Happy birthday, comrade Nadya. Can you believe it’s already been a whole year?! So much has happened in that time. You endured intense hardship and celebrated huge victories, moving from LA to London to San Francisco. You collaborated with remarkable people and accomplished admirable feats. Hell, you even manged to stop biting your nails! Congratulations.
Every single day, your efforts and encouragement continue to hold Coilhouse together. You really are our tiny, sexy tube of superglue. We’re stuck on you like clock gears hot-gunned to a cosplayer’s cotton poly-blended bloomers.
Now, we realize it’s not much (certainly not a $53K Lady Yu porcelain action figure), but still, we wanted to make a concerted effort to celebrate your birth properly this year, with vaguely unsettling Russian animation…
Plenty of cake…
…and of course, party hats.
Now blow out the candles! (Hint: they’re under the shar peis.)
Do you lack healthy boundaries? Are you guilty of the compulsive overshare? All-too-eager to share gory, palpating details with complete strangers that no one besides your own mother and/or proctologist would ever want to know?
Non-consensual boner anecdote-telling. Tactical uterus hurling in lieu of real intimate contact. The “I wasn’t breast fed enough so now I need to publicly air my personal anguish to feel properly nurtured and validated” power point presentation. “Cry For Help” cutting (across the street, not down the road). Cloaking references to life-shattering trauma in Obfuscating Yet Ominous Faerie Singsong™ (a Tori Amos patent). “Fuck You Daddy, I’m a Suicide Girl Now!” blog posts. Spontaneous primal scream therapy in the supermarket. If you have ever attempted one or more of these maneuvers, chance are, you’re a TMI Avenger.
Relax. You’re among friends. And you’re gonna loooove Body Memories. A squirm-inducing, low budget film directed by the same fella who brought us one of the most fabulous independent documentaries of the decade, Body Memories is…
…one man’s journey inward to find meaning in his life. He becomes an archeologist of the soul, digging through the layers of his past. Evocative images blend with a riveting performance that uncovers family secrets and buried traumas.
Is it just me, or is today full of uncertainty and hormonal angst? It’s probably just me. I hope it’s just me. But surely, we could all still use a good laugh. Here’s an OBG (Oldie But Goodie) that never fails to bring on schadenfreude-laced tears of hysterical laughter:
Via Kevin, thanks. Click here to see the letter itself embiggened.
fapfapfapfapfapfapfapfapfapOH GOOD MORNING COMRADES I DIDN’T SEE YOU THERE.
What’s that? Oh, um. I was just, uh, playing with my tribble.
Ariana showed me the following picture last night…
…which spurred me to revisit that notorious “Closer” slashup, the gravitational pull of which sent me spiraling down a long, twisted YouTube wormhole of Trekkie aberration and depravity. Woooo!
To help you get your sluggish blood pumping, I’d like to share a bit of what I found with you. Just the tip…
Nothing says Malevolent Psychopomp of Satan quite like a pair of Reebok high-tops. Unless it’s biker shorts. Or a puffy ponytail.
I quail before his magnificence. It’s no wonder that cop took one look at the proceedings and tucked tail.
Sadly, little is known of the circumstances and origins of this clip. The YouTuber who uploaded it says “I got this randomly placed on a tape a dude sent me once. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on here, as in where the rest of the band is.”
Band schmand. This guy doesn’t need backup. Whatever his solo rendition of “KILL EVERYONE” may lack in instrumentation (or tonality, or lyricism), it more than makes up for in conviction. Plus, he’s got the entire audience providing the chorus for his instant club hit, “I HATE EVERYONE”.
Today is Goth Christmas. We wish you all happy hauntings.
It’s also the very last day of October and an opportune moment to observe a very important milestone: two years ago this month, the Coilhouse blog officially launched.
Despite being on completely different sleep schedules in three different time zones (hell, in two different hemispheres) we three wanted to make sure we got together to “properly” commemorate what is, for us, a pretty huge milestone. Drinks were drunk, cupcakes were flambéd, cherry pie plasma was snorted, and lascivious nekkid dancing in the dark may or may not have occurred:
WOOPWOOPWOOP! DING! (“Happy Birthday” song by Altered Images.)
Two years ago, none of us had any idea what we were getting ourselves into. We were relative strangers with tons of enthusiasm and not a whole lot of experience. A little over 24 months and incalculable hours of work later, Coilhouse has published over 1000 blog posts, 3 issues of a glossy bookazine style print mag, and there’s a splendid 4th issue in production unlike anything we’ve yet attempted.
We’ve got an incredible group of brilliant, self-motivated contributors working with us, and our cherished readership has proved itself time and time again to be as passionately in love with fringe media and alternative culture as we are. We’re a community. You know, we might even be some sort of post-nuclear, pre-singularity extended family.
This place is proof that a small, close-knit, somewhat green group of folks can saddle up and ride to all kinds of wonderful places. Thank you, all of you, for joining us. We’re in for the long haul, and we can’t wait to see where this journey takes us next.
Um. Remember not too long ago when I was going on about how edgy and alt Nutella is, sildenafil and asserting that peanut butter is boring by comparison?
The Skinemax-worthy soundtrack makes this infinitely more disturbing. Not to mention the plastic wrap.
Via our beloved Siege, whose curatorial instincts sometimes jump the track from sharing sublime beauty to just wanting us all to cry and punch ourselves repeatedly in the netherbits until they shrivel up and fall off. (He has proven thisonmultiple occasions.)
Let’s be clear: I’ve spent some time on the internet. It is debatable whether it is too much time; but at this point I think my deathbed speech could be a meme re-imagining of Roy Batty’s death scene. There are times, regardless of the wonders which course through the tubes, that I find myself bored and listless. Regardless of how many strange bits of fascinating minutia there may be floating around, sometimes they fail to excite, to provoke any sort of response.
I’ll admit that this is due more to my own state of mind than the quality of the content on offer. Sometimes there is nothing that is going to inspire me; nothing to stir my sluggish and stubborn brain into action. Thankfully there are people like Keandra4ever. They know that, when you’re at your lowest, the best thing for it is a musical tribute to a dashing, Hawaiian little person; because no one ignites the imagination quite like Keanu.
There are two kinds of people in this world: people who have known the sweet, swooning rapture of a Nutella binge… and Skippy-on-Wonderbread eaters.
The former have created elaborate websites devoted to the spread, written effusive poetry, made Rihanna “Nutella-ella-ella” sendups and started Facebook groups declaring their love. The latter have a hollow, empty feeling inside that no amount of pasteurized peanut butter and spongey white bread can ever hope to fill.
