still working...

on a major news update.  my blog may not be fully updated until early next week.  i'll keep my legion o'followers informed.

The Daily Rushes: The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums

     "The Daily Rushes" are a day late, bordering on two, and the producers are tearing their toupees out.  Hey, don't blame us, we don't make the weather--but we need to feed them a little to keep our project from starving, so here's a little about a peerless moviemaker who deserves a lot more analysis.

     I'll resist the temptation to paste a link to my friend and ex-roomie Bruce Bennett's NY Sun appreciation of Kenji Mizoguchi and leave it at that.  He certainly knows a lot more about the subject than I do; to-nite's viewing was only the third Mizoguchi I've witnessed, the others being "Ugetsu" and "Sansho the Bailiff".  I'l be content with borrowing his phrase, "gentle, unwavering camera".

     Like Mizoguchi's work itself, the lilt of said phrase is loverly, quotidian and universal, yet very specific in time and place.  A gentle, unwavering camera is what any basic shutterbug needs.  Life will often provide an amateur with accidentally brilliant framing and tantalizing whispers of what may be going on beyond the borders of the frame.  A Polaroid salvaged from a dumpster can be as beautiful and telling as a Robert Frank.  I gawked at old photos online to-day and marveled once again at the fitful genius of chance.  Some were great photos taken by profesionals or semipros; others were shot by Jane P. Friend or John Q. Acquaintance.  Experience and aesthetic purpose-mongering barely mattered, as long as the artists' hands were gentle and unwavering when they touched and clicked.  Time is a supremely indulgent art that regales us with fascinating stories in the recordkeeping of instants we see in photographs.      

     Kenji Mizoguchi was the most exacting of possible control freaks in the fine art of cinema.  Accounts of his precision and preparation make Stanley Kubrick seem like a crayon-wielding toddler scribbling wildly on a placemat.  Yet, the personalized, emotional reaction we have in watching and listening to his naturalistic work is nearly troubling.  We must eavesdrop in his world without losing ourselves in the comforts of cinematic voyeurism.  As technically meticulous as Mizoguchi's mise-en-scene is, it feels like hastily snapped photographs and recordings of strangers at their most emotionally vulnerable.  Even in the devastating "Ikiru" and "Rashomon", arthouse icon Akira Kurosawa let us finish the popcorn and soda we purchased to soothe any growls of nausea stemming from our commiseration (exacerbating the diabetic rush of the pop with a nauseating sickly sweet ending to the latter flick).  Interrupting a Mizoguchi scene with a chomping session or a bathroom break feels as inconsiderate as doing so in the middle of an intimate's teary-eyed confession.  We kneel before his imagery and perk ears for his fragile soundtracks of existence as if we're the repositories of his faith and vision.  Melancholy contemplation sates our appetites.

     J-Ro (Jonathan Rosenbaum--thanx again for the idea, B-Ben) described "Chrysanthemums" as "a movie about people trapped in boxes" during his lecture.  Mizoguchi liberates them and us with an incredibly lush exogenous world created to actualize both promise and threat.  As in "Sansho" and "Ugetsu", the most immediate threats tend to be just out of camera range, often literally around the stark, boxy right angles of a corner.  However, so is liberation of a more permanent nature, deliverance that lasts beyond social pressures or the ill passions of the moment and is often expressed thru serenely nurturing sounds.  Like no other director whose work I've encountered, Mizoguchi owns not only the space he so meticulously arranges in lines and waves onscreen but the space of our own being in time before the screen's beckoning call. 

     "The Daily Spot" will be a day late as well, and a money shot or more short.  We'll catch up with production after a quick haiku and get this baby back on sked by Friday.      

No No, Not Yet

     My posts for this week are running a day late at this point.  Life will sometimes intrude w/ my Daily Deadline.  We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause riders of the CTA.

     

The Daily Meme: Mapo

     Nigga, queer and perv are examples of reclaimed slurs:  words considered to be traditionally offensive that have been adopted as empowering sobriquets.  I get very offended by the idea of getting offended by language.  The morality of poetry is absurdly subjective, and besides, the sticks and stones are what are truly disabling.

     "Mapo" has never been a common insult for Uncle Sam's generally more sensible neighbor to the North.  I offer this vulgarization of Canada's national arboreal emblem as a symbol of pride before it ever gets adopted as an insult.  

