She Ain’t Ugly; She’s My Shyla.

❦

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Rifling through the ridiculous four-digit number of unanswered missives clogging my In-Box like a steady diet of deep-fried dill pickles, KFC and biscuits slathered in bacon fat does the arteries, it took but a cursory glance at the last sacrilegious e-card Ugly Shyla sent starring Scooter (R.I.P.), her three-legged cat, and I was transported back to April of 2003.  Convergence, an annual festival for those more shadowy in spirit, had booked me as a spoken word performer among that year’s roster.  Jared, ever the trooper in terms of road trips, had joined me on this excursion to Las Vegas: convention capitol of the world, tackiest city in the country, and home of the flamingo-themed Hilton hotel where for four days it was as if a black cloud descended upon its fuchsia presence.

That’s when I first “officially” met Shyla ♥—

Why the quotation marks?  A counter-culture periodical entitled  Swag had premiered around this time, and both Shyla and I graced its pages.  I’d read the feature on her and hence already knew about the ‘morbid fine art’ dolls she creates, her involvement with the performance art troupe (A-M-F), her wicked sense of personal style (fish-hooks through flesh used in lieu of garter belts), how her mom (known in the scene as ‘Goth Mom’) turned her on to the joys of John Waters, Satanism and transvestites.  All of that was fine and fascinating, but—more than anything—I was intrigued by the knowledge that this remarkable creature hailed from a tiny town called Jennings, Louisiana.

My own history composed of 18 years in Nowheresville, Arkansas—where I grew up not on a street, but a ‘Rural Route’ consisting of dirt and gravel—I can’t help but be drawn to other southern-fried freaks.  Not so much for the sake of sharing tear-stained stories of persecution, but rather because some of the most fascinating individuals I’ve ever met have sprouted from completely random spots among The Fly-Over States’ detritus.  While it sucked with sharp fangs during those days of puberty and pimples, I’m grateful to have developed as an individual without a clique to inform or guide me.  Said another way?  There was no “Check-List of Cool,” no tables in the caf polarized by those who fit within the parameters of Punk, Goth, Mod, Ska, etc.

When there’s no need to conform among the non-conformists?  That’s when the aberrant has an opportunity to define itself.

But I digress.  Ugly Shyla is aberrant, if anything—and sick, sick, siiiick in the best sense of the word.

::  A Sexy Shyla Pin-Up Print :: Available Through Her Web Shop ::

We clocked each other in the (ahem) “Bizarre Bazaar”: me in a custom Liz McGrath pinstripe suit adorned with gaping wounds and open sores oozing with red glitter; she in a pristine white baby doll dress that’d been ripped apart and re-stitched with thick black thread to match her full-eye black sclera contacts.

Sure, there’s the blue hair, the fishnets: this is familiar territory for most of us.

But once we made it past the “Don’t-I-Know-You-From…” social pleasantries?

That’s when I began to learn the good stuff.

:: artwork utilizing menstrual blood as a medium ::

Don’t just take my word for it, though.

Stop by her self-proclaimed “trailer park of the internet” ( Ugly Shyla Dot Com ); peruse her on-line gallery ( Ugly Art Dot Net ); give her Etsy marketplace a gander ( Ugly Art On Etsy ) and come to your own conclusions.

Rather than a welcome mat, you’ll be greeted by an image of your hostess bound in a warm, fuzzy straightjacket.  It might be hard to make out what she’s saying on account of the Hannibal Lecter-Lite safety guard that obscures her mouth…but if you look deep into those eyes eclipsed by contact lenses a ruptured shade of red, there’s an inherent sense that in Ugly Shyla’s world—complete with gauche magenta-on-pink animal-print wallpaper and the royal proclamation “Mental Illness With Style” scrawled in a gorgeous font rife with manic intensity—this is her version of an invitation to step inside.

Then, once you ease into the nascent stages of dementia via multi-sensory bombardment,

once you abandon all distinctions between what’s extreme and what’s extremely absurd,

it’s hard not to feel immediately welcomed…and at home.

➡ C L I C K — for —  ➡ Read more

Good Day, GIVE-AWAY! Some Girls: My Life In A Harem, by Jillian Lauren

Oh. That New York Times Best-Selling Author Jillian Lauren?
Yeah. “I Knew Her When…”

Matter of fact, just to show what a hot shee-ot I am (not, you know, because
it’s an excellent memoir in which the reader falls down the same gossamer-swathed rabbit hole of adventure that landed Lauren in a Prince’s Harem, nor is it because Lauren’s prose is balanced so adeptly; it’s the quietest arrangement of language such loud subject matter could get)

No no, for no reason other than to prove that Yeah, I Know People, Man
am I giving away a signed, personally inscribed copy of Some Girls: My Life in a Harem
to one of you lucky bloggamareaders
(That One’s For You, Oh Sarah Of The Palin-Speak! ♡ ‘Refudiate’ FTW!)

Here’s what you have to do to be “in the running for America’s Next Top Memoir”:
1. Leave a comment here, on this very web log entry
2. Regardless how clever—or cruddy, so long as it is not about the author—aforementioned comment might be,
Don’t forget to include your email address along with the sentiment you choose to share
&

3. Complete tasks #1 & 2 before or by the precise stroke of 11:59 p.m., P.S.T.
Friday evening, the 23rd of July, two thousand & ten A.D.

On the 24th of July, at whatever time the fancy might strike me, I shall be pulling a name from my top hat.

Until then, here’s a trailer for the book
(yes, “trailers” exist for books these days…hell, some spoken word performers make videos!)

