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A tourist in Vienna is going through a graveyard and all
of a sudden he hears some music. No one is around, so he
starts searching for the source. He finally locates the
origin and finds it is coming from a grave with a head-
stone that reads: "Ludwig van Beethoven, 1770-1827." Then
he realizes that the music is the Ninth Symphony and it
is being played backward!

Puzzled, he leaves the graveyard and persuades a friend
to return with him. By the time they arrive back at the
grave, the music has changed. This time it is the Seventh
Symphony, but like the previous piece, it is being played
backward.

Curious, the men agree to consult a music scholar. When
they return with the expert, the Fifth Symphony is
playing, again backward. The expert notices that the
symphonies are being played in the reverse order in
which they were composed, the 9th, then the 7th, then
the 5th.

By the next day the word has spread and a throng has
gathered around the grave. They are all listening to
the Second Symphony being played backward. Just then
the graveyard's caretaker ambles up to the group.

Someone in the group asks him if he has an explanation
for the music. "Don't you get it?" the caretaker says
incredulously. "He's decomposing!"

Tags: Beethoven Joke Graveyard

Life in Los Angeles is never more bizarre than during the holidays. The sheer twistedness of a Christmas in such an environment of artifice and reinvention is endlessly amusing, and it puts the naive chiding of mere commercialism in a quaint perspective, a thing of a more innocent time. On the playful side, there is the desperate attempt to create a momentary illusion of a fairytale winter, taken to its extreme in the locations where faux 'snow' is launched from roof-top nozzles onto Christmas shoppers and tourists below, made from soap suds or god-knows-what.
 
My personal favorite island of amusing insanity is on Hollywood Blvd, where the religion of Scientology has seemingly bought half of the real estate and opened various 'shrines' to the memory of its mastermind L. Ron Hubbard. Here you will find the "L. Ron Hubbard Winter Wonderland" which is the home of "Scientology Santa" with whom tourists can have their picture taken for a mere $10. On New Years Eve, the winter wonderland hosted a free concert that continued the theme of fakeness, with a band of Beatles impersonators, introduced by an Ed Sullivan impersonator. (I was fortunate to witness the band's out-of-costume sound check, rather like seeing Kiss perform without make-up.

At the other extreme from such kitschy, commercialism are the Holiday bandage Ball gatherings, with go-go dancing elves and Santa's Sadists giving spankings and wrapping the naughty and nice with rope, like so many enticing presents. Ah yes, Los Angeles, I love you, but I still leave the party early in search of the genuine and the traditional, among friends to drink a toast to Auld Lang Syne.  

Puppet Terror

Of all our fears, is none so real as the terror as a child we feel? -- The thing that from the closet peers, as darkness falls and bedtime nears -- The walking dead, a chopped-off head,  -- each one instills a special dread.

And yet more frightening than these , the thing that makes one's marrow freeze, that haunts adulthood like a theme that poisons a recurring dream, is that which has no life at all. The evil puppet. The deadly doll.

A creature born to be possessed: so still, until a child's behest should animate its sleeping form as from a netherworld reborn -- then only to be tossed aside like flotsam on a lonely tide.

She and all her kindred bent on vengeance for abandonment and mute with deadly vows to keep for troubling their endless sleep -- sit watching, waiting, all their days with maddening, unblinking gaze.

So shroud the doll with pearl-white teeth and bind her with a garlic wreath, and seal the dummy in his case with special care to hide his face.

You say you have no fear nor thrill? I say to you, one day you will.

You'll glimpse a broken mannikin with staring eyes and sallow skin, or maybe find a china doll propped awkwardly against a wall and feel within your frozen heart the terror such things can impart.

For in the time it takes to scream, as life becomes a fever dream, you'll know that in the midnight gloom,  a puppet moves outside your room.

I leave you this to contemplate - just wait, my friend - it's there - just wait.

~ Raivan

One more huge thieving creep is gone forever. Yay!
I very seldom feel happiness when someone dies, but this time I feel gleeful.

These are celebrating song lyrics to be sung to the tune of "I Love Rock 'n' Roll" by Joan Jett...

Falwell, go to Hell!
 We don’t want to listen to your bullshit, dickhead!
 Falwell, go to Hell,
 Now you're Satan's bitch, so leave us be!

Falwell's holier-than-thou was quite a sell,
 No one's amazed that you're kicking it in Hell.
 Said, I will take you home,
 where demons won't leave you alone.

An' the devils were movin' in,
 His ass isn't gonna win...
 Next his ass was out of luck,
 asking God..."WHAT THE FUCK?"

...singin'
 Falwell, go to Hell!
 We don’t want to listen to your bullshit, pinhead!
 Falwell, go to Hell,
 There's a pitchfork up your ass, so leave us be!

***********************************

(these opinions are my own and do not necessarily reflect the feelings of anyone else on gothspace)

Can someone tell me exactly what "Emo" means to them? What's the animosity between emo and goth? Why is emo more hated than, say, rap or country? What is 'emo hair'? Which is the "king of the emo bands"? Hoobastank maybe? I need to know. You guys have the answers.

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.



    -- Dorothy Parker

Man proposes, God in His time disposes,
And so I wander'd up to where you lay,
A little rose among the little roses,
And no more dead than they.

It seemed your childish feet were tired of straying,
You did not greet me from your flower-strewn bed,
Yet still I knew that you were only playing --
Playing at being dead.

I might have thought that you were really sleeping,
So quiet lay your eyelids to the sky,
So still your hair, but surely you were peeping;
And so I did not cry.

God knows, and in His proper time disposes,
And so I smiled and gently called your name,
Added my rose to your sweet heap of roses,
And left you to your game.

by Richard Barham Middleton

"Perfume" is the movie adaptation of the best selling novel about a serial killer in Napoleonic France.
The bizarre story fills the screen with images of beauty and grotesquery when a mutant orphan pursues his obsession to steal the scent of a woman.
Read the DarkRomance.com review
www.darkromance.com

I was thinking... does it bother anyone else that of all the people in the various Holiday Towns, Jack Skellington is the only one with a personality disorder? He's the only one not happy with who he is. (until his epiphany at the end). I don't see Santa getting all excited at the thought of discovering Halloween! I can just imagine Jack watching The Notebook with Sally and getting all teary-eyed. Tim Burton, please make a new movie where the newly Psycho Santa and the Evil Easter Bunny become obsessed with Halloween, and Jack kicks their asses back to Christmas and Easter Towns.

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