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 […]
How you fill my shattered, charcoal-stained heart with glee.
There was a moment—a brief blip on history’s collective monitor, one might say—in which
the tiara-adorned Scene Queen had a significant role in the inexplicable phenomenon
referred to as “ CeWebrity .” [ Yes, I know it's heinous. Do I need to spell every— ]
[ CUT TO ] : a formulaic Wiki How ; How-To & TributeVideos ; an on-line ‘zine & social
networking community ; hubs like Be-Scene.org & Scene Central, a virtual locale for
“ladies in waiting” [ no, but really ] & aspiring Scene Kings to—hell, I don’t know…
compare quiz scores while waiting to see if their applications for anointment
were accepted, I suppose.
Some of the O.G. S.Q.s [ yep, sure did ] parlayed their notoriety into lucrativebusinesses.
Others? Well, I’m sure they could tell you.
Short of the long: this amalgamation fictitious character encapsulates the monstrous end of the spectrum,
in which rigid Ranking Systems and bratty, entitled behavior is the norm.
[ Mmm-hrmm. Yeah, whatever Nikki. Bet your skank-ass extensions you'd troll efagz to see if your asinine antics merit discussion, even. ]
But enough about Nikki—she’s so 2007, I’m surprised she isn’t donning a miniature top hat smothered
in Hello Kitty appliques while “modeling” a cupcake, middle finger of her other hand
extended in that universal gesture of bad breeding.
What I’m really here to talk about?
The Correctness Maximus who immortalized her : GL▲SS †33†H
It’s like this:
What you need in your life is a physical copy of their EP
available through Black Bvs Records
Unless, of course, you’re like Andie Walsh & have more pressing issues…
this weekend: Friday, August 13th & Saturday, August 14th
Two Thousand & Ten A.D.
the roving, decadent, well-bedecked beast
is taking up residence at The Uptown in Oakland, CA
“…as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.”
:: but what is this ‘House of Usher’—this legendary construct of myth & mirth & mystery—without its cast of characters, its inhabitants? ::
First, Please Allow Me To Present…
Shawni Brothers, Proprietress of The Estate
The question posited, I hereby present a sampling of retinal treats under the auspices that it might inspire any indecisive whine-&-diners of this, my self-named blogature, to readjust one’s posture.
Sir Xavier Haight, The Gentleman of The House
&
Vocalist/Founder of Malign, The Critically-Acclaimed Darkwave Project
Cutting to the chase, with the swath of a switchblade: If you live anywhere in the vicinity of this one-two punch of delectable darkness: even a cursory glance at the gorgeous creatures that follow should propel you off your gluteous maximus & rifling through your closet.
Case in point? The hyper-hyphenate & über-hottie Zoetica Ebb, as pictured above. Of course, you could stay in tonight & lurk endless jpegs of her posted at Biorequiem, her home base among the internet ethers—or you could even go all brainiacattack (accusations of gay? who, me? NEVER. I would not!) & explore Miss Ebb’s prolific outpourings at the subculturally essential—let alone just downright damn sublime—thick & slick & glossy-paged love-letter to alternative culture known as Coilhouse magazine, of which she was a co-founder.
Or, hey! Here’s an idea: how ’bout you just stay home with a family-sized bag of Cheetos & instead of licking the nuclear-hued dandruff off your fingertips, close your eyes & BEAT IT, BOSS
all breathin’ heavy & visualizing this fab fascinatrix you might—no promises from me, as this world we live in? a pretty damn cruel place…
But yeah, you might have a chance to stand close enough to do borderline* creepy stuff like fill your lungs with the stink of her hair.
The asterisk on “borderline”? Bitch, you already know this! Because when we’re crushed-out, there’s some intense delusional hormones released that sell us clichés like how [we] “can’t help the way we feel,” and “no, I really mean it, you guys: this time isn’t like the last time when I said it’s about time I found the right [pick a pronoun, rinse, repeat; double-up on those appointments to the shrink, as close friends will only sigh in disgust, hang up, or pay someone to fark some sense into you. Quickly].”
