Halloweekend: the aftermath

Well, England is still sucking at Halloween. Apparently, my plan to write intermittent blog posts describing Halloween as the best holiday ever (!!!!!!!) has not been the overwhelming success I thought it would be. Although I guess the Halloween throwdown at our place worked out alright (if you consider spending most of Monday at the laundromat "alright"). After all, we have the alcohol people left behind and we still have the red "special effects" light bulb that makes our bathroom feel like a brothel or low-budget horror film!

So, here's to you Halloween, you sorely-neglected parade of awesomeness. None of these things really have anything to do with this splendid autumn holiday, but you know what, I ain't doin' fuckall tonight, so I don't care what you Halloween-celebrating jerkbombs get to do.


OK, here's a story about when bats get totally wasted!!!!

Also, here's a link to an amazing Idolator.com feature on YouTube tribute videos made by fans in honor of the cat/dog buddy flick Milo and Otis.



Also, here's a picture of a monkey and an organ grinder who looks kind of like Frank Sinatra and/or my cousin, Brad.



And finally, here's a picture of that hamster and snake who became friends.



Ahhh....BFF!!!!

I'll drink to that: Replacements book finally validates dozens of Mpls people's lives

Finally people in America's second drunkest city (based on a 2006 Forbes magazine report)have a nationally-recognized (maybe!) reason to be proud of their fine city. Let me rephrase that. People from Minneapolis are always proud of being from Minneapolis (or Murderapolis, a nickname popularized by the New York Times in 1995 when M-town's murder rates got ultra high). How could they not be? There's all that Frank Gehry/Michael Graves/Herzog and de Meuron new architecture, the city's got more theatre per capita than any American city apart from NYC, Tom Waits wrote a song about it, and there are those two bars that people go to all the time. So you see, people from Mpls are duly proud of being from their fair, fuckin' cold city, and they think it's damn well time that people from other parts of the world stopped lumping it in with those slovenly, less exhilarating Midwestern cities like...well, anywhere that is not Minneapolis or (I am being lenient here) St. Paul. The thing is, Minneapolis is in a league all of its own. You might not know it yet, but Minneapolis is the last point of civilization after leaving Chicago--the last place you can find truly awesome, big independent record stores, a college radio station that got big ups from super wordy/famous rock critic Greil Marcus, and a kickin' restaurant scene. All of these are valid reasons for setting M-town apart, but they are not the Most Important Reason. No. Because if you live in the Twin Cities, you know that the best band ever lived, rocked, and got fucked up in Minneapolis.

If you are from Minneapolis you obviously know that I am talking about the Replacements. If you are not from Minneapolis, this could be confusing for you. If you are from Minneapolis, and you are just reading that people from outside Minneapolis do not immediately think of the Replacements when they read the phrase "best band ever", let me explain for you, too.

Three Fun Facts About Minneapolis

1. Seemingly normal people from other parts of the country move to Minneapolis based in part on their appreciation for the Replacements (much like sedentary Grateful Dead fans, but with better personal hygiene and record collections!) I know this to be true about at least two people. I am not making this up.

2. People outside of Minneapolis do not always consider the Replacements to be the most life-changing, best band ever. Strange, but true!

3. Some people refer to the Replacements as "the 'Mats". This is a stupid nickname.


So, how are non-Mpls residents suddenly going to recognize the brilliance of these frequently-sloshed, flannel-rockin' hometown heroes that inspired three decades of Minneapolis dude life? With the publication of local music writer guy Jim Walsh's The Replacements: All Over But the Shouting: An Oral History, that's how. I admit it; I really am excited about this book. Like any good M-town expat I know which bar "Here Comes a Regular" is about, I've been to a solo Paul Westerberg show where dude smashed a guitar and refused to come back onstage, and I have even been ridiculously intoxicated and ill at the house where "Let It Be" was recorded. You'll see. The day when that twenty-year-old American Apparel douche in Portland and that former Bowery hipster doing consultancy work in Manhattan both happen to step inside their local Barnes and Noble, notice that Replacements book in between Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain's Please Kill Me and Michael Azerrad's Our Band Could Be Your Life and think, "Hmm, well, I am running out of punk-rock oral histories to read, perhaps I'll check this out!" that will be just the start. Gradually, consciousness of M-town's "I'm fairly sure it's still 1980 here" cool will spread. Just wait. It's only a matter of time before those "Mats at the Entry" t-shirts start popping up at Urban Outfitters.

Bat For Lashes*=Our Stevie Nicks

A recent Dummy magazine interview with Bat for Lashes' Natasha Khan revealed how she felt hurt when people compared her music to Kate Bush and Bjork without considering it for its own merit. Oh no! I love Ms. Khan, and I would never want her to feel bad about overused comparisons. Especially when her style is clearly much more reminiscent of the Fleetwood Mack chanteuse than Bjork. Would Bjork write a song about a wizard? Probably not. Would Stevie Nicks? TOTALLY!!!!!! But she would
probably write it as a duet with Don Henley, and I'm guessing B4L wouldn't go that route.

Think you're too cool for songs about wizards? Well, so did I till I heard her debut album Fur and Gold. I was all listening to that Swans song where Michael Gira and Jarboe dispassionately command someone to (presumably) strip and then shove money into his/her mouth (they're making a point about society today!) and taking notes on the Kill Your Idols NY No Wave DVD for my thesis. Take a cue from M. Gira himself, stop being such a Jesus Lizard-obsessed freak, and open up to your softer side. And, if you're into the tracks you can hear on the Bat For Lashes MySpace page (including a new track, the "Circle Song"--OMG, Geek out!!!), maybe you wanna give me a call and we can watch The Last Unicorn** (starring Mia Farrow, soundtrack by America!) together and have tea parties and talk about elf people.


*Or B4L as I like to call them in homage to dirty south rappers D4L and their 2005 hit "Laffy Taffy", in which they entreat a young woman to

shake that laffy taffy
shake that laffy taffy
shake that laffy taffy, candy girl


**


The Last Unicorn
(The only scene I remember in this movie is when the unicorn looks up and there's a skeleton hanging out in the rafters of a building, probably being mean like I bet skeletons do. The reason I remember it is because it scared the daylights out of me and when I was in church with my parents (the only place I knew of with exposed rafters), I would periodically glance up at the ceiling to see if the skeleton was there. It was not.)

There is a new best book ever.

