you know, for a man who regularly publishes such well-versed grooming campaigns for the menfolk, this is a huge surprise. who knew that lance arthur as succeptible to the “let’s-stuff-a-spoon-down-rainbow-brite’s-throat” school of color theory? not me.
i’m thinking
1) lance has discovered pucci
2) it’s a joke
3) lance is totally missing WIRED circa 1995
4) lance was geting way down with tina one night and just couldn’t sleep.
or any combination thereof. i dunno. i’ll be over here on this side of the bar with my other friends for a while, you know what i mean?
this blog is turning into a dreary announcements page lately, isn’t it? in this installment, i (again) gleefully announce gawker media’s (again) pissing all over all that bloggers which hold holy by working with nike. and you can bet that i (again) designed it.
this is is summed up by some guy at gothamist who seems to think we’re rolling in the cash, whoring ourselves to some unnamed character—oh, wait, he’s called “The Man”—and then he does a one-eighty by giving props to a friend of his who’s profiled in the piece. isn’t that funny and conflicted? isn’t it just so like a blogger to question those making money by blogging, then celebrating those being blogged by those making money with blogging? and isn’t it just so blogger-like to completely ignore that conflict and trot along, la-la, in one’s own little world with truckloads of self-righteousness to spare? i think it is. you keep that faith, honey. i’ll buy your next drink, you need your singles for cab fare.
anyway. typical props go out to all my girls at gawker. special props go to my homosexual lover for puking out gorgeous CSS in something retarded like three days.
oh, and a special welcome to remy stern, the newest gawker girl. i kinda get the feeling he’s freaked out and might never work with us again, but that’s okay as long as we have a great time now. right remy? right.
upon seeing this image,
i have decided that i totally want jake gyllenhaal to butt-fuck me, like, a lot. also: i am joining the aclu, whatever that means, if it means he will keep butt-fucking me. especially in that shirt.
just kidding. but you know that’s the reaction the aclu wanted.
when i was very young, AIDS was more commonly known as GRID, which stands for Gay Related Immune Difficiency. it took a long time for the medical community to commit to the fact that AIDS was not a gay disease. in the time that it took for this to happen, a lot of gay people died, mostly men, both from the effects of the disease and from the effects of violence from folks claiming that the less gay people there were in the world, the less death there would be.
this has since been proven patently false. AIDS is the worst epidemic to have ever befallen the human race, and that claim is fueled exclusively by number of deaths, regardless of sexuality. most of those deaths are of heterosexual victims.
before AIDS was declared a national problem, it simply didn’t exist. the reason it was never considered a problem was because the then-president, ronald reagan, refused to acknowledge anything was happening to his country’s population. amazing as it sounds, the truth was that the ruler of a country was allowing his own people to become ill and die painful, disfiguring deaths because he simply didn’t agree with their way fo life—even though that way of life was never forbidden by any documentation put forth on a national level. thousands died before he buckled and acknowledged our problem was any sort of problem at all.
yesterday, reagan died of alzheimer’s, which is poetically similar to AIDS in the amount of treatment available and pain experienced by the victim.
ronald reagan was personally responsible for a very real fear i felt in my early teen years. when i first realized i was gay, i assumed that i would die very young. while every heterosexual teenager in america was wondering if they’d get caught by their parents, i was wondering how long before i would die. no child should have to contemplate his own death. reagan made me consider my own before i was fifteen years old. i didn’t know what AIDS was. all i knew was that i was a homosexual. that meant i was going to die.
i celebrate the death of ronald reagan. i wish upon his family the pain felt by the families of AIDS victims whose deaths could have been prevented with one simple speech on his part. i wish upon reagan’s soul the same amount of pain felt by every person allowed to die before reagan acknowledged thier death was possibly unneccesary.
in case you’re tired of seeing me get roasted alive for referring to ex-president reagan as a jackass (because, you know i can’t get enough of hypocrisy and by the way: i’ll see you people in hell too, so lighten up), you can entertain yourselves with the notions of what might never happen to bush because, “oh, that treaty? the one which asserts that humans must treat humans like humans? doesn’t bind to us at all.” really not a huge surprise considering he backed out of the international war crimes tribunal not long ago, and probably for the same reason.
one of the following photographs represents you in a postion completely unconducive to my productivity. you be the judge.
versus
thank you, conscript zoe. you may now return to latrine duty.
nokia has revealed their plans to redesign the n-gage, which was charitably referred to as an “e-taco.” the n-gage was all party on the front, business on the side. you actually had to turn the damn thing sideways to talk into it, which spawned some of the funniest geek photography i’ve ever seen. well, maybe since oolong (cross thyself, may the bunny rest in peace).
what is it about people putting really big crap by their heads and listening that makes me giggle and clap? i do not know. but i coo like a two year old who’s just gone poopie and feels much better. and so may you.
are you a cracker?
are you such a translucent, pasty, undead creature that, like me, you burst into flames like nosferatu after five minutes in the sun? yes? you are? well, cracker, this is your lucky day. neutrogena has put out the sunblock i’ve been waiting for basically all my life. it’s oil-free, you can’t feel it on your skin. it smells like a big bunch of nothing, so you don’t end up smelling like some spring break slut’s mixed drink, nor do you smell like you’re out getting some savage tan. you’re just surviving.
this stuff rocks. i tested it on a ten-mile bike ride this morning, sweating like a pig. no dirt sticking to me, no clogged pores, no fruit cocktail smell…and no sunburn.
unsurprisingly, the design cognoscenti manages to make a chick in black patent leather with a whip and a psychotic identity conflict sound really fucking dull.
oh, look: another opportunity to bitch about a president. find my work, i dare you.
several ways of using technology and money to make your tiny penis seem much, much larger (because i have nothing to talk about until my next site launches):
boom-box, “kick me” sign not included
artful big-dickedness: you cannot touch my hot hard postmodern prowess
i found this person tonight while looking for a portrait of henry darger. refreshing to see someone unafraid to show their own intelligence in this town. i don’t know what it is about chicago. in my own experience, this is a town where folks are politey collective in their thinking and generally defer to the whole. thanks for standing out.
somewhere deep within j.crew, an underpaid photo editor’s intern is laughing his tiny pert ass off. herewith:
and, in context: voiçi. and, if you must know, i was there looking for a rolled neck sweater. you sicko.
picture this:
you’re from the south. you haven’t seen your family for a long time. your mom emails and says she’s “sending a card.” everyone knows what that means, right?
awwww, yeah.
contents: one handmade basket, two jars homemade strawberry jam, two jars homemade rhubarb and ginger jam, one bag homemade oatmeal cookies awaiting proper liquids and bakin’, one bag light rising biscuit mix, one jar homemade jar of chocolate gravy. rock. the fuck. on.
