StrangeLove
an act of imagination, with author, scott hobbs bourne, by dave carnie
Sean Cliver
I’ve visited my old friend Scott Bourne in Paris a few times, but the last trip was especially memorable because he invited Tania and I over for dinner with his wife and family. At the time, they occupied a charming apartment on the fourth floor of a building with views overlooking the bustling Place de la République. After watching the sun set over Paris we sat down to a simple but elegant dinner of roast chicken, salad, red wine, cheese—prepared perfectly, absolutely delicious, and is one of the most quintessential French experiences I’ve ever had. I’ve tried to replicate it a few times, but it’s missing a key ingredient: Paris.
the 2020 year end wood review
Sean Cliver
Well, it's March 2021, so it only makes sense I dawdle back in time to 2020 and relive the past since I'm having a rather difficult time focusing on the present. And don't even get me started on the future... hell, that frankly scares the plant-based shit out of me. Everyone's talking about this "new normal" that we're allegedly on the brink of, but I've always found myself betting on the "doomsayers" side of the coin. Why so consistently negatron? I don't know. Genetics, possibly, but call me a cynical simpleton of sorts, because if you've been keeping a sly eye on the global scene then you know there are still all kinds of shenanigans going on with production supply chains and the high cost of shipping finished goods. In short, not a lot of clarity and a lot of super unknowns—a one-two punch that I've never handled well in life—so I'm more than happy to default into an ostrich and bury my head deep down in this online sandbox of nonsense.
i can't breathe
Sean Cliver
'Twas the day after post-election announcement 2019 and I was reflecting on just a smattering of moments that have taken place over the past four years. I couldn't help but feel like Casper in the final scene of Kids (1995), when he woke up the morning after a 24-hour blitzkrieg of big city teen atrocities with the foggy summation, "Jesus Christ… what happened?"
flower wimps valentine shirt release, plus an examination of morrissey's allegedly racist comments masquerading as a review of his most recent album, i am not a dog on a chain, by dave carnie
Sean Cliver
Introducing the Valentine’s Day “Flower Wimps” shirt, featuring Morrissey with a bouquet of Gladiolas (art by Todd Bratrud). While it’s difficult to pinpoint the origin of the term, “Flower Wimps,” it was an active pejorative term for The Smiths during the '80s because they would spend a fortune on Chrysanthemums and Gladiolas so Morrissey could stick them up his butt and hand them out on stage. The practice probably began as a tribute to his hero, Oscar Wilde, who had a deep love of flowers. For those that were uncomfortable with The Smiths effeminacy, they taunted them as The Flower Wimps. How very clever and, erm, English.
mortified: surreal, by dave carnie
Sean Cliver
As Sean mentioned in a previous post, I had introduced him to the recent popularity of the art of public mortification—a genre loosely called “mortified”: “Witness adults sharing their most embarrassing childhood artifacts (journals, letters, poems, lyrics, plays, home movies, art) with strangers,” it reads on getmortified.com. My high school zine, Surreal, is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of being mortified by the early work of “Lil Baby Davy.” Mostly because this embarrassment was public. I put this thing out there. I aggressively sent it to other skaters all around the world. And it’s fucking horrible.