Omni on the World Trade Center
Total Destruction and then Transcendence September 2001
The Transcendence Continues November 2001
The Transcendence Explodes I March 2002
The Transcendence Explodes II March 2002
The Transcendence Explodes III March 2002
Appendix To The Transcendence: "Bin Laden On The Keyboards, Bin Laden" July 2002
Post-Transcendence: Surfin' USA  November 2002
Five Years After The Transcendence January 2007

Appendix to The Transcendence:
"Bin Laden on the keyboards, Bin Laden"
by Adam Sobolak

July 2002 Considering how emphatically I turned the 9-11/virginity-loss juggernaut into motif-rhythm theory thru the Transcendence series, it's just as well that I'd choose the first 7-13 after 9-11 to commence a little satellite to the discourse; you see, that's the date my own literal non-virginity hit its age of majority. (In one of a set of prefab Corbusian slabs on a street called Slomiana on the south side of Krakow. A Friday the 13th. With a black cat in the place, yet. Talk about "total destruction and then transcendence"...)                   And I do so, in order to riff upon the strange fulcrum upon which, it turns out, both halves --myself, & S.J. Russell --of the OmniWTC equation balance: Frampton Comes Alive!                   Imagine. Frampton --the fulcrum of the transcendence. WTC in a can…a double can…a double sleeve… It came to me right away, almost. The first my friends heard from me after 8:46AM that Tuesday was via an email w/the header: side 1 of SXL "Into The Outlands" + side 4 of "Frampton Comes Alive". Reinvoking that extraordinary 1989-year-old proto-mash-up'n'more of mine. It set the tone for the proceedings.                   Though the substructure was in place. Even after Frampton's flame went out, the staggering scale and portentous tone of its keynote, "Do You Feel Like We Do", endured, almost in spite of itself, in my consciousness. (Whatever that track had, there has to be some untranslatable German descriptive term that pertains.) Under the curtains, I was already, by mid-1977, identifying that ineffably cataclysmic DYFLWD quality with the unbelievably architecturally goes-on-and-on gargantuan --somehow, I feel that the reflex was first tweaked by a mammoth block-filler of a 1953-58 Post Office/Federal Building in Vancouver. Though I didn't fully digest the gravity of the reflex until re-encountering that Lotus Land Modernist gargantua in 1994 --by which time the iconic Frampton had passed through the threshold of embarrassment into incipient ironic chic…or not. DYFLWD was too, er…much…for even that…                   But it gets weirder. My application of the DYFLWD matrix took a bold turn for the clairvoyant in 2000. The recipient: the staged, controlled implosion of FCA's equally obsolete Bicentennial contemporary, Seattle's Kingdome. Immediately declared by me to be the most DYFLWD spectacle ever.                   Through this and likeminded boulevard-of-broken-70s-dreams stadium/arena implosions in Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, etc, I discovered a very strange DYFLWD-diaspora "implosion culture" within the Web. Sites celebrating the art of controlled demolition by implosion, either created by or conspicuously fawned over by what may truly be called "implosion geeks". Because it's the Web, you can easily typecast what they're all about: Nintendo/Sim City-bred innocent semi-sociopaths who really find it neato awesome whenever some big man-made creation anywhere in the world gets blowed up real good. It's too much to describe their reflex as "hot and bothered" --the tone's practically one of arrested or actual pre-pubescence (again, it's the Web, remember) --nevertheless, there is something abjectly transfixing about those web pics of stadiums and factories and bridges and office buildings and failed housing projects and Vegas hotels and even Big Muskie blowed up real good, especially as one reflects upon the bittersweetness of how they came to be that way. (And in an age of preservation consciousness, the spectacle of implosion geekery had every reason to appear surreal. It makes one feel like a 60s-pacifist parent in jaw-dropping despair at Nintendo-culture's blithe havoc. But in a funny way, that fact hypes up the abject thrill one gets…demolition's gotten so boringly discredited, well, why shouldn't an innocent opposite reflex develop…especially if nobody gets hurt…an elementary simulacrum of cinema-styled "disaster"…)                   And on September 10 2001, I emailed said friends a pair of links on John Portman's 1974 BancOne Tower in Fort Worth, mortally tornado-damaged and destined for implosion but for some pesty asbestos issues…Monika's W. Karma…                   This stuff was still just plain DYFLWD, which despite my creative-association was still but an amusing period trifle, sans SXL. The next day, no more mere period trifle, and welcome SXL.                   And it stuck. A 26-year old cheering section at San Francisco's Winterland now came to denote Nuclear Winterland.

