I tie linen serviettes around my neck, a streamer, all colors: the plummed point of an artichoke leaf, Cinderella pumpkin orange, gold and cream like an ear of corn.
It was just four years before he accidentally dispatched himself from planet Earth with a suicidally reckless cocktail of Valium and vodka that Thomas Kinkade celebrated the release of his Hallmark Channel-esque biopic, Thomas Kinkade’s Christmas Cottage.
Women suffer twice as hard here. In France it’s highly common, even acceptable, to loathe mature women. You certainly don’t want to hire them.
Don’t read this essay. Print it. Seal it. Bury it in the cold ground for a hundred years. Leave it for somebody else to read a hundred years from now.
When I was growing up, my grandfather always wore an American flag pin on his red baseball cap.
Jang is pure California.
A novel that tells the truth... Isn’t that what people look for in literature?
The canon of food cinema feels rigid and inflexible, as if in dire need of a rewrite. Our greatest food films may be in hiding.
This is not another essay about Kathy Acker. It’s about the body and language, reps and repetition—about writing’s relationship to the refrain, what is recited, the reps of language and the rhythms of temporality, its tempos and time signatures, its rush.
“I once fucked Jesse Helms and it was the worst sex I’ve ever had.” Perry Farrell muttered that line into the microphone on stage midway through a show at the University of North Carolina’s Memorial Hall on Tuesday, November 13, 1990.