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Alex Carnevale

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Mia Nguyen

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Ethan Peterson

This Recording

is dedicated to the enjoyment of audio and visual stimuli. Please visit our archives where we have uncovered the true importance of nearly everything. Should you want to reach us, e-mail alex dot carnevale at gmail dot com, but don't tell the spam robots. Consider contacting us if you wish to use This Recording in your classroom or club setting. We have given several talks at local Rotarys that we feel went really well.

Pretty used to being with Gwyneth

Regrets that her mother did not smoke

Frank in all directions

Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais

Simply cannot go back to them

Roll your eyes at Samuel Beckett

John Gregory Dunne and Joan Didion

Metaphors with eyes

Life of Mary MacLane

Circle what it is you want

Not really talking about women, just Diane

Felicity's disguise

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In Which The End of May Descends Like A Rigid Sphincter

The Week in Review

"Stranger things have happened," the saying goes. Was that the Bible or Shakespeare? You tell me. I recently looked up the entry of Jesus on wikiquote and discovered almost everything was said by Jesus. In fact, he also appears to have written the vast majority of Spice Girls lyrics.

"Impressionism is the newspaper of the soul," Matisse once told Pierre Schneider. Little did he know what would happen to the newspapers of his youth. We are here to fill that void for you. Go back and revisit these articles of note:

Only something beautiful can be destroyed, or something very ugly. I learned this from Jesus, or at the very least his wikipedia entry. Wikipedia banned all scientology moderation today, a firm blow against the Church that is not a Church. Freedom of religion is not important online, where not being a dick is the only moral code we have.

As for me, I have been checking the lengths of candles, and looking for the right size sweater online. I went to Bluff Point yesterday, where I taught a flock of children how to blog. The days are criminally long or short, but they never fail to be forgotten.

There's no use being upset. There's no use for feelings. There are only web pages, and the clicks you put upon them. Enjoy the fruits of our labors this week, and come back for more of the feast.

"It's The Weekend" - Jason Lytle (mp3)

"Brand New Sun" - Jason Lytle (mp3) highly recommended

"You're Too Gone" - Jason Lytle (mp3)

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Suppose I want to paint a woman's body: first of all I imbue it with grace and charm, but I know that I must give something more. I will condense the meaning of this body by seeking its essential lines. The charm will be less apparent at first glance, but it must eventually emerge from the new image which will have a broader meaning, one more fully human. There must result a living harmony of colours, a harmony analogous to that of a musical composition.

-- Matisse


In Which We Deal With All The Doggerel

On the Question of Dogs


The idea has gotten abroad in New York that nobody in a metropolis should keep a dog. There is a lot of shitting on dogs going on. "Children before dogs," and so on, as if most of the dog-owners didn't have children as well and if children didn't love and profit from dogs.

My daughter weighs half as much as our dog, stands shorter than he goes, and in the absence of woods and a farmyard to wander around, leanrs a good deal about where her roots in the world are from him, learns about her own wellsprings of love, because of course he's a different proposition from us and her affections as they encounter his are different -- discovers that there are bigger things than than herself in the world besides us.

He's a large country dog (both images that set the sort of person who objects to dogs to gnawing his elbows and toes), and during the winters he doesn't spend in the city is curled up asleep in his polar-bear coat in deep Vermont snow like a husky. He was middle-aged before he first smelled a stone building or went for a drive in a car. (He smelled a river that we were riding by and jumped right out of the window like a puppy to go for a swim, not realizing that we were traveling fast.)

The city is a smorgasboard of new smells, but the cranks say it's mean of us to deprive him of that winter spent vegetating in the snow. What they fear most in a dog -- these amateur sanitary engineers who would chop themselves off at the knees if it would free them entirely from their origins on land -- is that he actually may be an honest-to-goodness animal, and not some kind of substitute human being and therefore fair game for them, comprehensible to them. They hate the fact that milk comes from udders of cows and that grapefruit juice mostly water which has been down percolating in the soil.