As S. J. Russell states, the WTC can be understood in a "Frampton Comes Alive" way --yet my observation was, even though WTC was Moog Gothic for a Moogaholic Decade, that ultimate 70s album, FCA, is oddly marked by an absence of Moog, at least in the literal keyboardy way. The keyboards that Bob Mayo of Bob-Mayo-on-the-keyboards fame plays are…plain old electric piano keyboards. (With unlikely germane effect; the cavernous crowd-noised delicacy of Mayo's DYFLWD piano solo elicits just the right note of neck-craning Philippe-Petit-tightrope 110-storey awe. More so than any slobbering synthesizer antics a la Keith Emerson could have hoped to manage.)                   Except for something I forgot to factor in. The guitar. Frampton's famous talking guitar. Perhaps Jimi Hendrix took the guitar as far through the Kama Sutra as he could go, but there's one thing Frampton could do that Hendrix couldn't --he could make the guitar Moog.                   There were already acts such as the Doors or ELP that let keyboards substitute for guitar and bass, but Frampton reversed the process; he took the archetypal rock instrument --the electric guitar-- and turned it into a better Moog instrument than a simple synthesizer keyboard could ever hope to be. Oh, there were prefigurations (think Pete Townshend on Who's Next) --but Frampton codified the popular vocabulary. The Moogest sound of the 70s; a sound of overprocessed joy and bliss.                   In the decade that brought us Pringles, better living through overprocessing. Even the "live" sound seems borderline "enhanced". The cheering section is simply too good and perfect to be true, especially with what was by 1975 standards a distinctly mid-level musical act. Mid-levelness made Frampton psychologically intimate, true. But still; it seems less live album than simulacra. More Aki Ross than Rock'n'Roll. A fluffy, electronically-generated live fantasy.                   "Prettiness" is at the nub of the problem. Frampton and his technique was just too gosh-darned pretty; all fruit, little apparent fibre. Which was no problem at first…until populist overubiquity turned it into an albatross. Critics didn't like populist prettiness; too "effeminate", too little in the way of guts. In the grand narrative scheme of things, it's considered to be a vacuous cop-out.                   Thus in architecture. All the bases covered by Mies, Gropius, Corbu and their compadres, the formula down cold by the 1950s --where to next? "Show Me The Way".                   So, the likes of Minoru Yamasaki and Edward Durell Stone showed'em --by slapping on the cake icing. Rich materials; shiny surfaces; spindly Gothic-Classic allusions in form and detail; perforated concrete and metal screens and likeminded "decoration" --the whole gamut. While a popular success, the Stone/Yamasaki style was to elite taste a meagre and half-baked embarrassment --at best, regarded as a too-primitive-by-half prelude to the Postmodern. Bogus kitsch, confectioner's sugar, architectural Muzak --the epithets never relented. Nor did it help that the names of Stone and Yamasaki were attached to some pretty conspicuous architectural/urbanistic boners including, in most sensitive eyes, the WTC.                   In fact, in relative aesthetic terms, FCA probably excels the WTC --at least, the WTC as a living fact, factoring out 9-11. For the WTC could never shake that mortal Princess Di-ness; its "loveliness" was too macabrely vacuous. To get a sense of how the WTC, Stone, Yamasaki, et al were truly reviled, you must enter the irredeemably pretentious Moogzak realm of Jean-Michel Jarre. Or worse (if less Moogy), Andrew Lloyd Webber. The really pasty stuff. Next to that, Frampton's pretty winsome kid stuff. Its innocent tone works more like Saarinen --Eero and Eliel alike. (Maybe also toss in that "Swanson" chap who was a Saarinen Sr&Jr partner in the 1940s.) Even more apropos, perhaps, is another S. J. Russell point of reference: Sir Basil Spence of Coventry Cathedral fame, who in critical stature if not in style was a bit of a British Stone/Yamasaki equivalent, populist "to a fault". (A popular, well-used Spence landmark vs a leaky, ill-functioning acquired taste by James Stirling? In the 60s architectural press, it was no contest. Sorry, Sir Basil, old chap.)                   I bore off-season afterhours entryless witness to Coventry Cathedral in April of 1987, in between switching coaches en route to Royal Leamington Spa. Perhaps one'd expect a pop-rock besotted 20something in 1987 to think of something "transcendent" like U2 upon encountering that thing. Ixnay; I thought of the twee 80s Brit teenpop of Altered Images. Real woodland-creatures-amid-the-charred-embers, that…                   In fact, FCA wasn't just "pretty"; it was drop-dead gorgeous, with an aura like no other yet created in the rock era --it even out-gorgeoused the Ronettes, believe it or not. Released in the first week of 1976, it became the Bicentennial's biggest seller; God Bless America.                   