At SocImages, illness Gwen describes ways in which morticians/funeral directors have sought to remove some of the stigmas associated with their profession:

In my Intro to Soc course I assign K.R. Thompson’s article “Handling the Stigma of Handling the Dead: Morticians and Funeral Directors” (Deviant Behavior 1991, v. 12, p. 403-429). Thompson looked at how those involved in preparing the dead for burial and planning funerals try to manage the negative perceptions they suspect much of the public has of them. Language was a major way they tried to do this–redefining themselves as “funeral directors” rather than “morticians” or “undertakers,” referring to dead people as “the deceased” rather than “the body” or “the corpse,” “casket” rather than “coffin,” and so on. The point was to try to reduce the association with death–to never blatantly refer to death at all.

They also tried to avoid what they felt were stereotypes of funeral directors. Some mentioned trying not to wear black suits, and one man went so far as to keep hand warmers in his pockets so his hands would be warm when he shook family members’ hands–a reaction to what he said was a belief that funeral directors have cold, clammy hands. Others lived in a different town than where they worked and tried to keep their careers secret.

In 2007, California-based funeral director Kenneth McKenzie went one step further to battle the stereotype of the gaunt, morbid mortician by releasing the “Men of Mortuaries” calendar. According to an Obit Magazine article about the calendar, the hundreds of applicants for the 2008 calendar were narrowed down by a mixed-race panel that included a gay older man, a gay young man, a straight older man, a straight younger man, a young straight woman and an older straight woman “to hear all voices.” McKenzie sold 20,000 calendars in 2008, and proceeds went to an organization McKenzie started to support women who, like his sister, were undergoing breast cancer treatment.

On a (kinda) related note:

• Calendario Romano (sexy Vatican priests!)
• Dieux du Stade (the infamous calendars of the domestic French rugby team)

Contrary to the beliefs of some, Coilhouse is not a “fantasy magazine”. Yes, it’s a repository of amazing and wonderful things, but a “fantasy magazine” it is not. Some may dispute this fact and to those people I would say that you are mistaken. At the very least you are confused as to the definition of “fantasy magazine”, for just because you may woolgather about the inner workings of Coilhouse, such musings do not qualify the publication as a “fantasy magazine”.

The dark corners of your mind have no effect, then, on the actual reality of the magazine itself meaning, for instance, that editorial meetings are staid affairs in no way resembling a Cinemax offering in which the three lovely women who helm this ship dress in beautiful clothing and totally make out. Nor do the day-to-day operations of Coilhouse consist of the aforementioned goddesses lounging about in provocative frilly things in a giant, Victorian mansion when, suddenly, a casual discussion about Russian literature turns heated and finally breaks out into a sexy pillow fight, after which they totally make out. These things do not happen, I assure you, and there’s no use arguing about it or even threatening to quit even though you may feel that certain parties may have misled you or outright lied to you in order to lure you into their cold, fetid little lair where, instead of satin pillows, limber nymphs clad in frilly-things, and sloppy make-out sessions, you found a room with a desk, a computer, two buckets, and a 24 hour curfew. So, yeah, no fantasies here.

Der Orchideengarten (The Garden of Orchids) , on the other hand, was a fantasy magazine and it may be the first such publication of its kind. It ran for 51 issues, from 1919-1921, pre-dating Weird Tales by four years and was printed in the bedsheet format of 9¾” x 12″, square-bound. Contributors ranged from contemporary, German fantasy authors to stories by foreign writers such as H.G. Wells, Dickens, Poe, Voltaire, Victor Hugo, Pushkin, Washington Irving, and Hawthorne, among others. There were even two issues dedicated to mystery stories and one dedicated to erotic literature.

The real star here, though, has to be the art. Everything from reproductions of medieval woodcuts to work by Gustave Doré to pieces by Alfred Kubin is represented here. The covers, seen here, are simply magnificent, making those of Weird Tales (much as I love them) appear almost childish by comparison. Certainly it can be said that Der Orchideengarten‘s covers lack the kitsch factor so prevalent in its American counterpart. Whether that’s a good thing or not is up to the reader.

There are a myriad number of additional scans at the ever wonderful A Journey Round My Skull as well as some great interior illustrations; well worth checking out.

Errol Flynn – by George Hurrell 1938

The centennial of Errol Leslie Thomson Flynn’s birth is upon us, cialis dear readers. There will be those benighted types who are indifferent to the occasion. There will be others who feel, medicine wrongly, that today is best commemorated by seeing The Adventures of Robin Hood. And still others, misguided, but with inner compasses not yet completely demagnetized, who will gather together to sip rosé and watch Captain Blood.

