On.

On.

Stay safe, New York.

Stay safe, New York.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Pour L’Egyptienne
(from “Six Epigraphes Antiques,” Claude Debussy)
performed by Ensemble Musical de Paris

(I did some damage to my theme. I know.)

Scouting for what the building that housed Anais Nin’s printing press in the 1940’s may have looked like then. This is one block away.

Scouting for what the building that housed Anais Nin’s printing press in the 1940’s may have looked like then. This is one block away.

(via)

(via)

Stripperwrecks: on questionable naked aesthetics

thestripperhatesyou & Kat have turned around this topic quite a bit, but I want to boil it down to the essential meme-able portion. So. I propose an investigation into Stripperwrecks: the most questionable aesthetic choices of naked dancing for money (and related erotic industries).

The subject for this round: GET ME AWAY FROM HERE I’M DYING, or, the most questionable choices of stripper soundtracks. We can blame outdated jukeboxes, or iTunes shuffle, or dj’s with boners and axes to grind, but the common thread here is: we actually took our clothes off, to this.

I’m starting. Fall 2004. San Francisco. The Lusty Lady. A skinny beardo boy is jacking off in the booth in front of me when this comes on. Of course. I’m test-driving a fancy blonde hairpiece passed on by a co-worker who wore it once as part of her Nelson costume for Halloween. It’s enormous, bump-it-y high and makes my eyes look even bigger and my body obscenely, little-girl-ishly, out of proportion.

Luna, who’s all mall-gothed out for the stage show though she never dresses like that usually, in a torn fishnet shirt made from pantyhose and Hot Topic boots in stinky PVC, is working the window next to me, and beardo keeps stealing glances at her. I take this as a challenge, shimmy even nearer to the glass so he can’t crane his barely-hairy neck to take in the girl who, next to blonde Barbie me, looks way more like she brings herself off at the end of the night, alone in her bed under a shrine made from old NME covers, naked but for a well-worn cardigan and her own tears.

He’s crestfallen at the possibility that he’s going to have an orgasm in front of such an obviously uncool girl, unaware that I’m paid to prop up a certain common denominator of male fantasy, and today, not just his. And neither is Luna perfect, but given the choices, she’s less humiliating to his carefully-put-on sensibilities.

So “Ohhhh,” I say, blocking his view and flipping my “hair” towards him, mouthing along, just for fun. “Yeah, this is good. So you have the ‘Legal Man’ 7 inch at home, too?”

(via fauxlaroids)

(via fauxlaroids)

Reading pornography on my lunch break. (TicKL magazine, tickl-magazine.com)

Reading pornography on my lunch break. (TicKL magazine, tickl-magazine.com)