Move over House of Mirth. You, too, Absalom, Absalom! Because there is a new best book ever, a book that could really have changed my life had I read it at an a younger age. It's written by a man with an imagination much more perplexing (and possibly hallucinogen-influenced) than my own. His name is Daniel Manus Pinkwater, and he's responsible for a little gem entitled Lizard Music. Basically, according to Amazon.com (where I found it), the book is pretty much what it sounds like. But with a twist! Because, you see, it's not just about lizards in a band. No. It's the story of how "when left to take care of himself, a young boy becomes involved with a community of intelligent lizards who tell him of a little known invasion from outer space."

How awesome do these guys sound!?!? I mean, if they know about this "little known invasion", what other obscure stuff do they know about? Could the lizard band recommend you an album that would really give you a good sense of the Turkish psychedelia scene circa 1971? Maybe they always know about the best new restaurants in town, the ones where the tastiest dishes aren't even on the menu and you have to ask specially for them? Perhaps one of them hosts an awesome bimonthly movie series where he shows rare experimental German films. Really, all you have to do is check out the cover to assess the situation. See the guy in front, the one who kinda looks like a Hell's Angel lizard squealing away on the sax? You just know he's brusque but kind-hearted, and that he'll become something of a surrogate father figure to the little boy.

And just 'cause I'm sort of burned out from the Halloweekend, here's a picture that was for three minutes earlier today the most amazing thing I had ever seen. Who knew lizards were so soulful? This guy is DEFINITELY into Elliot Smith.

I kinda love Michael Gira

What happened to Michael Gira? When did he go from being the deadpan sociopath with songs about torturing an ex-lover to the cuddly drifter who would help fix your car when it broke down on a lonesome dark highway and never even once think about braining you and stealing your identity? As you may or may not know, once my favorite abrasive anti-consumerism NY outfit Swans dissolved in 1997, M.Gira got busy releasing albums from superhippie Devendra Banhart and the impressively-bearded Akron Family (amongst others) on his Young God Records label. He also released several haunting Americana-y albums as a solo artist and with the excellently-named Angels of Light collective.

Sure, artists change direction all the time. Nick Cave went from leaping around a fire with a severed pig head in the Birthday Party's "Nick the Stripper" video to writing the introduction to the Gospel of Mark. In 1986, Siouxsie Sioux released a song about sewing someone up in the carcass of a dead horse (the song is "An Execution" and it's the only Banshees track I refuse to listen to ever again--ICK). In 2003, she added guest vocals on a cynical but still TOTALLY BANGIN'!!! dance track by the Basement Jaxx. Peter Murphy went from making stage entrances in coffins with Bauhaus to playing an acoustic guitar in front of a background of passing clouds in the video for "Cuts You Up". Yet, these artists--despite all the changes and sometimes surprising career moves--have somehow managed to retain their formidable and vaguely menacing images, (OK, Peter Murphy is debatable. I say the Coachella hangin'-upside-down-like-a-bat performance rectifies any regrettable early '90s video choices), whereas Michael Gira now comes off like the dusty eccentric who befriends one of author Carson McCuller's adolescent protagonists before drifting off into the backroads of rural 1950s America.

Not that this is bad. In fact, it kinda makes me love him MORE. Just look at the picture above! He's a troubadour who has seen it all, a man who's been everywhere but is at home nowhere, the gravel-voiced jack-of-all-trades sitting next to you at Mickey's Diner with a cup of black coffee and a slice of cold apple pie. Here's an excerpt from his MySpace page that tells you where M. Gira's head's at right now:

I now live in the Catskill Mountains, and I also run the record label Young God Records. It generally consumes most of my time, but I accept that. It's my "day job" but quite a decent one, though tedious at times. But I've had the great pleasure of being able to produce or co-produce many of the acts on the label, have always learned something new from working with the musicians involved, and am delighted to be able to bring their music out into the world. Some of the music YGR has released (aside from my own work): Devendra Banhart, Akron/Family, Lisa Germano, Mi and L'au and a great deal more. If you're interested, go to younggodrecords.com ...that's all I have to say about myself, in fact I've said too much!

Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!! I want to give him a hug and listen to his stories of life on the road (or in New England). I bet he makes the best apple cider and maple syrup on the farm I imagine he has. (Apple cider, maple syrup=so New England.) Like David Lynch, Michael Gira was also kind enough to release a new album, We Are Him the day after my birthday in September. You can hear a few excerpts on Gira's not-at-all-creepy myspace page or check him out one at one of these excellent venues:

10.26.07 - London, UK - Shoreditch Town Hall (as part of {The Wire} magazine’s 25th anniversary festival)*
10.27.07 – London, UK – Monto Water Rats
11.10.07 – Chicago, IL – Lakeshore Theatre

*with the Boredoms

This magic moment: Siouxsie Sioux at the Electric Ballroom

Remember a couple years ago when I didn't really have a Halloween costume idea and everyone was all "Oh dude you GOTTA be Siouxsie" and so I dressed up as Siouxsie for Triple Rock Halloween and nobody knew who I was supposed to be so I just got drunk and accused strangers of having bad taste in music? Well, who could've known then that only two years later I would be spending one night in the magical week leading up to Halloween in the presence of the woman I had so disastrously tried to emulate?!

Yes, it's true. I have seen Siouxsie Sioux and I am still fairly coherent. This is quite the achievement when viewed in light of the Beth Gibbons/Geoff Barrows Encounter of 2002! ("I love you guys so much! You changed my life!") So what's it like seeing Siouxsie sans the Banshees, 30+ years on from that first 100 Club show (the same venue that I sometimes catch the 55 bus in front of!!!), at the John Peel night of the BBC Electric Proms? Did she sing any old songs? Were people drinking absinthe and brooding? Was there any representation from the Depeche Mode superfans haunting the Mute Records message board?

Well, I'll tell you. The answers are "yes," "no", and "I think there's a strong likelihood." The show opened up with "Dear Prudence," followed by "Arabian Knights" and "Hong Kong Garden." Siouxsie then started playing songs from her new album Mantaray, which was tons better than my ultra pessimistic you-can't-disappoint-me-if-I'm-already-expecting-the-worst expectations. Unfortunately, my mind started to wander pretty early in the set thanks to the pathetic and annoying one man moshpit that suddenly sprung up and began repeatedly introducing itself to my right arm. My new friend looked like a gay Asian James Chance on pills, which he may well have been under the influence of, considering how often he put his arm around my waist. Either that or he was trying to pickpocket me, in which case the joke's on him because I'm not wearing any pockets tonight. Ay-yoooo!

Dude alternated between using my shoulder as a balance for his non-stop cell phone photography and performing a strange drunken dance that looked like he was either swimming fabulously above the crowd or drowning--unfortunately neither of these things actually happened. At one point he was actually breaching through the crowd of PVC, pleather, and Sisters of Mercy t-shirts like a gay Asian James Chance HUMPBACK WHALE. This charming little fellow disappeared shortly before the encore, when Siouxsie sang "Cish Cash", her collaboration with the Basement Jaxx from a few years back. She sounded great, and everyone at the Electric Ballroom--from the teenaged goth Amy Winehouses to the myriad of miniature Count von Bismarck doppelgangers--was totally feeling it.

Coincidentally, today means that we're all only 7 days away from Halloween, the greatest holiday ever. I gotta apologize for the total lack of updates this week; I spent a very busy Monday afternoon catching up with last week's episode of America's Next Top Model and acquainting myself with Lindsey Lohan's life outside of rehab. You can do it, Lindsey!!!! Updates may be sparse the rest of this week, too, as I'm busy preparing for the upcoming Halloweekend spectacular at Minstrel Court (where I live at). Tonight while I was on the bus I actually heard one English guy ask another "Is it almost Halloween yet?" in a manner that implied that dude DID NOT KNOW WHEN HALLOWEEN ACTUALLY WAS. This sort of ignorance must be stopped. You cannot silence the greatest holiday ever, especially when, at this very moment, somewhere in LA a woman is sewing tiny costumes to dress her lizards in come that special October day.

All aboard the learning train!

Choo choo! Got your tickets, ready? What facts will we travel through today on our sinus medication-fueled journey through the music newsosphere?

Well, not many, b/c my repetitive stress injury really fuckin' hurts!!! So, all aboard! Here's three things I learned today:

1. Wire have a new addition to their series of Read and Burn EPs. It drops November 12th in the UK, and various news outlets are reporting that the material on this third EP will not go towards filling a full-length a la Read and Burn 1 and 2 and the LP Send. Read more--but only a little bit!!!--on the Wire webpage/

2. Best movie ever star Casey Affleck is a vegetarian!!!! OMG, boo--So. Am. I.

3. New Morrissey album coming out in September 2008. I have high hopes for the cover art. Will it be as ludicrous as the Glamourshots-style photo of Morrissey with the tommy gun featured on You Are the Quarry?



4. Also today I found out that Kansas City is not in Kansas, at all, but actually located within MISSOURI. WTF?!?!?! What's it doing in Missouri? I know, I know--shock of the century, right!


My arm's gonna fall off and I'm out for the weekend, heading to Florence. Ciao bella!!!

Mute Records forum still dominated by frantic Depeche Mode fans

Believe it or not, I don't usually spend large portions of my day obsessively checking the Mute Records website. That's over now. But recently I decided to take a look to find out about a certain soundtrack release date (See "Stupid cold, stop fogging up my Nick Cave fantasies.") And just as when I first used the site to research stuff for my super-geeky MA thesis several months ago, the Mute.com is still dominated by several Depeche Mode ultrafans.

What's on the mind of the Dave Gahan-loving masses this month? Recent hot topics range from "Any chance of a DM calendar this year?" to "Will the next DM releases sound better?" (Oooh, PWND!!!) And, appropriately, enough, it turns out that Mr. Depeche Mode has another solo album Hourglass coming out on October 22nd here in the UK, a release that many fans are so excited about that they just can't wait to get in touch with Dave via his MySpace page! Unfortunately, the former frontman seems a little bit difficult to get ahold of, as evidenced by this little disclaimer: "PLEASE NOTE: You are NOT messaging Dave. You are messaging his webmaster."

So, who are these rabid Depeche Mode fans? Are they the unwashed suburban basement-dwelling teenagers, desperate to show their allegiance to the band that made Covenant and Funker Vogt possible? Are they the "So, it's cool that I'm goth and gay?" guys? Or are they the self-appointed "cool" moms who liked Soft Cell, but couldn't really get into Cabaret Voltaire?

Now, I'm not gonna lie to you. I like Depeche Mode. Always have done, always will do. And if you don't, if you're one of those people who thinks you're too cool for Violator, well that's just too bad, then. Because then maybe you just have questionable taste in music! That said, I've been watching a lot of 80s/90s videos over the past coupla sick days, and although I did a run-down of my current favorites yesterday, I decided that Depeche Mode deserved a post all of their own.

The following videos are all shot in this panting "Hey, we're into Godard, are YOU?" fashion. It's so arty! It's so high-concept! Everybody is really taking this so seriously! And each video is infused with varying degrees of ridiculousity, although thankfully not on the level of Duran Duran's "View to a Kill".

"Never Let Me Down Again"



It starts off pretty well, all D-Gahan sipping coffee with an old guy. Then it quickly gets wild as Depeche Mode decide to go on a North by Northwest meets Night of the Hunter style roadtrip!!! I so want to go to Wall Drug with them!!!!


"Strange Love"



This video has everything! Meaningless symbolism, that grainy snuff film aesthetic, and Dave Gahan disinterestedly dancing around with his hands in the air like a botched attempt at Heaven 17 dude's striking arm raise in the "Temptation" video. Also, it totally has a Lee Miller-doing-photoshoots-in-Paris-after-the-war vibe going on, doesn't it?


It so totally does.


Let's not forget "Enjoy the Silence"!



Love that "America's Next Top Model" style opener where everyone in the band gradually disappears till there's only Dave left! Or when the king goes up the mountain with his deckchair? Man, that king is going everywhere!! What is he looking for? Is it love? The cure for the emptiness his power and wealth cannot fill? OK, go survey your kingdom, dude!

And finally, "Policy of Truth."



The video starts off with a series of scenarios involving leather-clad guys making out with various androgynous/ unfortunately 80s-styled ladies. So far, so mediocre. But wait? What's that around 1 min. 43 sec.? Is she actually running away? YES!!! Something has disturbed this woman to such a point that she is actually fleeing from making out with someone. That is a BURN, my friend, a total BURN. Afterwards, our hero (maybe?) wanders aimlessly around, seemingly looking for another lady in a hideous hat to make out with. This is interspersed with scenes of friends talking and A SHARK. All of which, I'm sure, has something really deep and meaningful to say about the concepts of honesty and trust, but is mostly just straight up whack.