The music was gorgeous; the sound (live or ersatz) was gorgeous; and --most of all --Frampton was gorgeous. A journeyman rocker eternally on the verge of getting it on, finally hitting the mainstream as a gorgeous apparition, like a dreamboat of a new classmate or supply teacher leaving our girly hearts floating in the clouds. With Frampton, the realm of the teen idol, long trapped within an AM Top 40 Fabian-to-Osmond sphere, slid neatly, yet momentously, into an FM rock milieu.                   It didn't matter that his voice was rather homely (and the success of "Show Me The Way" has masked what must be one of the most flatfooted pop-hit vocals of the decade --though regarding a live performance, that's likely to be unfair judgment). In fact, it added to the shy and awkward charm. We were to "show him the way" --and how could we resist? Frampton was magical; he was radiant; he appeared as if suspended in a Moog mandorla. His blond mane became an icon --the distaff Farrah do. (How much of an icon? The "Inside Woody Allen" comic strip, of all things, gave Woody a shaggy dog named "Frampton", of all things. 70s with a vengeance, I'm telling you.)                   Over the teenage course of 1976, everything seemed to be Frampton --and then, as the Bicentennial year went kaput, the everything that was Frampton vanished into the ether. Vanished almost completely. For such a massively selling, seemingly ubiquitous album --a double album-- it's startling to consider that other than hardcore Frampton afficionados, the sort who'd invest in the 25th Anniversary Deluxe Edition of FCA, let alone 2000's "Live In Detroit" or, God save us, 1995's "Frampton Comes Alive II" (worse still, 1986's "Frampton Is Alive"), nobody seems to remember anything from it other than those three tracks that became hit singles: "Show Me The Way", "Baby I Love Your Way", and "Do You Feel Like We Do". Everything else: pure ambient noise. The balance of FCA has disappeared so completely from the radar screen, it could plausibly pass straight out of the classic-rock sphere and be "reclaimed" by those normally in reverie over a Fred Neil or Nick Drake or Terry Callier.                   SMTW was the first and biggest hit, an eternal Bicentennial-spring sock-hop twinkling time capsule; BILYW was the summer ballad, the smallest Billboard chart hit but the most musically lasting, as proven by even bigger hit remakes in 1988 (medleyed with "Free Bird" into a chart-topper for Will To Power) and 1994 (lite-reggaeified by Big Mountain for the "Reality Bites" movie soundtrack). Wistful, buoyant nostalgia items; quite delicate for a phenomenon. Delicate like the WTC's thongline tracery? It's possible, but only posthumously: WTC as mass culture, as a public facility. The crowds in the concourse, or waiting for the observation and Windows On The World elevators: like Frampton's cheering section, a benignly comforting mass. (The more insular office floor realm is like everything on FCA other than the hits.) Yet while living, WTC marked a lesser, crasser form of radiance. Eternally Princess Di. As the joke'd go, if the WTC hopped into a New York taxicab, the driver would leave the "VACANT" sign up.                   It's true; even as Frampton became an overblown-beyond-his-means joke, the happy-go-lucky human-scaled FCA of its first two hits couldn't stoop to that Dianaesque level of opprobrium. It evokes something different…something I witnessed the day I commenced this essay. On a somewhat secluded beach on Toronto's Centre Island. A sweet pair of teens sitting in the sand, him giving her a back massage…and then she turned and gave him the most beaming strawberry-blonde Julia Stiles smile imaginable. It made my day. I was even tempted to go around and thank her, which would surely have made their day…I hope.                   That is the Frampton magnetism, c1976. Lush and ripe, and not at all vacuous, meagre, narcissistic, or any of those negative epithets the WTC earned. The micro-Frampton, at least, was blissfully that way: nothing more than the journeyman rocker at the debutante ball. But the macro-Frampton, the juiced-up and out-of-control pop phenomenon of the moment, was much more comparable to the Twin Towers. The Frampton which couldn't manage the mammoth scale of that which he, or more particularly management and fate, begat. However much his music sounded like the apotheosis of "Ticket To Ride" jangle and chime, he simply couldn't bear the dead weight of being bigger than the Beatles. Like the Twins couldn't bear the dead weight of being bigger than Empire State, Chrysler, Woolworth, etc…combined, let alone individually. (And Yamasaki himself was better at the scale of small office buildings, educational institutions, et al.)                   