Chicago’s 2012 fireworks demo, ‘A Butterfly for Pomona.’ Her latest, ‘A Butterfly for Brooklyn,’ was much larger.
 
Judy Chicago is the original feminist artist—in fact she actually coined the term “feminist artist.” Her most famous work, “The Dinner Party,” is a gigantic installation, a three-sided table setting for 39 women from history and mythology, ranging from Hypatia to Saint Bridget to Sacajawea. Each place-setting has a customized tribute, and many of the plates feature Chicago’s trademark “butterfly vagina” imagery—think less anatomical, more Freudian floral. It’s a groundbreaking piece, but despite my affection for all things vaginal, it never really spoke to me. Don’t get me wrong, I highly recommend a visit to Brooklyn Museum for a viewing. It’s a hugely ambitious installation, full of deliberate detail and it challenges me to really articulate my criticism. I guess it just ain’t my cup of vagina.

Her latest piece, “A Butterfly for Brooklyn,” was much more to my liking, boom-loving rube that I am. To commemorate her 75th birthday, Chicago took over Brooklyn’s Prospect Park last Saturday with a fireworks display of the vulval variety. Far from a mere Fourth of July cliché, the 20 minute display of punany pyrotechnics came in ebbs and flows, metaphorically mirroring the life cycle of a butterfly. Chicago has done fireworks before, but not nearly to this scale and though the demonstration certainly kept in her milieu, this much more… accessible rendition of her famous butterflies brought feminist art to a crowd that might not all be so amenable to walking around a giant room full of vagina plates.

Plus, explosions! The people’s art!
 

 
I might be becoming a fuddy-duddy, but 6 times out of 10 when I encounter something involving emojis, my reaction is, more or less, “Buh?” I get why we need cute, expressive emoticons; I don’t understand what half of emojis mean, or why it’s amusing to see a retelling of Breaking Bad in emojis that redefines the concept of “hit or miss.”

So that’s why I was so particularly tickled to see writer, comedian, and Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theater regular Avery Monsen’s new Vine, in which he presents “100 new emojis.” From where I sit, these preposterous invented emojis are the satirical kick in the pants emojis have been waiting for all along. Enjoy!
 

 

 

 
More after the jump…
 

 
When XTC’s Skylarking was released in 1986, “Dear God” arguably the groups’ most iconic number was not a part of the album’s running order. The song was recorded during the Skylarking sessions produced by Todd Rundgren—who XTC’s Andy Partridge famously did not get along with—and was relegated to the B-side of the UK single, “Grass.” However, US college radio DJs flipped the record over in favor of the bitter anti-theist “Dear God” and the song became hugely popular. Geffen Records promptly deleted “Mermaid Smiled” from Skylarking and replaced it with “Dear God.”

It’s been reported on music-related blogs from here to kingdom come for the last few months that while remastering engineer John Dent was working on a vinyl re-issue of Skylarking in 2010, he found and corrected a previously-undetected problem with the original master. As explained in the press release:

Somewhere, possibly in the transfer from the multi-channel tape to the stereo master, a polarity had been reversed. This is not the same thing as a reversed left/right channel which puts a stereo picture out of phase & makes the sound unlistenable, but a much more difficult to pin down event that can be triggered by something as simple as a badly wired plug in the overall system which, nonetheless, removes some of the punch & presence from a finished recording.

The audiophile reviews of the “new” Skylarking: Corrected Polarity Edition sound like the purchasers are thinking that it’s pretty good and punchier sounding. Maybe it does, I haven’t heard it yet, but there was something that stood out as somewhat odd to me: the press release promises an eventual 5.1 surround mix done by Steven Wilson (he did the surround version of XTC’s Nonsuch last year)–but with the curious caveat: “when & if the multi-track tapes can be found.”

How did they locate and pinpoint—let alone fix—the polarity issue if all they had were stereo masters made—we can presume—from the multitrack masters? Wouldn’t the polarity problem have been kind of baked in? Anyone care to comment on this?
 

