Rock Gorgons*
Oct. 31st, 2009 07:39 am1.
Springsteen. Toupee? Or hair cut, ironically, hipster style, to look like one?
2.
Never been to a dinner party where all the women wore turtlenecks.
Except J, the old painter, who wore one of those long-sleeved illusion t shirts printed with full-body Japanese style tattoos. With a respectable black sweater over.
We had a nice long convo about how much she hates her old colleague, Judy Chicago, who set up a sweat shop of unpaid craft workers to produce the embroideries for The Dinner Party.** She'd ask J out to dinner and then stick her -- feminists were all about Dutch treat, remember? -- with the check. I said, She is a grifter? J nearly jumped out of her skin and said, totally.
That was the deep impression I got from my long revisit to The Dinner Party discussed here at agonizing length a while back. J said I should publish my pussy on a platter critique.
Me, I wore a black chiffon tunic with black sequins. Not to change the subject.
3.
For some reason I watched the BBC documentary on Heidi Fleiss last night.
There's a whole lot of driving around LA, telling the viewer how hard it is to get the story, what you had to do to bla bla bla. I always thought this was, in newspaper stories, a.) incredibly bad form and b.) boring. So, documentaries are about making people see you, the auteur, sweat? How bush league is that?
Second, I fell asleep in the middle of it, with the laptop on my chest, because the Hollywood madam, who you'd think would have some kind of interesting mojo, had none. No power. No juice. No it. Nor did her mentor, the previous Hollywood madam, Alex. Fleiss' mother was the only really attractive woman in the movie, very sexy, very strange, really turned on by either the camera or her interlocutor, a pillhead, I'd say, who raised her six children on the slightly skanky Summerhill principles.
I don't spend that much time talking to prostitutes of the sex-selling kind, but I was struck by their [obviously drugged-out] dessicated and, quite frankly, unshaggable look.
Maybe the expensive ones -- and the producer paid everybody to speak to him, including police chief/ho Darryl Gates, also totally bad form and forbidden in the newspaper world I worked in -- wouldn't speak to them.
*An immortal phrase we owe to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
villagecharm.
**The men who made the armature, the plates, and the tapestry banners were all paid.
http://www.maureenmullarkey.com/essays/dinnerparty.html
Springsteen. Toupee? Or hair cut, ironically, hipster style, to look like one?
2.
Never been to a dinner party where all the women wore turtlenecks.
Except J, the old painter, who wore one of those long-sleeved illusion t shirts printed with full-body Japanese style tattoos. With a respectable black sweater over.
We had a nice long convo about how much she hates her old colleague, Judy Chicago, who set up a sweat shop of unpaid craft workers to produce the embroideries for The Dinner Party.** She'd ask J out to dinner and then stick her -- feminists were all about Dutch treat, remember? -- with the check. I said, She is a grifter? J nearly jumped out of her skin and said, totally.
That was the deep impression I got from my long revisit to The Dinner Party discussed here at agonizing length a while back. J said I should publish my pussy on a platter critique.
Me, I wore a black chiffon tunic with black sequins. Not to change the subject.
3.
For some reason I watched the BBC documentary on Heidi Fleiss last night.
There's a whole lot of driving around LA, telling the viewer how hard it is to get the story, what you had to do to bla bla bla. I always thought this was, in newspaper stories, a.) incredibly bad form and b.) boring. So, documentaries are about making people see you, the auteur, sweat? How bush league is that?
Second, I fell asleep in the middle of it, with the laptop on my chest, because the Hollywood madam, who you'd think would have some kind of interesting mojo, had none. No power. No juice. No it. Nor did her mentor, the previous Hollywood madam, Alex. Fleiss' mother was the only really attractive woman in the movie, very sexy, very strange, really turned on by either the camera or her interlocutor, a pillhead, I'd say, who raised her six children on the slightly skanky Summerhill principles.
I don't spend that much time talking to prostitutes of the sex-selling kind, but I was struck by their [obviously drugged-out] dessicated and, quite frankly, unshaggable look.
Maybe the expensive ones -- and the producer paid everybody to speak to him, including police chief/ho Darryl Gates, also totally bad form and forbidden in the newspaper world I worked in -- wouldn't speak to them.
*An immortal phrase we owe to
villagecharm.**The men who made the armature, the plates, and the tapestry banners were all paid.
http://www.maureenmullarkey.com/essays/dinnerparty.html
