Although I’m familiar with only a small portion of the work for which Teresa Hubbard and Alexander Birchler have partnered over the last two decades, something about House with Pool stirred up dregs from my adolescence. Davis’s accompanying musical composition Annunciation affected urgency: I wanted to fix whatever was missing or wrong between the female characters not only in the film, but also in my own life.

Davis‘s work with the Swiss, super art duo is currently available for download on iTunes and from Hubbard/Birchler’s official website. While you’re there, take a moment to view other media from the artists.

If you’re fortunate enough to be a student in Austin, you should investigate available courses in which Hubbard is involved, amongst many other things, as an associate professor for University of Texas.

[Original video source: http://www.hubbardbirchler.net/works/housewithpool/]

The Bell in the world won't listen entrance, 2008

At some point in the past decade, Dieter-y pretentious art films collided into that end of Generation X-sters who collect things like first-edition, autographed Douglas Coupland novels. And thank god, I guess. It’s exactly the kind of snobby downgrade I needed in order to dig the genre.

I pretty much moved into Phil Collins’ the world won’t listen installation [cur: Suzanne Weaver] when the DMA lurched out of the dark ages with that acquisition. I flipped out for a few months straight: “Did you hear the DMA has freaking Smiths’ karaoke choreographed on three screens? No kidding!”

In the middle of the exhibit’s neverending loop, a supercool Asian couple sing the best version of “There is a Light” — available nowhere unless you’ve got some direct line to a modern art miracle.

At 00:16, Bella’s fourth grade voice spells it out, “You’re really recording this?”

I’ve spent a lot of time listening to the last half of that clip since the installation packed up and disappeared. The girl in that snippet owns the song. That said: Phil Collins, what’s up? Isn’t there a deal you can strike for rights to release this as a DVD? Or something? I’m sure this has been causing hair loss for those rabid Smiths’ completists out there unable to sleep since the project’s launch in 2005, heh.

Last night, I finally bought the book. Then Bella framed the show poster for me this weekend. Today’s my birthday. Someone out there in the vast netherwebz has got to have a super-secret, complete recording of Awesome Asian Karaoke Lady. Send me a present.

I’ll gladly accept something else from Mr. Collins in lieu of pirate treasure, though!

Lil Wayne has nearly eleven million Facebook fans. Barack is beating him by two million. Neil DeGrasse Tyson, who’s more of an astrophysicist than a rapper or a politician, has slightly more than twenty-six thousand Facebook “likers”. There’s a math problem in here somewhere, folks. Maybe the solution falls between logging off and rediscovering what matters in the tangible world.

On a similar note, if anybody’s got a “Many who like George Bush, Jr., like ‘the Superbowl Shuffle’ ” screencap, I need to have that printed on a t-shirt immediately.

Lesson one: You’re gonna need a good pic for your avatar, kid. That’s why Narcissus invented Photobooth. Duh. Go for something flashy and self-important.

Perfect.

Ok, next phase: “Bun has a posse.” Since you’re, like, 4 weeks old, you’re limited, but don’t let this stand in the way of your social networking prowess. You and your posse are FIERCE! Advertise. Warm up that MySpace face.

Ok, that’s a good start, but you need to ditch that tunnel effect. You’re not a one-hit-wonder.

Sweet. Don’t bother waking up. Your posse has it_under_control.

Alright, step three: Use your webcam wisely. Face only, Bun, and keep that onesie ON. Exclamation points. I really don’t wanna see your dad recreating any “Ya Dun Goof’d” footage. No way. Skype is a cool thing. Take it from your god-dad Russell and observe correct Bun-cam etiquette below for future reference.

"Bun? You just fell asleep while I was talking. Hello?"

So you’ve mastered the avatar and the social networking and the whole Skype thing (kind of). In order to fully take over and complete Total Bun Interwebz Domination, you’re going to have to step away from the computer from time-to-time. Since it’s not all avatars and Photobooth IRL, be sure to assess yourself before leaving the house: Do you smell like rotten cheese? Do you need to slay any blemishes?

(Wait, is that me or you? I can’t tell. Let’s try that again.)

Ok, good enough. Now check to ensure your brains are zombie repellant in case of invasion.

Excellent. You’re good to go.

Knock ‘em dead, kiddo. I’ll be right on your tail.