When a respectable architectural scholar such as Sarah Williams Goldhagen (The American Prospect, 12.17.01) declares the Twins "a good, perhaps even a great, work of architecture", it seems too post-9-11 reflexive a judgment for a complex that seemed to bear a Cosmo Kramer-esque "Bad Architecture" sign for all its existence. Besides, while it may be a matter of well-tailored scholarly decorum, such judgment leaves the point unsaid that the "greatness" of the WTC is nothing without its destruction. The Twins are inextricable from their fiery end, they were never more aesthetic than on September 11 and after --self-cancelling as the aesthetic may have been. Existence upstaged by destruction. Never more beautiful or inspiring, albeit in a horrendous way. Goldhagen's argument is immolated in an instant by the architectural event of our time.                   Which brings us to the third FCA hit, "Do You Feel Like We Do". WTC would be nothing without its destruction; FCA would be nothing without DYFLWD. It was FCA's fiery end after two (vinyl) disks of pure bliss. (Vinyl + jet fuel: meltdown.)                   It shouldn't have been the case. Live shows and live albums with epic-length showboating showstoppers were par for the 1975 rock course, ho hum. It just happened to be that this one --a little giddier than the rest, true-- was on a bestseller like no other. Furthermore, it became the keynote of said bestseller like no other. And with Framptonmania's wildfire blossoming, the keynote became too hot to stanch. Thus, perhaps on some impossibly beautiful sunny day roundabout September 11, 1976, it was decided that this gargantua --in wishfully abridged form, of course-- was to be FCA's 3rd single.                   And while the previous pair still conveyed something of a Top 40ish "human scale", this one really reflected the unwitting behemoth Frampton had become --yet paradoxically, DYFLWD-the-hit came at a time when it was clear that Frampton had morphed into a de facto teen idol, albeit one of the borderline-credible Ricks-Nelson-and-Springfield strain. A teen idol with a 14-minute live signature piece? And now, a hit single? That may have been the moment when AM Top 40's longstanding teencult arbitership buckled and crashed.                   "Hyperthyroid" is the best epithet for DYFLWD. It's like a simple 70s pop-rock number stretched and distended waaaaay out of any healthy semblance of proportion, its sound sprawling and spreading and surrounding us in amniotic murk, something so huge that it creates its own microclimate. Even the 45rpm and Top 40 edits couldn't contain the energy force; they, too, were driven to buckling under the strain. The darned thing was simply too big. Yet said single and radio edits --and the simple fact that they dared, at all, to coax a hit out of this thing --fuel rather than detract from the overall staggering effect. And staggering it was, monumental, even in sawed-off form, even with most if not all of the break excised. "Single editing", in fact, enhanced the you-can't-take-it-all-in effect. 14:15 minutes equalled 110 storeys; the edits marked any portion the naked eye or snapshot lens could take in. All in all, 110 pinstriped storeys soaked in jet fuel. You could see the panic at street level, but you had to look up to see the fire. Vast, vast, vast.                   Overlong live epics have been a dime a dozen, and typically locked into a FM-rock ghetto; DYFLWD was the first of its ilk to be populist. And perhaps the last --although earlier epics have tended to trickle down into popular consciousness over time. (And George Benson's live "On Broadway", a 1978 hit, worked sort of like DYFLWD in blackface.) Populism --the immediacy of Lower Manhattan, rather than the distance of Kabul or Chechnya or Kosovo.                   The original studio version of DYFLWD is a turgid, plodding 70s-rock disappointment by comparison. On FCA, it's possessed. As though by Lucifer. Stockhausen's Lucifer. Without having musical relationship to Stockhausen in the least.                   