Saturday, July 31, 2010

Mary Kay Lip Colours

Mary Kay Lip Colours.



Blaze
Boysenberry
Copper Star
Hot Mocha
Icy Peach
Maple
Midnight Red
Pink Passion
Sunlit Sand
Sunny Citrus
Whisper
Apple Berry
Hibiscus
Pink Satin
Mocha Freeze
Pink Shimmer
Sheer Blush
Dusty Rose
Berry Kiss
Black Cherry
Rich Fig
Whipped Berries
Apricot Glaze
Frosted Rose
Raisinberry
Shell
Toffee
Amber Glow
Amber Suede
Bronzed
Downtown Brown
Gingerbread
Nutmeg
Sunset
Sweet Nectar
Red

Casseroles

Recipes Extracted from Meal-Master Database: Source.


Vintage 1950s North Americana.

Oven-Fried Corn Flake Chicken
Categories: Cereals Poultry Main dish

Baked Corn Chex 'N' Cheese Custard
Categories: Side dish Cheese/eggs Vegetables Cereals

Checkerboard Square Clam Crunch
Categories: Seafood Cereals Main dish

He-Man's Tuna Noodle Casserole
Categories: Casseroles Fish Vegetables

Tuna-Casserole Supreme
Categories: Casseroles Fish Vegetables

Chow Mein Candy Clusters
Categories: Candies Appetizers Cereals Snacks

Choco-Scotch Clusters
Categories: Cereals Cookies Snacks

John Beresford Tipton Bars
Categories: Candies Snacks Cereals

Teenage Rocky Roads Candy
Categories: Candies Snacks Cereals

Lemonade Fried Chicken
Categories: Poultry Main dish

Pepsi-Cola Cake With Broiled Peanut Butter Frosting
Categories: Cakes Desserts Soda pop

Fresca Cake With Maraschino Frosting
Categories: Soda pop Cakes Desserts

Milky Way Cake
Categories: Cakes Desserts Candies

Red Hot Salad
Categories: Salads Candies Fruits

Old-Fashioned Chicken Pot Pie
Categories: Poultry Main dish   

DSM-IV list of symptoms for autism

Source.
Wikipedia's main entry on autism.

In the diagnostic manual used to classify disabilities, the DSM-IV (American Psychiatric Association, 1994), “autistic disorder” is listed as a category under the heading of “Pervasive Developmental Disorders.” A diagnosis of autistic disorder is made when an individual displays 6 or more of 12 symptoms listed across three major areas: social interaction, communication, and behavior. Examples below.



Problems in social relatedness and communication.

Difficulty in mixing with other children; prefers to be alone; aloof, regal manner; difficulty in expressing needs; uses gestures or pointing instead of words.

Abnormal responses to one or a combination of senses; such as sight, hearing, touch, balance, smell, taste, reaction to pain.

Sustained odd play.

Have odd mannerisms such as rocking back and forth, hand flapping, walking on tip-toes or head banging.

Uneven gross/fine motor skills.

Not responsive to verbal cues, acts as deaf.

Little or no eye contact.

Insistence on sameness; resist changes in routine.

Noticeable physical over-activity or extreme under-activity.

Tantrums; displays extreme distress for no apparent reason.

Speech and language absence or delays. Inappropriate laughing and giggling.

Echolalia (repeating words or phrases in place of normal language).

Abnormal ways of relating to people, objects and events.

Inappropriate attachment to objects.

Don't seek cuddling.

Spins objects.

Not fully knowing how to hold a conversation, thinking about what the other person in a conversation understands and believes, and tuning in to the meta-linguistic signals of the other person, such as facial expression, tone of voice and body language.

The Art Fag on Ryan Trecartin

For further (or, perhaps, less) edification on the subject of video-maker Ryan Trecartin, here is hands down my favourite reaction to his work, in essay form. With apologies to Sholem Krishtalka who has since gone on, I believe, to have entirely comprehensive, multi-tiered, professionally-paying and loquacious views on the subject, this represents something like Mr. Krishtalka's first then second stab at coming to terms with Mr. Trecartin. And in my mind, something like the perfect critical first response to Mr. Trecartin.

Sholem Krishtalka is Toronto-based.

