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|Saturday, August 18th, 2007|
thththththththththats all folks, folksafolksafolksafolksafolks
the extreme body performance art of the 3 foot Iliegni is something to truly behold, especially since this is the birthday of this community. Iliegni is not a mere baby, but maybe she'd be better off as one since her work is too mesmerizing for her own good! no nono, but it's great! just this morning, 9:42 am pacific standard time she had swollowed a very large boot, a lamp and a bugle. All of it was quite visible as her skin strechted over the divers shapes of these objects, very much like that of a snake swallowing its rodential prey. this afternoon she swallowed an anaconda which itself had swallowed a little boy by the name of Winston Carlisle. It was a sight seeing the fair Iliegni turn a pale green with some hints of brown underneath all that skin and kneeing, elbowing some pinky organs along the way. And if I don't update this in a long while, it's because I will have been swallowed by Illiegni tonight and won't be back for some time. Keep your bookmarks on the elusive sham art youtube community for a video of this erotically smashing scene.
|Wednesday, August 15th, 2007|
In the world of sham art, it is not uncommon to meet with those true renegades, or perhaps fugitives, running away from someone AND something. In this case, the former is a human adult, whether a family or a single unit, while the latter is the animal shelter, SPCA, local humane society, etc.
In that horribly uncertain and dangerous world of runaway pets, there are those few that survive not only on their own as functioning organisms, perhaps destined for a domestic existence but survive in that similarly uncertain and dangerous world of art. If you are someone like Olaus Phfaulsens of St. Egroris, NE, your poor kitty Sniggles was not run over by a towtruck or eaten by coyotes. Instead, the neutered Sniggles is now known as Horace Frapole and lives in West Seattle. His art pieces have seen life in the Seattle Industrial Artists' Space (or SIAS), and the independent galleries of southeast Washington (a favorite haunt of M. Frapole's is in this desolate region). His work is a unique mixture of sculpture, readymades and kinetic art. One such work, entitled "Energiser Gyser" is a gynasium sized funnel shape all scratched and pasted together with various queen-sized beds hanging off the metal wings. When one looks at this work, shards of the material clatter to the ground, also adding in to the mix aleatoric music. A dramatic scene to say the least.
|Friday, February 23rd, 2007|
Sol de la Flor del Vampiro (1972)
Sol de la Flor del Vampiro (Sun of the Vampire Flower), though intended for Spanish audiences, was an international production as most of the Eurohorror films of the day tended to be. Though this was an unprecedented collaboration. It was originally filmed entirely in Arabic, on location in the western regions of Java. As such, the cast, except for the two leads, Ik-bael Shalagh and Luki (erotic performers originally from a lost city in Iran, but popular amongst the hip youth of Spain), is comprised of Javanese extras, mainly female dancers and female impersonators. The director, Sam Driver (Americanized name for Jorge Pullesa) said of this film "Hot or cold, I know this. It was fantasy rippled". This is perhaps one of the most enigmatic yet straightforward answers in film, especially in the annals of exploitation film. Yet this film, also written and produced by Pullesa, is anything but exploitation. It shares, however, with other cheaply made films in its utter bizarreness.
The story is of a brother and sister, who act like their mother and father, who in turn acted like the first man and woman on Earth. These are primal beings, eschewing the xtian, biblical portrait of Adam and Eve for the true ancestors of humanity...grey-skinned, insectoids with large heads and large eyes. They float over a muddy field, finding their home, a hollowed out egg. Or so it seems, until the egg shifts colors quicker than lazerbeams into the form of yet another person, this time a bird-like hermaphrodite who commenses to dance. This is an intoxicating dance involving live birds and snakes (plumed and finned), entering and exiting various sections of the body. Blue blood, not so odd a choice when you know the truth of blood, is elegantly plastered over the bodies as they begin boiling, bubbling with this blue blood, gradually shifting to red as more and more dancers enter, performing nearly impossible acts acrobatics, oftentimes explicity sexual. Yet this is a different sort of explicit sexuality...the viewer is confused: are they watching an actual act or a mimed one...the viewer ultimately feels entranced yet not attacked by prick, cunt, ass, jizz, teeth...the viewer feels they are watching an innocent ballet, albeit with a hardon or sopping wet. To continue with the narrative is futile, as it cannot be explained. Think of going into the throes of anasthesia, the period just before and during surgery. However, if viewing this film with a lover or companion, do not be surprised if they are missing a limb...and you have too many.
