I've had a lot come across my plate the last few days that seem blog-worthy. Or rather, rant-worthy and I need to talk about it: The implicit racism of Barbara Walters (or the denial of such underlying racism from Whoopi Goldberg), the fuck-you-in-the-face-W-Bush granting of the Nobel to Obama, the rise and codification of the vocal level "squee," the reminder to my San Francisco denizens that you don't mess with the Chinese woman on the bus.
No, what really got my attention was this:
Now, I know what you're thinking: it's about the cheesecake. And taken into account along with the prostitute story from earlier, that's understandable. But that's not it. Okay, a little bit, but not much.
See, I view this picture -- and mind you, we ran this at work -- I view this picture, and the eternal flipping rolodex that is my fractured memory system remembers a book: Ballard's Crash. Sex, car crashes, removable prosthetics. Beautiful shit. But no, that wasn't the full end of it: From Crash to "Good Country People." Preachers, hollowed-out Bibles containing condoms and whiskey, a hayloft, another prosthetic. And if this is what Hulga looked like, then I can suddenly go to sleep (well, pre-sleep) content.
Thank you, ESPN The Magazine, for re-invigorating this fine, fine work.
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