redscharlach

redscharlach:

The Chariots of the Sun and Moon (1527–28) by Giulio Romano

This week’s Mighty Moment In Slash History has a topical angle, due to the fact that the grubby phenomenon of the “upskirt” photo recently became illegal in Massachusetts. Back in the 16th century, however, if you wanted a pervy upskirt shot, you had to commission someone to paint one for you, which made the whole business slightly classier, albeit quite a lot slower.

This particular example is actually on the ceiling of a grand chamber in the Palazzo Te, a palace in Mantua, Italy, that was built for Duke Federico II Gonzaga. Because it was meant to be viewed from below by the Duke and his houseguests, it makes striking use of what art historians call “innovative foreshortening” and what modern commentators are more likely to call “a high chance of teabagging”. It depicts the moment when evening falls: the chariot of the Sun, driven by the god Apollo, is leaving the sky, while the chariot of the Moon, driven by the goddess Diana, is hoving into view on the opposite side. Like the full-tilt diva he was, however, Apollo is stealing Diana’s thunder by proving he can moon pretty vigorously himself.

Best of all, there are no nasty consent issues here. You can gawp all you like because this is the pansexually promiscuous Apollo we’re talking about, and frankly, he WANTS you to look. In fact, it’s probably why he signed up for the sun-chariot gig in the first place. After all, if you’re a sun-god, there’s no such thing as the place where the sun doesn’t shine…

I’m 32 and I first sat down behind a drum set at the tender age of 8 or 9, I can’t remember. It’s been an interesting thing in my life and has led me to some interesting places and people.

Sometimes I look at them and sit behind them and feel that there really is no better place for me to be. A useful and cathartic place. It certainly feels good to be (at least marginally) good at something. Sometimes I sit behind them and the only thing I can remember is all of the promise and disappointment that they’re at the center of.

Two days ago I sat here and it was more like the former and today I sat here and it’s more like the latter.

I hate this place.

I’m 32 and I first sat down behind a drum set at the tender age of 8 or 9, I can’t remember. It’s been an interesting thing in my life and has led me to some interesting places and people.

Sometimes I look at them and sit behind them and feel that there really is no better place for me to be. A useful and cathartic place. It certainly feels good to be (at least marginally) good at something. Sometimes I sit behind them and the only thing I can remember is all of the promise and disappointment that they’re at the center of.

Two days ago I sat here and it was more like the former and today I sat here and it’s more like the latter.

I hate this place.

Dirty Commercial Interruption

Two months and no gym, so you know that first day back is going to suck extra. Fortunately the 1987 movie Dirty Dancing is playing on PHL17, a station received by the personal treadmill television in front of me.

Jennifer Grey plays an innocent, non-dancing, upper-class teen with a heart of gold who must learn to dance with working-class dance instructor Patrick Swayze in order to allow Swayze’s usual partner, who’s been knocked up by an asshole who carries a copy of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead about in his back pocket, the opportunity to get an abortion in pre-Rowe v. Wade America. Me? I just want to slim down for spring. The stakes are high.

Like a great 80’s flick involving sports / competition / training, it has some montages. Jennifer Grey struggles to learn how and dances around to great tunes with Patrick Swayze. I run at a medium clip, struggling but feeling her struggle and it energizes me. Seriously, fuck that waiter and fuck The Fountainhead, a book I’ve never read (by an author I’ve never read) which I vaguely understand to encourage strong and entitled people to kick weaker and vulnerable people in order to achieve and get more. I run and Jennifer and Patrick get better together. I’ve almost ran my intended goal.

The soundtrack to this movie is pure dynamite, bombastic blown-out girl group sounds, Phil Spector productions, the shortest number one hit single of all time, and smooth 80’s jams with big choruses. More hooks than you can shake a stick at. The type of hooks that motivate you to, say, run a little faster, a little longer.

It was particularly painful then when PHL17 cut away from a ménage-a-tois training sequence ONE FUCKING NOTE into Eric Carmen’s “Hungry Eyes”. This tune does all the right things, set up verse, relative minor pre-chorus…and…big…modulation……back…to……the….big…chorus…where he says…”Hun-g…” (beep) (fade) commercial break.

I didn’t fall off the treadmill, but I did lose my stride. I also think I heard my heart fall out of my chest, splat onto the treadmill and go hurtling at the wall behind me, splat on that, and slowly slink to the floor and die.

I slowed the speed down to a walking pace for a cool down. Move on with my workout. Sorry Jennifer and Patrick, hope it ended well.