"Providing a detailed summary of I-Be Area is much like providing a detailed summary of the rest of Mr. Trecartin’s oeuvre; certainly possible, but one runs the risk of sounding like someone given abrupt leave of their senses (“so there was a guy with a yellow face, and then he became a girl with a yellow face, but with long hair and gym shorts…”). By now, darlings, we have watched I-Be Area two and half times, and while we do feel like we’ve just been run over by about five rollercoasters, we are no nearer to providing a cogent synopsis."

Taken from Art Fag 17 and Art Fag 23.

from Art Fag 17


A QUICK NOTE FROM THE UNDERGROUND.

Thus far, we have only been detailing our daylight viewing habits. Some of our evenings (the ones we see fit to narrate, that is) were spent in the arms of the New York Underground Film Festival. We shall not bother to detail every program consumed, but end our travelogue by sharing an epiphany.

It concerns one Mr. Ryan Trecartin. We have been eyeing him with intense suspicion ever since we came across his name in the pages of Artforum, where his singular genius was extolled by none other than that perpetual coddler of damaged fags, Mr. Dennis Cooper. Mr. Cooper was working himself into a hyperventilating frenzy over Mr. Trecartin's epic "A Family Finds Entertainment," which largely defies description, but has loosely to do with the adoption of a runaway hit-and-run victim by a houseful of hard-partying cartoon psychotics, and is ladled with heavy doses of camp. We had seen snippets at the Whitney Biennial (and what a dog's breakfast that was, ladies and gentlemen), and seen it in full at Pleasure Dome's recent "Bad Boys" program, where it was the star attraction. Even after the full 40 sensory-assaultive minute running time, we could not come to a firm opinion of Mr. Trecartin's work; there were moments of starlit genius, where the lunacy of his cast and their improvisatory abilities made for utter brilliance. And there were just as many moments that came off as mannered and irritating, like the grating antics of an overindulged and understimulated child.

We met with one of Mr. Trecartin's shorts at an Underground Film Fest program, and we have been further edified. In fact, we are currently happy to hop on his bandwagon (even if we are a little leery of how crowded it is, and how fast it's going). The short, entitled "(Tommy Chat Just Emailed Me)," concerns the perils of internet dating, single motherhood and constipation, and involves many of the same characters that populate "Family...". As you might be able to glean from our description, it involves the same general tenor of "Family...", but this time, the brief running time has reined in Mr. Trecartin's more indulgent sensibilities. Despite its apparent insanity and the ludicrous behavioural tics of its characters (at one point, the single mother, cruising the web for a lover, locks her baby in the shower to get some alone-time), the durational brevity forced a more stringent structure on the proceedings; the video, in all its antic absurdity, came off like a Bach fugue; the unfolding of motifs was made transparent, its progress made clear while still maintaining its anarchic tone. Consider the final moments of the video: throughout, Catherine Pimples (the heroine of the constipation storyline) holds court from the toilet in a lake-house. The final moments of the video finds all the characters in the bathroom with her. Mr. Trecartin (in character as Tammy) raises his hand like an orchestra conductor and leads his introverted, self-referential characters, all still trapped in the bathroom, in a slow, rhythmic chorus of "What's outside? Oh my God!" as the camera makes a slow pan of the surrounding environs. This single moment casts an illuminating pall over the entire video, revealing its parallel strands of containment and sequestration (both social and intestinal).

* * *
from Art Fag 23 

Providing a detailed summary of I-Be Area is much like providing a detailed summary of the rest of Mr. Trecartin’s oeuvre; certainly possible, but one runs the risk of sounding like someone given abrupt leave of their senses (“so there was a guy with a yellow face, and then he became a girl with a yellow face, but with long hair and gym shorts…”). By now, darlings, we have watched I-Be Area two and half times, and while we do feel like we’ve just been run over by about five rollercoasters, we are no nearer to providing a cogent synopsis. To say that the plot is loose is akin to saying that the Eiffel Tower is tallish. Still, there are threads and themes, the grandest of which is Command-C and -V (or Control-C and -V for those who are not goose-stepping along with the Apple army): the copy and paste functions; in other words, cloning, replication, avatars, multiple selves. It has also to do with the exercise and application of these themes: adoption, the internet, on-line profiles, and chatrooms. These latter two are especially important, as they provide what could loosely be described as the setting for I-Be Area. As near as we can make out, this is to what the title specifically refers. Each character in the video has their own allotted space, or Area, and much of the vertiginous atmosphere that engulfs the viewer like a fever dream comes from the representation of these spaces: at once claustrophobic and cluttered; tight, cramped little spaces, gaudily painted and garishly lit, each populated, if not by one or two people, then a single minded collective.