     Canada is more likely to emerge as a budding world superpower in this millennium than other usual suspects.  China, Russia and India are all potemkin villages in their own ways, intra-cultural powder kegs barely tamped and stilled by the eventually toxic faux-asbestos of their national and local authority structures.  Quebecois to the contrary, Canada's national identity is, overall, genuine and logical and its philosophical and economic self-sufficiency are at least as apocalypse-friendly as any more blustery hegemon's.  They have land, fuel and expanding waterways which will only benefit them in case of severe global warming.  Most importantly, they tend to enjoy making sense.  Magical thinking is not a national pandemic there.

     Mapo Power could be our most effective progressive model in the third millennium after Golgotha.  Wear it on a T-shirt before a future President Tancredo or a Homeland Security chief Joe the Plumber shuts down the Ambassador Bridge in a fit of nativist hubris.

 

The Daily Dom: BDSM Triads--Philosophy, Religion, Sex

     I've mentioned this before, but if you read this as an elder or peer in the leather community and the hats look old, bear with me.  I write thedailyclam for a general adult audience.

     I'll cover the most elemental triad of BDSM--D/s, B & D, S/M--and where I fit within or without those categories next week.  From there I'll bounce gleefully between listed topics.  It is imperative that I discuss the most critical triad before I explore anything else in detail.

     My philosophical roots as applied to BDSM are very much intertwined with scholarship by three felow krauts, all born in the 19th Century:  Alfred Adler, Friedrich Nietschze and Wilhelm Reich.  I don't have time to specify these roots in great detail here to-nite; blogging is a format that prizes relative brevity and this trinity of giants in the history of human consciousness deserve more than a laudatory blurb or three.  I will add that they all teach us how to recognize and learn to differentiate the uses and abuses of power, which is paramount wisdom for a dom.  Reich, in particular, warned us how dangerous, deeply ill and potentially lethal it is to be a domineering, not dominant faux-dom or a subservient, not service-oriented faux-sub in a broader sociopolitical context of individual behavior.  His courage and prescience were unduly rewarded by the temporary triumphs of Nazism and Stalinism and, later, imprisonment by Uncle Sam, who burned crateloads of his books not long before he died in a taxpayer-subsidized cage.

     More personally speaking, I see BDSM everywhere because in various guises it is indeed everywhere we "see".  We may for the moment consign S/M and B & D to metaphysical cornertime, not as punishment but with a kindly promise to return to them later.  D/s is the closest thing to God I know, a gnostic epiphany encapsulated in two letters with a slash between them.  Power dynamics are the central organizing principles of the known universe.  If we accept the leather given that submissives actually possess at least half, if not more, of the power in any conscientious roleplay, then further analogies take shape before us in potentially limitless holistic manifestations.

     Physics itself embodies the science of D/s dynamics.  The sun is our alpha dom in this piece of astronomical real estate, the real play we inhabit.  Earth's moon expresses the power of submissive energy by moving our waters.  No dom exists in a vacuum.  The process of power exchange, erotic and otherwise, is interactive.  Mother Nature is the ultimate domme.

     Artists have ever struck tones of guardian beauty in service of religion and philosophy, whether they've been dogmatically atheistic or not.  They seduce their intended with aesthetic powers of persuasion and intimations of ecstatic release.  They beckon and resist, paint with chiaroscuro, leaven drama with levity and so forth.  So do dom/mes, and so do subs in a less explicit way.  Intensely sexual activity may be interspersed with and co-exist with states of asexual being.  Denial and delight may share the room in fond embrace rather than struggle.  Pain and pleasure may develop as photographic signatures on a continuum, the personalized imagistic poetry of sensation.  The electromagnetism that drives our natural realm can be stretched like silly putty into greater and lesser magnitudes.  Genitalia can be objectified as totemic idols, belittled or ignored entirely, or positioned anywhere between these two extremes.  Neotantric and other mindfully tender alternative methods of erotic power exchange are fully as D/s as the most outwardly vicious and brutal S/M encounters.  EPE can be a stiff chill envelope to push or a soft warm bed for snuggling or either or both.

