| Goodnight, LJ! |
[Dec. 1st, 2009|02:42 am] |
| [ | Tags | | | thanatos kitsch | ] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | exile | ] |
| [ | Psychic Weather |
| | Kirby your Enthusiasm | ] |
| [ | Aural Atmosphere |
| | "7M24S" ~ Ramona Ponzini & Z'EV | ] |
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| Stronger than Reason... |
[Dec. 1st, 2009|02:35 am] |
"...and punch and kick and punch and kick and swooooop down low. Hold that crouch, ladies. Now look for the key. That's it feel the burn. Awesome! Now pick up the key. Hold the key up to the light. Now put the key in the lock but the door won't open... so punch and kick and punch and kick... alright ladies, looking good. Now lets get a drink at the bar and... oh wait! The DJ's playing Thorns... oh-my-god it's the Distant Voices remix! They never play this anymore! Okay everyone Wumpscut curls on one, two, three and one, two, three and tonight we all, sleep in hell!"
Finally, someone figured out that aerobics instruction videos and Nietzschean post-apocalyptic EBM power anthems made the perfect couple. I mean, hello, I've only been saying this for like... forever. Now it's sort of like finding out that Suzanne Somers was having an affair with Al Jourgensen and that somebody only just now posted the sex tapes on YouTube. Sure it's still pretty cool to think about and definitely the perfect your-peanut-butter-is-in-my-chocolate brain fuck... but to be honest it's a little too little and little too late. I mean what with VNV Nation's seminal - "Pilates for a Lost Utopia Burning" and Andy LaPlegua's - "Skull Fuck Those Pounds Away the Combichrist Way!" DVD practically redefining the entire cardio-industrial scene.
Oh well, at least there's still time to get in on the ground floor for the next big thing in the rivethead scene: Gothic Industrial Deathrock for Toddlers (Cue Music as a multi-cultural chorus of small children chanting "DIG IT! DIG IT!" rises out of the yawning void).
Next week: DJ Shock-Ra Zulu's Rave Secrets to a Slimmer You (warning - may require generous amounts of E and Speed before attempting). |
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| Get down with the Sickness |
[Nov. 30th, 2009|04:06 pm] |
Got hit with some sort of 'bug' on Saturday. Suffered the usual symptoms of runny nose, sneezing fits, watery eyes, skull splitting migraines, epidermal necrosis and having my reflection fail to appear in mirrors. Passed out around midnight at the girl's house after crawling the walls, literally, for the better part of an hour. Woke up Sunday morning tied down to the matress, with a very stern Vee sitting at the end of the bed pointing a loaded pistol at me while a hispanic midget priest shrieked raw Latin and flicked holy Kool-Aid at me with dirty, stubby fingers.
"Honey, I know I've asked for a threesome before... but this really isn't what I had in mind!" I protested struggling against the bungee cords that had me strapped down.
"Silencio!" the lil' priest yelled and whacked me in the head with the flat of a wooden cross that had a gaudy gold rimmed pocket watch in its center instead of the usual Zombie Carpenter.
Vee then proceeded to explain that I apparently caught a touch of the Vamprosis while working at the club earlier in the week and the copious amounts of tryptophan I ingested over the Turkey Day weekend had apparently aggravated the virus. I was shocked to discover that one could contract vamprosis through contact with door knobs, toilet seats, riding public transportation and being exposed to teenage poetry as well as the usual methods of being bitten by the infected or having unprotected sex while watching Swedish porn in the background. The pistol was an after thought - loaded with bullets blessed by the Salvador Dalai Lama hirself - in case I should escape during my 'cleansing'.
"¡Por el poder del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu de Peter Murphy, te mando este demonio falta para salir del cuerpo de este hombre-niño simplista!" - The micro priest shouted in my face with an oven blast of halitosis and rotting plums.
"Wait, what?" I demanded but it was too late... the priest was already preparing the garlic and sea salt enemma in a rusty syringe. The glint in his eyes equal measures madness and lust unique to Catholic Priests.
Needless to say, in comparassion, today has been a much better day. |
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| Phone Sexy |
[Nov. 24th, 2009|07:40 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | thanatos kitsch | ] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | exile | ] |
| [ | Psychic Weather |
| | Getting ready for work | ] |
| [ | Aural Atmosphere |
| | "Everything's Under Control" ~ Meat Beat Manifesto | ] |
One of the more novel inventions to be found in the Kansas City Muesuem of What-the-Fuck-where-They-Thinking has to be the Erotic Phone. Invented in the early 80's to meet the growing demand for statues of naked women you could order a pizza with, the Erotic Phone is a masterpiece of kitsch-chic retrotech. Combining then state of the art "microprocessor technology" with a sculpture of a Frank Frazetta-esque nymph to add a little pizzaz to voracious bouts of credit card fueled phone sex antics... or to create what could possibly be the most awkward long distance conversation you will ever have with your mother. Small wonder then that the Erotic Phone could be found in the centerfold wall papered efficency apartments and light starved basements of any in-the know professional bachelor.
