don't try to tell me kate moss ain't pretty

What I saw in the video we watched today was a lot of truths and maybe half-truths, and a line so blurred between the two that I couldn’t tell the difference. The filmmaker did an excellent job of backing up her arguments, but a couple of the make-up ads’ deeper meanings were stretched a bit, I think. There was one about muting or something, and she said the subtext was women shouldn’t speak, but I think what it really meant was that it was light make-up, unnoticeable make-up. I can’t remember now exactly what was said, which is ruining my whole argument. There were many ads, though, she showed convening the same message of silence, and I agreed with her on most of them.

Another thing that really stood out as a possible half-truth was the argument designed after the ad with the blond girl looking down on the black boy. I could definitely see what she was talking about in the photo, don’t get me wrong; the only issue I had with that argument was that she only had that one advert to back it up.

Anyway, the bottom line is women are mistreated in the media; they are objectified and portrayed unrealistically, and it puts pressure on those of us not living in the pages of magazines or the static of TV screens.

Oh! And I thought that the ‘objectification of women in the media leads to violence against women’ argument was really interesting. I don’t solidly agree with it because I haven’t looked into it, but what she said made a lot of sense.

The thing that struck me most was how much I agreed with what she was saying, but how little I cared about it. I wasn’t enraged, and I feel I should have been. It’s like I’ve been beyond desensitized by it—‘it’s normal, it’s no big deal.’

Also, semi-unrelated, runway models are that thin for an actual reason (they’re not selling bodies, they’re showing clothes, and curves would be distracting. They are human hangers. And they make that choice.), so people really need to calm down about that. And why is it okay to tell one they’re too skinny, but it’s not okay to call one fat?

Q. anton, did you sell your soul?

For the 'This I Believe' essay, I did a straight up and down Kerouac Tristessa-style stream of consciousness to get things flowing; so I thought that might be cool to see. The soil or something...before roots there was soil. And MS Paint art, too!!



I BELIEVE IN DIGGING SERVO BEATIFIC BEAUTIES OF INNER TRUST AND B.E.ING
I believe in living fully and freely! I believe in running at it shouting--whether it be an angry bull life death art music life! I believe in Anton Newcombe, Neal Cassady, Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac's spontaneous prose in life and love and holy buddha of writing. Brian E. and moving to texas to live in a van. I believe we should not be for sale! The Beatles were for sale. I believe we should find our path and stick to it, not become slaves or drones to society, but the Anton way of sitars being more important than homes or tiny comforts. I don't believe in half-assing life. Life is not an essay. I believe in digging things and digging them fully and to the extent of bursting them and yourself until there is nothing but Jack's kitcat's golden thoughts in Mexico hanging in the air in particles like a dream and like those little tv people in Willy Wonka. I believe in letting yourself go completely, as mad as you like. I believe I need to follow my own advice more closely. I believe we are all genius all the time and that should be golden rule in all rule book of time. I believe in the power of love though I do not believe in love. I believe there is no yin or yang but I might not really believe that I wish I could. I believe we need to be free from ourselves before we can be free from anything else. I believe in closing my eyes and jumping, in doing what you like. In never questioning yourself or anything if that's what you really want. I believe in Joel Gion and servo and free and easy take 2. Dig yourself. Dig words. I believe in experience if you want it. I believe in not believing anything, if that's what you dig. I believe in speeding on the highway of life on reallife streets in a speeding jag bill bones bill bones knows what I mean! (Metaphor right there, for what, I don't know). I believe in chasing dreams. I believe in poetry--in joyride neon I don't care if it's not realistic I like it that way and that's the way it should be always forever and ever. It's all possible if you're willing to let yourself go that far (but you won't, it's a shame). Beatific angelhaired hipsters boxcars boxcars boxcars the madness by itself and flowing flowering stand next to my flower the madness of a speeding green automobile Cassady and daisies flowers flowing like Rimbaud and it was like he was not even there and they did not see him. A season in hell une saison en enfer
connais-je encore la nature? me connais-je?Plus de mots. J'ensevelis les morts dans mon ventre. Cris, tambour, danse, danse, danse, danse! Je ne vois même pas l'heure où, les blancs débarquant, je tomberai au néant.
Faim, soif, cris, danse, danse, danse, danse! DO I KNOW NATURE YET? DO I KNOW MYSELF?--NO MORE WORDS. I WILL BURY THE DEAD IN MY BELLY. YELLS, DRUM, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE! I CAN'T EVEN SEE THE TIME WHEN THE WHITES WILL LAND AND I WILL FALL INTO THE VOID.
HUNGER, THIRST, YELLS, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE!
the insanity of addiction (not a good thing) of Crowley of blushing and rushing. rushing into the literature of life of living in and through words and nothing else--ever. beat beat like a heart beats it doesn't stop it doesn't think it just is life should be love life should be spontaneous prose a buzz of flies between the pillows and it's written no small surprise you might wanna stick one on his nose around his teeth down this drug hole of him with nowhere else to go