“I will trade you one Doktor A yo-yo from the Steve Brown Gallery for that third Baroness you pulled — with the lipstick accessory.”

If you understood that snippet from the lunch conversation with my fossil-hunting, DJ pal Michael Hernandez, we’ve got some trading to do. If not, never fear. There’s always room for conversion into the dark, dark world of Toy-spotting.

Here’s what you’ll need to get started: an extra garage for all the boxes you’ll “have” to save, the ability to assemble IKEA’s DETOLF display units at a rate of speed compensatory to your growing collection, lack of anything resembling buyer’s remorse, and, duh, a dealer. Preferably several.

Michael and I’d been meaning to visit a newish store called “We Are 1976″ on Henderson after hearing good things from others, so I decided to finally go ahead and scope it out yesterday afternoon with Russell and The Bell.

The inventory, unlike many stores that sell art toys and the like, was eclectic with a complimentary blend of local and international items. A large, repurposed cabinet by the entrance stopped us for some time as we browsed screenprinted flatstock within its drawers. I noticed copies of local artist Khalid Robertson’s book I’d just ordered online next to a truly nice, varied selection of other artists’ publications. Also available: Tyson Summers‘ circus punks, large prints by Tony Bones, pottery, handmade greeting cards, purses, unique baby items and children’s bento boxes, t-shirts, and many other fun things we enjoyed looking through.

The owner, who says he’s co-owned the store since November along with two other partners, was a really friendly guy, chatting with guests and friends alike as he worked and generally lent a warmness to the store’s already welcoming aesthetic. By that point, I was really just looking to buy anything out of appreciation, but when I found the Noferin figures on a top shelf, the deal was done. I only had to decide which one I was taking home that day.

Noferin, a couple who makes whimsical sustainable wooden toys after fictional characters from their paintings, isn’t the cup of tea you’ll find just anywhere. Their art is on the more sophisticated end of the niche, yet still appeals to people who collect popular vinyl and plush from companies like Kidrobot. Really excited about finding a store that stocks several types of Noferin toys, I narrowed my decision down to a colored first edition of Fanelli.

Fanelli's maiden voyage

The twins

(For charming Fanelli photos, see Sandrine Escamilla’s fantastic collection.)

So obviously I’m going back to We Are 1976 because Fanelli will need cohorts. Plus, I’m gonna have to drag Michael up there ASAP. You should go, too. They’re open 7 days a week: 1902 N. Henderson Ave., Dallas, TX, 75206. Telephone: (214) 821-1976. If you can pull yourself away from Facebook for five seconds, visit them online at weare1976.com where you can read about the store’s workshops, gallery events, and more:

• This Friday, July 23rd at 8 p.m., We Are 1976 will host its first photography show with Jeremy Sharp;
• Saturday, August 7th from 11 a.m. until 1 p.m., Paper Nerds will be conducting a paper marbling course (call for info and registration);
• August 8th, Sunday from 2 to 5 p.m. Mike Arreaga and Brian McCorquodale host a screenprinting workshop (call for info and registration);
• Felt tote making with recycled leather and other materials: Lizzy Wetzel on August 14th from 11 a.m. ’til 1 p.m.

***I also recommend the fairly priced boutique as an excellent gift store. A-hem. Gift. Store. As in: My birthday is next month, and there are lots of things inside that place I probably need for such an occasion, er, Russell.***

Dude, Clover B., I didn't call for hair and makeup yet. Pfft.

His name is Dahvie Vanity. Say that like you’re an emaciated vampire rights advocate who just graduated from Toni and Guy’s Fantasy Hair Boot Camp (I give VH1 or Bravo about five nanoseconds to pick that up). Basically, he’s the brains behind Blood on the Dance Floor — the group every tween girl without iPod-policing parents is listening to as I type.

"Does this guinea pig on my head make me look fat?"

(Pause.)

*Side note for collectors: If you don’t like the above version, Dahvie *is* available in other colorways.

"This is my special limited edition 'KTHXBAI' style. Bid with confidence."