Kay, I really need to focus here.
Ah! That’s right! The equation of your hormones with a jaunt to Usher this fine eve…
Unless, of course, you’ve slipped past that veritable point of ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE into a life of Ed Hardy sweatpants, woven leather belts the color of fecal matter, headbands from mega-corporate “non-corporate” franchises prominently listed—even & especially if by invisible ink—on the trustafarian American-Apparel-Apparel-Is-My-Idea-Of-Slumming, Ma-a-an pseudo post-post-ironic Hipster Checklist Of [COUGH!] Cool.
✷ Cunty Ranting Hereby Interrupted for A Ceasura of Correctness Maximus ✷
L O O K † U P O N
T H E S E † L O V E L Y † L A D I E S
Nakoeth [L] a.k.a. ‘The D.J. Formerly Known As Fuchsia’: Esteemed Provisionist of Hand-Picked Auditory Delights, & Sorrel Smith [R], A Prodigious Talent of The Visual Arts Who Renders
Her Paintings, Portraits, & Illustrations With Consummate Skill
✷ Palettes Cleansed, Corneas Stimulated…HEED THESE WORDS AS ‘CAUTION TAPE’ FOR YOUR PSYCHE, ✷ As There’s A Shifting Of Gears Back To Vitriolic Territory ✷ (Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.) ✷
Pfft! Oh.&.Yeah: The “Checklist of Cool.” That tripe’s more played-out than Dexy Midnight Runner’s lethal earworm known as “Come On Eileen,” but then again? Chances are if you’ve read—that’s read, any blog-skimmerexic stereotypes who’re in full-blown desperato zone, scrolling with sweaty palms & a staggering 2.8 second average attention span (thanks to the ADHD Pharmers calculated into the same demo/grapho/frankly, let’s-not-get-too-graphic, whose intake of Mother’s Little Helpers fluff up those statsas effectively as a porn set’s invaluable blow-hards working behind-the-scenes)…
Anyway, as I was saying–or, at the very least, attempting to communicate before I reverted to an unfortunate habit of interrupting myself with tangential matter & tossing parentheses around with the same ease as a game of horse-shoes…
:: HERE. HERE’S THIS ::
with Ryan Rosprim [L], Maker-Ov-Musick from Kill Sister Kill:
A Band Among the ‘Short List’ of House Faves
& on the [R]? Most applicable? The Court Jester, if anything!
(Incidentally, if I look like a bitch here? Alas! A photographic representation that’s accurate)
You you you, yeah, you: with yourinsatiable hunger for celebrity gossip, commerce tagged as “sharing a secret” (such a flagrant ploy to incite the domino effect among the dumbed-down click, copy, paste & repost crowd to create viral content…yet just like the anything-but-accidental exposure of thongs several inches above [insert name of trendy jeans] horizon being the visual equivalent of a mating call, it’s as fool-proof as the endless supply of fools).
Umm, yeah. Whaddya say we don’t “revisit” the aforementioned yawn-fest (not to mention time-suck kthnxthoractuallyeallynot) & visualize the rapid sweeping gesture responsible for ~magic~ on a dry erase board. Yeah yeah, you know: the trademark disappearing act that occurs when ✷ POOF! ✷ It’s the same blinding white hue working actors & “working boys” have for teeth.
Anyway, so now? Keep that imagination crankin’! Since, upon it, there’s been an addition of verdant green text in which a new topic—an assignment, if you will—occupies that space with the insistence of CAPS LOCK.
The message? Consider this an invitation to (envision air quotes here) follow my lead &
commence whatever personal rituals permit you to complete your destination of being
:: Suited & Booted ::
Above This Text, The Look? Four Words, My Applause: I SEE NO FLAWS
As aforementioned, here’s a dangerously delectable sampling of the historical haunt’s gorgeous creatures dressed in sumptuous fineries. However! Before any butt-hurt gloomophiles dial whine one one for the What About Me?! What About Me!? waaahbumlance to arrive, with a stern tone, I reiterate: this is but a small cross-section of the legendary bar’s “intimate associates.” A vast array of ‘regulars’ populated Usher’s environ over the years; these pictures just happen feature some of the individuals who—for whatever various & sundry reasons—appealed to the “peculiar sensibilities & temperament” of this humble blog’s narrator.
