Don’t even ask how I discovered these penis and boob socks. It was an accident, I can assure you, but find them I did. And you should be grateful I found ‘em. Anyway, the crochet socks are handmade by Ukrainian shop Tetiana Knits. There’s not really much to say about these bizarro socks except… here they are! I dig the pointy toes.
It appears the socks come in different colors and styles upon request. There’s even a penis/vulva combo.
The socks are currently selling for around $30 a pair plus shipping.
I think these would go nicely with the “male rompers” currently making the rounds on every website and blog imaginable.
Art is mostly about the artist’s personal obsessions, isn’t it? With Japanese artist Namio Harukawa, it’s kinda obvious what he’s obsessed with.
Harukawa draws big-assed dominant women sitting on the faces of skinny subservient men. His drawings depict ye ancient art of “facesitting”—which probably doesn’t need any more explaining than that. Some of his erotic drawings (not included here) go beyond the smothering power games of facesitting, and its associated acts of cunnilingus and anilingus, into coprophilia and urolagnia.
His large, voluptuous women are amazonian, Robert Crumbesque goddesses. They are aloof, indifferent to the plight of the men (quite literally) beneath them. They smoke cigarettes, drink wine, talk on the phone, or read books. These women are utterly in control. The men only exist to service their needs. The men are weak, puny, almost asexual, but willing submit to their mistresses’ needs.
For an artist who produces such powerful and subversive art, it’s rather surprising to find there is only a small amount of biographical detail about him on the Internet. Some pages claim he is dead. Some that he is still alive. There is even a dispute over his age. One Wikipedia entry has him born in 1932, while another Wikipedia page claims he was born in January 1947, in the Osaka Prefecture. Whatever the facts about this elusive and mysterious artist, his work has grown from underground cult status in the 1960s to a small but reverential international market.
Vanity canoodling with her pal ‘Lobo’ played by actor Richard Sargent from the 1980 film ‘Tanya’s Island.’
Last year I did a post that featured images of famous movie monsters carrying around pretty girls from notable films and lesser known B-movies like 1958’s Monster of the Campus that stars some sort of weird gorilla/monster/man hybrid. Anyway, since I’m always creeping around in the past for interesting things to entertain you with as well as to help provide a short distraction from the Trump shenanigans and other shitty news of the last few days, I revisited the topic, adjusting my search criteria to uncover images of charismatic apes cavorting around with hot chicks. And as you may already be aware, this strangely sexy mashup was a pretty popular trend back in the day, and burlesque performances would often feature an amorous gorilla on the prowl for poon. There were/are also a large number of films that fall into the generally campy “Beauty and the Beast” category. And then there are the many iterations of King Kong that continue to captivate filmgoers to this day. So let’s get to it, shall we?
I’ve posted several images of guys in gorilla suits and their female companions, or perhaps captives at times, below. And I have to tell you that I quite literally had to forcibly cut myself off from searching for them because the more I looked the more I found. There is even a website called Hollywood Gorilla Men that pays homage to the actors who wore the hulking ape suits throughout the years. It includes photos from films, print media and so much more that it makes one’s head spin. That said, you can be sure that this is the greatest, very best, most comprehensive post to showcase images of scantily clad chicks and beastly gorillas out there, including images of Wonder Woman Lynda Carter and Prince’s sexy muse Vanity (pictured at the top of this post) hanging out with their gorilla pals. Some are sort of NSFW.
Another shot of Vanity and “Lobo” from the 1980 film ‘Tanya’s Island.’
A shot of Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman, from ‘Wonder Woman vs Gargantua’ (season one, episode seven, 1976).
A childhood passion for horror movies and Frankenstein and all things strange brought me to The Rocky Horror Show.
It all started in junior school during a family holiday to London in 1974. The usual tourist sights were fine, but I’d seen most of them before on a trip with my grandparents when I was seven. Now I was more thrilled by the buzz and noise and giant hoardings for theatrical productions and movies like Chinatown with its serpentine coils of smoke. It was such glorious advertising that first alerted me to The Rocky Horror Show.