For more info, contact:
PO Box 424362
E. San Francisco, CA 941321
|Saturday, January 27th, 2007|
Stenten Ets Nte, Dutch writer of the quanonc school, wrote an extraordinarily experimental piece of literature entitled Go Over the Mumps Which Happened Even When Dealing In Stenten (aka GOMWHEWDIS). This was originally a collaboration between Mr. Nte and Frob, the noted cartoonist. Unfortunately, Frob was so overwhelmed by the wacky, profound ideas of Nte that Frob quit (not his cartooning, but the project). So now we have this miraculous piece of literature from SEN.
To describe it to the layperson, the whole novel is comprised of railroad x-ing signs. Here is a sample from page 142:
But you must fully read the word numerous times in one year, many years, your life to fully understand the truth. Though I've just started this 353 page work, some of my colleagues and ex-wives testify to its magick, they can read it like you read this. It is more astounding that Markspient on a Friday night of the last quarter moon.
Fortunately, this piece is back in print from Ouroganourorouroubangarous Press (go to www.OuroganourorouroubangarousPress.com)
|Friday, January 26th, 2007|
email sent Febuary 5, 2007 to noted comic artist Frob
I've come upon your artwork by mistake. I was searching on the net for weary cotton. This was a phrase I heard somewhere, on the bus I think or anywhere with old black people wearing colorful headwear. I was reading a horror paperback & heard them, so entranced was I with those words I had no choice but to log on at the library and search for it on Google. Believe it or not (probably will, no surprise), your site was #1. You draw newspaper comics? Called "Weary Cotton", funny name. Maybe I'll ask what it means next time :) Anyways, this comic is funny and weird. Ugly people building 31289 ft. skyscrapers only to break them down with another skyscraper of 28956 ft. Ducks giving birth to onions that shoot acid. It's funny!
But I think one of them hits a little too close to home for me, too close. March 18, that's the one, 2006. In that comic you have a famous white gloved talking mouse giving anal pleasure to a little black rabbit with one eye (it's yellow) and stumped feet. When the famous mouse is done, he yells "Nice goin, son!" In the cut-out, edited-out part which I had to lie to access and use the code I see the librarians use, you draw the little black bunny slurping the famous mouse's white penis. Then the last square is the famous mouse, his penis broken off & still in the little black bunny's slobering mouth; the famous mouse says "Tee hee" and you can see it has a fat slit between its legs also slobbering.
I am a little black bunny and my mother is a famous famous mouse impersonator with her fake penis that shoots out salt syrup. I go through this every day at precisely 8:23 am and 3:28 pm, the 2 times I found out people are most likely to log on. And my birthday was March 18, I turned 28 then.
Thank you for your work and keep it up.
|Friday, October 13th, 2006|
brief into to the fanged pisol of mr. bagely g.
Yes, inventions are perfectly sham art worthy as well!
The fanged pistols wasn't always the name of a well-received rock and roll band of the latter 1970s. Franky and Johnny Kali-gory undoubtedly heard the name from some other source as the band's aesthetic seemed to owe something to the "spicy" pulps of the early 1940s, specifically Spicy Fanged-Pistol Tales. Fanged pistols, however, were a very real invention of a certain Bagely G. in 1908. This was on an island off the coast of Scotland, though Mr. G. was anything but Scottish. Little is known about this man, though it is well documented that he certainly wasn't of Great Britain. His dark brown skin indicates that he was perhaps from Africa or one of the various Polynesian islands. How he came to reside on that tiny island, named Ieulagh, is anyone's guess (more likely the guess of contemporary anthropologists currently constructing a book with a little help from Oxford, a companion piece to their sponsored exhibit at the Tate, "Eccentric Inventions of Our Land", coming in winter 2009).