&

Here’s a media reel of the lovely Ms Lauren for your retinal penetration—including coverage on
The View, Insider, & AM NorthWest:

To Optic Nerves & Opulence!
:: [a fanfare is appropriate] ::

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Agyness Deyn Is Such A Naag, Naag, Naag

In case you haven’t heard by now, mega-model Agyness Deyn co-edits an e-’zine where she “gets bloggy about it.” And before the eye-rolling commences, no: it doesn’t suck.  As the adage goes, yes: sometimes God does serve with both hands.

Contrary to the Cabaret Voltaire reference in my title, Naag was named after its founders (“na” from journalist Fiona Byrne and “ag” from Aggy)—a choice made all the more appropriate by the URL’s personality-driven articles. In their own words, “Naag is Fiona and Aggy and our friends, talking about things we like to see and do and feel. We live in New York and like to hang out.”

Among the current features are: “A Nice Day For A Sulk”, a photo editorial Agyness shot of her pal Nancy (one of the images was used for the site’s splash page, as seen above)

and articles ranging from “MAC’s New Two-In-One Mascara Is Heroically Important”, in which staff writer Tamar Anitai explains that with Haute & Naughty, “even though it looks like you’re using two different brushes, you’re not.” The delineation between the pink “Just Running To Starbucks” wand and the purple wand is a clever, chuckle-worthy example of colloquial writing with a distinct voice, as “the purple wand essentially acts like a John Deere front-end loader, absolutely crushing the hopes and dreams of other high-volume mascaras as it packs drag-queen levels of mascara onto the brush for an epic, intense effect. It’s like 10lb of sugar in a 5lb bag. So, use either side separately for a totally different look, or use both sides for maximum effect, but hello? Who doesn’t love options?”

to Stephanie Trong’s  “Jewelry That Shouldn’t Work, But Does” — subtitled Studs, Spikes and Rhinestones? Sure, Trong’s coverage of New York–based designer Meredith Kahn’s jewelry line Made Her Think summarizes the aesthetic as being “like if punks finally stopped being snobby toward goths and then they decided to have a bunch of Top 40 pop stars over for a slumber party with champagne.”

[CON'T, AFTER THE JUMP]

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IN Utah This Week — June 2010 Coverage

Special thanks to Amy Spencer and Alanja of the Dark Arts Festival!

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Review of Cottonmouth Kisses — Traffic

A publication of Small Press Traffic, “Helping Writers Break The Rules Since 1974.”

Spring/Summer 2001

More info on the legendary Kevin Killian awaits!

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Oh, But I ✷ Just ✷ Can’t ✷ Resist…

I don’t know about the rest of you gents, but
I’m feeling seriously left out of this whole

—VAJAZZLING—
craze!

★ ☆ ★

Filtered through the voice of my relative “twiced removed”, Junior Jr.:

“Somebody let my ding-a-ling do some sparkly thangs!
They’ve done gone & leaked the fun to The Christwire, ma!”

★ ☆ ★

(Fuh reals, though—there’s MOAR):

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Review of Cottonmouth Kisses — Bizarre Magazine (UK)

April 2001

[ Many thanks to Cathi Unsworth —
and, of course, to Bizarre magazine ! ]

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Ramzi Abed’s NOIRLAND: “Behind-The-Scenes” or “Making a Scene”?

Whichever/Whatever the case, one thing is most certain (indeed…indeed!)

My attempt to maneuver around four-letter words is more a rough-hewn Scotch tape-&-staple job of
“edits” than it is some mad profesh, seamless-as-a-pair-of-Cervin Paris Rive Gauche
silk-stockinged affair.   All the same, long overdue this post—yes, though
it is

h e r e ✷ finally ✷ h e r e

Embedded in the rectangle above?

A nine minute, 25 second-long exploration of Hollywood’s illustrious Gemini Manor, a locale as eclectic
as the “subjects” presented in this clip: namely, a coterie of fashion vigilantes filmmaker Ramzi Abed
recruited to populate his latest feature, the “darkly romantic horror ensemble mystery” known as Noirland.

Noirland stars James Duval (Donnie Darko, The Doom Generation) † Rena Riffel (Showgirls, Mulholland
Drive) † Lorielle New (The Pit & the Pendulum, Grindhouse) † Lenora Claire (The Devil’s Muse,
Toxic Avenger IV) † Zoetica Ebb (ChinaShop mag; co-founder Coilhouse) † La Carmina (CNNGo journalist &
travel TV host) † Yukiro Dravarious (Queen Bitch Supreme, Tokyo underground) † Aldo Vento
(“Delphinium: A Childhood Portrait of Derek Jarman”) † Maxim Eskertin (Bunraku, Violent Blue) † & me,
Clint Catalyst (“In The Spotlight,” “Delphinium: A Childhood Portrait of Derek Jarman,” recLAmation)

The film’s killer cast (Velveeta-laden double-entendre too delish to resist, sorry/kthnx) also boasts luminaries
Twink Caplan (forever chambertombed to mine heart as “Miss Geist” from Amy Heckerling’s Clueless) †
Lloyd Kaufman (The Toxic Avenger, Horrorween) & a slew of other IMDB repeat-offenders, but I
whittled the preceding list down to the folks featured in this footage
that awaits your ogling

✷ now ✷

Yes, that includes Mr. Duval—even if his appearance is the veritable “Where’s Waldo?” of the bunch.
Moreover, while actor/producer Edwin Santos‘ countenance is absent from such an implicitly
poised-for-viral-domination* collection of digital frames, if it were not for his kind role as our
impromptu DP, this footage would not exist.

Thanks again, Edwin!
—ditto, Ramzi; ditto, Alex—

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