Oh my Goddess, I am so bored.
I am trying to appreciate this, because all too soon, I will not have the time to stay at home and watch episodes of three Star Trek series, back to back.
For a break to the monotony, I’ve been walking around the lake, going a little further each day. It’s been nice, but would be better if I had more books to read. I miss my books. I really do.
I am also having the most vivid dreams. I’ve been dreaming of YMK almost every single night the last few days. It’s always sweet, but has had some weird moments. We are clearly connected in some way, and my subconscious is telling me very real things.
I haven’t spoken to him in several days now, because of the brokenness situation. I hope he isn’t worrying, but I think if I go until next week without money, he will begin to worry.
I am inlove with Borat’s Television Programe.
Sacha Baron Cohen is one funny mother-fucker. Borat is a work of genius, and it’s just a gas to watch him taking the piss out of redneck Americans. We’ve noticed he doesn’t really do big city urbanites, it’s always somewhere in the still racist south of the United States that he manages to find these idiots. The politician bits are hilarious as well.
Although I love Borat, his alter ego Bruno is wonderful as well. The interview with the ‘Gay Converter’ Christian minister, nearly had be on the floor. He asks him if it’s forbidden to eat brunch, the Gay Converter says as long as it’s Christians meeting in Christian brotherhood and there’s no one there to tempt anyone into sin, it’s allowed. Bruno asks him if it’s forbidden (nish nish) to be ‘fabulous’, the Gay Converter is confused. It’s just too fucking rich.
I also happened to watch Ali G’s In Da House, and I must say Sacha Cohen is very clever. Him and ‘Me Julie’.
For a long time, my only experience with him was the little clips in Madonna’s “Music” (music video); “Is you Madonna?” My initiation with Borat was like watching a car accident. What is it about cameras that mesmerises stupid people? The scene in Arizona where he’s in the bar, singing “Throw the Jew down the well/Save my country”, these dumbfucks were there singing along and clapping with gusto. Do they know that the Jews didn’t kill ‘Christ’? I guess not. Cohen, an observant Jew from what I have read, must have, somewhere in himself been a little taken aback. Although, I think he has a master plan. I think he’s exposing these people for what they are, it’s just so funny! They never see his ass coming.
I started reading “The Sexual Life Of Catherine M.”, authored by French journalist, Catherine Millet.
Although the book claims to be one of the most powerful books written by a woman about sex, I am unimpressed. I find the book un-erotic as best. She is describing in graphic detail, her sexual misadventures from her teenaged years, however it’s the graphic detail I have issue with.
She tells her story in this clinical, dispassionate way, describing her wide open coochie, mouth and ass and their penchant to take any penis that she can have, without question or discrimination.
Although she is supposedly empowered by these experiences, I am halfway through the book and she has neither described her own orgasm, nor even mentioned one.
I question whether her sexual journey has really been one of self-discovery, and empowerment or really one of some kind of deep personal psychological schism in her brain.
I am slogging through until the end of it, but I must repeat that I am deeply unimpressed.
She describes men urinating on her in such a flippant way, I found myself quite repulsed, although her techniques for oral sex and handjobs, left me making a few mental notes.
Millet, art critic and editor of Art Press, has become a literary sensation in France with the publication of this graphic memoir of some 30 years of her sexual adventures. Millet’s “gift for observation” and her “solid superego” are as useful in her career as an art critic as they are in her erotic explorations: her ability to concentrate and observe puts her inside “other people’s skins.” Comparisons have been made to The Story Of O, but Millet is more in the tradition of Jean Genet and Violette Leduc, whose descriptions of their sexual encounters were not meant to titillate so much as to explore the meaning of the erotic. Millet’s “quest for the sexual grail” takes her to group orgies, gang bangs in French parks and other serial sex escapades. Before long, the sex begins to seem utterly routine, in spite of the elaborate staging. Millet and her readers are then free to consider more closely some questions she raises: how oral sex compares to vaginal intercourse; why sex in disgusting circumstances is not about “self-abasement,” but raising oneself “above all prejudice”; or why solitary sex is more pleasurable for her than sex with a partner. Toward the end of this curiously graceful memoir, Millet comes close to explaining her need for all this sex: only by sloughing off the “mechanical body” she’d been born with could she experience actual sexual pleasure. While women readers will find much of interest, male readers may have to overcome a certain emperor’s new clothes-type discomfort, as they realize that Millet may know more about the male body than they do.