Or, to quote Poe (yet again!): my “reserve [has] been always excessive & habitual.”
Here’s to
Cheers to
T H E † E X C E S S I V E † & † T R A N S G R E S S I V E
Exhibit A:
Sensual, Though Inherently Too Cultivated & Chic For One Dare To Describe As ‘Slutty.’
Sophisticated, Though With A Sufficient Accumulation Of Accolades; i.e., No Need To Be A Show-Off. An Infectiously Engaging Conversationalist—Perhaps The Most Charmingly Macabre Individual I’ve Ever Met, Actually. If you’re familiar with the photography of Eric Kroll, Steve Diet Goedde, Charles Gatewood, &/or Richard Kern (et al), you’ve seen her likeness: or rather, the image this anthropology major & multi-faceted individual chose to project at that precise moment in time.
A maestro of oil, Anna Noelle Rockwell‘s paintings explore the sublime intersection where
the gorgeous & the grotesque intersect. Just click it & check ‘em, already… (For feck’s sake!)
Exhibit B:
Gabriele: Conjurer Of Thunderstorms & Lunar Apparitions, Dark Liquidtrance Bloodscapes,
Scrying, Writhing Vampiric Chasms, Stitch-Witchery Of Glamoured Fabrications,
Brightly-Colored Tarot Playthings In A Physical Shape & Smash-Lit State Of Mind
Like No Other, Cemeterial Moonlit Gloom, & Body-Popping.
A individual in a wonderfully warped sense of the word, & a collector’s dream.
Exhibit C:
Though I Can’t Tell You If It’s From When He Was Or Wasn’t A ‘Prince,’
With All Certainty, I Concur With The Sentiment: Natalie? She’s Got The Look, Yes
Exhibit D:
Paris Sadonis: A Master of Multiple Instruments; A Painter, Performance Artist & Musician Known For Pushing Boundaries—Particularly With The Rotating Cast Of Collaborators in The Audio-Visual Pastiche He Both Created & Orchestrates: EXP. ‘EXPerimentation Without Limitation’ is a doctrine among the collective; ‘Catharticism Is The Key To Our Satisfaction’ is another.
(Go ahead & fling the slab of Velveeta at me over that one—I’ll cop the rationale of Twi-hards in my defense: “I don’t know how it happened! I must’ve been roofied or something, ’cause my taste level—I mean, my defenses—were down. Really: I’m really much cooler than that!” )
Hidden, the sophomore release by British “art-rockers” These New Puritans, is now available Stateside. You know, as in: domestically. It’s a lot of things, this aural assault: a mélange of the cinematic and the classical, the intimate and the evasive, the post-modern and the profound. However, one adjective that isn’t applicable for what’s quickly become my favorite release of the year (thus far)? Sophomoric.
Spot-check this Most Correct clip for the album’s single “We Want War,” directed by Daniel Askill:
Full Disclosure: While I Loathe Band “Groupies” (seriously? try screaming at an art opening or academic conference—that’s subversive… whereas offering to give roadies head for a laminate back-stage? such a seventies’ cliché; I’m yawning), I Have An Insatiable Affinity For The Limited-Edition/Signed-&-Numbered/Gatefold/Box Set/3″ CD/10″ EP/Colored Vinyl/Picture Disc Of It All.
& no, I won’t be gauche & remind you I’m an Aries. Instead, moving right along…
—image of the band taken from their page at Last.fm (Don’t Ignore It; Explore It!)—
The video for “Elvis,” a single from the band’s premiere album Beat Pyramid, is also Most God, Indeed.