The "Well, that was depressing!" book awards: Biography edition

Ever find yourself dallying around a bookshop, spotting a title and thinking, "Well, this will be a romp! Lee Miller--Surrealist, Vogue photographer and war correspondent! Maybe this book will even inspire my own career as a photographer!" Only to find yourself terribly, terribly wrong?

That's where this award comes in. Hats off to you, books that have made me too miserable to go out, books that have made me hate people I didn't know and books that have made me want to scream, "For the love of God, Edie, don't mix the yellow pills with the blue pills with the vodka!" So now, without any further ado, let me present to you the recipients of this fall's "Well, that was depressing!" Book Awards--Biography Edition!!!

Bronze Medal
Barry Paris' Louise Brooks: A Biography


Why I bought this book: Louise Brooks has great hair, in fact, her hair is so amazing that it has been ripped off by endless generations of hipster girls. Her name is synonymous with 1920s and 30s glamour, plucky young flappers, and dazzling German silent films like Pandora's Box and The Diary of a Lost Girl. Also, this book has a LOT of pictures.
Why it's a winner: Being a recently rediscovered cult figure sounds like kind of a downer! There's all those years of obscurity, the inability to hold down a non-famous people job, and the increasing paranoia! This book made me never want to drink again!


Silver Medal
Carolyn Burke's Lee Miller: A Life



Why I bought this book: I like photography. I don't like to toot my own horn, but truth is, I'm way better at taking pictures than a solid 80% of the population. So, in essence I bought this book for three reasons: 1) Lee Miller traveled everywhere, taking amazing pictures of everything! Wow--so exciting! 2) I honestly thought this book would make me want to take pictures of stuff. 3) Lee Miller's face is on the cover of the book, and she is very pretty. That "don't choose a book by its cover" maxim is bullshit. Seriously, would you rather read Scoundrel's Captive (don't judge by the unicorn in the background)



or Bruges la Morte?



Don't answer that.


Why it's a winner: Sure, Lee Miller may have spent her life in New York, Paris, London, and Cairo, taking some amazing snapshots, becoming a fairly good writer, and being a muse to Man Ray and Jean Cocteau, but ohhhh man, her head just wasn't on right. Lee's marriages sound like a laugh riot!!! See, according to the biographer, the Surrealists believed in free love as a necessary stimulus to their work. Ok. Sure, that's fine. Yeah but like, don't you kinda think--and maybe this is just me--that when you're consistently able to find at least five people you want to sleep with apart from your significant other that maybe JUST MAYBE you should consider raising your standards a wee tiny bit? JUST A SUGGESTION YO I DON'T WANNA RAG ON YOUR CREATIVE PROCESS. I'm only sayin'. You're gonna look back on your free-spirited years and discover that at least one of the people you were banging was totally not all that attractive.

And now, let's have a big round of applause for the winner of tonight's festivities!!!

Gold Medal
Jean Stein's Edie



Why I bought this book: I don't really know! I just kept seeing it at one of my favorite places, the Broadway Bookshop, and I felt like I should buy it. I've got this shirt with little patterned Edie heads all over it, and probably I wanted to know more about why she seemed to be famous mostly for hanging around Andy Warhol's crew.
Why it's a winner: At one point, I was about 1/3 of the way through this book, and I found myself balking. I don't balk a lot, but I totally looked up from Edie and thought, "Good Lord! Several hundred pages more to go? 4 realz yo, stop this woman's suffering!!!!" This book made me not want to go out for an entire extended weekend! It made me horrified that such shallow Bret Easton Ellis-style lifesucking detritus could actually exist in real human form! It also made me thankful for so much in my life. Like, my friends are not vapid, drugged up art world hangers-on. I have never been given a methamphetamine cocktail injection in the ass by someone named Dr. Feelgood! And perhaps, most importantly, there is very little chance that Sienna Miller will be portraying me in a silver screen adaptation of my life.


RIP, ladies. You're all winners in my book. Ayyyy-yoooo!!!

Remembering: the louche list, a celebration of the thoroughly dissolute

Today we look back on the sometimes shocking, often scandalous, and always fabulous life of one of history's greatest decadents, Count Gottfried Alexander Leopold Graf von Bismarck-Schönhausen. Always one for a witty repartee, a gallant jest, or a super debauched drug extravaganza, the Count was one of the truly great dandies of our time. Unfortunately, before I could meet him, the dapper gent passed away from injecting what the coroner described as "the highest level of cocaine he had ever seen." Rest in peace, good sir, you will be missed.

But before this post turns into all black crepe and laudanum addictions, let's take a moment to follow the advice of list runner-up Alice de Janzé by turning our backs on sorrow and having a cocktail party (so to speak) on the grave! Bottoms up! May I present you with the Louche List, or

TOP OF THE FOPS
(Note: Criteria for this list does not necessarily require one to be a fop. Dandies and rakes have received equal consideration; the only essential requirement is an uncompromising status as one of the thoroughly dissolute.)

Notable runners up include:
The aforementioned Ms. de Janze, Morrissey, Beau Brummel, any and all Borgias, Jean Genet, and Mr. Topper, the elegant frogly gentleman who represents an English chain of barber shops. Pictured below, he is the epitome of good taste, but the way I imagine him, just an all-around swell old chap, not the sorta guy who besmirches a lady's reputation or plays card games with the family estate as collateral.


Let the rankings begin!

10. Luisa Casati Stampa di Soncino, Marchesa di Roma


Marchesa Casati comes in at number 10 because of her wicked style, acquaintances with artistic luminaries like Jean Cocteau and Erte, and what wikipedia describes as her "menagerie of exotic animals." A storied promenade through Venice accompanied by a pair of cheetahs and adorned with live snakes guarantees the Marchesa a spot on this list, as does her burial in fake eyelashes. A lack of true, enduring scandal, however, has prevented her from scoring higher.


9. Marie Antoinette


The deposed Queen of France's predilection for ridiculous headgear, extravagant clothing, and gambling ensure her place on the louche list. Extra points for being so rich that she considered acting poor at her milkmaid-themed fun palace, the Petite Trianon, to be entertainment. (Kinda like that Pulp song "Common People", am I right?) Although many of her contemporaries have described her as a kind-hearted and gracious woman, she still ranks on the list because of total burn comments like her first words spoken to court favorite Madame du Barry after years of knowing but never acknowledging her: "There are a lot of people at Versailles!" Ouch! Banality hurts!