Admittedly, we live near the lower Manhattan waterfront, with its Gold Star Mother ferryboat, where the addicts line up for a methadone fix, its House of Detention, and many truck parks, gritty dead lots, and the West Side Highway and a derelict railroad spur running above. Find the right spot and what is a little uric acid there?

But if our site is less citified than some, as a group we make up for that by the size of our dogs: hundred-pounders on occasion, Airedales, shepherds, Great Danes, Great Pyrenees, Afghans, Saint Bernards, Salukis, big wolfish chows, Malemutes, Newfoundlands, collies like mine.

We are up with the sun, cold but alive to the morning because of the company we keep, smelling the sharp west wind, and much happier-looking than those other outlaws of the city who keep cars and are looking for some place to park.

We are out kite-flying, if you want to know, our eyes fixed away on a reality as old as the sky. We have tugging on the end of our string the friendly spirit of Canis, fifteen thousand years removed from the Near Eastern wolf, fifteen million years removed from the fox, thirty million years distant from the ancestral bear-racoon, forty million or fifty million years removed from ancestral weasels and cats, and from our own line by sixty to seventy million years, perhaps. The dog family is thought to have originated in North America, dispersed, then come back. And here it is, with poundingly cheerful feet, kiting across the street, snuffing out traces of life.

If after all this time the world of life is grinding to an end, it won't be by the agency of dogs. Nor will they give up the ghost without a final leap of the feet and grin of their pointy teeth. Even set down in this ultimate slag heap on the waterfront, if they can't find any life, then, nose to the ground, wagging their tails, they seek out the wastes of life.

The pennysworth psychology of the day would have it that keeping pets is a way of avoiding the mainstream concerns -- of putting one's tenderness in a jewelbox, so to speak -- a premise that, like any other, can be illustrated if you pick your cases carefully enough, because there are certainly some fanciers who confine their affection to a fish tank.

My own impression is that a commoner, deeper motive than escapism is the wish to broaden one's base, to find the fish in oneself. Another fascination, especially with small wild creatures hemmed into a terrarium or cage, is seeing how they cope, and helping them cope. Every man is an experimenter and every experimenter is a small boy, but in this day and age the observer's promptings are not generally cruel; it seems quite crucial to us to know how they do function and cope.

No matter how sensibly their needs have been anticipated, however, I wind up pitying wild animals and want them released. But where released?

They are pushed face to face with us wherever they survive. Even in the effort to help them survive there are absurd misplays. Recently an entrepreneur somehow gathered together two hundred specimens of a South American sidenecked turtle which is on the list of endangered species and flew them to California, where he hoped to capitalize on their rarity. Instead they were identified and seized by federal officials. So the federal men confiscated the shipment of turtles to teach him a lesson. What did they do then -- fly them back? No, killed them.

There's an excellent pet store on 14th Street called Fang and Claw, Aldo Passera, proprietor, where I go to look over the field. Burmere and Ceylonese pythons cost $150 or so, button quail are $25 apiece, sungazar lizards $30. Horbills and stump-tailed macaques are for sale. The prettiest beast Passera has is an emerald tree boa for $125, and the biggest a regal python of seventeen feet, at $44 a foot. If I went in for wildlife, what I'd buy for my house to represent what has gone before and paralleled us and diverged from us and just stood still would be a common iguana, I think.

An iguana as green as a tree, with a stillness about it, but undaunted, tall, gallant in posture, with a mouthful of teeth a face like that of a god's palace guard, carved by the millenia as if by the workings of water and wind on a grim cliff, only more so. More sculpted than sculpture, an iguana's face is really a great double-take, reacting maybe to what was going on in the room forty-five minutes ago and maybe to what was happening during the Triassic Age. It's a face like a trumpet blast, practically a caricature of fortitude, and so it's a face to come home to, a face to get a grip on, I should think. If I wanted a wild animal, it would be that.