But not us. Unlike Nietzsche, we understand that aesthetic arguments ultimately collapse into ethical ones and not vice versa, at least where Errol Flynn is concerned. That there are right choices and wrong ones, and that it isn’t all just a matter of taste. There is no godless moral vacuum for us. For us, God still moves over the face of the waters, and Spanish galleons beware!

Beware…The Sea Hawk!

OK, I’ll admit it. Captain Blood and The Adventures of Robin Hood are pretty great, too. So is The Black Swan, starring Tyrone Powers. And so is Peter Weir’s Master and Commander, for that matter. But The Sea Hawk is unquestionably my favorite swashbuckler movie—which isn’t the same thing as saying it’s my favorite movie, but the distinction is so small it changes position whenever you try to observe it.

Because of their many similarities, as a child of the 1970’s and 80’s I am tempted to describe The Sea Hawk as the Star Wars of its era. But fuck that. Star Wars is The Sea Hawk of its era. Borges is right that an artist creates his own precursors, but just because George Lucas asked John Williams to model his music after Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s classic score doesn’t mean we should forget which is the cart and which the mule.

It’s been a while since we’ve had a Nick and/or Blixa post, innit?*

Nick Cave & Blixa Bargeld announce 120 Minutes for MTV, recorded early 1994.

If anyone here can decipher Blixa‘s sinister whisper divulging the 4th circle of MTV hell (“sea of burning lead of … hippie …” something?) please leave it in comments.

*For those of you just tuning in, we three Coilhouse editors share a breathless, bone-deep predilection for all things Nixa. The depth, power and futility of our combined/confused longing easily eclipses the paltry obsessions of even the most twitterpated Twilight tween. (Say that three times fast.) Fear us. Pity us. We are lost.

Top of the morning to you! Although it’s noon here in partly-cloudy Los Angeles, the caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet, which can only mean one thing on a Monday: an installment of Better Than Coffee! This week, we have sexy Marlene on the musical saw. Whatever goofy shenanigans were taking place to elicit audience laughter when Marlene finally starts playing the saw at 1:25 have been lost to time, for only the audio survived in the clip above.

If Marlene has inspired you to take up the saw, you can either buy one online, or you can make one from scratch using the instructions on Dennis Havlena’s DIY folk instrument site. Dennis also provides instructions for making a banjo out of a cookie tin, a 4-string bass out of a washtub, and a hang drum made out of a propane tank. You can see Dennis playing some of these wondrous instruments on YouTube.

Raquel Welch (Crucifixion) by Terry O’Neill.

“Raquel Welch is the rudest, most unprofessional actress I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with, and if I could, I would spank her from here to Aswan.”  -James Mason, on working with Welch in the murder mystery flick The Last of Sheila.

Well, good MORNING. James Mason quote, meet Stroke Material tag! Go ahead and take a minute to visualize the sexily sinister three-time Academy Award winner taking Welch, undisputed Bikini Queen of the 20th Century, over his knee… preferably while you watch a few of Welch’s most VA VA VOOM performances available on YouTube. We’ll start things off with this 1970 clip of the astronomically hot Ms. Welch and two swishy spacemen dancing in the Ruta de la Amistad public sculpture project of Mexico City:

Moog-a-licious, no? The clip originally aired in Raquel Welch’s 1970 television special. Added bonus to the Barbarella bikini action: her killer Parisian Red Riding Hood steez in that latter number!

The Matrix turned 10 last week. It debuted March 31, 1999, though us plebs had to wait til April 2 to see it.

It’s easy to forget, in the wake of two disastrous sequels and equally lackluster (except for the Animatrix) tie-ins, exactly how radical and groundbreaking a pop culture artifact the first movie was.

Try, for a second, to look at the original trailer. Imagine you know absolutely nothing about the movie inside:

Pretty f’in cool, no?

To date myself, I was 16 at the time and came out of the theater utterly energized. I wasn’t the only one. William Gibson dubbed it “an innocent delight I hadn’t felt in a long time.” Darren Aronofsky raved that it heralded a new age in sci-fi. Neil Gaiman and Poppy Z. Brite wrote stories to fill out the movie’s universe.

It became a phenomenon, immensely successful and influential beyond anyone’s expectation. Hell, conservative scolds even blamed the movie’s anarchistic heroes for the Columbine massacre.

The Matrix worked because it managed to blend philosophy, allegory, action and fashion into one glorious, fun package.

Hallelujah! At 71 years of age, rockabilly/gospel veteran Wanda Jackson, “The Sweet Lady With the Nasty Voice” has just been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Ms. Jackson always reminds me a bit of Bettie Page; it’s that wonderful mixture of innocence and smoldering passion; growls with the helium giggles. Back in the 50s, the mainstream could barely handle Elvis or Ruth Brown. I imagine Jackson’s raw, wild voice must have seemed equally scandalous –if not more so– to the status quo. Hell, it’s 2009 and I still get all wiggly whenever I hear her do that little spluttery “ooohh….ahhh… I love you” bit in “Tongue Tied.”

