Reheated (39)
For newcomers, more items from the archives.
I Don’t Think She’s Handling the Menopause Very Well.
Rocío Boliver, a performance artist, “devotee of transgression” and author of “porno-erotic texts,” struggles with middle age.
There is of course a long and tedious tradition of self-harm in performance art. It’s hardly less common than nudity or faeces. Or anti-capitalist pablum. Though to be fair, some have embraced self-mutilation in a slightly less time-wasting and roundabout manner. In 1971 an artist named Chris Burden had a friend load a rifle and then shoot him in the arm. Mr Burden felt this would lead to him being “taken seriously as an artist.” Though it seems this colossal seriousness had to be reaffirmed three years later, when Burden felt it artistically necessary to have both of his hands nailed to the roof of a VW Beetle.
The exquisite mealtime sorrows of the Guardianista male.
The bearer of these sorrows, David Dennis, has apparently spent an awful lot of time fretting about his wife putting food on his plate. I mean literally putting food on his plate, as when serving a typical meal. Given Mr Dennis’s rather pronounced Guardianista tendencies, it’s scarcely surprising that he’s also been fretting that other people, possibly people much like himself, may subsequently judge him for this patriarchal trespass, as if he and his wife were dreadful throwbacks to a darker, more primitive age.
Icess Fernandez Rojas isn’t being sufficiently affirmed by strangers, software and disposable paper cups. Something must be done.
It’s all very tragic. Our Guardian columnist just wants to “celebrate [her] uniqueness” in an “inclusive society” and her spellchecking software, the subtleties of which apparently elude her, is dashing those hopes. She isn’t being “validated” by Microsoft Word. It’s how utopias die.
There’s more to stroke and fondle in the greatest hits.
Rocío Boliver, a performance artist, “devotee of transgression” and author of “porno-erotic texts,” struggles with middle age.
You’ve inflicted some really bad art on us over the years but that video is so bad it deserves a prize. I kept wondering what was going through the minds of the people sitting there watching her. Did they think it was good?
I kept wondering what was going through the minds of the people sitting there watching her. Did they think it was good?
The audience for these things, such as it is, is often more interesting than the performances. I mean, psychologically. As someone pointed out, they look a bit like a hostages. Sadly, the video – of highlights – ends before we hear their reaction.
the video – of highlights –
Snork.
It’s enough to put a guy off “porno-erotic texts”.
It’s enough to put a guy off “porno-erotic texts”.
Well, I suppose that’s Ms Bolver’s supposedly radical schtick. But despite her self-flattering bluster, really it’s all a bit, “Gran, for God’s sake, stop waving your tits at strangers.”
Ms. icess is apparently unaware that you can add words and spellings to the Word dictionary…
. . . . to have both of his hands nailed to the roof of a VW Beetle.
So you’ve got to hand it to him–twice . . . . .
“Ms. icess is apparently unaware that you can add words and spellings to the Word dictionary…”
What really angers her is that she cannot add the word to our dictionaries. Truly, the top two causes of leftism are narcissism and psychosis.
“when Burden felt it artistically necessary to have both of his hands nailed to the roof of a VW Beetle.”
I wonder if that was the inspiration for Terry Pratchett’s variation on that lunacy, in which Lord Vetinary has an artist’s ear nailed to a post.
In 1971 an artist named Chris Burden had a friend load a rifle and then shoot him in the arm. Mr Burden felt this would lead to him being “taken seriously as an artist.”
Optimism, eh?
Optimism, eh?
I think it was Rafi who said that nothing less than a head shot should count as art. Though I think a head shot, death and resurrection should be the threshold, at least for public funding. Surviving a relatively minor flesh wound just doesn’t cut it in today’s competitive art world, nor does merely being pushed down a flight of stairs. And crawling across a car park strewn with broken glass – in really bad underwear – is barely trying at all.
Today’s theme: Competitive Narcissism.
Contestants, prepare your neuroses.
“Gran, for God’s sake, stop waving your tits at strangers.”
Reminded me of this.
Reminded me of this.
Hey, this joint gets classier by the day.
Ms. icess is apparently unaware that you can add words and spellings to the Word dictionary…
But once her name is in the dictionary, it becomes Common and bourgeois, and we can’t have that.
Ms. icess is apparently unaware that you can add words and spellings to the Word dictionary…
But once her name is in the dictionary, it becomes Common and bourgeois, and we can’t have that.
Lesseee . . . names . . .
Ronnie C: I work as a weaver, for that reason, I’m called Mr Weaver.
Ronnie B: I’m a miller, so I am called Mr Miller.
Stephen Fry: My name’s Ramsbottom, So I am called Sir.
But for Icess, what the above reminds and she will always get to accept is that one’s basic name is merely a basic name. With Very particular exceptions(1), obsessing over having Some Unique Name is already rather noted as being completely common and bourgeois, so she can be c&b by having a name, or she can be c&b by obsessing over it . . . .
Oh, the issue of Some Major Person? Elton John is Elton John simply because he is a confirmed and regularly demonstrated very accomplished musician. The same for Eric Clapton. If one is named Arthur, or George, or Charles, or Phillip, ayup, all rather well used names, where when one is named Charles Phillip Arthur George, well, that too is a matter of circumstance that again has nothing to do with the name(s) . . . .
(1) Oh, the American witness protection program, getting married and changing one’s last name, joining the French Foreign Legion, becoming some sitting monarch and picking a different name, getting elected Pope, Etc . . . . In my case, I have a background that has gotten screams of denial from worshippers of Pollyanna, and thus I did a fix of name at some point . . . but then having done that fix, the closest to a concern that I’ve ever had about my name is being certain that the correct name is on the paycheck—and that’s never been a problem . . .
If Fernandez Rojas’s parents hadn’t been illiterate cabbages then maybe they would have correctly spelt her name: Isis. It doesn’t quite rise to the level of the various LeQuevorkians and Shamilethas that inner-city Afro-Americans see fit to inflict on their hapless offspring, but unorthodox renderings of non-Hispanic names are very popular in Latin America. Because Spanish is completely phonetic, you can usually tell what they were aiming for, but seeing a Rowinson or a Lysel manning the till is good for a chuckle.
If Fernandez Rojas’s parents hadn’t been illiterate cabbages then maybe they would have correctly spelt her name:
Ah, Maybe . . . . . or that assemblage of assorted vowels may have been deliberate.
To quote m’self from that original occurrence . . .
http://notwithoutmyhandbag.com/blog/category/badbabynames/page/65/ . . . .
Hooligyn
Posted on January 6, 2003 by notwithoutmyhandbag
I’ve suggested to my sister that she name her little girl to be – Manchester. She’s not sure about it but she’s considering. What do you think?
Clever. Like being named Pittsburg or Schenectady. Kid’ll grow up to be beaten to death by Liverpool fans.
She Don’t Use Jelly
Posted on January 5, 2003 by notwithoutmyhandbag
We aren’t having kids for another year or two, but we like Kellyna Nychole, Taryn Mykah and Mykenzie Kathryn for girls.
This woman was indicted under the Flagrant Over-Use of the Letters K and Y Act of 1983.
Chug It!
Posted on January 4, 2003 by notwithoutmyhandbag
I’m having a girl…
For the first name I like Mercedes, Michaela, Marissa, Madison, and Makenzie
For a middle name I like Alezae’(Alize) like the liquor.
Nothing like being named after a cheap mass market spritzer to define your personality.
Etc . . . . . . .
Isn’t a Tick and neurological problem?
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/film-news/10952584/British-Film-Institute-tells-filmmakers-to-tick-new-diversity-targets-or-miss-funding.html
Today’s theme: Competitive Narcissism.
I watch people like Ms Boliver – and they usually are people just like her – to find things to amuse you lot. But why would anyone else sit there and endure it, apparently unironically, having travelled across town and handed over money?
I mean, when the artist Mikala Dwyer says she’s “challenging taboos” by inviting naked dancers to shit onstage, I’ve a pretty good idea of what she is. Likewise, when publicly funded venue directors tell us that this exercise in public shitting is “a wonderful, powerful work,” it’s reasonable to suppose they’re part of the same juvenile hustle. But what about the audience? It’s a small audience, to be sure, but even so they can’t all be people with very specific fetishes. What’s their deal?
