Of glitches and fails

By now, news of "Amazon Fail" has hit (some of) the mainstream media and should therefore be common knowledge -- particularly if you're enjoying life amongst the Twitterati. But just in case you haven't heard, let me 'splain. Or rather, let me allow some of the other internet scribes to do the explaining.

Here's a link to the situation, as it was when everyone woke up yesterday morning. And here's a link to a bunch of links containing updates. And here's the #amazonfail Twitter stream. Basically, what's going on is that Amazon had stripped a number of titles of their sales rankings. That means that when you search an author, if one of the books being targeted is among his or her oeuvre, that book will be relegated to the bottom of his or her listing, rather than the top where the "most popular" books pop up first. Now, guess which books are being targeted? Well, it seems that some puritanical Cro Magnon has decided that any book containing "adult" material shouldn't show up at the top of Amazon searches. The real kicker, however, is how the concept of "adult" is being defined by Amazon. In particular, any queer-themed literature has been banished to the deepest recesses of the Amazon search engine. Some actual erotica has been swept up in the downdraft, but mostly, this very handy method of censorship seems to be hand-picking all the good literature with some erotic content and leaving some laughably bad drek in it's slug-slimy trail.

By way of example, debauchette puts it right succinctly:

What constitutes adult content? Apparently classics, like Lady Chatterley’s Lover, as well as non-”adult” texts like Valenti’s Full Frontal Feminism. Yet Surrender the Booty 3: The Search for More Arse has been left untouched. Maybe they’re just weeding out the good stuff to keep the bar nice and low.

Nice, huh?

Now, there's conflicting information coming out of Amazon itself. Some of the reports are saying that they were, indeed, trying to keep adult materials--by their definition of "adult"-- off the main page. But now they're calling the stripping of the sales rankings a "glitch." Way to unconvincingly backpedal, Amazon. If it's just a "glitch," I might consider forgiving you. Except...

This isn't the first time the dickcheeses over at Amazon have instituted some deeply problematic policy. About a year ago, just in time to coincide with National Poetry Month, Amazon told all the little micro-presses that, if they wanted to sell their books through Amazon, they had to use Amazon's own print-on-demand service. Now, most micro-presses in this country publish poetry-- the stuff of which I read a lot, but not too many other people do. So, I buy a lot of poetry from small presses off of Amazon because, well, it's Amazon. It's a great one-stop shop that prevents me from having to ferret around all over the internet trying to find the work of poets of my own generation. So, yeah, my main Visa card actually gives me rewards in the form of Amazon gift certificates. I am, literally, a card-carrying Amazon devotee. However, the problem with Amazon forcing micro-presses to use their POD service is trifold: a) Amazon's affiliate is the most expensive POD printer on the market, thus making it cost-prohibitive for many (most) cash-strapped, shoe-string-budgeted micro-presses to sell their wares on Amazon, b) Amazon's POD printer produces books of far lower quality than many other cheaper, smaller POD printers, and c) so many people (like me) prefer to get all their small-press-published books from one place that many micro-presses can't afford not to sell their books on Amazon. So, the people behind these little presses, who bring important work to us out of the goodness of their hearts-- knowing full well they'll spend more money on than they'll make through their literary capitalist ventures--are essentially caught with Amazon's fat, bulbous thumbs up their asses. That ain't cool, Amazon. Particularly when you didn't ask permission first.

So, last year, when Amazon enacted this POD policy, the small community of small-press publishers raised a tiny, squeaky amount of internet hell. They called for a boycott that clearly did not cause so much as a mosquito bite on the sweaty skin of this particular Goliath. But now, with this Amazon sales-rank-stripping fiasco, a whole lot more folks are up in arms. The good news is that the angry folks have some organizations who'll probably be willing back up a real boycott. The queer community is nothing if not organized these days-- certainly much moreso than the kinkster community and the sexy-lit nerd community (Ok, we don't actually have a community. It's just us and our flashlights and our vibrators under the covers, alone on Saturday evenings in apartments where there's no room for sofas amidst the bookshelves.).

But ultimately, I don't think a boycott's really going to hurt Amazon too much. They sell too many things besides books at this point. They're simply too big and too good at what they do for large factions of their customer base to be able to resist the the siren call of books discounted 32% and free shipping for purchases over $25. No, boycotting won't get 'em where it hurts.

The only thing that I can imagine have an wounding effect is getting the attention of that other monolith, The Mainstream Media. We're well on our way-- the LA times has been reporting on this mess ever since the first #amazonfail hashtag appeared on Twitter. In the meantime, I'm doing my part by answering anti-censorship-minded blogger-targeted calls-to-arms like this one, and contributing to the googlebomb "Amazon Rank."

I strongly encourage any of my readers who have internet presences of any variety (a Facebook page works as well as anything, guys!) who don't think queer lit should hang its head in shame and hide in corners, who don't think people should be prevented from reading the smut of their choice-- high- or low-brow, and who think censorship is one of the greatest hobgoblins to emerge from the putrid cauldron human civilization, to follow suit and link to the Amazon Rank googlebombing campaign, just like I have.

Please. Amazon does not want bad press. A negative news story on your morning news show of choice will create a de facto boycott that will trump whatever organized queertopia could possibly establish, I promise.

Go get your googlebomb on. I mean it, now. Shoo!

UPDATE: For good measure, I'm gonna go ahead and link the pretty dumb things post on the same topic. Chelsea G., as always, says some wise and witty things, and her post is also a good source of links for more information. Bon appetite!.

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?

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.