“Dear God” from the Skylarking: Corrected Polarity Edition CD
 

The lyrics to “Dear God” were sung by a little girl, Jasmine Veillette, the daughter of a friend of Todd Rundgren’s, but in the video a boy lip-syncs her vocals.
 
More XTC after the jump…

Witness “The Spectrum” a fantastically psychedelic carnival fun house designed by Keith Albarn (father of Damon Albarn of Blur and Gorillaz). Sadly this British Pathé film short is probably the only thing that remains of it and there is little to no information about it anywhere on the Internet. I’d have loved a chance to see this in person. As it was meant to be seen. On acid.

“Simple gadgetry activates light and sound in these way-out labyrinths. Albarn hopes that the people who wander through his Palace will be encouraged to master their environment, instead of being mastered by it.”

Watching this I got to thinking about a different druggy funhouse on this side of the pond—also no longer standing—the infamous Palladium night club of New York City. Once the fabled Palladium Ballroom, where Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, Frank Zappa, Patti Smith, The Clash and Lou Reed all played, the Palladium reopened in 1985 owned by former jailbirds Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager, who had previously run Studio 54. Artists like Francesco Clemente, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Keith Haring, Kenny Scharf, Laurie Anderson and Arata Isozaki were all commissioned to build installations.

The lighted staircase (see above) was amazing—especially if you were on Ecstasy—and the Basquiat mural behind the upstairs bar was nothing short of astonishing (and really, really huge, about the size of billboard). A house would crash from the ceiling onto the dance floor like the one that killed the Wicked Witch of the West and spinning walls of video monitors hovered overhead. (If you are thinking this sounds like the set of Club MTV, you would be correct.). It was a fantastically decadent place to spend one’s youth. Now it’s an NYU dorm with a Trader Joe’s grocery store downstairs!

(I wonder if they were able to preserve the Basquiat? It was painted directly on the wall and probably as valuable as the real estate itself).

‘No, Isaac, I don’t want to sniff your finger…’
 
Isaac Asimov had some of the scariest sideburns in history. Not since the days of Victorian England, the Wild West or Leslie West’s Mountain has a man maintained a successful career as a writer while weighed down with such a virile, hirsute growth. Maybe like Samson whose flowing locks gave him strength, Asimov’s side-whiskers gave the author an indefatigable drive which enabled him to write or edit over 500 books in his lifetime. 500 books, that’s the equivalent of a small-town library.

Amongst all the various tomes Mr. Asimov produced were his noted works of science-fiction and science fact, and there were also his decidedly lesser-known volumes of obscene poetry which he collected together in a series of books starting with Lecherous Limericks in 1975.

The collection begins with:

There was a sweet girl of Decatur
Who went to sea on a freighter.
She was screwed by the master
-An utter disaster-
But the crew all made up for it later.

Which Asimov explains:

“This one marked the beginning. I composed it on the Queen Elizabeth II when returning from a visit to Great Britain in June 1974. When I recited it, everyone laughed. Since that time I have been writing down limericks. I wasn’t going to let myself forget them and lose laughs.”

This first volume was soon followed by More Lecherous Limericks in 1976, Still More Lecherous Limericks in 1977, A Grossery of Limericks written and compiled with poet John Ciardi in 1981, and finally Limericks, Too Gross again with Ciardi in 1985.

On the back dust-jacket of A Grossery of Limericks, Asimov explained his talent for writing rude verse:

ISAAC ASIMOV: “The question I am most frequently asked is ‘Asimov, how do you manage to make up your deliciously crafted limericks?’

“It’s difficult to find an answer that doesn’t sound immodest since ‘Sheer genius!’ happens to be the truth. It is terrible to have to choose between virtues of honesty and modesty. Generally I choose honesty which is one way (among many) in which I am different from John Ciardi. Not that I mean to impugn John’s character, of course. I am sure he would choose honesty too, if he knew what it was.

“The last time someone asked him how he managed to compose limericks, John said, ‘What are limericks?’”

To give you an idea of the quality of Asimov’s naughty verse, here’s a short selection from A Grossery of Limericks, with a couple by John Ciardi.
 

