Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

again, for Laura

Comments (6)

jolly roger

Some people forget there is a hell

August 11, 2012

Uhh get your jollies rodger?

You say that but you are on a porn site?

August 15, 2012

;===0

Omg shes so shy fuck her real gd dude

August 20, 2012

forever77

It is amazing how many of you slept through English class.

August 24, 2012

Der Spermin8tr

Once her hair is down, She getts pretty. No way those are C’s, her tatt’s don’t look good. Great BJ skills. Lovd her hair down!!!!!

August 24, 2012

ketamean

if she has Cs, then I have f-cking Ds lol. So many of these small-breasted casting couch girls lie about their

again, for Gavin

and Yukimi, Taiyo & Zen de Becker

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Kylie Jenner, 13, Shows Off Her Legs In Fashion Shoot (PHOTOS)

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SparkNotes: Inferno: Important Quotations Explained

www.sparknotes.com/poetry/inferno/quotes.html — Cached

It is greatly significant that both Purgatorio and Paradiso end with the same word as Inferno: stele, or the stars. It is clear not only that Danteaspires to Heaven. .

(GRAPHIC)

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Morning is the time of Man: the Known

salimmo sù, el primo e io secondo,

tanto ch’i’ vidi de le cose belle

che porta ‘l ciel, per un pertugio tondo.

E quindi uscimmo a riveder le

stelle.

— I N F E R N O, XXXIV. 137–9

Hurt Boobies

Telma

just found out she was no longer the world’s youngest breast cancer survivor (now 13, she had a radical mastectomy at 9, beating out Hannah Powell-Auslam who was diagnosed at age 10. They took the lymph nodes from under her arms too). Now here comes Mom saying there’s a 4-year-old somewhere in Canada as we speak wearing the crazy uncoveted laurel of youngest juvie breast carcinoma vic. The news left Telma a little at sea, lil Telma with her little big C, wondering if her demoted standing might affect the awesome amazing cornucopia of pink-tie charity events — the gala balls & schmancy fundraisers, the private lunches at the Hotel Bel-Air/Soho House/fijiwater teleflora Resnick chateau on Sunset — she was asked to participate in all year round in LA, and points north, south and east. She was actually famous.

The irony was, her mother had a lumpy tit for months and was herself worried sick she’d been god-gifted with C. Gwen was one of those tiresome people forever skittish and terrified by doctors; it took almost a year for her to go in. She of course got an assist from her shrink who with more than a nudge from her client had prepped Gwen for a lumpectomy at the very least, any kind of maybe-ectomy, but all the oncologist did was some draining. She brought Telma with her and at the last post-drama moment showed him the fleshy pea under her kid’s nipple. A week later, immediately after the unfathomable diagnosis, mother and daughter were sealed into the scarifying rip-snorting over-the-falls barrel of break CancerWorld 2.0. A half-dozen shtarker moms helped Gwen survive her baby’s mastectomy (St. Ambrose Hosp/Westwood), for which she would be eternally damned/grateful.

(She can never forget: the hospital lobby had vitrines filled with a traveling exhibit of Barbie dolls.)

(The gal who created Barbie and Ken got breast cancer & patented a prosthetic called “Nearly Me.”)

Telma was conceived in vitro when Gwen was 44. Her husband froze his sperm before being zapped for prostate cancer; he succumbed, as they used to say, when his princess turned three, right on her birthday. If Gwen was old when she conceived, now she was fucking old, an old broad old enough to remember the bookstore days. The Sixties. She was what, 12ish? The Village, as they once called it, had a profusion of bookstores (can ya imagine?) & head shops too, with bongs and mushroom-lettered blacklight posters, the whole deal steeped in that sexysubversive patchouli smell imported from beyond — the foggy subversive motherlode of the Haight. In a sun-shadowed courtyard the girlpacks could buy huaraches/leather sandals (but never did) crafted onsite by a fabulous furry freak, fresh (seemingly) from the commune, or some commune or other, his adobified kittycorner wafting with that leather smell, biker leather smell (so the little girls they did guess) and when he got close to them and leered, they could subversively smell scary sexy bearded man smells, & triangulate from there. There was an on-campus bowling alley, wax and pine-smelling, where Gwen and her gradeschool peeps (they didn’t call it middleschool then) sometimes hung on weekends, instead of taking the 83 WILSHIRE or hitching to the beach. The blast of AC hit you right when you walked in, odor of foodcourt and future life, campus bookstore/indoor pool/bowlinglane sounds & smells, a grand and grandly sunlit subversive world: Gwen remembered thinking This is the smell of college, the smell of being grown-up, the mysterious alluring subversive smell of the end of carefree days. Her memories were saturated with the erotic energy unleashed by cliquish tween tribes venturing out on their own, testing wings with parental approval, the Village being a plaza that was considered safe for pubescent gazelles (back in the day when so many things were considered safe), their pairs upon perfect pair of rangy downy legs shod in magic markered Vans, perspiry hormone-blasted packs of flowerpower grrrls wearing chunky boyfriend I.D. bracelets (some of them) bought & engraved at P.O.P. on the pier, virgin wannabe wild childs out hunting and gathering for what they knew not.

Then her trips to Westwood became the stuff of nightmares. Gradually, with the brutal ardent fellowship of