So I opened my email yesterday to find that Missy Suicide of the infamous Suicide Girls was writing to say in the most automated email generated way that someone had anonymously gifted me a 3 month subscription to their website.
First off, whomever you may be, I sincerely and deeply thank you. Perhaps you're a follower of this blog. I can only assume you're a big fan of my intelligible gibberish and opinions, coupled with juvenile cartoons and pictures. I imagine a connoisseur of fine Internet videos crafted to kill productivity and possibly your career if you're caught watching them at work, and yet you do so with gracious abandon. I'm never given anything really, even Christmas and birthdays coast by without much to write home about. I have to honestly say that this kind gesture brightened my day and served as a conversation starter for anyone I crossed paths with.
I was once upon a time a member of the Suicide Girls site. This is in their trailblazing days of being pigeonholed as "alt porn" and other foolish jargon. Remember kids, labels are for jars, not people. Time travel to when Ray-Gun was a periodical of note and you're in the right time frame. I became a member for a brief time after I was lucky enough to catch their touring burlesque show at the Beachwood Ballroom. I begged all my friends to go, but only one brave soul decided to join me. I'll spare his identity, but imagine Cameron from FERRIS BUELLER'S DAY OFF and you've got a good mind set. Upon arriving to the venue, we immediately canvassed the joint for a spot to wet the whistle. Sure enough, they must have been expecting me. Tucked in the corner was the adult version of a lemonade stand; a wooden countertop lined with ice old Pabst Blue Ribbons and shots of Crown Royal. I think there was an angel chorus too, but I don't quite recall. We ponied up and showed the Cleveland scenesters what two steel town boys from Lorain can do.
After about 20 minutes the show began. Now the Beachwood Ballroom is just that; an old school, wooden floored, wooden staged venue that has hosted plenty of rock shows and other fits of rebellion. In my mind it invokes the spirit of a Danny Kaye film set long forgotten. We were treated to true acts of burlesque, but with a edgy twist like a rusty knife. Two performers reenacted the ear cutting scene from RESERVOIR DOGS all the while Stealers Wheel reinforced the idea that being "stuck in the middle with you" might not quite be a bad thing. Other numbers included a striptease to GOLDFINGER, a bit of dark vinyl cosplay, all wrapped up with the entire troupe of lovely ladies coming out to baste themselves and the first two rows of the standing audience in a thick lather of whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Here I should warn that I had done a bit of Internet research at this point about what to expect at the show (I think dial-up was still the only way to go). I read that this particular show capper was a ritual and quite messy as you could imagine. If I was a cartoon character there would've been a light bulb above my head. I secretly masterminded my good friend into the very front row and swam against the crowd back to the bar to watch my evil shenanigans unfurl over a shot and a beer. If anyone deserved a fun night out that ended in a whip cream shower from such lovely ladies, it was my dear friend. This night of revelry still holds as a great moment of male bonding between us.
After the show ended, most folks stampeded out, almost upset at being smeared in confectionery sweetness. Hell, Gallagher built a career out of this stuff, kids, and no one ever wanted to see him with his shirt off. Some of the ladies that were up for it toweled off and hit the merch table where I got an autographed poster of the event (thanks again Raegan) and a t-shirt that in my buzzed state of enjoyment failed to realize was one size too small. The Suicide Girls were cordial and approachable, though I sensed many were off put by their tattoos and piercings, which struck me as odd. Why would you come to an event like this and not embrace that lifestyle? It's like going to see a monster truck rally and complaining about the noise. I thought it was pretty awesome that they were bringing back the art of burlesque too, a fad alot cooler than swing dancing.
After a couple days passed, and the stories of how many times my buddy washed his shirt diminished I decided to join the site. It was just starting to bud with more interviews and a call to the interweb for more models. I enjoyed immensely, as much as a recent graduate still living with his parents could. Unfortunately, time marches on and my membership expired. I had thought of renewing it, but I was poor. Not much has changed except I have a spot of my own and can enjoy this new membership in peace.
The Suicide Girls site has had some major overhauls, pushed by their mainstream popularity and crossover into corporate media. Their interviews carry more weight as a form of respectable journalism and there's now more models than my bandwidth can tolerate. It's become a Gen-X version of what Playboy used to be.
