No Sleep But For The Nightmares

"Was it a dream? Was it the dream of a somnambulist, a dream within a dream, and hence more real than a real dream, since it cannot be measured against waking, since it cannot be measured by consciousness, because it is a dream from which one awakens into another dream? Or was it a god-like dream, a dream of time and eternity? A dream without illusions and doubts, a dream with its own languages and senses, a dream of both soul and body, a dream of consciousness and corporality both, a dream with clear-cut boundaries, with its own language and sound, a dream that is palpable, that can be explored with taste, smell, and hearing, a dream stronger than waking, a dream such as only the dead perhaps can dream, a dream that cannot be denied by a blade nicking the chin, for blood flows at once, and everything one does is but a proof of reality and waking; the skin bleeds in the dream as does the heart, the body rejoices in the dream as does the soul, there are no miracles in the dream other than life; the only way out of the dream is to awaken into death." -- Danilo Kiš, The Encyclopedia of the Dead

Yeah, But What If It Was Just A Shitty Piece?

Re this: Spin it how you want--hey, page views is groceries when you work for Gawker Media--but the fact of the matter is that this was just a shitty piece. So hyperbolic as to be suspected to be fake by those who should know, it was a too long by several thousand words feature that consisted of a pair of first-person slices of Wonderbread for a lot of anonymous sloppy meat interviews. In the end, the author balked. She didn't deliver the premise upon which her story was based. Running with the big dogs, she fell into the ditches. Fine. Whatever. You're a crappy reporter. The fact of the matter is that wasn't her fault--she is what she is. The blame lies with her editor, who should have killed the piece when Pilot pulled the pussy she'd promised to put on the line in the name of her, um, story. Of course, Radar knew the story would sell as is, which, as one can see by this online trail, it is, sort of, I guess. Note to editors: Next time, try an expert, instead of a hack.

The Art of Anthony Ventura

Artist Anthony Ventura is a friend of mine, and he dropped me a note recently to let me know that some of his amazing prints are now available for purchase online for the first time. I first met Anth several years ago, online, and for a time we worked on a project together. It was called The Fetish Alphabet. I'd create flash fictions about strange fetishes--for example, the jaw-droppingly awesome panel you see here was for a short entitled "A Is for Anthropophagy"--and he'd create the art. It was a wonderful thing. Now, he's made available a limited edition series of a select number of his works, including some from the fetish series, through Sexy Art Gallery in London. "The majority of images for sale have never been available for purchase, and I am only doing a very limited run of each image," Anth writes. "When they're gone, they're gone." Kentucky Fried Woman is one of my favorites. Other standouts include the wonderfully freaky B Is for Bukkake, the King Kong-esque O Is for Octopus, and the super-cool Major H. You can also visit Anth's website or check out his blog. And support an artist today, because underneath the clothes, we're all mutants.