talking about your blog traffic is kind of like discussing the frequency that you’re fucking. Either you’re not getting any and lamenting or you’re bragging and inflating the truth. Either way, it’s always awkward and often dishonest.”
Which have pinged in my mind throughout the hours on WordPress. These delightful words were plucked, scrubbed and squinted at (it was all done half-cocked really) before being swanked here tonight.
Some are just exquisitely resplendent like ‘chinoiserie‘ and ‘demagoguery‘, whilst others like ‘chicory‘ and ‘quiddity‘ are so damn adorable, like babies with rainbow lollipops in swaddles! Whilst some are classic Americans (‘jazz‘ and ‘sloppy joes’), others are prided for their European delicacy like, say “vichyssoise’ and ‘velleities‘. There are those such as ‘Rubenesque‘ and ‘rococo‘ who are imperious, haughty, commanding. But those towered over by such totalitarians must not be shunned from the podium: the innocence and timorousness of ‘ingenue’ and ‘waif’ are to be valued… diamonds amongst bland boulders of common words.
Can't You See I'm Reading Big Words?
We can be sure of only one aspect: The listed words are all mavericks and oddballs of the English (and co.) language! Oh, and words beginning with ‘P’ have won (oh my!), followed very closely by Vs, Ss and Cs.
The Internet slows down. Next, next, n-n-n-n-next. Dammit, next it already!
It crashes.
Spits of fury pepper the screen of our computers.
The ‘Next’ ritual thence recommences.
So my dear viewers and fans of Rufus Wainwright, feast your eyes on this very accessible photo gallery sans ‘nexting’.
A note to non-Wordpress users or lost lambs in the technical world of cyberdom (where CSSes, Javascripts and self-appointed cyber polices reign): you’ll get the full-sized image after clicking on the desired (or lusted after) photo twice.
Oh no no no no. Keep saying that, hon.
Oh my II
Oh my.
Most Desirable Man #2
A light shone by an artificial light.
Mirrors, no, really! You are already reflected in the eyes of many adoring fans.
Gazed by a virtuoso. Separated by an interceding camera lens and miles and miles of land and sea..
Rockin’ a leather Biker Jacket.
Rufus Strips For a Cause!
Yes, yes, being gorgeous can be rather taxing.
This really is a hop out of my imagination.
Too much of a sparkle to be camouflaged amongst the leaves.
Corners are sexy. Not during spring-cleaning.
Love the evil-eye brooch!
Throned. Long live Rufus.
Rufus Wainwright: More than just a Wallflower
A note is hit, splendid.
Strumming souls
No longer an “old-school promiscuous Oscar Wilde freak show”. The fight for love is on.
Rufus Wainwright: More than just a Wallflower
Hallelujah, indeed!
No longer an "old-school promiscuous Oscar Wilde freak show". The fight for love is on.
Here are just three photos for a taste. Will update tomorrow. Really, this blog increasingly poses itself as a shrine to Rufus Wainwright every time I post. Anyway, off to shoo a moth so wish me luck!
“I need it to get out of bed in the morning, to shave and eat breakfast.”
‘Junky’ by William Burroughs
Unrequited love is junk which perfectly counterbalances Mr. Burrough’s symptoms. With it, one cannot “get out of bed in the morning, to shave and eat breakfast”.
So what is it about unrequited love that causes us to keel over with legs akimbo with misted, teary eyes as we woolgather on our beds, or to crook our smiles to that of a goosey pudding-head (think ‘Dumb and Dumber’ promotional posters), or to voodoo our heads to function like my Kevin Rudd bobblehead figure (“yes, yes, of course we’ll give them their financial rights. When? We will, okay. But of course, there will be no gay marriage, absolument nada, don’t you worry Reverend So-and-so, we esteem the traditional… ancient Greeks? Yes, what about them?”) for our unwitting loves’ requests.
Can you goddamn send me messages that are over six words long? How can you not see me? Woohoo? Come on, come on, talk to me already, you see those friends every single weekday and me… well, I am withering from being able to see you only twice a month average these four years!!! What grievous deeds have I committed to be shackled to you? Where are the keys to quit you once and for all? Let me quit. I want to quit you. I must quit you.
I cannot.
Addicted to love.
I cannot.