I attended one high school dance where DYFLWD was played. It was my first high school dance. It was the first in which DYFLWD was an affirmed "hit", and the last before Frampton's name was mud. And this was when high school dances were still conducted along "AM Top 40" parameters, remember. And it was a strange spectacle. It was the otherworldly full-length version…and for some reason it was being treated as a slow dance number --but something didn't compute. Of course, the earlier Frampton hits made sense as fast and slow dance numbers, respectively. And the 70s high-school-dance epic, "Stairway To Heaven", also had built-in slow-dance plausibility; when it "went heavy" towards the end, it was a cue for the nominal slow-dance to become hanging-on-for-dear-life intense. But DYFLWD? Maybe it's the perils of transferring a live performance, where the witnesses are more likely to be awestruck than "moving around", to a high school dance playlist --but the spectacle of people slow-dancing to DYFLWD wasn't just incongruous, it was surreal. Catatonic. A ritual of the undead. And audaciously nearly doubling the length of the immortal "Stairway To Heaven". (14:15 vs 8:03. Consider this: according to the World Almanac, the Twin Towers were 1368 and 1362 feet, 110 storeys; 1 Liberty Plaza is 743 feet and 54 storeys.) And with the big bulk of DYFLWD taken up by the break, well…it was positively eerie; a dwarfing, defeating presence. In a darkened high school lunchroom on a 1976 autumn evening, it made everything and everyone seem to seductively float along in concert-attendees' lighter fluid…the jet fuel of the proletariat, perhaps…                   Perhaps here's the rub. The earlier single spawn of FCA can readily be understood in terms of misty teen memories. SMTW and BILYW --the fast dance, then the slow dance-- abided by the moon-june-spoon fantasy as readily, wistfully as the golden oeuvre of Little Anthony & The Imperials or Johnny Rivers. But the 70s, in the end, were different --and DYFLWD demonstrated it. With that track, coitus was involved.                   Fast dance; slow dance; coitus. The devil's triangle of teen indulgence.                   That was the trouble at the high school dance; they were attempting to dance to something that denoted coitus, not dancing. And it was coitus as a metaphor, rather than the act itself --though this being teenage 1976, coitus to DYFLWD certainly happened; but in practice, it was too overwrought a gesture. True to its being a live recording, it was more like witnessing coitus than performing it --the incendiary aural version of stag film footage. DYFLWD sounded lurid, obscene, indecent in its scale --teen-idoldom being violated, humiliated, and right before our eyes and ears. We behold; our jaws drop. And stay dropped.                   Don't take the metaphor too literally --though as Hendrix Ultra-Lite, Frampton was a natural master of the art of live-performance-as-lovemaking. It was the bubblegum Hendrix-at-Monterey: rather than a guitar set afire, a guitar is made to talk. And come to think of it, Frampton's talking-guitar solo, the infamous linchpin for the song and album (and arguably for the total romanticized image of 70s popular culture), is surely in itself the most outlandish cunnilingus metaphor ever committed to recorded audio. Not just coitus: cunnilingus. As if it were a grander part of the proceedings than even the coital part. Maybe it is; we're talking about a high, comprehensive level of erotica here…                   The staggering scale plays a part, of course --for it is at the point of coitus that the scale of Western adolescent culture grows staggering, bursts forth in all directions. (And incidentally, 14:15 would probably correspond with a compact coital-performance unit.)                   Yet there's an even larger context for DYFLWD --at least through the original double vinyl format. (Not only is the sense of context lost in CD translation, but the 25th Anniversary Deluxe Edition reconfigured the track sequence so that DYFLWD is no longer the last track, etc etc. Killjoys.) If there's a candidate for a "fourth track" to joined the 3 FCA hits in the sustained imagination, it's "Lines On My Face". First, because it's the loveliest, most moving thing Frampton ever did --what truly should have been his signature piece. (Perhaps it should have been Single #3, and DYFLWD saved for fourth; oh well. Also, unlike DYFLWD, the studio version's as lovely, if more tranquil.) Second, it was DYFLWD's companion piece and lead-in on the vinyl Side 4; and indeed, those two tracks formed what was effectively a (pre-25th Anniversary) sonic unit. Inextricable. LOMF as tender foreplay…tender, yet tense, a delicate portent…as it ends to the omnipresent Frampton-audience cheers.                   Then, after a break, we hear another audience surge, and it's immediately apparent that this is a really important event in the making…it's the surge that accompanies and practically overwhelms the distinctly ominous opening notes to "Do You Feel Like We Do".

