MySpace Shook The Music Industry To Its Core™. Facebook Was An Orwellian Craze Which Dismantled Basic Privacy™. Twitter Fed A Self Obsessed Generation Itself™. Bebo… I think that’s the one where teenagers have cyber sex. Anyway, all these social networking tools that have been upsetting parents whose children have never seen a blade of grass that wasn’t pixilated all look like a pan-racial youth-group trip out horse riding in the Cotswolds compared to Omegle.
I feel like a basket of pure unsalted nuts today, and instead of trying to remedy the situation with helpful talks and self-affirmation, I hunkered down in it nice and comfy style and decided to reach out to strangers to see if the rest of the city felt wacky today too. So I went onto Craigslist this morning and posted the following cryptic post in the Missed Connections section: "Did you end up anything like you thought you would?"
Today the Special Olympics is hosting a global holiday
called End the R-Word, where we’re not supposed to call people “retard,” chromasomally
damaged or not. To show solidarity, Florida teenagers are holding a rally, actors no one cares about are wearing t-shirts, seven thousand people committed a "maybe" on Facebook, and folks young and old will join a "Tweet Chat" (mom slang for "I don't know what the fuck Twitter is"--and it's OK, we don't either) for about an hour this evening. Are you kidding me? No one really makes fun of mentally disabled people--that's mean. But “retard” is great! What’re we supposed to say
now, “dum-dum”? Look, even the fags let us keep “fag”…well, the cool ones. We
bet even the uptight tards aren’t that worked up about this.
You saw the Witchery and Wizardry photo shoot Dana Goldstein did with Pete Voelker for this issue where everyone's running around like a sewer-tunnel druid who has no scruples. As good as it looks, that shit's staged. You have to go buy it all, it doesn't already exist in someone's closet. But here our friend Beverly shares her own personal cloak collection...
My first taste of velvet smelled like incense and moldy basement. I bought a crimson ankle-length skirt with an age-inappropriate slit up my thigh from a vintage shop. I could barely squeeze my chubby 14-year-old ass into it, but when I got it on it was true goth teen bliss. I wore it to a vampire theme party, where the slit ripped up past crotch level. I never wore it again, but it created a love affair with black velvet (Alannah Myles is my girl) that lasted way past my goth years and into my metal ones. Here I present my collection of impractical luxurious hooded velvet articles.
The other day Kasper, Vice Belgium’s handsome editor sent us an email called "What’s up with Wales?" In it was a gallery of drunk Welsh people bleeding and spitting on one another. Our Welsh intern Eleri looked over and shrugged. Five minutes on Facebook later and she’d made her own gallery of lager nightmares. All her nights out seem to look like the gay Garbage Pail Kids reenacting the Vietnam war with piss instead of napalm. At the risk of losing her mates she let us put up the gallery and told us what a night out where she comes from is like...
You only need one riff. You only need one wasted, sex-starved, stumbling riff, fumbling for its keys, falling into a trashed flat and crawling towards a soiled bed. You only need one apocalyptic scenario of a million unfulfilled power fantasies, one beast of a riff rupturing the chest cavity of awesome Angelinos Bipolar Bear with the viciousness of a thousand Satanic anthems straight off Mudhoney’s himnary, or perhaps the Pixies. You only need a riff to take a turn for the worse, but hey, this game was never about winning. Click down there to listen.
When I was a teenager one of my boyfriends tied a hair scrunchie around the base of his cock in a desperate attempt to maintain a semi limper than a piece of overcooked cannelloni. Not surprisingly, it didn’t work. As a doctor, I don’t recommend female hair accessories in these situations.
Once in a while a band comes along who restores your faith in music, who stand out from the crowd, who turn your taste buds upside down, and darn it, make you feel good about life.
Forlorn Gaze (pronounced Full-On-Gays), are sorta, kinda, possibly this band and “Extremo” is maybe, almost, the new rock, the new indie, the new electro, even the new metal but definitely the new musical drug that kids are gonna suck in like a shadow-boxing chromer with his head in a plastic bag.
I’m in America touring with PRE right now. We played at SXSW and we are now on the west coast. It’s been great fun. But today I’m pissed off and I’ve got some things to say something about band T-shirts.
Sometimes feeling the moment makes for shabby documentation skills.
I tried to capture the vibe during I.U.D.'s set at the secret Fashion Issue
release party but a thorny little poke in my belly wanted to do some thrashin'.
So all’s I got was about a minute of woozy globbulous black with a few seconds
of lightning illumination. But you can still feel a bit of Lizzi and Sadie's
swelling, aching and banging. Just visualize squirty period-filled kegels while
squatting and humping yourself over a black leathered knee. Or while you
masturbate out the worst, sharpest menstrual cramps and cream out that
nettles-sharp orgasm that at the same time hurts and heals your throbs. It’s
that medicinal animal scratch of a cum that makes for good S&M. And I.U.D
were such good S&M sisters! When I saw their photo spread in the Fashion
Issue, I felt a little way too totally turned on.
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