“That “spankable,” as nearly everyone knew, referred to Sedgwick’s confession, in the essay “A Poem is being Written,” about her having actually enjoyed such treatment. She laughed, too, at my poem. Then so did the crowd. And then we all laughed at the talk. Of course, not everyone elsewhere enjoyed these shenanigans. Donald Morton, a gay Marxist, called such comedy—derisively—”ludic poststructuralism.” Lee Siegel, a non-gay near-Marxist, called such confessional work “a reveal-all-hurts-and-wounds style of writing.” I myself, though, quoting the play Plenty (1978) by David Hare, have called—in fact still call—both modes combined: “psychiatric cabaret.”—Sentimental Journey | n+1
It was outside this very Taco Bell in South Bend, IN that I and the other 5 hippies on Notre Dame’s campus would gather on Friday afternoons and protest Taco Bell on behalf of the Coalition of Immokalee Workers. At the time TB was supporing some pretty horrible shit being done to the farm laborers supplying them with produce, like, o you know, virtual enslavement, but now they are on the up and up, so you know what, I support these people boning in this Taco Bell Bathroom. Let freedom ring.
I am all of forty minutes away from South Bend (Valparaiso U), and have never heard of this. Whoa.
Codybones came home with a new haircut. Early ’90s flo-ride dust-top, race stripes that converge at a skunktail, supremely Euro in that Slav dirty blond way. Having sex with him will be like having sex with an exchange student. Hail, hail.
Because this day is so fine and good, here is picture of something fine and good:
In the fall of 2008, a team of archivists working in the bowels of the Christopher Center unearthed a rare copy of a presumably abandoned late 1940s film print of La Broche Noire, a minor work, atypically pastiche, probably of Jean Pierre Melville’s critical studies. The reel was badly damaged, and as all rights have entered public domain, an American team in the winter and spring set about restoring what could be restored, redubbing dialogue and translating inter-titles. Some scenes were altogether absent, or only too ruined to decipher. Limited bars of the original film score remained but required the ensigns of other gifted musicians to draw out its missing measures. History has lost the feature’s full script, but reasonable conclusions have been made in fortifying a complete story. Please enjoy.
Cody has his 3rd round of Teach for America tomorrow. I made him a nutrition/energy kit comprised of:
Cinnamon and sugar bagel, no cream cheese (the mess).
A card with a cat on it reading French books about cats.
Also, to relax him this evening, I bought him the vampire movie “Let the Right One In,” as he’s burned through (somewhat reluctantly) the first season of “True Blood.” (I do not mean to make any comparison at all between the two works, aside from their both having vampires.)
I’ve never been in a serious relationship, or really any romance. I never got to do this sort of thing before an important track meet in high school—not even for my imaginary trackstar boyfriend competing at regionals (kidding—imaginary boyfriend wrestled, was from Centerville, had a bulldog tattoo I made fun of, and wore red undies). Now that I’m 23, about to go into graduate studies, and going steady, I can make up these kits. And hide them on the driver seat of his car (with cat card on steering wheel where he’s sure to see it!) while he sleeps. And gloat about how awesome I am all night to myself. Even if he hates all the foodstuffs it’s the effort, folks. I think he’ll at least like the little cheeses?