The sheet music for the verbosely titled “We Men Must Grow a Mustache: That’s One Thing the Girls Can’t Do!” which, one must assume, is a call to arms to curb the influx of fauxfollicularfacial adornment that some females are fond of, a call that only the tinny twang of a ukulele can properly convey.
The denizens at Wikipedia seem to feel that it is representative of humor aimed at the general acceptance of homosexuality during the 1920s. Certainly the illustration plainly shows a homosexual, who are known for both their razor-sharp sideburns and for having the ability to bend their spines at painful and awkward right angles, a trait that scientists believe was developed so that they could reach the leaves on the uppermost branches of trees. Truly astounding creatures.
Your gross negligence in assuming I am ashamed of any of my musical predilections is noted, and will be revenged. There is absolutely no reason to assume, self-righteous pricks that you are, that the carmine creeping up my collar is anything other than stoic pride, a touch of the ol’ toxoplasma gondii, and perhaps a brief spike in my everyday, baseline feelings of discomfort.
Listen you, I was enjoying the Ruski pop nymphets way back, before any hoity-toity English remixes got loose, much less actual American album releases. This shit was edgy and inaccessible. Hell, it still is! I would get home from my live-action Vampire the Masquerade roleplaying session at the local college campus (back when I was a ginger-curled nymphet myself), maybe boot up a game of Fallout 2, invite my BFF Steve over, and we’d watch these videos, on repeat, in silent awe. Why, I thought to myself, did I not have a dark pixie of a partner, an eternal semi-succubus, someone to cling to during the long nights of crippling self-doubt, someone to share my pants and lipgloss, someone to hold my hair while I purged, someone with whom to ghost ride the whip? I mean, someone besides Steve?
Now, emerald-haired, naked in a wooden trunk, chugging Red Bull and typing on a keyboard for which I cannot see the screen, I ask myself: if I had found her, this dark unicorn, would things have turned out better?
In a culture of casual nudity, cheap beauty, and non-stop supermodel rollerdiscos, what can a man do to get noticed? How can he draw slitted eyes away from mirrors, and fellow sapphic sphynxes, long enough to make any sort of impression? When personality, looks, and tiger speedos just don’t cut the mustard anymore, what else is left?
On this day in 1928 Radclyffe Hall’s novel The Well of Loneliness, considered to be the first lesbian novel, was judged obscene by a British court and banned. Born Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall but adopting the nickname John, except on her work, Hall received offers of help to defend her work from no less than Virginia Woolf, who suggested that an authors’s petition could be drawn up and presented to the court. The only problem was that Hall demanded that the literary merits of her work be defended as well and that posed a problem.
You see, while controversial, most considered the novel to be almost devoid of artistic merit, while Hall seemed to feel that it was, indeed, a work of literary genius. Most of Woolf’s friends seemed to have agreed with Cyril Connolly, whose review found the novel “long, tedious, and absolutely humourless,” the middle section full of “mechanical writing” which offered the reader “a few pleas for kindness to animals, halos for inverts, and a special paradise for trees.” Many who had signed the letter initially, soon found excuses not to appear in court with Woolf, preferring instead to merely watch the affair wind down to its, seemingly, inevitable conclusion.
Literally. Just a couple of lumberjack lesbians in their bras and panties, chopping down a grunting anthropomorphic tree until it ejaculates its sweet, sweet fructose syrup.
Lesbianism. The last sexual frontier to conquer for the career heterosexual. What magic, what mysticism, what phrenology, what dentigerous study can explain these wonderful, fairy-like creatures? As unknowable in mind as they are unknowable in carnal lust. Why are they here, traipsing dainty and sylph-like amongst us, offal-flinging apes? They stand in a clearing of the forest in a pillar of moted sunlight, giggling, fondling each other’s breasts and making out as we, monkey men, bare our slavering fangs to the sky and atavistically howl. Our lives, our hearts are that through which they goddess-like tread. Like all faery kind, they are here to torment. Unless they are really butch and smelly, of course.
But you won’t find a butch, smelly lesbian amongst this comprehensive online encyclopedia of lesbian movie scenes. Just a lot of school girl pillow fights that some evolve, through a single accidental caress, into passionate lipstick lesbian make-out orgies. The Internet comes through again.
I’d just like to point out, that they totally “ghost ride the whip” as it were, way before any one invented the phrase, or made it into something to do in rap videos. Just goes to show that Californians haven’t had an idea that didn’t come from SOMEWHERE in Asia, since 1998.
Comment by Adam Cybulski — July 18, 2007 @ 4:15 pm
I can not tell you how many times I used to come back to the Table of Malcontents bullpen and find a scene like this unravelling itself under my stern editorial gaze. Come to think of it, Ectomo really needs another attractive madchen contributor. Via Coisas.
I generally like my music videos a little more high-concept, preferably with a plot, but for t.A.T.u. I will make exception. They are the grimy Soviet candyfloss of the Europop genre, their sticky musical confections studded with trifling angst and grand themes: puppy lust, thwarted yearning, and lost innocence.
In this video: dubiously lesbian nymphets grand-theft-auto a tanker truck and ghost ride the whip at 90mph down a blighted Russian highway, as their girlhoods flash before their eyes, and are finally run under the tires. Having murdered their old selves, our freshfaced heroines career into a snowblind future, adorably frostbitten, and clutching each other through their bulky parkas.
Remember snooping through your parents’ Anais Nin and Xaviera Hollander books to find your first vintage erotica? Well, this sounds nothing like those.
Described as “a frankly intimate description of a sensuous girl’s lesbian desires” it’s really just a verse from “Songs of Bilitis” by Pierre Louÿs. Although not a lesbian himself, the French poet from two centuries ago is regarded for his favorable depictions of women, especially his lesbiana.
The flaccid female vocal talent, credited only as “Ilona”, narrates the Sapphic sounds with heavy breath and audible smile. A flute-y score plays throughout, accompanied lightly by piano and sometimes a tambourine shake at hot moments. Consider the cover art by Lud of Hollywood; interesting from a Cray-Pas-on-toned-paper perspective. Described on back as, “one of the foremost exponents of the pastel medium in the fine arts field”.
Watch out, Christian America! A national underground network of lesbian gang members are recruiting, raping and brainwashing our hot, nubile pre-teen nymphets.
Lured to join what they are told to be a secret sorority in which they may strip down to their panties and engage in tickle fights, these young girls are instead encouraged to get red-winged skull tattoos and train in the horrific art of the lesbian cat fight. The recruits — now full fledged members of the lesbian underworld — then take to the streets, shoving a French manicured fist of terror into the collective vagina of America.
I’ve never known a lesbian intimately. More the pity: how can I be expected to understand the lesbian state of mind when I’ve never slept with one? Sometimes I think I am doomed to be the only stalwart male heterosexual who will never explore the gooey recesses of the lesbian psyche.
As such, my only knowledge of the sociological constructs of lesbianism is through 60’s soft core pulp smut. For example, from Nympho Twins, I know that the career lesbian turns into a savage nympho at the mere sight of others passionately embracing, and that she will blindly reach out for sensual release from any human being at hand… be it male or female.
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