Mr. Trecartin’s 100-odd minute opus jetés manically from room to room. The main narrative arc concerns the identity dilemma (or, in Trecartin’s southern-fag drawl, “diii-layeh-maauuh”) of I-Be 2 (Mr. Trecartin), the second in a series of clones named I-Be. He finds no affinity with his previous incarnation (who has become a woman, and rechristened herself You Me Me You), and his on-line avatar has taken on a life of his own. Although this distinction between what goes on in front of the screen and on the screen is virtually moot in I-Be Area. Thus, he embarks on a quest for identity. At its core, I-Be Area is a picaresque tale of self-discovery and self-creation, and bears a striking structural resemblance to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I-Be 2 cycles through identity after identity, and like Huck down the Mississippi, wanders from Area to Area, and so we meet a slew of characters: the den mother of the I-Bes (who, by the by, is the best actress of her generation – she is the only performer who does not attempt to mimic Trecartin’s über-queeny-sassy-fag-on-speed delivery; she translates the idiosyncrasies of his script into a kind of Tennessee Williams heroine performing beat poetry, and all we can say is that Meryl Streep has nothing on her), the I-Be Adoption Agency staff, Cheetah and Jammie (I-Be 2’s entourage), a young boy named Django (who grows up to become a clone named Pasta, also played by Mr. Trecartin, who looks like Linda Blair in a blonde page-boy wig), a preternaturally dramatically gifted baby named Polly, The Everymom (a troupe of adoption-crazy lesbians), a grating creature in pink gym shorts and six-inch platform heels named Ramada Omar, Jamie the pregnant drama teacher/goth band frontwoman who isn’t really pregnant, and on and on and on.

The introduction and subsequent disposal of these characters follows the narrative logic of channel surfing; they appear (or, more aptly, flounce) on screen suddenly, and disappear without warning. But we always see them in their Area, and as the film wears on, the Areas, and the boundaries between them, are violently destroyed: rooms are painted black, windows are smashed, objects thrown in and out, walls torn down in a grinning, laughing, wide-eyed orgy of hopped-up unleashing of frantic energy.

Trecartin’s pacing only goes at one speed: faster. Like a freight train chugging to life at the top of a steep decline, I-Be Area is languid at first; whole minutes go by without a cut. But as the movie progresses, scenes are choppier and choppier, dialogue (whose pitch is sped up and slowed down at will) overlaps more and more, until the final scenes end up as an anarchic riot of cuts and cacophony, a screaming blur of relentlessly jumping images, a Babel of crashes and shrieks and maniacal giggles. It’s exhausting.


So what is to be made of the hour and forty-eight minute stretch of I-Be Area? When we attempt to illuminate the vast and varied thematic territory that he traverses, one might easily be led to believe that Mr. Trecartin’s candied hysteria operates in the service of some sort of commentary. After all, the thematic core of his work is always tight as a drum; adoption, cloning, identity, the internet, profile pages: these are by no means wildly disparate subjects. Indeed, if Mr. Trecartin’s grasp of the conceptual map of his universe were not iron-clad, his videos would be unwatchable. Zany is as good a performative mode as any, but it is a poor organizational method. No: we the viewer are taken on a very carefully controlled path. Its iconography might be the nth degree of a highly individualized eccentricity, but it follows an internal logic. The one thing this is not, and must not be confused for, however, is a critical statement, and Mr. Trecartin is not a polemicist.