Anyway, during these six miserable years (scantly peppered with minutes of expectant joy throughout), I’ve never mustered enough courage to move the earth under my feet… I still hear my pathetic scrapes against this arid earth, waiting for a drizzle, a rain, a tempest to colour this sorry sight. I dream of gazing askance at my love whilst holding hands, blanketed by 1825 tulips to mark my five years’ loneliness, I dream of thornless red roses entwining us closer and closer, of snuggling together and discussing Breakfast at Tiffany’s at 2 am by firelight, of laughing over our disastrous but innocent endeavours to prepare a meal, of sitting on the kitchen floor, whispering, screaming the words “I love you.”.
Five to six years out of seventeen, jailed in a dream. I don’t feel young.
The deep chasm erected between the two of us, one that mockingly returns empty echoes of my pleas, is always there. Always. Where is the long-awaited earthquake which will collide our posts together?
Damn, I am desperate, and smothered, with invisible walls closing in around me.
In the meantime, I’m married to my iPod wishing that someday, I’ll supplant my songs with songs which celebrate reciprocated love.
What can I say? Having my heart manacled by an unsuspecting jury is the sweetest nightmare.
‘The Art Teacher’ by Rufus Wainwright poignantly oozes unrequited love, with style.
And they sure are pungently sweet- you know, a potpourri of cinnamon, fairy-floss and indeed, the sharper smelling juniper (for the sake of convenience; Juniper is the lead female character of this stunning film). Starring the incorrigibly gorgeous Johnny Depp as an eccentric hubcap-twirler, Buster Keaton aspirant, connoisseur of the art of ironing sandwich slices, the sweet romantic comedy possesses an abstruser, somewhat deeper strain of reality through its emotional sashays from the inventively whimsical to bitingly real, now humorously deadpan, now tear-wrenching (though not for me… my tear ducts, I believe, are reserved only for the self-pitying episodes during turbulent pre-exam or post-debacle moments). Depp’s fantabulous performance as well as Mary Stuart Masterson’s as Joon and Aidan Quinn’s as Benny really set the flavour of ‘Benny and Joon’ (1993), magically transmuting what could have been a sappy chick flick into a classic genre-defying ‘film’ (though I guess it lies comfortably within the romantic comedy genre).
Capable of thawing even the iciest of hearts, ‘Benny and Joon’ is tastefully colourful in palette and sense (i.e. it provides the much needed absence of garish bloody scenes, sex scenes– though a single cinemaphile like me cannot thrive long without them, the latter in particular ;P). Plus I now know that wool setting is really the only recommended one for making the best grilled cheese. Best practised on an ironing board, too.
And sweet Jesus, I must get this poster! Off to haunt the poster store in Newtown.
Excuse me for the many odd expressions employed this night. I’ve been criticised many a times so please be kind.
Fo shizzle dizzle, its the big Neptizzle with the Snoopy D-O-Double Jizzle!
What the fuck?
Though I must congratulate Snoop Dogg (are we entreated to enunciate dog with a pronounced g sound?) on his lucrative endeavour in mangling language and adding -izzles for a scintillating effect.
Indeed, Dr. Seuss would have been proud.
So what’s the ballyhoo-izzle about rap? Why do some squander to listen to these oversexed bling-carrying arm-swishing argot wielders? Correct me if I’m wrong but I’ve yet to see any rap songs or music videos which challenge my idea of rap. I assure you that I can appreciate the rappers’ ‘individuality’ and personal taste, albeit they are non-existent.
Apparently, they do it for the Gs and they do it for the hustlaz.
Fo shizzle dizzle, its the big Neptizzle with the Snoopy D-O-Double Jizzle!
The heebie-jeebies and couple of rides on the darned cotton ponies has resulted in a complete psyche-makeover and I apologise to those artists who have been demoted from January’s ‘Ten Amazing Artists and Albums’. For memory’s sake, these were: Martha Wainwright, Franz Ferdinand and Maksim Mrvica. Three out of ten, humph, guess I’ve retained 70% (am I right… maths and I, phewie- we can never get the relationship going) of my I-love-you-you-love personality.
Anyway, badabubbadabow!- let the fanfare cry! To the new Ten Amazing Artists… I LOVE YOU!:
Artists:
1. Rufus Wainwright
Rufus Wainwright smokes and smothers.
What can I say about this shiny billion-in-one package? To spare those unacquainted with Rufus (how dare you!) and those who loathe him (how VERY dare you!) and those who remain indifferent to his milk-of-paradise voice (HOW very, okay you know what, leave this instant. Hatred is frightful enough, but Apathy is the unfaltering phlegm in an all too diseased humanity I can never leave sticking around) from a hundreds-paged discourse on his brilliance, I’ll just say these three words of wisdom: Get. Listen. Love.