I am so glad I’m not young enough or ignored-by-my-parents enough to find this douchebag attractive. Of course, looks aren’t everything, I know, I know. There’s so much more to Dahvie than mall hair and underaged girlfriends. I mean, who could resist this Romeo’s lyrical wordsmithing? Behold, I give ye the BOTDF masterpiece “Bitches Get Stitches”:

Stop the hate congratulate,
You know my name so eat some cake.
Party Hardy
Grab bacardi,
Talk your shit watch you get hit.
Save the drama for your mama
What’s up with that awful gossip.
Don’t be mad ’cause my hair is so rad,
Life is good up in my head.

Bitches get stitches they end up in ditches,
So get the riches
Bitches get stitches, end up in ditches
Get the riches.
Bitches get stitches they end up in ditches,
So get the riches
Bitches get stitches, end up in ditches
Get the riches.

Check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Oh My God! Blah blah blah!
I’m rated X, for explicit sex,
You can talk your shit,
You can run those lips your only
Making me famous, you ignoramus.
I’m so dangerous, so so so so dangerous.

Oh, my goodness gracious! Let me fan myself. It’s as if Dahvie is speaking directly to me — those words penetrating deeply into my prepubescent past. I can almost see his writing process: quill pen in hand . . . papyrus wadded up around him from earlier, less eloquently drafted versions of “Bitches Get Stitches.” Is it even possible for mi amor to be more multi-dimensional after something so divine?

Yes.

Hold me back. Is that a rape charge from a fifteen year-old girl? Wow, this guy has everything I’ve been looking for in The Perfect Tween Crush. I can’t wait to run my fingers through those Hot Topic extensions!

Wait, wait, wait. What if his music sounds like something my mom would like? That might be a deal breaker.

I HAVE BEEN WAITING MY WHOLE LIFE FOR MUSIC THIS AWESOME. I am joining his cult on MySpace right this second. Pinch me. I wonder if he likes drama? The only thing that would make this better is if he, like, hung out with fifth graders who start rumors on Stickam about having slept with him.

(This is where I’d post the footage, which has now come to be known as the “Ya Dun Goofed” video, of a pissed off dad yelling into a webcam about how he’s sick of the Dahvie rumors ruining his daughter’s life. I’d be cold hearted for exploiting a minor with a link like that. Her parents have already provided a total disservice by allowing their young child to do pretty much everything any reasonable parent would never permit.)

So, let’s review, k?

• Cool ass name? Check!
• Takes OMG <3 self-portraits of himself? Check and check again!
• Has EPIC hair? Check times ten!
• Writes amazing lyrics? Check!
• Arrested on rape charge of a minor? Check!
• Rocks my iPod’s face? Check!
• Pisses off parents and creates a viral feeding frenzy? Dude, check!
• Has a cool zine, er, blog (fell through a time portal, sorry)? Wait for it . . .

Be still my heart. There’s a blog? Talk to me, Dahvie. Talk to me.

“SOME PEOPLE JUST MAKE ME SICK!!!!!! How dare you be so low and just ungrateful. I happily shut off Garrett’s phone today with such joy. You see .. Garrett has been THROWN AWAY FROM BLOOD ON THE DANCE FLOOR.. Just like that! Let me give you a little history behind BOTDF.. I Dahvie Vanity created Blood On The Dance Floor and no I will never give up my dreams.. BOTDF is my life’s work.. I have bled.. I have sacrificed and I have given my whole entire life existence into this movement. My fans mean the world to me. I composed all of my music that brings utter happiness and I even wrote all of Garrett’s so called parts. HAH and what’s so funny is when he would come into the studio all drugged up from the night because he’s a druggy loser.. I would still be so kind to write and direct his parts while he slept on a couch all day. I should’ve removed him than and there but didn’t because

I am a monster… But I do have a heart.

I just didn’t want to disappoint my fans. You guys deserve the best! And when relationships fall apart it just totally sucks.. But the show must go on…

It’s funny how things work out. How people can just back stab you.. Not anymore! It’s time for a change.. Let me shed the truth..

I had to cancel some shows due to personal reasons.. False accusations we’re made against me! ME.. I am so kind and legit..I give everyone R-E-S-P-E-C-T And When I was gone Garrett decided to steal my trailer with all my gear..(((GRAND THEFT AUTO + Robbery = 5 to 10 years in prison))) and trust me Garrett would not survive in prison. He than performed a show with my music.. without me.. I’m sorry but that ain’t right.. I CREATED BLOOD ON THE DANCE FLOOR! ALL THE LYRICS AND SONGS WE’RE CREATED BY ME.. You just don’t try and take another man’s work.. That’s called grand theft dreams.. Garrett also tried to steal my debit card and access my accounts.. That’s called fraud and If I do believe so that’s a felony with a 10 year sentence to prison.

