Shooting with the clarity of a drunk pissing into the brown-green water of a night club’s toilet bowl, my pool game has always been effervescent. While my friends seem to play on a smooth cloth-covered table, one primed for cue sports, when it comes to my single turn (for I will rarely, if ever, bri
When Russian artist El Lissitzky printed his 1920 Soviet propaganda poster “Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge,” he had no idea it would become iconic. It was its bold symbolism that did the trick. The Russian civil war was reduced to a potent display of shape and space. The Bolsheviks were represen
I have a friend who works in the ambulance service. He tells me stories. I ask him to. The expected tragedies aside (horrific traffic accidents, families in peril, octogenarians dying alone completely neglected), the most fascinating details of his job, at least to my eager ears, are sourced from hi
Doomdream is more of a description than a title. It’s an attempt by its creator, Ian MacLarty, to conjure up an “impression of [his] dreams after [he’s] been playing Doom all day.” That’s Doom, the 1993 hell-romping shooter, which mostly everyone is familiar with. If you’re not, all you need to know
J.G Ballard’s novel Crash is one of numerous hellish car wrecks sprayed with both semen and blood. It’s a story that marries sexuality with the excitement of traffic collisions. What you might call an “autoerotica.” This is the word that Robert Yang has used to describe the last in his erotic gay se
