The mind is: a relatively easy computer to hack.

L


ast night I dealt with numerous images as I slapped together the image pages for June. I say that as though doing so was some sort of imperative, but it wasn't. I just figured you might want to have faces in your mind as read the tales I tell.

"Jessika Alexander Flint will one day bring me release." -Dr. Steven Louis Weiner

I also needed fresh images for one of those Jenfariello photography projects that she had assigned me and other artists of the town. Again, this project was designed to document a time: 11:15pm on June 13th. And again I grabbed frames of video for the work I intended to make. By the way, the last time I carried through on Jen's photography plans, I was apparently one of the few who actually did so. Thus she planned this later photography event.

After my shift at Comet, I went to Studio Art (the Corner-area art store catering to the well-funded art student) and bought over-priced acrylic media and black paint. Then I printed out the grabbed frames at UVA's Olssen Hall, where stinky-butt Electrical Engineers fret about their recent poor run of luck getting laid.

At my house, I put the project together on the surface of a 2 by 3 foot piece of particle board. I glued down the sheets of printout using carpenter's cement, painted scratchy black frames around the individual images, and set it to dry. It was looking pretty good: like a nine-pane window into on a crazy little hedonistic world. The images, you see, were centered around the theme of marijuana smoking. When the day dawns that there is a rational marijuana policy in this country, I'll be proud of the casual openness with which I discussed my pot smoking here in the puritanical 90s.

Anti-pedophilic hysteria seems poised to snuff in its infancy a film based on a book that was perfectly acceptable in the moral climate of the 50s.

Which brings up the issue of the remake of the movie Lolita. Today I found myself reading an article about it in a complementary copy of the Washington Post that had been flung into our yard. Anti-pedophilic hysteria seems poised to snuff in its infancy a film based on a book that was perfectly acceptable in the moral climate of the 50s. The souls of men are full of darkness, and being blind to this fact will never cure our perversions. I personally don't understand adult sexual interests in pre-pubescent girls, but any heterosexual man who tells you that he doesn't entertain fantasies of getting it on with sixteen year old girls is a liar, defective, or both.
*********

W


hen I woke up at 4pm, I put a surface of glossy acylic medium on my photography project. Then I drove it down to the Downtown Artspace. For some reason Jenfariello was looking especially attractive. I know Jen reads this, but damn it, that's what I was thinking! My old housemate Elizabeth showed up with Franz to drop off photographs she'd taken at the Tokyo Rose. She claims she reads my musings since she never gets to talk to me anymore.

It seems Peggy and Zach had found the white Toyota up on Carter's Mountain near their new house and had outfitted it with the Race Car's plates and taken it for a spin.

O


ften as I return to Observatory Avenue from Downtown, I go via Cherry Avenue and Shamrock Road. This may or may not be shorter than taking Main Street to JPA, but there seems to be fewer traffic lights and less congestion when I go this route. Today as I was heading down Shamrock, I saw Peggy and Zach getting some assistance from a random motorist in pushing a white Toyota out of the street. I pulled over to see what was up. It seems Peggy and Zach had found the white Toyota up on Carter's Mountain near their new house and had outfitted it with the Race Car's plates and taken it for a spin. It had just run out of gas. Other possible problems with the car include the fact that it runs very hot and that it has virtually no clutch. I gave them a ride to a gas station and back.

Rain pelted down hard as I had my first real success at coaxing some useful life out of one of the PS/2 Model 80s lying around my house.

*********

Does it make sense that simple criticism on issues of taste really would only be suitably punished by execution?

T


hose Ladies of the Heart may come across as a bunch of nauseatingly pleasant cream puffs who sit around all day embroidering lace on their toilet seat covers, but they have one supporter who is so zealous that she has taken to emailing me death threats from her home in San Diego and from her office job somewhere in the San Diego city government. I know this because Hotmail logs the IP addresses of the computers of its clients. Her anonymous email address is grimreaperr@hotmail.com. Does it make sense that simple criticism on issues of taste really would only be suitably punished by execution? What's amusing is that Grim Reaper started out by threatening legal action (in the same idiotic manner as Elly) and when I laughed in her inbox and told her to eat granny pussy and shit buns of steel, she graduated to death threats.

For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?970701