Flaunt Magazine

The Dow closed below 6800, which is the lowest it’s been in about a dozen years. Yes, all hell has broken loose and we’re all going to die poor, but at least we have the past, right? They can’t take away our history, our art, our memories. Right? Right?

Nope. Since the movie studios are out of creative (read: lucrative) ideas, and directors are finally accepting the fact that they’re horrible writers who should never—ever—try to come up with original stories, the desperate trend of remakes surges forward. In attempts to capitalize on older “franchises,” by which I mean exploit the earnest dedication of fanboys, these dickheads are taking our fabulous movies of yore, rewriting them and reshooting them with reckless abandon, pissing on the VHS graves of great films. They’re filled with the false confidence of greed and the time-tested-and-failed idea that “people liked that, right?” As such, whole slew of movie remakes are rumored and soon-to-be released

Coming to a closed movie theater near you: The Last House On The Left.

It was a sad day indeed when I learned of this atrocity, which is sure to ruin Wes Craven’s 1972 original, one of my favorite films of all time. Of course, Craven’s film was an inspired modernization of Ingmar Bergman’s classic, The Virgin Spring. So perhaps Joe Nobody’s totally unnecessary remake will modernize it further to include an iPhone as a revenge-murder tool. Appropriately enough, the trailer comes with another remake: a flaccid cover of GNR’s “Sweet Child o’ Mine” that is a softer version of the epic original.

Rumored: For a while now there have been talks of remaking Total Recall. Apparently it’s gonna happen, and, as if all our oxygen was hijacked by some corporate fascist dictator, there’s nothing we can do about it but choke. If this does happen, forcing me to kill myself, I reckon the new film will be based on Paul Verhoeven’s sci-fi staple, and not, say, the Phillip K. Dick short story his film was based on, and some roided-out WWE wrestler who most high-school graduates have never heard of will star as Douglas Quaid (né Hauser).

But I know at least one classic film that will be saved by these ruined days:

Ain’t nobody gonna make a movie about bored stock-market tycoons who hand their company over to some homeless asshole. Primarily because most of those tycoons are in jail or broke already (there goes your ending), their companies are dying/dead, it’s currently impossible to make money in the stock market, and we’ve confirmed that a homeless person chosen at random would probably have an equal if not better understanding of domestic and international economics than those soft-cock bottoms who are running ruining our top financial institutions.

Perhaps they can stretch their imaginations and think of something or someone else to use as a basis for a movie about a black guy who gets put in charge of the future of major financial institutions…

Last night Flaunt hosted an opening for the alt-art and cinema / manymedia’ed Collision Fest @ Studio 1636 in Hollywood.

It was super cute and mellow, with lots of interesting, nice people abound.

A friend told me they met really cool people that they didn’t know before and had a great time even without focusing on the real goods- the film, art and other goodies adorning the party. There were even reports of an intense intellectual standoff about obscure Russian literature, and a guys walking around in funny red silk shirts.

The visual centerpiece of the Collision Fest is “the Engine,” a “1,000 pounds of illuminated oxidized-steel sculpture that rotates to hold a 17-by-10-
foot film screen”. Local graf legend Kofie One also rocked the space big time, his articulate space-and-line work a sexy mix of graf, architecture, calligraphy and decay. (See pics below).

We got there just as the rad performative dance troupe BodyCity was busting a thoughtful yet playful move: an acapella, head-nod-tempo version of The Cars’ “Drive”:

They moved beautifully and playful and it was smart, fun and goofy in all the right places.

The Bizzurke Army showed short films that took us to kitschy yet meaningful realms and performance artist Peggy Jo Pabustan did a piece involving projected sodomy, the RNC, a ragdoll dress and the ultimate defeat of protest.

I also really liked this stairwell with CERAMIC BEES.

I had a great time and the upcoming schedule looks incredible! I defs say if you’re looking for something to do one of these next 11 nights certainly go to 1636 Wilcox in Hollywood and peep out the Collision Fest!

Full information and schedule available @ http://www.enginecollisionfest.com. See you there!

On Friday the 13th some Flaunt editorial crew moseyed over to the BHPL to meet and chat with the indefatigably awesome Mr. Ray Bradbury. Mr. Bradbury is now 91 and has just released a collection of short writings entitled “We’ll Always Have Paris.” Even with one good eye and wheelchair-bound Ray was a charming force to behold. I took some pictures of him and we connected- he had an air of quiet, aestheticized badass-ness that was humbling.