† “We’re all waiting/Or Forever Made/And if there is a God, then please take me up…” †
Consider the gents on the handsome side? You’re not alone. Twin brothers Jack (vocals) and George Barnett (drums) have been ogled by the fashion set since the band’s inception in 2005. Before they’d even released a full-length album, designer Hedi Slimane commissioned the “band” (translation: George, whom Slimane also featured on the catwalk) to record a soundtrack for his final collection at Dior Homme, the “Hiver” 2007 runway show. This was Barnett’s first professional modeling gig, though the demand for pale, angular creatures from the xy set has kept him busy: campaigns for Lanvin and Ray-Ban; editorials in Dazed & Confused, Zoo, Arena Homme +, 10, GQ, Another Man, and Vogue Hommes Japan; and runway work for dozens of designers, including Burberry Fall/Winter 10/11, Prada, YSL, Alexander McQueen, Gareth Pugh, Dries van Noten, Veronique Branquinho, Galliano, and Gucci.
However, insofar as far as my own taste goes? Not that you asked, but I’m backin’ Jack over George. & speaking of back, let’s do exactly THAT
While the process of uploading/archiving/formatting my site to WordPress is—generally speaking—yawnsville territory, the occasional film strip I “re-visit” compensates for the pain-in-the-assery of it all : remembrances of whom was with me, where I was, the tilt-a-whirl of excitement I felt upon picking up the copy of Flaunt, in which this brief review (see: paragraph three) appeared…
Massive thanks and congratulations, B.B.: In five sentences, you target the subject matter with a marksman’s precision. Not only is this excerpt testament to a well-honed sense of verbal dexterity, but the analysis also exhibits a sophistication—namely, your ability to exude charm despite a frugal economy of language.
And thank you, Flaunt Magazine, for the elation (however fleeting). I don’t even have to close my eyes, and I’m there again: a 7-11 in Eagle Rock, bona-fide literary groupie Mark Ewert waiting in my grandmacamry while I made this pit stop to wherever it is he was staying. The A.C. in the store is cranked, my skin a menace of gooseflesh as I stand, feet planted so I’m facing the magazine rack. There’s a large expanse of glass behind the titles—does one call it a “window” if it’s never meant to be opened?—and on the other side of the freshly-Windexed surface that’s filling my lungs with a mildly toxic freon blue scent, dusk spreads itself across the asphalt sky, immense and in gasoline hues—a Molotov cocktail tossed onto the L.A. skyline. A thick copy of Flaunt is in my hands, Selma Blair on the trademark die-cut double cover, and it’s the moment just after I flipped past Omahyra’s “Quinceñara” editorial: the moment when my eyes landed on this review, confirming the validity of what I’d heard, and as I’m scanning the words, a feeling comes over me that’s an onslaught of stimuli: it’s like being on a float in a parade, the crowd cheering; it’s like tossing a fistful of lit firecrackers; it’s a warmth of validation crawling into me by the fingertips, a delirious warmth, a fix I hadn’t even known I was craving. It’s my own Sally Fields moment, an implicit understanding of the fickle undercurrent in her Oscar acceptance speech when she gushed: “You like me, right now, you like me!”
I grab the other two copies from the shelf and head towards the cashier, not giving a damn about the transitory nature of things.
I feel traces of it still: “You like me… You like me…”
At the time in which this interview was conducted, I didn’t exactly have an unbiased point-of-view.
Friends of mine had recently been laid off—a common occurrence in businesses when things like a “merger” occur… but wounds were still fresh, so to speak. If not theirs—well, then mine, out of camaraderie.
Rather than call attention to the negative, I hope you’ll be able to apply the aforementioned statement in any instances where it might be [AHEM!] applicable. As in: flagrantly.
Oh, &…it’s taken numerous attempts for my embarrassingly low-tech ass to get this archived Q & A to post within WP’s established parameters.
:: claws & any other applicable appendages hereby crossed —with— massive thanks to Josh Rotter & Gay.com! ::
One moment I’m in Iowa working with my comrades Dustin and Brian of Novice Industries; the next, I’m rushing to hair and make-up with my pal Aldo o’ the Vento.
