Question: How do you say “oh fuckballs, I think I took the brown acid” in Telugu?

Answer: “Idhi Oka Idi Le!”

Just kidding. “Idhi Oka Idi Le” is merely the title of an exuberant duet between classic Tollywood stars Radha and Chiranjeevi. Actually, I have no idea what “Idhi Oka Idi Le” means. What I do know is that I’d rather eat a live centipede than watch the “Idhi Oka Idi Le” video while tripping.

Embedding’s been disabled on this, so make with the clickies (provided you’re not on any hallucinogenics right now).

Parody! It’s frowned upon and revered in equal parts by comedians and comedy enthusiasts worldwide. Ubercoolische was a site that poked light-hearted fun at a few real-life electronic musicians, the popularity of Berlin-bound migration and over-use of the word “minimal”. It was sparked by this amusing Metrotimes article about the Berlin scene which I suggest you read before proceeding.

Picture by Wouter Smit

The cast of Ubercoolische is as follows: Richie Hawtin a.k.a. Plastikman, Ricardo Villalobos of multiple minimal techno projects, and Magda - DJ whose MySpace name is, yes, Minimagda. Whether you’re in the electronic scene or not, surely you’ll appreciate the hilarity of this once-meme. While ubercoolische.com is down these days achrive.org comes through once again. Though their server appears a bit spotty you can read all of the installments here. And if you really love it, T-shirts are still available.

Yeah. Hurray for “alternative beauty.” Photo by Mojokiss.

Catwalk Tragedy 4, the East Coast’s biggest “alternative beauty pageant,” took place in Philly last weekend. Having been to the first Catwalk Tragedy, which was the closest I’ve ever seen my beloved goth scene morph into a drunken frat party in a trailer park on Mardi Gras weekend, I was curious how this larger-scale endeavor would play out. With more of everything - sponsors, judges, contestants - would it be a be a creative talent show or an even bigger sleazefest?

The judges this time were a respectable and diverse bunch, which gave me hope: my friends Kambriel, Apnea and Philip (Lithium Picnic) were on the panel, as well as two individuals less known to me; Jayla Rubinelli from America’s Next Top Model and Joey Martini, a burlesque emcee/performer.

Kambriel: “I think Joey’s face pretty much says it all with whatever was going on in that moment!”

With such a mix of judges I hoped that the event would be more classy this year, but alas! This year, it was the contestants dropped the ball. A belly dancer Tempest tells it:

The competition was set up boys and girls – meaning each gender had it’s own category. The contestants were given a top from one of the sponsors to alter as they wish, as long as the logo was intact. There was somewhat of a slut factor involved in the presentation of some of the girls, but I didn’t think much of it. Short micro-mini’s are rampant (or were, they seem to be going out from the latest batch of Gothic trends), but it was mainly a lot of boob gesturing, but hey, if you got ‘em, flaunt ‘em right? The boys were more tame in general. Both groups seem rather inexperienced with the concept of modeling, especially with walking, but hey, competitions can be nerve-wracking right?

The third round was freestyle – the model’s own choosing and to really show off their stuff. It was here that my brain had nothing short of a minor meltdown. Out of perhaps 20 girls, no more than 3 didn’t do something akin to stripper routine, and even then, they were borderline. Again, I don’t have anything against strippers, and I love burlesque, but this wasn’t burlesque, and I’m sure better strip shows could be had at the Foxy Lady’s “Legs & Eggs” morning strip events. (New Englanders everywhere just cringed massively.) Apparently “crowd reaction” was a judging category for this round, and the great majority figured that the best way to do this was to strip. After the first few, it was “oh look, another set of boobs and pasties” again and again. I was surrounded by male colleagues and they weren’t impressed in the least (and yes, they were mostly straight). I wondered what the boys would do…

The boy’s third round was a much different story. Yeap, there were a few strip routines in there, but the majority of them danced and really showed off their moves, their agility, and their PERSONALITY…mainly, it was a reversal of the girls’ round.

Oh, Philly girls. How you disappoint! Unless you were all from Jersey, in which case I understand. But the story has a happy ending. “In the end,” Tempest writes, “the winners were the ones who showed personality and really showed off the clothes in how they presented themselves (and for the most part, kept their clothes on.)” Kudos to the judges for making that call. And don’t get me wrong; you know we love hot girls in corsets! It’s just when those crucial ingredients of creativity and ownership are missing that it becomes a little sad.