The fanged pistol is the very definition of an "eccentric invention", since it is pointless to have a weapon shooting bullets along with having fangs, the product of select organisms. Obviously weapons are meant for killing or at the very least, maiming an enemy; the fangs are superfluous for a long distance weapon such as a pistol, or any other sort of gun. Mr. G. must have really been thinking for the offensive victim by providing his long distance weapon with some harmful accoutrements useful for very close contact. Say the killer is right behind you though you have the pistol in your hand. You wouldn't want to shoot anyone at such a close distance, so what do you do? You jab out with your shooting hand and SLUOCK! you've just punctured your enemy's flesh with a pair of fangs. Judging by the narrow channel through the fangs, it is guessed that these fangs also discharged a lethal dose of poison. So you wouldn't merely be injuring your enemy, but killing him (or her). A very effective weapon...but where did the poison come from and how could it be discharged? Was there a separate trigger for the poison? Did it automatically discharge upon contact with flesh? We won't know unless our hardy recreationists reconstruct a fanged pistol and allow me to test it.
Test subjects seeked for reconstructed fanged pistol, eccentric invention of the early 20th century. Must be:
Will be paid immediately upon after the testing. Thank you for your interest. God save the Queen and God.
|Monday, October 2nd, 2006|
editor's note in Nintendo Cthulhoid Intersitial Surrphlegm mag
Once many years ago, one ending in that most devout of numbers for it means the ending and beginning of all, that paradoxical stump of dimensions being absolutely nothing! 0!, I came across a well-written and generally engaging tale in which the Brothers Mario, in their wrecking crew days, came across a particularly malign brand of alien monsters, very much removed form their typical vitamin foes. In this tale, we learn the impregnation of Luigi's 5 years old daughter at the hands of a 10238 year old man, being the pokerfaced inksmudge of a toad. Mario offers to abort the inchworm fetus with his fleur-de-lys gold coin, but Luigi insists on having the tit delivered. Mario, in his signature motto, leaps ecstatically with upraised fist of defiance and potential triumph, soaring up along with his jaw swingin, vocal chords vibrating with inflections and slithering tongue into position for "1 UP!" Only this time, he summoned the 14449 minions of Ggf-Yn'zyrv. Mass wrecking ensues with intestinal tracts reloaded between bouts. They win.
I have decided it best to reprint this classic tale by the non-pseudonymous Carlotta Oxford Cuielletiers. Unfortunately, the ms. of Ms. Cuielletiers' story is horribly printed due to a caking of mahogany on the top of the page, complete with a mini army of curled black hairs. So now, without the permission of Ms. Cuielletiers, I've renamed her tittle, err tale, "Gas Baby 'Borting Brooklyn Tunis". I hope she agrees and envaginates my cat, stapled as it is to my typewritten gingercracker-crotch!
Yrs. for urethral non-original poison,
|Tuesday, September 12th, 2006|
Book review no. 1 to strain your eyes
It is 10:30 p.m. and time for the weekly book review, of which today is the first of most likely very few book reviews. Before I begin, let me state that these books are not to be found in the general fiction of (I shudder to use that unwholesome, squamous contraption of letters, that word being: literature) most bookstore, but if you kindly ask the authorities where their "sham art" section is, you'll be in a fine state.
A Pilipino Philosophist Speaks From Beyond the Grave-With Glasses!
Despite its seemingly sensational title, this is a classic example of the contemporary "literary" novel that doesn't cater to those bored re-reading mid-century European novles, but to ALL levels of the contemporary novel-reader.
This book was so popular when it was published last year (in a limited run of 200 in NYC (incidentally a hotspot in cultural activities since the 18th century) that it was immediately filmed as a conceptual video-art piece by one-time director David Alain. But now it has been re-released at a much larger run of 220 copies.