It is a mistake to ascribe politics, critical or otherwise, to Mr. Trecartin. If his characters flip in and out of identities (and baroque make-up jobs and dollar-store wigs and Salvation Army get-ups) with the ease of shuffling playing cards, zigging into another gender or zagging out of gender altogether, it is not because Mr. Trecartin is championing a kind of political consciousness. He is merely displaying his inner reality, where outer Reality (or, as Huck might have put it, “sivilization”) has no bearing. In the video-space he creates, there is no consequence to these characters’ queer transgressions; no one argues with them, no one questions them, no one even comments upon them. The people in his videos barely even talk to each other; they talk only to the camera and are subsequently reacted to. There is no outside world and so its conventions of time, space, narrative, and identity have no need to apply; Reality has been abandoned for the funhouse of Trecartin-land, where only the rule is the anarchic Wonderland logic of his internal universe.

The surest signal of this lack of polemic drive and political intent is the kind of dialogue that Mr. Trecartin, in the span of two feature videos and one short, has made utterly his own, to the extent that we find it hard to accurately describe. It is a goulash of slangs and affectations: campy gay, Valley-girl, southern belle (and southern redneck), urban black. It is a babble dialect consisting entirely of abbreviations, shorthands, in-jokes, punchlines, soundbytes and song lyrics, whose syntax is mannerism, and whose grammar is artifice. It even has registers, like Cantonese, only its registers are the gradient between the highest and lowest limits of a pitch controller. Every utterance of every character in Mr. Trecartin’s videos is in this mode. Seriousness, drama, import: these are, if not anathema, then certainly alien to Mr. Trecartin’s language. His dialogue clips along like a series of rapid-fire text messages; there is no time, but more importantly, there is no space for genuineness of affect, or meaning, or any kind. There is only a back-and-forth of one-liners, whose inanity slowly vanishes as it becomes familiar, and habitual.

The result of the anarchic logic and flip, mannered dialogue that are the principal components of Mr. Trecartin’s universe is that any meaning is delivered as if it were meaningless. Thus, because of this misfire, this gap between the spoken word and the substance it purports to communicate, there seems to be a yawning void that lurks behind the colour and the shrieking and the mania. But Mr. Trecartin is not a nihilist: one does not create these varied sets, establish these elaborate narratives that branch and twist and lurch, assemble a vast troupe of people, have them perform like an overloaded synapse, and edit the entire lunatic happening into an hour and forty-eight minute feature for nothing. Things of import do happen in I-Be Area, and in Trecartin-land. Concepts are, if not elucidated, then fenced around, poked at, pulled like taffy, and turned inside out. In short, politics, thematics, concepts: they are all subject to the same gravity as Mr. Trecartin’s dialogue, and the same physical laws as his characters – that is to say, none. They might be meaningful, but they are also infinitely malleable.

I-Be Area is not uniformly engaging, nor consistently good. Mr. Trecartin has yet to master the pacing of a feature-length video; there are parts that lag, parts that are flabby, parts that pedal as fast as they can but go nowhere. This is in some respect due to his performers. He himself is a captivating and energetic presence, but in a style this mannered and manic, one bleary routine can ruin a scene. Mr. Trecartin’s videos are ensemble pieces, after all, and thus, he is heavily dependent on his actors, and not all of them operate or captivate at the same level. There are those who can meet the demands of his dialogue and his situations, and there are those who simply can’t, who do not have the force of personality to play to the camera at a fevered pitch that is difficult to sustain. Rapid cuts and a twitchy finger on the pitch control can only compensate for so much. But this is only his second feature, and it already marks an evolutionary step beyond A Family Finds Entertainment; his universe is being further fleshed out, and one is beginning to get the hang of Trecartin-land. The subtleties of his dialogue are beginning to emerge. A Family Finds Entertainment was basically an elaboration of a simple set-up; I-Be Area does far more daring and complex things with narrative than its predecessor; a storyline that branches and re-branches and circles back on itself, lurching forward and backward in time. The reaction to Mr. Trecartin via A Family Finds Entertainment was fuelled by the shock of its discovery; here was something startling, something dazzling and effervescent that issued forth like the shrill screech of a banshee from a hitherto-unknown; here was some dizzy child of Jack Smith spewing out his frenzied choreographies out into the maw of the internet. But shock and novelty cannot sustain careers. If anything, I-Be Area is a profoundly encouraging sophomore move from Mr. Trecartin, for not only does it signal that his principles – the insistence on his sprawling cast of friends, on a dumpster-drag aesthetic – have thus far survived his art world translation from nowhere to epicentre; in its honeycombed conceptual structure, its narrative sprawl, it signals that his vision and his ambitions have expanded, and it signals that he has yet greater, yet more hectic things in store for us.

