The Matrix turned 10 last week. It debuted March 31, 1999, though us plebs had to wait til April 2 to see it.
It’s easy to forget, in the wake of two disastrous sequels and equally lackluster (except for the Animatrix) tie-ins, exactly how radical and groundbreaking a pop culture artifact the first movie was.
Try, for a second, to look at the original trailer. Imagine you know absolutely nothing about the movie inside:
Pretty f’in cool, no?
To date myself, I was 16 at the time and came out of the theater utterly energized. I wasn’t the only one. William Gibson dubbed it “an innocent delight I hadn’t felt in a long time.” Darren Aronofsky raved that it heralded a new age in sci-fi. Neil Gaiman and Poppy Z. Brite wrote stories to fill out the movie’s universe.
It became a phenomenon, immensely successful and influential beyond anyone’s expectation. Hell, conservative scolds even blamed the movie’s anarchistic heroes for the Columbine massacre.
The Matrix worked because it managed to blend philosophy, allegory, action and fashion into one glorious, fun package.
By now, Coilhouse tees are appearing in mailboxes all over the world. We’ve seen a few tweets come through from satisfied customers (enjoy your shirts, atavistian, rickiep00h, msalistar, girloncamera, Jerem_Morrow!), some comments on the blog (glad you got it in time for your Recycled Rainbow meet, Jezcabelle), and photos are starting to pop up on Flickr. But also, we’ve received a couple of emails stating “where’s my shirt, beyotches?!” To those people we’d like to apologize for the delay and let you know that the shirts will be on their way shortly, if they’re not already. We originally indicated in our T-Shirt Ordering FAQ that there’d be a 2-week delay between the time or ordering and the time of shipping because of the time it takes to screen-print the shirt, but we’ve fallen a couple of days behind due to the sheer number of orders. We are shipping them out in the order in which they were received, and all shirts should be mailed by the end of the week at the latest.
So if you haven’t received your shirt, hang in there – it’s on its way. And when you do receive it, or if you already have: pictures, pictures NOW! Take a snapshot and post it in the comments. We want to see the Coihouse Army in uniform!
UPDATE: We shipped the last batch on Wednesday. Everyone’s shirts are in the mail.
Go ahead. Read it. Just don’t send me your psychiatric bills.
-from the Analog review of Antibodies
Welcome back, dear Coilhaüsers, to All Tomorrows. This time we’re going a bit outside of our usual Deviant Era range to take a deep, long (yeah, you’ll never forgive me) look at David J. Skal’s 1988 novel Antibodies. A little later than the usual works, yes, but if anything gets captures the guts of Deviant Era’s transgressive glories, it’s this pitch-black wallow on the wrong side of Transhumanism.
Skal, mostly a horror historian, wrote only a handful of science fiction novels, and this was the last. It’s not hard to see why. Antibodies is a horror tale in future clothing: a detailed examination of how nasty it gets when humans try to permanently scrap flesh for metal, and how easily believing plebs are still led to the slaughter by their puppet-masters.
I’ve recommended a lot of disturbing books in this column and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon, but I will warn you right now: Antibodies is not for everyone. It is a deeply disturbing, brutally unsparing book. The anonymous reviewer from Analog wasn’t fucking around. This is a tale with no mercy and no illusions. You’ve been warned.
Hallelujah! At 71 years of age, rockabilly/gospel veteran Wanda Jackson, “The Sweet Lady With the Nasty Voice” has just been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Ms. Jackson always reminds me a bit of Bettie Page; it’s that wonderful mixture of innocence and smoldering passion; growls with the helium giggles. Back in the 50s, the mainstream could barely handle Elvis or Ruth Brown. I imagine Jackson’s raw, wild voice must have seemed equally scandalous –if not more so– to the status quo. Hell, it’s 2009 and I still get all wiggly whenever I hear her do that little spluttery “ooohh….ahhh… I love you” bit in “Tongue Tied.”
If you’re looking for a good introduction/overview, pick up her CD from the Vintage Collections series. Also, check out some clips after the jump, including Jackson’s recent performance of “Fujiyama Mama” at the Luminaire in London. Those spitfire pipes remain smokin’ hot, and she still looks damn fine in a fringe dress.
