We here at Coilhouse are enthusiastic proponents of body mods. Be it through hair, fashion or tattoos, we’re all about the power of transformation! Sandy Paws Grooming Shop feels the same way.
If you’re in California and possess a large curly canine, you can call up Sandy Paws for a transformation of your pets’ very own. A cut, a color and a bit of vision go a long way, as these images prove. Why settle for a pedestrian poodle when you can have a blue peacock? Or, how about a camel, a ninja turtle, or even a dragon?
Don’t let your furry friends protest! After all – what do they know about beauty? Here is their chance to transcend their earthly shell and be born anew. This is no time for reservation, so don’t be shy. Let your fantasy run wild and they’ll thank you in the end. ..Right? You decide, while you check out some of my other favorites under the jump.
Veteran mashup architect DJ Earworm deserves a friggin’ Grammy for this one:
The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Via Ponnie, thanks.
Sublime, poetic, and menacing in equal measure, “United State of Pop” is the most beautifully presented –not to mention addictive– musical riff off MTV monoculture I’ve heard since Plunderphonics. As the friend who showed me this puts it:
This video is an example of what’s being called the “legofication” of pop music…[songs] so generic and standardized in [their] structure (not to mention pop videos in their imagery) that all the parts are interchangeable. DJ Earworm mashes up the top 25 on the billboard charts for 2008 to illustrate this point.
Go to djearworm.com to download the audio, and click below to see the full tracklist.
1. You can’t go wrong with intestine hair on a bug-eyed, lumpy-necked carapacial giraffe. Especially on that powder-soft, baby-pink background. It’s like someone crossed this painting of Shirley Temple with this painting by Brom. Well-done. The mask here was crafted by Manuel Albarran. Photographer unknown. Larger image here.
2. Found this image on Flickr one night while doing research for a photoshoot. I know this is completely fake, but hey: I am tagging this post “Architecture,” just on account of this epic masterpiece of engineering. Anyone who can identify the source of this image gets a free can of Aquanet Extra Super Hold when they order Issue 02.
3. My favorite image from Japanese artist/designer Nagi Noda’s “Hair Hats” project, which we blogged about a few months ago. Tragically, between that blog post and this one, the talented Nagi Noda passed away at the young age of 35. Perhaps this is a sad way to end a fluffy and fun post, but I’ve been wanting to mention this for some time – may as well be this post, which I hope brings much merriment. Nagi, you’ll be missed.
Welcome back to All Tomorrows, dear reader, where we weekly comb possible futures from science fiction’s glorious deviant age (circa mid-’60s to mid-’80s). This time, we’ve got the late Michael G. (for Greatrex, best sci-fi middle name ever) Coney’s 1982 novel Cat Karina, as strange a tomorrow as you’re likely to see.
At some unspecified (by our time scale, at least) point in the future, humanity’s starfaring civilization has collapsed, leaving True Humans and “Specialists” (human animal-hybrids originally engineered for colonization) in an uneasy peace. On top of it all, the entire damn planet’s converted en masse to an alien religion called the Kikihuahua Examples, forbidding metal working, fire and killing. In all this, a young “felina” named Karina gets tied in with an immortal race of sorceresses, the Dedos, trying to manipulate possible futures to release their alien god from a reality bomb prison laid by clones of Hitler.
Got that?
The result of all the above could have, should have been a complete and utter mess. Instead, Coney pulls off a future shock fairy tale (and parable) for the ages. More about why vegetarian bat aliens will doom us all, after the jump.
Oh… my. Wayne just memed my ass out with the most astonishing OMGWTFBBQ music video of the year. Imagine what might happen if the rennies spiked your mead with DMT at Medieval Times. It is Epic. It is Über.
Meet Chris Dane Owens. He is here to fuck you, amigo. Fuck you earnestly, somberly, savagely, without the courtesy of a reach-around. For he is Legolas on a meth binge. He is Limahl with brass balls. His “Shine on Me” video is the prodigious, tumescent, chain-mail-piercing, pirate-booty-plundering, Adobe After Effects-abusing, alligator-exploiting, stock footage-pillaging D&D Destructo Dildo to the insidious butt plug of Brokencyde’s “Freaxx”.
Keep watching. Don’t click away. Follow that sparkly green Gretsch all the way to the finish line. Take it to the hilt, paladin.
Forrest J Ackerman: literary agent, magazine editor, writer, actor, producer, archivist, curator, and so much more, too much to pack into a brief obituary. He was a crackpot visionary to the max, to be sure, and deeply loved by millions of fellow freakazoids the world over. Tip o’ the iceberg: he discovered Ray Bradbury, represented Isaac Asimov, Ed Wood and L. Ron Hubbard, founded Famous Monsters of Filmland and is widely acknowledged as the man who coined the term “sci-fi.”
Ackerman cultivated one of the most enormous private collections of science-fiction movie and literary memorabilia in the world, cramming his hillside “Ackermansion” with 50,000 books, thousands more science-fiction magazines, and such priceless collectibles as Bela Lugosi’s cape, actual Star Trek tribbles, and original props from War of the Worlds.