     We in homo sapiens all tend to be homosexual, bisexual or heterosexual.  We also all tend to be dominant, switch (willing to roleplay either way) or submissive in our triad of power orientation.  It is more than a little oxymoronic to separate the active BDSM community from what is essentially an imaginary vanilla community.

     We all wear leather.  Even the vegans.  This fact is a real play, not a roleplay.   

     

The Daily Yarn/Preface: "CHICAGO SHANGHAI!" and "prompts"

     (This entry was posted Saturday, the time's inaccurate.)

     A fictional double feature will commence on this page one week from now.  While the two serials both explore the power dynamics of public ownership, one of the most transgressive and fascinating genres of BDSM living art, the stories and styles contrast radically and will hopefully feed from each other, creating equilibrium.

     Two strangers meeting alone heralds the impending abduction depicted in "CS".  "P" begins as the first facetime encounter between two cyber/phone intimates, taking place in a crowded fast food franchise.

     "CS", tho rough, is very silly and filled with sardonic banter.  The ringleader of the abduction makes incessant references to arcane pop culture, like a Tarantino wannabe.  "P" is very serious in tone, with heavy spiritual and psychological baggage omnipresent, cluttering up the joymix.

     The antagonist/dom in "CF" looks like geeky, early middle-aged me and talks and behaves a bit like I may during a "Mr. Brown" roleplay, accentuating the mean guy gimmick in an over the top fashion.  The antagonist/dom in "p" looks like the handsome and underrated movie actor Adam Beach and sounds like nobody.  However, this character Trevor strategizes the way IM (Intermediate Master) James Otto may during a heavy psychological scene--a mindfuck scene, that's easier and more poetic to say than a five-syllable chunk of academic language--with a fictional but prototypically geeky, early middle-aged femsub-next-door.

     "CS" begins at Lake Michigan.  "P" ends at Lake Michigan.

     "CS" has no redeeming social value whatsoever and is a breeze of a yarn to spin.  "P" feels very emotional, as difficult for me to write as a heavy mindfuck scene can be to run.

     Mandy, the femsub/protagonist of "CS", is in her 20's, more than a trifle snooty, and very bioattractive; feel free to imagine she's the most gorgeous woman of your scurrilous dreams ("hotter than Joan Blondell" as Mr. Brown puts it, gleeful that no one else in the story knows or cares who that is).  Claudia, the femsub/protagonist of "p", has generally low self-esteem and her weight borders on the edge of morbid obesity.

     Once the abduction kicks into high gear, "CS" will be chock full o' graphic sex and ordeal humiliation.  These doms are clearly up to no good; why, they're no better than common hoodlums, and besides, they own everything.  As in a real mindfuck scene, "p" may or may not feature sex involving physical contact between the two characters.  What exactly Trevor needs and wants, besides control, will be a mystery to both Claudia and the reader as the story/scene progresses.

     "CS" would not really happen.  "P" could.

     "CS" will open this double feature due to the light-hearted nature of its depravity.  The first installment of "p", the arthouse-friendly main attraction, will be posted two weeks from to-day.  The two serials will then alternate unto completion.  There will be final chapters, each entitled "Aftercare", to mirror this preface.  

The Daily Week: White Slime (Don't Do It, Barry)

     It was a near miss--very close, indeed.  Closer than we may think at this juncture.  Yet, the better angels of our nature prevailed in the end.

     Barack Obama was nominated for the U.S. Presidency by the Democratic Party, and Shrillary, the Wicked Witch of Westchester County, dissolved into a putrid puddle.  She and Hubby's oh-so-subtly race-baiting press clips could never soak it up and resuscitate her, but we heard her cackle off in the ill distance that she'd be back, my pretty, as a bracing Rocky Mountain wind carried away that festering excuse for a soul.  

     Good Tuesday ain't even ten days old, tho, and good gosh a-mighty, there she is defiling our long-suffering video screens already.  Is there any thunder left in Valhalla the Clintons won't shamelessly covet?

     Most importantly, if Good King Barry ain't offering the High Priestess of Opportunism the audacious hope of snagging the first vacant Supreme Court seat, where she could at least put her law degree to some use and parenthetically bond over the agonies of sexual McCarthyism with Hubby's fellow martyr to said emotional plague Clarence Thomas (a one-man emotional plague himself)...why in blue blazes is he wasting his precious time with her in media-frenzied private conference?  This tete-a-tete is very offensive...