Aldo volunteered his services to help me out with door duty, which proved itself much needed the moment we went from what was intended as a brief session of “helloing”–as pictured below, kicking off the evening with the lovelyJenelle Rensch, graphic design wiz (and incidentally the mastermind responsible for my CC logo in its final incarnation),Mr.Aldo VentoHimselfness, model and co-star with me in Matthew Mishory‘s film “Delphinum: A Childhood Portrait of Derek Jarman,” which is currently winding its way about the international film festival circuit(the world premiere of which was 5 September 2009, at thePortobello Film Festival in London):
and, you know, a familiar face, I suppose… shifting from Prancy, Postured, Poised–to
Any semblance of order and ‘proper’ decorum
Tossed out the window like last week’s copy of Us Weekly when
Bummer we couldn’t get her 12 year old brother past security, but…well, he’s 12.
(Even compared to my own track record, that’s 4 years before I began to hustle my way into clubs– And look how I turned out!)
A cautionary tale? (Y/Y?)
As rabid “90210″ fanatics attempted to claw their way towards the living, breathing version of “Naomi” they recognized from their living rooms, I did my best to sneak the party of pretty-pretties into the inner sanctum: a seated area complete with really good ‘Goodie Bags’–sponsored by Janome sewing machines, Fiji water, Tarina Tarantino jewelry, Amtrak, Josie Cotton, and Sebastian Hair Care Products–
as well as the precise locale where soon enough, leather metallic fabric ∞ stitching nipped and tailored ∞ silkscreened paintings ∞ tricked-out hair with neon nets ∞ make-up more surreal than real world , and the spirit of unfettered creativity and unapologetic flamboyance
RULED. (And how!)
After all, why was everyone at the Social Club?
TheMOSTCORRECT RUNWAY DEBUT of the retina-shattering, cardiac arrest-inducing, sensory-overloading atelier extraordinaire
rockin’ some ‘tude, with pop legend Josie Cotton (L) and me
(Is it obvious I’m L-O-V-I-N-G the custom jacket Jared created?)
Carelessly tossing any accusations of “obsequious” over the shoulder like the Latest!Fashion!Craze!– “Fashion is for those who have yet to understand ‘style’”– here’s what it boils down to at the carnival’s end: my first interaction with Mssr. Gold hearkens back to a bleak time in American history. We met shortly after his 2001 debut in Manhattan on September the 10th, an inauspicious moment for anyone to premiere clothing design, as it transpired mere hours before the atrocity known as 9/11.
Eight years have passed in the interim, and still: the creative outpourings of this inimitable virtuoso never cease to amaze me.
That being said, it should come as no surprise that for his collaborative effort with visual artist
Simply put, Mr.Petker’s paintings are most God, indeed. Over the span of the last few years, I’ve admired his murky-canvased beauties from afar (and might have, well, you know …”peeked in” on a certain Cahuenga Blvd gallery show)– so when the opportunity presented itself this Christmas past, I was stoked to make his acquaintance and bear witness to a bit of the brainstorms and dark-clouded creative rumblings between these two masterminds.
Hence, please allow me to present
A preview before the Gold versus Petker mash-up, for those of who might not be acquainted with the work of this inventive gentleman:
from 2008,
two images pilfered from an interview in the art-blog equivalent of masticating a corpus callosum
“[Petker's] work is like that girl you know will destroy you but somehow you just can’t resist.”
- Manuel Bello
(Entitled “Hunting For Witches,” this one SLAUGHTERS me…Slaughters me, Maing!)
(and above: from 2009, one of Petker’s most recent watercolors)
Fine art from a fine fellow…Petker has not only become one of my favorite contemporary artists, but he’s also just about one of the kindest dudes you could meet. (And I say ‘dude,’ as he is very much one, indeed—but I mean that in the absolute best sense of the sports-obsessed, beer-swilling sense of the word. I hope I’m communicating that effectively!?)