There are some pretty sweet interviews with the likes of DEVO, Kevin Smith, and a slew of others that you don't have to pay to enjoy.
They added a bunch of stuff to their shop too. In my day it was stickers and logo t-shirts. Peep out some more goodies here.
They've helped birth their own competition through more hardcore sites that I won't mention on this family friendly blog, but what I think that gets overshadowed the most is how they helped change the marketable demographic of what and how beauty is portrayed. I grew up with a Mr. Fix-It kinda grandpa and he always had a pin-up calender of some stellar beauty holding or using some tool I never knew did what. This drew me into the world of other pin-ups like the Vargas girls and Bettie Page. I think every person must ask themselves; are you a Marilyn or a Betty? This wasn't just a draw of hormones, but one of discovering a new world of beauty. Not exploited, but artistic. Like portraits of 18th century women, but with a pulse. I've always been a sucker for a girl with ink. Not quite sure how that got hardwired into me. Maybe it's a kinship of rebellion and the pain of the needle and deriving a twisted sense of pleasure from it. The fact remains that there are beautiful people in the world with tattoos and piercings. They should be celebrated the same way corporations force their aesthetics upon us. It never hurts to have a bit of variety.
I just didn't want my appreciation and opinions to come off purely as "hooray for boobies". There's always been a stigma of good girls don't do such things, but I kinda see it as a sense of empowerment. A feminist mystique way of earning a living off of celebrating a chosen lifestyle rather than let it be exploited by others. You can immediately discount that with the fact that I have a Y chromosome. I also have to say that I'm kinda blown away by how my different themes that the Suicide Girls have generated with their photo shoots. I mean, there's even a Hitchcock BIRDS series and a hot cafeteria lady series. Wowza. The photography has vastly improved, though some sets are better than others, with no fault to the model. I think it's commendable that they have plus sized models as well as models in their 30s. Most modeling careers die in the mid 20s, regardless of nudity. They've embraced the new age of technology, hell you can even download their iPhone app.
Well now they are making the Suicide Girls foray into feature film as well. And of course, it had to be a horror film.
Onward and upward. And again, whoever you masked stranger, thank you for the gift.
First off, whomever you may be, I sincerely and deeply thank you. Perhaps you're a follower of this blog. I can only assume you're a big fan of my intelligible gibberish and opinions, coupled with juvenile cartoons and pictures. I imagine a connoisseur of fine Internet videos crafted to kill productivity and possibly your career if you're caught watching them at work, and yet you do so with gracious abandon. I'm never given anything really, even Christmas and birthdays coast by without much to write home about. I have to honestly say that this kind gesture brightened my day and served as a conversation starter for anyone I crossed paths with.
I was once upon a time a member of the Suicide Girls site. This is in their trailblazing days of being pigeonholed as "alt porn" and other foolish jargon. Remember kids, labels are for jars, not people. Time travel to when Ray-Gun was a periodical of note and you're in the right time frame. I became a member for a brief time after I was lucky enough to catch their touring burlesque show at the Beachwood Ballroom. I begged all my friends to go, but only one brave soul decided to join me. I'll spare his identity, but imagine Cameron from FERRIS BUELLER'S DAY OFF and you've got a good mind set. Upon arriving to the venue, we immediately canvassed the joint for a spot to wet the whistle. Sure enough, they must have been expecting me. Tucked in the corner was the adult version of a lemonade stand; a wooden countertop lined with ice old Pabst Blue Ribbons and shots of Crown Royal. I think there was an angel chorus too, but I don't quite recall. We ponied up and showed the Cleveland scenesters what two steel town boys from Lorain can do.