HOW DARE YOU! He’s so fortunate I didn’t press charges..” [SIC]

Let’s try this again, then:

• Has a cool blog? Check, check, check, check, and tooooooootally bookmarked!

That pretty much sums it up. If GQ doesn’t name this guy its Man of the Year, I have a feeling the competition’s been rigged.

Exhibit A: Kristan gets antsy and guides the photographer [wearing plastic rain gear] off the curb and onto the sidewalk. I was crotchety because the girl accidentally stepped on my sign a couple of times while she was trying to take photos of the Westboro Baptist Church protestors. Ugh, eyerolling@myself here dot com.

Old Grumpypants: rainbow umbrella and yellow t-shirt. Unsuspecting Victim: plastic rain poncho.

As you can see, my kid is covering her head in embarrassment with a giant Lady Gaga sign, while I am balancing three huge pieces of foam core on the wet ground (because my sign-making/holding talent is underdeveloped in comparison to that of our Westboro counterparts, heh).

Exhibit B: Local freelance photographer Susan Migdol captures something R E A L — Kristan being a snarky, snippity-snip-snipatha.

"Oh, yeah, well, I have a cool MC LARS shirt that is bright yellow." Or something like that.

Kudos to Susan for this one. I needed to see it for a whole slew of revelations:

1. I don’t care how cool that shirt is; it’s freaking yellow — that hue *just* beyond brighter-than-the-sun yellow. And it is super flattering;
2. I look about fifty pounds heavier than how I appear in The Matrix;
3. I am obviously reenacting a scene from The Real Housewives of Resource Center Dallas;
4. Look, the redhead is a young adult trying to get her feet wet in the world of photojournalism, doing what she should be doing. Meanwhile, I’m missing the point of the entire event and reverting back to the hotheaded, wannabe punk rock writer I was at her age more than two decades ago.

Enter kismet. While discussing Volunteer Photo Coordinator Joyi Stewart Kraus‘s appreciation project for the Dallas Police Department, Kaz Ferns, who helped organize the Westboro Welcoming Committee with Brian K MacDonough, directed us to her friend Susan Migdol’s photos. (Yeah, I’m rocking my hyperlinking sash right now for that fibrous web of click-on-me’s. Sorry.) When I saw myself in Migdol’s photostream, I instantly asked if she knew who the girl was. You know, the one I was a big ol’ gorgon to in the pictures. Susan replied:

“The girl with the red hair is my friend Alex… She is a young, sweet gal, and tougher than she looks. Barely out of high school, but quickly getting noticed in this town. It’s always good to remind us photographers if your toes get stepped on….Anyway, she’s super sweet… Give her a holler.”

I am giving you a holler, Alex. It’s more like a shout out apology, though. I was unnecessarily rude to you in public, so I’m posting this where 23.4 people might read it. That’s a start. There were about 23.4 people who probably saw me behaving like Old Mother Hen, so that makes us even. Plus, I posted the fat pic of me up there wearing my grumpypants while you’re looking all awesome in a rain poncho (seriously, no one should be allowed to look so pretty while wearing something that is essentially a plastic bag).

I’m not completely done.

In your life, as you probably have already figured out, you’re gonna run into people who are envious of you for your talent or your beauty or any number of things, especially in a competitive field like photojournalism. I’m close to forty and have resigned myself to not being a teenager with my professional career ahead of me. This gives me an entirely different perspective. Like you, I started off with a bang, but instead of adapting to the harshness and aggressiveness of the culture, I let myself become just that — harsh and aggressive. Anyway, look, Alex, what I’m trying to say is: Never let your skin become too thick; create that which you’re proud of always and for always. If Michael Jackson were writing you this billet-doux, I’m sure he’d add: “Don’t stop with the force. Don’t stop til you get enough!” Hoot, hoot. Disco call.

Sorry. I’m still not done. (I’m a mother. Bear with me.)

