THE DODOLOGIST'S GEEK FOLK FESTIVAL: THE ILLUMINATI POLKA

Folk is more than dreary men with guitars singing dreary songs about dreary subjects. It's also more ... danceable tunes, for instance in a ... germanic style, about subjects of the utmost importance to the future of humanity. Yes, really ...

Anyway, it's Tom Smith again. He had to return, after the overwhelming attention his last performance got.

THE DODOLOGIST'S GEEK FOLK FESTIVAL, THE KICK OFF: TOM SMITH PERFORMS "I HAD A SHOGGOTH"

From the stages of American SF/fantasy/horror-cons, straight to extinction - The Dodologist has the pleasure to kick off The Dodolgist's Geek Folk Festival.

And the obvious man to kick it off is Tom Smith - if for no other reason, then to spread out his contributinons.

I Had A Shoggoth is one of those songs that covers a lot of ground - monsterwise. The real star of the video, though, is the woman (ostensibly?) doing a interpretation for the hard of hearing.

Enjoy!

SCOTT WALKER: COPENHAGEN

Because it's a great song by a great man. No other reason needed.

LOVECRAFT AND THE HORROR OF THE CITY

Among H.P. Lovecraft's stories, few are as infamous as The Horror at Red Hook, his nightmarish description - written in August 1925 - of a hideous cult of devil worshipers in New York’s poorest districts. It's not hard to see why. Lovecraft wasn't an epigone of toleration at his best of days. And Red Hooks wasn't written on one of those. The story reflects his hatred of urban life in general and of New York especially, a city he moved to after his marriage to Sonia Greene in 1924.

But even if it's racism is vile and the story in itself is rather badly structured (Lovecraft didn't like it much, but then again he was hard on himself in general), it is deeply fascinating. Not the least for it's attempt to portray the city itself as some kind of a monster. It is a thing of decadence and horror, an atavistic return to a pre-civilized condition.

The best description of this condition, though, isn't to be found in Red Hook. It is instead the opening of another story he wrote the same month: He. He is, as stories go, a true failure, but it's first half (it is short), with it's description of the old New York hidden in the new, is still Lovecraft at his best: A writer of architecture - houses and streets and the moods they convey. The opening pages are urbanity-as-horror at its most fascinating:

My coming to New York had been a mistake; for whereas I had looked for poignant wonder and inspiration in the teeming labyrinths of ancient streets that twist endlessly from forgotten courts and squares and waterfronts to courts and squares and waterfronts equally forgotten, and in the Cyclopean modern towers and pinnacles that rise blackly Babylonian under waning moons, I had found instead only a sense of horror and oppression which threatened to master, paralyse, and annihilate me.

The disillusion had been gradual. Coming for the first time upon the town, I had seen it in the sunset from a bridge, majestic above its waters, its incredible peaks and pyramids rising flower-like and delicate from pools of violet mist to play with the flaming golden clouds and the first stars of evening. Then it had lighted up window by window above the shimmering tides where lanterns nodded and glided and deep horns bayed weird harmonies, and itself become a starry firmament of dream, redolent of faery music, and one with the marvels of Carcassonne and Samarcand and El Dorado and all glorious and half-fabulous cities. Shortly afterward I was taken through those antique ways so dear to my fancy—narrow, curving alleys and passages where rows of red Georgian brick blinked with small-paned dormers above pillared doorways that had looked on gilded sedans and panelled coaches—and in the first flush of realisation of these long-wished things I thought I had indeed achieved such treasures as would make me in time a poet.

But success and happiness were not to be. Garish daylight shewed only squalor and alienage and the noxious elephantiasis of climbing, spreading stone where the moon had hinted of loveliness and elder magic; and the throngs of people that seethed through the flume-like streets were squat, swarthy strangers with hardened faces and narrow eyes, shrewd strangers without dreams and without kinship to the scenes about them, who could never mean aught to a blue-eyed man of the old folk, with the love of fair green lanes and white New England village steeples in his heart.

