Believe it! The mad scientists of Michigan University give us HERCULES.
Pumping 300 terawatts of power, sildenafil this laser is one bad mother. Beaming with promise of scientific and medical benefits, HERCULES has taken over several rooms at UM. Indeed, this tiny shaft of power is “a 1.3-micron speck about 100th the diameter of a human hair” and is the most intense laser in the known universe. Just check out these stats: “The record-setting beam measures 20 billion trillion watts per square centimeter. It contains 300 terawatts of power. That’s 300 times the capacity of the entire U.S. electricity grid”. Unf.
The launch of Marilyn Manson’s own brand of absinthe is not exactly being positively embraced by critics. Most compared the drink’s odour to sewage water and one even described the taste as being “as bad as piss”. One wonders how this critic would know this… The beverage, launched under the name ‘Mansinthe’, has also been receiving negative comments by a panel at the gourmet food website www.epicurious.com: the smell of the beverage can be compared to sewage water, swamp mud and rubbing alcohol. And one taster added: “If a smell could speak, this absinthe is saying: ‘Do not touch.'”
Spaniard Teruel Segundo de Chomón y Ruiz (1871-1929), a lesser known film pioneer with a particular fondness for hand-tinting his work, came to renown working for the Pathé brothers in the 1900s. While much of his work is directly informed by Méliès, Chomón’s distinctive aesthetic and deadpan humor set him apart and set a precedent for the surrealists Buñuel and Dalí. He also invented the film dolly.
The Golden Beetle (1907) is Chomón at his most delightfully innovative:
I learned of Chomón while watching the fantastic Landmarks of Early Film, Vol 1 collection, which also includes shorts by the Lumières, the aforementioned Méliès and some very early Kinetoscope movies. You can pick up a secondhand copy on Amazon for 20 bucks.
I’ve been feeling sort of… understated. As understated as one can remain with cobalt blue hair and eyebrows, anyway. Seriously, it’s gettin’ crazy. In another effort to make some sense of my belongings I’ve organized my wardrobe shelves by black, grey and color. The black pile, she grows. The rest is dwindling. What could it all mean?
Peeps, I have entered another era, an era of DARKNESS. Frankly, all i want to wear these days is black. This means two things:
1. I’m looking extra-fetching; everyone knows black is the ultimate in sleek stylish goodness.
2. WZW as you know it is drawing to an end.
Yes, it’s true, my dearest squids and squidlettes. I suspect you don’t want to look at me decked in clouds of carbon every week, so it is time to take an indefinite break. I may return with sporadic make-up and hair tips or random news stories, and if I do find an occasion to WZW once again I shall.
What’s that? Oh no, you promised you wouldn’t cry! Please, I.. I can’t bear it!
Well, okay. Just to ensure you know precisely what you’ll be missing after this week there will be a few more all-black installments What’s Zo Wearing. Just for you, you hear? I’m doing it for you.
23 years ago, twelve strange children were born in England at exactly the same moment. 6 years ago the world ended. This is the story of what happened next.
Thus kicks off Freakangels – comrade Warren Ellis’ new webcomic. Wonderfully illustrated by Paul Duffield, this much-anticipated creation reared its rusty, dusty post-apocalyptic head today and I couldn’t be more pleased. The teaser art looked promising and I’m happy to see the style, color and detail carried over into the actual comic.
The imperfect heroine, her tiny steam-chopper, and an eerily silent London are introduced in cold muted colors of early morning light. It’s satisfying to see the steampunk aesthetic carried over into a future rather than past, and I’m digging the plot, as well. Not to mention – telepathy! Well done, gentelmen.
Brothers and sisters, I have a terrible confession; I was once A GAY. Lord have mercy! Lucikly, my parents had the good sense to ship me off to Love in Action, an ex-gay recovery camp for teens in Memphis, Tennesse. I learned many things at this camp; that homosexuality doesn’t exist, that men with bios like this and this make great mentors for kids, and that a 4-week course called WIVES’ TRACK can change your life forever. The reason I’m telling you all this is because I recently re-watched the 2000 film But I’m a Cheerleader and I was outraged. Outraged! How dare they ridicule something as holy as conversion therapy?
The entire cast is going straight to Hell: RuPaul (as camp counselor, completely out of drag), Clea Duvall (thou shall not tempt me!), Mink Stole, Natasha Lyone (damned since ’86 for appearing in Pee-Wee’s Playhouse), Bud Cort (Harold from Harold and Maude – here in a dad role, and I can’t believe how much he’s aged), and all the rest of them. Inspired by that filthy pervert John Waters, the film’s mockery of gender identity and the sacred institution of marriage is unforgivable.