It’s been a strange week for TV commercials. First, this asinine “Mow the Lawn” ad for a women’s shaver made me sad, prompting me to spend some quality time with my friends Feministing, SocImages and Genderfork. Then, there was this bizarre Thai toothpaste spot. The debate rages on as to whether this ad is racist or merely a comment on racism, but everyone agrees on one thing: it’s even sadder than The Red Balloon. By Friday I was just about to swear off any ad viewing for at least a week because it was bringing me down, but then the gem of a clip above appeared before my eyes. My favorite store in the world made an ad that Copyranter actually approves of? Oh my god. Oh my god. It’s a lunar eclipse. Everybody watch.
Ah, New York Public Access TV. Nothing quite like it. You got your mimes on skates, your free “math and educational skills” and everything in between. One day, there’s going to be a huge Coilhouse feature celebrating the golden age of pre-Internet Public Access. Today is not that day.
No, today, a Public Access treasure from the current century: the psychic show of one CB Walker. Real or fake, it doesn’t matter; whether CB is a comedian, a performance artist or a true crackpot visionary, the result is still hilarious. CB uses his psychic abilities to heal, comfort and advise. Suspicious of your lover’s fidelity? He’s got some advice for you. Do you have a deep, dark secret that you’ve never revealed? He knows what you did. Are you 19 years old? Do not call!
The best C.B. Walker clips appear on his YouTube channel, and above is my favorite one of all, in which C.B. gets accosted by non-stop prank callers. Whether CB is “fake,” the prank callers are definitely real. It gets funnier every time you watch! [Thanks, Kelly]
No, not that Nick Cave. This is the work of a Chicago-based Nick Cave, whose soundsuits, seen here, focus on the fusion between fiber textile art and modern dance to create manifestations of the wearer’s physical energy. Cave’s shamanistic soundsuits have been described in the Boston Phoenix as “lavish, strange, beautifully-crafted outfits resembling mash-ups of African tribal ceremonial dress, Ku Klux Klan robes, Roman Catholic clergy vestments, yetis, Star Wars aliens, plumed and sequined carnival costumes, and fabulous drag queen gowns.” In an interview with Greg Cook, Cave poignantly describes the moment he created his first soundsuit:
When the Rodney King incident happened. I was reading in the paper about how the police sort of brought description to him. You know they were talking about, I can’t remember exactly what it said, but they were talking about this big, black, male figure that was bigger than life, that was mammoth-like. And I just started thinking about these words that were describing this human being, and I was like, “This is just fucking insane to me.” And I realized at that point I needed to take a different responsibility, I need to recognize that this is the platform that I need to be delivering, to work on.
And my first “Soundsuit” was a twig-suit. Which I didn’t even know it was a “Soundsuit.” I was just sort of making a piece in response to that situation. So I gathered all these twigs in the park and made this suit. I wasn’t even thinking that I could get into it. That wasn’t even on my brain. And then I made it and then I put it on. And I was just like, “Oh. My. God.” And at that point I knew that I had, you know you just know when you’ve found it. And I just knew. And I thought, “Oh, God, am I ready to take on all of this right now.” Because I just knew that it was a sculpture, it was again this suit of armor, it was this sort very unfamiliar sort of territory that I wasn’t really quite sure what it meant. Still don’t know really. Then there was performance. So it’s all of these sort of things. In order to be heard, to have a voice, you need to be an activist.
Surely, this latest video has already stampeded across the web like a herd of flaming wildebeest. Fuggit. “I Will Never Go to School” really needs to be archived on Coilhouse. Although… if Gene, Tommy, Paul and Eric are as litigious as some of Sanders’ previous victims, the video might not stay up much longer, so watch while you can!
If, by some bizarre chance, you have yet to immerse yourself fully in the St Sanders Experience, there are a few more clandestine gems after the jump.
Guys, there’s good news and bad news. Bad news first: our Coilhouse shirts just came back from the screen-printer, and we have a huge problem. The ink had not dried yet when they started folding them. There are smudged, silvery blobs all over all the shirts. O NOES! We don’t feel comfortable mailing these out, and we can’t afford to get another batch printed. With sincere apologies to everybody who ordered a shirt last month, we are unable to fulfill your orders at this time.
The good news is, everyone who ordered a shirt will instead be receiving a limited edition item from our upcoming line of sexytime-themed merch: this embossed tin of exclusive Coilhouse condoms! These actually cost more to manufacture than the shirts did, so you’re getting a great deal. The tin features the original Coilhouse poster child, Stratosphere Messenger, drawn by Zoetica. Our intrepid cyber swashbuckler is carrying a very important message to the boys and girls of Coilhouse: be safe! Use protection! Don’t end up like some people, because this is what will happen to you. Inform, Inspire, but don’t Infect!