After about 20 minutes the show began. Now the Beachwood Ballroom is just that; an old school, wooden floored, wooden staged venue that has hosted plenty of rock shows and other fits of rebellion. In my mind it invokes the spirit of a Danny Kaye film set long forgotten. We were treated to true acts of burlesque, but with a edgy twist like a rusty knife. Two performers reenacted the ear cutting scene from RESERVOIR DOGS all the while Stealers Wheel reinforced the idea that being "stuck in the middle with you" might not quite be a bad thing. Other numbers included a striptease to GOLDFINGER, a bit of dark vinyl cosplay, all wrapped up with the entire troupe of lovely ladies coming out to baste themselves and the first two rows of the standing audience in a thick lather of whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Here I should warn that I had done a bit of Internet research at this point about what to expect at the show (I think dial-up was still the only way to go). I read that this particular show capper was a ritual and quite messy as you could imagine. If I was a cartoon character there would've been a light bulb above my head. I secretly masterminded my good friend into the very front row and swam against the crowd back to the bar to watch my evil shenanigans unfurl over a shot and a beer. If anyone deserved a fun night out that ended in a whip cream shower from such lovely ladies, it was my dear friend. This night of revelry still holds as a great moment of male bonding between us.
After the show ended, most folks stampeded out, almost upset at being smeared in confectionery sweetness. Hell, Gallagher built a career out of this stuff, kids, and no one ever wanted to see him with his shirt off. Some of the ladies that were up for it toweled off and hit the merch table where I got an autographed poster of the event (thanks again Raegan) and a t-shirt that in my buzzed state of enjoyment failed to realize was one size too small. The Suicide Girls were cordial and approachable, though I sensed many were off put by their tattoos and piercings, which struck me as odd. Why would you come to an event like this and not embrace that lifestyle? It's like going to see a monster truck rally and complaining about the noise. I thought it was pretty awesome that they were bringing back the art of burlesque too, a fad alot cooler than swing dancing.
After a couple days passed, and the stories of how many times my buddy washed his shirt diminished I decided to join the site. It was just starting to bud with more interviews and a call to the interweb for more models. I enjoyed immensely, as much as a recent graduate still living with his parents could. Unfortunately, time marches on and my membership expired. I had thought of renewing it, but I was poor. Not much has changed except I have a spot of my own and can enjoy this new membership in peace.
The Suicide Girls site has had some major overhauls, pushed by their mainstream popularity and crossover into corporate media. Their interviews carry more weight as a form of respectable journalism and there's now more models than my bandwidth can tolerate. It's become a Gen-X version of what Playboy used to be.
There are some pretty sweet interviews with the likes of DEVO, Kevin Smith, and a slew of others that you don't have to pay to enjoy.
They added a bunch of stuff to their shop too. In my day it was stickers and logo t-shirts. Peep out some more goodies here.
They've helped birth their own competition through more hardcore sites that I won't mention on this family friendly blog, but what I think that gets overshadowed the most is how they helped change the marketable demographic of what and how beauty is portrayed. I grew up with a Mr. Fix-It kinda grandpa and he always had a pin-up calender of some stellar beauty holding or using some tool I never knew did what. This drew me into the world of other pin-ups like the Vargas girls and Bettie Page. I think every person must ask themselves; are you a Marilyn or a Betty? This wasn't just a draw of hormones, but one of discovering a new world of beauty. Not exploited, but artistic. Like portraits of 18th century women, but with a pulse. I've always been a sucker for a girl with ink. Not quite sure how that got hardwired into me. Maybe it's a kinship of rebellion and the pain of the needle and deriving a twisted sense of pleasure from it. The fact remains that there are beautiful people in the world with tattoos and piercings. They should be celebrated the same way corporations force their aesthetics upon us. It never hurts to have a bit of variety.
I just didn't want my appreciation and opinions to come off purely as "hooray for boobies". There's always been a stigma of good girls don't do such things, but I kinda see it as a sense of empowerment. A feminist mystique way of earning a living off of celebrating a chosen lifestyle rather than let it be exploited by others. You can immediately discount that with the fact that I have a Y chromosome. I also have to say that I'm kinda blown away by how my different themes that the Suicide Girls have generated with their photo shoots. I mean, there's even a Hitchcock BIRDS series and a hot cafeteria lady series. Wowza. The photography has vastly improved, though some sets are better than others, with no fault to the model. I think it's commendable that they have plus sized models as well as models in their 30s. Most modeling careers die in the mid 20s, regardless of nudity. They've embraced the new age of technology, hell you can even download their iPhone app.
Well now they are making the Suicide Girls foray into feature film as well. And of course, it had to be a horror film.
Onward and upward. And again, whoever you masked stranger, thank you for the gift.
