all tomorrow's parties: photography

so i've been sifting through the past year or so of posts, fixing tags and stuff, because i'm bored. and in the last few months, a bunch of comments have popped up from anonymous posters saying nice things. alarmingly, although not surprisingly, a number of these seem to come from people who know/know of me in real life. reveal yourselves, kindly anons!

also here are some nice photos from a disposable camera i just got developed, it's a strange "fortune cookie camera" i bought from urban outfitters that prints one's fortune at the bottom of the photo. these are photos of me from a night which wound up being really quite awful and distressing, and the morning after. but at least the pictures came up nice.

currently listening to:
homecoming - the teenagers
i hate rock'n'roll - the jesus & mary chain
peter gunn vs. where's your head at - 2 many dj's
sometimes - my bloody valentine

i did not realise until more than a month had gone by, but on october 2nd nat finkelstein, a photojournalist who took some of the warhol factory period's most iconic photos, passed away. below is an essay he wrote on his time in the factory interpersed with some of his most famous photos.

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the satellites.

they thought they were special; that was their delusion. they thought they were unique; that was their conceit. they thought they were indispensable; that was their downfall. lie creatures from a horror flick they emerged from the swamps of middle america crying the infectious cry of the mutant, 'i need more creatures who resemble me.' and when he had gathered his spearhead of flittering monster, ann dee ANN dee ANN DEE WHORHOL, of pittsburgh, pennsylvanis, embarked on his revolution of perversion, toys and titillation. his objectives were simple: turn the outside inside and the inside outside and after all, why not?

outside the glass was shattering, the shit was approaching the fan. inside was cherries jubilee and unlimited dollops of cream. outside was watts, hanoi, birmingham, dallas, and hairy truck drivers leaning out of their cabs and yelling 'FAGGOT…..WHORE!' inside was panna grady's. doctor feelgood's, stanley's, la mama, the village and the holy of holies, the golden ark, the temple, home plate…: the FACTORY, their home, their world, their womb. outside, JFK …golden knight with miniskirted wife…was dead: business and bombs were booming, inside the children played strange games like see me, touch me, hurt me….'ah'.

children of the rich they became sevants to the privileged and so carried servants' arrogance on their platters. they served the talented so they thought they had talent. they served the licentious so they thougth they had licence… in their playrooms they migth tie a playmate up, under a glass topped table. squat on the glass and shit…giggle giggle kakka doodgy… look look! if their hamburger was medium instead of rare they would reduce the waitress to tears. they were the children of the jet set but their world could be circumnavigated by a ten dollar taxi ride: from seven bleecker street to stanley's, by the firehouse, from doctor bishop's to panna grady's; breakfastlunchdinner at the canal street luncheonette, 6 am fresh baked danish and an egg cream or maybe a hot dog at the seventy second street dabrette's, all night service and then sleep and then seven bleecker to score again.

but seven bleecker was street and street dealers are practical folks…. 'money talks shit walks…fuck the poetry gimme cash.' and cash was the rub, cameras, radios, pretty bodies, nubile tongues and soft mouths were in abundant supply but cash was short; so it was friendly doctors and visitors from tangiers and ibiza who became their afternoon audience. amphetamines were legally available in spain and morocco and these were white middle class kids, expert at whine and wiggle…speed and delirium, reflected light of aluminium foilstars, the great new york artsy, fartsy incest crowd… 'poppa on the bottom, momma on the top, sister in the middle, yellin gimme speed, pop'

monnapoppashisterbrother fornicating in the same womb…desolation road…lost in the rain everybody talking love but nobody getting their fingers wer… sex hour in the zoo…pernutations and combinations…. and in the created chaos of this inside-out world stood bleached blond, blue contact lensed albino barnum… great genius of the twentieth century… ANDY!... ANN DEE ANN DEE! War (sigh) hol ready to lead his speedfreaks, dragqueens, dominatries, hustlers and junkies out of their new york cave and into mainstream america. DOCTOR WARHOLAS travelling medicine show ready to appear at campuses, gallery opening, museums, shopping mall inaugurals, weddings and bar mitzvahs all over the country. selling his phantasies about art, money, decadence and instant celebrity to america's children of all ages. and at the center was the factory, cavern on 46th street, the nexusplexus sucking in the rebels, dreamers, gullibles, hopefuls, manipulators, minnow and sharks: the perfect peaches praying for a bruise. ginger bread house… come in hansel, welcome gretel, oh how pretty you look, welcome welcome.

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