Last shameless self-promotion for awhile: Configurable greeking.

We can only assume it’s the Chardonnay as it’s been scientifically determined that the site in question, hereafter referred to as The White Elephant, is neither excellent nor worthwhile. It’s self-evident. As Ezra Pound himself remarked in the Ouija board séance we boys sneaked off to conduct during my bar mitzvah: you’ll never work again in this town, kid.

Therefore I formally demand an apology not just because of the drunken misunderestimation but in spite of it. Consider this a warning of the flea circus litigation to come if a munificently funded one is not forthcoming. Don’t fuck around—we’ve seen your writers’ club treasury books. Maybe this will teach you to hold your booze.

Your little fortress on Monster Island Principality won’t get you out of Dutch this time. You can tell your Mothra I said so.

Your favorite writer,

Vivian Five VI

You remember that some vestige of me which the whiskey didn’t solve [Ed: that’s a science term for dissolve, kiddies] was stung when I was told I was good at technical work because I’m not an artist. But I think perhaps I can be. And maybe, someday, God willing, even as good a poet as Deborah Poe.

I remember fondly looking through the Janson and Gardner one day and discovering Christo’s heroic pink polypropylene surrounding 11 islands in the Biscayne Bay. I knew that I wasn’t exited by chromatic implications alone.

When I saw he was at it again with his fabulous The Gates in Central Park, Night Town, I knew it was the siren song, beckoning me to come. Both as a salute and a striving upwards of my own, I undertake this homage to the drape and my art hero with two backs, Christo and Jeanne-Claude.

A massive five part installation

Like The Gates, my work will involve having participants move into the site, and then out, and then back in, and out again. The repeated motion through the site beneath the multi-colored drapes is meant to stimulate an explosive emotional, even physical, response.

Putting up the works should be easy. They’ve been erected quickly and with rock-solid stability in all trials.

Once upright, the platform is draped in the first of the five colors. Then it is installed in the site. We anticipate this will require some force and might be dangerous so this phase of the project will probably be closed to the public.

After the first installation, the next four should go smoother. The order shall be red, yellow, purple, green, and blue. We had doubts about doing blue last but it seemed to make sense. If blue presents a problem we’re prepared to go with another color like champagne or gold.

Though we don’t yet have the necessary permissions, etc, we’ve been working hard on the drapes themselves. It’s been slow going as they are quite large.

The installation itself is proving to be the most difficult part, as it seems with so many modern art projects. We’re having trouble getting the permits—there’s been a lot of back and forth—but we’re really looking forward to getting in and getting the process rolling.

Once we get some traction we should be able to plow ahead and keep it in motion for as long as it takes to fill the requirements. We’ve had mounting support ever since we announced we were in this for the long haul. Any interested parties are welcome to volunteer to hop on the train.

There’s no telling how long the project will stay up but we’re hoping the enthusiasm we have to repay Christo for everything he’s done for art will help to break some records.

N,

The other day came up with a first entry in a booklet of etiquette for the 21st c:

A tattoo on one’s twat does not make one hot.

Thing is, you could have then knocked down ten more without hardly trying. By the time we poured my flask out into our super-sized Cokes at Mickey-D’s up the street we would have had 1/4 of another majenta put to bed; and stolen another telephone and coon-skin cap. Tinkle.

I don’t remember what we did with the Miracle Beer. And that’s fucked up.

Klein came out of the building just in time to see a kid leaning into his car through the broken driver’s window five cars down. The hood was open. The alarm had been clipped.

“Hey!” Klein yelled at the kid. The boy was Hispanic and short. All tattoos and shoulders in his white wife-beater.

The kid barely looked up at Klein, said, “Fuck off, honkey.”

“Wha–?” said Klein, no longer angry. “An oldy but a goody, I guess. Worth the paper work,” he said to himself. He stepped back and leaned against the wall with his arms folded. He watched the kid’s progress with getting the stereo out of the dash.

“Hey kid, I think that’s a cop car,” called Klein.

“You don’t wanna get hurt, mind your business, fucking joto.” The kid had the stereo half out of the dash.

“I’m saying, I’ll bet there’s a gun under the seat.”

The kid still didn’t look up but fished his hand around under the seat. He extracted himself from the broken window with a black, full size Para-Ordnance .45 in one hand, the stereo in the other.

“Fuck yeah,” said the kid, “Good call, ese.” He raised the gun in a friendly salute.

Klein’s regular carry, a Heckler and Koch Mark 23, jumped out and coughed twice, crackless subsonic rounds, fast as that. Both shots hit the kid in the center of his chest. So close together the ME would be unaware it was two shots until digging out the flattened round that didn’t make it all the way through.

His eyes open, arms dropping limp, the boy fell forward to the street. He hit perfectly flat and bounced forward a few inches. The back of his bleach white tank top a shiny contrast, black with blood in the noon sun.

“Yeah,” said Klein, scanning the street around him, “Pretty sure that’s a cop car.”

Stepping out of character briefly.

Deadwood–though it’s not for everyone—is the best television show that is on today and it is quite likely the best show that has ever been on or will be for another 10 or 15 years. More people need to know so that it continues to run. Another Western, Gunsmoke, ran for 20 years. Should Deadwood be so lucky.

There is nothing that equals it for sexuality, violence, human decadence, immorality, and blue dialog. That’s obviously not why it’s so magnificent. To understand why, we have to look at an “also ran,” The Sopranos.

The Sopranos is also sexual, violent, and all too human. Its honesty makes it a compelling show. The problem with it is there is not one character on the show who isn’t a piece of shit. While the writers make some really horrible characters fairly sympathetic, they wouldn’t be in real life. You’d hate Tony Soprano if he were your neighbor and hope they found a way to give him the needle because he’s a revolting, petty, useless buffoon who is not even a particularly adept crime lord. You can’t even respect his evil.

