- Secession Planning in California: CALEXIT is Russia’s Ultimate Objective
- From Lance Armstrong to Trump: The Rise & Fall of the Deified Narcissist
- Participation Trophy Politics
- Reading Malcolm X in Texas
- Dah, Donald: Russian Blood Money and the FBI’s Case Against Trump
- Tiny Crowds, Tiny Hands vs. Huge Crowds, Huge Hearts
- 5 Tips for Surviving as Female
- Playing the Donald Trump Game
- Like a Heart Floating in Formaldehyde: A Letter to the President-Elect
- What Are the Odds of Donald Trump Serving All Four Years of His Term?
- The Unbearable Hopelessness of Trump (and Being)
- President Rapist: Women Under Trump
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- The 50 Greatest Superhero (and Villain) Names of All Time
- The 50 Greatest Literary Character Names of All Time
- The 50 Most Drug-Addled Albums in Music History
- The 50 Greatest Band Names of All Time
- The 50 Greatest Civil War Names
- How to Get Rid of Donald Trump: An Action Plan
- The 50 Greatest Pro Football Names of All Time
- From Axl to Zappa: The 50 Greatest Musician Names of All Time (Side A)
- The 50 Greatest Unrequited Love Stories Ever
- Song Beneath the Song: “Casimir Pulaski Day” by Sufjan Stevens
- Song Beneath the Song: Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” as Tarot Card Reading
- Song Beneath the Song: “The Reflex” by Duran Duran
Author Archives: Lawrence Benner
“I don’t put limits on myself, and I feel like I can—and I will—paint anything I want to, anything I can think of, and try any experiment I want. I don’t feel like I’m owned by pressure from a gallery to make this certain type of thing that sells, and stick with that because anything else will confuse people. I don’t care. I like being an independent because I don’t care if it confuses my audience. This is what I like.” Continue reading
During the Great North American Blizzard of 1996, while I was stranded for several days in the Greyhound Bus Terminal in Charlotte, I masturbated out of boredom to an L.L. Bean catalogue.
[random text and images generated by pretentious robots]
“. . . the chalybeous night swarmed around, erubescent glass dark catoptromancies, ecchymotic seeping, a chiliad of coruscation, auroral florid bathers, rummaging cacoethes . . .”
find your fingers at the ends of your hands and push, long dark shadows peeling away, faces washing in and out with the surf, sea foam like tiny metallic cake decorations, asphalt gives way to gravel, children in choirs singing, … Continue reading
Mel Gibson as symbol—a carefully constructed image of heroism and virtue undermined by a poorly concealed ugliness—is America. Not as we like to see ourselves, but as we truly are—primitive, bigoted, enthralled by superstitions, waving our flags in the blind certainty that we are the greatest race of beings that ever erected a colonnade or scribbled guidelines on a spool of parchment.
Sometimes, the actors are so distractingly famous that latex appliances are required to aid in the suspension of disbelief. Nicole Kidman glues on a prosthetic nose, fills her pockets with rocks, walks into a pond . . . and Oscar history. Continue reading
Maybe The Sleepytime Bear is actually some sort of REM sleep vampire who feeds on the delta brainwaves of insomniacs, keeping them asleep long enough to feed, while their life force slowly ebbs away. On the astral plane, he flies out in darkness on great bat-like wings, scouring the countryside, the valleys and thoroughfares of the night echoing with his bloodthirsty cries.
Many are unaware of the restorative power of running with a pack of imaginary wolves.