To end this on a light note, here is a video of male stripping from Catwalk Tragedy that made me want to laugh and weep at the same time.

Being mettul is hard on the joints, and no one understands our needs better than German agricultural marketing firms.

Number of the beast (er, cow?)

With a tag-line like “Hard types need hard bones… drink milk!”, beer is now officially relegated to Trivium fans, folks. The campaign was developed by Hamburg Technical Art School, who will hopefully not be sued by Metallica for using their font.

Advertisers are becoming increasingly metal-friendly, although admittedly the genre is used largely as a vehicle for some ill-conceived punch line. But who can blame them? Metallers look like wankers and write shittier lyrics than Mariah Carey. Everything they touch turns into comedy GOLD:

From the made-for-TV anthology, Spine Chillers, comes this short comedy Goths, starring Mackenzie Crook (The Office) and Mark Heap (Jam, Big Train). Our pathetic heroes, struggling to find a flat in London, think they’ve finally found the perfect gaff from the perfect landlord, when they discover they may have bought into more than they’ve bargained for:

• Part 2
• Part 3
• Part 4

You may recognize the pub in the first scene as being that of the iconic Devonshire Arms; you can even spot some of their current staff in amongst the punters.

A sort of apparition - a tall, elegant and bejeweled creature, with wavering elegant gestures, reminding one rather of an Aubrey Beardsley illustration come to life - Clough Williams-Ellis about Henry Cyril Paget, 5th Marquis of Anglesey

The subject of the “Coilhouse patron saints” comes up in conversation quite often, and Henry Paget deserves a high rank on that list, perhaps between Genesis P-Orridge and Marchesa Luisa Casati. He was the most outrageous of the English aristocrats, often seen gallivanting around London bedecked in jewels and silk, with a poodle under his arm or driving a custom car spraying perfume from the exhaust pipes.

This was a boy raised entirely by women, first in a theater environment in Paris and later in the seclusion of a Gothic mansion in north Wales with little peer contact and sudden access to a seemingly endless supply of money. To call the grown up Henry Paget an eccentric would be a grave understatement, and his upbringing was blamed for his behavior and suspected homosexuality. The charismatic young man transformed himself into a work of art with each waking breath. Obsessed with being photographed, he spared no expense for his costumes, meticulously preparing his poses and taking on new personas for each shot. He even employed a team of dressers to help with frequent costume changes.

Briefly married to his cousin, he showered her with jewels, as well. He “liked to view his emeralds, his rubies, his diamonds displayed on her naked body. But he didn’t lay a finger on her. There was no sex… The marriage was annulled on the grounds of non-consummation.” says the Daily Mail. The Marquess may have shunned romantic involvement entirely, but surrounded himself with other beauty despite the raised eyebrow of aristocracy. His expenses included a number of modified cars, canes, “jewels, furs, boats, perfumes and potions, toys, medicines, dogs, horses and theatricals on a scale unimagined”.

But DAF do. Let this German electropunk duo’s clicky beeps entrance into a world [or at the very least a basement] of mechanized taxidermy, dusty porcelain, cracked papier-mâché and moth-bitten lace. Here, sterile minimalism and granny frills co-exist in harmony, somehow.

George Harrison’s “Set on You” got nothing on this billow-shirted, leather-trousered alchemy of pop. Perhaps he was somehow inspired by it?

It’s been an eventful day, hasn’t it? If you’re like me, you have trouble winding down after so much hullabaloo.

So here’s a wistful lullaby to sing you to sleep, courtesy of the brilliant innovators behind Creating Rem Lazar. You’ll be calling Child Protective Services drifting off to slumberland in no time. May you dream sweetly of infinity mullets and oddly bulging blue spandex.

I’m more than halfway through The Bad Popes by Eric Russell Chamberlin. Oh, it’s a knee-slapper, to say the least. Plenty of illicit sex, violence, greed, avarice, conspiracy, etc. Chamberlin denudes the nasty personal habits and dirty professional deeds of various popes throughout history. Short of The Name of the Rose and Memoirs of A Gnostic Dwarf*, it’s the most earthy and entertaining book I’ve read relating to the papacy.