So instead of the poems I had hoped for, there came only a shuddering blankness and ineffable loneliness; and I saw at last a fearful truth which no one had ever dared to breathe before—the unwhisperable secret of secrets—the fact that this city of stone and stridor is not a sentient perpetuation of Old New York as London is of Old London and Paris of Old Paris, but that it is in fact quite dead, its sprawling body imperfectly embalmed and infested with queer animate things which have nothing to do with it as it was in life.

Read the entire story here. It ends like this: "I have gone home to the pure New England lanes up which fragrant sea-winds sweep at evening." As was, of course, H.P. himself to do not that much later.

DAMN, H.P., I ALMOST FORGOT : HAPPY 120!

Sorry, I really did. Thank the tentacled one that he himself called to remind me.

His tentacle came through eons of mindless insanity to slap me on the shoulder. And sort of remind me that there are fates worse than trawling the World Weird Web to search for a fitting cake for one like you. Though it really should be ice cream of course ...

Anyway: Happy 120, H.P. Try not to go to nefariously insane out of sheer joy. Cthulhu promised to bring my present, as I sadly can't join the party on Leng tonight.
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EXPOSING THAT WHICH SHOULD REMAIN HIDDEN

As the subject of men exposing themselves was touched upon a few posts ago, the time had come to reveal what really should have remained hidden ...
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WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN FIFTY MOONS TIME?

I knew life in those days was hard, but not that hard ...

HORRIBLE, BLASPHEMOUS AND UNSPEAKABLE! AND SHORT

It's like ... horrible and ... blasphemous and ... unspeakable and ... stuff. But it is at least short:



Yep, horrible, blasphemous and unspeakable. And short.

Horrified and unspeakable thanks to The Worlds Cooles Librarian who showed me the way into this particular spot of The Dark Side.

SAD SONGS, WEIRD VIDEOS, GREAT LYRICS

Some things ... Some things are just plain weird. Like the lyrics of Glenn Tilbrook's song The Genitalia of a Fool. Or like somebody creating a YouTube video to the song, only using footage of Johnny Depp - which, as far as I can gather from the World Weird Web, likes the music of Tilbrook and Squeeze.

Anyway, try not to watch the video, while you listen to this great example of Very Sad Country Music. You may keep your eyes on the lyrics instead. They are below.





The Genitalia of a Fool

Everybody's got a hobby
Everybody's got a schtick
Please consider me eccentric
Don't think of me as sick

Didn't mean to spoil your party
I didn't mean to be uncool
But I'm standing here holding
The genitalia of a fool

'Cause I thought if I exposed myself
You'd fall in love with me
But when I burst in
To my chagrin
You had company

I'm afraid I've shown your family
the wrong kind of family jewels
'Cause I'm standing here holding
the genitalia of a fool

Well I guess the show is over
so I'll just go on home
I'll pack my prize possession
it's the nicest thing I own

Didn't mean to scare the children
or make your grandma drool
but I'm standing here holding
the genitalia of a fool

And I pray that you'll forgive me
and try to understand
But I'm afraid you'll always picture me
with my whole world in my hands

And I'll go through life just wondering
how fate could be so cruel
Left me standing here holding
the genitalia of a fool

Now I wish that you were holding,
the genitalia of this fool

OH GOD, THEY ARE COMING!

In A house at Furuset, the Panda Army waits, sleeping, dreaming of the Holocaust to come, when they awake from their slumber to create PANDAMONIUM!
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THE OTHERS

Shot in the middle of the day. Most of the effect created in the camera, a little extra kick added in Photoshop.
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THE BONES

Heavily photoshopped, but nothing removed or added. The bones of something ancient. Or something entirely else.
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IN HIS HOUSE IN RUSSIA, DEAD CTHULHU WAITS ...

In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming. As everyone knows. And in dark and dreadful places on this earth his followers gather to hail His Dreadfulness. And await their horrible destiny.

But what happens to those places when their destiny (*munch, munch ... burp*) is fulfilled?

They remain. Abandoned. Awaiting discovery.

And now one has been discovered -- deep in the wilderness that is rural Russia. See more pictures of it -- if you dare venture into the realms of insanity from which no man returns untouched.
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THEY WATCH!