Canting Dictionary (1736)

Here's a scanned and indexed copy of a 1736 guide to thieves' cant.

Several Sublime Snapshots of a Tourist Attraction


Travel to the world's only indoor beach, where the sky is always blue, it's never too hot or cold, the water isn't filled with salt and pollution, and the surf is always perfect. What a blissful vacation!

Japan's Ocean Dome has its own flame-spitting volcano, crushed white marble "sand," and it also boasts the world's largest retractable roof, providing a permanently blue sky. Temperature, wind and humidity are closely controlled to provide an ultra-safe "sea-side" experience.

Every hour, the volcano erupts and the hi-tech wave machines start up, starting a few minutes of sanitised surfing.





Friday, July 30, 2010

Jean Baudrillard's The Spirit of Terrorism

Insofar as I know, still the most reaching analysis of the Terror against Terror climate of modern global politics.

Among the last things he wrote before his death, Jean Baudrillard's essay: The Spirit of Terrorism.

Susan Sontag's Camp Canon

These are a list of links to works, often literary or cinema, in their entirety when possible, which Sontag specifically cites as part of her imagined, informal pocket canon of camp in her famous essay Notes on Camp.

Attending to the subject of Camp with as alabaster reverence as a Sontag essay, then following up on all its associated literature, a gesture itself steeped in campiness.



Christopher Isherwood's - The World in the Evening (Excerpt on Camp)


Beerbohm, Max, Sir - Zuleika Dobson


. . . an example . . .


The Brown Derby Restaraunt




Oscar Wilde - Salome


Certain Turn-of-the-Century Postcards. Source 1: NYPL Digital Library. Source 2: Lu Lu's Vintage.





the old Flash Gordon comics

women's clothes of the twenties (feather boas, fringed and beaded dresses, etc.)


stag movies seen without lust


(as well, a great many rare and vintage stage movies can be seen here.)

Louis Feuillade (here Les Vampires)












Oscar Wilde -The Decay of Lying


The Operas of Richard Strauss.

42nd Street




Tallulah Bankhead in Lifeboat


Gaudi's buildings


Quotes from Charles de Gaulle

The Prodigal



The H-man


The Triumph of Maciste  . . . . 






Excruciations . . . . 
James, Henrey - The Wings of the Dove
                          The Awkward Age
                          The Europeans

Shaw, Bernard - Major Barbara

Oscar Wilde - Lady Windemere's Fan


Paul Valery - Monsieur Teste

Walter Pater - Marius the Epicurean

Huysmans' - À Rebours

 from the 1931 Illustrated Editions issue of A Rebours.


Frontispiece-Gay Paris
The Serpents
"He had tasted the sweets of the flesh with the appetite of a sick man"
"It had not been able to support the dazzling splendour imposed on it..."
"He possessed in accordance with this taste a marvellous collection of tropical plants"
"Come and have a drink"
The Image of the Pox
"It was Miss Urania, one of the most famous of the acrobats at the Cirque."
"Never had he experienced a more alluring relationship"
Stolen Kisses
"He returned to Fontenay, feeling all the physical exhaustion of a man restored to the domestic hearth..."
"When all was said and done, the future was the same for all"
Pagan Idyll
"He was alarmed at the doctor's silence"
"The physician, who was imbued with all the prejudices of a man of the world, only smiled..."


(this article is still, and perhaps forever, in progress, I am trying to find the best material possible, preferably at first hand, preferable legible to read on most monitors, to support references. If you know of better, please let me know)

Spire Christian Comics

I can think of no better place to begin trying to make sense of the roots of contemporary North American fundamentalism than these comics (mostly from the 70s but also early 80s). They are posted here as PDFs, courtesy of Spire Christian Comics. Campy to the extreme, the work is almost single-handedly that of one man, Christian comics pioneer Al Hartley.

Highlights include black men speaking in a clearly white man's, stilted jive. Born again Johnny Cash as a title character. Archie Andrews and the Gang are recast as Evangelical proselytizers. Meanwhile, Archie's traditional foils, the teachers, in a particularly dark recasting of the traditional Riverdale universe, make cameos as murderous Nazis and maniacal scientists.

