Something you probably don’t know about me, being that we are conversing in the odorless digital realm; I have olfactory senses on par with or equal to a woman’s. I can smell everything. All the time.Continue reading
Tag Archives: John Waters
I propose a concept for a new 24-hour network.
FUM. The Fucked-Up Movies Channel.
By watching FUM, you agree to the terms and conditions of the network. In short:
All the movies aired on this channel are fucked up.
If you get fucked up by watching it, too fucking bad.
Answering machines were a form of technology in use before telecommunication was monopolized. At first, they were huge, then they used micro-cassettes, then regular cassettes, then a computer chip, then they went in the garbage. Telephones were not generally mobile prior to the year 2000. The average home had a room where the phone and answering machine resided.
The answering machine was the predecessor to the ringtone, in terms of personal expression through phones. There was even a default recording of a robot intoning “please leave a message after the beep”, which is how you knew your dad or grandpa wasn’t at home. Older relatives were confounded by the damn things, and would require the aid of sons or nephews, just as with smartphones today. A family would retain an answering machine until the tape wore out, meaning that for much of the 1980s, there was a phantasmagoria of wood-paneled plastic boxes, varying in quality. “Wireless” meant “unreliable”, which meant that the telephone station generally resembled an improvised bomb, to 21st century eyeballs. Continue reading
Fruit is a humorous word, as is fruity; “fruitiness” is inherently funny. I’ve never been called a fruit, but I don’t think this affects my judgment of it; I’ve been called a “faggot”, and I still laugh at that word. How can you not crack up at words that rhyme with “agate” and “toot”, particularly when they’re barked in anger? “Agate” is funny-sounding. “Faggot” is just “agate” with a funny hat. See what I mean?
Okay, I know it’s a fine line. What isn’t these days, when it comes to sharing dialogue? My point is, “fruity” used to be a thing. One needn’t necessarily be gay to be fruity, or even queer. Fruity is a sort of indefinable mien, typically the product of societal constraints, resulting in a general state of fruitiness. Like weirdos, fruits don’t refer to themselves as such, but are so named by the more ignorant of the species. To the unknowing, it’s like calling someone a “chair”, or a “table”.
As entertainment continues to move away from “hurting feelings”, a load-bearing pillar of basic comedy, another flavor of humor has been lost.
Freedy Johnston is a New York-based singer/songwriter who was born in Kansas. His lyrics are articulate and literary, and of a quality not heard since the days of Gordon Lightfoot and Laura Nyro. He has been called “a songwriter’s songwriter”, and his work has been featured in movie soundtracks, most notably Kingpin(1996).
Sweet merciful mother of god, his songs are sad.
You wanna know how to tell if a city is your home? When terrible things happen to you there, and it never occurs to you to leave. You don’t abandon your home. You stay and tough it out.
There was a night during my stay in Fulton County Jail where all of us were herded into the rec area, so that the guards could search the ward for contraband. Apparently some inmates had been smoking weed in their cell. Since that cell was mine, and one of the inmates was me, I spent my time in the rec room deep in contemplation. As time wore on no quicker than molasses, we all started to chat to break the tension.
The cement room was sweltering. The walls were nine feet high, rimmed with cyclone fencing. If I jumped vertically, I could catch a glimpse of the glimmering Atlanta skyline I missed so terribly. This was soothing. Some of the inmates I’d befriended took notice, and I eagerly explained myself. It was the first view of the city I’d had in a month.