This is a novel about the obsolete workers of a cheese factory in Costa Rica. Having no knowledge of labor unions or worker's rights, they decide to form their own village, their own race, in fact, that dwells within the factory, becoming the factory itself. It is a heartbreaking hotel tale all too reminiscent of Bunuel's Land Without Bread, though with all sense of cinema thrown out the window.
The author's name is----
[This review was originally published in the April 2006 issue of Dramaqueen Rowboat, a 'zine hailing from South San Francisco. It is a testament to this 'zine's budget that the copiers ran out of ink just before the author's name could be printed.] Current Mood: Current mood: crustacean biloq
|Tuesday, September 5th, 2006|
happy one year anniversary!
wee! one of the worst communities in ljland has last longer than a year (august 18th of last year) and still the high quality posts just keeping coming. this proves once and for all the integrally underground intensity of sham art (Garlampk would say in his high voice (not only of pitch but of luxurious wisdom) "the heat melts only the choicest flies". surely we are of the less-choiciest variety, the lowly artmongerers!).
but enough celebrating, the sham art world has no time for idle human activity.
which brings me to today's visit to the Dullist Art of the Modern Noggin', or DAMN, in the heart of this local city which could be any city as DAMN is that famous chain-musuem installed throughout the world's great cities. 15 stories worth of errarta, from the early greats such as Liberteste and his "Portrait of Le Band Rubber" and Kkkrapi's "The Pussified Dandy", his magnum pi opus. There are even 3 storeys devoted to installations, all enigmatically entitled "CLOSED STOREY, PLEASE ASCEND", with their dirty-white-trashed walls and the spotted ladders all askew, plus the colored workers, no doubt performing their native ballets all dressed in coveralls with cute little baseball caps and hunched over, sitting with their feet out, drinking out of stragely shaded instruments very similar to a space shuttle.
but the highlight of today's little (and i do mean little, since the place, though 15 storeys is no larger than a middle school gynasium) trip were the artists themselves, pacing the grounds in a uniform of sorts, perhaps a suit but with a small logo on their right breast, DAMN, proud of the fact that their pieces de resistances are displayed in such a location as the DAMN. their pride sometimes gives way or accents their peevishness with the patrons getting too close to their works, as they would smartly snap out "excuse me" or "stand back, please" or "no photos". such personal faults are easily forgiven since...since...they're the artists for magog's sake!
happy 1st anniversary.
please visit DAMN and do these artist's a favor. Current Mood: gluttinous
|Tuesday, July 25th, 2006|
An Outright Fuchsia (1959)
No words can better sum up this film than the only lines of Wilson R. Chettergins' (the noted British poet) cameo: "India loves their widows...as much as we love the wind that passes through the windows." There is a playfulness and a subtle morbidity that winds itself throughout the non-linear narrative of this film. The director, T. Gossar, seems to tease us with this film since he claims it is not a film. He says this is his excuse for filling up about 70 minutes of our time with witty remarks. This is the Irkist tradition that Gossar unflinchingly portrays in film after film of his (remarkably, an average of 14 films per year).
He does not deal with sets, scenery, mise en scene, etc, but with characters battling it out with their cumbersome lines, not quite being monologues as they speak to each other, addressing the lengthy questionings of their companion. These lines average to about 12 minutes of screen time, just one character speaking out seemingly his entire life just for the benefit of our measly amusement. This is entertainment, ladies and gents! Gossar says he has made no film, yet we care about the characters despite their tiresome claims to existence. The trick of subliminalism is used to great effect, for if one were to slow the film down to, say, 19 frames per second, an entirely new film would arise. One views a terse view of psychosexuality in reverse, from the viewpoint of intimate same-sex kissing cousins. Also, slowing the film down to 10 fps, one views yet aNOTHER film, this one dealing with unspeaking corpses that bottle themselves up. I'm currently working on slowing the film down to 3 fps, but I'm afraid the heat has melted the film.
Gossar stays true to his Irkist roots by this complex arrangement, not dissimilar to the novel Jumping Beans by Juliglio Kortamz. Bland on top and bland at the bottom! Current Mood: content
|Monday, June 26th, 2006|
message from our sponsor, indubitable critic Tom Hoorley
Yesterday, Sunday June 25, 2006, in Nafrassocin's public library, I was fortunate enough to meet with this community's sponsor and our highest sham art critic, Tom Hoorley. He gave me this brief address written out in blue ink on a sheet of paper. (I hesitate to add that Mr. Hoorley was leaving a poetry open-mic session. Thankfully I missed it.)
"Being deprived of sham art is like being deprived of the radio in that you don't have a chance to wander through all the claptrap nonsense assaulting your conscious until you're very nearly dead in the head. But you have the chance to wonder through this claptrap nonsense and find the true treasure, which is the 12:30 rock'n'roll program hosted by two of the most inept djs this side of Walter Visinythe, Jr.
Thus, sham art shines only when one has doused himself to very near saturation with gunk and oil. On the verge of eating the lit match, of bursting into the human torch, slowly peeling off flesh, hair, fat sizzling, bone popping, the god's hand reaches out with his machete to slice your hand off at the wrist. The match is dead. But you live in gold!
Sham art will never die, but we will. Sham art is god; we've created it and it lives on past our deaths. IT IS WORSHIPPED DESPITE ITS UNEXISTENCE!"
No truer words have been said. We thank you, Mr. Hoorley from the bottom of our few hearts held high! Current Mood: wine for the masses i say
|Wednesday, May 10th, 2006|
|Thursday, April 13th, 2006|
I'm sorry that I'm not able to comment on Cassette Casket at this time as half-promised since I hear she is sick of "all this chattering", which is her euphemism for the surge of internet communication (websites,ezines,blogs,podcasts,so etc.) Instead, we will be "chattering" of something that just CAN NOT get enough attention; this, my half-friends, is something called fizzarro fiction.
Take from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fizzarro_fiction
"Fizzarro is a muliple-sclerotic genre of cisgressive, metropolized film, literature, and automechanics (which is in itself, an umbrella term for the two media listed). While there is a long history of such work in the last Western cultures as well as certain sutured Eastern cultures, the term Fizzarro is best applied to contemporary works of marrt in this dry vein. Fizzarro literature [a highly impotent and inferior term as compared to the not-so-new term of cliterature, a term spreading like rapid bonfires, certainly a term which I hope to cover in the near, distant future] encompasses many writing styles and sub-genres including splattergunk and new ab-fabism."
Perhaps the website is bias, for it lists no authors, and offers no explanation why they do not list any authors. But, to keep this community useful and make you actively search out such writing gunk, I've listed some authors whose works I THINK actively qualifies as fizzarro.
Bass PM Alendronate IXVcn
If I am not mistaken, the only publishing company that would print these wryters' works was a little known publishing company by the name of Random House. Unfortunately, the place literally went up in flames exactly one year ago at this exact hour due to paranormal circumstances. Similarly, no one knows what has happened to the wryters. Limited editions of their works are still available. I once found a slim chapbook of Sunn OOO stuffed into a copy of Alexander Harvei's novel "The Shiny Orange of Falicia" at Quarter-Price Books. Alendronate's 983 pg omnibus of his 6 novels is definitely worth the hunt.
|Wednesday, April 5th, 2006|
a message from the sponsor
“If you cannot learn to love sham art; at least learn to hate real art and reject it . . . because these are but the outward symbols of the poison that lies within them.”