     Secretary of State, you say???  Gaaa-huh???  Would that be a reward for lying about that Bosnian crossfire she didn't endure?  Or would the sweetest plum on the Tree of Counselors acknowledge her complete irrelevance to the Northern Ireland peace process, Hubby's greatest achievement in eight years of office-sitting (when he wasn't facesitting that delectable Jewish plumper Mata Harriet of his)?  How does Bill Richardson, an eminently qualified potential Foggy Bottom potentate who put his chubby beaner ass on the line for Team Obama when it mattered, feel about the prospect of the eternally grating ingrate Shrillary hogging the diplobuzz to-day instead? 

     When will management permanently exclude this relentlessly cynical diva of despair, the ultimate unwanted plus-one, the guaranteed buzzkill spouse who'll scowl-dampen any festive gathering, from the guest list of international politics?  Why can't she skitter off into semi-obscurity on those clattering claws of hers, oversee federal funding assistance to reconstruction of the Tappan Zee Bridge and stick to shit like that in a dutiful manner, leaving the rest of us non-Empire Staters the fuck alone?

     I'll tell ya why, Skeezix.  Because she bitches and moans and plays the gender card whenever she doesn't get her way.  She's positively Sharptonesque and the other, more gifted broads in Washington, none of whom got there hanging for dear life from Hubby's necktie (none, that is, now that Liddy Dole's been consigned to pasture), don't squawk about it as they should have ever since the Pouty Princess of Park Ridge bum-rushed dozens of perfectly capable female would-be U.S. Senators from New York out of her way due to the faux power of her third name.

     Do you think if Guv Richardson or Mr. Holbrooke or the Other Ms. Rice or any qualified SoS prospect cries on camera and whines about having to eat pizza, the masses will demand their appointment instead?  Unlikely.  No one can stop the Goddess of Guilt-tripping when she points a crooked crone's finger and demands her satisfaction, even if that means presentation of State itself.  No one ever has, that is, except the President-elect and his creative team themselves.  

The Daily Verse: Haiku #1

the elevator

lurches, pulled by thick webbed fingers

towards the water tank

The Daily Spot/The Art of Psychopathology: Glitterbugs and Flounders

     While psychopathology does benefit from scientific research of all stripes and sociological data banks in particular, it is not a science.  It is a technique which is grounded in the sort of observational methodologies that inform constructive criticism.  It is an art form, and since no one in those wrong minds of the psych-industrial complex admits it is, the art of psychopathology is an orphan subculture.

     The interdisciplinary revolution that brought psychoanalysis to modern civilization has devolved into a loose but entrenched confederation of nonconsensual control freaks, soft-spoken scamsters as corrupted by the pharmaceutical industry as a bunch of Texas wardheelers gladhanding petty oil industry cash in unmarked envelopes.  Nuance, beauty and cultural awareness have been hammered out of the art of psychopathological diagnosis.  We feed addictive pills to schoolchildren to improve their job evaluations (report cards), inventing imaginary maladies to rationalize the pusherman's guilt.  The genuine maladies of socially induced maladjustment, what Al Gore and/or his ghostwriters termed in a more limited, political sense the "assault on reason", go undiagnosed because the onus of collective psychopathology must only apply to losers of wars and subcultural demons.  I'll explore the stultifying effects of magical thinking in later posts; I bring it up to consider that there is no way to medicate an entire populace in a marginally liberal republic and there is no way to make eye contact with hundreds of millions of individuals to see if many or most of them are psychotic.  Psychosis is fully as contagious as influenza, but most psychotics wear it between the lids.

     See,...see.  See.  Yes, that's it.  You don't need a sheepskin to look into a person's eyes and read them.  Moderate to severe psychosis can be observed by lay people who look without the aid of dsm-gazillion or any other mentor-approved canon.  Look into the eyes and read them.

     There are two basic psycho gazes and I call the afflicted unfortunates who bear them glitterbugs and flounders.  Glitterbugs have eyes that glitter as if twinkling with starlight, darting about like bugs racing for shadows after a light switches on when stress worsens the condition.  These eyes tend to be quite lovely, touching and sad.  Calm, rational eyes make for bland visuals in comparison.  Flounders on the other hand bear eyes utterly devoid of warmth, compassion, or any discernible human emotion beyond obscurely etched anger and resentment, which flares under stress and simmers in other times but never dissipates entirely.  Their eye contact will be as kinetic as a dead fish on grey ice.  

