VBS - WEEK ONE OF NEWNESS

Have you been taking note of what’s going on over VBS at this past week? Besides looking all snazzy in its new black satin duds, the blog’s had some quality reading largely in the form of tracking the Falcon folklore of Damanhur. Let's recap...

NEW YORK - I JOINED A CULT, EXCEPT I DIDN'T AND IT'S NOT A CULT (BUT IT STILL SORT OF IS)

When getting acclimated in a new town, it’s always best to search out a local cult and join it. Which is exactly what I did. Well, not really. But I did have dinner with one, and then I started working for them.

LONDON - YOU WILL READ THIS FORTUNE AND LOVE IT

My local Chinese, Wu, still has standards. In the face of worldwide apathy, it still believes in maintaining the magic of eating warm noodles in front of the telly. Magic that can only be achieved with a complementary helping of fortune cookies with each delivery. "So what?" I hear you say, "Fortune cookies are just baby snacks repackaged for retarded Westerners who think they're getting a tip from their soothsaying Asian friends." Obviously you don't believe in magic. Here's the wisdom they've been offering lately.

LONDON - SMASH THE MYSTIC INDUSTRY

My favorite book as a boy was The Hamlyn Book Of Ghosts, an anthology of eerie stories and convincing (to a child) snapshots of apparitions, and I studied every page. There was a chapter on Harry Price, the famous paranormal investigator and ghost-hunter, and I dreamed of growing up to be a Ghostbuster long before Bill Murray convinced me it would be the best job in the world. Like most young boys, I was obsessed by monsters and ghouls and I insisted that I be allowed to watch horror films at a very young age, becoming far too familiar with Hammer Horror before my tenth birthday–Peter Cushing was an early hero. Then there was my love of The Omen and its two sequels and, of course, John Carpenter’s Halloween, which I first saw as an eight-year-old and still remains one of my all-time favourites.

BERLIN - ORGONE FOR AFRICA (AND THE REST OF US)

A lot of things are missing in my life: luck, money, health, money, money, money, money, money. But I just found out that I, and indeed the whole world, need to add something else to this list: Orgone energy, the substance of dreams and eternal luck. If we had it, everything would be better. Lots better. Apparently.

NEW YORK - STILL 1,818 WEEKS AWAY FROM BEING BANISHED TO TILL THE LAND

Here we stand again, lonely runners of the aft, showing you the story chum we fed everyone else. Nice try, Yahoo News, circulating info on some guy in India who hasn’t washed in a really long time. If you’ll recall, Baby Balls was on that beat several months ago with his "Medieval Slimes" experiment, where he practiced grooming rituals invented before King Ivar the Boneless invaded Anglia. But we will sheepishly admit this article pointed out one antediluvian protocol we overlooked: that hopping on one leg while getting stoned is the same thing as taking a shower. Sorry, Baby Balls—that probably would’ve been more fun for all of us than having you stew in your own genital “tallow” for two weeks. (Thanks again for the mental image.)

GLASGOW - SPEAKING TO THE DEAD

I miss my grandfather. We were extremely close when I was young, and I spent just about every weekend with him and Grandma. He’d let me stay up late and watch The Hammer House of Horror and The Wicker Man when I was clearly far too young, and take me for walks round Falkirk’s fields and along the Union Canal even though his replacement hip hindered him with a characteristic, cane-assisted limp. Our yearly holidays in Blackpool were the highlights of most of my childhood years. We loved each other very much, yet the last time I saw him – or rather the grey, decaying spectre that used to be Papa – his cancer had destroyed his faculties to such an extent that he couldn’t even remember who I was. This was over twenty years ago, and it had an understandably profound effect on me. And while it wouldn’t quite be true to say that I think about him every day, I do live with a constant reminder: I named my son after him. And I would love to hear his voice again.

NEW YORK - WHAT IS HEAVEN?

Is heaven really fluffy, big-tittied angels brushing their golden pubic hair? Nudie rainbows? Smiley orgies? Is heaven really misty puff clouds? Tan, blond, happy, bleached-asshole intercourse? Milk, sugar, deer, baby bunnies? Dessert? Is heaven really honky, whitey and leisurely? Is it crisp, ironic small shorts worn to a tennis game, which is a big win? Is heaven really chocolate? Is heaven getting it all and not trying that hard? Is heaven going to answer my most complex spiritual questions, and do they come with ceviche, Pernod and poolside? Is heaven 5% lycra or 8%? Is heaven all about me or the "fuck me" pumps? Is it to die for? MK, Ashley, or Stevie Nicks?

WASHINGTON DC - HOUSE ECLIPSE

All right, you've read our Guide to DC, which is for humans who are people. But what if you're not a person? What if you're a Therian or some other form of Otherkin? If this applies to you, House Eclipse is your place for guidance and tutelage. We talked to Raven Sabo, one of House Eclipse's founders, about what, exactly, that even means.

AMSTERDAM - CHRISTMAS SWEATERS FOR PASSOVER

The first time we ever saw Lars Holdhus he climbed on a stage absolutely hammered wrapped in red-and-white plastic tape and started dry humping the androgynous singer of an intensely mediocre rock/electro band. After his stint, he lay still onstage until security pulled him off it and, remarkably, set him loose in the audience again. Afterwards, we found out he has a fabulous collection of Christmas sweaters, and that he’s put pictures of himself wearing the horrific things here. When we saw that, we just had to ask this Amsterdam-based Norwegian superstar a couple of questions.