On the side of one of those big red Routemaster buses going to Peckham or Camden or wherever, I first saw the ad for The Rocky Horror Show, featuring an androgynous woman (or was it a man?) with short hair and big hooped earrings, looked slightly askance at something just out of vision. Returning home to Scotland, I studied the weekend reviews for any more information. I soon learned this show was an award-winning musical by Richard O’Brien. It told the story of a transvestite Dr. Frank N. Furter played by Tim Curry and his plans to make a man. There was also some plot line about aliens from the transsexual planet Transylvania. It certainly sounded my kinda thing. I clipped and kept any article I chanced upon relating to Mr. Curry, or Mr. O’Brien, or The Rocky Horror Show.
One Sunday in 1975, the Observer Magazine featured a four-page color spread on the forthcoming movie version The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Under the headline “Something to Offend Everyone,” I read about Tim Curry’s upbringing as the son of a naval chaplain, his time as an actor at the Citizen’s theater in Glasgow, performing in drag for Lindsay Kemp‘s production of Jean Genet’s The Maids. Of Richard O’Brien’s time as a stuntman on Carry on Cowboy, and how he had written the musical one cold winter in an attic between acting jobs. The production started out Upstairs at the Royal Court Theater—famed for John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger and kitchen sink drama—before moving to the King’s Road, where it remained until 1979. The article described the film as making comic reference to Frankenstein, Bride of Frankenstein, 1950s American sci-fi movies, even Esther Williams’ movies, and that it was bound to upset quite a lot of people.
When The Rocky Horror Picture Show was released, the critics hated it. The public hated it, too. My high school buddies didn’t even know that it existed. Men in drag was not really the kinda thing to interest most boys my age who were mainly into soccer, Slade, and Monty Python. Anyway, we were still all too young to gain admittance to see the film as it had been given an “AA” certificate—which meant it was for those lucky kids over fourteen.
I eventually saw the film a few years later and was not disappointed. By then, I’d bought the album and worn out its cherished grooves. Still, no one I knew was even the slightest bit interested in this quirky, strange movie. Punk had arrived and Star Wars was out, and that was all that mattered.
But good art will always win out—eventually. And so it was with The Rocky Horror Picture Show when the devotion of a small group of New Yorkers made it the biggest cult musical of all time.
Over the years, I’ve picked up the occasional Rocky merchandise. Richard O’Brien’s Rocky Horror Show Scrapbook, the original cast album, the original movie poster, et cetera, et cetera, and of lastly but not necessarily least, an infuriatingly incomplete set of trading cards which you can drool over below.
#1. Tim Curry as Frank N. Furter.
#2. Richard O’Brien as Riff Raff.
#3. Susan Sarandon as Janet Weiss.
More ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’ trading cards after the jump….
Everyone, meet Neil. Neil is in the hospital for a fractured ankle that needs to be manipulated back into place. In order for the doctors to fix Neil’s ankle, he was given the powerful “dissociative anesthetic” known as Ketamine. His reaction to the drug is, er, something else. I think it’s safe to assume that he’s feeling no pain. Neil’s “the man” and thinks he can dance on the ceiling.
There’s not much else to say except click “play” and watch. If you’re at work, you may want to turn down the volume as Neil really, really goes for it.
I’m going to be brutally honest with you right now—I am both intrigued and deeply confused by my recent discovery of blog entry by an alleged psychic medium who calls herself “Divine Jacqueline.” The entry, which was posted back in 2011 claims to contain messages from the great beyond from musician Jeff Buckley. If you recall, Jeff died at the way too young age of 31 after drowning in the Mississippi River in 1996. I’m a huge fan of Buckley and had the good fortune to see him live just before his untimely death in an intimate setting in Boston, and to this day the experience ranks as one of the most powerful performances I’ve ever seen. While I’d love to believe that Jeff Buckley is communicating with us while he’s chilling out with other members of rock’s heavenly choir, I simply don’t. And most of the stuff that Divine Jacqueline insists is the word of Jeff is, as you might imagine, straight-up bizarre and more than difficult to swallow. Mostly because I’m shit-sure that Jeff fucking Buckley would ever admit to liking the song “My Sacrifice” by Creed. Because nobody really actually likes that song (alive or dead) or Creed for that matter. Hell, even Creed probably hates it. And that’s a fact.