|Monday, January 9th, 2006|
oof the heart
Caesar Antichrist is not a book (thus the loss of underline in that "title") by ..... It is, instead, a musical group. In the previous entry, there was a musical group mentioned, The 329s, whom I consider to be THE highest in musical excellence. But now, Caesar Antichrist are a group completely separate, different, diverse, obscene and plain fun and bolts! Erection Time is the title of their 90 minute tape which they have yet to play for anyone outside of their immediate circle of friends, making them one of, if not, THe most obscure group around! You won't find their records or cds or tapes anywhere else except from their garage in Hopstockton. What makes this group so special? They converse. They are musical conversers. Not singers or acapella, but conversing. Conversation, yes is a musical form to these four fellows. They talk and talk and talk and it's a pleasure to listen to them, since that is exactly what you're supposed to do: listen to them. If you were to experience Caesar Antichrist live, you would not want to join in with the conversation. I am convinced that if CA were to have a live show, all the listeneres would not speak out or even make a peep as do some many other nitwits who prefer that rock and roll junk painted up in jeans, greasy hair, cigarettes, torn papers, and painted fingernails. No no no no CA will blow you away with Erection Time, should you be one of the first lucky ones to actually hear this Maxell 90m cassette tape.
Next time, we'll discuss a female performance artist, Casette Casket. Current Mood: beats the me
|Saturday, December 17th, 2005|
In the last entry I mentioned in the Now LIstening To section a band named The 329s. With a name like that, pop punk sounds hearkening back to the mod period of dumbness in England reach the listener's ears. This is NOT the case with THe 329s. THese dudes are on the cutting edge of electronic music. THey do not use such shit as musical instruments accepted as such for the past 200 years or more. No, The 329s use lamps. Electric lamps, the one most likely on your desk or on your friend's desk or on your father's desk. Yes, using a complex system of wires gadgets gizmos, boxes etc. these lamps give off not only a bright light but a bright sound that will entice even the most skeptical of music-listeners. Their records are HIGHLY sought after treasures by the most discerning of record collectors. Now is a music that can appeal to everyone TRULY for NOT ONE STRINGED, BRASS, WOODWIND, PERCUSSION, KEYBOARD MUSICAL INSTRUMENT is used. Just the highly amplied sounds from desk lamps. The 329s are very popular in eastern Nevada, I hear, but they slowly but surely are going to take this country buy storm! Looking for the perfect gift for the snobby, elitist musician in your family or just the cool guy that listens to everything?! Then this is the gift to get them, a 5 cd retrospective of The 329s. Now for just $12.99. Go to www.329band.net for more info! Current Mood: exstatica!
|Monday, December 5th, 2005|
Science Fiction Bingo
Roughly, very roughly in fact, this film is about a young man who gets the girl. Yet it does not submit itself to the formula, the cliche, the grand scheme of ideas that have so plagued modern cinema to bore the audiences out of their minds. Because really that's what cinema is all about...boring the audiences out of their minds. Take Fearful Travesties, the greatest comedy in existence based off a popular British TV series from the early 90s...horribly drab and stuffy. Cinema is not "cinema" unless it excites. And this movie surely does. Science Fiction Bingo, or SFB, was produced in 1955. Apparently it was based off of a popular German TV series which lasted about 1/2 of an episode. (Fortunately it was all filmed in advance and the idea was to put the episodes out on TV at the appropriate time.) We meet Braverly Shingles' character, someone named, of all things, Bis. Bis has no life and decides it would be best to fly to Saturn and meet the Life-Giver, who is magnificently portrayed by the late Arthur Ribald. In order to gain a life, Bis must play the entire planet of Saturn a horrendously incorrect game of Bingo! I cannot divulge in what events occur as I would be giving the story away, but in the end Bis destroys the planet of Saturn after having made love (implied of course!) to all of the Saturn women. The act of sex seems to be a life-giving property according to the screenwriter and director of the film, Jules Coulthaine. Bis meets his final woman, the luscious Viervey Thomas in the role of Gra. In a triumphant scene of stupendous special effects, Bis melts into Gra while he flies back to Earth. Bis awakes in a strange hotel room, which is named The Bis-Gra off Shoreford Avenue.
