This installment of Z!ST is brought to you by two things I find myself missing more often than not: film and coffee houses. Kris Krug from Vancouver was here a few weeks ago and, to my happy surprise, used film for most of our photos. We shot at Cafe Muse – a relatively new coffee-zone that stays open ’til midnight and, staying true to its name, provides a guitar & piano to its patrons. There is live music, beverages and excellent food at this oasis amidst the dusty clamor of Santa Monica Boulevard.

Words can hardly express how elated I am at the concept of a real cafe within walking distance in my neighborhood, especially one that stays open past 8pm. Hollywood, for the most part, is a city of soulless cardboard franchises, thus it’s a treat to finally have a place nearby where I can station, laptop and coffee in hand, for an evening of writing, sketching, whatever. Such places are utterly crucial to the sanity of the few of us still breathing in this palm-infested desert metropolis. These simple pleasures shouldn’t be so rare.

Oh yes, the outfit! A rare but welcome instance of simplicity appreciation. Usually not a proponent of stirrups, I made an exception for these leggings, in part due to the fact that I found them at a home appliance store in Koreatown. Click on for shopping informations and more photos.

It all started when Energy BBDO created the “Damn Right” ad campaign below for Canadian Club Whiskey. The ads featured vintage photographs from the 60s and 70s, with the running slogan “Damn Right Your Dad Drank It.” The headlines were “Your dad was not a metrosexual,” “Your dad had a van for a reason,” “Your mom wasn’t your dad’s first,” and “Your dad never tweezed anything.” The press release for this campaign proclaimed that “the thought-provoking campaign challenges consumers to embrace their dads [sic] classic masculinity, most visibly expressed through their choice to drink Canadian Club whisky cocktails.” Some choice copy:

Your Dad Was Not a Metrosexual. He didn’t do pilates. Moisturize. Or drink pink cocktails. Your dad drank whiskey cocktails. Made with Canadian Club. Served in a rocks glass. They tasted good. They were effortless. DAMN RIGHT YOUR DAD DRANK IT.

But the people weren’t havin’ it. The first thing that was pointed out on many blogs when this campaign launched is how “Your dad wasn’t your mom’s first” wouldn’t have quite the same ring to it. Graffiti appeared on the Van poster: “and that’s why your mom left him.” And the parodies of the nostalgic views of masculinity poured in… “Your dad didn’t use condoms when he was in Saigon.” “Your Dad smoked while pumping gas.” “Dad didn’t call it ‘Date Rape,’ it was just a ‘Date’.”

But the best was when blogger Michelle Schwartz created this template, which let people really go to town, resulting in the ads below and in many more here. The revised taglines proclaimed, “Damn right your mom drank it! And it sure as hell wasn’t Canadian Club.”

I love the fact that the web lets us respond to advertising so actively and directly. It was definitely amusing and somewhat therapeutic to see these responses emerge. Paradoxically, they probably made this campaign more successful in terms of branding/awareness than ever projected. So victory is bittersweet – unlike the drink, which will forever taste rotten to me.

via SocImages

This summer South African runner Oscar Pistorius, after much controversy, will have a shot at competing in the Olympics. Why the controversy? Pistorius, known as “blade runner” (a name he rejects as “boring stuff”) was born without fibula. He has not had flesh, blood and bone below his knees since he was 11 months old.

In January, the International Association of Athletic Federations ruled that his state of the art prosthetics were superior to human legs, and would thus give him an unfair advantage. Last month, that judgement was overturned. If he can cut his best times down by less than a second, Olympic competition will see its first cyborg. The future has arrived.

In a stroke of pure demented genius Kacper Hamilton has created a set of cups inspired by the Seven Deadly Sins.

These red wine glasses are based on the 7 deadly sins. Each glass encapsulates a sin, which is revealed through the ritual of drinking. The ‘7 Deadly Glasses’ are about celebrating passion and encouraging the user to be sinful in a theatrical fashion.

From their English laboratories straight to your chateau, these delightfully hedonistic goblets are made to order. Browse the entire set, below.

Too much is not enough for you, sir! You’ll gulp and slurp like a filthy pig while attempting to suck out the very last drops from the cup of Greed.

You enemies will truly feel your Wrath as you jab their jugular with this perilous object, then drink their sweet blood while they fight for a final breath.

Somewhere out there, there’s an alternate Philip Pullman reality where Dust settles in the form of dæmons that take shape from the strands of hair on your head. They whisper in your ear, telling you which way to go, and talk to each other while their people stand still. In our world, they would consider hairspray, straightening irons and combs an absolute travesty. If I had one, it would be a hedgehog.

Hair Hats by Nagi Noda, sent by Nicola via Jezebel/Neatorama

Yesterday, one of my favorite blogs, Sociological Images, picked apart amputee alt model Viktoria‘s appearance in Bizarre Magazine:

What makes Viktoria “bizarre”? Is it her amputated leg? Is it the fact that she has an amputated leg and is still incredibly sexy? Or is it that she has an amputated leg and still considers herself a sexual person? Is this empowering? And to who? Surely the disabled are desexualized in this country, so it’s nice to see that challenged even, I suppose, in a magazine about weirdos. And yet, I suspect her sexuality is acceptable, fetishizable, only because she conforms to expectations of feminine beauty. In the big scheme of things, does she reproduce the standard of beauty, unattainable for most women, that crushes women’s self-esteem and sense of self-worth? And will disabled women, most of whom (like most non-disabled women) could never dream of being so beautiful, actually look at her and be able to identify? Or will this just draw attention to another way in which they don’t match up?

Now really, I think that SocImages went a little overboard with Viktoria (especially when they dismissed her comments about sexuality as “standard porn star talk”). Maybe it’s because I know her little better than they do, but I think that they oversimplify the genuine place that she comes from in choosing to be a model. However, they do bring up an important discussion that’s been nagging me for some time. What is an alternative model, and what is an alt model’s role in visual culture? In my life, at various points, I came up with 3 different definitions. I believe in each of them, and I have a problem with each of them as well. Here they are below. Which one resonates with you? Do you think it’s a combination of the three below, or something completely different? Opinions, please.

1. The model who challenges society’s notions of beauty.

L: Kenyan-born trans model Biko Beauttah R: Velvet D’Amour

I love these models, but the issue here is that, while they appear to push the boundaries of beauty in some direction, they usually wind up brutally reinforcing another traditional notion in the process. For example, trans models make us rethink gender/beauty, but with their self-presentation they usually reinforce the ideal of a sleek, hairless feminine figure, thus fueling the hair-removal industry. In fact, epilator-manufacturer Philips Norelco has already found a way to to capitalize on this to great effect – just watch this ad. And large models like Velvet D’Amour and skinny-by-comparison but still-considered-plus-size recent ANTM winner Whitney Thompson help to redefine weight in modeling, but what makes them “legitimately beautiful” in the eyes of the mainstream world is their “correct” bone structure, their blond hair. Without some “redeeming quality” of this sort, the world doesn’t recognize them as models, and wouldn’t even give them a shot at making a difference. Mainstream media often presents them as beautiful “in spite of,” not “because of.” While their individual messages are empowering (I love Velvet’s interviews), I don’t find our culture’s use of these models empowering at all.

Young Flapjack embraces the carnage.

A while back, my talented chum Danny Cantrell landed a gig composing all of the music for a new animated children’s show, and he enlisted me to fiddle for it. The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack is the cracked brainchild of Thurop Van Orman (previously a writer for Powerpuff Girls). I’m at a loss to describe Orman’s vision properly, but if you were to picture Ren & Stimpy style shenanigans unfolding in a beautifully watercolored Treasure Island setting, you wouldn’t be too far wrong.

Flapjack is an innocent young cuss with an unquenchable thirst for adventure on the high seas. He’s being raised by a somewhat overprotective blue whale named Bubbie, and his best friend/partner in crime is a scraggly, no-pants-wearin’ pirate with two peg legs who goes by Captain K’nuckles. Hilarity and high jinks ensue.

In addition to being gorgeously drawn and painted, Flapjack is rife with non sequiturs, uncomfortable silences and gross-out humor, so I thought you perverts might appreciate a heads up. We’ve been working on –and giggling over– this weirdness for months now. (Wish I could show you the Tentacular Lovecraftian Horror episode. So warped.)

Nothing says quality children’s programming quite like a pair of hairy, floppy, tattooed man teats. Unless it’s fart noises. Flapjack has plenty of both.

The first episode premieres today on the Cartoon Network at 8:30pm, EST. Folks with cable and a hankering for “ADVENTURRRRE!!!” are encouraged to tune in and report back.