 ~ "Hello? Why yes, I'm still a fucking choad!"
~ "Sure honey, put the kids on and I'll say 'goodnight'."
~ "That's right I'm talking to you through a plastic statue of a nude woman covered in gold leaves... now who's got the wrong number, bitch?"
~ "YOUR QUIP HERE" |
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| Pounding away at the gates of oblivion |
[Nov. 23rd, 2009|11:20 pm] |
Four fucking hours to write one lousy paragraph. Somedays the muse is red hot with the word flow. Somedays she's a frigid bitch who won't return your calls. And somedays she's straight up sleeping around behind your back with the ice-cream man, getting it on in a meat locker located somewhere in the arctic wilderness. Sweet Goddess above why couldn't I have been born a musician?
I've earned my bad habits today. |
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| Uber Baby! |
[Nov. 21st, 2009|07:45 pm] |
Working a mod night! Kinda stoked actually. It's something called the Electric Circus put on by an outfit called the Fringe Factory. Hoping they'll play Anita Lane and Nick Cave's cover of Bedazzled or the title theme to Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (maybe if I ask nice enough).
Well off to work I go...
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| The Daughter of Fortitude |
[Nov. 20th, 2009|06:23 pm] |
The last payphone on Aethyr Willow Road is guarded by three men doing a poor job of pretending not to be. Cerberus in drag and divided on vigil. Lipstick snarls and diamond studded fangs. Dressed to the Tec-9's - combat booted, fishnet wrapped thighs and scarab armored in black leather Giger Gear. Faces immaculate as acrylic portraits, though portraits damaged by time and light's passing. Waiting. Cage pacing. Arms crossed for warmth with frosted huffs. Necks craned down the road on casual look out. Quick covert glances towards the phone booth easily betrayed by their naked urgency. They mutter curses and prayers against the defiant silence. The booth remains as indifferent as an altar - whatever call they're expecting will come no sooner for their needing otherwise.
They don't see me across the street waiting for the #7. I possess the invisibility of the tragically broke. A grasp of smoke in the passing hand of men's attentions. It is only when the bus finally lumbers begrudgingly towards me, sweeping me up in a wave of dull fluorescent illumination that the three amazons turn as one to register my presence. Looking away I dig chump change from my pocket and make as if I didn't see a damn thing. Before boarding I catch the tall one in the purple streaked Cleopatra wig sushing me librarian style - a radioactive yellow finger nail pressed against shock red lips. Her tiger eyes sparkle and wink a secret between us.
Whatever.
I step through the doors of the #7, counting the silver in my palm and realize shortly before the sum of two dollars is achieved that I am now walking up what appears to be a slope somewhere deep in a moonlit desert.
( Read more... ) |
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| Reel Life - Black Dynamite |
[Nov. 13th, 2009|01:25 am] |
| [ | Tags | | | reel life | ] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | exile | ] |
| [ | Aural Atmosphere |
| | "Risingson" ~ Massive Attack | ] |
Not content to flirt with the kitsch machismo of 70's Blaxploitation cinema, Black Dynamite plays like a midnight movie booty call that knows just how to ride the fine line between spoof and farce - smooooth. Seriously, I walked into the theater expecting I'm Gonna Get You, Sucka '09 and got something much, much better instead. Registering somewhere on the old Zeitgeistometer around Death Proof and the Beastie Boys Sabotage video, Dynamite comes to the party dressed Grindhouse Chic and Retrosexual sensible. And unlike the other Gore Du Jours, with their self-referential smirks delivered on the nose to a presumably in-the-know audience, Dynamite simply winks confidentally at itself in the mirror of its inspirations before proceeding to delivering a swift eighty something minute kung-fu ass whooping to the funny bone.
A lot of fun, highly recommended to Trash Cinema Fans.
Alright, long day tomorrow, one that'll end with the family and I back in Lauderdale. Need to shut down and get some sleep. |
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| Your place or mine? |
[Nov. 10th, 2009|08:59 pm] |
A single bulb sputters a faint beige glow, burrowing a tunnel of light from the darkened hall. We're huddled around the front door to the apartment, shivering as she fishes for her keys from the depths of a deceivingly small leather hand bag. I've got my lighter lit and hovered low to help her see better. I watch a cascade of lipstick stained napkins, fortune cookie messages, polaroid snapshots, club flyers, ambitiously delivered business cards and emptied Starburst wrappers spill from the bag. They flutter briefly before vanishing from the orange haze of my flame - paper butterflies who cannot quite remember how to fly.
Still I'm thankful to have gotten this far at all.
Not with her, but rather here.
( Read more... ) |
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jackbabalon23's journal