     Glitterbugs express not joy but unspeakable ecstasy when they're happy.  Flounders may throw back their hands and bark mirthless laughter when they're happy, squinting away the possibility of deep joy.  You can have a damn good time with a glitterbug to-nite but they may set a fire in your foyer to-morrow.  Life is a zero sum game to a flounder and unhealthy cynicism becomes as encrusted in their eyes as a century of sleep dirt.

     Charles Bukowski's old girlfriend, the one portrayed by Faye Dunaway in "Barfly" who looked more like a movie star than she does, was a glitterbug.  Donald Rumsfeld is a flounder.

     If you meet either glitterbug or flounder in an alley bright enough to read their eyes, greet them cordially to stay on their good side, then bid them a polite but firm adieu and keep your distance.  Don't trip over the eggshells on your way to the nearest choo choo train.

The Daily Rushes: Lola Montes, Man's Castle

     Cinema has terminal cancer.

     I once toured the Art Institute of Chicago with a friend who makes collages and builds houses.  The paintings there are placed chronologically.  When we left the rooms with works by the Dutch Masters, he told me, "It's all downhill from here."  There would be good, excellent, sometimes great paintings to come in the intervening centuries, but no Rembrandts or Vermeers tumbling effortlessly from state of the art visionaries on a consistent basis.

     It's all downhill for cinema after "Raging Bull".  There have been a few fistfuls of great movies since then but they run like sand between our fingers down, the tide of mediocrities come sooner than the almanacs promise to sweep our hopes of cinematic rejuvenation back beyond horizon.  When was the last time you felt a new movie changed your life?  After the nouveau waves from South Korea and the Philippines wash outland, which other atlas-plastered zone will tempt us like a foodie's favored trendy new cuisine?  Will it matter much beyond the specificities of trade winds?  Is Hollywood itself now the Old West it lionized, a weedy pocket of ghostly recollections whose artisans from Eastwood on down paint their crabbed, anointed visions in murky filters of graveyard desaturation?  

     O'er the last fortnight I witnessed two movies which reaffirmed my choice of cinema as the greatest of all possible art forms, at least until holograms who touch us physically inhabit terra firma.  One of them is 75 years old, happy anniversary, the other a sprightly 53.  As much as I love "Brokeback Mountain" and "Storytelling" and "Buffalo 66" and "Lost in Translation" and "There Will Be Blood" and a kiddie portion of other movies o'er the past decade, there is no conceivable way that the relative geniuses who molded these relative masterpieces could ever compete with the supernaturally astounding work of Max Ophuls and Frank Borzage and their venerable creative teams.  "Lola Montes" and "Man's Castle" deserve entire volumes of appreciative critical analysis.  They are better movies than "Citizen Kane" or "The Rules of the Game" or a gazillion other genuine or putative classics.  They show and tell us legends of human experience and sensory marvels.  Comparison with recent would-be classics, as wonderful and sweetly fresh as they have been, defies the cheesy craft of the simile.  

     I carry the "Man's Castle" ticket stub in my billfold like a beloved snapshot.  If the Music Box printed out their titles, I'd carry "Lola Montes" around with me as well and she could have a very lively D/s threesome with Spencer Tracy and Loretta Young.  "Buffalo 66" is one of the greatest movies of my experience, a re-invention of the art of video editing and the art of black comedy and a landmark in the study of postindustrial men's issues, but I can't carry Billy Brown around with me.  He needs a bath and I'm not invited to join him.  

     Virility and vitality fade.  Mother Nature dooms art as well as being.  Cinema will never bloom again.

     It may be argued that the aforementioned recent relative masterpieces were all birthed in the land Uncle Sam owns, and the blush of creative youth abounds overseas or downstream.  While I admire the work of cultural anthropologists, I witness movies as a parishioner in aesthetic dim cathedrals.  Show me a visionary product of any national cinema that changes us and alters our perception the way "Stagecoach" or "Sunrise" or "Beauty and the Beast" or "Sansho the Bailiff" or "Black Narcissus" did, and I'll once again feel passion from the movies in their decrepitude.  

