My sincerest apologies for this breach in comms. But I think we can agree that the above photo explains everything.
Strange Flesh mentioned in an interesting article at:
No, we did not pay them to upload that photo.
That said, having one’s book enter into a discussion about “torture porn” ah…. hurts.
An article I’m supposed to be writing sent me back to reacquaint myself with the ineffable delights of David Levy’s Love and Sex with Robots. Wherein, Strangers, you will find gems like this:
“Clockwork vibrators, for example, tended to run down rather quickly, and often just at the moment when the woman needed them most, while a stem-driven vibrator invented in the United States in 1869 was inconvenient for doctors to use because they repeatedly had to shovel coal into its boiler.”
As my pub date approaches, and Strange Flesh bursts forth to be fruitful and multiply, it feels appropriate to spend a moment to commemorate the thousands of sentences that perished in its at times gruesome fight for survival. Here then, I exhume a few valiant snippets to honor the dead:
I can’t help stopping to listen, but it appears that the proceedings have been waylaid by a debate about whether the league’s mandate covers exclusively poetry written in PERL or whether it also includes using PERL to write poetry in other languages, such as Old Elvish. Chairs were set up for a much more ambitious turnout than they received.
– – –
“So the guy was no Van Gogh right. Who checks himself out with untold millions in the bank?”
“That was murder dude. And I never saw Billy hanging around with any psychopathic coke whore.”
– – –
“Given the utter sterility of the stage in the nineties, I elected to pursue my interests in interactive automata.”
Ave brave phrases! Your sacrifice was not in vain.
A high level Stranger recently sent me an autographed copy of this marvelous book. Whipping through it, makes me wonder whether Mr. Gibson is particularly adept at pushing my mental buttons, or whether he installed the panels to being with.
Hard to otherwise explain the unaccountable delight at turning a page to see the chapter title: Will We Have Computer Chips in Our Heads? [Jan 19, 2000]. Apparently a question frequently asked of him…
His answer boils down to “No” :
“It has to do with a certain archaic distinction we still tend to make, a distinction between computing and “the world.” Between, if you like, the virtual and the real.
I very much doubt that our grandchildren will understand the distinction between that which is a computer and that which isn’t.”
But I doubt they’ll lose the distinction between “the world” and “themselves.” That one’s refrigerator might one day recite The Inferno, doesn’t much signify to me. I want to know detailed biographies for every extra in The Big Lebowski in the same way I know that I love Chardonnay. “Be they glass or goo” I still want the Wet Interface I was promised.
In the interest of promulgating the Peculiar, we are now catering to compulsive prosopagnians at:
Will begin twinned to your beloved homeland here, but might we not expect the vicissitudes of life to eStrange the two until, ultimately they are forced to destroy each other?
So rather than writing my daily post, prescribed now for the run up to SF’s launch, I find myself pacing around my apartment contemplating certain physical aspects of Gnomes. Strangers of the 5th Circle and higher will understand why. The rest of you may have to wait a few months.
The delights of gnome anatomy notwithstanding, the pacing is clearly aversive behavior. Having attended a kind of art school, I’ve certainly witnessed my share of sensitive types wrestling with the vicissitudes of self-promotion. My internal reaction was always a good natured eye roll behind which I guess was the sentiment, “Get over yourself. It’s part of the job, and not really onerous compared to the demands of other types of work.”
So imagine the perverse delight I’m now taking in my own struggles in the same regard. Which makes me wonder: is feeling schadenfreude toward oneself a sign of incipient mental illness?
Fear not, Strangers, it’s surely nothing a glass of chardonnay won’t take care of.