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That didn't go so well, did it?

Sometimes Young Geoffrey isn't near as smart as he likes to think he is.

Y'know how those people who send out mass emails — usually jokes or cute pictures of their cats — but can't seem to ever learn what awful netiquette it is to put every address in the "To" field, instead of the "BCc" space?

Exactly. Amateur hour.

Well, last night, I determined to invite a select 'few' to join my mailing list.

Turned out, I've gotten so used to dealing with actual mailing list software, I had completely forgotten that email programs don't work the same way. I made the mistake of putting a Thunderbird "list" name into the To: field. Only to learn that every god damn address showed up in the bright light of day.

To say I was (and am) embarrassed is to put it mildly.

And naturally, my sub-conscious also gave me a helluva hard time last night, in its usual inscrutable and subtle manner.

All right. Time to brave my inbox, and then get to work.

_______

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'Art' of Onanism:
Pop Life mocks the National Gallery of Canada

"It's not pandering. We have certainly not lowered our standards or principles in order to have line-ups at the door." — National Gallery of director Marc Mayer, quoted in the National Post.

Well. Thank God that's settled! But the denial does beg the question, "Just what kind of standards did the National Gallery have before Thursday's opening of the "blockbuster" travelling show, "Pop Life"?

Lonesome Cowboy, by Takashi Murakami: theft as art, in the worst tradition of Warhol.
Lonesome Cowboy, by Takashi Murakami: theft as art, in the worst tradition of Warhol (Wikipedia.)
Jeff Koons tells it like it is in Volume 27, Number 3 of ArtForum, November 1988.  Image reprinted from the National Gallery's Sex Sells.
Jeff Koons tells it like it is in the November 1988 edition of ArtForum. (Image: Sex Sells.

It's not just that we expect our politicians and priests to lie to us, and our journalists to transmit those lies with straight faces; it is also that we have somehow come to habitually lie to ourselves, unwilling (or unable) to acknowledge that which is spelled out before us, unless some Authority does so first.

So concerned are we with our status in the eyes of those we accept as authorities or experts, we will happily gorge on shit and, chins dripping with the muck, we will grin excitedly as the last chunk slips past our teeth and beg for yet another serving.

* * *

The opening of the National Gallery of Canada's summer blockbuster, Pop Life on June 10 (on until September 19), was crowded with hipsters and art-students and those members of the bourgeoisie who feel it imperative to put in an appearance at such events.

The crowd milled about with all the electric excitement of a herd of cattle on anti-depressants.

The men and women gazed with bovine approval at a second-rate sculpture of a naked man's huge and hugely erect penis, eternally spurting semen into the air; at pages torn from third-rate 1970s-era pornographic magazines; and at poorly-lit, still photos of an "artist" having sex with a man who has paid her $20,000 for the privilege.

Not to mention at a "dead horse", symbolizing ... well, I forget just what it symbolized; there was a little card with several explanatory paragraphs typed onto it, but the words seemed to have very little to do with what we were looking at.

But most of the audience seemed to nod knowingly at one another, and they exchanged stock phrases such as "transgressing boundaries" and "challenging patriarchy" and (to quote from the exhibit's PDF accompaniment, Sex Sells) "...tread[ing] too closely within or against the lines of common decency", as if imparting to one another the wisdom of the ages.

Read more ...

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Edit @ 2306 hours Eastern time: Turns out I fell victim to either Google or my browser personalizing my results. Thanks to (or should that read "thanks"?) Livejournal's mijopo for pointing out my nakedness. Ah well, my unexpected fame was fun while it lasted.

Non-plussed (but frankly rather pleased)

Doing the narcissistic statistical analysis of recent hits at Edifice Rex Online led me to follow a link to a Google search of the phrase doctor who flesh and stone (no quotation marks).

Apparently, my thoughts on the venerable program are more popular than those of a major British newspaper.

More than a little to my amazement, my review of the episode showed up on the number two spot at google.com, while The Guardian's came in at number three. (Google.ca had me at the same position, but The Guardian was in 10th spot.

Seems a little difficult to believe that my humble organ's pensés on Doctor Who are out-polling those of one of Britain's major newspapers, but Google wouldn't lie to me, would it?

I really think it's about time publishers started sending me ARCs.

Cross-posted from Edifice Rex Online.

ed_rex: (Default)
Edit @ 2306 hours Eastern time: Turns out I fell victim to either Google or my browser personalizing my results. Thanks to (or should that read "thanks"?) Livejournal's mijopo for pointing out my nakedness. Ah well, my unexpected fame was fun while it lasted.

Non-plussed (but frankly rather pleased)

Doing the narcissistic statistical analysis of recent hits at Edifice Rex Online led me to follow a link to a Google search of the phrase doctor who flesh and stone (no quotation marks).

Apparently, my thoughts on the venerable program are more popular than those of a major British newspaper.

More than a little to my amazement, my review of the episode showed up on the number two spot at google.com, while The Guardian's came in at number three. (Google.ca had me at the same position, but The Guardian was in 10th spot.

Seems a little difficult to believe that my humble organ's pensés on Doctor Who are out-polling those of one of Britain's major newspapers, but Google wouldn't lie to me, would it?

I really think it's about time publishers started sending me ARCs.

Cross-posted from Edifice Rex Online.

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"Thanks" to [livejournal.com profile] mijopo I found myself compelled look up a poem I wrote for my high school writing class. It's a bad poem, with lurid, somewhat nonsensical imagery, a central metaphor that gets displaced by another one, a strange use of the letter y in place of i and, generally, no evidence for an ear for poetry whatsoever.

But it amuses me almost as much as it embarrasses me. If you care for a peak into one of my not-so-good early writerly moments, click away.
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... or something like that.

First draft, not-proofed. You're welcome to read it if you want, but I'm not actually recommending it. It's on my site, not here.
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The young and brilliant Jade_Noir has recently been paying me the rather high compliment of dipping into the archives of this, and recently reminded me of a review I wrote back in 2004 of Bob Dylan's Chronicles, Volume One. (Yeah, yeah, I know, it may sound as if I am returning flattery with flattery, but I have been reading Jade_Noir's journal with a great deal of interest since she was something like 15 years old and so I don't hesitate to use the word. Also, it's not a word I throw around with reckless abandon.)

To frankly toot my own horn, it's an excellent essay and so I am very grateful to her for reminding me of its existence. That it includes some reminiscences of my paternal grandfather makes it of even more interest to me (and, just possibly, to at least some of you).

Click here to read (or re-read) the full 1,600 word review.
ed_rex: (Default)
The young and brilliant [livejournal.com profile] jade_noir has recently been paying me the rather high compliment of dipping into the archives of this, and recently reminded me of a review I wrote back in 2004 of Bob Dylan's Chronicles, Volume One. (Yeah, yeah, I know, it may sound as if I am returning flattery with flattery, but I have been reading [livejournal.com profile] jade_noir's journal with a great deal of interest since she was something like 15 years old and so I don't hesitate to use the word. Also, it's not a word I throw around with reckless abandon.)

To frankly toot my own horn, it's an excellent essay and so I am very grateful to her for reminding me of its existence. That it includes some reminiscences of my paternal grandfather makes it of even more interest to me (and, just possibly, to at least some of you).

Click here to read (or re-read) the full 1,600 word review.

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