Welcome To Gini's B-Hive!
Celebrating B-Girls, Prosties, Eurotrash, and Everything Wild, Woolly, and WONDERFUL!
Welcome to my little House of Ill Repute, where my sole mission is merely to celebrate everything that is beautifully bad, nice and naughty, and deliciously daunting. I hope you enjoy the festivities!
My name is Gini and I'm a shameless Epicurean, slob, and sensualist. I worship loud music, books, The Great Women Of Our Time, and for the most part, the super-freaky world we inhabit.
I don't know what to say that would give anyone good insight into my body, mind, and soul, and not make you want to reach for your Prozac or Glock. I'll let you decide for yourself as we go along on a little tour of sorts.
Like whiskers on kittens, these are a few of my favorite things
The Killer B List -- All my favorite bands seems to start with the letter "B". It's no fluke.
Monica Was No Mandy -- My favorite scandal...The Profumo Affair!
Girl Party 1999! -- My fantasy slumber party and the men whose love children I'd bear.
Some of the fun things I hope to cover in the near
future...
My Favorite B-Girls -- The ones who gave me a new lease on life!
Fave-Rave Flicks -- From the Marginal to the Mainstream...
The Greatness of Girlie Art
and much more...
Other fave-rave sites...
Sun Ra, Ornette Coleman, John Coltrane, and Albert Ayler...The Godfathers of Punk?! Check it out...
Meet my comrade in Cultural Terrorism, Dan-X.
My friend Luke needs to run for office, damn it!
The personal is political, baby!
"You'll never see Jane Bloody Seymour with a centipede dangling from her tiara!!!"
Once, while dazed from an onslaught of banana daquiris, I had a revelation that in my last life I was the playwright Joe Orton, living it up in Tangier.
If you by any chance live in the San Francisco area, be sure and say hello to my friend Margo!!!
See the work of an underappreciated, still-seemingly-undiscovered artist!
Check out "Pope Innocent X" and try telling me he doesn't look like he's sitting in an electric chair!
Feel free to e-mail me if you're
inspired, disgusted, etc.
Scribble away:
anouka@swbell.net
Happy 1999, first of all. I can't believe we've made it this far without the big asteroid slamming into our pin-prick of a planet. All the more reason to make every day a celebration unto itself. We're here...we're living in fear...get used to it! ha! Some call it nihilism, I'm not sure yet what I'll call it...technologically-enhanced oblivion?
No,I won't be moving to Montana or Idaho anytime soon...
In December of 1998, I celebrated "Tortured Artist Month." I caught the made-for-TV movie about the life of Jacqueline Sussann -- "Scandalous Me" and saw the brilliant "anti-biopic" of the life of artist Francis Bacon -- "Love Is The Devil". Maybe I'm just a sickie chickie, but the entire time I sat there, crouched down in my theatre seat, I had this shit-eating grin plastered all over my face. I'm now inspired to try and create a web tribute to these fabulous people. Jackie's muse was her endless supply of prescription pills, while Francis Bacon relied on a strapping young ne'er-do-well for his inspiration. Like it or not, Miss Jackie changed the face of twentieth-century American literature. Francis Bacon simply knocked the post-War art crowd on its complacent ass. It's time for more. That's all I have to say!
I also have special place in my heart for The Best of The Queer Tangier Contingent (Ginsberg, Burroughs, Bowles, Orton, etc.), and was delighted to discover that William S. Burroughs and Francis Bacon actually crossed paths at one time. Here's an excerpt from Ted Morgan's Literary Outlaw : The Life And Times of William S.Burroughs:
"Through Paul, Allen and Burroughs met the English painter Francis Bacon, who was forty-seven but looked thirty-five, with a spoiled tragic face. He said his reputation was a lot of chic shit and that his real love was gambling -- he had once won $4,000 at Monte Carlo. He told Allen that he had also once been offered a gambling stake for allowing himself to be whipped, with a bonus for every stroke that drew blood. Bacon's painting technique was what he called psychic representation, the face formed as if by accident in a whirl of feathery brush strokes. Bacon said DeKooning was the great man in the United States, for bursting through the abstract and planting an image on the canvas.
Allen thought that Bacon painted the way Burroughs wrote. It was a sort of dangerous bullfight of the mind, where he placed himself in acute psychic danger of uncovering some secret that would destroy him. Burroughs had these unpublishable mad routines about talking assholes, with the recurring image of the spurting hard-on as the hanged man's neck snaps, and vast paranoiac theories of agents and psychic senders taking over the world in bureaucratic conspiracies. But Burroughs, although fond of Bacon, denied that there was any connection, and said: 'Bacon and I are at opposite ends of the spectrum. He likes middle-aged truck drivers and I like young boys. He sneers at immortality and I think it's the one thing of importance. Of course we're associated because of our morbid subject matter.'"
More inspiration that's rubbed off on me...
"What is pretty? Old people, their smooth white skin, our loved ones; these things are pretty. Or Jon Benet Ramsey, who was never able to grow up to be the next Dorothy Stratten. What is pretty?"
"Taste is the enemy of creativity."
"Caminando y miando, para no hacer hoyo (If you walk and piss at the same time, you won't make a hole in the ground)."
"If we believe absurdities, we shall commit atrocities."
Get your own Free Home Page