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CupCake Tower

Absinthe Faeries

Loa & Behold!

Prentice Suspensions

All Upside Down

Aerialism

Kick it

Trophies

Thimblerig Circus

Flame Swallow

The Toy Devils

Christ, Lord - the band

howl

Red Shift

Day of the Cupcake 2012
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The fact is I love living in a city with so many trees that it feels as if I'm walking through the woods whenever I look up. Yet at the same time, all I have to do is glance back down to be surrounded in a vandal's gallery - one constantly shouting to the eye the poetry of chance in the language of graffiti and advertisement.

Red, I need Red...

The last roses of November

The Last Roses of November

The Geography of Control

Skeletal Accompanist

Terminus

Windows of Opportunity

The Broken House on Fortune Street

Could be better

Shark Window

Sitting on the Wall

Steal: We Appreciate Your Business

Down the road, along the fence, under the trees we'll wait

Autumn Amarillo

When autumn leaves start to fall
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Living Dead Gal

Rock Opera Dracula
Read more... )
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Ritual's 2001 Vampire Ball

Your shot!

P1160257

I hear you grinding but you can't come in

Oni w/Grinder

P1160265

Raaaarrrrww!

Gorey Bliss

Nocturnal Embrace

Oni & Tabby:Vampire Ball Show

P1160290
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Surprise, surprise... I managed to crash the 'Bash after all. This was thanks to my friend the Magpie, who treated me to a much needed break from the last few months stress fest for a little fun in the sun. While not as highly attended this year as last, the 'Bash remained the best Psychobilly Tail-Gate Party in the South (and therefore, most likely, the world). The whole shebang took place over at the Starlite 6 Drive-In (a living shrine to the almost extinct mating rituals of the Atomic Age American) and served as a glorious celebration of fast cars, faster guitars, old monster movies and the fine art of getting properly white-trashed. If Dragon*Con is a geek flavored revelry of the dying of the Summer Sun, MonsterBash is its revved hot rod invocation.

Anyway, some pix...

We're just twelve Parsecs to Paradise

American Dreams

Serious Grillage

We come from Planet Fiction, human!

How I spent my Summer Vacation

Warning: Do Not Feed Your Inner-Clown

Sasquatch Texting

Old School Ghouls

Gobgoyle Hula Hoopla

One long Sunday with nowhere to go but now

Bad things just around the corner

About the Author

S'up?


... the rest of my Flickr set here
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Found a sweet little spot to shoot last Wednesday. Hidden right under a major parkway here in Terminus, one i've passed a hundred times in the past easy, but somehow never managed to notice it's presence. It is a clandestine vandals gallerys, wino camp ground and a make shift underground skate park all in one. I got m'man West to act as back up for me in case I ran into any hostiles out there in Ghoul Country. We had to 'chase the light' so to speak because we weren't sure how long it would be before the clouds swallowed up the sky again. All in all a good expedition. I'm definetly planning on making it back there on a clearer day. Until then here's a few shots from the shoot.


Dream-Kraken pulling itself into our reality


Skull Ramp


Urban Paganism

Bunches more behind the cut )
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. )
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What i'll probably be up to tomorrow night!

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket


In celebration of the darkening season, Eyedrum presents Dead Flowers: Haunted Gardens; Seeded Wastelands (October 13-November 24, 2007). This investigation explores the cycle of life/death/rebirth in the garden, including such topics as the Memorial Garden (cemetery), Victorian florigraphy (The Language of Flowers), vanitas, sterile corporate gardens, plastic flowers + genetically modified flora, as well as other botanical mysteries. Galleries 1 & 2 + the Small Gallery will feature installations, 2D work + floral arrangements.

Just the facts, Jack!!! )
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So m'man [profile] destructodeluxo (aka the Jack Burton of Livejournal), tells me i'd be a damned fool to miss Blowfly playing at the Star Bar tomorrow night!

Who?

This man...


Why should you care?

