Museum Actors

angelakroberts:

Showtime folks! 

Triple pleasure! Wailing saxes, crazy bleep-bloops, matching couples! 

LOW DOUGH, NO DOUGH? NO PROBLEM!!! SEE world famous experimental couple jammers Angela and Scott! HEAR free jazz sax sonic collision double-trouble KEY WEST/Lords of Outland. Mellow out with the haunting excesses of MUSIC FOR HARD TIMES.

MAY 14th!  

My apartment-neighbor made this (he hates touching raw meat and other creepy things). Pretty awesome!

My zines just got cataloged in the Center for Sex Culture, SF. Those notes are pretty fun. 

csczine:

Title: Supertrooper

Additional Title: The Story of Gold

Author: Roberts, Angela

Publication Date: Oakland, CA 

Subject:

• Erotica
• Literature
• Wagner

Note: Listen to Wagner’s ‘Das Rheingold’ while reading. Also the illustrations were inspired by it’s first act. / “It smelled like farts and bad water.” / “I tilted my pelvis against his face. Each lick sent a wave of fiery warmth up my torso. I rocked my body against his face gently. My nipples stiffened and pushed against the fabric of my bra. He flicked his tongue against me lightly.”

csczine:

Title: Super Trooper 5

Author: Roberts. Angela / angela.k.roberts@gmail.com / lucifermorningstar.tumblr.com

Publisher: Oakland, CA

Publication Date: 2012

Subject:

• Erotica
• Sex Work
• Short Story

Note: ”I imagine that they had no idea that, indeed, their high-class hand-job hooker had to hear the same lame excuses and apologies from lawyers, bio-tech developers, and college-educated men semi-regularly.”

I love Eggleston. His photos remind of my childhood.

museumuesum:

William Eggleston

Untitled, 1973, dye transfer print, 16 x 20 inches

Untitled, from Southern Suite, 1981, dye transfer print, 9.875 x 15.25 inches

Untitled, 1970-1973, dye transfer print, 16 x 20 inches

Untitled, 1970-1973, dye transfer print, 16 x 20 inches

Untitled, 1970, dye transfer print, 16 x 20 inches

atlasobscura:

Morbid Monday: Mummified Charms and Amulets of the Lovett Collection.

Displayed for the first time to the public in 1917, the mummified heart was once the property of Edward Lovett, an eccentric British erudite and wealthy chief cashier in the bank of the City of London who, in his spare time, was the most relentless archivist of his era. A member of the Folklore Society since 1900, Lovett had one very unusual obsession: once off work, he would spend his free time strolling through the slums of Edwardian London to collect evidence of magic and medicinal practices, vernacular beliefs that the century of industrialization and rational sciences hadn’t eliminated. From his urban explorations, conversation with street sellers, sailors, and working classes witches, Lovett accumulated an astonishing array of charms, an incredible collection of odds and ends that proved superstitions were an invisible, yet persistent, practice, even in modern England.

Read more about the magic relics of modern England here !

(via walkdontfly)

Last night I dreamed of Helen Hill

I’m walking in New Orleans to Helen Hill and Paul’s house. The house looks a bit like the one in Mid City, but it’s on a corner and I can see, as soon as I get closer up, that the gate is open and that some of the chickens have already run out, though there are still a good number of them inside. They seem not to have realized that the fence was open. Notably through the fence, while I’m in the yard, I see some of the escaped chickens running around: a black and white one, a rooster, and a momma and baby which are both white and are both wearing little pink hats. The momma and baby with the pink hats are running around pretty fast and there’s no way I can catch them.

I’m in the yard in a panic, and I’m yelling for Helen to come help me, because her chickens are running lose and I don’t know how to deal with them. I yell for her a few times and it’s only when Paul comes to the door looking distraught that I remember that Helen is dead, that she died what might be called a long time ago by some people, but it still feels too painfully immediate for me.

Paul lets me in the backdoor and I’m in the kitchen, which looks like their Mid City kitchen exactly, but the left and right side are reversed. All of the cabinets are on the other side of the house. I talk to Paul about the chickens, and apologize for waking him up. I ask him if he’s still working at a community clinic. Paul tells me that it’s Helen’s birthday.

I tell him that I’m so sorry that she died, and that I can never put my head around it.

(Note: Helen and Paul were a bit older than me. When we met I was in my early twenties, still wild and angsty. I didn’t have any older friends that were as warm and friendly, but also into the same kind of far left politics. Also Helen was a working artist, and they were married. I didn’t have any married friends before I met them.

I ended up taking her film classes at the New Orleans film collective. I would see them pretty regularly and come over for visits. On one remarkable occasion, while my friend Thomas was housesitting, we watched Helen’s collection of Eastern European animation. In the end, after the hurricane, everyone got all spread out. It was impossible for me to stay in touch since I hardly knew what I had moved to somewhere absolutely new to me, and hardly knew what I was doing.)

I told Paul that I couldn’t understand it. That I had expected Helen to still be around, to always be around. Then I said that we live in a culture where expressive freedom comes with punishment, and that acting out is accompanied by a terrible justification of the brutality we’re subjected to, at least that’s the story that we’ve been told culturally. (A note: this part I think comes from all of the queer studies books I’ve been reading, and oddly enough is not something that I would have said while conscious, nor does it particularly make sense in regard to HH.)

And that I missed Helen very much and thought that we would have been in touch again soon, since I’d just started visiting New Orleans again. Paul said that he would call her, then he picked up this orange rotary dial phone and left a message on a kind of machine. He told her happy birthday and that I’d come over for a visit.

Then I woke up crying.

slowlyeden:

Louis Couperus book covers by Jan Toorop, via The Rijksmuseum

(via fuckyeahvintageillustration)

Oh man, that hairy pussy/face reflection gag is killing me. I’m also a fan of the naked lady with dancing eggplants, for it’s quiet meditative vibe.

rustylazer:

I stumbled into this restaurant in 2008 in Kyoto, and had no idea until recently why all of the images printed on Shinto wooden plaques were so sexual. The explanation is as entertaining as the restaurant.

http://kyotofoodie.com/issen-yoshoku-the-origins-of-western-food-in-japan/

Homesick for Kimbap Nara.

>_<

in-my-mouth:

Kimbap (Korean Sushi Rolls)

(via make-out-take-out)

(via Show #280, 23rd April 2013 w/ Edward Ka-Spel, Fracaso, Mechonat Hereg, The Bleak Twins, Pirate Shortwave recordings a.o.)

jothelibrarian:

Pretty medieval manuscript of the day shows a researcher in the search room at the National Archives in Kew, working with a late medieval manuscript.

Image source: The National Archives. Creative Commons licensed via Wikimedia Commons.

(via heracliteanfire)

cosmarxpolitan:

Cosmarxpolitan, Issue 1

Is constant unceasing class warfare ruining your skin?