Sean Beaudoin

Enough excellent writing to fill a large tube sock

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Pompous Modernity Refutation

It's amazing some worm has shot video of Amy Winehouse smoking crack and within about an hour and a half it has made it onto the internet. What do we really expect from our creative artists at this point? With nine thousand cameras in their faces around the clock? As if everyone from Elvis to Billie Holiday to Jim Morrison to Motley Crue didn't indulge themselves at some point as part of the pact of putting themselves onstage for all of us to idolize or ridicule. Not to mention Rimbaud or Oscar Wilde or Malcom Lowry or H.L. Mencken. It is usually the function of making oneself vulnerable, and in the internet age, making oneself completely and utterly naked. Do you really want someone straight and solid and re-assuringly predictable making the paintings that hang over your mantle? Do you want someone solidly Methodist writing your trenchent prose? No, you want the men whose exploits were vaguely alluded to in the past, whose indescretions are now daily reportage, who probably don't see the world the way you do. Which is usually thier only value. But we no longer allow them their privacy, or even their dignity. And what does contemporary art reflect? I think I heard it the other day in the new Creed album.
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“They stopped at the next rise and watched as the horde of Infects emerged from the cave mouth, like dirty sausage shoved through a dirtier grinder.”

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