But when you're happy and you're feeling fine then you'll know it's the right time..it's the right time to shake along with me!

http://youtube.com/watch?v=Q9zgT3WzTVA



The advert begins with a young woman holding a classic glass bottle of Coca Cola standing in a dark-green living room. The tone is surreal, and is set by the vibrancy of her red dress and matching red hair, and the blue bird perched on her shoulder. The bird flies out of the window prompting her to follow it which leads to many a good act. Outside, she sees a parched jogger (he’s black, by the way (I’d say Afro-American, but this ad was aired in Australia, and I don’t know the PC term there. Already I’m losing my cool Coke points.)) and gives him her Coke; he then grabs and apple off a tree for a child who then gives the apple to a homeless man who then gives his umbrella to a businesswoman when it begins to rain who then attracts the missing bird with crumbs from her sandwich and finally the bird flies to the red girls shoulder and all is well.

If you drink Coca Cola, you’re stylish, original, socially conscious, culturally conscious, and probably even environmentally conscious. If you drink Coca Cola you are peace and love. Coca Cola is the elixir of peace and love.

It’s almost convincing, really. With all the bright colors and the clear air and the dream-like apple tree. You want that. I want that. The light and frilly advert gets us revved up and ready for a personal revolution, we are going to be helpful to those around us, we are going to hold open doors, and share what we have with those who don’t, and smile all the time. But first we’re going to have a Coke. For energy. And, we are going to look good, too. While doing good deeds.

We will be hip if we do these things. How do we know? The nice original penned-for-Coke song by Jack White tells us so. Jack White is hip. The color red is hip. We want to be hip. But we also want to be helpful..and hip. We want to be helpful if it’s hip.




*** I'm going to finish this as soon as I can figure out either how to write it or how to quit taking it so seriously

Writer-Director of Earthy movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

I don’t really know what to write about for this blog, so I’m just going to do a sort of stream of consciousness ramble type deal. Jazz blogging. My feet are cold right now and it’s probably because it’s freezing outside, but I think that it could actually mean a lot of things. Things I won’t go into because they’re not very interesting. But ambience comes to mind right after that..which is weird. I don’t know how it fits in. Visual ambience, like the way Sofia Coppola films look. Now I have Sometimes by My Bloody Valentine stuck in my head. And it makes me want tea? This is seriously what I think about all day. All the time. My math class started Thursday, and I was so upset about it I couldn’t concentrate at all in Literature (which I have before math), so I spent much of the class time doodling miso soup bowls. Literature is my favorite class because I think it might be my favorite thing ever. That might not be true, but it is true that I think about miso soup a lot at school. Nowhere else though, just at school. I don’t know why. I’d love to be able to bring miso to school, but I’m so paranoid about getting seaweed stuck in my teeth. That’s a fact. There are other facts... Neal Cassady was a fact. He was..matter. “FORK IT!!” I lent my favorite movie out which was a stupid thing to do because right now I’d like to watch it. I’d like to forget about the things that I must get done and just watch that movie. I don’t have that much to get done, but I’d rather forget about it anyhow. Just like I’d like to forget about my cold feet. Now my arms are cold too, and I have no idea what that might mean. But it is rising to my scalp and it feels funny. I think it might sound like I’m on drugs, but I’m not. “Your mom freaked me out..” If I could tour with any band I know who it would be. It probably wouldn’t be fun at all. It would be terrifying, I’m sure. I wish I knew how to play the sitar. I wish I knew someone who owns a sitar..I just want to see one in person. George Harrison is my favorite Beatle. OH! I bought The Magical Mystery Tour dvd this weekend, and it is hands down my number one favorite movie along with like five other movies. “No, don’t knit for me.” I want to paint The Beatles. Are you awake? I’m not. I wish I could sleep.