Thank you. Gosh, there goes a new line in my CV: Pious missionary in amassing born-again Converts of the I-Love-RW cult. Moving on (in discourse but not in spirit) to…
2. Corinne Bailey Rae
My discerning eyes tell me she is at the Grammy's. They also inform me that she is a picturesque wonder.
3. Madeleine Peyroux
The modern Billie Holiday.
4. Billie Holiday
5. Amy Winehouse
6. Mika
7. Melody Gardot
What can I say... her name's a superb fit. Wish I could say the same about my pair of jeans.
8. John Barrowman
Bang! Went the artery in my heart. Bad onomatopoeia, I know, but one tries .
9. Pink Martini
Nothing goes better with an imaginary martini (thanks a lot, government 'authorities') on a sunny, drizzling day than Pink Martini (not that we get many sunny and drizzling days here so Pink Martini do well in mocktail-cocktail lounge sessions). You do understand that this is all metaphorical? ;P
Immingle the exorbitance of Sacha Baron Cohen (and his egregious albeit loveable characters) with the sensibilities of the repressed Asian woman… voila!:
Presenting an artistic soul whose canvas is itself.
Imagine my surprise in unearthing this personality on my laptop as I was about to delete my account on samesame.com! As I spent the witching hour watching her stand-up performances, I realised (“omg!”) that she may well be one whose interests lies closest to mine (ahem, well in the deep recesses of my mind). The following is a list of why so many of us (whether un-closeted or closeted) lap her up (doubtlessly with a degree of trepidation). Margaret’s ferociously honest farce covers:
- An unhealthy fag-hag obsession with gay men (to whose culture, bodies and voices I am slave)
- Stereotypes imposed on Asian-Americans (which I am subject to- as would my future children, grandchildren…)
- Bisexuality (if I met the right woman, this would apply)
- Dieting and eating disorders (damn you and your mannequins, Vogue!)
For a taste, here is Margaret Cho tackling the hassles of being a fag-hag (and of our uncredited role of being the backbone of the gay community):
Plus my ultimate dose of hysteria in ‘Asian Chicken Salad’:
xoxo and hooray for Margaret Cho, fag-hags, and Asian chicken salads (and not to mention, a Gollum-esque piece of Tolkien’s legendarium)!
And Want Two is my Bible (yes, an honest Bible does exist- no longer limited to being a preached oxymoron)!
I have to write a review for Want Two, for the chef-d’oeuvre which has provided me (and doubtlessly many others) the most transcendental, warmest musical experience one can ever imbibe through a cold, metallic disc. I believe this is Rufus’s most underrated album thus far, and my absolute favourite (this is saying something, considering it comes from one whose ‘cigarettes and chocolate milk’ is Rufus Wainwright)!
Having read so many articles comparing Rufus’s voice to saccharine foods, let me just extend their encomiums with another (less stimulating) metaphor… His songs, mellifluous as they are, embody a unique personal quality to an extent that we listeners will not only be climbing a stairway to a makeshift Shangri-la, but we are rungs closer to understanding the virtuoso himself. He’s my sole remedy in purging myself of the kitschy, oversexed music which the majority of my peers at school listen to! Gay Messiah, This Love Affair and especially The Art Teacher continually make me a loyal Kleenex customer.
Why homophobia never seems to dissipate or crunch away is beyond me. To those whose enchridion-based beliefs cause anguish to their ‘victims’, I can only hope that Jesus etc. will descend (in a flowing robe for dramatic effect) and cry “MATTHEW, PETER AND SO & SO, THAT IS SO OUT OF CONTEXT!!!” To expedite empathy with our colourful friends, here is a performance by Rufus Wainwright whose angelic voice really extravasated the raw emotions (i.e. unrequited love) from ‘The Art Teacher’:
Madonna in drag of heavenly Hell. (I hope you recognise that as a pun or literary device of sorts; it was already lame).
Gosh, scrummy in trench coat and drag. That’s Rufus for you!
To the many loyal fans of Rufus, visit http://ktbg.fm/ and search for Rufus Wainwright in the artists box- you’ll find a couple of interviews there (you’ll need iTunes). Alternatively, should troubles arise (as they did for a tech-unsavvy me), go to http://ktbg.fm/artists/rufus.html and save the ’32k’ links which worked for me !
!
