Monthly Archives: February 2012

Audrey Horne

Those were the salad days for me at Naaman Forest H.S. when I first met Audrey Horne on my television.  In retrospect, I suppose not one of my classmates was “mature” enough to handle the growth spurts of Richard Scxhildgen…and when I got home I could only think of synonyms to the soundtrack of the dreamiest girl alive.

Oh, Fuck yes!  Dreams come true!  This was the moment this was my raison d’être.  Fuck, fuck, fuck YES!

Now, oh shit no…fucking shit no, no NO…what happened…it wasn’t supposed to be like this!  And to grind salt into my severed cock now is that fucking ginger-balls Danny Bonaduce chatting the fuck shit up with mother fucking Mike Brady in the background.  FUCK!

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Georgia O’Keeffe vs. Slavoj Žižek

This weeks contestants are  two notorious opponents in each of there respective fields.  Our contest, a forum of Artist against Philosopher begins with Georgia Totto O’Keef rivaling Slavoj Žižek .

Let us begin with the introductions.

Georgias worship stems from her  still life portraits, in particular, the infamous and yonic imagery of blossoming flowerets.  O’keef’s printed  reproductions may be purchased for five to twenty five dollars  at garage sales and fetching larger denominations at auction allowing the elite to rid their walls of figurative vaginas.

Although Slavoj Žižek  may smell like Slovenian sweat-milk, human sacrifices and Mistletoe he had a book published in the United States and became really popular.  Žižek  also seems to suffer from a deviant sense of humor and a perverse septum requiring specific attention from his fingertips.

Let us compare various Georgia O’Keef’s paintings to how Slavoj Žižek might react to them from recorded speeches.

 

I could stop right there, however, viewing Slavoj Žižek as a promoter of Georgia O’Keef’s images could disturb and darken O’Keef’s images

Both challengers are advertising sensation, inspiration and sentiment, however,  only one may realize a successful ovation.  Georgia O’Keef’s attempts  fell from repetitious 1930s Freudian representations of  vaginae into 1970s feminist pornography hence never erasing her stigma enveloped in mute colored petals.   Now, notwithstanding and although opinions float upon winds as quickly as someone can pass, Slavoj Žižek reflects  upon pertinent, current social phenomena judiciously.  Perhaps Žižek ultimately wins this bout for the fact that what he really delivers is the veal stock for a sumptuous demi-glace and hilariously strokes the intelligence of us all.

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Nostalgia

From Kodak’s first duo-color Kodachrome film tests in 1922 to the VHS-C magnetic videotape recorders of the mid 90s used in Bob Log III’s video for “Boob Scotch”.  Advances in the realm of image recording have made both subtle and drastic changes in subject, context and discourse.  However, pigments and undertones still maintain supple, rich and licentiousness emotions.  Wavelengths and gradients of light like an opiate high dilate dust, saturate and bloom which flows, imitating eastern winds and exploding like corpuscles.   Opalescent wisps curl and kink contrasting wormed fruit in a landscape of darkness.

Both examples display immeasurable grace, class and beauty as only I may compare and contrast. It’s like people gluing macaroni on to a paper plate and painting it gold.

Fuck that superfluous shit, this is simply four minutes of pretty and historically significant footage and then some tittays,  liquor and rock-n-roll.

The Boob Scotch video is significantly smaller because it’s not safe to watch at work…. I thought if it was smaller it might be hidden by your big head from the peepers you work with.

What didn’t happen on Valentines Day

None of this lovely stuff…

No sweeter sounds or any attempts at the mouth herpes…

No Patrick Swayze or Disco Dancing…

and no kinky girls…

Valentines Day with WEEN

Just one sweaty-wet, belated and lubricated, stiff and soft, amalgamated and gyrated, gel-sloppy and peanut butter-poppy, butternut love song from each of WEEN’s studio albums.









Tupac Shakur

 
From السلام عليكم(assalamu alaikum)

http://vimeo.com/21793235
 
To Oscar Mayer Bacon


 

The Morton Downey, Jr. Show / American Politics

On July 4th, 1988 during the taping of a Morton Downey, Jr. Show episode, Congressman Charles Rangel, and Mort the Mouth himself tag-team on Ron Paul.

GOD’s™ Footsteps in the Sand. © by Richard Scxhildgen

One night someone dreamt–

I dreamt that I was walking along the oceanfront with God™ and across the horizon flashed photographs from my life. For each scene I noticed two sets of tracks, one belonged to myself and the other to God™.                                            

When the last scene of my dashing liveliness flashed before me, I looked back at the impressions in the sand. Many times along the shortcut of my raison d’être, I detected only one set of footsteps. I also noticed it occured at the most insouciant and erroneiest[sic] times in my life.

This both agitated and pleased me, so I questioned God™ about it. God™, you said that once I decided to consort with you, you would parade with me all the way, but I have noticed that during the most perplexing, thorny and ticklish times in my life there is only one set of impressions.  I don’t understand why in this temporal length of my existence when I be hard up the most, you should bereave and leave me in your mother.” 

God™ replied, “My precious, ignorant child, during your times of federal appeals and habeas corpus, I would never, never leave you like a painters face against the wind…when you saw only one set of footsteps, it was when I was ghost riding the whip.”

©Richard Scxhildgen 2012

I. The pencil had a life of its own.
Although several people have suggested to Scxhildgen, as consolation, that God™ gave the idea to multiple authors in order to more efficiently spread “His Word”, R. Scxhildgen is unsettled by the idea that “God™ would be the author of confusion.” However the verse came into being, its message has reached all over the world. “Footprints” is the kind of poem we all seem to know without remembering when or where we first saw it. We’ve read it dozens of times, never paying attention to a single word. The verse is dislocated from context, so familiar and predictable that the boundary between writing and reading seems to disappear.

II. Do I know you?
In “Cryptomnesia” (1905), a paper about accidental plagiarism, Carl Jung argues that it’s impossible to know for certain which ideas are one’s own. “Our unconsciousness . . . swarms with strange intruders,” he writes. He accuses Nietzsche of unwittingly copying another’s work, and urges all writers to sift through their memories and locate the origin of every idea before putting it to paper: “Ask each thought: Do I know you, or are you new?”  Is R. Scxhildgen’s poem his or Gods™?

III. You know me.
Although nearly all of these authors claim they wrote the poem in longhand, dictated by God™, the controversy didn’t surface until everyone began putting their versions online. There are hundreds of “Footprints”-inspired Web sites. One has a soundtrack of waves lapping against the shore; another features lines of the poem jiggling to the beat of Christmas songs. In Andrew Keen’s 2007 book The Cult of the Amateur, he writes that the Internet has induced a state of communal amnesia; we’ve lost “our memory for things learnt, read, experienced, or heard.” Perhaps the “Footprints” writers are living a version of this peculiar situation. There’s not only an abundance of amateur authors, but they’ve all written the exact same thing…kinda.

IV. Example
“One of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different than that from which it is torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest.” -T.S. Eliot