But I go for intelligence and good will and good spirits of my dog instead. He is my fish, my macaque, my iguana, and more.

Edward Hoagland was born in New York City in 1932.

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"All You See" - J. Tillman (mp3)

"Laborless Love" - J. Tillman (mp3)

"Firstborn" - J. Tillman (mp3)

J. Tillman myspace


In Which We Get Bent

Be Gentle


As summer quickly creeps up on us, I'm reminded of naked people. And that I blog naked people. All the time. This brings me untold fame and recognition. Yeah, not at all. But it's become something of a hobby, as it certainly does not bring me any monetary gain.

Last August, I began to collect all the free porn I really enjoyed via tumblr and began to disseminate it through Bend Me Over. There was no real reason, I just didn't feel comfortable posting smut on my personal blog, so I created a collection and added a tagline.

I believe the secret to my success (traffic! traffic! traffic!) is my site description: "Bend Me Over... And fuck me hard. Please direct all inquiries, requests and offers of cock" to my e-mail address. Throughout the last 9 or so months, I've learned some lessons.

For one, photographers are a fickle lot.

The idea of a copyright via the internet is insane to me, but many people who take pictures do not take such a laissez-faire attitude to the distribution of their photos. Legal threats and pictures of penises rule my inbox.

For another, people are looking for someone to understand them. I get great requests such as, "You posted a great picture of a girl with a red bush, I love redheads, thanks so much for posting. Where I can find more ginger porn?"

Lots of e-mails I get are from men and women who just want me to know I made them very... happy. I see my blog as an interesting and exciting pastime and anytime someone really enjoys it I feel validated.

So my process and my purpose... As a straight lady-person, I look at these women who are voluptuous or slender, legs completely splayed or demurely crossed and I marvel at the beauty. I appreciate the just right curve of a hip, breast or ass and I am a lover of the simply scandalous and the outright bizarre.

The sweet embrace and the rough fucking. The intimate kiss of lovers and the gentle biting of cock. Nude and pornographic photos elicit a response in everyone and lately my response has changed. I've never been a fan of hardcore or derogatory images but I've begun to appreciate a more intimate element of photographs. A picture where a couple or an individual looks truly vulnerable and at the mercy of the moment are the hottest to post.

Staged, cheesy porn has a numbing effect on my loins and my mind. My main process is that I subscribe to hundreds of porn blogs and site feeds in my very full Google Reader and then I meticulously go through each feed to decide what is up to my relatively high standards.

The main question I ask myself for each photo I come across to ascertain whether it meets my standards:

Would I want to be in this picture? Does this intrigue me? Make me hunger for more? Beyond whether I want to hop into the pictures, I'm also really big on certain aesthetic issues: I hate fake tits. You can't be a stickler about these things, but I'm a big fan of women who proudly bare their double A's or their massive triple E's (a real size).

As a feminist, I worry about what I have chosen to do with my free time. I spend way too much time everyday looking at women in various stages of undress and I feel as if I'm betraying my strongly held views. Or am I really doing yeoman's work for the porn-feminism dichotomy? Neither of course. Porn can be oppressive or empowering depending on what it is and who's making it. I'm just posting it.

The most unfortunate side effect of this whole venture is when I tell people in my real life that I have this site, they generally assume I post pictures of myself. I can see how they got there, sure, but no, never. Be glad. Enjoy these naked ladies.

Sarah C. Roberts is the senior contributor to This Recording. She tumbles non-naked people here. She last wrote in these pages on the subject of the HBO series True Blood.

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"Graham Lewis and Our Struggle Against Fascism" - Dining with the Bolsheviks (mp3)

"Sometimes" - Dining with the Bolsheviks (mp3) highly recommended

"Sea of Love" - Dining with the Bolsheviks (mp3)

Dining with the Bolsheviks myspace