     Cantankerous excellence persists in cinema, and will for centuries if not longer. Greatness does rarely, if ever.  Excellent painters continue to please us, great works of art no longer grace the walls of our contemporary galleries.  The antiseptic lodging scent of multiplexes will suffuse their offerings with sweet promises of deliverance, but we can't move into a hotel.  Cinema is dying, and we must plan to move beyond the denial stage to other forms of greatness in creative bloom.

          

The Daily Meme: Brain Machine

     A brain machine is, quite simply, a computer.

     As airplanes (flying machines) are patterned after organic avian designs, computers (brain machines) are patterned after organic neurological designs.

     "Brain machine" has three syllables, as does "computer", & it's much more poetic.

      In conversation, in correspondence, in wild fantasies that may come true...use it.  Make it a meme for our post-millennial dreams.

The Daily Dom: 52 Topics for Year 45

     We've only just begun & I've already missed a Daily Deadline, but that is to be expected as life intrudes.  I partook in three public movie discussions (one of which detoured into a BDSM discussion) o'er the week-end & that gave me little or no time to write in the dailyclam home office.

     "The Daily Dom" is intended for a general audience.  Active community members will find much of it to be old news & will disagree w/some of my conclusions & interpretations.  I'm an assimilationist & will maintain my out status as a domgeek & control freak thru thick & thin.  I hope "TDD" can function as a literary liaison between the BDSM & vanilla communities.

     I'm listing 52 topics w/BDSM-related themes for future posts in my 45th year.  I invite requests as I comb thru them o'er the course of 2k8-9.

1) The Aesthetics of BDSM:  Be a Personality Performance Artist, Feel Better 

2) The Aesthetics of BDSM:  Historical Storytelling, Nomenclature, Political Strategies

3) Assimilationism vs. Insularism:  Andrew Sullivan's "The Death of Gay Culture" Applied to BDSM

4) Barack Obama:  2k8 Dom of the Year

5) BDSM, Generations X & O & the Post-millennial Cultural Revolution

6) BDSM Triads:  Dominance & Submission, Bondage & Discipline, Sadism & Masochism

7) BDSM Triads:  Light, Medium, Heavy

8) BDSM Triads:  Magnitude, Roleplay, Archetype

9) BDSM Triads:  Needs, Curiosities, Limits

10) Being Able to Know the Difference

11) BOLEMAC Owns the World:  A Blueprint for Making History w/ BDSM Flash Mobs

12) Borderline Personality Disorder:  How to Recognize This Deadly Contagion that Directly Affects the BDSM Community

13) A Cosmic Blacklist Makes Our Power Dynamics Topsy-Turvy:  Otto Preminger's "Whirlpool"

14) Dr. Lamb's Therapeutic Dominance:  A Mix of Cognitive & Client-Centered Approaches

15) Dynamics of Power in Dance Choreography

16) Edgeplay, Fear of Topping and Scotty's Lil' Fuckdoll:  the BDSM World of Alfred Hitchcock's "Vertigo"

17) Elements of a Domgeek

18) femcar:  2k8 Sub of the Year

19) FloridaDom, 2nd Runner-up, 2k8 Dom of the Year

20) Heavy Degradation, Hollywood Style:  Michael Ritchie's "Prime Cut"

21) Hollywoods' Greatest BDSM Work of Art:  Frank Borzage's "Man's Castle"

22) How Bigotry against BDSM Helped Elect Obama, & Other Tales Torn from To-day's Headlines

23) How the Totalitarian Wing of Second Wave Feminism Drove Mainstream BDSM Underground

24) If You Could Bring One Object (besides a slave) to a Desert Island Scene, What Would It Be?