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ON A DAY LIKE THIS ...

This bird will rise again!
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IN DREAMS

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PAN'S DANCE

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THE SILVER KEY - THE MOVIE

Based on H.P. Lovecraft's story "The Silver Key". Directed and produce by Conor Timmis og Gary Fierro. Timmis as Randolph Carter.

Thanks to Libraryman, the worlds coolest librarian. Please stop saying "oook".
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The Shadydologist

Some web-services are more ... useful than others. There are, for instance, URL shorteners galore. And they are handy enough. But what the world really needed was ShadyURL, the service that changes your innocent URL to something more ... shady looking. You may revisit me at http://5z8.info/orgy.avi_l7s1e_worm.exe.
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THE LOST BOY

Once upon a time - in 1987 - The Dodologist saw The Lost Boys. Three times. In a week. I'm not saying it made me the vampirologist that I am, but it is no less true because of that.

So the news of Corey Haim's death yesterday was ... well, not a shock, but a reason to be a bit sentimental:





And of course there is Sam's (Haim's that is) most memorable quote:

Look at your reflection in the mirror. You're a creature of the night Michael, just like out of a comic book! You're a vampire Michael! My own brother, a goddamn, shit-sucking vampire. You wait 'till mom finds out, buddy!

Lost boy, indeed.

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THE HERO ACCORDING TO AYN RAND

It seems like it will be a good day for one of The Dodologist's favourite sports: Ayn Rand bashing. First themostvenerable Lord Bassington-Bassington shared this little gem (it has been traced back til the Kung Fu Monkey):

There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.

Then Libraryman - the worlds second coolest librarian (he doesn't say "oook" quite often enough to top the list) - shared this article by the novelist Michael Prescott on Rand's hero, the not at all venerable William Edward Hickman. Read it. But not while you're eating.

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IF YOU HAVE NEVER FELT EXISTENTIAL PAIN, TRY THIS

Some Norwegian musician won a price today. It's a fitting time to remind the world of his greatest moment:





If you can watch it all the way through without your brain going to jelly, you probably live in a nice, padded room already ...

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THE COOLEST CHARITY SONG. EVER

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THE NEST IS ROCKING

The pictures may be gothic, but musically it's still soul & funk revival time here at The Dodo's Nest. Right now The Dodologist and The Itsy Bitsy Dodolinga In Pink is rocking to Laura Vane & The Vipertones. It's highly recommended:




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VINES

A new attempt at an old favourite; trying to get to the essence of those vines. Lotsa photoshopping obviously.

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GIRL AND BULL

An old picture I always knew could work, but that I've never been satisfied with, though I've tried many times. So I decided to give it real hell i Photoshop. And finally I'm satisfied.

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WINTER NIGHT

Sometime in December. Only minor curve adjustments in Photoshop.
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EARS

After a couple of months of little or no photographic experimentation, The Dodologist is slowly picking up camera and Photoshop again. Examples will be posted here, and first out is the picture Ears. Actually, it's not photshopped at all, except from being cropped.

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“THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD", BY THOMAS HARDY

“O passenger, pray list and catch
Our sighs and piteous groans,
Half stifled in this jumbled patch
Of wrenched memorial stones!

“We late-lamented, resting here,
Are mixed to human jam,
And each to each exclaims in fear,
‘I know not which I am!’

“The wicked people have annexed
The verses on the good;
A roaring drunkard sports the text
Teetotal Tommy should!

“Where we are huddled none can trace,
And if our names remain,
They pave some path or p-ing place
Where we have never lain!

“There’s not a modest maiden elf
But dreads the final Trumpet,
Lest half of her should rise herself,
And half some local strumpet!

“From restorations of Thy fane,
From smoothings of Thy sward,
From zealous Churchmen’s pick and plane
Deliver us O Lord! Amen!”

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ARTHUR HUGHES' OPHELIA

It’s not as well known as Millais’ Ophelia, but personally I'm of the opinion that Arthur Hughes' depiction of the tragic girl is the best Ophelia to come from the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and its followers. It was first shown in the Royal Academy Exhibition of 1852, the same year at Millais’ Ophelia and the year Hughes turned twenty.