As a reader who is disinterested in the magic behind the curtains these days, I’m begging you to become many wonderful things EXCEPT the sloppy-ass, drunk-in-public, twenty-to-thirty-something editor who:

• flashes your bizwax card while the less drunk people around you look at each other, like, “W(ho)TF cares?”;
• gossips about your managing editor and other co-workers to the exaggerated point where people behind you, who know your boss, will return the favor one way or another come Monday;
• thinks your media job means you and your friends are automatically on some kind of implied guest list every time you leave the house.

I didn’t write the book, duh. Just a request because I know you’ll be a rock star.

Alex and Susan, together.

See, kismet there. Alex, I’m glad I met you. I eat crow for you. I would never want anyone to be so crabby to my kid, so I’m sorry to your parents, too, darn it. I vow not to be a nasty hag next time we meet.

Everybody else, Alexandra Olivia’s work can be seen here. I would write a better bio for her, but I was far “too cool” last Friday to behave like a human being and actually be kind enough to chat her up. I’ll fix that if she’ll accept my apology and give me more info to throw here. In the meantime, the previous thousand words of groveling will have to suffice.

So, anyway, starting over: “Hi, I’m Kristan…”

*Thanks again, Susan Migdol. For more of her photography, please contact her here. To review her images from the WBC counter-protest, please visit here.

First of all, I’d like to thank you for coming to our city. Because of your visit, which our community turned into a fundraiser, we were able to generate almost three times the amount needed in order to assist the Resource Center Dallas. Plus, the Holocaust Museum enjoyed a record breaking day.

I know we can’t really be friends since you’re sold on the notion I might be headed for Hell. You made that clear this weekend when I watched your organization protest several locations. As your parents and church family paraded you from the vans to the sidewalk while holding signs printed with hate-filled slogans, I felt overwhelming sadness for you. I must admit, I was unable to comprehend your confusing messages, but read your shame and humiliation with a degree of certainty as the crowd yelled its disgust toward your parents.

It doesn’t feel good, does it? No, and I am deeply sorry. I understand in that regard because it hurts me to hear people scream mean things about my father. He’s gay. He’s not some kind of deviant mutant of his own free will or someone who has chosen a ridiculously inconvenient life. Dad is human – full of sin and flaw – just like you.

Aside from being totally gay, my sixty-seven year-old father is also a retired minister who now devotes his time to the church as its organist. I’d love for your Pastor Phelps to meet him because Dad actually holds a doctorate in theology, which is an advanced degree your church’s leader has yet to earn. Coupled with his many years of professional experience, my “fag” dad’s extensive religious qualifications could be beneficial in helping your Pastor Phelps correct his biblical misgivings, which have caused your lives to be unnecessarily restrictive. Your grandpa and my father could also discuss the reality of helping God’s sick and dying within our community based upon his personal experience chartering one of north Texas’s early AIDS support groups in the mid-eighties. My parent went as far as to care for AIDS patients in his own home and then even bury one in our plot when families like yours turned their cold hearts away. (R.I.P., Bruce. Here’s a ‘penny’ for you, friend.) Ugh, those “fag beasts” are so revolting with their good deeds, right? Kids, come on.

Then again, maybe folks like your dad and my dad have pushed you to the point where you’re completely turned off to the whole religious concept, and that’s okay. You are free to have faith in your own beliefs. Look to Lauren. Look to Nate. If you’re uncomfortable remembering the examples provided by those who have left your family after questioning its hypocrisies, then look to me. I don’t subscribe to my father’s faith, yet he and his former congregations embrace who I am with the same love and kindness. Just understand, there will always be unwanted politics behind every pulpit, but hate is something that should never be tolerated.

Another thing that should never be tolerated is child abuse. The US Department of Health and Human Services defines abuse and neglect within the state of Kansas to include:

• The infliction of physical, mental, or emotional harm, or the causing of a deterioration of a child, and may include, but shall not be limited to, maltreatment or exploiting a child to the extent that the child’s health or emotional well-being is endangered [Ann. Stat. § 38-2202];
• Acts or omissions by a parent, guardian, or person responsible for the care of a child that results in harm to a child or presents a likelihood of harm [Ann. Stat. § 38-2202];
• Failure to [. . .] remove a child from a situation that requires judgment or actions beyond the child’s level of maturity, physical condition, or mental abilities and that results in bodily injury or a likelihood of harm to the child [Ann. Stat. § 38-2202].

