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i won't prostrate beatitudes: 2017 was all shrunken dicks and parched cunts; an erogenous dead zone of coffin-ready libidos being ravaged by a series of ballistic viral outbreaks (although some seemed either stricken with these infections in the psychosomatic sense [if not deliberately fallacious], others a victim of a Munchhausen Proxy authored by Andrea Dworkin.. but i digress).
In spite of the unspoken sexual mass suicide pact, my appetites remain in tact; poppin cocks poppin rocks and so forth. I became even more determined to provide Fallopian grist for the Testicular mills, carnal instigators announcing themselves in the most unexpected, and even banal, areas of culture and entertainment.
if 2017 was the year of the organ-killer, lets make 2018 the year we raise the cunting dead.
recommended listening
this inadvertent herald of terrestrial devouring ashtray goblins,
Hailey Gates costumed her stretched out alien beauty with methamphetamine throat singing and neglectful mothering... she's got real shit to do here, kid; warning the ether of its inevitable black-out.
this delightfully insensitive portrayal of mental illness is
Nurse Rachet , a cult favorite on the increasingly (and wonderfully) absurd indie-wrestling circuits. homeslice's entrance is being dragged to the ring in a body bag by a giant in a pig mask while the theme from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest serenades the crowd, emerging with a
Strawberry Shortcake toy picnic basket labeled "Human Organs" fastened across a SARS mask. ATTN WWE:
that's how you do a "women's revolution."
i've been captivated by
Rebecca Hall ever since
Iron Man 3, where Tony Stark's idiot scumbag status was confirmed when he chose that snarky pretentious bore Pepper Pots over this epitome of charm and radiance, so you can imagine my sketchy nihilistic giddiness when i heard Hall was going to star in the biopic of doomed news reporter
Christine Chubbuck. Hall (and indeed everyone involved) did Chubbuck justice, further showcasing the annoying tendency the Marvel Universe has with regards to wasting true talents on thankless one-and-done roles.
now we get filthy with my #1 adult film star of the year; the sad-eyed heartbreaker known as
Charlotte Sartre . you know that scene from the Simpsons where they go to the petting zoo and they see the succession of lambs, each one more adorable then the next? well, Sasha Grey is the first lamb (awwwwww), Stoya is the second lamb (Aaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwww), and Ms. Sartre is the thrid lamb (AAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!). although if Stoya crept up in front of Charlotte i doubt anyone who shove her aside saying "Outta the way, you!", but y'know...
i have no friggin idea who this silver-haired stunner is (getting this out of the way now; i fucking love silver hair. that coupled with those shirts with cut-out shoulders were easily the best fashion trends of the year). i spent a chunk of the year watching blocks of MTV Classic, and this commercial for the pay-to-play Christian Dream Killer known as eHarmony.com would be wedged between adds for pay-day lenders and that FlexSeal junk (deadbeats and gulla-bulls... MTV Classic knows its crowd, no?). I'm not entirely unconvinced that she isn't some Japanese authored algorithm based on what i'd hope to find on the bot-ridden thirst traps that are online dating sites.
David Simon's
The Deuce was a gift from pervert heaven: prestige television about the birth of golden age smut. the series had no shortage of gorgeous, fascinating women of all kinds, but it was acerbic Lori as played by
Emily Meade that really had me in the palm of her bewitchingly indifferent hands.
on the complete opposite end of the spectrum was
Vice Principals put-upon-yet-unfailingly-chipper Ms. Swift, played by
Ashley Spillers (how's that for a porno name eh?). i found myself not only attracted to her, but endlessly speculating on what i assume is a rich fantasy life, a locked storage space of unearthly delights where she makes me fish for the key.
this real life Abby Arcane is
Morgan Saylor as she appeared in Elizabeth Wood's
White Girl, a morally ambiguous confidently rendered reappraisal of the no-good-kids-are-running-WILD films of the 90s indie boom (typified by the films of Larry Clark). the menace and the tension initially arises from Saylor's delicate exterior, but becomes more destructively evident when she walks away from the chaos her waifish pose leaves in its wake. oh hi, girl i obsessed over in high school... and college... and now.
if anyone had a much-needed career turning point this year, it was
Aubrey Plaza, who finally outgrew the worn-out Daria Morgendorffer act and went full-bore into deranged, obsessive, manipulative sensuality with show-stopping schizo-aggressive performances in
Legion (pictured) and
Ingrid Goes West.
and finally... the whole cast of
G.L.O.W. is
B.A.E. especially Isis Nile Jr. on the right. when she chastised her beau for shitting on grindhouse slasher films... Chubs Ahoy.
