“The idea that one’s own clan or tribe is unique is probably inherent in certain stages of human development.”
Mystery of the Mojave Desert
Most Unique Show in America.
Highway 91 — California
Louis—I’ll call him Louis, because I can’t keep typing C.K.—is America’s current masturbator in chief and our most topsy-turvy moralist. “You can figure out how bad a person you are by how soon after September 11 you masturbated,” he riffs. “For me, it was between the two buildings’ going down.” Louis used to be a comic’s comic—hip, the toast of his more successful peers—but now he belongs to the nation. His comedy special Hilarious was nominated for two Emmys last year, and the resulting album won a Grammy. His subsequent special, Live at the Beacon Theater, which he financed, directed, and then distributed online, cleared sales of $1 million within 10 days of its December release. Louis used to write for Dana Carvey, Conan O’Brien, Chris Rock; now he is writer/director/star of his own fever-dream semiautobiographical sitcom,Louie, also nominated for two Emmys last year and soon to begin its third season on FX.
All of which suggests that Louis—born Louis Szekely on September 12, 1967—has struck a nerve. Or located an absence. “I stick my finger in existence,” wrote Kierkegaard. “It smells of nothing.” Louis sticks his finger in existence and it smells of sad sweats and crispy tissues. It smells of dead spots and quelled rage, the funk of unaccommodated maleness. Here he comes again, with the jokes about jacking off, lurching through his loops of arousal and discharge. Look at him. Check out the pallor, the pudge, the eye-bags. He plods onstage like a diffident bouncer, a small ginger goatee the sole accent on his face. But then he tucks the mic under his chin and it seems to cast a lurid upward glow, refining his features, picking out the Mephistophelian arc of his eyebrows. In Season Two of Louie he is confronted by an anti-masturbation campaigner, an angelic young Christian woman. He argues with her bitterly—argues for his right to masturbate in peace. “That’s what’s so sad,” she says. “That you don’t know the darkness that you live in.” “Oh no,” Louis assures her, “I know the darkness.”
Read more. [Image: Getty]
strawberry canyon pool, berkeley, 1970s
Not only did I get into Berkeley but they also want to give me money to help me go there! I feel like the chick in this photo. So relieved, and happy to be in California on a beautiful day.
William Eggleston -Biloxi, Mississipi, 1974
“I’m thrilled to give the world a preview of future President Rick Santorum’s Rules for Everything, a 525-point ironclad plan for ensuring America’s moral health and well-being. I’m not going to tell you everything that’s in it, but I can certainly assure you that the guide is comprehensive in its assessment of what is and isn’t acceptable behavior in the private bedrooms of consenting American adults. Sure, it may be unpalatable to ultra-liberal communist monsters like Charles M. Blow, but most Americans are going to hear Santorum’s plan and fall in love with him all over again. Here are a few of the highlights.
· Cunnilingus, anal sex, tongue-kissing, and other forms of non-procreative intimate contact will be banned. On the upside, everyone gets a hula hoop!
· All lesbians will be eligible to receive free pray-away-the-gay counseling from Dr. Marcus Bachmann, husband of Rep. Michele Bachmann. (Notes on an early draft of Santorum’s Rules for Everything indicate his initial reluctance to include the relatively liberal Bachmanns in his plan, but prayer eventually showed him the way.) Just one session with the sensuous, full-lipped Dr. Bachmann is said to be powerful enough to turn even the most devout lesbians into man-lovers.
· While women impregnated by rapists will be forcibly required to bear their rapist’s offspring, they will also be rewarded with a lifetime of free waffle fries at uber-Christian chain Chick-fil-A. And don’t you feel left out, pregnant rape victims under the age of 13—you get all the Kid’s Meals you want!”
Jitterbugging in Negro juke joint, Saturday evening, outside Clarksdale, Mississippi.