This is a widely available film, although I have heard stories that once it was offered for sale, it was revoked and put back into storage as the cover for the film seemed to scare away customers. Anyway, feel free to visit the University of California, Dippsch campus' film library and they'll glad give you a free print of the film along with a reel-to-reel projector. Current Mood: oh oh oh oh oh
|Monday, November 28th, 2005|
Fitzgerald's psychic transcription
What happens when you undo your pants and find word etched in ice upon your upper thighs? The noted physicist, astrologist, and masochist Lazurus Fitzgerald of Imap, Doggata (an island just off the coast of Baja California, currently foregoing it's U.S. ownership) has used explored the medium of psychic transcription. What does this entail? Dr. Fitzgerald sits down at his hidden desk in the lowest spot of his house (namely, the basement lined with green fuzz), places the non-writing hand upon the ever-present sheet of paper laid out for him on the tabletop. Next, he pulls an ever-present pen from his breastpocket and writes down a couple lines. On March 6, 2005 he wrote "Those were the ways of mine face". Focusing at first on immateriality, the shape took form, that is, became material. It was easiest for Mr/Dr Fitzgerald to see the upper thighs of any sex. Lo and lo! not five minutes later, a certain Joan Lis of Puskganiak, Washington felt an unnatural chill inside her pants. Upon the lowering of her jeans, she saw the aforementioned lines formed in ice, stitched to her skin. She did not faint. Though Dr/Mr Fitzgerald has been keep it simple by using single sentences, he has decided to take quite a considerable jump by publishing a 72388 word piece. The potential receiver of this work is still unknown as is the exact date of his psychic transcription, although the Committee for Fitzgerald Receivership (CFR) is on the lookout for that potential victim...I mean, receiver. If you feel these vibes directed at you, it'd be best either to down a bottle of the cheapest whiskey available (as a high BAC will dissuade any such psychic transcription posing as aht(the term "art" shall now forever and hereafter be referred to as "aht")) or to contact us at 13-44-23532-3. This is not a toll-free number. I wish you luck, and Hog Bless.
|Saturday, October 29th, 2005|
Daviey Crumpb's new film has just been released. And by "released", I mean that he, Mr. Crumpb himself, has given to the Filmmaster General his rolled-up, adequately pasted spool of film. The particular title of this new film is "Dreary Speaks.". It is, quite literally, an extremely slow film, since the average film speed (yes, he did shoot it in film rather than video or DV) is 24 Frames Per Minute. HOWEVER, Mr. Crumpb's film is an immense 4 fpm. The actual story of the film tells of a young man travailing through a carnival to meet his dying father. I'll not spoil the end, but it is an illusion of an epic, since it is only 98 minutes, just like any other film that can boast of loud explosions, nude women, and hippityhoppity music, yet this film feels like 3 hours. Released only in selected theatres of the southern U.S. coast for 3 weeks, then to be transferred nationwide for a true release. After all, those southerners really need a break.
|Tuesday, October 11th, 2005|
it's a hit!
Yes indeed, the opening of the Irkism exhibition yesterday was a success. Unlike all other museums that honor that fateful daty Mr. Colgate-in-a-bus hit rock-bottom and declared this land to be the Indies and thus named the natives Indians, the Dullist Modern Art Museum stayed open all day. Unfortunately, I was unable to take photographs as cameras of any sort were not allowed.
There was also a heartwarming tribute to the fallen land-art monument, the largest chocolate cake in the world, now laying under a mass heap of rock and stone because of the recent earthquake in Pakistan. Our hearts go out to those poor poor poor poor people.
And so, in protestation of the earth's movements, yet another major land-art, in scale to that of Ahlan's chocolate cake, a certain Mr. Hindra has erected an extremely large pink leg. It stands some 6404 ft high and required the use of helicopters and in coordination with the Blue Angels (some may argue this was in honour of the Bay Area's annual Fleet Week, but this is simply not so). So now overlooking the famous, beautiful, treacherous SF Bay Area is the Large Leg of Mr. Hindra.
This art just keeps on coming! More news will follow as it comes! Current Mood: my dimples