Furthermore, nowhere within the department publication does it allow for religious exclusions to the above definitions, except in the case of medical treatment.

Is CPS investigating your case? You and your brothers and sisters are made to regularly carry incendiary signage and endure harsh weather conditions for extended periods in front of angry onlookers. You’ve been told this is the work of the Lord, when it’s more like child labor for the Phelps’ cause. Routinely, you are subjected to unpredictable violence, threats, verbal demeaning assaults from counter-protestors, and must have police protection, which has been responsible for helping you escape the dangerous rush of enraged mobs. On top of that, your parents allow their daughters to wiggle and writhe around like the Fly Girls in tight-fitting and shortly hemmed clothing and then broadcast that on the internet for the entire world to view in the name of religious parody. If you’re truly doing right by God, why has he failed to send a well-equipped army of followers to assist you in delivering his message (or at the very least sent someone with less outdated video editing expertise who could make the organization appear less like a cult from an eighties sitcom and more like a credible, religious organization)? Is your life truly relegated to pacing sidewalks around the nation, developing hand cramps from holding multiple signs of precautionary hate and skewed snippets from the Bible? No, it doesn’t have to be. If you need help and your parents refuse to honor your request for assistance, please call 911 and let the authorities know how you feel.

Now, look, I know you’ve been taught to hate gays based on so-called biblical references, but have you truly read the Bible regarding that topic? Of course, you haven’t. You’re children. Jesus says nothing about homosexuality anywhere in the entire book, and, remember, he alone was the chosen one — the son of God. Many people choose to reference the writings of Apostle Paul — a man who, like Jerry Falwell, believed he was chosen to deliver prophecy — in Romans 1 when he discusses the wickedness he’s witnessed amongst Jews and Gentiles who have worshipped men as gods, serving the creature rather than the creator. Yet, many fail to read the full passage into the eighth verse of the second chapter, which makes it clear that Paul, who is also considered a possible homosexual by a variety of theological scholars, has consulted with, of all people, King Soloman, who infamously had many wives and his own questionable sexual behaviors. Paul goes on to address hypocrites, such as your family full of sinners, and preaches that we are all capable of being freed from the bondage of our wrongdoings. This, he echoed from Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount. In effect, God doesn’t hate fags.

Moving right along to other fun spots in the Bible. Leviticus…oh, brother. If all you’ve learned from Leviticus is that men shouldn’t do the same things with men that they would do out of love with women, I worry for your Christian soul. There’s a world of forewarning you’ve missed in the exciting readings of Leviticus. Also, when I saw your references to Sodom this weekend, I was confused. Sodom didn’t fall because of rampant gays flaming around the city in fits of lust. The sins of Sodom mentioned by Jesus and the five prophets who discussed the ruination thereof within the Old Testament revealed nothing about homosexuality. The city was prideful, arrogant, unwilling to care for its poor and hungry according to the teachings of Ezekiel. Are the Westboro Baptist Church members Sodomites according to the Bible’s definition? Perhaps. Whatever the case, one point holds true: the Bible is rendered useless when prophets treat the work of man on behalf of God as a Cliff Note’s masterpiece.

By the way, have you gotten to the ‘sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll’ part of the Bible yet? It’s not particularly children’s reading. I’d give it an NC-17 rating in a heartbeat. Good stuff.

You don’t have to agree with me, of course. I’ll still like you if that matters. Hey, my mother is probably reading this and about to pass out from irritation over my possible blasphemy. What if we’re all wrong? I support and respect the rights of all, whether we’re on the same page of religious doctrine or not. My beliefs might bother them, and their beliefs might seem strange to me, but love conquers all who are willing. It’s no one’s place to judge.

This girl was a jewel.

That said, I love you all, even those with hearts full of hatred. When you grow up, I hope you will not look back at what your parents have made you do to Jews, gays, your fellow Baptist churches, Catholic churches, fallen servicemen and women’s families during military funerals, etc., and swell with guilt. The pain inflicted on mankind by your family and church is not your fault. You are granted opportunities in life to make a new path if and when you’re ready, but you must choose this yourself.