“It’s ART!”
“No it isn’t. It’s a bunch of people defecating in public.”
“Oh, you’re so bourgeois!”
“Please. Spell it, you poser. I dare ya.”
“…”
“QED.”
Contestants, prepare your neuroses…..
A long forgotten classmate of mine recently had a little drama on Facebook over a trip to Boots to buy a potty for his son. What unsettled him was the choice of only blue or pink potties, sparking a rant about gender stereotypes being foisted upon children. He revealed later, after much deliberation, that he’d bought one of each in order to salve his conscience.
That’ll show those capitalists.
That’ll show those capitalists.
I feel I should ask whether anyone here was emotionally scarred as a toddler by the colour of their plastic potty. Or if they can even remember what colour said item was.
I blame all of my personality defects on the German toilet training foisted upon me by my Aunt Helga whilst my parents were off vacationing in Jamaica. Also, there was no special child-friendly potty. Just the same big-enough-to-fall-in toilet everyone else used. But perhaps that’s TMI…
I’d wager that the boy has a higher chance of being emotionally scarred by the fact that his father is determined to shoehorn Marxism into every aspect of his life, including his toilet habits, and then record it on the internet to garner kudos amongst other deranged lefties.
But then again maybe I’m old fashioned and fail to see how a piece of moulded plastic is part of a plot to suppress non-binary genderqueer lifestyles or whatever their latest obsession is.
. . . What unsettled him was the choice of only blue or pink potties . . .
Meh. Gender has nothing to do with color, unless one is frantically, pretentiously, lowest middle class. One goes with basic black, or, failing that, generic blue. Or one may go for pink if one’s overall theme is Hello Kitty.
Good link on Instapundit.
http://pjmedia.com/instapundit/191385/
But what about the audience? It’s a small audience, to be sure, but even so they can’t all be people with very specific fetishes. What’s their deal?
The same people who stop to gawk at horrific traffic accidents?
BTW, “morbid curiosity” might be understandable, but the “handed over money” part baffles me, too.
Or if they can even remember what colour said item was.
Yellow.
Or maybe white, starting out.
If called upon to crap on stage in front of people, how do you make sure your contribution will be worthwhile? Obviously you want something substantial without being a show-off. Splatterers presumably are unwelcome. Worse still, what if you were a bit bunged-up and failed to deliver? Imagine the embarrassment. You’d never to be able to show your face to your fellow defecators again.
A long forgotten classmate of mine recently had a little drama on Facebook over a trip to Boots to buy a potty for his son. What unsettled him was the choice of only blue or pink potties, . . . .
A friend of mine has commented:
Hm. It’s nothing a little spray paint couldn’t take care of.
Reminded me of this.
Absolute genius.
Good link on Instapundit.
That Didion piece from 1972 is interesting too. I liked the paragraph before the extract on Instapundit:
Marxism in this country had even been an eccentric and quixotic passion. One oppressed class after another had seemed finally to miss the point. The have-nots, it turned out, aspired mainly to having. The minorities seemed to promise more, but finally disappointed: it developed that they actually cared about the issues, that they tended to see the integration of the luncheonette and the seat in the front of the bus as real goals, and only rarely as ploys, counters in a larger game. They resisted that essential inductive leap from the immediate reform to the social ideal, and, just as disappointingly, they failed to perceive their common cause with other minorities, continued to exhibit a self-interest disconcerting in the extreme to organizers steeped in the rhetoric of “brotherhood.”
But what about the audience? It’s a small audience, to be sure, but even so they can’t all be people with very specific fetishes. What’s their deal?
There is a certain kind of personality that feels that he can only be a true intellectual by exploring and wallowing in the most deranged and depraved things. Because avoiding them would be the mark of a middle-brow, doncha know.
Rocio,
Let’s take this show on the road. Dinner theater, Disneyland, merchandising, your own talk-show with a self-flagellation shock segment.
Call me.
By definition if your name has never been used or spelled before one would expect it would be necessary to spell it to strangers. Surely.