Welcome back to the unscientific sharing of self-reported sexual proclivities of Albuquerque residents. This stuff is straight out of the SurveyMonkey data banks (you can also blame them for the cheesy infographic look), so I don’t want to hear any more complaints about histograms, telegrams or candygrams. This is as scientific as it’s gonna get.
The main take-aways here? Alibi readers do it frequently, probably more often than they floss their teeth. They do it together and they do it alone. They have no fear of employing power tools or other prosthetic devices, and they “sometimes” like to mix it up with booze and illicit substances. In other words, this town is one big sex party. Here’s the proof:
Well, I coulda called it. In fact, I did call it: The hate mail has already started to pour in from pissed-off statisticians who found the (ahem) science of the Alibi’s First Ever Sex Survey to be somewhat slipshod. One guy even took issue with the “missing interval” in our when-did-you-lose-your-virginity graph and called our histogram “poorly constructed.” Them’s fightin’ words, partner! And if we knew what a histogram was, we’d be goddamn well pissed off about it. But let’s just get this out there right in the open right now: those finding the science to be lacking simply failed to notice that there was no science AT ALL. Dammit, Jim, I’m a newspaper man, not a statistician.
(This ghost of Christmas past originally posted Dec 24, 2008.)
The first made-for-television Christmas cartoon aired on December 18, 1962, broadcast through the ether to rabbit ears and flickering tubes and glassy-eyed cherubs around the country. It had been a busy year: Ringo Starr joined the Beatles, somebody tried to off Charles de Gaulle, John Glenn orbited the earth, Spider-Man was invented, the Vietnam War raged, and the world teetered on (and off) the brink of nuclear war during the the Cuban Missile Crisis. So I suppose it’s not too shocking that “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol” has become the show that time forgot. But it deserves more love than that.
We’ve played it two ways with Christmas music here at the Alibi: as haters and as lovers. This week’s decidedly un-schmaltzy Xmas playlist is one example. Below are a few more from Christmases gone by.
Anthropologist Hugh Gusterson, who self-identifies as “the Margaret Mead of the weapons labs” has written a thorough debunking of the myth that the disk-misplacing “cowboys and buttheads” (i.e., scientists) at Los Alamos National Labs live in a rarified “culture of arrogance.” (Either that, or he’s their sock puppet, as some have suggested.) What’s interesting is that he mostly blames the ham-fisted interference of the Bush administration. If you remember the series of embarrassing security-breach headlines that started with Wen Ho Lee and ended with a takeover of the lab’s management by a for-profit consortium, Gusterson’s brief three-act revisionist history is totally worth reading. (A tip of the hat to Slashdot for blogging this story in the first place.)
Are you an insane plastic surgeon on the run for pursuing your unethical experiments? Have you directed your own facial reconstructive surgery in a mirror using only a local anesthesic? Do you enjoy dallying with the lovely ladies whose deformed features your skill has made whole again? Are you willing to cut down anyone in your path who dares defy your iron will? Well, have you ever considered running a circus?
For this ludicrous-yet-effective haunted house film, Richard Matheson adapted his own down-and-dirty novel for the screen, somehow managing to create a reasonable PG version from the NC-17 source material. The scenario is very deliberately a sexed-up ’70s remix of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House (not Hell House, got it?), itself filmed quite effectively in 1961 as The Haunting.
This low-budget riff on the W.W. Jacobs short story “The Monkey’s Paw” begins where the original ends: Instead of wishing the undead son away, his family invites him in. Sure, he seems a little weird, preferring to sit silently in his room all day and waiting for dark before he emerges with mod sunglasses and white turtleneck to prey upon the living. But that’s how it is when you’ve been dragged back from the grave by a mother’s love.
This truly strange Belgian vampire film (original title Les Lèvres Rouges or The Red Lips) oozes style, dread and languid sensuality, not to mention an unhinged sense of humor. The dreamlike scenario: Newlywed innocents—or maybe not-so-innocents—Stefan (John Karlen, from TV’s then-smash-hit “Dark Shadows”) and Valerie (Danielle Ouimet) decide to linger in an opulent beachside hotel when their train is delayed. Too bad it’s the middle of winter and the only other guests are the glamorous Countess Bathory (Delphine Seyrig, The Day of the Jackal, Last Year at Marienbad) and her sultry personal assistant Ilona. Before you can say “Carmilla” the oh-so-charming Countess infiltrates herself into the lovers’ troubled honeymoon and encourages the emergence of Stefan’s barely-suppressed dark side. (Just what is he hiding about his mother, anyhow?) You know what happens next.
Japanese psych rock has a special unhinged urgency, as this clip of a Pikacyu-Makoto show from May 2 ably demonstrates (see the rest of ’em here). For more of this lunacy, visit The Kosmos tonight as Pikacyu (ex- Afrirampo) and Makoto Kawabata (of Acid Mothers Temple) join Mugu Guymen and Albuquerque’s own Tendorizer plus a raft of local noiseniks for one of those rare harmonic convergences you’ll kick yourself for not attending. A little bird sez pre-sale tickets are marked down until 7 p.m. tonight.