Think Screamin' Jay Hawkins meets ODB. If either of those names makes you go "who" again... you might want to consider tamer options for the evening. Tell you what listed below is the man's discography. Take a look for yourself and then do what you gotta do.
Blowfly's Discography )
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"’cause it’s getting kind of quiet in my city’s head/
Takes a teen age riot to get me out of bed..."
~Teenage Riot, Sonic Youth


They come spilling out of the Drunken Unicorn anxious, buzzed, bored, giggling at their own jokes and surfing the crests of their egos. Just another night in another vampire city, another so-so show with nowhere left to go. There's five total. Three guys, two women each one stuck in that strange age between adult decisions and playground dispositions. Two of the guys (with cheeks that have never been shaved and bleesed with smiles that don't know better) crouch down with just a dash of dancefloor flair. On cue the two women come running up behind them, leap on their backs piggy back style, wrap their arms around their necks and start kicking the guys lightly in the sides hollering -
"Go, go, go!"
and
"Andole-andole mother fucker!" Read more... )
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Reading Material
January 14th, 2007
~Rob M.


Part One: How you gonna keep her on the Farm once she's done gay Paree'?

It is safe to say that there is no dearth of speculation as to the origins of Jethro Cocteau. You may have heard how his father was a Parisian thinkifier of some great renown. How his mother was a prestigous knive thrower with 'Doc Kabbalah's Carnival of Chthonic Mysteries'. How the two of them met while ol' Doc was touring through Europe while laying low from the law back stateside. How his mother, Three Shiv Mary, was seduced by this great man of letters during a private performance in his chateau in Milly-la-Foret. The story goes that for her grand finale, she tied up Mssr.Cocteau to a grandfather clock, blindfolded him, and as he recited his "A Rough Draft For An Ars Poetica" in a voice loud and defiant of his then 74 years of age, she stripped him naked with a series of expertly tossed blades. Overcome by both the power of his words and the courage in which the frenchman allowed himself to be rendered into his birthday suit, she took him right there, whilst he still remained tied to grandfather clock.

But the love of a true Carnie Woman can be as terrible as it is miraculous. It haunts the dreams of even the most jaded Sailors, can drive the hardest of truckers into incurable poetry spoutin' romantics and has even been known to reduce the meanest, most hardcore meth dealin' son-of-a-bitch you ever did meet into a Dr.Phil watchin' Hagan Das eatin' walkin' talkin' Man-gyna!

The good Mssr. gave up the ghost to Mary only moments after giving up his 'Petitie Mort' to her as well, which is to say that he cashed in before checking out. His heart, alas, could not stand the inhuman strain of satisfying a drunk and randy Carnie Goddess. You gotta hand it to the old goat though. He lasted a helluva lot longer than most men a third his age would've. As testament to his lasting prowess, Mary said that he was the only man to have ever made her weep with pleasure. His last words to both her (and the world as well I s'pose), delivered naked whilst the grandfather clock he was tied to chimed 12 were:

Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Ni Le Bien Qu`on M`a Fait, Ni Le Mal
Tout Ca M`est Bien Egal
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
C`est Paye, Balaye, Oublie, Je Me Fous Du Passe


These were, as you should well know, the lyrics to Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien, sung by his good friend - the legendary Édith Piaf. Mary did the only sensible thing she could do. She untied the old man down from the clock, laid him out on his bed, packed up her knives, leaned down to press a tear stained kiss across his head and quickly lifted his wallet before disappearin' back to Doc Kabbalah's Carnival.

Nine months later the world met the fruit of that impassioned night in Milly-la-Foret, as a screamin', kickin' Jethro Cocteau was born in Lynch County, Ga.

Of course there are other stories. Always will be I reckon. How Jethro Cocteau was nothing but an alias used by Iggy Pop in the mid 70's to score scrips off of unsuspecting pharmacists. That Jethro was in fact nothing more than a moonshine induced tulpa created by the Dixie Mafia in their war on the Federalista's. That 'Jethro Cocteau' was nothing but a derogatory slur employed by Orson Welles after he was kicked out of the premier of 'Orpheus' for drunken rantings about the Hearst family. There is even the theory that Jethro Cocteau is nothing more than a metaphor for that unique quality of a man to be both an angel of introspection and a vociferous beast of irredimable passions.

But no, Jethro Cocteau was a real man. As real at least, as you or me.

Next: Chapter 2: Jethro Cocteau King of the two fisted Hillosophers: "Rebel rebel, how could they know?"

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