He sold off quite a bit of his collection back in 2002 and moved to a smaller place, but schedule permitting, continued to open his home to strangers every Satuday afternoon to view his remaining treasures. He greatly enjoyed sharing his many colorful stories and anecdotes with fellow Hollyweird aficionados. Speaking to the AP during a lively tour of the Ackermansion on his 85th birthday, Ackerman said “My wife used to [ask] ‘How can you let strangers into our home?’ But what’s the point of having a collection like this if you can’t let people enjoy it?”
WOOOOOO!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! *hic* SHOW US YOUR KNICKERS!!!
Now, I know it’s quite early in the morning and some of us are still a bit hungover and as greasily stuffed as vat-fried Turduckens, but it’s time we all gathered ’round and sang happy birthday to our darling Nadya, the magical grrrlchild who brought this entire Coilhouse venture into being by sheer force of will, prescience, and love.
Yes, you already know that she’s an engaging writer who emits a quiet sagacity one would not necessarily expect from so young and doe-eyed a dear. You’re well aware that she’s a phenomenal photographer. But just in case we’ve not made it clear to you already?Nadya Lev is the reason Coilhouse exists. Were it not for our scrumptious mastermind, none of this would be here, and Nadya is the one who continues to hold it all together like a tiny, sexy tube of superglue. So take a moment to send her some whelping-day well-wishing, won’t you? I’m sure it’ll mean more to her than my questionable decision to pelt her with obscure indie spaz rock.
Bear with the somewhat sluggish posting schedule, folks. We’re slogging through last-minute corrections to the final proofs of Issue 02 and losing our minds in the process. I do mean that literally. Earlier tonight, poor Nadya sneezed and a big chunk of her frontal lobe fell out. I called her just now to discuss a kerning issue and the conversation went a little something like this. Meanwhile, Zoetica’s delicate alien grey matter has liquefied entirely from overexposure to laptop radiation. As for me, well, I’m having flashbacks of that one time I accidentally took ‘shrooms laced with bathtub LSD and ran out into traffic on the I-580 yelling “FLESH TETRIS, FLESH TETRIS, EVERYTHING FEELS LIKE MATH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP THE FLESH TETRIS, STOPPIT, HNNNGH” until someone threw a tarp over my head.
It certainly doesn’t help that this 8-Bit version of “Angel of Death” has been lodged in my noggin for several days now.
Soy represents dense nutritional life. Bomb is, obviously, an explosive destructive force. So, “soy bomb” is what I think art should be: dense, transformational, explosive life! —Michael Portnoy
I sometimes wonder how the NYC folks I’ve lost touch with are doing these days. For instance, my former roomie and occasional partner in performance art/music/fashion shenanigans, Michael Portnoy. A multi-talented, mischievous fellow who rented me a room in his flat on the Lower East Side when I first arrived in town, Michael’s “diverse practice spans dance-theater, metafunctional sculpture, fascist socials, experimental stand-up, prog-operatic spectacle, an aerobic restaurant where food leaps out from the walls, and Icelandic cockroach porn.” Noble pursuits, one and all! However, Mister Portnoy remains best known for his balls-out impromptu guerilla dance’plosion during Bob Dylan’s performance of “Love Sick” at the 1998 Grammy Awards:
(I love that it took almost a full minute for anyone to realize Soy Bomb wasn’t part of the show and “escort” him offstage.)
A bit of background info: the Grammys production team had hired Michael and two dozen other extras to stand in the background and wriggle in a shambolic, vaguely beatnik fashion to “give Bob a good vibe.” $200 to do a bit of insincere finger-snapping on live television? Not bad work if you can get it. But Michael had more grandiose visions, and of course, the rest is history. Love it or hate it (and to be sure, I love it a little more every time I watch it) “the Soy Bomb incident” has become one of the most memorable moments in televised award ceremony history, right up there with Sasheen Littlefeather declining Marlon Brando’s Academy Award for him to a chorus of boos, Jarvis Cocker interrupting Michael Jackson‘s pretentious BRIT Awards spectacle, and Sally Fields mewling “you like meee!”
A very wise, oft-quoted fellow named Joel Hodgson once said “we never ask, will anyone get this? We just assume the right people will get it.” On that note, without further explication, here’s the infamous “Twelve Tone Commercial” raillery (recorded back in 1977 by some super-awesomely eggheaded musicians) more recently set to an inspired collection of moving pictures by some wacky genius who may or may not reside in Austria:
The audio on this was recorded 40 years ago by Robert Conrad, founder of WCLV classical radio. A prolific American conductor named Kenneth Jean produced it, and revered Swiss composer/conductor Matthias Bamert is said to have had a hand in it as well. Bless ’em all.
To anyone peeing their pants and rolling on the floor laughing right now: you are officially the nerdiest music nerd that ever nerded from Serial Composition class.