Photo via The Age.

If you’re looking for a good introduction/overview, pick up her CD from the Vintage Collections series. Also, check out some clips after the jump, including Jackson’s recent performance of “Fujiyama Mama” at the Luminaire in London. Those spitfire pipes remain smokin’ hot, and she still looks damn fine in a fringe dress.

Left: Durova as a noble lady. Right: Durova as a soldier in uniform.

When she was an infant, her father placed her under the care of a soldier after her abusive mother threw her out of a moving carriage. Growing up, she memorized all the standard marching commands, and her favorite toy was an unloaded gun. A noblewoman by birth, Nadezhda Durova wanted nothing more than to don a uniform and defend Russia against Napoleon. At age 24, she did just that. “With firmness so alien to my young age,” she wrote in her memoirs, “I was wrecking my brain about how to break free from the vicious circle of natural and customary duties assigned to us, women.” In 1807, disguised as a boy, she left home on the back of her favorite mount, Alchides, and enlisted in a Polish uhlan regiment. “At last I am free and independent. I had taken my freedom, this precious, heavenly gift, inherently belonging to every human being!”

Durova’s service in the military earned her distinguished honors, and throughout her career she was, by all accounts, revered by everyone in her chain of command. A few officers knew her secret, but most did not. Tsar Alexander I, aware of her true identity, awarded her a cross for saving a soldier’s life and gave her permission to join the regiment of her choice. He gave her a new male surname, Alexandrov (after his own name). Durova continued crossdressing after retirment from the military. She died at age 83 and was buried dressed as a man, with full military honors.

In 1962, the Soviet Studio MosFilm released a musical called Gusarskaya Balada (“Hussar Ballad”) based on Durova’s life. In what’s certainly a complete misrepresentation of Durova’s complicated existence, the musical paints Durova as a young patriotic woman in love with a male soldier, eager to win him over on her terms, as a fellow fighter. The film is without subtitles, but has enough colorful characters, costumes and music that I think a non-Russian-speaking audience would appreciate the clip above, which showcases Durova’s character first dressed as a woman, then dressed as a man. I love actress Larisa Golubkin’s confident, homoerotic swagger in the second half of the clip.

It’s difficult not to revel in the fabulousness of Gusarskaya Balada, but I wish that someone would make a textured, compassionate film that dug deeper into Durova’s life. There are many different ways for this play out, for many facets of Durova’s identity are still debated to this day. On the topic of her gender identity, Wikipedia states that “some readers interpret her as a cisgendered woman who adopted celibacy and male clothing to achieve professional freedom,” while others believe that Durova was transgender. Similarly, Durova’s sexual orientation remains a mystery. She eloped with a man when she was young, against her father’s wishes. However, she omitted her marriage (and any description of attraction to men or women) from her memoirs. When it comes to her relationship with women, one biography notes, “Durova felt uncomfortable around other women. On at least two occasions women recognized her true identity and addressed her as ‘Miss.’ Her fellow officers often joked that Aleksandrov was too shy and afraid of women.”

The deeper I dig, the more fascinating scenes I find. Beyond the obvious allure of wartime crossdressing, there are many odd tidbits, like Durova’s powerful connection with animals. As a child, she “frightened her family by secretly taming a stallion that they considered unbreakable.” Later in life she provided shelter to stray cats and dogs that she rescued, and she passed on her animal-taming abilities to her descendants, circus legends and founders of the Durov Animal Theatre in Russia. Then, there’s her horrible mother, who only wanted a boy, and seemed to punish Durova for being born a girl by making her spend countless hours doing monotonous “women’s work” like sewing and crocheting. That’s a whole other story itself, right there.

Hopefully, one day soon, someone will make a serious film about Durova. Until then, enjoy the song and dance.

• Nadezhda Durova Bio on HistoryNet
• Nadezhda Durova on Wikipedia
• Gusarkaya Ballada on YouTube (in Russian)

Overseas readers, the video should work for you now.

The video above is what the Coilhouse “Stroke Material” tag was made for. No other tag needed. It’s a music video directed by Arno Bani, featuring a very androgynous-looking model with the incredible name Ugne Andrikonyte. Say it with me: UGNE ANDRIKONYTE! The music, however, is not recommended. So turn down the the YouTube clip, put on some Massive Attack or something, make sure no one walks in on you, and enjoy. As a bonus, here’s a photo from Bani’s site, done in a similar style as the video above. [Thanks, Finn]