8.Charles Baudelaire


Not particularly scandalous by today's standards, but he did squander an inheritance and was prosecuted for his volume of poetry Les Fleurs du Mal being "an offense against public morals." He has been awarded extra points for enjoying gothic novels, and for a lengthy treatise on dandyism.

7. Fellini's La Dolce Vita



Points off for being a movie, and not just one individual. Incidentally, points off for being fictional. Points on for being totally amazing, and charting the disintegration of one man's morals and aspirations. Super creepy proposed orgy at the end provides the "dissolution" that has so far taken a back seat to "dandyism" in this list, and totally makes me want to go take a shower and forget about the creepy bird-sounding girl. Eeesh.

6. Tie: Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud



Two outrageous adherents to the love that dare not speak its name, they both wrote dark and decadent poetry, were addicted to hashish and absinthe, and generally provoked the bourgeosie. In a fit of drunken rage, Rimbaud shot Verlaine. Tumultous!

5. Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray



Everybody knows Oscar Wilde was 2 fast 2 furious with the bon mots and was considered a threat to public decency because of his effeminacy. Everybody also knows that his literary creation, Dorian Gray, was a complete cad, ruining young women, consorting with shady figures, and hanging out in the opium dens around Docklands. Also, he was a total douche. Case. Closed.

4. John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester



The Earl of Rochester's family considered that he "grew debauched" soon after his arrival at Oxford University. Dude was twelve!!! He wrote audacious plays and satires about the aristocracy, and is the basis for the terrible Johhny Depp vehicle The Libertine. In addition, he married a woman who he had tried to abduct two years previous to their union, and was buried with a silver nose due to his losing battle with syphilis. Oh, also he's pictured with a monkey in this portrait.

3. Lord Byron



Lord Byron was so dreamy. EXCEPT FOR THAT INCEST THING!!! (Dude was reputed to have had a child with his half-sister.) All tall, dark, and handsome, he was misunderstood by all and vilified by many. He traveled the globe, breaking hearts everywhere he went. His writing also inspired Polidori's The Vampyre, what one wikipedia writer deems as "the progenitor of the romantic vampire genre." Ha ha! Ridiculous!!!

2. The Sarah Michelle Gellar character in "Cruel Intentions"



No, not the novel Les liaisons dangereuses. I mean the movie. Sure, the book is baaaaad, but does the prototype for SMG's character sneak bumps of cocaine in the high school bathroom? Is there a hint of near-incest with the whole "I'll sleep with my stepbrother if I win this cruel seduction challenge" thing? The answer: a resounding NO. And that is why SMG ranks at #2.

1. Gottfried Alexander Leopold Graf von Bismarck-Schönhausen



OMG, you guys, who did you think it was?!?!?!?
After all, this list has been compiled as a celebration of the "louche aristocrat"'s life--and can't nobody do dissolute like the Count.
I'm going to let these words from the Times Online speak for themselves:

Whether attired in fishnet stockings or lederhosen, Count Gottfried von Bismarck was always the centre of attention at Oxford. At his lavish parties, severed pigs’ heads were served and guests toasted each other in blood. . . .

“After his pigs’ heads party I met him in various incarnations on the party circuit,” recalled one university friend. “Whether dressed up in lederhosen or fishnet stockings, he was charm personified and scintillating company.”

Intent on living up to Christ Church’s reputation for binge drinking, he took his place alongside the sozzled toffs at the notorious Bullingdon and Loders clubs. He entered energetically into the spirit of the Piers Gaveston Society, noted for its predilection for rubber wear and whips, which he embellished with his androgynous apparel and lipstick.


Ahh, Count von Bismark. May we NVR FRGT thee. Here's a little tune I whipped up on the spot.


Goodbye Germany's Rose
Though I never knew you at all
You had the grace to hold yourself
While those around you crawled

And now let's put the absinthe down and have a moment of silence.

The "stately pleasure-dome" of my virus-addled mind

I am going on Day 2 of my self-imposed terrible sickness quarantine. Already the days are beginning to blend together, with the exception of one standout event--today I left my house and spoke to another human being!

As I waited to purchase my Y2K-esque selection of Kleenex, toilet paper, dried pasta and that kind of cheddar cheese that can last for up to 2 years, I was struck by how much my isolation had affected me. Outside, a steady stream of buses and cars moved past on their way towards home. Families dined together at area restaurants. Already groups were congregating on the sidewalk, debating about where to spend the evening. I paid for my supplies and quickly hurried home through the brisk night air.

Once inside, I reflected upon my plans for the night. I figured I'd alternate between Gawker.com and Modern Radio for a few hours, with possible breaks to check my email and/or MySpace. That's when it hit me. In a different time (when not under attack from a horrendous virus), in a different place (pretty much anywhere), that would've been me standing outside, making plans to actually do fun stuff. And now, here I was, sitting in my kitchen for the second night in a row, isolated and under the influence of a heady combination of echinacea/vitamin C/zinc/Nasalcrom nasal spray. I had done nothing for the past 48 hours besides sneeze uncontrollably, read wikipedia, and write disturbing blog entries verging on fan fiction.

I was a wreck. I had been consistently taking more than the "recommended dosage" of several vitamin supplements, and was taking what seemed to be a suspiciously high allowed dosage of echinacea. Combined with the relentless boredom and time wasted in the backwaters of the internet, my consciousness was rapidly turning into some sort of latter-day, homeopathic Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Except, instead of S-Col's opium-induced visions of Xanadu, where


did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man

the shades dancing through my head were more along the lines of the Pet Shop Boys in the video for "West End Girls" cavorting through London underground stations with no-account gunslingers while on the search for an actual piece of music news to post on their increasingly delusional and verbose vanity blog.



So, in the spirit of doing fuckall for the past two days, here's the best videos of the 80s and 90s that I've been watching on youtube!!!

Toni Braxton, "You're Making Me High"


Check out Toni's dating contest--looks like fun!


Duran Duran, "A View to a Kill"


Watch out for the super stealth Walkman/helicopter controller! Possibly the worst video ever!

2 Unlimited, "No Limit"


I kinda think the Mentos commercial with the ducks was better...except for the rap in the middle.

Hall and Oates, "I Can't Go For That (No Can Do)"


There is absolutely nothing forced about the group dynamic in this video.

Snap! "The Power"


I love this song. So many great lyrics from "I'm the lyrical Jesse James" to "Or I will attack/and you don't want that". It's gettin', it's gettin', it's gettin' kinda hectic. Truly the best song to play when closing a record store up for the night. Believe it!