 
First Asimov

106. DESSERT
There was a young woman named Rhoda
As sweet as a chocolate soda.
It was such a delight
To screw her at night
Then once more at dawn as a coda.

107. TEMPTRESS OF THE NILE
Cleopatra’s a cute little minx
With a sex life that’s loaded with kinks
Marcus A. she would steer amid
The palms and Great pyramid
And they’d screw on the head of the sphinx.

108. WE ALL GET OLD
There was an old lady of Brewster
Who would mutter, whenever I gewster,
“You’re losing the knack,
Or you’re missing the crack,
‘Cause it don’t feel as good as it yewster.”

 

 
Where Asimov’s are crude, Ciardi’s rhymes tend to be high-falutin’:

59. There was a young lady of Florence
Who could not abide D. H. Lawrence
When invited by Frieda
To follow the leader
She expressed what is best called abhorrence.

61. The once-steemed Lady Hortense
Contracted from one of our gents
A social bequest
She passed on to the best
With what we feel was malice prepense.

62. There was once was a girl who drank gin.
That isn’t too bad to begin,
But reiteration
Shows a high correlation
With behavioral lapses called sin.

And two more from Asimov to finish:

109. SHE’S NO DOPE

Upon high Olympus, great Zeus
Muttered angrily, “Oh, what the deuce!
It takes spiced ambrosia
To get the nymphs cosier
And Hera supplies grapefruit juice.”

111. OH, DADDY!
A pious young minister’s pappy
Had a sex life, diverse, hot, and snappy.
It shocked his dear son
When he had all that fun,
But it made girl parishioners happy.

This may explain why I have always preferred Philip K. Dick to Asimov’s schtick… See full larger reproductions of these pages here.
 

 
Via Lazy MF

 
I hear that some people can use these ancestry research sites to go back quite some generations, but as far as I know, and as far as I care to know, my known family tree dead-ends with a Civil War deserter. We know he was a deserter as the oldest bit of family “memorabilia” is a letter from Uncle Sam, typed by hand of course, informing this ancestor of mine that no, he would not be getting the veteran’s pension he had applied for.

How do you top that? I certainly have no desire to log onto Ancestry.com only to find out that I had some respectable genetic predessors. I’ll stick with this guy.

But a woman from outside of Pittsburgh has traced her family tree back—way back—to biblical times. Would you believe it if Mary Elizabeth Webb of Murrysville, Pennsylvania told you that she’s the Virgin Mary’s cousin 65 times removed? Webb, who also says she can speak to those who are “beyond Earth,” claims she is the 64th great-granddaughter of Joseph of Arimathaea, who was the paternal uncle of the Virgin Mary.

Via Matthew Paul Turner‘s blog:

But Mary’s not really surprised by the news. She’s known for years, through a number of conversations with her dead brother as well as her dead mom and dad, that something was very special about her. Which is why she decided to write a book about heaven.

And no one is really surprised by this news either…
 

Peter Singh, stealing the spotlight from The Clash
 
Since we’ve recently covered both Orion and El Vez here on Dangerous Minds, I felt I had a moral imperative to spread the good word about Peter Singh, the Sikh manifestation of Elvis! Born in Punjab, Pakistan, Peter moved to England when he was just ten years old and eventually settled in Swansea, Wales. His unique stage persona was born after he was visited by Elvis in a dream in 1980—aren’t we all?—when Singh would have been around the highly sensible age of 33. He felt truly moved, as if by a higher calling, proclaiming in a 1990 interview:

‘‘Elvis said I would entertain millions of people, and that I would be wearing a white suit. Three weeks later, I had the white suit. Now I’m the rocking Sikh. I don’t smoke dope. I don’t drink bourbon. All I want to do is shake my turban.”

This short documentary from 1986 gives some dimension to might otherwise be a patronizing account of an immigrant man with eccentric hobby. Commentary from members of Peter’s musical accompaniment, the Welsh group Man, show an absolute faith in his connection with The King, and they reject the suggestion that Singh is a mere novelty act. He may be funny guy doing Elvis-inspired songs about turbans and bhindi bhaji, but he’s also a fascinating and deep person. Though the film takes an intense turn when Peter starts talking about losing his young son, he’s ultimately a happy guy with a curry shop and a supportive family—though his kids prefer Michael Jackson and pop-and-lock to their father’s Elvis hip swivel.

Peter Singh and The Poppadoms still perform the world over.
 

 
Tony Wilson was a multi-media Renaissance man, a co-founder of Factory Records, a TV reporter, journalist and host, and the man who helped make Manchester a city of cultural and musical importance during the seventies, eighties and nineties with such bands as Joy Division, New Order, A Certain Ratio, The Durutti Column and Happy Mondays. Wilson may have been Manchester’s “Mr. Music” but he was also known as the man who didn’t sign The Smiths.

Like all tales of regret and lost opportunity, there are multiple versions as to why Wilson didn’t sign “the ultimate Indie band,” and this is the one he gave to Ian Watson in 2003:

Watson: Did you ever try and sign The Smiths?

Wilson: “No. I was very close to The Smiths. I was very close to Morrissey. Morrissey was part of that little punk scene until 77 and there was a social whirl around a house called 35 Mayfield Road where Steven partially lived and where Linder lived, who was Howard Devoto’s girlfriend and also still today is Morrissey’s best friend. But I treated Steven, he was our genius writer. He was the speccy kid in the corner, the clever little swotty outsider boy, and very brilliant. My first contact with him was when he sent me as a schoolboy, a battered New York Dolls album sleeve and said ‘Dear Mr Wilson, why can’t there be more bands on television like this?’ so I knew him and I actually was encouraging his writing. He wrote a fantastic short play about eating toast and I think he gave it to me and I lost it.

“Then, at some point, whenever it was in 1980, he phoned me up and said would you come and see me. I drove out to King’s Road, Stretford, to his mum’s house, went to his bedroom upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed while he sat on the chair, surrounded by James Dean posters and he informed me that he’d decided to become a pop star. I sort of went ‘well Steven that’s very interesting’, and inside I was thinking ‘you must be fucking joking’. The least likely, you’re off your fucking head. Completely in my mind, absolutely, the least likely rock n roll star imaginable in the universe.

“So then obviously we were all part of a group of mutual friends and I can remember saying this same thing to Richard Boon, my mate who manages the Buzzcocks, and about four or five months later the two of us went to a gig in the Manhattan Club in Manchester. I think it was probably the Smiths’ first or second gig and as we walked out, I was blown away, it was fantastic, and he said ‘what do you think?’, and I said ‘I take it back completely, he’s amazing’.

“However, at that point in time Factory had gone through its wonder days of 78, 79 and we were now in late 1980 and into early 81. This is pre ‘Blue Monday’. We weren’t selling records, we were useless, we’d lost our plot and I was very depressed by the company. I had a band called Stockholm Monsters, I couldn’t sell Stockholm Monsters records and I thought fine and my honest approach was, I’m not going to saddle Steven with this pile of shit, with Factory when it’s shit. So I didn’t even pursue it. I said to him ‘I wouldn’t be any use to you’.

“That was my version of why I didn’t sign the Smiths. I know the Smiths have their version. Everyone has.”

Morrissey is not the kind of man to let a grievance go untended, and in his autobiography he relates how The Smiths had revenge on Wilson in 1986, when he asked the band to play on the bill of “Festival of the Tenth Summer” at the G-Mex in Manchester. This was a music festival to celebrate Manchester ten years after The Sex Pistols had played the city’s Lesser Free Trade Hall in June 1976. Having originally said “no” to playing the festival as the ticket prices were too high, Morrissey was swayed by a letter from Wilson urging The Smiths to take part, which they did.