Deadwood has the strongest, smartest, most complicated, most charismatic bad guy to make the scene since JR Ewing went down under Kristen Shepard’s hot lead: Al Swearengen. Ian McShane offers some of the best acting ever put before any audience bringing Swearengen to life. He took a Golden Globe for it.

It’s historical fiction based on a real place filled and real people—the real things they were saying and doing. Whores galore. Blatant racism. Opium addicts. Murdering claim jumpers. Celebrities and shit-heels. The peerless combination of sets, costumes, dialog, and acting that make it completely palpable.

One of the opening scenes was the town doctor passing a stick through the bullet hole that traversed a man’s skull. The man wasn’t dead yet. The doctor was just curious as to how he was still alive with daylight passing through his frontal lobe.

But that’s still not why it’s the best. It is why it’s not for everyone though. This is not acceptable television for children.

The reason why it is so much better than the rest is that it has a moral center. It has a good guy. This became passé somewhere in the post-1950s world. It’s not irrelevant though. Anyone who looks objectively at the American political scene, the rampant corporate corruption in the world, or the atrocities in the Middle East for one second knows that when western culture made the assumption that good guys were no longer relevant, it signed its own death warrant.

If you’re an adult, watch this show. The 2nd season starts Sunday night, 6 March 2005. Don’t let this show disappear. Don’t even give them a reason to consider cutting its budget.

update

03/14/2005 I forgot one more reason it’s better than everything else. It doesn’t explain itself to you like you’re a fucking child. Complex or historical issues are thrown in constantly without a word of explanation or supporting illustration. I much prefer a show that might sometimes make me feel stupid to one that treats like I am.

Quick refresher: these are all questions from visitors recorded in the query logs for this site. We take the time to answer them as a service to our loyal readers.

How to look white.

Two simple steps to success:

1. Shop for your new suit at Ross.
2. Break off a broom handle in your ass.

how to do 70wpm

Have Tilly Martinez, in her see-through blouses and black Rayon painted-on pants, as your typing teacher. Got me to 90wpm.

How to destroy yourself without suicide.

Watch “Super Size Me” for a guide to the fast track.

How to fight the Devil.

Guess again, pipsqueak. The Bible is pretty clear that only God can do anything about Old Scratch. I’m sure God will be just as prompt in addressing your prayers for help in this matter as He is in all others.

How to find a whore.

Two guys asked me this in person one night in Taos. My two friends had to physically stop me from giving them directions up Quesnel to you-know-whose place.

How to find an ex boyfriend.

Have you looked out the window when you’re getting out of the shower?

How to find the lowest common denominator.

Attend any meeting, rally, or group event. Look for the person who does the most talking.

how to be a religious actor

You’ll be a natural, kid! You’re already fantastic at pretending things that can’t be seen are real.

How to do a rim job.

It’s not wise to do it yourself. Try Maaco or Midas. Or any city park’s public restroom after dark.

How to get over a Pisces bastard.

Pull your Gemini head out of your ass, quit whining, and have a meaningless fling with a hot Aries.

how to write a letter on how wonderful a place is

Do not talk with locals. Stay drunk or high throughout the letter.

How to plan an Australian vacation for dummies.

For dummies? Okay. Put these on the to-do list: taipan, blue ring, salties, and funnel web spiders.

How to right your suicide note.

Turn it so the writing is facing up.

How to trust an addict.

From two or three time zones away is a good start.

How to write a letter when angry.

You’re not smart enough to do it. You never have been. Even when you were younger, your mom and I would talk about it when you weren’t around. We all did. If you had any guts you’d have made something out of yourself by now. Remember those dreams you had when you were a teenager? How are they coming along so far?

Now, just let it flow naturally: daily@sedition.com.

ann rand is a cunt

Maybe so but English was her 4th language and she spoke and spelled better than you do, fucksteaks.

Ayn Rand cocksucker.

And the various men her life were never a bit sorry. Shame about that frigid-ass baggage of yours.

ayn rand is a bitch

And bitch is still what small men call women who go further than they can in life.

an untitled letter - ayn rand

She didn’t title any of these.

ayn rand crazy

So I let Crazy take a spin. Then I let Crazy settle in. Kicked off my shoes. Shut reason out. He said, “First let’s just unzip your religion down.”

ayn rand fourth novel

You’re probably counting wrong. Atlas Shrugged is the fourth and final. There’s also, We the Living (which has a funny side story about Italians, movies, and Germans for another time), The Fountainhead, and Anthem (which is not really a novel but a novella so in that sense there is no fourth novel).

dictionary ayn rand

Don’t mind if I do: Ayn Rand defined.

fuck ayn rand

I could be wrong but I don’t believe necrophilia is legal in New York state.

love and ayn rand

She had a very interesting view of love: part sacred act of life-affirming worship, part Nina Hartley chained to the radiator.

Ayn Rand primer.

I found a little Beaujolais always turned the conversation away from epistemology.

Sung to the tune of “I’m the Map,” from Dora the Explorer.

I apologize… sort of. We always liked Dora but the Pokémon cum Star-Cashier, I mean Catcher, merchandising tie-in blitz that began this season is really just wrong.

And speaking of going to Hell. If you’re writing television for children and you find yourself saying, We could add missions to “get stuff” and a new character, to support a whole line of toys, clothes, and candy in the stores by Thanksgiving, stop. Go home, eat a bottle of Tylenol PM with a Vodka chaser, and put a trash bag over your head.