I/I/I rubbers are just the first item from CH’s upcoming line of adult-themed swag, which will debut in conjunction with Issue 03. We know our hot readers are gettin’ some AND BY GOLLY, WE WANT TO BE A PART OF IT. We’re thrilled to offer you a line of products as stimulating as they are socially conscious.
Actually, this is all a subliminal plot to make you associate sex with Coilhouse, goading a Pavlovian impulse to buy every time we put out a new issue. Sshhh.
Make sparks fly with our Tesla Coil “Cog” Ring. Tickle your prostrate with the pointy end of one of our Ethics Butthurt anal plugs, (each inscribed with the most asinine comments from certain threads on this blog that just won’t die). We’re developing a line of silicone tentacle dildos, because hey, that’s one fetish we all seem to have in common, as well as restraints made from space age metals, absinthe-flavored latex dental dams, and Shibari bondage rope woven from hair harvested directly from Mer’s scalp.
This range is still being developed, and we’re taking requests. Please post suggestions for products we should carry in the comments. Sorry again about the shirts. We promise, what we’re mailing you instead will be much more fun to wear.
Left: Durova as a noble lady. Right: Durova as a soldier in uniform.
When she was an infant, her father placed her under the care of a soldier after her abusive mother threw her out of a moving carriage. Growing up, she memorized all the standard marching commands, and her favorite toy was an unloaded gun. A noblewoman by birth, Nadezhda Durova wanted nothing more than to don a uniform and defend Russia against Napoleon. At age 24, she did just that. “With firmness so alien to my young age,” she wrote in her memoirs, “I was wrecking my brain about how to break free from the vicious circle of natural and customary duties assigned to us, women.” In 1807, disguised as a boy, she left home on the back of her favorite mount, Alchides, and enlisted in a Polish uhlan regiment. “At last I am free and independent. I had taken my freedom, this precious, heavenly gift, inherently belonging to every human being!”
Durova’s service in the military earned her distinguished honors, and throughout her career she was, by all accounts, revered by everyone in her chain of command. A few officers knew her secret, but most did not. Tsar Alexander I, aware of her true identity, awarded her a cross for saving a soldier’s life and gave her permission to join the regiment of her choice. He gave her a new male surname, Alexandrov (after his own name). Durova continued crossdressing after retirment from the military. She died at age 83 and was buried dressed as a man, with full military honors.
In 1962, the Soviet Studio MosFilm released a musical called Gusarskaya Balada(“Hussar Ballad”) based on Durova’s life. In what’s certainly a complete misrepresentation of Durova’s complicated existence, the musical paints Durova as a young patriotic woman in love with a male soldier, eager to win him over on her terms, as a fellow fighter. The film is without subtitles, but has enough colorful characters, costumes and music that I think a non-Russian-speaking audience would appreciate the clip above, which showcases Durova’s character first dressed as a woman, then dressed as a man. I love actress Larisa Golubkin’s confident, homoerotic swagger in the second half of the clip.
It’s difficult not to revel in the fabulousness of Gusarskaya Balada, but I wish that someone would make a textured, compassionate film that dug deeper into Durova’s life. There are many different ways for this play out, for many facets of Durova’s identity are still debated to this day. On the topic of her gender identity, Wikipedia states that “some readers interpret her as a cisgendered woman who adopted celibacy and male clothing to achieve professional freedom,” while others believe that Durova was transgender. Similarly, Durova’s sexual orientation remains a mystery. She eloped with a man when she was young, against her father’s wishes. However, she omitted her marriage (and any description of attraction to men or women) from her memoirs. When it comes to her relationship with women, one biography notes, “Durova felt uncomfortable around other women. On at least two occasions women recognized her true identity and addressed her as ‘Miss.’ Her fellow officers often joked that Aleksandrov was too shy and afraid of women.”
The deeper I dig, the more fascinating scenes I find. Beyond the obvious allure of wartime crossdressing, there are many odd tidbits, like Durova’s powerful connection with animals. As a child, she “frightened her family by secretly taming a stallion that they considered unbreakable.” Later in life she provided shelter to stray cats and dogs that she rescued, and she passed on her animal-taming abilities to her descendants, circus legends and founders of the Durov Animal Theatre in Russia. Then, there’s her horrible mother, who only wanted a boy, and seemed to punish Durova for being born a girl by making her spend countless hours doing monotonous “women’s work” like sewing and crocheting. That’s a whole other story itself, right there.
Hopefully, one day soon, someone will make a serious film about Durova. Until then, enjoy the song and dance.
