wish I heard his voice more often
BABIES AS WEAPONS is the most twisted thing you will see today, even if you're a regular at ModBlog. It's the inelegant site of XenoSapien, a man in the States who believes he is "suffering from deep feminist-culture side-effects." I hope he never discovers gifs, as the flame motif is bad enough already. (Warning: for reasons unknown he plays inappropriate music very loudly). The front page has a pencil sketch named MyPain of a woman dressed as a stripper about to whip a prostrate man with a baby that's still attached to her by an umbilical cord that snakes from between her legs. For added wtf, the diapered baby seems to be angrily shouting into a microphone. The entire thing gives me the quesy feeling he watches Wicker Man and touches himself on Friday nights.
"NASA can no longer afford the future."
Plans for making a Jacob's Ladder from readily available parts.
Today has been full of unexpected phone calls, disco light moments, when the blare of music fades into almost silence at the exact moment you see her face. Theatre people, friends, night and day. Someone's finally read my pen written letters, public transit edited. A long distance shout from an ex-lover, three defeated countries away, sunburned voice peeling across the lines, unexpected and welcome and a little puzzling. I love him, but why now? Little mirrors refracting light, circling in the room. Another chrome ring, pick-up-the-phone - a potential investor, in town from Memphis, surprise, someone I've been considering handing the project off to once I get it up on its feet and properly connected to my city. (We all know I want to leave.) I'm cancelling my plans this evening so as to see him.
Just as a reminder: Bertolt Brecht's Life of Galileo opens tomorrow at The Western Front. Further details here. I'm going, are you? Especially quick comments have a chance at a comp.
Today has been full of unexpected phone calls, disco light moments, when the blare of music fades into almost silence at the exact moment you see her face. Theatre people, friends, night and day. Someone's finally read my pen written letters, public transit edited. A long distance shout from an ex-lover, three defeated countries away, sunburned voice peeling across the lines, unexpected and welcome and a little puzzling. I love him, but why now? Little mirrors refracting light, circling in the room. Another chrome ring, pick-up-the-phone - a potential investor, in town from Memphis, surprise, someone I've been considering handing the project off to once I get it up on its feet and properly connected to my city. (We all know I want to leave.) I'm cancelling my plans this evening so as to see him.
Just as a reminder: Bertolt Brecht's Life of Galileo opens tomorrow at The Western Front. Further details here. I'm going, are you? Especially quick comments have a chance at a comp.