Deep down we allknewthis; didn’t we? We all had our suspicions. How else could we reconcile the putrid taste of that colorless powder, requiring as it did pounds of sugar in order to dispel that fetid flavor which so offended the palate, and transform it into the toothsome elixir so beloved by children? A flavor which we can now pin upon the lingering stench of death.
More important queries, however, concern the Man itself. Whatever qualms we may have had in reference to its violent behavior, its insatiable need for destruction, are finally confirmed. “There is no reason,” we said to ourselves, “that someone should constantly smash through walls if their intentions are pure.”
Now all those questions and concerns have been answered. Now, thanks to Jon Vermilyea, we can say with absolute certainty that we were right. Now we can say that Kool-Aid is people.
Let it never be said that I am fashion conscious. That is not to be taken in the traditional sense, that I do not take care in my appearance for, while this is true — a fact to which my various burlap and sack cloth ensembles attest — I mean “not fashion conscious” as in I am almost unaware that people design clothes in a way that would be pleasing to the eye. I am fashion comatose. I am fashion regressive.
This fact was probably not immediately aware to my new colleagues but it was not long after I arrived at the Catacombs, wearing a newly acquired potato sack, that it began to dawn on them that something might be amiss. Escorted into a deceptively large and well lit boardroom I was seated at a large table. Here Nadya, in what I assume was a generous act of good faith, laid out an impressive spread of photographic content which would be appearing in the third issue of their magazine. Obviously anticipating a thoughtful reaction I made an effort to appear knowledgeable. Picking up one of the photos I scrutinized it fastidiously, pursing my lip and nodding in what I hoped was a convincingly savvy manner. Finally, after a seemingly endless forty seconds I placed the photo down, leaning back and tenting my fingers I said, with absolute authority “These are beautiful. That dress makes her bosom look really impressive.” I need not tell you that the silence in that room was deafening.
You must then take my enthusiasm for these reading glasses with something approaching a brick of salt. It is all together possible that my enthusiasm for these glasses from Filao — which are being distributed on this continent by French Melody — stems from a shameful fantasy of them hanging round the lily-white neck of a svelte, Alt-librarian. This is a bad reason to like something, especially considering that there are no Alt libraries near me, nor in existence. Still, there’s something about the masquerade aesthetic and the ability to fold them away that is undeniably appealing, even to someone as fashionably brain-dead as yours truly.
From Danish filmmaker Lars von Trier, whose previous efforts include hanging Björk and pimping Nichole Kidman, comes Antichrist starring Willem DeFoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg. IMDB’s synopsis runs thusly: “A grieving couple retreats to their cabin ‘Eden’ in the woods, hoping to repair their broken hearts and troubled marriage. But nature takes its course and things go from bad to worse.” So it seems that a couple had a child, who died. Overcome with grief the mother succumbs to the overuse of mood-altering prescription drugs. Seeing their marriage falling apart the husband convinces her to get rid of them and join him in their cabin in the middle of the woods. There, crazy shit occurs.
To be honest I’m quite unsure as to this latest effort from von Trier. The idea that he would feel the need to make a genre film of this sort is a strange one. After all, the man has been making horror movies in one form or another his entire career, and the instances where he has succumbed to the need for traditional horror have been tedious affairs (see The Kingdom). It could merely be that von Trier wants to join the ranks of directors who have filmed sex scenes featuring Willem DeFoe.
Still, a von Trier/DeFoe pairing, in spite of the aforementioned Gollum-esque sex scene, is intriguing and lately I’ve been feeling perhaps a bit too upbeat so a dose of unyielding, soul crushing angst would probably go a long way in bringing me down a few pegs.
OK, so about that interview with Ross the other day. Despite the fact that some of you seem to have found it amusing, we don’t do that sort of thing for shits and giggles. When we ask a man if he prefers sushi or tacos, we mean business. That, friends, was a Coilhouse job interview. And he’s hired. Ladies and gentlemen, put your tentacles together for our newest guest blogger, Ross Rosenberg!*
Few subjects are as tiresome to discuss in a public forum as politics. It is an arena which I make a concerted effort to avoid whenever possible. Indeed, should I have the urge to debate matters of a political bent I do it alone, in the privacy of my own cave. So devoted am I to the idea that I have cultivated a rather well-conceived alter ego; a personage of conservative persuasion who I merely call Dermot. This personality, combined with the hand-puppet I fashioned in secret just for these occasions, provides the perfect foil for my decidedly liberal views and many times I have debated, long into the night after everyone has retired for the evening, in a dual toned, hushed and angry whisper, subjects ranging from stem-cell research, to corn subsidies, to what I should have for breakfast.
The reason for disclosing this tedious and potentially embarrassing information is to assure you, dear readers, that I do not dwell wistfully on this area of our society; that I do not haunt the same vicious corners of the internet as the detestable and frail “political junkie”; and that I certainly do not watch C-Span.
