I won’t say that I was proud of this pun, but I’m not wholly ashamed of it, either.
"At first, the bodies were outside; then they were in our televisions; then they were on the covers of our magazines, sharing space with our biggest and most golden celebrities – who occasionally also died, and were photographed - and then, in time, they were on our computer monitors, online.
Soon, we found that we barely had to look for them at all. The bodies, by then, were inside our houses, at all times. They were on the screens of our telephones, or else they were on our workplace VDUs, or on a late-night segment of the news – a war-zone broadcast. They had found their way in through the tubes - insidious, silent, and bloated – and like poltergeists, they had set up residence in our peripheral vision, forever.
“I guess it was the big plane crash picture,” Andy Warhol said of the start of his Death and Disaster series. “The front page of a newspaper: 129 DIE [IN JET]. I realized that everything I was doing must have been about death. It was Christmas – a holiday – and every time you turned on the radio they said something like: ‘Four million are going to die.’ That started it.”
Eventually, we stopped ever really seeing them, but we still felt unaccountably afraid: more than anything, we were uncertain as to whether the bodies were multiplying, or whether they were simply moving closer.”
- I wrote about 600 words for Dazed & Confused about the Google Maps body on an overnight deadline; of those 600, about the first 250 were alright, I guess.
“SOMEONE WANTS TO CUT A HOLE IN YOU AND FUCK YOU THROUGH IT, BUDDY.
Imagine – momentarily – this [Holzer] artwork hanging in the Spartan beachside condo of the Jolie-Pitts (or within, perhaps, their seventy million dollar mansion in the South of France, which inTouch – with a certain, wry restraint – describes as ‘palatial,’ and which, one assumes, has been purchased largely via the profits from Jolie’s desirability; Pitt’s, too, though this trivia is irrelevant here). Imagine that it has been acquired as some superselfaware gesture of acknowledgement – a nod to the constant hum of crass objectification and speculation and empty, distant arousal which has built the foundations of this very life, this media-ordained ascension into the paradise of the haute elite – and that it exists in the manner of a holy relic, or a flagellant’s switch. There is no rest in Shangri La, and no tinting on its limousine windows.”
I have a 3,000 word essay which may or may not be about Angelina Jolie’s breasts - or sometime lack thereof - in E.R.O.S Journal.