In fact, the G-Mex event is a great day, and theatrician Wilson is at his best master of ceremonies scarf-flowing staginess. He calls everyone ‘dahling’, but it’s all a part of the public relations aspect of his showboat routine and not at all disingenuous. Before the Smiths go onstage, film-maker Derek Jarman is brought into the dressing room and is introduced. Johnny says ‘Hello,’ and then turns sideways to vomit. It is certainly a moment, but unfortunately it wasn’t caught on film.

Onstage, the Smiths are received as a life-giving source, and this begins to enrage Wilson so much that he flutters and fumes backstage, demanding to technicians that the Smiths’ power to be cut off. No backline crew will comply with Wilson, who is effectively gagged at his own festival. At the base of it all, general opinion assessed Wilson’s rage to be the blustering fury in realizing that the Smiths had meant more to the crowd than his nurtured proteges New Order. Suddenly Wilson’s divine right to be Mr. Manchester is scuppered, and he spends the remainder of his life with a Morrissey-Smiths wasting disease of the lower limbs, whilst oddly admitting that his big mistake in life was that he didn’t sign the Smiths to Factory.

Yes, well, there we go.

Back in the knife drawer, Miss Sharp.

Of course, history is always written by those who outlive their rivals, and Wilson sadly died in 2007, so we won’t hear his account of this supposed “blustering fury,” but so it goes.

Long before this, Wilson promoted as many bands as he was able through his show So It Goes and innumerable insert reports on Manchester’s evening news program. This then is Mr. Wilson dropping in on The Smiths as they rehearsed for a tour in 1985, during the week their second album Meat Is Murder went straight to number one in the UK album charts, and the band was voted “Group of the Year” in an NME poll. Wilson interviews drum & bass players Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke, before strumming a few questions with Johnny Marr, and then there’s a minor clash of egos with Morrissey, when Wilson asks him why he ever wanted to become a pop star in the first place?

Perhaps a similar question could have been asked of Mr. Wilson?
 

“Forever Alone” by Shannon Elliott

When the London Review of Books’ advertising director David Rose started the personals section in the publication’s classifieds in 1998, the first ad he ran was “Disaffiliated flâneur, jacked-up on Viagra and on the look-out for a contortionist trumpeter.”

With that one sentence fragment, the gauntlet was officially thrown down.

Originally designed to match intelligent people based on their literary interests, readers immediately ganged up on the personals section like Amazon reviewers and twisted it for their own purposes. They were, as Rose told NPR, instead “instantly very, very silly.”

In a GQ interview Rose said:

I thought to myself, ‘This isn’t going to be good. There’s no way they’re going to let me run this. What an idiot I am.’ But I work on the Bowie principal—do something once and it’s a mistake; do it three times and it’s an arrangement.’ We had to let it go for a couple of issues. My attitude was ‘I’m going to print these ads because they’re the only ones I’ve got.’ They’re ridiculous and silly, but it was like, who blinks first? Are the readers going to say, ‘No I didn’t mean for you to print that ad?’ Or am I going to say ‘No, we can’t print this!’ They were consistently like that from there on in. They never altered. Never any change in the pitch or the camber. They were just ridiculous. It was like the advertisers seized on something.

Now people turn to the personals ads first, then read the book reviews. The ads are the exact inverse of the clichéd, bragging, bitter, disturbing (in the case of The Village Voice), or inarticulate American equivalent. Instead of lying about their physical attributes, sparkling personalities, improbable sexual skills, wealth, and accomplishments in an effort to elicit hopeful responses from gullible readers, these people exaggerate their flaws with cutting haiku-like precision. The cynical, dark-humored, quirky, but literate descriptions are tinged with existential despair and CV’s full of failed relationships. They highlight skin diseases, ugliness, mental illness, flatulence, obesity, poor hygiene, personality disorders, revenge fantasies, perverted fetishes, and disappointing sexual skills.

Here’s a good illustration of ingrained false modesty: a young English expat says he has “done rather well” with women from American dating websites, which may well mean that he has bedded every willing woman, from college freshmen to great-grannies, in his entire time zone. In his case the humble phrase “done rather well” is the equivalent of Gene Simmons’ creepy Polaroid collection of his sexual conquests. But if he were to describe himself for a LRB ad, he’d have to make himself sound like a circus freak or monstrous horror movie creature in order to get anyone’s attention.

