Friday Ephemera (737)
At last, a walking coffee table. And how to build your own. || Incoming. || Close enough, buddy. || Close enough 2. || 70s cop show. || Tongue action. || Nommy nommy nom. || Attention, peasants, I bring thee art. || Rob Henderson on wokeness, the media, and luxury beliefs. || Hey, it’s a job. || Hey, it’s a job 2. || A pressing question from 1981: Who are the New Romantics? || The progressive retail experience, parts 578, 579, 580, 581, and 582. || Paid $136,000. || Another professor struggles with logic and reality. || A project for the weekend. || Hot water. || Hey, you wanted it immersive. || It’s raining men. || This is one of these. || Fifth wheel for tight parking. || ‘Fess up, it was the first thing you noticed. || And finally, a tale of harvesting psychedelic frog secretions, parts 1 and 2 and 3.
To be notified of new posts, you can follow me on X / Twitter.
To enable extra commenting options – including @username mentions, upvotes, and live notifications – scroll down to the black ‘Meta’ box at the very bottom of the page and click register. It’s free and quite painless.
Maybe if they had called it a “hyper-masculine fanny pack”.
“[It] was part of the hip-hop culture. We didn’t see nothin’ wrong with it until Bill Cosby got in trouble.”
I was the only Black person in attendance.
Nice headlights.
Where’s Wat Tyler when you need him?
AI ‘hallucinations’ aren’t that appalling.
That was disappointing.
“I think it’s a boy.”
This man makes a good point. I used to support more public transit as an unalloyed good, until I realized that public transit brought disorderly people and criminals to previously safe and pleasant places. Now I largely support more public transit only if we can seriously crack down on lowlifes.
“It’s raining men.“
You get to ignore biology, but not gravity….
“At last, a walking coffee table.”
Terry Pratchett’s estate is no doubt consulting lawyers as we speak….
“Jean Cocteau as Huggy Bear.”
Morning, all.
Yes, that was what swayed me.
[ Slurps coffee. ]
When people avoid a particular neighbourhood or some form of public transport, what generally informs that decision is the kind of people they feel they’d be likely to encounter. They may know that they’re not supposed to say that bit out loud, at least in certain circles, but it is nonetheless the case.
They’re not avoiding the litter or some slightly uncomfortable seating. They’re avoiding the low-class scumbags.
For instance.
And those who have little choice but to mingle with said scumbags will sometimes dance on pinheads in order to avoid acknowledging the realities of the situation.
[ Slurps coffee. ]
“We have officially run out of food but fortunately a child offers to kill a chicken for us”
That was some nasty looking chicken…
Yes, it’s hard to tell whether the excursion could be regarded as a triumph. Mosquitoes, vomiting and chicken-strangling aren’t usually high on the holiday must-do list.
Above, fun times being had.
I have a high tolerance for the weird in art. All the same, one would wish for the artists to keep their latest aesthetic brainfarts away from the old and charming and beautiful, National Trust buildings and the like. Sure, art relies for effect not just upon its effective rendition by the artist, but on the environment (artificial or natural) in which it is situated, but one would wish that anything in this Trust building pictured here be tasteful, respectful of the style already built. Not what we have here, a rather juvenile artwork with no great point to make.
Apparently, the art is “responding” to the house. The fact that it resembles an intrusion of enormous turds was, I suspect, deemed vastly amusing.
They’re the keepers of our heritage, you know.
Big-ass snake.
Headlines of the modern world.
When a tram system was introduced in Dublin one of the two lines started in Tallaght – a bad area, and went straight to the centre of town while passing the courts and two large police stations. One of the running jokes at the time was that it would make life much easier for criminals to get to the wealthy, easier pickings of town. An alternate version held that car thieves could commute in and drive out.
Only if the coffee table will viciously kick visitors.
I fear this morning is going to be an extra coffee morning.
[ Gazes blearily at screen. ]
Respect seems to be extremely rare in the world of intellectuals. Also gratitude.
AVOID EYE CONTACT.
Not just the art world intellectuals but the entire ruling class.
As I recall reading, Chicago’s subway and elevated train lines were originally laid out to terminate in the Loop (downtown). Only later, and gradually, was that plan modified. Thus, today, criminals can ride from the ultra-high-crime South Side to Evanston on the North Side without changing trains. And they do.
In other art world news, a new Fourth Plinth at Trafalgar Square has been unveiled, because what London needs is a protest against transmisogyny and transfemicide in (cleans screen) Mexico.
Think I’d pick the bees.
We’re going to need a bigger Scorpion Pit.
As a nation, a culture, with a not entirely unimpressive history, you’d think we could do better than some banal plaster casts of the faces of Mexican prostitutes. You’d think that, between us, we might even manage to make something attractive, possibly resonant, with a discernible aesthetic. Instead of the seemingly obligatory unattractive crap. The kind of crap that, in order to justify its existence, relies on the word marginalised.
Marginalised is the new problematic.
[ Shakes bowl of chili-flavoured toenail clippings, thereby hiding fragment of tooth, slides bowl to svh. ]
…some banal plaster casts of the faces of Mexican prostitutes…
Plaster casts with skin cells and hair and which will dissolve into an amorphous mess in the rain. Only a total right wing reactionary fascist transphobe would fail to see the beauty and profundity of that.
“You’ve just f*cking assaulted me.”
Not hard enough.
Yes, quite. I think it’s fair to assume that madam’s continued existence is, for pretty much everyone else, an entirely negative phenomenon.
Though it might be entertaining to have her move in with the Observer‘s Martha Gill or the Guardian‘s Owen Jones.
Again, I see the makings of a reality TV show.
I miss the concept of shame.
Still, could be worse.
And in exotic-dancer news.
And retribution.
Via Ace, a headline of note.
Band name.
Think I’ll stick with the occasional whisky.
It does seem a bit much, trekking all the way to the Amazon, living in bug-infested squalor and strangling chickens, just for a weekend bender.
Doesn’t it seem odd the ‘artist’ has created a modern tzompantli?
The quinine in David’s gin and tonics may reduce COVID symptoms. It’s therapeutic!
Rather like the gay New Yorker who said that he traveled all the way to Greece because he had heard it was a good place for gay sex hookups. Wasn’t the gay hookup life in New York enough for him? What sort of obsession did his story imply?
But then, I have known dopers who spent a disturbingly large amount of time talking about dope.
Claymation?