Stupid cold, stop fogging up my Nick Cave fantasies

This is a tragedy. The stupid cold that has commandeered my brain has not only made it impossible for me to go out tonight, but it is also now holding a cruel, murky sway over my imagination/intellectual abilities. I'm like a robot. I see the cover of the Observer Music Monthly with Pete Doherty and Paul McCartney on it, but do I feel spite? Confusion? No. I just look at it and think, "Pete Doherty and Paul McCartney. Hmm. Okay!" Same with the possibility that the clumpy sugar I just stirred into my sick person's tea kind of had a sort of tunnel structure going on inside it. Did I just demolish a minute insect community? Am I currently drinking a mixture of tiny exoskeletons and spicy Indian chai? Do I care? Meh, no. Time to press F5 on Gawker.com.

Now, there was a time when my reaction to news about the upcoming release dates of two Nick Cave projects would've been on a whole different level. Would I have read the artist profiles from the Mute Records website and Australia's The Age newspaper with such apathy? Fuck no! I would've leaned back in my chair, my eyes gently closing, and my mind drifting off to the untamed reaches of the American West.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
An ominous sky looms. Clouds of dust rise up as a mysterious stranger in a long black duster strides through the empty streets. Candlelight flickers behind the shuttered windows of this meager, hungry little town.

"Strike up a tune, Rusty," I say to the organ player.

"Much obliged!" says Rusty and begins a rollicking number.

"Nah, Rusty, I don't want none of that trifling music hall nonsense," I explain. "I want a song that's real. A song that people in this town can feel--a song about emotional atrophy, a song about the blood red sun setting in the west--a song about loving someone but also hating them at the same time."

Rusty looks down at the spittoon by his foot, bewilderedly scratching his sunburned old head. "Well, ma'am, I don't reckon I know too many songs like that."

Just at that moment the soot-blackened saloon doors are thrust open with an unholy assurance and the Stranger slinks into the room. All eyes focus on the tall, thin man in the black vaquero's hat. All hands linger on their concealed pistols. An uneasy silence hangs over the room.

"What can I get you, Mister?" asks the barman Kentucky Jim.

"I'm gonna be straight with you fine people," the Stranger says, nonchalantly rising to his feet. His steps echo unsettlingly on the worn wood floorboards. Click. Click. Click to an empty corner near the bar. "In my youth I was a dark, angry man, violent and strange. There's folks in Missouri would sooner fight the devil himself then risk a glimpse of me on their grange. There's many a year between me and my mad youth, but memories don't lie and they don't disappear. I've walked many a mile alone in my pain and my grief, searching for redemption in the vast mountain ranges and the rolling blue skies, in the faces of women, and in the company of men. But what's done is done, and I know what I am. I am just a man, on his own in this big mean world, and all I want to do before I die is sing you folks a song I wrote."

The Stranger reaches in his duster and pulls out a guitar. "I would like to play you a song from my forthcoming album with The Bad Seeds," the Stranger intones in a low voice. "It's called Dig! Lazarus! Dig! and will be coming out sometime around February 2008."



"Why, it's Nick Cave in our very own saloon bar!" I whisper to Kentucky Jim. "I declare, 2008 truly IS going to be the best year ever!" Kentucky Jim shoots me a sidelong glance out of his good eye and nods almost imperceptibly.

The last trembling note of the guitar rings out in the crisp October air, and the Stranger starts to look as if he's eying the door. Hurriedly I pour him a tall glass of whiskey and take it to his table. "I reckon you're just what this town needs, Mister," I say, helping myself to a seat.

"Well, I thank you kindly, ma'am," he says, slamming the whiskey down in one gulp. Outside the dogs began to howl. Emanating from the low scrubby hills comes the ghostly cries of the coyotes. The Stranger looks at me. I look at him. Inside, my head is spinning like a merry-go-round. Remember the line in Your Funeral, My Trial that mentions "crooked bitches"? Well, it is with a growing awareness that I realize perhaps one day the Stranger will write a song describing me as a crooked bitch!

The Stranger seems to know what I'm thinking. "Is there a place a fella could hole up around here for the night?" he asks.

"I'll wager that Ruby's got something open," I tell him. "I'll have Quick Draw Jenny show you the way."

"I am truly grateful for your hospitality, ma'am."

"Please--call me Alison," I say. And just as suddenly as he arrived, the Stranger takes his leave.

The clock strikes, an hour later than I expect. "Alright, folks, finish them drinks!" Kentucky Jim shouts. The cowpokes and railroad men start to make their way out into the faint moonlight. The saloon cat, Camilla, hops onto the dark wood bar and I absentmindedly toss her a piece of scrap. The door swings open again.

"This establishment is closed!" I call out, back to the door. The footsteps approach anyway and I turn around. It is my gentleman caller, Casey Affleck as he appears in the best movie of 2007, "The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford"--the soundtrack to which will be released on November 5th on Mute Records, featuring songs by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis.



"I don't see how this is a time for joking," he says, straightening his mercury-treated felt bowler hat.

"Why, whatever are you talking about?"

"Now, Miss Alison, you know I value you a whole helluva lot more than the biggest gold nuggets the men are finding out in them there hills. And while I may have an anachronistic belief in feminism and human equality in general, I am going to have to put my foot down. I don't want you associating with the likes of that no account cowboy crooner," he says.

"What a darn silly thing to say," I protest.

"It ain't so damn silly," he interjects, cutting me off. "'Cause that man has a price on his head."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hot damn! I can't believe I just wrote that whole ridiculous thing! And if you read it, well then, FUCK! I can't believe you just wasted minutes of your life on that sexy Cormac McCarthy rip-off! (Fun fact: there actually is news in there somewhere. See if you can find it!)

Oh yeah, man, this literary triumph is gonna be A PIECE OF CAKE. Can you see that? That's the sight of critics SWOONING as they discuss my latest smash hit of a novel. Can you hear that? That's the sound of royalties clinking in the pockets of my vintage Balenciaga opera jacket. Ahh it feels good to be me. Except for this damn cold.