David Rose has compiled LRB personals into two collections so far: They Call Me Naughty Lola and Sexually, I’m More of a Switzerland. When They Call Me Naughty Lola (named for the delightful ad “They call me Naughty Lola. Run of the mill beardy physicist — male, 46”) was featured on NPR, the self-depreciating seekers were called “the pathetic, the downtrodden and the ever hopeful.” Oh, no. If Douglas Adams, Terry Gilliam, and Nein Quarterly had ever hired themselves out to write personals for others, they would have sounded a lot like these:

If intense, post-fight sex scares you, I’m not the woman for you (amateur big-boned cage wrestler, 62)

I like my women the way I like my kebab. Found by surprise after a drunken night out, and covered in too much tahini. Before long I’ll have discarded you on the pavement of life, but until then you’re the perfect complement to a perfect evening. Man, 32. Rarely produces winning metaphors.

My last seven adverts in this column were influenced by the early catalogue of Krautrock band, Paternoster. This one, however, is based entirely around the work of Gil Scott-Heron. Man, 32. Possibly the last person you want to be stood next to at a house-party you’ve been dragged along to by a friend who wants to get off with the flatmate of the guy whose birthday it is. Hey! Have you ever heard Boards of Canada? They’re amazing; I’ll burn you a CD.

To some, I am a world of temptation. To others, I’m just another cross-dressing pharmacist. Male, 41.

Tall, handsome, well-built, articulate, intelligent, sensitive, yet often grossly inaccurate man, 21. Cynics (and some cheap Brentwood psychiatrists) may say ‘pathological liar’, but I like to use ‘creative with reality’. Join me in my 36-bedroomed mansion on my Gloucestershire estate, set in 400 acres of wild-stag populated woodland.

My therapist has given me such a good rate I can afford to indulge my bouts of infidelity and still deal elegantly with my guilt. Attached but unfaithful London male, 60, seeks female counterpart. I promise an intensity of sexual joy unexpected in the LRB.

This advert is about as close as I come to meaningful interaction with other adults. Woman, 51. Not good at parties but tremendous breasts.

The complete list of my sexual conquests: 1994-1995—Anna; 1996—Julia, Alison; 1997—Italian girl at Karl’s party, Claire (Clare?), Jessica (fingered); 1998—Anna again (big mistake), receptionist at my second temp job (possibly called Helena), Becky (I was in love but she went back to her boyfriend); 1999—Jeremy’s girlfriend; 2000-01—Karolina (deported); 2002—woman at nightclub, woman at nightclub, woman at nightclub, woman at Stewart’s barbecue, Stewart (accidental coming together of groins, the three of us were naked and very, very drunk), woman at nightclub; 2003-2006—Evil Satanic Bitch Whore; 2007—the Internet. [London Review of Books]-reading women to 35—don’t pretend your relationships have been any less incongruous and unsatisfying. Write to probably the most normal guy you’ll ever see in a lonely heart advert and maybe we’ll end up friends or lovers or despising each other and wincing every time we remember our awful one-night stand or maybe we’ll get married and have children. Writing’s a good start though. Man, 31.

Shy, ugly man, fond of extended periods of self-pity, middle aged, flatulent and overweight, seeks the impossible.

Save it. Anything you’ve got to say can be said to my lawyer. But if you’re not my ex-wife, why not write to box no. 5377? I enjoy vodka, canasta, evenings in, and cold, cold revenge.

I’m no Victoria’s Secret model. Man, 62.

Sinister-looking man with a face that only a mother would love: think of an ageing Portillo with a beard and you have my better-looking twin. Sweetie at heart, though. Nice conversation, great for dimly-lit romantic meals. Better in those Welsh villages where the electricity supply can’t be guaranteed. Charitable women to 50 appreciated.

