In my advanced age I have lost the urge to venture far from my abode. Indeed, as far as the country of my birth is concerned I have yet to explore farther west than the Mississippi, choosing instead to traipse up, and occasionally down, the East Coast. Much of it has to do with climate, both in terms of weather and social temperament. Indoctrinated as I am to the curt, succinct interpersonal interaction of the Northeast, the lands to the west appear to my mind as a fetid morass where individuals languorously loiter on the street, holding court in a fashion that runs contrary to a matter of the utmost importance, i.e. arriving at my intended destination. I am in a rush people; I have no time for your greetings and salutations.
Yet, as of late, I have found myself looking towards California with something disturbingly not unlike longing. Last Saturday in Los Angeles, Coilhouse held a soiree for the launch of their magazine. Fortunately, my disappointment from missing that event was mitigated somewhat by the fact that I had, some time ago, fashioned cardboard standees of Zoe, Meredith, and Nadya. We had a wonderful evening. There was punch, chips, and three different kinds of dip. Don’t you judge me.
If that wasn’t bad enough only now I’m finding out that Dave McKean has had an exhibition at the Merry Karnowsky Gallery since July 19th, and it is ending this Saturday. Those of you who have chosen to settle in or near this fetid metropolis may want to check it out. I would utter a curse upon L.A. but that would be like kicking a two legged puppy; it has it bad enough without any assistance from me.
Admiral ‘Spike’ Blandy and his wife celebrate the success of Castle Bravo, the detonation of the world’s first practical hydrogen bomb — and the largest nuclear explosion ever set off by the United States — at Bikini Atoll, Marshall Islands on March 1, 1946. The fallout plume spread dangerous levels of radiation over an area over 100 miles long, including inhabited islands.
Records showing fallout levels from the cake are unknown. However, testimony from those who attended the event depicts a frosting that was nice to look at, but inedible otherwise. The raspberry filling was said to have been delicious. Five people fell ill, though this was attributed to excessive amounts of Scotch.
Update: Christ, have I been doing a lot of these lately or is it just me? Anyway, as wile_e_quixote points out in the comments, this photo does not depict the celebration after Castle Bravo, but a previous exercise involving atomic bombs. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.
Ectomo’s crusty, drunken Uncle Ellis pointed out in his Bad Signal email that today is, indeed, Valentine’s Day, that horrid celebration, seemingly designed by a shadowy syndicate of florists, chocolatiers, and greeting card manufacturers for the sole purpose of peddling their normally over-priced wares at an even greater profit margin. However, it is worth pointing out that, like most Christian holidays, Valentine’s Day occupies the date of an earlier, pagan holiday and, like many pagan holidays it consisted of the usual, heathen tropes, i.e.: costumes, drinking, sacrifice, and a focus on fertility.
Meet Corey Delaney, 16 of Melbourne, Australia and his “famous” glasses. Corey is being interviewed by a stern, buxom blond because he threw a party while his parents were on vacation, and when young Master Delaney throws a party, sometimes it involves over five hundred people and requires the attention of thirty police officers, a police helicopter, and the police dog squad. The raucous party goers caused an estimated twenty thousand dollars in damage which Corey or, more likely, Mr. and Mrs. Delaney may have to pay for.
Corey, for his part and to the frustration of the aforementioned buxom anchorwoman, seems unrepentant, and really, why should he? Shirtless, so as to better show off his single, pierced nipple, wearing a hat that he may have taken from a preteen girl or a mentally retarded woman, and glasses which are, as mentioned earlier, “famous” he has his whole life ahead of him. The world is his drunken oyster.
It makes me glad then, dear readers, that I do not live in a country, colonized by murderers, rapists, and thieves, that would produce a jackass of Corey Delaney’s caliber and instead live in a country, colonized by religious zealots who wanted to outlaw Christmas and which has never, ever, afforded people the liberty of such spectacular idiocy.
Very few of the parties I host at the Junta end up with us stripping down to our pastel-colored underpants and drunkenly prancing around the room with a constabulary of rugged, cocoa-colored Africans. Something about the Byronic air of the place — the textured, wine-colored wall paper; the oak golems staring out of the mantles; the dress code of fezzes, moustaches, pince-nezzes and smoking jackets; the imminently respectable personage of our man Jittimer arching an eyebrow at any display of youthful frivolity in the corner; the gigantic, Sunday-large skull of Eliza filling the room like a brutal sun — does not lend itself to sucking a jello shot out of an African-American’s navel. More the shame. I would give a chunk of flesh to attend this party, resurrected — immortal — from the dusts of time thanks to a handful of flea market Polaroids and the revivication power of the Internet.
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.