The BHPL lit crowd was mainly spritely older people, which I super enjoyed (where’s the tight-pantsed kids with Fahrenheit 451 in dere back pocket??!).

We sat down in the audience and Ray was brought out to talk to us. What I think was supposed to be a short, quippy lite ad for his book turned into a 40 minute shimmering meander through Ray’s epiphanies and inspirations, and the passionate, creative loves that drive him to write, live and love ferociously.

BHPL is supposed to YouTube the speech so please look it up there, you won’t be disappointed I swear. He mused on the importance of libraries, and his undergraduate studies conducted in his unofficial school, the Downtown branch of the L.A Library. He was too broke to afford an education in those days and the library was a better teacher besides. (Too bad wE R LoSiNg R BoOkZ & ImAGinAsHuNz 2 dE InTeRnEtS, nahmean???!!!!111!!!) He wrote Fahrenheit 451 in 8 days with a rented typewriter. Mr. Bradbury, thank you so much. Also thanks to Susan, Madeline and all the talented people who read Ray’s amazing work this evening.Oh yeah, and Ray’s medal signifies he’s a Commander of the Order of Arts and Letters in France (their highest cultural award).<3

Photo by Jupiter Desphy.

Monsieur A. lands in LA…  

The robot poets of the internet were hard at work this week, creating beautiful, nonsensical pseudo-porn that might register in search-engines and the online encyclopedia of arbitrary. Just this morning, my google alert for “Flaunt Magazine” sent me this stanza of insane prose, which reads like some sort of erasure or Burroughsian cut up of slash fiction mixed with vampire newsreels, created by Edgar Allen Poe’s distant, inbred, cyborg, transgendered nephewniece:

“Surely the sight of anger quickly turned to with the events leading still lose her. Her hands reached down let my wife take lying in a coffin her feet again. Madelyne all but shouted watched the trains come pup, but papa had penetrated her. Everyone else seems to moment needed to be she was bathed again, brother gets here. Believing he must have his thoughts and back way and that to of time. Now, son, you must the table and tell feet that never, ever masks of animals. My husbands family used did she plant flowers to make certain you in frustration. The swelling was nearly like the local bus were torn down, and you look splendid. How credulous both of FLAUNT MAGAZINE PARTY NEW YORK it was the right own horses? No, perhaps it was least twenty of my she instinctively turned around approached our table.”

Hear that, NYC? We’re apparently having a party. Or had a party. And New York’s most fashion forward women turned out, with bulbous, avant gowns whose “swelling was nearly like the local bus were torn down, and you look splendid.” Splendid indeed.

Dear 21st century poet,

Perhaps you are correct— it very well might be a product of our credulity that “it was the right to own horses.” But hey, it’s a Flaunt party: anything can happen.

The only offense I might take from this bit of madness is the question: “did she plant flowers to make certain you in frustration?” Of course she did. Botany aside, with women, it is in frustration that I am always at my most certain.

But the flowers…the flowers were lovely. And that to of time.

I know in the past I’ve caused you pain, and I’m sorry. And I’ll always be sorry ’till the day I die. And I hate this pen I’m holding because I should be holding you. I hate this paper under my hand because it isn’t you. I even hate this letter because it’s not the whole truth. Because the whole truth is so much more than a letter can even say. If you want to hate me, go ahead. If you want to burn this letter, do it. You could burn the whole world down; you could tell me to go to hell. I’d go, if you wanted me to. And I’d send you a letter from there.

Sincerely,

Jordan Catalano

As an ADHD Athiest raised by Jewish parents whose respective families both celebrated Christmas, I recall the holidays as a time of hardship, of enduring a tribulation to which I’m sure evangelicals and agnostics alike can relate: of course I’m talking about falling asleep on Christmas Eve. The unreasonable and ultimately disappointing high expectations of a spoiled child will always render him/her/me tortured by the anticipation for a brief chance to satiate ravenous greed. (Disillusionment’s a bitch.) Enter the night before Christmas, exit sandman.

I remember laying awake in bed, rustlin and harumpf’n, tossin and a turnin, my brother’s hydrocodone suddenly ineffective at previous self-prescribed doses: deep sleep always seemed so far away. Ah, but an upside! The vivid, fleeting nightmares symptomatic of sporadic unconsciousness and borderline schizophrenia. I get homesick just thinking about it.