It hangs in the Manchester City Art Galley, where I saw it the first time. I believe I spent half an hour just staring at it.

Years later Hughes painted another Ophelia, but it is not as good by far.
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BILLIE DAVIS BONANZA

The Dodologist has a weakness for British female pop singers of the 60s. None more so than Billie Davis. Thus, ladies and gentlemen, a Billie Davis Bonanza:














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"AH, ARE YOU DIGGING ON MY GRAVE?", BY THOMAS HARDY

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? - planting rue?"
- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? - prodding sly?"
- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say - since I have not guessed!"
- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."

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THE MEN WHO STARE

The Dodologist and The Wife saw The Men Who Stare At Goats the other day. I rather enjoyed the book, as I mostly do with Jon Ronson’s writings, but the movie isn’t that much to brag about. The fiction plot is never more than OK and great acting by Jeff Bridges and George Clooney seems rather wasted. (The goats are cute though.)

But it does have one really, really great moment – and a very, very meta one at that: When George Clooney explains to Ewan McGregor what it means to be a Jedi …
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GHOSTS OF AUTUMN PAST

Early last autumn I was forced to spend a couple of days at a hotel outside of Oslo (it’s called “work”, I believe). It was, as is to be expected of this work thingy, rather dreadful. But I did get to spend a morning at the beautiful Tyrifjorden, taking lots of pictures (with a tri pod, which was a first).

The soundtrack to that morning was the record Ghosts, by The Triple Tree. Ghosts is a homage to M.R. James, perhaps the greatest writer of horror stories ever.

The Triple Tree is Andrew King and a certain Tony Wakeford, and skadoodling around on YouTube, I came across this fascinating and beautiful video to the song The Ghosts of England:





Here are some of the pictures, by the way (click'em for larger versions):









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"THE SECOND COMING", BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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CAN'T REALLY ARGUE WITH THAT

Totally Looks Like, specialists in finding the doppelgangers of the celebrities, has revealed that super celebrity Falkor, the luckdragon from The Neverending Story, has a lookalike in a faded pop singer these days mostly known for her marriage to a guy who plays football.

Can't really argue with that.
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BACK TO BLACK

The Dodologist has been listening to neofolk (with small excursions into neoprog and classical) for more than a month. It’s a great way to make January even bleaker. Nothing like a bit of jolly misanthropy to light up the post yule Norwegian winter.

But it was time for Change, so it's Detroit revival-time here at The Dodo's Nest: Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings. Great fun:





And yes, the recording and video is from 2007. And if the backing band sounds familiar, it might be because they backed a certain heavily tattooed, Jewish dopehead a few years back (to black). You might have heard about her. Beerhouse or something.
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SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE MYSTERY OF THE SCHIZOPHRENIC DETECTIVE

It is not often that I would call His Lordship, the most excellent Lord Bassington-Bassington silly (he does, after all, have a nasty bite), but here I will make an exception: His recent post on Sherlock Holmes is just plain silly, insisting as it does on Jeremy Brett’s interpretation of Holmes to be the canonical one.

I am myself a fan of Jeremy Brett. Though after seeing quite a few episodes again recently, I must admit that they are not as good as I remember them. Brett’s portrayal of Holmes is of course grounded in the books, but he tends to exaggerate wildly parts of Holmes’ personality, while overlooking others.

Conan Doyle’s Holmes is a far more complicated figure than Brett’s. If he wasn’t, he would not be as good at gaining people’s confidence as he is.

If anyone were to choose only one portrayal of Mr. Holmes as canonical, the obvious one would be the canonical one: Sherlock as he comes across in the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Every other portrayal of him must be seen in the light of them.

I’m still a fan of Brett, though. It’s mainly the production that is dated, not Brett. He is as cool as ever. But his is still an interpretation.

To deny oneself the pleasure of other interpretations, as Bassy does in refusing to see the new Holmes movie with Robert Downey Jr as the great detective, seems to me a silly thing.

