clintcatalyst: Agreed, @BloodyBlack — #Permission mag, ever-ruling! My URL that looks like 1998 coughed up an HTMHellball, other hand? Waving white flag […]
clintcatalyst: Alright, @BloodyBlack ♥ You mean this pic, http://t.co/lU6clk2b correct? If so, ran in #Permission mag — anthology/book form, this fall! […]
clintcatalyst: Hey @littleepisodes, while you're hosting fundraisers? http://t.co/QN90bC5X has illegal @AmazonKindle DLs of yr books @tumblr. #SOrebellious […]
clintcatalyst: Oh, in case you didn't notice @thegrumpyowl —That last tweet of mine? #follow endorsement, ever was one. [MeaningHe'sEntertaining,Kids! FFS] […]
clintcatalyst: "So Testis it can be, the road to salvation — though some say 'taint..." @katebornstein [ Twit-image attchd, not sp@m ] http://t.co/iyvs2Y9x […]
clintcatalyst: Any rate, remember the shoot v well @BloodyBlack — also stoked, "Best Of"/book version of [that] mag comes out this fall. Good times! ♥ […]
clintcatalyst: Speaking of sly, howevs: me, w/ web-tech @BloodyBlack? Ha. Wanted to re: image you mntd, but can't get a single link, janky site gallery! […]
clintcatalyst: I know, right @MissDestructo? Why, I might even click "Fave" on this tweet. Precaution, totes/obvs...can't let you know I've seen it! #sly […]
I†† [ eye doublecross ] is not just a band;
they’re “a low-fi hypersigil, casting spells in various mediums .”
[CUE EXAGGERATED SHRUG]
Cool by me, brah.
Though when I discovered the basis for “Cø††øN”—
the latest single the duo conjured & released into the world
was [quote] “influenced by [ my book ] Cottonmouth Kisses” ?
Well, the excitement level racheted a bit Richter, not gonna lie. . .
No need to elaborate, nor to “re-visit”. . .
but we’ve all had at least one friend whose
band/stand-up comedy act/spoken word performance —
[ thought I'd keep the playing field fair ]
Y E A H .
You get it/You get it/You get it
Amidst the deafening silence & painful anecdotes that aren’t being shared at this moment,
here’s what is :
Also, two other ways in which this obstinate child of mine
continues to make its mark upon the world
[ however great or small that may be ] :
Eleven years since the effer premiered in print, yet not till this turn around the calendar—
Two Thousand Eleven A.D.—is when a song about it was inked,
so to speak. . .
If you’re not able to read the quotation obscured by my likeness?
That strand of syllables won’t be found among the pages of Cottonmouth Kisses,
but rather within the Degeneracy: A Love Letter project —
which I’m hereby placing ‘on the market’
ISO some serious match-making. . .
Said another way? Prospective publishers, literary agents, &/or
friends/kins/neighbors of the aforementioned?
UNLIKE THAT ENGORGED NIP BLINKING A MESSAGE OF
“TOUCH ME/TWEAK ME/C’MON FREAK ME, BABY” IN [ WH ]ORSE CODE
The Following Info? Bitch, Don’t Get It Twisted. . .
Said another way?
No, I’m not providing marked time codes as any sort of encouragement to
“just fast-forward to [my] section.” If I were that much of an egomaniac,
I’d have—oh, I don’t know—assaulted you countless times via Facebook
messages [ HATE. THOSE! ] & event invites for The Adonis Factor‘s
4 pm time slot among the airwaves, this Sunday past. . .
On the contrary, the [ forthcoming ] digits have been designated
for those who might be skimming this text &—at the moment—have but a few minutes to spare.
IN SUCH AN INSTANCE, HOWEVER, THE IDEA
IS THAT YOU’LL RETURN WHEN CHANCE PRESENTS.
Not only am I grateful to have been chosen as an interviewee for this film with such timely subject matter,
but I also want to formally express my thanks to the scribes who’ve included me in reviews :
those in which I’m mentioned by name or [ somewhat ]reasonable facsimilie ,
as well as references to me by archetype, regardless of phrasing.
All the clichés about “the ugly side of being beautiful,” a director’s “unflinching gaze” [ homophone much? ] :
they’re all applicable—as are the strong reactions Hines’ investigation provokes.
