rectum: “Martha, why don’t you stop using my colon for comparison shopping? “The problem with you liberal types is that I have bin Laden up my ass and you’re asking why. I do believe in probably the unconscious being part of the conscious. Sometimes I think the ancients invented the soul because they didn’t know they had an unconscious. I think the soul is something that goes beyond our own understanding.
Honey, my ass is Central Intelligence so let’s keep the whys out of it.” Try as I may, I cannot find chestnuts in Finley’s dialogue about Bush’s asshole. My wife says, “I’ve seen you in a coma, David, and you’re not your brain.” I was just reading about a tone-deaf guy who started singing opera after his heart transplant. So perhaps the brain is a greater thing than just in the head.
(For the brave, other foods smeared on, in or across her naked body include ice cream sandwiches/kidney beans (“Mr.
Like some kind primal being, Finley expresses the inexpressible and demonstrates the power of pure emotion.
This darling of the art world and scourge of conservatives exudes a raw, brute energy that emerges from the depth of her soul.
She is a humanistic—rather than intellectual—artist. Almost childlike in her openness, she reveals her whole self while performing.
Yet many cannot handle the honesty of Finley’s rage; conservatives have frequently tried to prevent her from receiving federal funding.
Last Thursday, she gave Harvard students a chance to judge her for themselves when she came to the Carpenter Center and delivered a lecture entitled “The Body as Rorshach Test.” Clad all in black with silky auburn hair, and a svelte yet womanly figure, Finley looked more like a striking movie star than a queen of grotesquery. Finley combines humility and arrogance in a way that befits someone as prominent as she.
He said he heard his wife leave the room around 3am and assumed she had gone to get ice.
When he woke up, he claims his wife was not there and he got hotel security to page her over the public address system.
The singer/guitarist went ahead with his audition for the hit reality show even though his wife was missing.
Mr Finley has admitted to taking ecstasy the fateful night and partied at the hotel bar with his wife before returning to their room after midnight.
When I was a younger man, I once remarked to Barnard professor of philosophy Mary Mothersill that a girl I was dating was “sublime.” “Flesh-and-blood women can never be sublime,” I remember her scolding. To find a sublime woman, we must go to the classic tragedies of Racine such as Phaedra and Iphigenia.” Ah, those old tropes about hysterical women, incest and slaughter.
Mothersill was probably right in theory, but then she had never seen Karen Finley perform. Finley is terrifying the way Rainer Maria Rilke writes “every angel is terrifying.” For 25 years, she has been performing — usually beginning or ending up naked onstage, hollering a self-penned blue tirade dotted with scatological grunts, a verbal eruption given while Finley smears her naked self with chocolate syrup or other foodstuffs, such as the mashed yams she once stuffed in the cleft of her buttocks while mooning the audience (“Yams Up My Granny’s Ass”).