Figuratively speaking, it's the moment when the pants come off.                   But it's also the moment in Jules and Gedeon Naudet's documentary footage when the plane hit the first tower.                   In fact, in that surge that opens DYFLWD, one's tempted to insert the conspicuous "Holy S**t!!!" that is heard in the Naudet footage --and it would convey plenty, make the meaning quite clear. (70s teencultwise, think of the Phil Rizzuto play-by-play in the Meat Loaf/Jim Steinman epic "Paradise By The Dashboard Light", compacted into a meteorite-like mass.)                   And it builds, and keeps building like a snowball. You're never not reminded that this is something BIG. Maybe big and absurd, in a 70s cheesy-surreal way --but big all the same. Frampton is immolating himself, his instrument, his backup, and his audience on the spot. And on and on for 14 relentless, metronomic minutes. A constant modular rhythmic pattern, at outsize proportions, underlining the outsize proportions. And it isn't like there's any single peak, or set destination --it becomes clear that the piece itself is one big dizzying peak or series of peaks from beginning to end. Though there might be a bit of a brief lag in the 3rd stanza, which was most often edited out of the singles/radio mixes (and thus must qualify as the 7WTC of the proceedings). On the other hand, that's the stanza that leads into…the break. And unlike many such extended breaks, DYFLWD's doesn't sink into itself; it spews outward. Erupts out into and consumes the audience. Floating paper and mystery dust all over the place. We're left dazed.                   Eventually, this tour de force --almost resembling the unbelievably distended uterus from which "Smells Like Teen Spirit" originated (and SLTS is a mere Oklahoma City Bombing next to this) --is over; a smouldering pile of flaming musical wreckage. DYFLWD was over, marking the end for --in its original incarnation-- FCA. And Frampton's credibility. And AM Top 40's youthful cultural hegemony. Maybe even --although it took a quarter century for the implications to be clear-- the entire airtight music business hegemony. The excesses of Framptonmania blazed the long trail for an industry about to lose its marbles.                   And the WTC is over. And with both Frampton in '76 and the WTC in '01, what should've been an afterglow turns out to be, if not a disrespect, then a clammy discomfort in the morning. Not wanting to face the classroom sweetie whom you bedded the previous evening. Blushing embarrassment, the day after.                   Thus in the aftermath of FCA, Frampton's career as a pop/rock superstar was effectively, if ironically, destroyed. (Oh, the temptation of comparing the Sgt Pepper movie to the six alternative plans for the WTC site released in July 2002. Opprobrium, opprobrium.) It was largely by retreating to the status of mid-level journeyman rocker and occasional backing musician that Peter Frampton was able to survive, with a reasonable modicum of credibility and dignity restored, through the 80s and beyond. What happened in 1976 was a fluke beyond everyone's control; the agreement was universal. Frampton was forgiven. Not without caveats (most notably, the eternally unavoidable millstone around the neck of any live performance he gives short of Homerpalooza). But, basically, forgiven. And "Frampton Comes Alive", in time-capsule original double vinyl, is its own best memorial.                   Thinking of this, what of Ground Zero? More and more, I'm tempted to conclude --just leave it a space. With zilch, other than token Maya Linisms and at most the transit-terminal infrastructure that's already in the works. Nothing wrong with a space; the generations raised under the shadow of rave culture, etc. understand the dynamic thrashabout virtues of space. (And leave the pretentiously ruralizing cows-in-pastures notions out of it. Just space.) As for office space, just bolster the Hudson ferry service and turn Joizy City into even more of an integrated Shanghai-by-the-Hudson enterprise zone than it is already, 110-storey towers and all. Which is an idea so defiantly, perversely banal that no planner worth his/her salt would even consider it; but given the all-but-unavoidable impotence of their solutions to the "Ground Zero problem" --anticlimactic, woebegone, and tortured and paralyzed by overexpectation-- maybe utter dizzy Asian-style banality is the way to go. Under the circumstances, mundane could be the best virtue. Apologies to those displaced office workers who're yelling "Hoboken!?! Ooooh, I'm dyin' again!", but perhaps those Randist free-enterprise zealots have more of a point than they're given credit for…                   A situation just like Frampton's. Expectations that in no wildest dreams could be met. So, the best choice is to be mundane. It's over; just playing out the string. And content about it.                   But what a Framptonian impact in 1976, especially through the Sturm und Drang cataclysm that was "Do You Feel Like We Do". If only more teenybop stars had their DYFLWD moments in them…