[ one example ] :
“‘If you’re gonna be gay, you’re just gonna have to experience the wrath of the A crowd,’
one perfect 10 in search of an 11 attests.
Some of us are just too allergic to house music to hazard that . . .”
“Whoever said opposites attract clearly never went to the Folsom Street Fair, where every body type
runs in packs of two (or several). Sure, mom said looks aren’t everything. But was she a gay man?
It’s brutal out there. Combine a sophisticated, compartmentalized urban gay scene
like San Francisco’s own with the Internet’s heightened judging-book-by-cover —
no actual book reading implied — and you’ve got a recipe for looks obsessiveness
that can snare even the safely off-market.”
To which filmmaker Christopher Hines counters, via
interview with Edge New York :
“The point of the film is that we’re men. We’re not going to hold hands and sing ’Kumbaya’
and just all be nice to each other.”
Touché, Mssr. Hines. . . Touché!
That being stated, my Q & A [ conducted on a sweltering summer afternoon, sans the luxury
of air conditioning—hence the Yes-I-Know-I-Could-Moonlight-at-KFC, Honey /
Ain't-No-Need-To-Mention-My-Mug-Being-Beyond-"Dewy" look ]
is nestled within the
25:17 — 28:37
time frame.
If you can survive the commercials
[ we're all impatient, so don't even consider visiting that territory—
same as the unedited, 30 minute longer version with extras: convenience is a privilege, not a 'right' ]
To Start:
Seven Images from the Ben Trovato Blog,
in which Bielska’s editorial “Three Colors — RED” appears
“Three Colors – RED is the story of a creature that transcends to another dimension by means of an unreal space and color. The photos have been inspired by an enclosed space – the interiors of the Park Inn hotel in Cracow, Poland. I had some graphic visions in my mind prior to the shooting, a shape forming from two colors – white and black. As soon as I saw the interiors, however, I knew it was going to be a story of three colors.”
It’s one of chaos: there’s prattle over terminology in the insular world of ‘outsider music,’ &
I can’t help but be amused. Y’see, the English language has these things called “labels,”
& the reaction people have to them reinforces the power of nomenclature. Give it a try sometime:
arrange a few consonants & vowels, toss ‘em around, see what kind of response you get. Fetch, baby…It’s Fetch.
But what if the words aren’t words but rather occult symbols/symbology? I’ve often wanted to speak in
hieroglyphics—with cartoon captions, for added effect—but I just can’t seem to get
band names like †‡† & \\\^◊^/// to dance their way off my tongue.
They’re part of a scene that—as with any ‘scene’—seems to have as many detractors as
devotees, which I think is a good thing. On one manicured claw, there’s the trappings of
being pigeon-holed; on the other, opportunities that might present themselves through
being Guilty By Association. Rather than tl;dr the obvious, how about I introduce
the genres? Sub-genres? (Again: an argument I opt to file under None Of My Business)
of
Witch House † Ghost Drone † Zombie Rave † Drag
With origins as questionable as to what extent they’ll have an effect, they’re like
strands of the same virus—or a dark & murky exploration
into a game of Choose Your Own Adventure.
Whatever the case, I’m backin’ the brilliant post “Enthralled By Thee Witch” by My Pal The Crook
(creative director,co-owner & founder of the streetwear line Мишка NYC), who describes this mysterious burgeoning mileu as
“Goth music for a new generation & a new millennium, fully embracing all the things
that drew kids into the genre through the 70s and 80s—the secrecy, the occultism, the suspense,
the danger, & the moodiness—but minus all the things that turned people off from it in the 90s:
the neon dreads,the vinyl pants, the fangs, & the platform industrial boots.”
Fucking dead-on, that! Brings to mind a relevant aside from Hex Files: Resurrection to which
I’m hereby formally applying an asterisk… I’ve got a choke-hold on A.D.H.D. at the moment,
& want to turn you on to the prolific nightmare collective that MPTC’s blogature
high—or, rather: LOW—lights, & whose death drones & surreal liquid dreamscapes
have been dominating my laptop as of late.
A toxic gumbo of the terrifying and terribly terrific, MATER SUSPIRIA VISION is a brilliant composite:
The music they craft induces ripples of gooseflesh; the visual accompaniment renders a viewer spellbound.