The fact is that Robert Downey Jr’s interpretation of Holmes is quite a good one, partly even rather obviously moulded on Brent’s. And he is coupled with a surprisingly good Jude Law as Watson. They are in themselves reasons enough to see the movie. As is Mark Strong as a rather wonderfully villainous villain.

But the real stars of the movie are London and CGI. The entire movie has the feeling of watching a real life cartoon. I rather expected it to turn into steam punk at any moment. It simply looks so damn good – way too good to be real.

Downey Jr’s Holmes is more of an action figure, as was to be expected, but he is still one of the better Holmes-actors I have seen. The inclusion of Irene Adler opens up for a little romance – she is after all The Woman – but fortunately not too much.

The plot is far fetched in the extreme, seemingly supernatural, though rationalist at heart. But it is great fun, in the same way as Pirates of the Caribbean was fun: Silly, absurd and over the top, but loveable and good hearted.

But the most important difference between the Brett series and the new movie, is that this is not based on a Conan Doyle story. As far as I remember all the Brett episodes are.

This is a pastiche on Holmes, standing in the long and proud, if often incredibly silly, tradition of Holmes pastiches.

As pastiches go, it is one of the more extravagant. The mixture of secret societies, peculiar science and strong indications of supernatural influence, makes it something entirely different from Conan Doyle’s stories. Though I am not at all sure the old Conan Doyle wouldn’t believe most of it.

Another rather obvious difference is that the Brent series has high and rather serious artistic ambitions – ambitions it to a large extent lives up to – whereas the new movie is a piece of cartoonish popcorn entertainment. It is a good cartoon, in a League of Extraordinary Gentlemen kind of way, but it’s still rather camp. It is fun though, something the Brent series seldom is. The two are, in other words, two entirely different species. And they are both prime specimen.

My simple point is this: There is no reason why a fan of the great detective should not be able to enjoy different Sherlocks. Homes is an ingrained part of our popular culture, someone who can and should be played around with. There is no true Sherlock Holmes outside of the Conan Doyle's stories.

Which interpretation we prefer is of course a matter of taste, but there is no reason to fear that Holmes will be contaminated by a silly romp like the new movie.The stories are strong enough in themselves to survive any kind of tomfoolery.

But of course the real mystery of the movie is this one: Guy Ritchie made a couple of decent movies. Then he married Madonna and became The Worst Director On Earth. No sooner has he parted company with the lady, than he makes his best (or possibly second best) movie so far.

Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Cursed Madonna. Now that is a movie someone ought to make – the sooner the better. I wouldn’t mind Robert Downey Jr playing Holmes.
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RECOMMENDED: FAUN

The Dodologist is listening to German goth/folk/neofolk/dark wave/neopagan folk/whatever band Faun. And he happens to be of the opinion that more people should do just that. Thus, one of his favourite Faun songs:



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NEOFOLK AND THE PALINGENESIS OF PARANOIA

My friend Lord Bassington-Bassington has published a post on neofolk and politics. As we both love neofolk and hate the fascist scum that is sadly attracted by this glorious music, I agree with both his intentions and analysis.

As Bassy points out, in addition to these creepy crawlers, a second problem is those (mostly on the left) who see fascists everywhere. As the long eared one, I too have spent some time discussing with the Ukranian scholar Anton Shekhovtsov. A frustrating experience, I’m sad to say.

I started writing a comment on the subject, but it morphed into something much longer and finally became a blog post of its own. This blog post. To fully understand what is going on here, you probably should read Lord Bassington-Bassingtons's post first.

I believe the most serious problem with Shekhovtsov’s approach, is his use of Roger Griffin's definition of fascism:

"Fascism is a political ideology whose mythic core in its various permutations is a palingenetic form of populist ultra-nationalism."

Palingenesis in general means rebirth (Christ uses it to describe what will happen on judgment day), though in Griffin’s definition it is restricted to national rebirth.

So according to this definition, fascism is a form of populist ultra-nationalism, which strives for a rebirth of the nation, that is to say a return to a postulated former glory.

I agree with his lordship that the definition has its good sides, as when used to underline the continuity between old fascists and those pathetic developments the go through when renaming what they do silly things like national anarchism.