At any rate, speaking of ‘fine’—there was no shortage of squealing over Twilight‘s hunkasaurus
among the crowd at theGold versus Petker extravaganza.
Full disclosure: I’ve never seen Twilight , nor have I read any of the books. Said another way? I wasn’t aware Who He Is—but not to worry…it’s not as if frenetic whispering girls and paparazzi flashbulbs going pop! were in short supply.
Short of the long? Mr. Lutz was a complete gentleman: there was none of the “Don’t You Know Who…” routine that’s as played-out as clunky monster boots. (Seriously, kids? Just. Don’t.) Equal parts accessible any coy, Lutz maintained a genteel decorum I often refer to as From The School of ‘Leave-Them-Longing.’
A rare trait in today’s tabloid-congested society, unfortunately. With yellow journalism the norm rather than the exception, these days it’s as if the lump sum of Tinseltown’s silver lining is tinged with rust.
I mean, let’s face it: once one is inundated with images of our ‘stars’ being— well, — as flawed and human as the rest of us? There’s a natural tendency for audience members to be less willing to accept Coleridge’s “Willing Suspension of Disbelief” in terms of an implausible premise.
However, the academic vernacular? Hereby duly noted. (Apologies for the yawnage, please.&.thanks!)
Instead, a shifting of gears to that hotness known as AnnaLynne. As for The CW’s “90210,” I did, in fact, see the two-hour premiere—though can’t say I remember much about the episode other than Cory Kennedy and Mark The Cobra Snake‘s cameo appearance.
*Appearances? I’ve been staring at this blue screen far too long, I’m afraid.
Whatever the case, congrats to the duo—both of whom have graduated from their former status as ‘fixtures’ among L.A.’s nightlife to full-fledged international phenomenons quite successfully.
As for AnnaLynne, her role as Eden Lord in Nip/Tuck’s fifth season was no mere incident of (envision air quotes) scene-stealing; it nabbed the entire season. Seriously? But seriously… Upon discovery of her 2009 win as “Greatest Break-Through Talent” at the Teen Choice Awards, my opine is succinct: well-deserved.
Oh yes…and since this is a city fueled by the mythic power of Celebrity,
pictured here with the Cute-As-They-Come Kim Bruder
More images await “beneath the cut…”
However, since both the event and amount of photos collected –cough!STOLEN cough!–is of epic proportions, I’ve decided to divvy the lot up into three parts: Before The Madness (on which your gaze is fixed at this moment), Petker’s Paintings In Stiletto Pumps (the catwalk-stalking and crowd-gawking), and Dance.Music.Sweat.Romance (the after-party).
That being stated, Please! Click Away– for More Gore Gore Gorgeousness…
“I just wanted to let you know that this is like, the only me… “
“O.K., I don’t photoshop my pictures. I’m just pretty, and you’re probably really ugly.”
⇓
:: Stop Stealing My Pictures! ::
⇑
*(Had to share these with you guys because
Shit is br00t4l! And uh, yeah…the alliterative name?
Published under it “way before MySpace.”
K4′s trademark symbol is a nice touch touch though, right?)
Yes, I wore the soles off my 20-e Doc’s many an eve
dancing to the 12″ mix of Ministry’s “Everyday is Halloween”
in back-alley nightclubs where I was years away from years from
being ‘of age’ to attend in the first place
(translation: the main thing that made it fun–
or at least that’s how it seems, looking back)
back in ancient history, also known as
my bereaved degenerate youth
I’ve been revisiting some of the more
dynamic moments from what could aptly be filed away in memory
as ‘The Clintagious Chronicles’ due to
the current book project on which I’ve been working
Degeneracy: A Love Letter.
// R.I.P., oh Long Lost Love…despite the toxic goulash of highlights,
lowlifes and embarrassingly awkward good times, how
exhilarating it seems your freedom was //
Whatever the case, here’s a recent update “from the set,”
featuring the inimitable beauty of actress/model Mageina Tovah
in the first of her two looks for the day:
Copious detail/commentary is provided on the clip’s YouTube page,