The Northern Whale: Part Two (the end)

You looked like a Polaroid; you were hazy lights and sharp darks. You were so tall too, I remember thinking I’d only come up to your knees if we were to stand side by side.

The first time you came to my garret

You said: I like your stacks of books.

I wanted to ask if you enjoyed climbing the tree to get inside.

But I said: I hope all the stairs didn’t bother you.

You sat down and picked up a dusty book and I made us some plain black tea. You stayed the night and read out loud until the sun came up; and I climbed down the tree and swam to the shop while you slept.



I didn’t think you’d be there when I got back. You were in the bath singing an old jazz number. I fixed us some tea while I waited because I didn’t know what else to do. You asked if it bothered me to make tea after serving it all day.

I said: no.

It started to rain and the town folk put away their cars and got out their boats.

You said: I’ll go when it stops raining so hard.

It didn’t stop raining for a long time though, and you stayed with me. You sang old songs and read out loud to pass the time, and sometimes you would paint pictures of my stacks of books. We didn’t talk very often but you would always smile at me and I would always make the tea.



I remember your brown eyes would sometimes look black.

You said: I don’t know why no one sees me.

I ran my hands through your brown hair as your head rested on my lap. You were so sad.

I said: they only see you in a dream.

And you went to sleep. I thought maybe you were trying to see yourself.

Sometimes you would kick and scream and curse the rain and me and my tea; and I would leave the garret for the city and float in my umbrella like everyone else on the street. Every time I came back I would find you hiding and crying under the covers.

I said: your whale won’t leave until your tears are done.

But you didn’t understand me and fell asleep. When you awoke, you awoke singing. I liked you best when you sang. You liked me best when I spoke. When I did you’d say I had such a sweet voice, like a tiny chocolate chip.

I said: sing on love your melody.



The rain went away and with it your tears. All the grey turned into yellow and white and you finally went back outside. You left during the afternoon on September 1st while I was away. I didn’t see you leave but I imagined you were carried off by a great big bird, and I idly wondered if your whale would bring you back next summer while I fixed myself a cup of black tea.

England's Dreaming

I often experience a present-nostalgia, so I’m going to describe that a bit; I'll use my trip to London as an example.

Dream London:

It’s beautiful here, and nothing can ever go wrong. There is life everywhere, and the city is pulsating with a million brilliant creative minds flowing at once, all meshing together and forming a flow of something bigger than the Thames. A dream state maybe, a beautiful golden gaze haze. No, not golden..grey, but a grey as good as gold because it is London and in London nothing can ever go wrong. At Kings Cross there are crackheads and whores, but they’re not sad and they’re not really twitching, they’re dancing. They’re not really sad because in London no one is sad. And in London biscuits are better than the finest meal created (this is actually true, I swear, English biscuits are the best thing anywhere and everywhere.). In London ones feet do not get wet, and one does not get cold, one does not get hungry, and one has the entire world..the entirety of everything at his or her feet. When one is in London one is everywhere at once and nowhere at once..because in London everything is perfect, always.

Real London:

It’s probably not beautiful to many people, because London is dirty. London is old and dirty and always wet and covered in moss (I find the moss quite charming, though). And I don’t think you’ll find any more creative minds in London than you will anywhere else. Londoners are mostly moody and glum..probably because of the near constant grey skies and the ridiculous prices of everything. Things aren’t at ones feet when in London, but stuck behind a glass and staring you mockingly in the face. Unless you’re one of the few snotty business peoples or famous everything is just out of your reach. Maybe all you’ll have to look forward to are a freezing bedsit and pot noodles. And if you don’t have the right shoes (which I didn’t) your feet will be constantly wet and cold and blistered.

