Just a little longer until the mass hysteria subsides and we can resume our lives. While I do not personally condone babies or Jesus and am thus left cold to the concept of Christmas, I adore New Year’s Eve. Turning of the tides, a symbolic clean slate – the lot of it, I dig. Presents and snow are pretty great as well. I even like seeing sparkling decorated houses but what I do take issue with [besides the ever-present music] is people wearing Santa hats. Just, you know, out. Shopping, driving, what have you. What does it mean?

Yesterday while traversing the already-dangerous terrain of a mall I saw a woman, ahead of me in line, wearing an oddly filthy and balding Santa hat. To her credit she was carrying a coordinating red purse. That unfortunate hat, however, made me think for a moment this was a misguided vagrant robbing the place. Why did she do it? I imagine it as a signal of despair, an S.O.S. flag breaking out of the sea of Christmas psychosis. Or is it a beacon of acceptance? Whatever reason you might have, from a stylistic standpoint I strongly suggest saving the hat until you get to the party if you really must wear one.

Pierrot was my first crush, and I mean the very first one, the one before real life boys, girls, etc. It all began with a life size doll [the size of a 6 year old anyhow] of a crying jester. More of a fusion of Pierrot and Harlequin, he had long noodly limbs, painted fingernails and a white made up moon-face with permanent blue teardrops slightly raised on the plastic surface. I assigned him a variety of appropriately tragic personalities in accordance with whatever game I was playing that day.

The name “Pierrot” didn’t hold any meaning until I read Buratino – Tolstoy’s version of Pinnochio. He was Buratino’s dismal friend, eternally pining for Malvina the blue-haired doll. I was smitten by his dapper costume in the 1975 film version of the book. The magnificent ruff and floor-length sleeves on the squeaky pallid boy left a permanent impression.

Korean scientists reached a new milestone by cloning several Turkish Angora cats that glow under UV light. Intended for genetic research, these felines had fluorescent genes added to their donor’s cells during the cloning process. Provided this doesn’t somehow result in a black market for glowcat fur stoles, it’s pretty great for both research and glow-stuff enthusiasts worldwide.

[kml_flashembed movie="http://www.youtube.com/v/upQ_a-ch-pU" width="400" height="330" wmode="transparent" /]

You may also remember the green glow-pigs of recent science history.

A little fashion for our male readers – designer Keanan Duffy’s Bowie line for Target provides affordable stylish basics. Inspired by David Bowie, this collection offers skinny ties, vests and tight pants in muted colors, which can all be found in one place at reasonable cost.

If you haven’t stepped foot into a Target in months, this might be a good reason to do so. Or you can throw caution to the wind and shop online, instead – the web store presents the outfits in flash video format, so you can actually see how they look in motion on live humans, which is helpful. I really like some of these looks but menswear never fits me properly without significant alteration. The Bowie collection is at Target for a limited time only so if you dig it, hurry!

We must never forget where we come from, peeps. Never! When I went to Russia last summer and saw this shawl, I knew it was destiny.

Now, a little language lesson for all. What you see me wearing below is a shawl. A shawl is called “shahl” in Russian. It is not called a “babushka”. A babushka, in fact, is a little old lady or grandmother. While these are often spotted wearing shawls on their heads they are not shawls themselves. Next time you see a shawl, you will KNOW.

And of course, even shadow-ninjas need familiars, particularly portable ones.

What do S&M, Udo Kier and puppy fucking have in common? So glad you asked! They’re all in Madonna’s Sex book, see. Say what you want about her current honey locks and spandex ass, back in the 90s this woman owned.

Owned with a capital “O”, no matter what it took as this book goes to some length to prove. Inside the brushed metal cover are photos in Steven Meisel’s signature iconic style alongside some fairly gritty fetish scenes, all accompanied by erotic writing by Madonna herself.

Clickng below probably not safe for work, as you might have guessed.

What will you wear in space? It may sound unrealistic now, but consider this for a moment anyhow. Will you be trapped in the classic mattress of a suit with a fishbowl for a helmet, or something a little more flattering? Instead of stiff bulky padding would you prefer a space suit which allows to explore weightlessness to its full potential?

At one endlessly fascinating end of the space-wear spectrum is the function-oriented second skin BioSuit envisioned by Professor Dava J. Newman at MIT. Intended for actual extravehicular cosmic exposure, it’s sleek, beautifully functional, and structurally sophisticated, providing pressure and elasticity. And there’s a backpack!

Dava is involved with a remarkable amount of research on topics ranging from human performance in outer space to “Powered Assistive Walking Devices” for use by the handicapped on Earth. Admiration. Awe.

A puppet can sometimes express more with a tilt of her head than we do with several sentences. I was introduced to Bunraku when I watched Takeshi Kitano’s Dolls. The film’s storytelling is interspersed with scenes from a Japanese puppet play. The mix of dramatic narration, movement and beautiful costumes of the dolls immediately became a point of interest. Bunraku originated sometime in the 1600s, thought wasn’t called that until the 1800 after a theater in Osaka. It’s a well-loved traditional art form – puppet plays accompanied by shamisen music and fantastic narrations, that use complex life-size dolls operated by three masters.

The music ascends, building to manic excitement and subsides into sparse tranquil strumming in accordance with the play. The narration, performed only by men, aligns its melodies to the shamisen’s and is adjusted in pitch and tone, ranging from guttural to somewhat feminine. The dolls themselves are sophisticated creations of carved wood, the males equipped with expressive facial mechanisms, and the women mask-like and even more expressive through gesture, instead. Sets used in Bunraku are design masterpieces, minimally conveying any location necessary, rearranged throughout the show by fully-masked attendants.

Perhaps you have wondered what secret agent Yoon looks like. It’s also possible you’ve spent long clammy nights in your bedsacks tormented by questions about the mystery man behind the lens. Today your dreams come true as the tables turn with me as the photographer while Yoon does his thing. Now a word from our model.

“Hello all you fine people. Drew Yoon here. Firstly, apologies, all you fervent fans of teh Zoetica. We’re digressing from your regularly scheduled blue bombshell for a spicy kimchi break. Unlike the consistently dapper Zoetica, I’m often rather shabby-looking in my obey beanie, t-shirt and generic jeans. However, on occasion, a brother needs to look fly for the ladies, am I right?

Mer mentioned the Roadside Picnic podcast here a few weeks back. Hosted by a gentleman named Joshua Zucker, this podcast’s chewy contents are some of the best brain fuel I’ve had the pleasure to absorb in quite some time. The past couple of episodes were especially fitting with the belated arrival of rain in Angel City, and I must take a moment to reflect.

Each installment has a somewhat melancholy-sounding theme, but I’ve so far found this to be the ideal multi-purpose station. It’s marvelous for letting the sound flood and take over just as well as having it as low ambience while painting, writing, reading, or whatever sinister activity you choose to engage in. I suggest you try the former, first.

Roadside Picnic is a blend of ambient drone, atmospheric distressed instrumental, and occasional vocal tracks. At full volume the experience is akin to drifting through walls of dense noise, sometimes falling into pools of melody and being pierced with emphatic shrieks. Like tuning a radio in a radiation apocalypse; faint signs of life puncturing the static of a scorched world. Listen.