music video

A Musical Reaping (Blk Wiccan)

Zebra Fucking Katz: Detail of frame from music video for "Blk Wiccan", 2013, dir. Mara Zampariolo.

Uh-huh. That the word is sexy has nothing to do with anything right now.

Yeah, right.

I’m feeling you feeling me; how you feeling? We’re fine. I think it’s working, the potion is infiltrating our minds. The beat sets off into motion and then our bodies entwine; we lose control to commotion and then fall backwards in time. ZFK: Zebra Fucking Katz “I’m having visions, we’re tripping,” whispers the voice of the heathen; the night it thickens―black Wiccans, tick-tock, our heart skips a beat and you take a second to breathe in and then ourenergies deepen, and then we vibing, we creeping into the darkness we’re reaping: I love it when we do it like that, that; into the darkness we’re reaping. Yeah, when you shake it like that, that; into the darkness, we’re reaping. I love when we do it like that, that. Drop it on the floor and bring it right back. Spin around the world and twist it like that. Shake that ass and make the fat stack. I love it when you dirty, whine, whine, get on top and grind, grind. Do your thing, just take your time; do your thing just take your―your cent. Five cent, ten cent, dollar, cent. Five cent, ten cent, dollar, cent. Five cent, ten cent, dollar, cent. Go on, gone off, make me holler. Into the darkness, we’re reaping. Into the darkness, we’re reaping.

Zebra Katz, “Blk Wiccan” (2013)

Midnight Music (Blk Diamond)

Detail of frame from music video, "Blk Diamond", by Zebra Katz and leila.  (dir. Elvar Gunnarsson, 2015)

“Black diamond loaded up under pressure ....”

Zebra Katz

Somewhere between awesome and, well, wait, what the fuck?α is Zebra Fucking Katz.

Just sayin’.

The song is “Blk Diamond”, by Zebra Katz and Leila. Elvar Gunnarsson directed the 2015 video.

Sleep well.


α See what I did, there? Or, you know, maybe don’t worry about it.

Image note: Detail of frame from music video, “Blk Diamond”, by Zebra Katz and Leila. (dir. Elvar Gunnarsson, 2015)

Overstated, Obviously

Detail of 'Mary Death' by Matt Tarpley, 9 December 2014.It is a famous song: “Thank Heaven for little girls”, though for my rock and roll generation it’s a bit warped, since Pete and Dave appended, in 1985, “and some of the other sizes, too”. And, besides, it’s a fucking twisted songα. No, really, what kind of sick monster sings something like that?β

Still, though, the younger generation, regardless of chromosomal disposition, has much to offer their elders in terms of basic wisdom. Sometimes it’s just about terrifying, ravenous monsters smashing up the city, and that’s all there is to it.

And, you know, every once in a while we ought to pay attention.

Still, though, kaiju pajamas. Fun. Pacific Rim might have been a terrible film better left unmade, but we can pretend that Mary is smart enough to have skipped it and instead, like the geek we know she will grow into—well, barring awful plot twists or one of those weird things where after fifteen years we wonder why she hadn’t grown a day—she has plenty of other reasons to adore (dai-)kaiju in general. And, hey, that way her parents don’t have to explain just who “Slattern” is, or why the writers chose that name.

Or, perhaps, it really is just about terrifying, ravenous monsters smashing up the city, and we really ought not waste our time fretting that Mary has somehow wasted a couple hours of her life on that film.

On a thoroughly unrelated note, I have no idea what to make of the idea that Death can overthink things like that.

You know, just like the rest of us.


α “Thank Heaven for little girls, for little girls get bigger every day! Thank Heaven for little girls, they grow up in the most delightful way! Those little eyes so helpless and appealing, one day will flash and send you crashing through the ceiling. Thank Heaven for little girls! Thank Heaven for them all! No matter where, no matter who, for without them what would little boys do? Thank Heaven for little girls!”

β Maurice Chevalier wasn’t alone; Perry Como performed the song, too.

Tarpley, Matt. “Pajama Party”. Mary Death. 9 December 2014.

The Burning Question

"And, er, they are tight.  I mean tight all the way down to the ankles.  And that is not modest, brothers.  No.  It's not appropriate.  It's not sound of mind.  And I was proud of the circuit overseer, who told me this past summer at one of the international conventions—'cause he brought it up—one of these fellas shows up for his circuit overseer visit, and he wants to go out in the ministry, work with him door to door, and he's wearing tight pants." (Anthony Morris III/Kingdom Hall)

One of the challenges facing the blogosphere is its localization. While the democratizing of the internet does mean that any idiot anywhere with an internet conection can now have a soapboxα, there is also the possibility that nobody who happens to live anywhere else has a clue what you mean. Who else is going to understand the Mudhoney bit with socks and toasters, or why the Soundgarden video with the spoons is so damn hilarious?

Okay, plenty, I suppose. It just requires careful watching. Of music videos.

Okay, better example: Who the hell else understands David Schmader?β

I ain't gay no more! I'm delivered!To the other, it is not so cryptic to wonder at the sight of that guy wearing that jacket with that shirt, and that tie and silk square announcing, “I’m not gay no more. I am delivered!”

Which, you know … right. Good for you, dude. Go into business. Jesus the Carpenter would make a killing on closet doors.

Oh, right. Sorry, wrong theology. I’m thinking of Prosperity Gospel, not the Good News of Self-Hatred.

Actually … er .. right. Never mind.

But what, you might ask yourself, is the purpose of such a ranting blog post? Well, to the one, in Slog terms, it’s an entertainment thing. The Stranger and its readers seem to enjoy morbid comedy, and, well, inasmuch as queerness just radiates from the clip, even down to the preacher’s attempt to stir revivalist flames while maintaining a dignified, wooden appearance, ranges between queer and downright f’d up. That is, there comes a point where you look at the little pink glans ring on the microphone as the young man comes in(to) the closet ....

Oh, Jesus. Lord help us.

Look, Freudian fallacies (and phalluses) pass for comedy vérité of the highest order around here.γ But it is true; there are fewer places in human society that understand The Stranger in general, or David Schmader in particular, than, say, Calvinism.

But this is where the fun really begins, because after the chuckle comes the scary part.