25) Incorporating Chance into a Scene

26) Intruder Scenes & the Joy of Heavy Mindfucking

27) It's OK to Laugh:  Powerplay as Farce in Todd Solondz's "Storytelling"

28) Joe Biden, Dungeon Monitor

29) John McCain:  Runner-up, 2k8 Sub of the Year

30) Limitations of Efficacy:  Toys & whether to Use Them in a Mindfuck Scene

31) Mental Domspace & the Literature of Transgression:  Hubert Selby's "The Room"

32) 1955's Abuse & Consent Domnoir Double Feature:  Robert Aldrich's "Kiss Me Deadly" & Joseph H. Lewis' "The Big Combo"

33) Pastor Leonard Cohen's BDSM Hymnal

34) The Performance Art of the BDSM Presenter

35) Power Games of a Balding Venus:  Jean Genet's Dynamic Journey 

36) The Power of Natural Beauty & the Irresistible Mr. Dom in the Archers' "Black Narcissus"

37) Pro Wrestling:  BDSM for Children & Teenagers

38) Racheal Ray, 2nd Runner-up, 2k8 Sub of the Year

39) Robert Wise's "Born to Kill":  the Hills Are Alive w/ the Sound of Domming

40) Sarah Palin:  Runner-up, 2k8 Domme of the Year

41) "Scarlet Street": Pushing the Envelope of Erotic Humiliation w/ Master Fritz Lang

42) Sensory Balance, Deprivation & Overload during a Scene

43) The Serial Misinterpretations of David Lynch's "Blue Velvet"

44) Simon Says, Kitty Cat, Richie Cunningham and Other Light D/s Roleplays

45) The Spiritual Poetry of Dehumanization

46) Storytelling:  the Art of Developing a Mindfuck Narrative

47) The Strategic Devaluation of the Myth of the Golden Opportunity

48) Strategizing an Abduction Scene

49) Tailormaking Roleplays to Suit Personalities

50) The Unique Challenges of Accepting Service

51) Using the Quotidian World in a Mindfuck Scene

52) The Visionary Hybrid BDSM Porn of Jake Malone

The Oncely Intro

     Welcome to the dailyclam home office.  Pleased to meet you.  Wipe your feet.  No no, not there, on my temp slave in the corner.  Anywhere on her's fine.  Don't worry, like Jean Harlow's Red-headed Woman, she likes it.  

     Thedailyclam will offer a different category topic for each day of the week.  Here they are...

     Sunday:  The Daily Dom...in which I explore the topic of BDSM in a platform that can be observed by both civilians and active community members.  The definition of the term "BDSM" is fully as expansive as, say, the definition of the term "art".  BDSM, and D/s in particular, serves as the foundation of my philosophy, the strength of my spirituality, and the joy of my sexual orientation.  I prognosticate that It will also go mainstream in the 21st Century the way LGBT went mainstream in the 20th; in fact, 75% of the major party prez & veep candidates this year held major BDSM magnitude.  Don't be afraid--no, be a little afraid, it's more fun that way.

     Monday:  The Daily Meme...in which I make my own stout-hearted attempt to introduce fresh ideas, concepts, words and/or phrases into the cultural bloodstream.  The Meme Bank never closes in an economic disaster but it is designed specifically to grease the wheels for mergers and acquisitions.

     Tuesday:  The Daily Rushes...in which I analyze my favorite art form, cinema, using a multidisciplinary approach.  Cinema has been dying since 1981 but I'll try to keep it alive in our cultural memories and point out the occasional efforts at rejuvenation.

     Wednesday:  The Daily Spot...in which I examine certain fascinating orphan subcultures which will be fully accepted as legitimate art forms in the near future, the way the image of comic books evolved from the dumpsters of mockery to the altars of middlebrow reverence.  Pro wrestling since the mid-1990's and porn since 2k3 have been, at their best, exemplary models of the orphan subculture ascendant.

     Thursday:  The Daily Verse...in which I return to the literary form most writers begin and often end their careers with, poetry.  Serious lit-crafters are well-advised to at least occasionally return to this timeless form, which is to writers what the rudiments are to drummers.

     Friday:  The Daily Week...in which I don the dunce cap of punditry, firmly plant teeth in cheek and thumb in temp slave's mouth and pontificate about recent current events.  This is ideal for the day Daily Show/Colbert takes off, Bill Maher comes on, and Washington/Wall St. quietly releases ill tidings for the slow Saturday news cycle.

     Saturday:  The Daily Yarn...in which I spin tales in what could be a variety of optional formats in fiction.  I may combine several at once; a short story may suddenly become a screenplay the next week and a soliloquy for the stage the following week.  Doms love to sow seeds of chaos, observing from the control tower like Hitchcock's "Birds" dispassionately surveying the fiery filling station. 

That is all for to-day.