But it simply isn’t good enough in the long run. For two reasons: Because it is too wide and because it is too narrow.

It is too wide because it includes a lot of people who are not fascists. The longing for national rebirth is hardly original to fascism. It was common to many romantic, nationalist groups in 19th century. It is an idea traceable back at least almost three centuries. It was the core of the neo-druidic groups that grew up around the dream of re-creating the Welsh nation. As it has been the core of every nationalist movement among minorities in Europe since then.

And all of these people were not fascists. Not by far.

That does not mean that I deny that this is an important element of fascism, only that it is not enough to establish a definition of fascism. Which brings me to my second point: The definition is to narrow, because it does not include other criteria that can separate actual fascists from those imagined to be so by Shekhovtsov and his ilk.

Personally I like Michael Mann’s definition: “Fascism is the pursuit of a transcendent and cleansing nation-statism through paramilitarism.”

It is in agreement with Griffin’s on the importance of a transcendental form of nationalism, but adds two fundamental elements: An opinion about the role of the state (totalitarian, militaristic, anti-democratic, führer-led) and about the importance of paramilitary groups.

According to this definition you are not a fascist if you simply dream of national paligenesis. You must also have certain opinions on how this palingenesis is to happen and the role of the state in this rebirth. It is possible that it is this Griffins means by “populist ultra-nationalism”, but that is by no means clear.

So the problem with Shekhovtsov’s approach is not simply that he is way to free with the fascist label, the problem is that he judges people to be fascists based on a definition that at its best is able to tell you that they might be fascists.

My own take on who are fascists and not is rather simper. To quote one of my comments on Shekhovtsov’s blog:

“In my naive view of the world, a fascist is someone who sympathises with fascist politics. They may retreat into metapolitics, but they do so because they see that this is not the best of times for their political opinions. So they keep the flame burning, waiting for the times to change.”

Another problem with Shekhovtsov’s approach is that he tends to call people fascists even without documenting any palingenetic tendencies, not to say any indication of populist ultra-nationalism. Symbols that he imagines to be fascist, combined with a certain nietzschean and/or spenglerian leaning in the lyrics, is more than enough for him.

But the biggest problem with Shekhovtsov’s approach is that he seems more or less unable to view his own position critically. Like His Lordship I have tried arguing with him, and his ability not to answer to concrete critiscisms of his analysis is rather astonishing.

Shekhovtsov is oh so willing to label people fascists, but rather less willing to turn a critical eye on his own analysis. Rather a typical scholar in other words.
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AT THE END OF AN ERA

Today the sad news ticked in that Norwegian actor and comedian Dag Frøland is dead, a mere 64 years old. Frøland retreated from the theatre more than two decades ago and lived more or less as a recluse, but his genius is still very much remembered.

His parodies are among the funniest in Norwegian comedy, but The Dodologist happens to think that one of his greatest moments is this, a lamentation of the fall of European culture:



RIP
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MEL GIBSON, DOGGY STYLE

Mel Gibson is soon to return to the big screen, which means a time beckons for him to comment on those ... unfortunate comments. If the comments in this clip is anything to go by, he is not entirely ready for the job:



Via Harry's Place. I have, by the way, added Harry's Place contributer Edmund Standing to the blog list.
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SCARY CONSPIRACY REVEALED

As I said a few posts ago: Some things are just too damn scary.

As we all know, Illuminati has been ruling the world for the last 200 years or so, creating History As We Know It to conceal their cruel, evil and satanic intentions. But now an even scarier group has entered The Stage Of History. They call themselves Itanimulli – which obviously is a lot more evil than Illuminati, because it is Illuminati spelled backwards.

As I said, this is just Too Damn Scary. Not the least when you go to their web-page, www.itanimulli.com. (Cut and paste to see The Scary Truth for yourselves.)