Bats: good for what ails ye

Once, during a late afternoon session in the phone bank for a college radio fundraiser, some generous people kindly donated a huge, delicious platter of sushi. This was pretty late in the game; tension was high, tempers were quick, and I had run out of personality quizzes to take on the internet. Being the sort of unpredictable (some would say "unbalanced"), maverick coworker that I am, I decided that the best solution to our mid-fundraiser funk would be for me to see how much wasabi I could eat at one time. Now, this was a couple years ago, and I don't remember the exact size of the dollop I ingested, but I think it's safe to assume that it was somewhere around the size of a dime. Possibly a nickel.

The results were predictable. My sinuses flared up with a sensation comparable to the Yellowstone fires of 1988, the phones continued to not ring, and my coworkers were overwhelmed with a totally undue sense of admiration. Admittedly, this was a minor event in my long career of risktaking and daredevilry, yet it still holds a place in my memory. Why? BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT MY FUCKING FACE HAS FELT LIKE FOR THE PAST 12 TERRIBLE UNRELENTING HOURS. (Plus insomnia and runny nose!)

Like the Pet Shop Boys (featuring Dusty Springfield!) in their 1987 smash "What Have I Done to Deserve This?", I find myself asking


What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?
What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?

Seeing as how I finally drifted off to sleep around 8am and woke up some time around a healthy 2:49pm, my mind's a little bit misty, a little bit uninteresting, a little bit incapable of stringing together an even minimally exciting post about Nick Cave's new album. So here's 5 Fun Facts About Bats.

5 Fun Facts About Bats
or a poorly-conceived attempt at one of those "17 Days till the Best Holiday EVER!!!!!" posts

5. Bats are part of the species chiroptera, a Greek word meaning "hand wing". This is the best animal name EVER.

4. Unsure of what to get that special someone for the holiday season? Many people (me) say that a bat adoption is one of the best gifts they have ever received! For more information, check out the beauties at Bat World, Bat Conservation International, the Cornwall Bat Hospital or one of the more species-inclusive sites like the World Animal Foundation.

3. There are about 1,000 species of cute little winged friends around the globe. This number means that bats make up a quarter of all mammal species!

2. Baby bats are strong contenders for the most adorable creatures ever.


Best friends 4eva!!!!


1. Bats love to party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



"Kegstand time!!!!"

And as an added bonus, check this out. It's an origami website that shows you how to make bats!!! When I am an elderly woman living in my House of Cats, I will spend my days making these.

So, what's your favorite publishing house?

God, what a fucking nerdy thing to say. I'm gonna have to skateboard off a cliff, slam a Mountain Dew (Do the dew!) and give a killer high five to a chimp in a members only jacket while kickin' it at a beach party with some hot babes right as soon as I finish this post. It's either that or risk complete COOL SUICIDE. But I'm not gonna lie. Over the past year I have discovered that I do, in fact, have a favorite publishing house.

Let me put it to you like this. Dedalus Books is like the Mute Records of publishing (except for that being owned by EMI thing). I can easily imagine Mute recordings artists Cabaret Voltaire, Diamanda Galas, and somebody kinda goth-y, maybe the Virgin Prunes or something being totally into Dedalus' European Classics or Decadence editions. What makes Dedalus kick-ass is the way they make it so damn easy to imagine all the editors, sales people and literary agents involved in the company tossing back absinthe, effortlessly tossing off bon mots and being all around dapper and dissolute. With titles like
The Dedalus Book of Literary Suicides:Dead Letters, The Decadent Handbook, and a dedication to searching through the darkly disturbing lost classics of European literature, these publishers ain't no Dial Press (the abomination responsible for the release of The Manny). The first Dedalus book I read was Georges Rodenbach's 1892 novella Bruges-la-Morte, an obsessive and somber little number with a great cover featuring what I think (and hope) are bats departing a cathedral tower. Interspersed with Rodenbach's prose are a series of original photographs of the Belgian city in its perpetual aura of stately decay, a suitable compliment to the author's tale of a man obsessed by an actress who resembles his dead wife. It's well-written, atmospheric, and heck, who hasn't been just a little bit obsessed with a dead lover?

And I'm out. Hang ten, bro.

Not exactly breaking news: David Lynch's "Inland Empire" soundtrack finally released

The soundtrack to David Lynch's latest film Inland Empire has been delayed for so long that I, like many people, kind of just gave up on it. I had resigned myself to loading up the trailer on YouTube (but making sure to not actually view it b/c that scary head really freaks me out) whenever I wanted to hear the eerie strains of Mr. Lynch's own "Ghost of Love," one of the most evocative, disturbing "darkness on the edge of town" sorta tracks I've ever heard. As it turns out, I was wrong to doubt, because the soundtrack was actually released a couple months ago, on September 11th THE DAY RIGHT AFTER MY BIRTHDAY. Fortuitous, no?

And that's not all! Apart from the wonderfully spooky "Ghost of Love", the Inland Empire soundtrack also features the original version of "Locomotion" (ooh, DISS, Kylie!) and Nina Simone's classic "Sinnerman." I hope it's a jazz remix version!!!

In related news, I just bought this totally pointless but cool-lookin' book called David Lynch: Snowmen. It's pretty much what you'd assume. I kind of imagined friends dropping by my apartment, selecting the collection from my bookshelf and remarking with admiration and curiousity, "Hmm. David Lynch: Snowmen. This is really cool. You really do have excellent taste and a formidable intellect." Then this friend, possibly you, would give me a high five and then we would go out to an awesome rock show. So, like, if you're ever in this situation, just play along, could you?



Fun fact: The best way to start your day is with the David Lynch weather report, available on his official website.

When awesome things happen to great people

Hot damn. I must have some serious good karma accumulating somewhere because the double bill of my dreams has just been announced. It's like God himself reached down out of heaven and slapped me a super hard, stinging, hand-turning-red high five. What did I do to deserve this? Heck if I know! In fact, I can't think of a single kind word or nice deed that I've done in the past few years, so naturally the only conclusion I can reasonably reach is that I am receiving some kind of celestial endorsement just for being me!

Consider the signs. In the past couple weeks, I have experienced a series of events that can only be described as harbingers of awesomeness. Now, if viewed separately they might not amount to much, but try to envision them as individual fun spokes in a gently spinning wheel of kick-ass fortune. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, the evidence....

1. I inadvertently dreamed up the literary creation that will someday lead me to fame, fortune, and unlimited bottles of Cristal.

2. Thanks to youtube, I discovered "Real Talk", a slang phrase that would lead to hours of delight, until I tired of and forgot it a couple days ago.

3. While shopping at Whole Foods, I encountered a team member who looked vaguely like Casey Affleck in "The Assassination of Jesse James." We exchanged eye contact.