Newly divorced man, 38, Would like to meet woman to 40 whose heroes don’t include Leslie Cole, Bill ‘Dink’ Hewit, Roger Martinez, Peter Jaconelli, Dave Man or William Corfield. Northumbria.

I vacillate wildly between a number of archetypes including, but not limited to, Muriel Spark witticism-trading doyenne, Mariella Frostrup charismatic socialite, brooding, intense Marianne Faithfull visionary, and kleptomaniac Germaine Greer amateur upholsterer and ladies’ league darts champion. Woman, 43. Everything I just said was a lie. Apart from the bit about darts. And kleptomania. Great tits though.

You’re a brunette, 6’, long legs, 25-30, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 4’10”, have the looks of Herve Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat. No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321.

If you think I’m going to love you—you’re right. Clingy, over-emotional and socially draining woman, 36. Once you’ve got me, you can never ever leave me. Not ever. Prone to maniacal bursts of crying, usually followed by excitable and uncontrollable laughter. Life is a roller coaster; you’ve just got to ride it, as Ronan Keating once said. Buxton.

Just as chugging on a bottle of White Lightning on a park bench will make you nauseous and diminish the respect of your peers, yet taking just a glass of cold cider on a barmy summer evening will quench your thirst and take you back to heady days frolicking in West Country apple orchards, so it is with this ad. Man, 37. Refreshing in small sips where the delicate nuances of Somerset burst through full and flavoursome, but anything bigger and you’ll end up puking over your own shoes and smelling of wee.

Your stars for today: A pretty Cancerian, 35, will cook you a lovely meal, caress your hair softly, then squeeze every damn penny from your adulterous bank account before slashing the tyres of your Beamer. Let that serve as a warning. Now then, risotto?

List your ten favourite albums…I just want to know if there’s anything worth keeping when we finally break up. Practical, forward thinking man, 35.

I’ve got a mouth on me that can peel paint off walls, but I can always apologize.

My favourite Ben & Jerry’s is Acid-Boiled Bones of Divorce Lawyer.

Woman, 38. WLTM man to 45 who doesn’t name his genitals after German chancellors. You know who you are and, no, I don’t want to meet either Bismarck, Bethmann Hollweg, or Prince Chlodwig zu Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst, however admirable the independence he gave to secretaries of state may have been.

Most partners cite the importance of having a loved one who will listen and understand them. I’m here to rubbish this theory. F, 38.

Salon‘s Kate Harding met her husband through this ad:

I smoke, I drink, I talk waaaay too much and think even more than that, I swear like a longshoreman, I’m usually covered in dog hair, I do not order salad as a full meal, I always want to Talk About It, I might be funnier than you, I want to be taken care of but hate feeling weak, I’m completely disorganized, I will keep cuddling until you pry me off you (and so will my dogs), I say “awesome” a lot, I don’t lie even if it’s easier, I tell my girlfriends everything, I expect to come, and I’ve been told repeatedly that I scare the crap out of men. If that sounds like your kind of girl, awesome.

When it was announced that the section would be discontinued in 2010, there was an immediate outcry.  Luckily it is still intact, although the self-esteem of some of their users may not always be.

Haikus of the Heart, an interview with David Rose, below:

 
You may know the saying “Always a bridesmaid never a bride,” but what about those men who are “Always a bridegroom never a bride”? Well, a Japanese dress rental company is now offering men the opportunity to “feel like Princesses” and dress up as brides.

When the outfitters Marry Mariee advertised a package deal to take pictures of women in a selection of dream dresses, the business was surprised to receive several calls from men enquiring about the service.

Marry Mariee manager Hitomi Iseki realized that some men want “to feel like princesses too,” and in the interests of gender equality the dress hire now offers 100 gorgeous outfits, both bridal and formal wear, that can be tailored to fit any man. There are also a wide-selection of suits for women to dress as grooms or princes.

“We want to provide opportunities for people to enjoy showing their real selves, whether they are men or women,” Iseki adds.

The company has also tied up a nearby barber to offer male clients a close shave before their fashion shoot. Sounds like a business idea with great potential.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Via BBC H/T Arbroath