According to Divine Jacqueline, Buckley now goes by the name “Scott Moorhead” which is a combination of his stepfather’s last name of Moorhead and his middle name which he went by when he was a child. Of the many, many wild statements the Divine Jacqueline makes on her Blogspot site, I have extracted a few of the stranger ones that she has “received” from Buckley about how he spends his infinite time in the afterworld. You might want to lie down while reading what follows as I found it both helpful, as well as necessary:
Jeff says that “What Is And What Should Never Be” is Led Zeppelins’ greatest masterpiece. In fact, Buckley wishes he wrote it himself [DON’T WE ALL?].
Two of Buckley’s closest companions on the other side are author James Joyce and Edith Piaf. While he was still alive, he routinely received “messages” from other deceased musicians like guitarist Randy Rhoads, John Bonham, and Jim Morrison. Jeff also hangs around with musician Roger Voudouris and says that we should all pick up the singer/songwriter’s 1979 album Radio Dreams.
Jeff enjoys “reaching out” to people on earth like actor Brad Pitt. Though he doesn’t communicate with them per se, he just likes to “inspire” them. He also likes to connect to those on earth he had past lives with by phone. Though he “hangs up” when you answer because he was really just expecting to hear your outgoing message on the answering machine, and didn’t think you’d actually pick-up the phone. He also needs us to know that he will not speak to anyone (including psychics) through Ouija boards or seances. So quit it.
Jeff loves the Creed song “My Sacrifice” and often sings it himself these days.
Jeff Buckley LOVES Kate Bush! Who knew?
Okay, I can dig the idea that Jeff Buckley is spending time with Edith Piaf and enjoys the musical stylings of Kate Bush but man, the insinuation that Jeff Buckley is up there in Heaven singing a fucking Creed song is an insult to Buckley and to people with functional ears.
Hippies make the best capitalists. They are the passive-aggressive masters who use their artificial sense of moral superiority to sell you shit you don’t need. You know the kind of shit. Shit, they claim that will save the planet, or feed your soul, or flow in tune with your karmic wholewheat astrological aura, kinda thing.
In a survey I’ve just made up at random, 99.9% of all hippies are capitalist bastards. Take The Young Ones for example. Here was a household consisting of four students from four very different backgrounds. There was a punk called Vyvyan, a radical-leftie-progressive-socialist-Cliff Richard-fan called Rik, a mature student-cum-yuppie-businessman called Mike, and a hippie named Neil. There was also rumored to be a fifth roommate, but we don’t talk about him. Now, you might think out of this small group that the punk or the mature student would go on to make the most money and have say, a pop career that sold literally dozens of records across the world and lasted for days if not weeks. But you’d be wrong. It was, in fact, Neil the hippie who saw the potential in marketing his miserable lentil-stained life and selling it on to an unsuspecting public.
And very, very successful he was at this, too.
It all started, you see, when Neil the hippie (aka the divinely talented actor Nigel Planer) recorded what some might describe as a kind of “novelty record” called “Hole in My Shoe” in 1984. Planer had astutely chosen to cover a song, which in many respects, captured aspects of Neil’s miserabilist, psychedelic personality. The song had originally been a hit for the rock band Traffic in 1967.
Planer used a little help from his friends to record his single. He collaborated with Dave Stewart, a prog rock keyboardist with bands like Uriel, Egg, and National Health, and singer Barbra Gaskin. Stewart, not to be confused with the other Dave Stewart from the Eurythmics, had scored a UK #1 with Gaskin on their cover of “It’s My Party” in 1981. Neil/Nigel’s “Hole in My Shoe” reached #2 on the UK charts. Its success led Planer, Stewart and Gaskin to go one further and record Neil’s Heavy Concept Album.
Neil sings ‘Hole in My Shoe’: Today the 45rpm record, tomorrow the 33⅓.
Neil’s Heavy Concept Album was the most splendid spoof LP since, well, The Rutles in 1978.
This was a concept album that paid homage to the, er, “concept” of a concept album, but didn’t actually have any real concept other than the unifying character of Neil who riffed on a variety of surreal adventures (a trip down a plughole, a meeting with a potato, a movie advert, and reading a poem to his plant) and singing a few classic, beautifully-rendered songs.