From: Analrules14 (analrules14@aol.com) Subject: Re: Christina a porn star! Newsgroups: alt.fan.christina-aguilera Date: 2002-01-11 18:10:41 PST >So what does it show? Is it that shocking? Tell a little bit more about >it. This is the summary I wrote down the day after I saw it(a bit long): --------- -Starts out showing an empty room from the side, wide shot, cuts off and when it comes back it is zoomed in somewhat more, then it cuts off again. -When it comes back, you see Christina walk into the room, and looks around somewhat. It looks like, for a split second, she stares right into the camera.  Then the guy comes in, closes and locks the door, and grabs Christina and starts to kiss her. This continues for a few seconds, but not very long, and soon they're on the bed undressing each other. -The man goes down on her, sucking on her breasts for quite awhile, then sliding down and licking her cunt. Christina gets very loud as he does this, her hands are all over the place.. her tits, her hair, his head. -After she cums, she sits up and kisses him, commenting on how good it tastes, then lays him down and sucks his cock for a bit. She's reaching behind her and masturbating while she sucks him. Also loud here, stopping frequently to mention how much she enjoys this and asking him if he does. -Then she lifts up off him, asks him for a condom and puts it on him using her mouth. She swings her leg over him, straddling him, and begins lowering herself on to him. Slowly at first until she completely covers his cock, then begins to move faster. His hands start out on her tits, rubbing them as she bounces, then down to her hips, helping her move up and down harder and faster and also thrusting his hips up into her on her way down. Extremely loud here, yelling for him to fuck her harder and that she's cumming. -After they both cum, the guy gets up, presumably going to the bathroom. She moves to the side, facing the camera instead of it being at her side, and begins to finger herself. She never looks at the camera directly, however. This continues for a few minutes, her yelling to announce her orgasm. -The guy comes back as Christina cums, and she lifts her head up and motions for him to come to her. He stands at the foot of the bed and tells her to move to that side, he wants the camera to see more but he doesn't say it. She grabs another condom and moves over there, first getting down on her knees to put the condom on his dick using her mouth Then she starts to lay down on the bed on her back but he stops her, telling her to lay on her stomache. She agrees, sounding quite excited. He spreads her legs, and after rubbing her pussy for a few minutes, he starts to work his cock into her. He continues to go slow, until Christina yells out for him to go faster, and he does so. He leans forward, grabbing her tits in his hands and roughly squeezes them as she yells out in pure esctasy. This lasts for awhile. -Eventually he lets go of her tits, and dips his finger into her pussy briefly.  Still thrusting, he starts working on her ass. Christina got quiet, and I expected her to object at first, but she didn't say anything. Once he had her ass loosened up more, she started yelling out more, now into the ass thing. He pulls his cock out of her, and gets down on his knees and starts licking her again. First her pussy, then he works on her ass with his tongue, which she loves. -After he's satisfied, he stands up again, takes the condom off and begins to slight it gently into her ass. Once in awhile Christina will make a grunting noise, and he'll stop for a second. This goes on for quite a bit, before he finally gets his ample-sized cock inside her anus. Then he starts moving faster, and Christina gets louder again. She moves her hand down to her pussy, fingering herself, and the guy grabs her tits again. This lasts for an impressively long time, until Christina cums, sending the guy into his own orgasm, filling her ass. He rolls off her, and lays on the bed next to her. -They lay silent for a few minutes, Christina rolls onto her back and comments on her ass being sore, but feels naughty with the cum dripping out. They talk about other stuff, plans for the next few days, and such. Seems like this was their first time together, but maybe not. ------------------ Basically, just your average sex-encounter.. nothing too shocking. I don't get what everybody's getting so worked up about.

Post-Transcendence: Surfin' USA  November 2002 "PETER FRAMPTON COMES ALIVE." C. MAYNARD BOPST© 2002 3" x 3" Omni on the World Trade Center