A rushed Monday, forced upon me like a new tax.
I pulled a number of books on photography from my shelves, and ordered several more. I have been sitting here at my kitchen table flipping through them. It never occurred to me, that so many of the photographers that I admire are women. Francesca Woodman, Sally Mann, and Diane Arbus being among my browsing favorites. Most all the photo-books that I have are by the fairer sort.
So much for the male gaze. Lately, I greatly prefer the fem view. Less leering, more scrutiny. Or, is it discerning?
A recent reader here misunderstood what I meant in yesterday's post by the purchasing of a 10" albino cock on a line of credit. I meant that it was 10" wide. It is only about an inch and sometimes an inch and one-half long, and that's after it's been mashed around in a sweaty hand frenzy for a bit. Best not to get those albino fever juices stirring.
That's a phrase that you just don't hear enough in polite conversation: hand job.
Well anyway, she was quite curious about it, could hardly sit still at her day job, etc.
Speaking of things… I was all by myself early this morning at the gym listening to my new favorite album. In a race to the death with the Nordic Track torture device. A familiar older woman arrived without me noticing her. When I stepped off the machine she asked what was playing. Apologetically, I turned it down a little bit. She said she didn't mind the volume, but wanted to know what it was. I explained that it's by an artist named Flying Lotus, that it is a form of new experimental jazz. No sooner had I spoke that last word from the previous sentence did she respond:
Oh jazz, no wonder it's so bad.