4. I rode the bus several times without getting motion sickness! (Secret: don't sit by the heater.)

See? Clearly I have somehow wandered into the good graces of a higher power. What do I have to look forward to as a newly favored being? Well, if Belinda Carlisle's postulation that "Heaven Is a Place on Earth" rings true, for me I think that heaven will be anywhere along the Liars/HTRK tour route. That's right, spectacularly creepy/rockin' group Liars together, in one place, for several dates, along with HTRK, the best band ever.

Ooh baby, do you know what that's worth?

Full date listings on the lovely HTRK myspace page.
Tour dates pertinent to these fair Isles include:

2 Nov HTRK + Liars @ BARFLY BRIGHTON
30 Nov @ RESCUE ROOMS NOTTINGHAM
3 Dec @ BLOOMSBURY THEATRE LONDON
4 Dec @ WHELANS DUBLIN
5 Dec @ AUNTY ANNIES BELFAST
6 Dec @ STEREO GLASGOW

What happens to a dream deferred? It writes a stupid post about a song about wrestling.

Last night I was recounting the legend of Old Pennyeyes to some friends. As my horrifying tale began to unfurl, they listened with rapt attention, waiting breathlessly to discover what further abominations the old fiend would commit. The night had long since fallen outside, blanketing the winding streets and passageways of Hackney, and in the glow from the red wine I started to feel pretty damn awesome. I suddenly realized that I had conjured up a nice, old-fashioned horror story in the vein of Sheridan LeFanu or M.R. James. I envisioned curious little paperback editions of "The Legend of Old Pennyeyes", my name gracing the cover in dainty black script, and with illustrations by Edward Gorey, of course. At last, I thought, my lifelong dream of becoming a writer has seemingly fulfilled itself without the least bit of stress or hardship for me (well, except for seeing the supercreepy picture that inspired everything in the first place). I leaned back in my chair with a mingled air of satisfaction and excitement for my new future as a literary genius. Then I realized, "Oh shit. I think I kinda ripped off that part about stealing eyeballs from E.T.A. Hoffman's short story "The Sandman."" And, as it turns out, I did! So, here I am back to square one again without shit to fuel my writer-y dreams except for the moment earlier today when I realized that William Faulkner and I were both born in September!
But what did I do? Did I throw up my hands and listen to depressing music? (Yes! Of course!) What I should've done is listen to Let's Wrestle, a UK group with a lo-fi powerpop/punk sound and an amazing song about professional wrestling. God knows that, in these trying times, when so recently one of the sport's brightest lights felt compelled to murder his entire family and then post a wikipedia entry about it, pro wrestling truly needs a brave, new champion. And I...I need to find a more novel, more creepy facet to the legend of Old Pennyeyes in order to cash in on all the crazy $$$ and sexy dudes entitled to writers of short literary horror stories.

The Legend of Old Pennyeyes

So, last night, in my tireless search to find the very best in Victorian memorial photography, I stumbled across THE SCARIEST THING EVER. Real Talk: it was even scarier than the little girl with her eyes open. Yep, believe it! Now, I'm not entirely sure which of the latter three websites I had posted links for held this object of extreme horror, because every time I accidentally laid eyes on it I screamed "Oh--my--DEAR GOD!" and frantically clicked back to my homepage. But I bet you can find him with only a cursory scanning of each page.

You may have noticed that I referred to The Scariest Thing Ever as a "him." I think it's a him, but I'm not really sure. Maybe you will be better at ascertaining its gender. Just take a look for what appears to be an old man/flour sack hybrid with a dash of Nosferatu and a healthy dollop of "WTF?" Ok, sounds kinda funny, right? WRONG. Because beyond scary dude's super bizarre, eerily blank visage is the fact that he appears to have some sort of large, soulless coinage for eyes (see artist's rendering).

The thing about Old Pennyeyes is that he so totally seems like a folklore character whose story could've been passed down through generations of families on London's East End. (Where I live! Luuuuucky me!!!) I can envision little cockney urchins all tucked tight into their bed, saying their prayers as they drift off to sleep, the fire casting weird, tall shadows across the walls. Little Ollie has almost outgrown the threadbare blanket he sleeps under each night, and his toes are sticking out, cold and unprotected. Just as he is about to drift off to sleep, his mum peaks into the room and says, "Sleep tight me little Ollie. And be good, else Old Pennyeyes'll be in to harvest some tasty eye membranes!"

OMG!!!! Chilling stuff, right? So, just as I was finishing yesterday's fateful post, my friend called me and asked me to go to the bar. I was locking the door to my place when I noticed that, at the end of the hallway, the light was flickering dimly on and off. It gave me pause and I thought, "Oh man, what would I do if Old Pennyeyes came barreling out that door?" And that's when I realized, "Shit, dude, I'd be HELLA pissed. Fuck that guy, I don't need him being all scary and gross and misshapen in MY APARTMENT BUILDING."

So yeah, seriously, fuck that guy. I'm done looking up scary shit on the internet for this week. Here's a pumpkin martini recipe.

22 days till...ok I think it's pretty clear by now

October! The gothest of the months. The perfect time to curl up with a warm cup of tea, put on that Siouxsie and the Banshees record, and look at pictures of the dead in contrived but oddly touching poses. That's right, today's photo montage consists not of animals in funny outfits, but of Victorian memento mori photography!!!

Fact: Memento mori photographs and daguerreotypes were a common practice during the days of our scary Victorian ancestors, when child mortality rates were much higher.

Fact: They make a really great screensaver or desktop theme!

Fact: Most memento mori pictures portray the deceased as merely sleeping, and often were something of a last family portrait.

Fact: You can find many such photographs and more history on websites like this one , including a super, super creepy one of a girl with her eyes open! Don't look at it before bed, okay? Trust me on this one. Once seen, there is no amount of costumed lizards that can purge this from your mind.



Another good resource for information on things like mourning jewelry and photography is Art of Mourning which gets extra points for its beautiful typeface and nice weeping willows/ funereal decor. Another impressive info site belongs to this fine lady, Emmeline Grangerford.


Check it:







Ah yes, the classic Victorian memento mori tramp stamp. Much like its sister art, memorial photography, this practice began losing favor sometime in the early 1920s as tastes changed towards fun stuff like flappers and jazz and became less focused on scaring the shit out of young female bloggers just trying to kill time before they go out at night. God, it's gonna be a long walk to the tube.