All the rumors are true! Stolen and Forbidden — the event a particular Steven Reigns curated, and I mentioned in the not-so-distant past — is available for viewing, now : at no expense! In the comfort and privacy of your own home . . .
Crack open a fresh can of Crisco; slam-dunk those dentures in a fizz of Polident. It’s about to get real up in here — and by real, I mean really entertaining!
It’s Saturday. Whatever plans you think you had? Cancel.
In my eternal quest to keep the “litter” in literature, it’s an honor and a privilege to be part of this event :
And yes, there’s a Facebook Page, for those of you who care about that type of thing.
[ MORE ] :
“Before the Internet, pilferage and privacy breaking were common for young gay men looking for answers and others like themselves in the words of books and magazines they were denied access to by price, age, or shame. The stories that accompany these texts are just as amusing as the text themselves. Five gay men talk about and read the text that was forbidden or they stole in their youth. The act of sneak reading is a common experience. The length one goes to do it is often comical. This will be a FREE, fun literary event that offers humor, connectedness, and an informal primer for seminal gay literary works. FREE validated parking is available in the 5 story parking structure.”
Though much to my chagrin, no : I don’t have some butt-humping Brontosaurus to send your direct. I do, however, have an invaluable relic uncovered during the most recent excavation of my abode. And like, I’m sharing. I’m sharing, Mary!
So, anyway. Yes, it’s been a minute, but I’ve mentioned Ali Liebegott‘s wicked excellent anthology Faggot Dinosaur in the past — a detail whether or not you recall, all the same : You need this journal in your life.
About the project [ Shoddy scanner notwithstanding ] :
In short, the anthology is “a visual and literary collaboration of dinosaurs knitting, fucking, and listening to Barbara Streisand! Queerness of the Paleolithic Age abounds at Faggot Dinosaur.”
It’s a charming little beast, this book. Indeed, indeed! I mean, as with Liebegott’s otherworks, you should already own one. Seriously. Regardless, for one lucky reader out there, I have a copy with fifteen contributor signatures to donate. That’s right, kids : the only journal in the world with autographs from Justin Chin, Janice Lee, Michelle Tea, Ricky Lee, Na’amen, Mario Ashkar, Kirk Read, Tracy Jeanne Rosenthal, Jen Benka & Carol Mirakove, Lucy Corin, Hilary Goldberg, Carmella Suzanne Fleming, your host of this humble Dot Com, and of course, The Liebegott herself. So much crazy mad queer ink smeared all up in one place, yet I plan on sending it somewhere, to someone else. What’s the T?
Well. For your chance to receive this collector’s item, all you have to do is leave a comment — email address included; my telepathic skills don’t pay the bills, ifyouknowwhatImean — by 9:39 PM Pacific Standard Time, the Third of March, Two Thousand Thirteen.
So, let’s talk about Hilary Goldberg‘s recLAmation, a feature-length genre-hopping experimental documentary-slash-fictive narrative shot on Super 8, in which capitalism in contemporary Los Angeles is overthrown, and queer superheroes — one of which there’s a more-than-decent chance I inhabit via Gaylord Wilshire, spandex tights and flame-retardant cape notwithstanding — navigate a possible future.
Yes. Yes, let’s talk about it. I spoke of its unique tripartite structure in a previous post, though in brief : In the first two sections, Consumption and Colonization, personal narratives interact with moving images of contemporary Los Angeles, stop motion animation, and sound design. Writer/director Goldberg’s memoir unfolds, offering reflections on time spent with her mother’s violent fiancé and in a mental hospital.
The filmmaker’s recollection of forced institutionalization is as poetic as it is poignant.
[ An excerpt ] :
“There were no ‘Please Do Not Disturb’ signs on the doorknobs because it was too late. Ghosts haunted the halls, moaning and groaning with each unbearable second. People cried and screamed and urinated on the floor. A man continuously kicked himself in the head with his bare foot. Others paced quietly, then dropped to the ground in fits of madness with intervals like a John Cage composition.”
As with the stark black and white film stock utilized in Goldberg’s neo-noir project In The Spotlight, the employment of Super 8 — an anamorphic film format known for producing a unique dream-like quality, as if everything is coated in an amniotic haze; it’s also believed to invoke feelings of nostalgia for the viewer, mimicking a sense of connection to the material presented — renders these passages particularly powerful.
Then? Then comes the third section : a fictional narrative envisions a dream of Los Angeles after it has been liberated from capitalism.
At any rate, after a successful international tour and critically-acclaimed jaunt around the festival circuit, it’s available to view via streaming, here and now. . .
” Thee dark alt god himself, Clint Catalyst descended onto TXTBK’S CHVяCH XV BяXK3N 7ANGvAG3 and pummeled thee sound tonight. Gliding gracefully through cavernous depths ov dance and depravity I absolutely loved his whole persona. And all guns instantly went off in Blambodia when he complimented me on my music taste in thee chat. Thee natives chests all swelled with pride. INFINITE BLAM.
Although procrastinators / individuals with a propensity toward slack should take note: The release is limited to a scant 75 copies. Said another way? If you’re interested, nap on your gas bill — not this one, chap . . .
And hey: Of the 75 copies, subtract a digit . . . Since from the blahg comments left from this moment till the final spin of Big Ben’s minute hand on January 31 [PST], I’ll be choosing a name at random. That’s right darklings, snarklings, and hexed-out genre-as-yet-undefined glamazons: time to set the Wheel of Fortune in motion again, for a reader give-away! Good times ; good times, indeed . . . [So long as you gorgeous fvckrs remember to provide a valid email address with your entries! Stated with an implicit emphasis on Please, that is. Implicit, though it doesn’t hurt to verba/vocalize “And thanks!” ‘Cause in terms of mad gratitude? BB, I’ve got it . . . More than these shoes and skin of mine can contain, often seems.]
To re-cap : I†† create dopamine-drenched spectral [anti]pop, nightmare lullabies rife with occult symbolism and mysteries that unfold themselves with each listen.
Or . . .with flowery adjectives scraped away; sentiment stripped to its barest-of-bones, bleached structural remains :
Oh. That New York Times Best-Selling Author Jillian Lauren?
Yeah. “I Knew Her When…”
Matter of fact, just to show what a hot shee-ot I am (not, you know, because
it’s an excellent memoir in which the reader falls down the same gossamer-swathed rabbit hole of adventure that landed Lauren in a Prince’s Harem, nor is it because Lauren’s prose is balanced so adeptly; it’s the quietest arrangement of language such loud subject matter could get)
No no, for no reason other than to prove that Yeah, I Know People, Man am I giving away a signed, personally inscribed copy of Some Girls: My Life in a Harem
to one of you lucky bloggamareaders
(That One’s For You, Oh Sarah Of The Palin-Speak! ♡ ‘Refudiate’ FTW!)
Here’s what you have to do to be “in the running for America’s Next Top Memoir”:
1. Leave a comment here, on this very web log entry
2. Regardless how clever—or cruddy, so long as it is not about the author—aforementioned comment might be,
Don’t forget to include your email address along with the sentiment you choose to share
3. Complete tasks #1 & 2 before or by the precise stroke of 11:59 p.m., P.S.T.
Friday evening, the 23rd of July, two thousand & ten A.D.
On the 24th of July, at whatever time the fancy might strike me, I shall be pulling a name from my top hat.
Until then, here’s a trailer for the book
(yes, “trailers” exist for books these days…hell, some spoken word performers make videos!)
Here’s a media reel of the lovely Ms Lauren for your retinal penetration—including coverage on
The View, Insider, & AM NorthWest:
To Optic Nerves & Opulence!
:: [a fanfare is appropriate] ::
Apparently, I’ve Got This ‘Thing’ For
Well, that and the fact a friend of mine edited a new clip for me to post on The ‘Tubes that might very well be (no, I can’t believe I’m saying this, either) too ‘dark.’
Sheet left me in need of some Dorkus Maximus action on
That’s why when I spotted this nifty little Widget celebrating the 70th anniversary of OZ? Whelp, if you’ve been ’round these parts of the Interwebz very much in the last 6 months, then you should already know (cough! PHOTO ALBUM cough!) I’ve got my claws way on up in that old-school biz with The Wiz…
(hack! BLOG ARCHIVES, FASHION cough!)
Besides, what better way to whip out the ROFL-copter for a ride than by transforming myself into a brainless, cross-eyed ol’ Crow? (No disrespect to the celluloid masterpiece; I’m just a tad sore because I thought I’d get to morph into the Wicked Witch of the– oh wait. Scratch that. I guess it wouldn’t be much of a stretch for me, hrmm?)
At any rate, here’s what went down when I “got OZzy with it”:
Since the “CC-As-Crosseyed-Scarecrow” Show seems a bit persnickety, here’s a back-up: