Sir William Welles’ Nocturnal Diary

Greetings my dear Gothlings!

Usually on Sundays I go out to the Queens/Long Island area to my mother’s and grandmother’s house (those who have been to my Cannibal Zombie Luau know where it is) to Barbecue a meal for them and watch CSI (L.V./Miami/NYC) and NCIS on DVD with my mother…not that I spend enough time with them at their restaurant or anything, it’s just become sort of routine, unless I have to be somewhere else on that day.

This last Sunday, however, I found myself rather depressed over someone I hold dear moving away to Los Angeles that very day (not the friend I was having the heated conversation with as mentioned in my I loathe L.A. (take 2) blog post on August 18th). The only (evil) consolation I had was seeing a news segment that Southern California was having a tough time battling forest fires and that a couple, refusing to leave their home, sought refuge in  in their hot-tub in the backyard and were critically burned (boiled?)…life choices, my friends…life choices. I know I might come across as rather cruel right now, I don’t wish harm on those people and the fact that they lost their house to a forest fire is devastating indeed, but the thought of Los Angeles burning to the ground made me crack a smile. But back to the subject at hand:

Returning to the Wonderful City of New York, I take a subway from the 71st Street/Continental Avenue station in Forest Hills in Queens. The first, and only apparent, train available was the local “R” train. A tad slower than the express, but reliable. I enter the second to last car and I sit, awaiting to be transported. After several stops of borough-dwellers shuffling in and out, my reading all of the advertisements surrounding me several times over, and the loud door closing warning “BING-BONG!” sound tap-dancing on my eardrums, we arrived at the Roosevelt Avenue station.

Now, it was at this station that I caught a glimpse of a young Asian woman leaning on a subway station vertical girder thingy (what are those called, anyway? Pylon?). From the brief glimpse I caught of her face I determined she was either grimacing because she was laughing or crying. It’s funny how the two are somewhat the the same at first. An instant later and the Asian woman steps into the subway car and sits somewhat directly across from my in one of those backward facing orange bucket seats. It was clear to me by now that she was crying…openly. Let me take a moment to describe her: Asian (we already established that), I think from Japan, tall, slender, young –mid to early twenties, or maybe younger, not sure, blue shirt, blue jeans with a hole on the right knee, pink sneakers, a large(ish) green and clear jeweled ring on her left hand’s ring finger, and crying.

As she sat there, sniffing and sobbing uncontrollably as every wave of painful emotion and memory rolled over her frontal lobe, I couldn’t help but realize how beautiful she was at that particular instant! It even shocked me! It was nothing sexual or stalker-y or anything, just beautiful. You must understand that while a lot of Asian women are indeed very attractive, I do not tend to be especially attracted to them. Sure, the long and straight raven hair is a bonus, but I do not suffer from the so-called “Yellow Fever” (a pretty racist term, I know…I didn’t make it up) like some of my friends do. No, this was different, weird even…it was like I found her to be beautiful and attractive because she was crying. Weird, huh? I couldn’t help but keep glancing over at her from time to time, without coming across as some sort of subway cruising creep.

After a while of observing her (I tend to do quite a bit of observing of people…it helps with my writing) I deduced that she was crying because of heartache or a break-up, rather than, let’s say, the death of someone close to her. How do I know this? Two things. For one, if she just lost her mother in a tragic car crash, she wouldn’t be on a subway. No, the subway seemed to be more of a means of escape. Secondly, in between waves of sobs, when her eyes weren’t shut to holds back tears, she would look downward, sometimes focusing on her hands, the one with the ring on it. If she lost her mother as mentioned above she would be gazing upward. It’s not so much a religious thing as much as a reflex to look upward to ask “why?” Frowning downward indicates focus and memory, as in “How could this of happened?”/”Where did I go wrong?”/”Could this have been prevented?”

But back to the disturbing issue at hand: why did I find this young woman so appealing and beautiful at a moment where she was at her lowest point? Is this a new level of being Goth that I find the misery of others so appealing? YIPES!!! Her face was reddened by the blood filling the capillaries in her cheeks, her eyes, when opened, were moist with tears, and her body was scrunched in what was starting to form into a fetal position. Maybe it was the vulnerability, I convinced myself. Even though I spent the entire day depressed and in deep thought, I wanted to shift across the subway car and console her…tell her that everything will be all right…even though things might not be. But if I, dressed all in black looking like a devil spawn, did so, I think you can imagine that horrible outcome.

Then I started noticing the surreal surroundings that encapsulated us all in that particular instant, in that particular subway car, heading toward Manhattan. There was a guy sitting directly behind her in the front facing orange bucket seat and was blatantly ignoring her despite his poor choice of seating. To my left were two other guys pretending to be asleep…no one truly sleeps in a subway car, unless, of course, one is drunk, on drugs (the sleepy kind), homeless, or all of the above. But the best was another Asian girl (not from Japan, this I am sure of), sitting directly in front of me and one seat away from the crying girl to her left, was clearly ignoring her while reading: (I shit you not) “The Obligatory Prayers Of Islam.” (!!!!!!) All very surreal…only in New York!

Luckily for me, an instant later, the subway pulled into the 59th Street/Lexington Avenue station= my stop. I debated staying on to see where she was headed, but I quickly talked myself out of it for fear of even creeping myself out! Before the last “BING-BONG!” warning, I found myself out of the subway car and leaving the crying Asian girl behind, wallowing in her intense misery, and being carried away by the subway to her future. That’s it. No romantic ending, not even giving her a clichéd tissue to dry her tears. Nope. Just a normal New York City thing. If you see someone suffering emotionally you leave them be…you don’t interfere. It might be cold, but that’s how it is here. I just hope that this crying Asian woman on the subway mends her emotional wounds soon…just I try to mend mine.

See you in the Dark!
Sir William Welles

Greetings my dear Gothlings!

I was visiting a friend bartending at a most unusual bar called the Pine Tree Lodge located on 35th Street between 1st & 2nd Avenues. The bar is decorated like you are in a winter lodge all year round. The place is small and strangely spaced out, and full of odd knick-knacks and mounted reindeer heads. ANYWAYS…as I’m talking to my friend at the front corner of the bar I notice to my right one of those touch-screen video games that are so popular at sports bars now.

 It wasn’t being played and on the monitor was showing previews of the various games available. One game in particular caught my eye due to its cool looking haunted mansion background graphic. Here, have a look:

The game was called Monster Mash and the basic game play was a shooting gallery where the point was to shoot down the Vampires, Werewolves, Mummies, etc. for points while not shooting down the random Day-Crawlers, which takes away points. I found this to be rather offensive. So I played a round…but I concentrated on shooting the blond bimbos and jocks that popped up and crawled all around the screen…resulting in the lowest score possible on that game!

Just thought I’d share this moment with you. Cool graphic, though, right?

See you in the Dark!
Sir William Welles

Greetings my dear Gothlings!

Last Thursday I organized an impromptu Gothic Gathering to go to visit the currently ongoing James Ensor exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.  As expected, the turnout was quite slim, however, I wasn’t surprised…meeting in the heart of Midtown, at 2pm, on a Thursday that was also a scorcher (this summer sucks!), sobeit. For the few that did show up, I hope that they had just a good time as I did!

I will say one thing, though: that museum was jam-packed with tourists!!! They were of all shapes and sizes, young and old, (Ooohh the old!) domestic and foreign. Being that it is the month of August and all, I can understand the shear number of visitors MOMA attracts…it is one of the city’s more popular museums outside of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But there were sooooooooooo many of them! It was like when you turn on the light in a roach infested room and they scatter about aimlessly at a sickly pace. I don’t know whether or not it is because it’s the Museum of Modern Art, but the visitors shouldn’t trample through the halls like they were in a mall, or worse, at Disney World’s Tomorrowland! At the Met it is so much more quiet, refined, and respectful of the Arts. Most Day-Crawler do not realize that there are certain rules of manners and etiquette that should be followed when visiting a museum or an art gallery…all of which I witnessed being massacred all around me that afternoon.

The first and most important law of etiquette here is to never, ever walk in front of someone viewing an art piece! One should always go behind the other person when moving from one piece to the next…kind of like the same rule that applies at a bookstore when someone glides by between the bookshelf and someone scanning it…if you must absolutely interfere with the viewers field of…well…view, you must apologize when doing so! So simple, yet so overlooked!

Rule number two is that if you must talk to someone that is accompanying you to said museum or gallery, or even to a stranger commenting on a particular piece, one must employ a vocal volume ranging between a whisper and a quiet conversation. Not: “HEY SAL! DID YOU SEE THE TITS ON THE BROAD IN THE RUBEN PAINTING OVAH-DERE?!?!?” While I was at this particular exhibit, trying to look at a very surreal, yet small drawing of a group of musicians with animal heads and limbs, one woman (mid to late twenties) shouted over to her two friends to hurry over so that she can point out that that particular piece of art by James Ensor, must have been the inspiration for George Lucas’ cantina scene in the first Star Wars movie. Really? REALLY??? And the entire room, due to her high-pitched ramblings, was privy to her amazingly geeky observation. Great. Thanks.

The third rule is to respect the museum/gallery/artist’s wish of no photography (and yes this means no cell phone video either) of the works portrayed if it is so indicated. You can’t believe how many times I heard the security guards cry out: “No photos, please!” to scores of tourists trying to play dumb. They even have signs with an icon of a camera with a “No” circle-slash symbol over it!

The fourth rule is to simply not make fun or mock any piece of art. Don’t be a frat boy idiot yelling, “Hey! This painting looks like a giant vagina!” (remember rule #2?). You are more than welcome to discuss, comment, and even criticize the piece, but never ridicule or debase it…you’ll just come across as an uncultured twit.

The fifth, and final, rule is to never, ever, never, ever, ever, never, never, physically touch an art piece (unless, of course, it is an interactive art piece that allows you to do so)! You would think that a rule so universally understood would be adhered to, right? Ha! You wish!!! It is outstanding how many middle-aged women (why this particular demographic for the most part, I’ll never know) I witnessed touching the artwork as they were “expertly” pointing things out to their family members or friends, making “astute” and “poignant” observations!!! After seeing way too much of this behavior, I was grateful to that the MOMA staff had the forethought of putting glass or Plexiglas between the paintings and drawings and the greasy, prodding fingers. I enjoy actually getting somewhat quite close to a painting and focusing on individual brush strokes of color, almost visualizing the artist’s hand as he or she made each calculated gesture to create an entire piece of art that can be appreciated as a whole when one steps back for a broader view…but I am not molesting the piece like a blind man reading braille!

But enough about my bitching and moaning over improper Day-Crawler behavior…I was going to tell you about this terrific exhibit!

If you haven’t been yet, I strongly encourage you to muster up the $20.00 (that’s right! 20 Smackers! Unless you are a student with I.D. ($12.00) or FREE if you are a Gothling under 16 years of age) and drag your ass to Midtown Manhattan before this exhibit ends on September 21st! It really is worth seeing. I’ll even go so far as stating that Ensor’s work, even though “Goth” didn’t exist during his time, had indeed Goth elements within his works. This is more apparent as he grew older and explored his more surreal side, which led to a dark and macabre sense of humor, mixed with social and at times political satire.

One of the more  remarkable aspects of this exhibit, especially if you really take the time to view and read all that is provided to see, you will not only just peer at wonderful art, but you will also be treated to a loose, yet comprehensive, history and biography of the artist. This adds a wonderful dimension to the exhibit experience — not everyone reads a full biography of an artist before heading out to an exhibit. By the end of the exhibit you feels as though you’ve learned about this man’s life through his works, and the exhibit is set up in such a manner that it generally guides you through his artistic career from the 1880’s when he was in his early twenties and in art school in Belgium, then throughout his life up until 1949 when he died at the ripe old age of 89!

What is very interesting  to see within his body of work is that in his earlier pieces, namely art school paintings of portraits, landscapes, and still-life, Ensor uses (for the most part) a wide brush with broad and bold strokes, thus giving his paintings a somewhat hazy and out-of-focused style that is very reminiscent of Impressionism. But as you move further along into the other rooms, you are shown his progressive works in which there are numerous drawings. Some of these drawings are even first drafts of later, larger painted pieces. The intriguing thing to observe here is that Ensor’s drawing and sketching style is incredibly detailed and fine! A complete 180 degree turn from his painted pieces…it was almost like seeing two exhibits in one! Then toward the end of the exhibit, when James Ensor is much older, it is apparent that his sketching, painting, subjects, and style find a common ground, and thus allows him to express himself with humor, satire, disturbing imagery, and even self ridicule, but also capturing the subtle beauty of the environment around him as he sees fit…with lots of skulls and skeletons. O.K….I’m going to stop sounding like an Art History teacher now…are you still awake?

I was later joined by Zoe (you know Zoe, right? She’s here from Oxford University in England doing her research for her PhD on the Goth Scene) and she asked me what my favorite piece was. I responded that I had two favorites…but for completely different reasons…and both pieces are some of the smallest sketches in the exhibit! The first was a colored sketch of an old European building (The title of the piece escapes me at the moment) at a slight angle to allow for some perspective work. This simple and observant sketch was so intricate in its detail that it even inspired me to go to Lee’s Art Shop and buy a .07 mm mechanical drafting pencil (the thinnest I could find) and also spend hours (where shall I find them?) intricately penciling every last detail of historic N.Y.C. buildings…I miss painting and sketching from back when I was an art student so many, many years ago, I’ll admit. The second tiny wee-bit of a sketch I thought was spectacular, simply because of the very dark humor behind it is entitled: “My self portrait in 1960.” I am not going to spoil the punchline behind this sketch…you just have to go and find it for yourself!

See you in the Dark!
Sir William Welles

This advertisement is over 4 stories tall over the corner of 53rd Street and 7th Avenue!

New Goth City does not endorse or promote this company in any way…we just want to show you a very stupid ad!

See you in the Dark!
Sir William Welles

Greetings my dear Gothlings!

Q: What is the difference between Los Angeles and a petri dish?
A: The petri dish actually has Culture in it!

The other night, at The Court of Lazarus, if you were present, you might have been privy to me having a rather heated debate-slash-disagreement between myself and a friend of mine who has decided to make a “life choice” to “Go West” to Los Angeles to pursue “Artistic Opportunities.” During that conversation (turned somewhat ugly) I stirred something up from the back of my brain that I managed to tuck away in recent years due to my concentration of the scene here in N.Y.C.; and that certain something was my deep seeded loathing of that cesspool of a city and everything it represents (L.A., that is)! I got so worked up and upset in my mind the next day that I wrote (only in my notebook/man-purse) a blog draft that ended up being nothing more than a scathing, juvenile, and uninformative rant. I am better than that, so I am currently attempting to have a second, more high-brow, go at explaining why I feel Los Angeles, as a whole, should immediately sink into the Pacific Ocean (I didn’t say I was going to be all smiles and giggles in this second take, now did I?) 

To start off on the right note here, I want to offer you a visual to demonstrate clearly my feelings toward L.A.: Do you remember the scene they’ve kept repeating in the Terminator movies in which Sarah Conner (played by Linda Hamilton) has that vision/dream where she is at the playground trying to warn the children and their families fruitlessly about the upcoming doom and then the city of Los Angeles, in the distance behind them, suddenly gets nuked? Yeah…well…every time I see that scene I get a bit of a tingling sensation “down there.” I’m not for any city getting A-Bombed, mind you…but one can fantasize, no?

My loathing of this city in question started in the early 1920’s when “independent” film companies/studios, based here in New York, where seeking to break away from the stifling and tyrannical studio system established here, namely led by Thomas Edison’s hold on patents for shooting and projecting film at his movie houses (read: Monopoly). Young “Independent” companies such as “Warner Bros.,” “Universal,” “Metro Goldwyn Mayer,” et al, decided to pack up and head on West to greener pastures like any and all pioneers before them did many years prior, with the sole purpose of “raping” the land they sought. Once these producers and studio-heads set up shop in their new-found Los Angeles, they immediately began operating in the same manner from which they fled! Soon enough, with the invention of “talking” pictures and Technicolor, L.A. was a boom-town basking in the glow of the Golden Age of Hollywood within ten years of its inception, while New York, and especially the rest of the country, suffered through the Great Depression during the 1930’s.

While Europe was feeling the tension and eventual onslaught of the Nazi party’s control, and before America’s involvement in World War II, the Hollywood studios took it upon themselves to create propaganda films (Wait!…I want to make a very important side note here: what I am about to state next IS in no way anti-Semitic, pro-Nazi, or anything stupid like that…UNDERSTOOD?!?!?! This is historical FACT, I don’t want any hate mail/comments due to something that has been proven true over 60 years ago!) that were clearly anti-Nazi to create awareness of what was going on overseas. This was done largely in part because the majority of the studio-heads were Jewish (WAIT!!!!!! Don’t group me with that fool Mel Gibson! I am not one of those idiots that rant that all of Media is run by some sort of Zion conspiracy! I am merely stating that the majority of the film moguls at the time were Jewish, and thus, rightfully so, concerned about their distant relatives suffering a fate worse than hell in Europe, utilized their craft and medium to do something about it)…case in point (a film I even worked on): Casablanca (1942, ok, the U.S. was involved in the war by that time) — arguably the most well known film around the World besides The Wizard of Oz (1942) and Star Wars (1977) , all of which, interestingly enough, the villains have strong Nazi undertones to them…especially Darth Vader!

O.K….enough historical babble. For years thousands of people have done the whole clichéd “L.A. or Bust” trek to “Lah-Lah-Land” (they call that for a reason, you know) in search for fame and fortune…naturally…it is the American Dream of getting paid and being well known for it (*cough*Paris*cough*Hilton*cough*) for doing ab-sol-ut-ly nothing! Fine…we’ll call it “Artistic Opportunity” for the time being, just to be nice. I, too, when I was a Vice President of Creative Affairs (what a stupid “throw away” title is that, huh?) at a young N.Y.C. based entertainment company, that I helped formulate some ten years ago, was slapped across the face by the power of the “Glitz” that hovers over that City like their beloved smog!!!

[TRIVIA: Los Angeles was founded September 4, 1781, by Spanish governor Felipe de Neve as “El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles del Río de Porciúncula” meaning: The Village of Our Lady, the Queen of the Angels of the river of Porziuncola.]

Back to BIZ-NIZ at hand.

When I first went to Los Angeles for a business trip in “The Industry,” I was, like everyone else who shows up there with stars in their eyes, given what I like to call, “The Wind-Up.” This involves the following: Whether you arrive via L.A.X. International Airport, or via a Greyhound bus from bum-fuck Nebraska (sorry Nebraska), you are going to be first treated to either driving or being driven down a palm tree lined Boulevard with the top or windows down, accentuated by the perpetual summer-like sun and heat (*cringe*), with a smidgen of “will I catch a glimpse of a star walking his/her dog down the street?”-itis. For further enhancement, at some point that Goth-awful song I Love L.A. by Randy Newman, (actually the video is a very good example of what I’m talking about…let’s watch, hopefully your eyes won’t bleed)

or California Girls by either David Lee Roth or the Beach Boys…or actually anything by the Beach Boys, now that I think of it…will be playing. This draws you in by creating the illusion of prosperity, tropical climate, and fun times (*two thumbs up
á la Fonzi*)! WHOOOOOHOOOOOO! This place RAWKS!!! “I feel like a movie star already” you will be thinking to yourself, and this will be further propelled by the star-striking iconography of constant images of Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, James Dean, etc., not to mention the bombardment of billboard advertising of movies and television shows being crammed down your optical nerves. This is (you must trust me on this my dear Gothlings, I worked in the “Biz” for over ten years) all very deliberate and calculated to suck you in!

Now, the few times I was there, for several weeks at a time, it wasn’t the “A” list treatment, granted…maybe “B” list; however, I did go to several posh restaurants, attended exclusive events presented by the Academy of Motion Picture Art & Sciences (not the Oscars, but the same people), and met quite a few prominent actors, agents (scum of the earth, those people), producers, directors, etc., especially in the classic film realm in which I worked in. I even got to meet and befriend Robert Stack and Charlton Heston (I’ll save a great story about them for another blog post). “Wow! This is the life! Everything is awesome here,” I almost thought. After several meetings with “The Powers That Be” over the roster of projects that we were trying to get off the ground, it soon became apparent to me (maybe because of my New York bred cynicism and skepticism) that everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, in this city from the hotel maid to the twenty-two year old “Executive” who feels forced to shake your hand and offer a fake smile because his/her job depends on it, is trying some how to, not only take advantage of you, but to fuck you over!

Joke time!!! One of my favorite jokes I used to tell on the set of film shoots while we were waiting for a set-up change: Two Hollywood Producers are standing around a film set when a beautiful and sexy Production Assistant walks past them and offers a smile. As she walks away, one Producer turns to the other and says, “Wow! I sure would love to fuck her!” The other producer turns and asks, “Oh yeah? Out of what?”

IT’S FUNNY ‘CAUSE IT’S TRUE!!!

Where was I? Oh yeah! After a while, if you are a bright and observant person (as I know you are) you should notice that all of those around you that reside in Los Angeles are rather “Plastique” and/or have a phony edge to them. Between the fake breast implants, the artificial or real tans that turn them an unhealthy and leathery shade of orange, the overpriced fashions, the overuse of cell phones, the snooty pretension, or the racially divided angst, this putrid city indeed generates a strange vibe that creates more nightmares than dreams for those who are naïve enough to fall for its lure of “artistic opportunity.” You’ve heard of “Dog Eat Dog,” right? Well the denizens of this city will eat the dog that ate the dog and consider it a career move! In that respect, there is a fantastic book penned by Lynda Obst whose title sums it up: Hello, He Lied — and Other Tales from the Hollywood Trenches, and it is chock full of horrific true tales of the Hollywood meat-grinder. Moreover, films such as L.A. Story, Clueless, and Crash are more documentaries of the entire Los Angeles experience rather that a narrative take on it…yeah…it’s that bad!

In the course of my spewing discontent toward L.A., I’m sure I offended more than my fair share of those who do indeed live in that gangland infested, earthquake prone, silicon & collagen obsessed, steroids taking, poolboy screwing, car driving, sunglasses wearing, porno making, traffic loving, Roe-day-Oh Drive shopping, racial segregating, showbiz fixated, piece of shit city!!! *pant*pant*pant* With that said, I now want to address the issue that Gothic Beauty Magazine this year awarded Los angles the “Top Goth City” slot in it’s yearly survey. W.T.F?!?! Now, I don’t expect New York City to be the Gothiest town of all time (I’m working on it), even if we were ranked #1 the year before (we’re still scratching our heads about that one…Seattle, London, fine…but…whatever). I just don’t understand how there is a such supposedly strong Goth scene in a city that is all about sunshine, peroxide, phoniness, and a plethora of things our scene simply does not stand for! It might work well for Elvira (a.k.a Cassandra Perterson) and others that eek (not a typo) out a living on the campy horror films that Hammer Films, Ed Wood, and Universal Studios created which in turn help fuel the Goth Culture…I won’t deny that. 

“EEEEAST COOOAAASSST VS. WEEEEESSSST COOOAAAST!!! YO HOLLA!!!” is not what I am trying to accomplish here. The last thing I need is to be gunned down like a Hip-Hop rapper over coast war bullshit. And to the friend(s) that are determined to head off to that curs-ed coast, I will state, yet again: “I am not your father, husband, brother, nor your boyfriend, so it is definitely not my place to tell you whether you should go out west or not for your “artistic opportunities.” My only hope is that you don’t end up on a casting couch, in a porn film, or even marginally taken advantage of. Other than that…good luck in the City of (lost) Angeles. I will miss you dearly, and it has been really nice knowing you…I don’t converse with those who live “out there.” HMMPH!!!

And with all of that off my chest, I want to end this blog post on a light note with yet another, and final joke about the Los Angeles Police Department (don’t beat me!), which I hope you will enjoy:

The LAPD, the FBI, and CIA were each determined to prove that they were the best at apprehending criminals. So President Obama decided to give each of them a test. He released a white rabbit in a forest and each organization had a turn to catch it.
The CIA went in first. They placed animal informants throughout the forest and questioned all plant and mineral witnesses. After three months of extensive investigation, they concluded that white rabbits don’t exist.
Next it was the FBI’s turn. After two weeks with no leads, they set fire to the forest, killing everything in it, including the white rabbit. They remained unrepentant for their actions, maintaining that the rabbit had provoked them.
Finally, after finding a fresh rabbit and forest, the LAPD went in. They came out an hour and a half later dragging a badly beaten brown bear. The bear was yelling, “O.K.! O.K.! I’m a rabbit! I’M A RABBIT!!!”

See you in the Dark!
Sir William Welles

Greetings my dear Gothlings!

It was said of me, a few months ago (by whom I don’t know), to a friend of mine, that I was not at all spiritual and thus was considered “undatable.” Now, while it is true that I am not a very spiritual man, I am probably “undatable” for a whole other slew of reasons. LOL! But seriously, even though I lack spirituality, I do however respect it…contrary to say, religion. Moreover, I am certainly a fan of philosophy. That is why, in part, I respect spirituality, because it is grounded in philosophy, whereas (to me) religion is grounded in fairy tales created to reinforce rules and laws in order to keep a populace in check. With that said, I didn’t want to turn this blog post into an anti-religion rant (for those who must know: yes, I am an Atheist *gasp!*).

The reason for this post is to explain to you my “philosophy” behind the meaning of Life. That’s right! I said it! I’m going to explain to you the meaning of LIFE!!! And who better than an nonspiritual Goth, who romanticizes death is better qualified to do so? So, without further ado, here it is:

Life, from the moment you are born until the instant you expire is a series of choices. At first, when you are but a baby drooling all over yourself, you will have most of your decisions and choice handled for you by you parent(s)/guardian(s) as you basically run on genetically provided instincts: I’m hungry! I’m thirsty! I want to pee! I want to poo! I want to sleep! I want to put shiny thing in my mouth! And that’s about it for the next two years or so. Do you know why they call ”The Terrible Twos” the terrible twos? It’s because that is when infants start to make their own, albeit small, life choices…it’s that first spurt of independent thinking, thus making them terrible brats. Children are very, very selfish little beings. From that time on (and including the second spurt of independent thinking in the teen years — that’s when some Goths bloom), every micro-decision will domino effect onto other decisions that will ultimately map out every individual’s life. Choices as minute as: “Should I do the laundry today?” “Shall I look at my watch to see what time it is?” “Will I go to sleep at 11pm tonight to wake up early the next morning?” “How many cookies should I eat?” “Do I get out of bed now, or in 5 minutes?” all have significance and lead up to (either directly or indirectly) other decisions as the individual’s life progresses. Then there are major decisions to tackle, such as: “Should I ask her/him to marry me?” “Will I try cocaine for the first time?” “Should I move clear across the country and leave all of those who care for me behind for the sake of a career opportunity?” “Which college is best for me?” “Should I give into passion and have unprotected sex with him/her right now?” and so on.

What you have to understand here is that every decision, whether minute, major, of somewhere in between, takes you down a path from point A, to point B, to Point C, and onward until point Z, and thus each choice warrants its own consequence. The only real shame and kink in my philosophy is when others than yourself makes a decision for you in which you have no control over. For example: a drunk driver chose to drink “just one more beer/wine/shot,” chose to drive home, chose to start the car, chose what route he/she would take…and then plows into an oncoming car and kills other individuals whose choices that lead them up to that precise instant did not choose to end their lives.

At this point you are most likely scratching your heads and muttering to yourselves, “Uhh…this doesn’t explain the meaning of Life! What gives?!?” No. My philosophy of Life being a series of choices does not define it, it merely describes it. The actual “Meaning of Life” (I must warn you now that a majority of you will be quite disappointed in my very simple, yet quite realistic response) is to take all of the appropriate decisions, be they good or evil, successful or failed, selfish or selfless, and survive long enough (either in a modern urban environment, or in a mud-hut in the jungle) to pass along your genetic information to your potential offspring and thus keep your species going. Point blank.

Yup. That’s it. Nothing too mind blowing, huh? But in a nutshell, that is what every member of Flora and Fauna (yes, including you) instinctively strives for. Think about it…every choice you make, what to eat, when to cross the street, what to wear, what career path to take, who to ask out on a date, are all simply choices that allow you to survive long enough and to hopefully attract someone to which you can procreate with, and further the Life cycle. There is no “God’s Plan” or other coined term that conveniently shrugs off reality. Some of you are disagreeing with me right now, I can feel it. You are saying: “what about people who can’t or don’t want children, huh? I just found a flaw in your way of thinking.” No, no flaw. In the case of those who can’t have children because of reproductive organ issues or because they just physically can’t, as in the case of homosexuals, usually create other choices that lead them up to alternative routes such as adoption, surrogates, etc. to fulfill that instinctual need. As for those who CHOOSE to not have children (raising a child in this day in age gives me the shivers too!) did just that…chose not to have children…and that is perfectly ok, their genetic code ends with them.

For as far as you know (I mean truly know, any beliefs aside) you are in the “here and now,” and you will eventually die…like everyone and everything else that has DNA. So it is now up to you to make the best decisions and choices up until that point, and if being a spiritual or even religious person helps you along that path, so be it. Now, go out and play nice in the traffic!

See you in the Dark!
Sir William (didn’t mean to bum you out) Welles

I simply have…got…to…tell…*pant*pant*pant*…tell you what happened to me last night!!!!!!! You are not going to believe this!

I was to meet an old friend (not of the Goth scene) from High School, at the bar of the W Hotel (I don’t’ believe that the “W” stand for William, nor Welles, unfortunately…pressing on…) on Lexington Avenue between 49th and 50th Street. Now this bar has a certain reputation to be quite posh, trendy, expensive, snooty, what-have-you, etc., so, I’m waiting in this place with my $15.00 glass of white wine in my hand and feeling the glares and stares of the tourists and yuppies present there. *Sigh* As to quote the tweens: “Whatevuh!”

So here is when things get truly bizarre (why do these things keep happening to me?)! I notice a sixty/seventy-odd-year old woman peering at me. No…not just peering…more like reeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaly staring at me! I avoid eye contact, naturally, but I can still feel her gaze upon me. Now I start to have weird thoughts like: Maybe this elderly woman is in town for the week…is feeling rather randy…and has a stupid Dracula/TrueBlood/Twilight/Buffy-the-fucking-Vampire-Slayer sex fantasy she needs to fulfill while she is away from her husband! EEEEWWWWW!!! NO.
I concentrate on my overpriced glass of wine…cringing.

The next thing I know, this woman is suddenly sitting directly across from me in the recently vacant chair at my table originally set for two. She actually startled me! She was just smiling at me like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. Just plain creepy!!!!!!!

“Uhhh….may I help you?” I ask her in a respectful manner.
“Oh! Please pardon me,” she replies in a soft voice, “It’s just that you remind me so much of my son. His name was Kevin. He was also a Goth and looked very similar to you!”

O.K., strange, but I am somewhat a polite individual. I say, “Why, thank you, Ma’am; but you said was when speaking of your son…is he not part of the Goth scene any longer?”
“Oh! Dear no,” she exclaims, “He died over six years ago!” How sad…for her, I thought…foolishly.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Ma’am,” I reply sympathetically, “I didn’t mean to stir up anything negative…”
She cuts me off, “Oh! Don’t be silly, Kevin! You didn’t mean me any harm.”

What the…? I return, “Sorry, my name is William…Sir William, to be exact.”
She SHOUTS back to me: “Oh Kevin! I’m so sorry if I angered you! Please forgive me!”
WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? I even think she was crying a little bit!

I say, “Uhh…lady, again…my name is not Kevin…it’s William…and I would appreciate if you would go now.” I catch the eye of the waitress that served my $15.00 glass of wine and give her a $20.00 bill…keep the change, I motion to her like a skilled sign language interpreter. The crazy old lady keeps rambling on, now causing a major scene in this elite bar: “Kevin! Why don’t you love me?!? Why won’t you you call your MOTHER?!?!?! Don’t you love your Mommy?!?!?!? WHY, KEVIN?!?!?! WHY?!?!?!?!?!!?!

Everyone in this bar is now seriously staring at us! Moreover, they are all looking at me as if i just kicked this “kindly” old lady in the ass and raped her cat!

The only thing that came to my mind, at that instant, was to high-tail it out of that place by any means necessary…weather or not I was going to stand up my old friend…this crazy woman was…JUST FUCKING CRAZY!!!!!

As I am bolting out of the bar, with everyone gawking at me, she is running after me yelling, ” KEVIN! KEVIN! Why do you hate me?!? KEVIN! I’VE KILLED YOU ONCE, I CAN KILL YOU AGAIN!!!

UN-HOE-LEE-FUC-KING-SHEE-IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Luckily, right in front of the W hotel are scores of taxi cabs waiting for a fare. I dart out of the large front doors and dive into the first cab I see!

I try to close the door of the cab, but this crazy-ass bitch is on top of me, grabbing my left leg and yelling, “KEVIIIIIINNN!!!! DON’T GO!!! DON’T LEAVE ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!” And I am yelling back,  “YOU CRAZY BITCH! LET GO OF MY LEG!!! LET GO!!!!!! AND SHE IS PULLING ON MY LEG, SCREAMING, AND PULLING ON MY LEG…

…just like I am pulling your leg!!!

See you in the Dark!
Sir William Welles

Greetings my dear Gothlings!

Last night I was fortunate enough to be accompanied by Zoe (here from England doing research on the Goth scene for her PhD!) in going to Underworld. I was glad to see that it was very well attending. Being that Underworld is on every other Wednesday night, sometimes the crowd is very weak in numbers and I always feel bad when it does for them considering the venue is perfect for our scene. It was good to see all the familiar faces, as well as some new ones too…that is…some new faces. Let me explain:

Within the darkly clad crowd there were six individuals that…that…well…Let’s just say they walked through the wrong door (read: Day-Crawlers)! Now, don’t get me wrong, Underworld is an event that doesn’t enforce a dress code and I even encourage those outside of the scene who are curious to go to this event, BUT(!!!), I also suggest that those people be respectful of our scene and at least wear black jeans and a black tee-shirt. What I witnessed last night was anything but.

These six individuals (4 dudes, 1 short-shorts wearing girl, and 1 butch lesbian (it think), already pretty drunk by 11:30pm) were huddled by the back corner of the bar or dancing sloppily close by. Pretty soon it started…while they danced as if they were in a house/techno club (Ironically enough, the venue there, The Sullivan Room, is a house/techno club the rest of the nights), they started to scream out the “Fratboy mating call” WHOOOOOHOOOOOOO!!! Followed by a loud and piercing whistle as if they were at a football game. Needless to say, numerous squinted eyes were upon them. I joked with those around me that they were the “hired entertainment,” kind of like a sick and twisted go-go concept. Then…things got even stranger…

I don’t know which Dj did so, Aengel, Templar, V-Christ, or Bride of Wire, but one of them put on the theme song to TrueBlood, Bad Things by Jace Everett. Now, in my opinion, the opening title sequence is the only best part about that show (but it’s supposed to be campy! I know, I know). Even for a southern, twangy, country song, it’s a pretty cool song, although I always thought the chorus lyric should be “I want to do bad things TO you.” Anyways, as soon as the first few recognizable notes played most of us were like “Huh?” with that confused head tilting thing dogs do, but the six individuals in question screamed like schoolgirls at prom when a Jonas Brothers song starts playing!

Then…like a bolt of lightning…it hits me! These Day-Crawlers think that they are in “Fangtasia!” If you haven’t seen TrueBlood yet (your intelligence thanks you for not insulting it), Fangtasia is a Vampire bar in the show. Funnily enough, the first time they show you the interior of the club in the show, I remember thinking to myself, “Ha! It’s like where I go every night in the scene!” But that’s just it! Someone in the group, at one point during the night, suggested something like “Hey guys! You wanna go to a Vampire club like in TrueBlood?” to which someone in that group would have replied, “There no place like that here in the city!” and then the response would be: “There sure is! I found one in the Village going on tonight! Let’s go! It’ll be soooooooo coooooool!!!” I just hope that my very own website wasn’t a facilitator of this idiocy!

See you in the Dark!
Sir William Welles

Quite a few of you that attended my “Cannibal Zombie Luau” several weeks ago, were rather bowled over by my chili recipe (yes…I can cook). So, without further ado, here is the recipe:

CHILI CON CARNAGE!

2 tablespoons of vegetable oil (side note: NEVER, EVER cook with Olive Oil. NEVER!!!)
1 large onion (yellow or white), finely chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced (Insert stupid Vampire joke here)
1 pound of lean ground beef
1/2 cup of tomato sauce (nothing fancy…just plain)
3 tablespoons of ketchup
1 tablespoon of red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon of pure chili powder
1 tablespoon of Tabasco sauce, or more to taste (optional)
1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon, or more to taste
1 teaspoon of dried oregano
1 teaspoon of unsweetened cocoa powder (That’s right! I said Cocoa Powder!!!)
1 teaspoon of ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon of ground cloves (NO! Not Clove Cigarettes!!!)
1/4 teaspoon of ground allspice
Coarse salt and fresh ground pepper to taste
1 large can of Bush’s country-style baked beans

Git yerself one of ‘em large sauce cookin’ pots (Dropping yokel-local accent now). Heat the oil in the pot/sauce pan, or in a large skillet, over a medium heat. Add in the chopped onion and minced garlic and cook, while occasionally stirring, until lightly browned. Increase the heat to high and drop in your pound of beef (*giggle*) into the pot. With a wooden spoon, crumble the beef until it begins to brown. Take notice of the subtle sizzle that occurs when dirty flesh meets intense heat as it sears away….*ahem*…*cough*cough*…back on track…When the ground beef has turned from red, to gray, and then to slightly brown, stir in your spices and sauces: the tomato sauce, ketchup, vinegar, chili powder, cinnamon, oregano, cocoa powder (don’t you start with me again…), cumin, cloves, and allspice. Open the can of baked beans (you can’t imagine how many people fail to realize this step on their own), and pour the baked beans into the pot. Mix well. Bring the Chili to a boil, then reduce the heat and let it simmer gently until it’s thick (not too soupy) and flavorful, about 30 minutes. Taste for seasoning, adding the salt and ground pepper to your liking, and a dash or smidgen of any other spices from the ingredient list you might want to taste more of. This chili is highly seasoned, however it is a tad on the sweet side…and is unlike your typical burn-your-face-off variety…that’s what makes it so especially good! But, you could add, or have ready on the side, your favorite hot-sauce if you want to make it hotter. This chili can be covered and refrigerated for up to 3 days or frozen up to a month.

SERVES SIX TO EIGHT PEOPLE

This chili be served with Tostitos Scoops tortilla chips, on hot dogs, or eat it straight out of the pot for all I care!!!

Enjoy!

See you in the Dark!
Sir William (Hey! Who farted in here?!?) Welles

Greetings my dear Gothlings!

O.K., I must admit that I don’t really like going to watch movies in the theaters. I’m always cursed being surrounded by idiots speaking too loudly, slobs, and tourettes syndrome children when going to the local theater…that’s why I LOVES my Blu-Ray player, 50 inch plasma television, and Netflix!

So now, at 4am, I just finished watching the first installment of the Russian Vampire hunter trilogy: Night Watch (”Nochnoy dozor” Russia, 2005)! And here is my (four year overdue) review:

“Uhh…very cool looking…but…uhh…huh?…WHAT THE FUCK?!?!”  I guess I needed lots of “Wodka” before this movie started to make sense to me.

See you in the Dark!
Sir William Welles