just another suicide note

Ophelia

The suicide note of a young Victorian-era prostitute of New York, in its entirety:

Please bury me in my silk dress and bracelets

A simple request, yet what do you think are the chances that she was, in fact, buried in her silk dress and bracelets? The extant record (and this suicide note is the only proof we have that she ever existed) remains silent on the point. Those who sell love are often profoundly alone, never more than in their moment of need.

No explanations, no good-byes, no bequests. Regrets? We don’t know. Perhaps she regretted life itself, and all the rest was simply more of the same.

Did she even know who would find the note? Did she trust that person, was it someone she felt was a friend, or did she simply hope, in her last, most perfectly hopeless moments, that an unknown someone would find and honour the last request of an anonymous whore who probably looked so, so pretty in her silk dress and bracelets?

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p0p#1 sez u b svd lol!

Digital confessional

Let no man say the Catholic Church doesn’t move with the times.

Oh, it doesn’t generally change policies any faster than a glacier changes direction, but their marketing department is already all over Second Life, reaching out to those with no particular First Life (so no change there), and now from the Guardian (of the faithful?) comes news that the Vatican, heretofor known as rather a Slow Adopter (at least since that whole Savonarola brou-ha-ha) has gone all bleeding edge and announced that the C-list blogger known as “the Pope” will be sending daily text messages to the faithful.

No word on whether the service provider will be Virgin.

 

Again.

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Ingmar Bergman, RIP

Waiting for Bengt Ekarot

And now it can be told: I’ve never seen any of his films.

Sorry.

But I have seen this: Whispers of the Wolf, presented by SCTV on Monster Chiller Horror Theatre. It’s more or less the same, right?

Igmar Bergman’s Whispers of the Wolf

Two sisters are depressed and have difficulty dealing with reality.

Desk Clerk – Levy; Sisters – O’Hara, Martin; Midget – extra

Count Floyd‘s a bit stunned, but gamely tries to convince us it was scary. He suspects Prickley booked Bergman.

Okay, I also saw Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. And…that other Bill and Ted movie


Grim Reaper: A hit. You have sunk my battleship!
Dead Bill, Dead Ted: Excellent! Yes!
Dead Ted: I totally knew he would put it in the J’s, dude!
Dead Bill: Good thinking, Ted.
Grim Reaper: You must play me again.
Dead Bill: WHAT?
Grim Reaper: Um, best two out of three.
Dead Bill, Dead Ted: No way!
Grim Reaper: Yes way.


Death wins. Death always wins.

See, you thought I didn’t know my Bergman!

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Howl…for Lindsay Lohan

Cross-posted from the Shebeen Club.

Got this off Defamer. Yes, I can see Alan Ginsberg updating Howl just for the occasion. Lindsay Lohan is at least as consistently wasted as William S. Burroughs, although she is better-looking than he ever was and has not yet resorted to dealing. Clock ticking on that one, though.

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overheard at the Kingston…

Scarjo

“and she’s what? Thirty? And she’s a total has-been…” said the comfortably-upholstered blonde not that far from thirty herself, to her expensively-if-more-selectively-padded circle of friends. Once you get implants, you pretty much have to shop at Bebe because nothing else fits.

“Yes, she is. Yes, she is,” agreed the brunette chorus. “But she really used to have the body.”

“I know,” said one. “But who’d have thought it would be him who’d turn out to be the smart one? The stable one? The better one?”

“She’s so overweight now. She’ just…have you seen her? She’s trying for a comeback, but she’s just…over. She can’t do work. It’s sad, really. Ever since the baby…He’s got it together, he really does. What a shock.”

And I’m sitting there, staring into my Martini and occasionally pretending to read my book, but the fact is that trying to figure out who they’re talking about is far more compelling than reading about Michel Mauvais, his accurst offspring Charles Le Sorcier, and their various intrigues in the deserted and time-haunted Castle of No Name.

And I’m thinking Affleck? Nah! Because the fact is that not only can it not be said that Jennifer Garner has let herself go, but it must be said that Ben has had it going on for quite some time and being visibly relatively together shouldn’t be cause for shock among a table of pub-going strangers, even after Gigli, or so ya’d think.

But the blonde is going on…

It appears, it doth, that her boyfriend/husband/whatever works in the film business, and this star, whoever she is or once was (it’s the movies that got small!) was up here filming something, and that, while she was filming this movie for which she was paid several million dollars, some jewelry went missing from her wardrobe. Oh, not diamonds, says the blonde, nothing like that. Only about four thousand dollar’s worth. But gone it was, and not merely misplaced, but stolen. And found in the star’s possession.
And at this point I rule that nice Jennifer Garner out entirely.

“Yeah,” says a brunette. “Who’d have thought the one with his shit together would turn out to be K.Fed.

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