Thanksalot to an observant friend for informing me of this Damn Scary force in our midst. I recommend that he escapes into the woods for a while ...
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BE THE FOOD YOU FEED THE CROCS

Photo: The Dodologist

A sign at the Skansen outdoor museum in Stockholm. It says: "Our crocodiles eat a lot! We need more visitors."
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MORE EUROBEAT, THE SOUND OF PARA PARA

As I said a post ago, it's really only one version of Ike Ike that counts, the one by Tri-Star. And lo and behold, here it is:



As a bonus, here is a Para Para video with parts of Ganguro, by Franz "Mad Cow" Tornado and the Yamanba-Gals:



Franz Tornado (real name Federico Rimonti) is a personal Eurobeat favourite that shows up in a endles row of different "groups", of which Franz Tornado and the Royal Eurobeat Orchestra of Bazookistan is one of the best (names, that is). The endles changes of band names is a joke, as most of it is really made by a rather small group of people.

Another favourite - and part of the Tornado clan - is Bazooka Girl (real name Cristiana Cucchi). Here is a video with parts of her Velfarre 2000:



And finally, I linked to it yesterday, but the deep and subtle poetry of Bazooka Girl's Cantare Ballare (Happy Eurobeat) simply must be shared again:


Cantare Ballare (Happy Eurobeat)

Suck a Bazooka
No One Sleep In Tokyo
Din Don Dan
Money Go
Night of Fire
Bandolero Comanchero
Boom Boom Girl
Virtual Love

Go Go Dance
Technotronic Flight
Shadow In The Night
Telephone
Try Me
Ike Ike
Dancing In The Jungle
Dancing In The Maharaja Night

Mad Cow
Bazooka Man
Boom Boom Japan
Hot Girl
Deja Vu
O Sole Mio
My Only Star
Don’t Stop The Music
Love Generation

Mad Cow
Bazooka Man
Boom Boom Japan
Hot Girl
Deja Vu
O Sole Mio
My Only Star
Don’t Stop The Music
Love Generation
(Cantare Ballare)
(Cantare Ballare)

My Sweet Banana
Dancing At Twin Star
Milan Milan Milan
Get My Love
Round ‘n’ Round
Hot Love & Emotion
Deltadance.com
Be My Lover

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PARA PARA - AS IT SHOULD SOUND

My friend, the Mad Mullah, has put up an instruction video for Para Para dancing - that subtle and lovely Japanese addition to teen culture. But ... it's without music. That's really utterly pointless. Now this is what Para Para should look - and sound - like:



It's silly. It's embarrassing. It's annoying. And the music is the perfect drug for pointless tasks in the office - when mixed with at least six shots of espresso.

And the best thing, The Very Best Thing, this being music directed at japanese 14 year olds and mostly written by Italians, is of course the lyrics. As some of you may not be fluent in Japanese, here are the English lyrics for Ike Ike (which really should be heard in the Tri-Star version):

Ike Ike

Living night
I need to feel imagination
Yes, all right
I need a rhythm invasion
Sing together "na-na-na-na"
I wanna dance all the night
Oh - oh - oh Oh - oh - oh

Ehy, DJ John Robinson
Make me feel the rhythm and hot desire
In Roppongi Tokyo
Keep me into your heaven
Baby, take me higher

Ikeike
Lucky night, pretty girl
Mini-skirt Ikeike
Hi-heel shoes and then you feel the power
Ikeike, magic nights
And the blue, my baby, will go bye
Uoh-ho

Lovely night
You take me up imagination
In my heart
You bring me up your confusion
When you dance I'm gonna head out
I like to dance eurobeat
Oh - oh - oh Oh - oh - oh


It's great poetry, though not quite as good as the lyrics to Cantare Ballare (Happy Eurobeat). Then again, few things are. That might be a reason for cheerfulness. Then again, maybe not.

(As to the title of this post: This was written listening to Matt Howdens record As They Should Sound. It's not half bad. But it's useless for Para Para.)
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WATCH YOUR CAPS!

Capitalization is the difference between helping your Uncle Jack off a horse and helping your uncle jack off a horse.
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IT BITES!

Some things ... Some things are just too damn scary ...

This, my friends, is a Fleshlight. It's for the pleasuring of ... male ... members ...