The team that created this film has a new film out called Itty Bitty Titty Comittee. Lord Jesus, it hurt to even type that! As soon as I get the chance to see this one, expect an angry write-up. In the meantime, I urge you all to focus your anger at Singapore for frowning upon cosmetic products that promote Our Lord. For shame!
Blurry scan of the cover of an anti-VD mix CD I made back in 2003.
Happy Valentine’s Day to all. And to those who hate the day, I say this: Valentine’s Day is a Christian corruption of a pagan festival involving werewolves, blood and fucking. So wish people a happy Horny Werewolf Day and see what happens. –Warren Ellis
T-minus 45 minutes and counting to San Francisco’s third annual Valentine’s Day Pillow Fight! Play nice, kids. Attendees are highly encouraged to post links to their photos and bloggings of the event here.
The late Sydney Guilaroff was Hollywood’s most beloved and trusted hairdresser. Credited with making the unforgetable Lucille Ball a redhead, he was friend and confidant to some of the biggest stars in history.
In Roy Del Ruth’s Du Barry was a Lady Gularoff is reunited with Ball, indulging in all that is glorious and flamboyant with sky-high powdered wigs. His talents coupled with Gile Steele‘s costuming prowess produce some enticing and hilarious hair concoctions, tricorn hats, ostrich feathers and all.
Say what you will about the bloodless electroclash/no wave resurgence. Lard knows I have. Watching its rise in popularity in post 9-11 New York City, I experienced what can only be described as an excruciating kind of soul death. It still makes me a bit nauseated to admit that in the wake of The Tower, my generation of NYC rock musicians had nothing better to offer up than this cocaine-spritzed, head-in-the-sand, garage schlocky, post post post punk photocopy of a bootleg of a cover rendition of a vibrant cultural scene populated by non-derivative bands 30 years ago. (The documentary Kill Your Idols offers an unflinching assessment of this phenomenon. Highly recommended.)
Still, there’s some truth to that whole “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” spiel, and it was nice to go to downtown clubs where beautiful, artfully tweezed and ever-mysterious DJs with asymmetrical hair spun vintage wax nightly: ESG, DNA, Contortions, Foetus, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, Swans, beloved Klaus, etc. Cool non-Manhattanites –oh, ‘scuse me, I meant to say Honorary Citizens of the Center of the Known Universe– like the Birthday Party, Lene Lovich, Nina Hagen, and Malaria! were in heavy rotation as well. Which brings us, in a roundabout way, to the point of this post. (Heh. Sorry.)
Founded in early ’81, Malaria! was led by Bettina Koester and Gudrun Gut, and filled out with Manon P. Dursma, Christine Hahan and Susanne Kuhnke. I’m a longtime fan of theirs, but I hadn’t seen this gorgeous homemade Super 8 video for their song off the 12inch New York Passage: Your Turn to Run until recently:
directed by Dieter Hormel, Brigitte Bühler, Gudrun Gut
Is it just me, or is this footage reminiscent of something non-narrative filmmakers like Brakhage, Anger or Morrison might shoot? You know… if they were young, fierce and scrumptiously German in 1982. Dang! Both Gut and Koester are still actively making music, and having watched “Your Turn to Run”, I’m actually grumblingly grateful to the Bedford Avenue acoyltes of electro for their role in bringing the band renewed recognition.
I’d love to be one of the greatest actors in the world. But acting often equates with fame. If you could be an actor, yet not be famous, that would be brilliant. – Jaye Davidson
I do believe I feel a painting coming on.
The reluctant star is a well-worn concept in the movie business. Half-shielding ones face while making an “unexpected” appearance in some hotspot, huge sunglasses and faining horror after accidentally flashing one’s bare crotch to paparazzi are de rigueur these days. I’d be hard-pressed to fall for such pretense delivered by anyone except perhaps Jaye Davidson, had he not disappeared entirely.
As our photo-evidence shows, Jaye is a deserving icon of sexual ambiguity. A striking unique appearance combined with natural acting talent landed this sometimes-destitute London fashion assistant three film roles and even an Oscar nomination, but more interesting is just how much Jaye genuinely hated his sudden fame.
Before The Crying Game even started filming in 1991 he attempted to break his contract, the only thing stopping him was advance money he’d already spent. After the Oscar nomination and media hullabaloo that followed he went off the radar, saying “The reason I haven’t got an agent is so that no one can contact me to offer me a film part”.