When I was in London I felt I was walking on clouds, but the truth is I was walking on wet pavement for nearly ten hours a day in ballet flats. When I was walking the streets of London I could have sworn I was hearing music constantly, what it really was, though, was sirens. When I was walking around Topshop I felt as stylish as Kate Moss, but the truth was I looked like a homeless American kid trying to look like Kate Moss in Target clothes…etc.

I think that nostalgic view of London was created by my dreaming of it for so long. I had made a London of my own up and I refused to see anything else. Or it could have been delirium from eating the hostel’s free oatmeal breakfast and almost nothing else for 10 days (so I could have enough money for the tube and Topshop). Anyway, whatever it was, it wasn’t the real London. And the London I remember now is even less real than the London I experienced. The memories of the blistered feet and hunger pangs have nearly faded now, and almost all that’s left it the poetic beauty of the stuffy and dirty underground, moss, and my hostel-friends.

The Northern Whale: Part One

You lived a summer of songs. You arrived at the island at half past four on June 1st; you arrived on the back of a great big whale. I remember it well. You were soaked from head to foot and you stumbled blindly because you could not see through the specks of water that had taken up residence on your glasses. The thick brown frames were charming on your thin long face.

And you said: it’s awfully wet out there.

I watched you settle onto your set and wanted to laugh and say, that’s because it’s the ocean and you were on a whale, not in a submarine. But instead

I said: yeah..tea, coffee…?

You smiled at me like you’d read my eyes, and then turned towards the window. You were so captivated by the world on the other side of the glass that I wondered why you bothered to leave it in the first place, and I wondered why you decided to come into the shop, but most of all I wondered whether it was tea or coffee you wanted. I hoped tea because I preferred it, myself.

You said: Does it rain like this often? It sure is coming down hard..black tea, please, no milk or sugar.

I didn’t move to speak or prepare your tea right away because I was drunk on the impossible future. I didn’t take milk or sugar in my tea, either and the combination of your yellow paisley scarf and tweed suit was making me giddy or dizzy or

I said: hm..oh yes, it rains. Yes..I like your suit, it’s brown like your glasses…but um..lighter.

And I stumbled while fixing your tea and spilled water all over the counter. I felt hurried and stupid. I remember you just smiled, shy, and even blushed a little. You tried to help me clean the mess with your napkin but it was too far from your reach, despite the length of your bony and bonewhite fingers. I could tell by your nails that you played guitar. You asked my name and I lied. I asked yours and

You said: Patrick.

But that summer I would always call you Molly, though neither of us knew why, and you’d always call me by a lie.

Let me ride with you in your BMW, you can sail with me in my Yellow Sub...urbia?

Houses in suburbia are becoming too big, too impractical and too impersonal, and that is the central point of Cathleen McGuigan’s essay, The McMansion Next Door: Why the American House Needs a Makeover.

The purpose of the essay is to discuss the awful state the housing market is in at the moment, and how ‘house’ no longer means ‘home’. It also discribes how housing used to be and why it was better then, and why the size of suburbia today is impractical when compared to the size of families today. It’s also a rally cry, letting people know they’re not alone in being sick and bored of New Suburbia.

Thus, this essay is addressed to people who live in suburbia and are tired of what it has become; or addressed to those who, in some way, have to deal with the suburbs, like city dwellers who have to pass through and are freaked out by it.

When I think of suburbia Edward Sissorhands comes to mind: The solid colored houses with the appropriate contrasting-in-color car in the driveway; all the neighborhood men leaving for work at the same time, as if in a practiced dance, and the bored house wives meeting at the corner to gossip. It is creepy and it has no personality, and McGuigan is right, it’s getting worse. I find myself relived to be living in a suburban area that was built in the seventies, where the houses aren’t over-sized and ‘convent controlled’ has lost its meaning. The area is still monotonous but at least it has a little character, and isn’t nearly as wasteful.



Sort of unrelated: I hate the term McMansion. It’s like the sound of fingernails down a blackboard; it’s not a word, it has no purpose, and it’s not clever. For all of our sakes, say mini-mansion or big house, please.