At long last it's crashed. I'm not really into astrology, but sweet!

Wave farewell to your old self, Sagittarius. Maybe blow a few kisses as well. But don't linger too long. Refuse to get bogged down in ambiguous rituals filled with interminable goodbyes and meticulous inventories of the past. It's time to go! Off with you! You've got urgent appointments with the unsettling but fascinating future, and it's best to part ways with habits that have dulled your initiative and comforts that have numbed your courage. You're ready for more change than you think you're capable of.

Hehe. Happy birthday to me!

Soothing rhythms stoke the fire in my belly. I'm going to get on my daughter-of-an-antiquarian-art-book-dealer high-horse for a second and agree with this article. I love modern art and was so excited for my first trip to MoMA after my modern art history class last winter. But what I encountered was not the celebration of art that I'd anticipated but an elitist, overpriced, overcrowded mess. Yes, the new MoMA is a beautiful space with an astounding collection, and, yes, I spent most of my time there going "Wow!" But my main problems with MoMA resembled my complaints about the Centre Pompidou. MoMA failed to display most of its permanent collection. If you have Duchamp's "The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelor's Even," you display it, damnit!

Saltz mentions the MoMA's hegemonic treatment of Modern Art, and this stance's failure to challenge the viewer. He juxtaposes this banal approach with the more inventive Tate Modern, and considering that the Tate Modern is one of my favorite museums, he's absolutely right. The Tate chooses themes--e.g. love and death, the body, or advertising as art--and organizes its collection around them. Consequently, you find Rodin and Dali in the same gallery, something completely unheard of in the stale environment of MoMA.

So I have to say, Saltz makes some excellent observations. Plus, points for mentioning Foucault's Penopticon.

I pieced into the girl I long to be. I've never been one to look in fashion magazines and compare myself to all the airbrushed models. I've certainly had many an I-hate-my-body moment, but never because of a magazine spread.

And then I saw that new Victoria's Secret commercial for the push-up bra without padding or whatever newfangled contraption promises flat-chested women a generous C, and Oh. My. God. I am not a bad looking woman, if I do say so myself, but Gisele Bundchen? HOT. If I buy the matching bra and panty set and break into a mansion and strip off my black gown and start strutting around, can I look like her? Because if so, sign me the fuck up! I want Gisele Bundchen's body in an unlesbian, body dysmorphia sort of way. This may make me a bad feminist, but fuck all you haters ragging on me and my new supermodel body-hottness.

This is probably a good indication that I've been watching too much television. GRE words, anyone?

You make it so good I don't want to leave. Bad news, boys. Oral sex has been linked to mouth cancer. "You should avoid having oral sex," says the researcher. Looks like you're all going to have to find a new favorite sexual activity. Maybe fucking will finally come back into vogue.

Too late, you say. Profound thought of the day: It's amazing how much time you can waste if you really put your mind to it.

Second profound thought of the day: Men are really, really, ridiculously strange.

Esoteric complaint of the day: It annoys me that I cannot read minds. (I do not mean this in the BtVS "Earshot" way because I like my sanity, thank you very much).

Creepy link of the day: Scooter Libby is hard-core fucked up.

It may rain or it may shine. Art humor! courtesy of Computer Blue.



Glen Baxter is so funny.

I'm wishing on a star. My step-mother sent this to me, and it's a doozy:

THE SHORTEST FAIRY TALE


Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy "Will you marry me?" The guy said, "NO!"

And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, drank martinis, always had a clean house, never had to cook, had sex with whomever she pleased and farted whenever she wanted.

THE END

Evil! Although, I think it dulls the "empowerment" aspect of the story that she's rejected and thus dies a spinster, albeit a happy spinster. It would be better for the story's message if she'd rejected him.

Like a whole bucket of stars.



Perhaps, but not broken.

Art for art's sake. Tomorrow, I'm meeting up with the Blue Man at Storm King to see some ridiculously awesome art. It's like Nature + Metal + Big = Whoa. In case you were worried that I was actually cultured and had rejected my pedestrian antics, fret not. I am still quite juvenile:

Me: I keep pictuing Storm King as some sort of skeleton with a bunch of heads. Like a cross between an Orch, Skeletor, and the mouse king from the Nutcracker. Oh my god, how many points do I get for writing that sentence?!
Ike: Hmm, at least 8 points. Probably a few more, it's hard to calculate all the fractional points in there. I think they called the Storm King mountain nearby Storm King because of stormy weather around it, but I'm not sure exactly.
Me: I like mine better
Ike: Yeah, but it's kinda hard to have lovely abstract sculptures on a fall day on some kind of giant undead skeleton god-emperor
Me: Makes it more interesting
Ike: 'twould indeed

You other brothers can't deny. As much as women may be obsessed with why men love breasts, male sex columnists are obsessed with writing about why men love breasts. There is not a year that goes by without some "Cosmo" or "Marie Clare" rag getting some "Average Joe" to write about why men love boobs. The answer is always the same: "Uh, we don't have them. And they feel really cool. And they're purrrrrty."

Nevertheless, the Lippy Imp has decided to weigh in on the subject. He says pretty much the same thing as every other "Average Joe," except with a really funny analogy about a penis located in the center of a man's chest. Or something.

You know what? Who cares why men love breasts?! Breasts are cool. Most of the time, I don't even notice mine are there, but I'm used to them. Frankly, I don't really care if a guy is breast-obsessed as long as he treats mine with respect and not like they're some novelty toy.

If women weren't educated to be so shy and repressed when it comes to our sexuality, the first time we saw a real, live penis, we'd probably poke and prod it and do similar things that uncouth adolescent boys do to boobs. Breasts are also more open to public consumption than penises are. Go into any art museum, and I guarantee you that the ratio of bare breast to bare dick is like a bajillion to one.

So whatever. Straight men love breasts. Fine. Do we really need to talk about it all day?

I know what boys like. This is an oldie, but still a goldie. Can I get a coy teehee!

Shake up your bones. I had two really good dreams today in between alarm clock bleats. I'm sick, which always affects the vividness of my dreams. Both dreams revolved around weddings, which is weird because I've never been one of those girls who dreams about her wedding.

The first centered around my aunt and uncle's wedding (not their actual wedding, which was completely different from my dream). There were a ton of people in a synagogue, laughing and singing, and there were little kids running all over the place. And the rabbi walked around blessing people before he reached the beema to bless the bride and groom. He blessed me, and I felt safe. My family and I were very nonchalant about the whole spectacle, laughing and making jokes. I sat in between my aunt and uncle before they went to the beema, and then started crying because the whole scene was so touching and made me so happy.

The second dream was very "Fiddler on the Roof" (yes, I did just write that). It was the day before my wedding, and I snuck downstairs to see my husband-to-be, who was sleeping in a make-shift bed by the fireplace (where does my subconscious come up with this stuff?). We'd never been together before, so sneaking into bed with him was a big deal. And he wasn't wearing a shirt, which was even more scandalous. He asked to touch my hair, and I put my head on his bare chest. In a way, I think this is one of the sexiest dreams I've ever had. I've suppressed most of my sensuality in favor of sexuality because sexuality is unfeeling. So to dream about something as pure as beauty and intimacy is like an awakening.

Probably most of this post warrants a Saddam Hussein-style "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Turn to the left. Not surprisingly, I am bored at work. I read through all the blogs and TWoP recaps I can stomach, so I decided to hit the "Next Blog" arrow you see at the top right corner of this blog. This allows you to troll through complete stranger's blogs. Yay for voyeurism. I stumbled upon this, and I gotta say...ick. Sister needs to chill out. To me, dedicating a blog to your obsession with your fat ass is a bad sign.