Whenever anyone I love is feeling especially gloomy, I have one very reasonable, reliable cure-all recommendation. It’s not exercise, or sex, or drugs, or comfort food. Simply this:

Download “Stout-Hearted Men” by Shooby Taylor

These are the joyful and uninhibited sounds of Shooby Taylor, the Human Horn. It’s my opinion that anyone who doesn’t at least crack a smile listening to this singular scat musician is probably beyond all hope and should be taken out behind the barn and humanely dispatched.

Born in 1929, William “Shooby” Taylor lived in Harlem for the majority of his life, toiling as a New York City postal worker for 21 years. From a 2002 article in the NYT:

[His music] can be difficult to digest. As he tries to approximate the sound of a saxophone solo with his voice, he hits sour notes. He spits out nonsense syllables like a machine gun, communicating in a private language nearly impossible to imitate. And he rarely meshes with his background music, whether it is the skating-rink organ in ”Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing,” songs by the country singer Christy Lane or Mozart.

…In homage to his hero Babs Gonzales, who died in 1980, Mr. Taylor began honing his scat stylings in the mid-1950’s after serving in the Army. After his shift at the post office ended at midnight, he frequented jam sessions at Manhattan clubs, but most musicians shunned him.

For decades, Shooby persisted in following his dream, enduring endless ridicule and rejection. One day in the early 1980s, he walked into a vanity-press recording studio called Angel Sound. Located in sleezy, pre-Disneyfied Times Square, the studio had seen its share of feisty characters. Shooby proved one of the most memorable, laying down 14 smokin’ vocalese tracks ranging from jazz to country to show tunes to… unclassifiable…

Impeccable live sound, eye-poppingly elaborate costumes and hot ladies – what more could you ask of a Japanese visual rock band? Alright, so the ladies aren’t exactly ladies, but blast it, can they shred! These days, most old school visual bands have, for better or worse, abandoned their frills and velvet for a more modern and somewhat more masculine look. I didn’t think I’d ever get to personally witness the kind of gloriously indulgent showmanship as I did last night.

Versailles in full regalia. Click image for a large version.

As it turns out, while Japan’s visual rock scene’s been winding down for a long time now, some goodness is yet to be reaped. Yesterday this was proven once and for all at a sold out show here in Hollywood. My jaw hit the floor when Versailles, a supergroup formed last year from ex-members of Lareine, Sufuric Acid and Sugar Trip, entered the stage. I was a wee kid in a candy-shop as this straight out of an acid-tinged Anne Rice cosplay vision appeared before the shrieking audience. The hair? Huge. The outfits? Hand-beaded and perfectly gaudy. The singer? Oh yes, he wore a cape. And pantaloons. And heels. Where the hell was Poppycock?

They had this “visual” thing, undisputedly, down. It did not end there, however. Unlike another supergroup I saw live last year, Versailles worked it. There was no phoning it in for these poised professionals; not a missed note, cracked heel or torn hem – the show was excellent from beginning to end, powder breaks and all. Between Hizaki and Teru’s metal guitars, Kamijo‘s crooning and intense cape maneuvering I was reminded of Barry Manilow, Las Vegas and Lestat in all the right ways. Watch the ten-minute opus below and be transported to a darquer side of French royalty (had French royalty been Japanese and used flatirons) as you bask in the grandeur of Versailles.

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• Official Versailles website
• Official Myspace page

In the bleak, bleak future, gas prices have become so insane that no one can afford to drive. Crusading inventor Archie Andrews, a vegan schoolteacher, labors tirelessly to change all this by building a car engine that will run on plentiful, clean wheatgrass. But one night he makes a discovery — wheatgrass won’t power an engine, but human blood will. He gets seduced by a girl named Denise who loves cars. The government gets involved — and everything just goes to hell from there.

That’s the premise for the Blood Car, a brutal, brilliant and damned laugh-out-loud funny flick from Atlanta director Alex Orr. Working on a shoestring (the special effects budget was $200 and the Blood Car got towed), Orr managed to create the best kind of fringe movie — scathingly satirical, ludicrously bloody and eminently quotable — with an ending that actually manages to shock.
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I was fortunate enough to stumble on it while recruiting for Asheville’s film festival last year and it still remains the most fun I’ve had at the movies in a long time. It’s out on DVD now and still winding its way through the festival circuit. If you’re fortunate enough to be where it’s playing, absolutely do not miss it — this is one film made to be experienced en masse.

Thanks to the wisdom imparted by this movie, I now believe that, exo-skeletons be damned, tarantulas — deadly tarantulas — in vending machines are the future.