Though it's of course not a regular Fleshlight. It's a "... Succu Dry Sex in a Can from Fleshlight, the world’s first vampire inspired sex toy for men. Take a walk on the dark side and get familiar with this pale brew. But be careful! Though this may feel like love at first bite, make sure you have wood poised to penetrate before you get completely drained!"

The Dodologist is ... fascinated by it's dedication to ... truthfulness and ... detail. As they say: "The amazingly detailed vampire mouth and fangs beg you to drive your wooden stake deep inside."

Perhaps some other day, baby.
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Thanksalot to Lady Mju for the tip.
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“THE MAD GARDENER'S SONG", BY LEWIS CARROLL

He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
‘At length I realise,’ he said,
The bitterness of Life!’

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister’s Husband’s Niece.
‘Unless you leave this house,’ he said,
“I’ll send for the Police!’

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
‘The one thing I regret,’ he said,
‘Is that it cannot speak!’

He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
‘If this should stay to dine,’ he said,
‘There won’t be much for us!’

He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said,
‘I should be very ill!’

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing!
It’s waiting to be fed!’

He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage Stamp.
‘You’d best be getting home,’ he said:
‘The nights are very damp!’

He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
‘And all its mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’

He thought he saw a Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,
‘Extinguishes all hope!’

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KEEPING THE FLAME ALIVE

These days it seems like every Norwegian is reading a book (or rather a series of books) called Min Kamp. Which in German is ... Mein Kampf (though rumours are the German tranlation will have another title).

We don't like modern copyists here at The Dodologist. We like the old stuff. The originals. So it's nice to see that someone is keeping the flame alive:





(Ehr, borrowed from AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com.)
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A JINGLE IN MY BONES

Just before Christmas, December the 23rd to be precise, I had the pleasure of letting loose on the world the 4th issue of Knokkelklang. Knokkelklang (which is best translated as Jingle Bones) is a blog magazine dedicated to “the marginal, the curious, the horrible and the fantastic” and it’s edited by a dodologist very close to you. Two articles this time are by theverysame dodologist:

The vampire as victim
Or: It’s terribly sad, but I have to kill you. Boo hoo!

Child In Time
Desmond Child & Rouge – the best band you've never heard

Oh, come on, take a peek.
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THE WHY OF THE VAMPIRE

OK, so I’m a vampirologist. That might sound like fun to you, but I tell you: These days it’s a lot of hard work. Not only the watching of mormon teenage vampire fantasies or the unspeakable parts (of which I may speak, but then of course have to kill you), but also all the parts that speak. Especially all the speaking-to-journalists-parts.

It’s not that I mind journalists as such (at least not more than the average man, which is, of course, a great deal); it’s rather that they are all so bloody repetitive. It’s like they are not separate creatures, with separate minds. They are one head, only able to come up with the same idea over and bloody over again.

So, for the last two months, I’ve been asked why vampires are so popular right now approximately fifty times. Man, if questions could be staked …

Anyway, here it is: It’s because it six years since last time - more or less. (That was Boring Buffy, by the way.)

Vampires are fascinating creatures. I tend to sum the fascination up as “sex, death, violence, blood and embroidery”. They give a director or writer, serious or not, a chance to dive into some pretty juicy subjects, subjects that touch on some of the basics of our human existence.

They also are a lot of fun. In 1820, the year after the publication of John Polidori’s The Vampyre, it was dramatized no less than four times for Parisian theatres. Two of those dramatisations where comedies. So ever since the introduction of the modern vampire, its comic potential has been obvious.

It is, in other words, no big mystery why the vampire appeals to us. So, ever since it became a movie star, the vampire has returned again and again to the movie screen to haunt us. It is, after all, a ghost.

The problem is that, fun and fascinating as the vampire is, it is also a rather limiting figure. The vampire is so well established as a pop cultural icon that you mess with it at your own peril. Move too far away from the established concept, and you have to spend a lot of time explaining why and defending your choices.

The point is this: For a while the vampire is fun. Then it becomes repetitive. And then it becomes boring. So you put it back in its coffin. Six years later, and a whole new generation of teenagers are out there. Then it’s time to raise the bugger from the grave and off we go again.

That’s about it, really.
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