ℑ⊇≥◊≤⊆ℜ —another challenge in the dept of pronunciation—of MSV creates maddeningly
ultra-limited-edition sets (the first of which was capped at a hundred downloads; the next, at 200;
the third, bumped to 300…a supply nowhere near ample, nonetheless).
The Special Edition that’s linked above, however, has an
✶ OPEN-ENDED DOWNLOAD POLICY ✶
( Translation: You want it? Then G E T . S O M E ! )
Auxiliary = alternative, supplementary, to provide what is missing, to give support
from the site page:
“The August/September issue is the eleventh issue of Auxiliary, a magazine dedicated to alternative fashion, music, and lifestyle. This issue is packed with interviews, including Android Lust, Nina Flowers of RuPaul’s Drag Race, Michael Swaim of Cracked.com, and Andy Deane of Bella Morte. The issue also contains a military inspired fashion editorial, a beauty editorial that will teach you to get smart, a style editorial guide to wearing harnesses, a mod inspired style feature, and editorials from two notable writers, Clint Catalyst* and Grumpy Owl. It also features DJ picks from Volvox, a beauty feature on how to achieve the look of a 2026 starlet, and fashion by Steam Trunk, Cyberoptix TieLab, Dace, S&G, Skingraft, Fluevog, Audra Jean, Garbage Dress, EC Star, Steady, and much much more.”
and—although credited in the issue, just as my own little Damn Straight, I Love My Friends—here & now:
*featuring the photography of Dirk Mai, wardrobe by Mother of London & Stacey Hummell make-up artistry.
To download a free .pdf, or for ordering information on a print copy, either click the image above or GO HERE.
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.
Didja notice how the previous blog post (“Mark Your Calendars…”)
Began with the phrase
✷ EVENT ONE of TWO ✷ ?
Well, it just so happens that
✷ EVENT TWO of TWO ✷
is an “out-of-town”er, which I’m stoked about:
S A L T † L A K E † C I T Y
∞ ∞ ∞
Oh, SLC—you sizzling center of the DI ♡
Over the course of the last decade, I’ve descended upon you as a spoken word performer, actor,
M.C.—for Black Chandelier/Jared Gold, as well as for the Dark Arts Festival—but never,
never this:
∞ ∞ ∞
∞ ∞ ∞
(Dare we venture use so audacious a phrase as ‘performance artist’?)
Well, considering I just referred to myself by the Royal “We” (Pluralis Majestatis)—
a nosism employed by a person of high office, like a monarch, earl or pope—I figure
I’m already dallying around with dangerous territory
as it is…
Alright you guys: Apart from a few tracks on which I had some creative involvement, I’ve never utilized Ye Olde Dot Com in the context of a public music share. Never until now, that is… With this: a veritable list of my 33 favorite songs from ’09.
Though it should go without saying, if anything from this catalogue aux Catalottalisps moves your spirit, contributes to involuntary thrusts of elbows and hipbones, or just plain pleases your ear canal with good aural: give the musicians some much-deserved love and support. That’s “love” as in: the kind from your pocketbook—not Nature’s Little Pocket, and “support” that doesn’t involve an underwire or cup size. Odds are, Pamela Des Barres has that Other territory covered, anyway—unless VH1′s Next Big Hit: a competitive “reality” series entitled Groupie: Go Ho or Go Home! is still in negotiations.
So, yes…here’s my first Em Pee Three Web Log
a play list intended as a means of promoting the artists as well as the art
for the sake of art itself:
The creative spirit is contagious
and these are the the lullabies that transmit inspiration
Lily Allen and Annie’s bubblegum pop with biting, cyanide-laced lyrics that
induced an emotional imprint, capture an essence:
the interrobang I experienced upon hearing the somber vocals of Fever Ray’s Karin Andersson
collide with boody-bass, a re-mix that shatters her glacial strip-tease & throws everything
off, like the crepuscular hour in which I was first infected by Demdike Stare:
hunched over at my desk, fist gripped around a sweat-slick black Ticonderoga, that
late night/early morning’s weapon of choice for my
battle with words—though what I fought more than anything was to stay awake
floating in and out of consciousness, when
suddenly and without warning, I was surrounded by an echoing incantation
that rose up, a miasma as mysterious as voodou yet synthetic, manufactured, cold
![[& Disclaimer]](http://www.clintcatalyst.com/blog/wp-content/gallery/credo-for-mp3-blogs/credo-for-mp3-blogs.jpg){kind=link}