Eventually, the sun would rise, b.b. guns would prove not to be fatal weapons, my sister would prove to be more spoiled than I, and I’d turn to movies for solace and a source for new nightmares. Here’s a cozy favorite from a director whose work consistently makes me nostalgic for my ruthless nightmares of yore.

Goodnight, sweetheart, well it’s time to go,

Goodnight, sweetheart, well it’s time to go,

I hate to leave you, but I really must say,

“I’ll tear your fucking heart out, girl.”

Christmas cometh, Sinterklaas slouches towards Bethlehem, the center cannot hold. Is it 2012 yet? Are those the bell tolls of the Apocalypse I hear, or the ting-ting-tingaling of good ol’ fashioned domestic abuse? Gather round, boys and girls and victims of emotional neglect, beause it’s time…for…Family Friendly Films. For the rest of the month, I’ll be posting clips from some of my favorite movies for the whole foreclosed family.

And what would the Holidays be without Kris Kringle’s Komeuppance? Satan. Santa. Satan. Santa. Satan. Santa. Think about it. Christmas is only 1335 days away, give or take a few. So, this Christmas, think of the ones you hate. Throw on a Satan suit and chop off their heads with an ax. And if they’re already dead, write them a cathartic note of Holiday cheer and forgiveness.

Dear David Koresh, ILY IMY KIT TTYL.When you’re resurrected as Santa, don’t forget to bring me pwesents (hint: I want better jokes).

And for the rest of you, remember what Koresh sympathizer (at least as a legal defense) Tiny Tim(othy McVeigh) said: “God bless us every gun.” Or was it, “and may all your Christmases be White Power?” Either way, rot in hell, dickheads. You guys were total pieces of shit.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

————–

Stay tuned later this week. Your life just might depend on it.

The dramatic conclusion to longtime Flaunt contributor Richard Thomas’s recap of this year’s Iceland Airwaves Festival. Zoom zoom zoom.

Part 2
Ah, the Golden Circle, one of Iceland’s premiere tours: A smorgasbord of geysers, waterfalls, fields, and geothermic vents rising up from the black volcanic earth. If you ever find yourself in Iceland, don’t sleep on this trip.

Right, but onto the music then. Friday night saw the opening of the first floor of Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion Idno, a spot usually reserved for posh dining. I’d heard a lot about Bedroom Community, one of Iceland’s premiere record labels, and this was their showcase. Nico Muhly was an unfortunate scratch, but Ben Frost more than made up for his absence. Paired up with insane Tron-meets-Darth-Maul visuals, his version of “Theory of Machines” was loud, sinister, and easily the hottest thing I saw all night. (Think Trent Reznor meets Philip Glass.) Not sure how often this dude leaves the island, but he is not to be missed. He also sat in for Amiina’s set with laptopper Kippi Kaninus, which was also a highlight.

Gus Gus’ DJ set was spot-on, though nowhere near as mind-blowing as their live gig the previous night at the Art Museum. While Iceland has so many talented electronic musicians operating in the experimental genre, they really need some assistance in the straight-up dance music department. Most of what I heard was a bit formulaic and in desperate need of some tech-break funkiness. Even Simian Mobile Disco’s James Ford — whose DJ set was marred by technical difficulties — couldn’t break the mold open. After a little Seabear at the Reykjavik Art Museum, I decided to head back to Tunglid where Michael Mayer – who had missed his previous time slot – was dropping crazy techno madness.

For better or worse, Robots in Disguise put on the most entertaining set of the night. I’m still waiting on feedback from the band, but apparently the venue cut them off early and the girls were completely pissed. Something about them showing up late (which they didn’t) or taking too much time to set-up (possible), but the crowd was having none of it. After some bitching, moaning and clapping, the band got their instruments plugged in and jammed out one more tune (sans backing track or visuals): the infectious and appropriately titled, “We’re In The Music Biz.”

As annoying as it was for RiD to get bumped, the band after them totally blew the place up. FM Belfast are basically the Icelandic Polyphonic Spree, and do a smooth cover of RATM’s “Killing in the Name Of” called “Lotus.” The ironic bit about this band is that while there are upwards of 17 people on stage, there’s only one dude actually playing music. Sure, everyone has some kind of hand instrument, but after homeboy presses play on his machine, everyone else just sings and goes nuts. Totally brilliant!

fin