Hello, shoulder devil

*Yesterday, I went to visit the chiropractor. The first thing he said to me was, "So, I guess you're voting for Obama." I looked at him dubiously, as if to say, "There's an alternative?" He said, "What's the appeal?" What ensued was a small skirmish in which he asked me why he should pay more taxes to support people who don't work as hard as he does (You rub asses for a living, dude. And you're subsidied by bloated health insurance companies. When you work three jobs and still barely break $40K a year, then you can come talk to me about how you work harder than people who make less money than you.) and I said, "Consider it punishment for voting this last joker into office. Twice."

Perhaps we don't have the most orthodox patient/doctor relationship. He's used the f-word in my presence before. *blush* 'Course, so have I, in his. But sometimes it hurts.

Then the appointment began in earnest. He said, "I'm mad at you now. I'm gonna make it really hurt this time." In my last couple sessions, I think, at last, he's found the exact locale of my hip injury. He dug his thumb deep into the most inflamed nook of my hip socket. "I'll stop of you say 'Nobama.' I'll press harder if you don't," he said. I said, "Press harder." The gasping and sighing that followed (mine) might lead the casual observer to consider that we are better friends that we, ahem, are.

All this is just to say that, if he really wanted to change my long-ago-decided vote, the poor man was totally taking the wrong tactic. The sort of pain that he exacts upon me is intense, for sure. But it's the good pain. It's the kind of pain that loosens the blood flow or sends sparks out the top of my spine. And as I've told him a hundred times, I can take it. More than that, though, I like it. And he really doesn't believe me when I tell him that. That what he does makes all my nerve endings perk to attention.

In other words, I'm no kinda sadist. It's debatable as to whether the foil to the sadist is the masochist or the saint-- is it the person who enjoys receiving pain or is it the person who's never felt even the slightest schadenfreude? Regardless, sadism really is not one of my vices. Too prone to tripping into the sinkhole of empathy am I. Also, too deserving of the whip-sting am I. But, that's another story.

I bring up my chiropractor's slightly unusual voting coercion tactics because, in my travels today, I found this interesting ethics paper about sadistic satisfaction. It's basic premise is an inquiry into whether an argument can be made that would assert that there is moral value in enjoying the pain of others. Ultimately, however, agreeing with its author is neither here nor there. For a scholarly ethics paper, this thing it truly an entertaining read. Watching this guy spiral in an out of his own logic is something of a joy unto itself.

More than that, though, his underlying argument is based on the assumption that there is intrinsic value in pleasure, in specific regard to our well-being. Regardless of the source of the pleasure. That's an exciting idea. Is that a dangerous idea?

Read the article. It's a fun jumping jack. Pleasure, in other words, waiting to be had.

*The story related in the opening paragraphs of this post is true. Mostly. His portion of the dialogue is transcribed almost exactly. Mine is edited to make me sound cleverer and more on-the-spot than I am in real life.

pussy, through a mirror aslant

Nobuyoshi Araki, via Beautiful and depraved

I have a poster of this Araki photograph tacked to the side of a bookcase at home. When my mom was visiting not too long ago, she cast a sidelong glance at the poster and said, "OK, Marjorie. What is this? Is that somebody's anus?"

Putting aside the fact that my mother asking me if I decorate my house with pictures of assholes makes my chest tight with mirth, I do truly love this image. It's so simple, this decontextualizing. All he did was turn a mouth on end and it became the Everyorifice. And by extension, I imagine, the Everywoman.

In the post from which I reaped the image over on Beautiful and Depraved, there's another Araki photo too:



Here's what Kasia, author of said blog, has to say about the both of them:

These two photographs by Araki are the most erotic pussy shots I've seen in a long time. It didn't sink in, at first glance, that I was looking at pussy, but a little tremor went through me and then I smiled.

She sees pussies in visual metaphors of burst watermelons and rosebud lips. My mother sees buttpucker. See? The Everyorifice. Kasia, however, goes on to talk about how it's this "oblique gaze"-- this askance allusion to sex-- that is the real eroticism.

I agree with her up to a point. They are beautiful photographs. And hot. And sly.

However, there's also something pretty erotically compelling about less metaphoric visual depictions of sex. And those can hardly be discounted.

My own erotic fantasies are hopelessly biological. Technical, even. I think my several years spent kissing, exclusively, girls seem to have created a situation in which I may never get over the sheer novelty of being penetrated. In deplorably unkinky fashion. And just that? That strangeness of seeing one body part disappear into another? It's usually enough for me. And sometimes, pretty porn and layered sexual associations just get in the way of this fascination that just doesn't wear thin -- not for me. There you have it: my enthrallment with the mechanics of plain ol' hetero intercourse.

Fuck, that's dull.

And it's certainly not to say that I don't love a metaphor. It occurred to me, as I've been buying little things here and there to finish out my new living space, that I reflexively buy vases. Not expensive ones, really... because I have quite a lot of them. But I do love a good vessel. I favor squat round ones that whittle into necks and widen back out again. Teapots, too.

How silly do I feel that I am so drawn to objects that are hollowed out in the middle? That must speak to some deep self-involvement, no?

When I was an undergrad art major, my senior project involved hundreds of little wire sculptures. I carried needle-nose pliers and a spool of wire in my purse with me everywhere I went. On the train, during lectures, watching TV, I'd model these little bottles and tubes and pots, resembling, in some primitive fashion, those beautifully designed containers for cosmetics-- other vessels that I covet assiduously.

Why on earth is it just now, 10 years later, occurring to me that I was doing nothing with that project if I wasn't making womb after womb after womb?

taxcutfacts.com

Visit here.

According to the tax cut calculator, I'll be receiving $1300 worth of tax cuts under Obama's plan. Under McCain's? Yeah, goose egg. The television ads for this calculator advertises that the average citizen making under $250G a year will receive three times the tax breaks under Obama than they would under McCain. Seeing that I personally wouldn't see one red cent under McCain, how can I not, on selfish motivation alone, like my odds under the other guy a little better?

Of course, I bought a home this year and already know I qualify for a $5000 tax credit as a first-time home-buyer in the District of Columbia.

All I can say is that, if Obama wins 9 days from today, next April is looking mighty fine to me.

Don't vote for this guy. He looks stupid.

So, I'm not one to let my voterly decisions be colored by the inanities of campaign pot shots.

But sometimes... those campaign pot shots just make me laugh. Even the ones in sight-gag format.




Thanks to Sean for aiming this one in my general direction.

Not entirely blogworthy. But still!

Oh, my god! I just had to share.

I keep one credit card separate-- just for gasoline purchases only. Today, I received my first bill on said card since I've moved into the district.

Would you believe it's for only $22??

I bought $22 worth of gas between August 25 and September 29. Compare that to the $125 per month I was spending when I was driving back and forth from Virginia every day. Just try to tell me I'm not doing my part to shrink my carbon footprint.

Also, I'm not spending $180 a month to park my car in the garage at my office building in Dupont Circle. And I must be getting so skinny as it's 12 blocks to the non-sketchy Metro station. A distance I walk twice a day.

Hell yeah!

Eat that, suburban gas gluttons!

I may have a shitty internet connection. My dryer might vent directly into my living room, creating a lovely sauna effect. My brand new dishwasher might leave crusty stuff on my dishes. And my window panes might slide down so far that I have trouble latching them (I asked my dad why they do that. He goes, " 'Cuz they're cheap!" Fantastic.). But living in this city is awesome!

Remember when Vicky's was nasty?

Right. I don't really either.

Here's the thing about Victoria's Secret's marketing. It's full of these non-human, glossy Amazons with lovely buoyant tits and enviably tousled, hot-rollered hair and cellulite-free, airbrushy, CGI muscle tone. Those girls are sanitized right out of their humanity. And even through the most gossamer garments, they have neither nipples nor pubic hair. They represent something very strange-- an idealized, antiseptic sexuality that, ultimately, I don't find particularly sexy. I don't care how low they droop their eyelids and how many little pink tongue-tips peek out from artfully parted lips.

The thing about Vicky's catalogs and advertising is that it's all notably lacking the stink of coitus.

Too neat. Too dry. Too hairless. Too pristine.

So what of this?



via Le Chagrin, via distjecta

Does anyone have any recollection of this ad campaign? This "Fall on Your Knees" collection? Clearly, it was out in 2005, as designated by the image's text. But, I mean, I've been receiving roughly 35 Vicky's catalogs per week since long before I even had enough flesh to load into one of their underwired, cantilevered, lycra-satin contraptions. And yet, I'd not seen any photos of this nature from this very mainstream, very commercial retail outlet until today.

But, my goodness, it's an interesting photo. Look at this thing. Look at the photo quality. It's grainy. Usually, Vicky's photos are shot in dreamy softfocus, or they're sharp, daylit and frank. This one's not even lit well enough to show off the garment to full effect. Her tits overflow the bra just a little too much for it to be flattering. The elastic of the model's thong digs into her hip, creating that little splush of skin and muscle (such as pertains to the actual texture and viscosity of the flesh on even the skinniest of human animals). That sort of thing would have been carved off with a digital scalpel, so as to create the perfect (non-existent) smooth silhouette of the female form, were this a normal Victoria's Secret marketing image. And there's that hand holding that spotlight or whatever other piece of photographic equipment it is over there on the left. And yet it's clearly intended to be the final version of the shot-- the text has already been laid over the image. Interesting.

And of course, I can't ignore the content. Fall on your knees. Interesting.

When was the last time you saw an implication of fellatio that went beyond a fingertip placed coyly against a tooth in your weekly bushel of Vicky's catalogs? Right. I never have either.

This woman's head is cropped out of the shot. She has her hands on the naked thighs of some anonymous porny-looking male body. She kneels before him. Carefully cropped just outside of the shot, her mouth is aligned with his cock. Remarkable.

It's probably no wonder I've never seen this campaign before. And it's no wonder why, though I certainly own my fair share of regularly replenished dainty underpinnings bearing this very brand name, I've never heard of the "Fall on Your Knees" collection. I remember, a couple years ago, the local news in Nashville reporting on outraged mall shoppers who objected to the too-lifelike mannequins in the Vicky's windows. "Lifelike," of course, was a euphemism for "having nipples." Honestly. It was hilarious. It's not like these mannequins had little plastic labia majora oozing out the elastic of their lacy little drawers. Their molded breasts merely came to peaks. And it weirded people right the hell on out.

But this shot? Not only does it seem more real-- more reflective of real bodies and real sex acts-- but it's got all the semiotics of porny blowjobs. Complete with distinct self-consciousness with regard to presence of the camera (see spotlight in the shot).


It's just too dirty for prime time, isn't it? All she needs is a pearl necklace and she'd blow the Vicky's fembot image right out of the water.

I kinda wish she did have one.

Now THAT would be hot.

Now THAT'S my hometown!

Jon's been playing roving reporter via blog, text messages, gchat and the occasional cellphone call all day, god bless 'im! Seeing as I'm feeling particularly far from home on this night when all the politics worth talking about are going on in the city of my youth, rather than the city of my present, I am terribly grateful for his surrogate presence in the crowd.

And the best news? He tells me the crowds are dominated (dominated!) by Obama supporters. The crowds are dominated by Obama supporters in the city that is home to Belle Meade, the part of town with the most, per capita, Republican party contributors in the country. In one of the wealthiest cities in the south. In the south!

Honestly, it's about damn time the rest of the country takes note Nashville's outgrown its redneck reputation, isn't it? The city's always been more than country music and mayors named "Boner" but tonight's debate in particular, with all those happy, excited, blue-sign-toting Obama supporters, seems like a bright, sparkly moment in its history.

Dare I venture forth such with such unadulterated optimism? I'd say so.

For $64,000, beauty or desire?

He too knows she is a work of art, the lucky rare woman who is a work of art, classical art, beauty in its classical form, but alive, alive, and the aesthetic response to beauty alive is what? Desire.

— Philip Roth, The Dying Animal

via steamvent, via Nightmare Brunette


Curious line of inquiry regarding the relationship between beauty and desire in specifically female cognitive machinations to be found here. Don't know if I buy it wholesale, but I see truth in it. Moreso, probably, than in the quote above.