The whole album brilliantly parodied the musical form of those trippy conceptual albums released by progressive and psychedelic bands during the sixties and seventies. From the early musings and backward guitars of the Beatles, through Gong (Pip Pyle plays drums on the record), King Crimson, Pink Floyd, the Incredible String Band and a hint of Frank Zappa. The front cover mimicked that of the Rolling Stones’ Their Satanic Majesties Request album, while the back, in red with liner notes and four images of Neil, copied the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band but instead of a guaranteeing a splendid time for all, Neil offered that:
It was a night in May 1978 that would change the life of an Australian man named Barry Charles irreversibly. He was 28 at the time. While visiting New York City, he visited the Mineshaft, a “notorious fuck bar of the seventies and eighties” as he called it in an article he authored in the Journal of Gay & Lesbian Social Services in 2003. The Mineshaft, located at 835 Washington St., was a legendary leather bar that was the inspiration behind William Friedkin’s 1980 movie Cruising.
At the Mineshaft, he saw a man in a bathtub—and twenty other men lined up, ready to pee on him. The idea excited him so much that he instantly became the next volunteer to enter the tub. When he got back home to Sydney, he was frustrated that the clubs he frequented did not have the “watersports” facilities that he now craved. At Signal, Sydney’s first leather bar, Charles realized that he could use the shared urinal, universally known as a “trough,” in the men’s room.
It is at this point that we can begin to refer to Charles as Troughman. Troughman started by crouching down and leaning against the urinal but (as he wrote) “it becomes easy to let myself go completely and, no longer kneeling or crouching, I lie right down in the urinal.” To Vocativ he stated that “I just got straight down there and started getting pissed on. It was instant rapport. These guys were all into the leather and S&M scene and they were right up for it straight away. And the bar management didn’t mind. They thought it was great fun.”
In 1998 Kellie Henneberry made a short film called Troughman about Charles. In it Charles/Troughman says, “I’m really into piss,” and adds that “being pissed on” is “my particular specialty.” He continues:
I do it because it’s a sexual turn-on for me, something that really excites me. I discovered it by accident. I didn’t even know that it existed, and then I walked into this club and it was happening. People were doing this, and I wanted to do it! And when it happened for the first time, it just opened all these amazing doors of sexual excitement.
Troll Cakes is a website dedicated to baking and delivering cakes to Internet trolls with their smartass comments emblazened right on ‘em. I like this. I also like that the cake is as ugly and as dumb their comments.
Step 1: They take the offensive comment.
Step 2. They make it into a cake!
Step 3: They box it up and mail it to whoever said it. The box includes a copy of their original comment.
That’s it. Apparently if you don’t have your troll’s address handy, Troll Cakes will do some detective work and find it for you.
Other than the fact that the FBI, the Michigan State Police and Chicago’s finest all believed that Nine Inch Nails vocalist Trent Reznor was dead, 1989 was a pretty good year for NIN. The band released their first album, Pretty Hate Machine which contained the soon-to-be smash single “Down In It” that would help propel NIN to early stardom. Prior to the release of the first song ever written by Reznor, NIN headed to Chicago to shoot a video for the single. And that’s when this story starts to get very, very weird.
In order to achieve the aerial shots for the video, the crew attached balloons to a few cameras. One of the cameras decided to go rogue and floated over 300 miles to Michigan before landing in the middle of a cornfield (I told you things were going to get weird). The camera was then found by a farmer who, after looking at the footage of Reznor covered in cornstarch (in order to enhance his dead-guy look), surrounded by guitarist Richard Patrick and drummer Chris Vrenna, turned it into the police. The footage appeared to be authentically nefarious in nature to the cops who were convinced that the footage in the camera was either the product of some sort of satanic ritual, gang-related slaying or even a suicide.
If you’re a fan of NIN you may already be acquainted with this bizarre bit of history, especially if you also watched the television tabloid show Hard Copy back in the early 1990s. Hard Copy took NIN and Reznor to task then when they ran an exposé on the faux-murder and its lengthy criminal investigation. During the broadcast which originally aired on March 5th, 1991, the show used cheesy “re-enactments” of the “crime” as well as providing equally cheesy and condescending commentary by way of host Alan Frio and the glib curator of the segment, actor Rafael Abramovitz. They even included an interview segment with Reznor himself during which he shared his thoughts about the bizarre debacle:
“When the news came through that this was some sort of a cult killing, and that I had been killed, this great story, my initial reaction was that it was really funny, that something could be that blown out of proportion, and so many people were working on it. And I felt kinda good that the police had made idiots of themselves.”