Your cousin squeezed your ass when she kissed you goodbye. What was that like?
a. There was a lot to drink. She was confused. I was wearing an ascot.
b. I’ve always liked Claire. She spoke to me like a child and it was exciting for me. She patted me on the head when I graduated from UCLA.
c. Once, we hid in the bushes and threw eggs at cars.
d. I saw one of her breasts when I was ten. We were celebrating 4th of July and she had caught a spark that flew into her bikini. She pulled it down quickly and splashed water on her right breast, patted her hand on her nipple for a while. I still wonder if it left a scar.
subversive tv-momente im zdf-nachtstudio: wenn volker panzer seine geistreichen gaeste unterbricht, um, wie er sagt, dem fernsehpublikum den komplexen diskussionsverlauf mit einfachen, zusammenfassenden worten verstaendlicher zu machen. und dann aber nach zwei, drei saetzen deutlich wird, dass er ueberhaupt nicht verstanden hat, worum es wirklich ging.
Hero gesehen. War das jetzt sexy Propaganda fürs Empire, wie sie das aktuelle Empire wegen doofem Individualismus nie hinbekommen wird, oder war das jetzt kongeniale Hegel-Verfilmung, Allgemeines galore! and Besonderes, fuck off! du bist eh nur ein Schluck Wasser, oder war das jetzt bloß anmutige Menschen anmutig an Drähten rumgezogen und mit Wangenknochen, die man dringend haben will, und warum komm ich eigentlich so euphorisch aus einem Film raus, dem man aber so was von sofort ansieht, dass er Ornament der Masse für Leseschwache ist?
If all this seems too unrelentingly grim, too sorrowful, too—let's face it—German, don't despair, 'cause girlfriend, Erin Cosgrove never forgot the misshapen love triangle she discovered underneath the Clash's couture statement. Having studied with conceptual guru John Baldessari, she produced such work as "The Big Dick Contest," in which she placed a personal ad in a Berlin newspaper inquiring "why the men in Germany all act like big dicks, but fall anatomically short," then exhibited the scores of photographs and letters she received in response. Cosgrove has now embarked on her most audacious piece, "Seven Romance Novels." "Erin Cosgrove," her bluntly named alter ego, is the author of The Baader-Meinhof Affair (Printed Matter, 245 pp., $14.95), the first to be published. She is not a "writer" but a "romance provocateur," the novel is not a "book" but a "romance manifesto," and you are not a "reader" but one of the "uninitiated participating in extended aesthetic anti-agitprop enhancement." And if this is all sounding perilously German again, take heart—the whole thing is a "satire," albeit a complex, sometimes morbid one. Mock-ups of all seven "novels" are featured in the "Pulp Fiction" show at the Brooklyn Museum, through August 31. Cosgrove and cover-god Fabio are fetchingly Photoshopped for such titles as Sycophant Love and The Two-Timing Two-Stepper, contemporary riffs on the original Depression-era magazine artwork in the exhibit. Fabio, that broad slab of sensitivity, donated his services for all the Romance Novels, a canny career move exposing him to a downtown demographic no doubt previously immune to his charms. (The Baader-Meinhof cover also boasts faux wrinkles and dog-ears, as if it's been carried around in a freshman backpack for half a semester; footnote dingbats consist of hammers and sickles, and portraits of Lenin and Che.)
[...]
Cosgrove's soap opera characters are trapped in the art house: Mara, the petite, curvy heroine, is the new girl at an exclusive New England college, where she's immersed in serial killer studies. Enter Regan, the tall, passionate co-leader of the campus Baader-Meinhof reading group. She seems like Mara's friend, but is it all an act? (Hint: Her name is pronounced like the "former puppet president.")
[...]
As Penny says of her surgically enhanced bosom, "If these are fake, then everything is fake. And then what do we have to live for?"
[...]
The real Cosgrove was born in '69, an auspicious year for a love commando, but also a time when the idealism of protest seemed concrete. Now, with the harsh boot of fascism replaced by the velvet fist of the G-8, her characters seem like stand-ins for those whose days of dissent are behind them. When Mara muses, "From RAF to NPR, maybe that's what it means to grow up," the satire is biting, and it's not a love bite.
Pre-shrunk, hand dyed, sweatshop free. Und später werden sie mal Chef der Nationalbank sein und in der Freizeit fotografieren und mit dem Motorrad rumfahren zu den einfachen Leuten. Ganz der Alte.
Medizin als Selbstverbesserungstechnologie, schlauer Artikel mit embedded nuggets, zum Beispiel einem rosa Uboot, auf dem Cary Grant ein Interview über LSD gibt und einer Autobiographie, die "Muscles" heißt.
Quotes:
In his memoir Muscle , Samuel Fussell describes ... [...] I have been born again," he told the astonished group. "I have been through a psychiatric experience which has completely changed me." The psychiatric experience to which [Cary] Grant was referring was the result of LSD, which he claimed to have used more than 60 times. As he sat tanning himself on the deck of a pink submarine, Grant described the way that LSD had put him in touch with his inner self. [...] In 1972, at the age of 45, [Jan] Morris traveled to Casablanca, Morocco, and underwent sex-reassignment surgery. After the operation, Morris felt clean, felt normal and, most of all, felt like ... herself. "I was not to others what I was to myself," Morris writes. "All I wanted was ... to live as myself, to clothe myself in a more proper body, and achieve Identity at last." [...] In medicine, the ethic of authenticity has given the pursuit of psychological well-being the same kind of moral imperative once reserved for treating illnesses. [...] Yet it would be a mistake to think this is merely a matter of the market creating an illness. It is also a matter of a technology creating an illness. Wherever we can make the tools of medicine work, the condition that we are working on tends to be reconceptualized as a medical problem. It used to be the case that some people could not have children. This was not a medical problem; it was an unfortunate fact of nature. But once new reproductive technologies -- such as in vitro fertilization and sperm donation -- came on the scene, that fact of nature was reconceptualized as a medical problem. Now it is called "infertility" and is treated by medical specialists. This kind of reconceptualization runs throughout the history of psychiatry.
George W. Bush ist Trotzkist. Sagt die National Post.
im falle friedmans muss freilich erstaunen, dass die kollegen von der drogenfahndung angesichts seiner schier christoph daum'schen pupillenweitungen nicht schon viel eher argwoehnisch geworden waren.
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