“Hate costs plenty. Love would have been free.”

With hope,

Kristan

A couple of months ago I was lying around the house sick for a few weeks, scouring eBay and other online haunts for crap-I-didn’t-need-but-had-to-order because my sick brain was, like, “If you don’t have the entire Where the Wild Things Are set from Kubrick, etc., you’ll never be able to live with yourself later.”

During my bout of pharmaceutically enhanced internet mania, I made two important discoveries:

1. There’s something magical about ordering something online and then receiving it three days later without ever leaving your house or taking off your stinky, sick-person robe;
2. The Vader Project was finally holding its long-awaited charity auction, and there was going to be a fancy-pants catalog — perfect for folks like me who don’t have several grand laying around to spend on an artist’s rendition of a Darth Vader helmet. More importantly, it was perfect for Russell’s Father’s Day gift. I snagged one immediately.

Image: Shannon Cottrell, http://blogs.laweekly.com/stylecouncil/star-wars/the-vader-project/

Although there were a ton of fantastic designs, I was surprised that NYC’s Suckadelic, artist/musician/entrepreneur Morgan Phillips, created the only diorama within the grouping. Of course, the concept was completely up his alley; Suckadelic’s work stems almost exclusively from sci-fi pop culture specific to Star Wars. Hand it to the guy: Phillips understands that without its Lucasfilms giants, the oxygen would totally be sucked out of my generation. And our adult wallets. Okay, and our principles, too, maybe.

Dunny Sucker

Having never been able to afford Suckadelic’s art schtuffs before — largely because they always have sold out within nanoseconds — I was psyched when I got the chance to nab one of these bootlegged bad boys this afternoon. Yeah, that’s a Dunny Sucklord. You’re seeing straight, alright. “Made in Chinatown NYC.” How many toys these days can wear that badge?

If you’d like one of your own, check it. Chances are, though, you’ll be coveting mine. These productions are generally limited to runs of next-to-nothing.

It’s not a Vader Project helmet, but, hey, the little guy’s wearing his own variant. Maybe one day I’ll find out I’m a long-lost Kuwaiti princess and will be able to afford the VP diorama for Sucklord’s display. Until then, I’ll keep busy stalking Suckadelic’s Microsexuals, his Original Villain Network, the photosteam on Flickr, keeping score with Paul Budnitz, and trying to convince the tween Bella that she needs to listen to more of this on her iPod. Seriously, this Morgan Phillips guy? He’s got a hand in every kind of honey jar you can imagine.

But today, I leave you with this brand spanking new first installment of Toy Lords in Chinatown: Episode One, guest-starring Sucklord himself.

May the Force…hurry up and arrive in the mail.

Sarah and Jan in April 2010 at a Diamondbacks game. AP photo: Paul Connors

Holy moly, I would never have writer’s block ever again! Yes, I know it’s selfish, but, hey, they’re not gonna win. Plus, the SNL skits would be amazing. I know this because I’ve already seen most of them back when they were called Absolutely Fabulous.

Jan Brewer is what you’d get if Skeletor‘s sister and David Duke had a baby. Does that really sound like something America needs next?

It would be the first time C-Span was considered a comedy network, I guess. That’s a plus. Imagine:

Watching Fox News defend daily hot messes like that could also be entertaining. Republicans might finally get sick of themselves and quit blaming former president Bill Clinton for everything that has gone wrong since the end of slavery. Or not.

Not everything all-American Sarah Palin does cracks me up. Never fear. Those tacky Juicy Couture sunglasses she wears with the GIGANTIC name brand printed in near-billboard-sized, garish lettering on the frames? I hope there’s an afterlife for her where she has to wait hand and foot on all the Americans who have lost their jobs to corporate offshoring practices. Go buy some Oakleys, ya old wolf-killing hag. If you want to be president, you probably need to quit walking around like an advertisement for the very thing responsible for our economic crisis — cheap labor and corp tax shelters/assistance.

But back to things that are amusing . . .

I was sure the following snippet was Jan Brewer upon initial viewing. Turns out, I was wrong. It’s drag queen Donna Sachet singing the anthem during the opening of an MLB game between the Arizona Diamondbacks and the SF Giants. Hey, I was close. No offense, Donna.

Maybe Edina and Patsy were there for that one?