Other striking elements include nauseously detailed art, an odd pairing of aesthetic psychedelia with spiritually protestant illumination, with an attitude expressly hostile to the counter culture and the pop pulp industries.

Hartley was a renegade, first from Playboy comics, then from Archie. His reason for departing from each job was purportedly due to spiritual crisis. The son of a prominent American evangelical politician, his biography is worth a glance.

These comic books are a treasure trove for discovering the psychological forces at play in a single American's self-appointed mission to convert a secular, consumerist, institutionally enlightened but broadly uneducated geist into an ahistorical, anti-intellectual and wholly intuitive doctrinaire conservatism.

Interestingly, some of these elements (anti-intellectualism and ahistoricity especially) are arguably already present (but latent) in comics before being re-appropriated by Hartley as virtues.

Creepy, yet unintentionally hilarious on almost every page.

Humanism as Magical Summons

If one wishes to take a glimpse of western secular humanism's magical/theological origins, this document should be required reading. A translation of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola's Oration on the Dignity of Man.

There is a heredity line which connects the invocation of a value such as Crimes against Humanity or an institution like the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and this document, an express plea to the angels, made at a time when it is literal fact that Muslims, Jews and Christians share the same God.

Heretical, tortuously syncretic, preposterously optimistic, nevertheless, this is an inspired and bamboozling text in which Renaissance Humanism gradually, urbanely, quixotically takes the symbolic upper hand in the struggle with religion and myth.

Punch and Judy 1832 Book

This is a scan of a 1832 Punch and Judy script.

Predating vaudeville, Punch and Judy--with its giddy violence, its cast of stock characters, its bits and jokes and gags, its irredeemable misogyny, its clowning, its anticipation of nonsense and absurdity and mumbling as aesthetic pleasures--is also the phantom haunting the format and internal dynamics of every television sitcom. It does it first. It does it better. There is also a lurking horror within which I doubt is just a product of its times, that "we know better" now.  Its urge to offend is almost theological in scale, undoubtedly compulsive.

If the dynamics at base in Punch and Judy's relationship (Man and Woman as the comedic Straight Man vs. Clown duo, Auguste vs. Joey framework, manipulator vs. victim sketch, a level of implied and/or actual violence perpetually close to lighting up the sparkers) are the spiritual ancestor of The Honeymooners, The Honeymooners goes on to be the spiritual ancestor of all other situation comedies. If one wanted to make the case that there is a level of self-critique going on in regards to Punch's sociopathic hatred of women, it would be that Men (and here the concept Men is expressly, specifically gendered Male) are monsters.

The irredeemable tone and frequency of Punch's violent outbursts makes this very modern-seeming text curiously resistant to domestication, to colonization into a moral text or a sentimental one.

More scripts.

Myths over Miami

I'm pretty sure what stories have grown up around the spirits and the gods have very little to do with literature.

This article, Myths over Miami by Lynda Edwards, is the closest example I have found to what a literal update of mythology and religion would look like in our culture, between cracks of pale light on the shadowy side of the post-millennium. These childish tales, from brightly chewed up wads of numerous indigenous belief systems indiscreetly and promiscuously borrowed from, mashed together with a child's happy lack of inhibition, combined with a sophisticated take on capitalism as the murder or suicide (murder-suicide) of god are by turns breathtaking, heartbreaking and harrowing.

There is no god but the explanation is theological. And extremely sad. The belief system is also living. Poly-genesis is, here, the result of a secret compact between naive belief systems, folk culture, the heroic (demonic) culture of gangbanging, a repressive system of immigration, a punitive system of homeless shelters and the anti-master dialectic of Judeo-Christianity. These are exactly the sort of stories that achieve genesis by successions of children whispering in rooms (children whispering in rooms being the origins of all magic). Different from various fundamentalisms, the universe these myths describe is recognizably ours, if wretched. Evil is assigned a symbolism of strictly literal and materialistic objects. Transcendence, overcoming is deferred.

The woman who collected these stories is a poet.

c/f How a 1997 New Times Feature on Homeless Kids' Folklore Exploded the Internet

Followers