Pope Formosus and Stephen VII [sic] by Jean-Paul Laurens, 1870.

Ever heard of The Cadaver Synod? Pope Stephen VI, consecrated in 896, ordered the rotting corpse of his predecessor, Pope Formosus, be exhumed and put on trial for various crimes against the church. Poor bastard was nine-months dead when they dug him up. Stephen dressed the ripe stiff in papal robes, propped it up in a chair, and proceeded to scream unintelligibly at it for several hours in front of a rapt audience. Afterwards, Formosus was declared guilty and his body was dragged through the streets of Rome, then thrown into the river Tiber. Not suprisingly, the morbid spectacle turned public opinion against Stephen. Rumors spread that the dead pontiff had washed up on the banks of the Tiber and was performing miracles. Stephen VI was eventually deposed and strangled to death in prison.

Left: Early tarot card depiction of Pope Joan. Right: La Papesse as Antichrist, wearing a jaunty tiara.

Chamberlin also addresses the origins of good old “Pope Joan“, that legendary, likely imaginary Papesse who supposedly reigned from 855 to 858 (Protestants used to loooove bringing her up as proof of their moral superiority to Catholics). As the story goes, she was an Englishwoman who fell in love with a Benedictine monk, disguised herself as a dude and joined his order. Eventually she moved to Rome where she impressed everyone with her vast knowledge, becoming a cardinal, and then pope. (In earlier, juicy versions of this fable, Joan was already knocked up at the time of her election, and actually squeezed one out during the procession to the Lateran!) Chamberlin hypothesizes that these tall tales stem from accounts of The Rule of Harlots: a period of the papacy where various popes were either the progeny of dastardly, influential aristocratic women, or boinking them. In doing so, he has introduced me to my favorite new word… Pornocracy.

Chamberlin eschews a bland professorial style in favor of fairly plainspoken writing, and his dry sense of humor about the subject matter reminds me of Alice K. Turner’s approach to The History of Hell, yet another well-researched, highly entertaining read that deals with some of the sillier and more political aspects of Christian dogma. Highly recommended.

*Incidentally, Memoirs of a Gnostic Dwarf gets my vote for Most Jaw-Droppingly Disgusting Opening Paragraph Ever Written. Even better than the ejaculatory beginning of The Dirt. Must read.

Hold me, Daddy. I’m afeared.

Hey, remember when Disney didn’t suck and blow simultaneously?

Deep down, most of us suspect that ol’ Uncle Walt was a sexist, racist, feeb-informing Machiavellian rat king. (Still, who doesn’t love Pinocchio?) And while there’s no doubt Disney’s recent corporate merge with Pixar and subsequent shakedown (leaving prodigies Lasseter, Catmull and Jobs steering the ship) will bring back much of the first company’s long lost artistry, the question bears repeating: have the past 20 years of Disney output have blown epileptic pygmy goats, or what? Wtf happened?*

Never mind. Let’s focus on the semi-positive and take a look Disney’s chaotic neutral, pre-sucky years. I know I’m not the only one with fond recollections of the many offbeat live action flicks Disney produced in the late 70s and early 80s. Uncle Walt was in cryogenic deep freeze and the company’s heyday was fading, but gems like TRON, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and most poignantly their ridonkulous sci-fi space epic, The Black Hole all have a special place in this gal’s personal What Made Me Weird lexicon.

Yvette Mimieux gets some much-needed laser surgery.

Produced on the heels of Star Wars’ popularity, The Black Hole is one of Disney’s last gasps of cornball genius. Sure, it’s got problems. No originality, for starters. As one reviewer put it “[this is] nothing but a ‘creepy old house’ movie set in space.” Also, the screenwriters seem to have been unsure what demographic they were writing for, resulting in a plot that insults adult viewers’ intellects while still managing to scare the ever-loving crap out of children (and making The Black Hole the first PG-rated film in Disney history). Hokey dialog and unfortunate wardrobe choices abound. But if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times; you can’t go wrong with Ernest Borgnine. If that’s not enough to entice you, there’s John Barry’s amazing score, the incredible scale models and sets, scene after scene featuring beautiful, richly colored matte paintings of deep space, and Anthony Perkins getting the Cuisinart treatment.

Best for last, the Maximilian <3 Reinhardt 4-Ebber (In Hell) ending: