Saturday, January 25, 2003

Someone's Left The Cake Out In The Rain

I took a trip to Blackpool last night. Blackpool is my local tawdry seaside resort, where packs of drunk women on hen-nights roam the streets, singing whatever song is currently top of the charts. It's also where all of the British people who can't afford to go abroad, go on holiday. I've had a love-hate relationship with the place since I was 5, and always feel a little bit excited when I arrive.

Blackpool's gay scene is very vibrant and raccuous. We stopped off first at a place called Funny Girls, which has recently moved premises, having taken over an old cinema. The last time I tried to get in, I wasn't allowed because my friend was wearing shorts. They have a strict dress code, which is ironic, because Funny Girls is a place where most of the bar-staff and entertainers are in drag. You'd think that a place that celebrates allowing people to wear whatever they want wouldn't be bothered by someone in shorts, but there you go - it's all part of the strangely contradictory gay scene. Funny Girls isn't really that gay to be honest. A lot of the clientele are straight people - they ogle at the "edgy" men-in-frocks entertainment, and the DJ insults them. British Northern drag queen humour is about the scariest, sharpest and most ferocious in the world. The girl I was with is very pretty and slim, and I think we were mistaken for a heterosexual couple. This stirred interest among some of the drag queens, who gestured for me to ditch the 'wife'. The entertainment was at least competent - one song involved a description of every actress who had ever performed Hello Dolly, complete with impersonations. The drag queens of grotty Blackpool have created a weird alternative reality, based upon Old Hollywood Values, glamour and cheap sentiment. "I did it my way" was the finale of the show, sung without irony.

Afterwards, we went to Flamingo's - four floors of hedonism and loud thumping music that I've never really understood. I sulked on the balcony, until a random person grabbed my bottom and told me to cheer up. I ignored him - I reserve my right to be miserable in these places. Then I made the mistake of standing next to a crazy person. From Glasgow. He had the hugest face and body I've ever seen. He was dancing on the spot and kept bumping into me. He then started making lots of weird hand movements and flashing his teeth at me. I decided to try and make an effort and talk to him. He was only able to say two things. First, pointing at a blonde girl dancing on a podium "That's my daughter!" And then "She's Donna Summer!" In the end, one of the bouncers dragged him away from me. But seconds later he bounded back, as proud as ever of his "daughter", "Donna Summer", and intent on telling me every ten seconds. I always end up with the crazies. It's a special talent I have.

There were two very attractive young men in their late teens or early twenties who were dancing on the stage next to the dance floor all night. One of them had taken his shirt off. When I am nightclubs I generally get so bored that I start making up little life histories about everyone. I decided that they both called Matt and tonight they were celebrating having been a couple for exactly two weeks and that the whole place was just for them, and that everybody else was judged on how close they were able to approximate the ideal. I tried to imagine what they would look like in ten years time, whether they would be considering hair plugs, or whether they'd still feel like dancing. I shouldn't really go out on the gay scene.

In the end, I decided to join in with everyone else and dance - it's hard to keep up the sulky act ALL night. My friend told me afterwards that I dance like James Dean. I think she was just being nice though. I hope Donna Summer and her father got back home to their hotel OK. Celebrities can't be too careful walking around the streets late at night.

Friday, January 24, 2003

In light of the Queen's wonderful trouser suit incident last week, I've been wondering which Royal has the most outrageous fashion sense, and what do their clothes tell us about their TRUE SELVES?

What is Edward trying to tell us with this glossy, rather American-looking picture? The hand position suggests he's trying to do the "poor man's face-lift", drawing back the baggy skin to make him look like the young chicken he once was. And what's that big ring on the little finger all about? Mental note - dark colours aren't always slimming...

Ah, the young Princes. But what's going on? What sort of sport forces you to dress like a kinky catalogue model from the 1980s? Few people can pull off primary colours, so it's probably best to stick to a nice safe sport where clothes don't matter, like Scrabble.

Poor Princess Anne. She never gets it quite right does she? This picture looks like she's wandered into some public function in her quilted dressing gown again. As for that hairstyle - quiffs went out with Cliff Richard. Get over it!

Well, it's nice to know that the Royal Knickers are kept so Spotlessly Clean. That waistband is a little high and tight though. Charles needs to be careful - tight underwear can decrease your sperm count. He still may be called on to provide new heirs if anything (god forbid) happens to William and Harry.

And the winner is....

The Queen. Not afraid to be iconoclastical when she feels it necessary to prove a point, her bold trouser-suit combination with casually tied head-scarf ensemble is stylish, sassy and informal - like she's just popped down the market to buy some broken biscuits, but still has her pride. 10/10!

Thursday, January 23, 2003

How often do you think about your first time on t'internet, and what life was like before it? Mine was in 1995 I think. The web had fewer pictures and a lot less advertising then. Spam hadn't really started yet. I remember being very excited about the idea of community, subscribing to lots of bulletin boards, and finding the usenet phenomenon to be absolutely fascinating. The first time I ever saw the web was when my friend, a computer science PhD student, showed me a gallery of photos from soc.motts (members of the same sex). I couldn't believe that actual gay people would post up their photos and email addresses for anyone to see (how things have come on since then - you can't open your email account now without free p*rn spam - or someone sending you a picture of their cock). I actually emailed one of those guys - an American wearing a white vest that showed off his big muscles. My first internet crush. It was odd contacting someone out of the blue, someone who looked like a model, who I'd never meet or get a chance to talk to otherwise. Ironically, he never replied. I also used email to get in touch with a student who I fancied and knew was gay. I never would have had the courage to talk to him directly - we exchanged a couple of flirty messages, but then he moved to another city and I never heard from him again.

So, like many other people, my fascination with the web began as something that was vaguely sexual, albeit in a rather innocent way. I sent emails to a smaller set of people, that were much longer than they used to be. I used to take much longer to write emails, playing round with the wording before clicking "Send" for ages. Email used to upset me a lot more as well - I remember several times reading something that made my face burn with anger. That doesn't happen much any more - I don't think I'm more desensitised to flames, I'm just better at avoiding situations where they might happen to me. And now the emails that I receive and send are much shorter - to the point where people have complained that I come across as rather abrupt on email. Ironically, the student who I fancied years ago, emailed me out of the blue last week, after seeing a copy of a book I've written in a shop. That's the other thing about email - you can never really escape your past. Somewhere out there, archived forever, are hundreds of emails that I wrote over five years ago to various stupid newsgroups, about subjects that I am no longer interested in. The email address is long dead, as are the close friendships that I forged with dozens of people over that period. But the evidence that it all happened is still there if anyone cares to look. I don't think I like that. It's such a silly form of immortality.

Wednesday, January 22, 2003


Hardly a week goes by without the papers reporting that a new witch has been found. I'm referring to paedophiles of course, who have taken the role of the new hate figure in the UK, a job that homosexuals held during the 1950s. The internet has made it easier than ever to find the new witches - who have all been giving their credit card details to look at child porn sites. I'd argue that morally it's wrong to fund any site that produces child pornography. But I don't know if looking at a child porn site definitely makes you a witch or not. Sometimes people are a bit thick and they look at things just to see what's there without thinking about the consequences. I think it's right that people who give their credit card details should be investigated. But I find the tabloids' obsession with the lurid details to be almost as sick as what the paedophiles actually do.

The latest witch (guilty until proven innocent, but ruined whatever the outcome), is Matthew Kelly. I've never liked Matthew Kelly very much, he's an anodyne, mumsy, ultra-mainstream tv presenter. But I don't like the way that the press are handling the allegations that have been made about him. The Sun's rather homophobic headline "Wish You Were Queer" makes the usual mistake of conflating homosexuality and paedophilia together - two insinuations that have yet to be proven about Mr Kelly in any case. The media builds up our celebrities, and then it delights in bringing them down, fuelling public opinion to the point where their lives are ruined, long before criminal investigations have ended, or in some cases, even begun.

I hate the UK tabloid press - it's a reactionary, scandal-obsessed, myopic harpy, excitedly twitching a pair of net curtains to spy on the world, and more often than not, getting it wrong. It's far too concerned with printing the latest storylines in the soap operas or whipping up a new moral panic than with reporting anything really important. Incidentally, if you want to complain about the Sun's headline, then go to the Press Complaints Commission. As far as I read it, it breaches section 13 of the PCC code of conduct:

13 Discrimination i) The press must avoid prejudicial or pejorative reference to a person's race, colour, religion, sex or sexual orientation or to any physical or mental illness or disability.

ii) It must avoid publishing details of a person's race, colour, religion, sexual orientation, physical or mental illness or disability unless these are directly relevant to the story.

Saturday, January 18, 2003

Saw the Good Girl last night, which starred Jennifer Aniston playing a dowdy, put-upon, miserable mall-drone in a Texas chainstore called Rodeo Retail. Ms Aniston was good in it, showing she's more than capable of transcending the Rachel character from Friends. However, Zooey Deschanel, who played Cheryl got all the best lines. As another surly employee, she'd developed her own coping strategy which involved ambigously insulting the customers ("Fuck you very much"), particularly when making intercom announcements about special offers in a slow drawling voice, or perpetrating hideous free make-overs on startled female customers:

Attention, shoppers. There's a Retail Rodeo special on aisle 3. Liquid Drain Cleaner, 2 12-ounce cans for $5.00. Liquid Drain Cleaner has churning power and it will churn right through your pipes. Ladies, you need female plumbing. Shove something clean and new up your filthy pipes. That's Liquid Drain Cleaner on aisle 3. Have a good day and thank you for shopping at Retail Rodeo.

Happy Halloween, Retail Rodeo shoppers. There's a Retail Rodeo special on all bulk candy on aisle 4. Ghouls and goblins, witches and warlocks, wandering these aisles day after day, I put a Halloween curse on your hellish heads.

However, my favourite exchange was:

Cheryl: Sit right down here, ma'am. We're going to make you pretty. Now how do you like your hair?
Big Haired Woman: What? Are you going to do my hair?
Cheryl: No, I just need to know if that's your usual way of wearing it, all big and high. If it is, I'll just put more makeup on your chin to offset it. You're going to want to take a whole bottle of this home with you. It's got quite a lot of ingredients in it, so you're getting a good deal. It's got ginkgo extract in it. Do you know what that is?
Big Haired Woman: No.
Cheryl: It's extract of the ginkgo, and it makes your skin real slick so that any liquid will roll right off you, be it water, or lemon juice, or urine. I'll put it in a bag for you.

Thursday, January 16, 2003

Soiled Dressings

I have had gastroenteritis and spent a couple of nights in hospital. The only good thing about that illness is that they think you're infectious so you get your own room. I'll say it again, I hate doctors. On the whole, they tend to treat their patients like idiots, are unable to acknowledge that they may be wrong, and are more arrogant than High court judges, prison warders, politicians, newspaper editors and university lecturers put together. On the other hand, I'm not a very patient patient.

So the experience wasn't really that pleasant, and I experienced personality clashes with various members of staff from the moment I arrived at A+E - at 2 in the morning, vomitting and shaking in a very unglamorous way. I had a needle shoved into my arm, and was put on a drip-feed, which was switched off after 7 hours (although I was still attached to it via the needle for the next 30 hours). This was to stop me from leaving of my own accord, or from moving about too much. I was woken early every morning by a chirpy brigade of nurses who turned on all the lights and demanded to know if I wanted a cup of tea. I never drink tea in the morning so said "no thanks" politely. "Oh get him!" shrieked one elderly male nurse. "He won't have a cup of tea because we woke him up. He's having a sulk!" And it was like this, being patronised, evaded and lied to for 2 days. I had two dreams while in the ward, both involving me escaping. In one dream the nurses fixed needles to my arms and my face. I pulled them out, and then when I tried to get my clothes on, I realised they'd replaced my shoe laces with blue ones - just to be awkward. Maybe these dreams were the result of all the unneccesary drugs they'd been giving me to keep me in control.

Eventually I could bear it no longer, so I made a big scene in front of lots of visitors, and they deigned to let me leave, on the promise I would come back later to collect some medication they should have had ready for me three hours earlier. When I arrived back this evening, the camp male nurse handed me a paper bag marked "Soiled Dressings". Someone had written my name across it in a black felt tip pen. "Your medication's in here", he said dryly. Bitches. All of them.

Tuesday, January 07, 2003

I have been challenged to reveal pictures of tacky items in my home. Unfortunately, I don't have any "eternal beau" kitchen-ware. But after digging around, I've come up with the following list - and yes, I love them all.

A bottle garden - that ultra 1970s piece of plant kitsch. My parents had one - eventually everything in it dried out and died. This one seems to be doing quite well - although note how the plants are growing out of the top of it - they're clearly trying to ESCAPE...

Proudly adorning my mantlepiece is this pensioner couple, which cost £1.50 from a charity shop. Are they ironic? Are they a reminder of the council estate where I grew up, where many families owned such decorative statuettes? Or do I just like them?

Ah, the Blue Lady. No House of Kitsch would be complete without her beatific presence - The Mona Lisa of tack and a constant source of inspiration.

I've never been that comfortable with this mock fireplace in my living-room. When you turn it on, four sad little pretend flames come to life and flicker reluctantly. I tried moving it altogether, but then the mantlepiece looked oddly vacant.

My huge collection of gay magazines from the 1970s that were donated to me by an elderly nudist from Teeside. I drove miles there one Sunday, and he opened the door in a jockstrap. "It's just as well I knew you were coming," he told me. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered getting dressed!"

Can anyone beat this? Do you have a poster of a bare-chested man holding a baby from Athena skulking in your bedroom? How about a lampshade with a picture of a crying harlequinn on it? A home-made "snake" draft excluder, or the mythical object which started this all off - a toilet-roll holder in the shape of a "lady"? Confess it all here.

Groc has discovered the secret of pregnant Barbie - she could only ever give birth through Caesarian section. However, if you want fucked-up dolls, how about the Drug Affected Demonstrator baby doll from Reality Works.

Ideal for teaching kids what drug use during pregnancy can do, the DAD makes a high-pitched warbling cry recorded from a real drug-affected infant, it trembles from withdrawal symptoms, has a painful facial expression and tiny limbs. It's available in two skin tones, but unlike real drug-affected babies, it has an ON/OFF switch. After seeing that site, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. You know there's something wrong with a world where such a product has to be created...

Sunday, January 05, 2003

I recently acquired two Lamberto Bava 80s Italian horror classics on DVD: Demons and its sequel/remake Demons 2. Reviewers over at the Internet Movie Database have had a hard time deciding which one is best, so here's my cut out and keep guide.

Score out of 10
Score out of 10
Tagline"They will make cemetaries their cathedrals and cities will be your tombs." A bit pompous and naff, but reasonably scary.8"The Nightmare returns." Um. No.3
PlotA group of cinema-goers are mysteriously walled into an old picture house and are then turned into demons when real life starts to mirror the events on the screen.8Residents in a high-tech tower block are turned into demons when real life starts to mirror the events on tv.6
Best characterBobby Rhodes plays a rabble-rousing pimp with attitude - "rip out those seats and make a barricade!"8Sally the bitchy uber-1980s Birthday Girl - watch her blow out those candles - she's only slightly more likeable when she becomes a demon.6
Inappropriate names of characters?Loads. Who would call a prostitute Rosemary or name the heroes of a film George and Ken.8Again, the hero is called George.7
Sexy male leadsNot much to write home about. Ken looks like a demon even before he's turned into one. George has the biceps, but we don't get to see these until his shirt gets ripped open towards the end.5Yum. This George clearly has been working out - he climbs up an elevator shaft without breaking a sweat.8
Good linesTony the pimp: "She took off dat mask and scratched herself, Candi... because of dat scratch she became a DEMON, an instrument of EVIL, just like they said in the movie, you heard them. Right? Right??? We've got to stop it! We've got to stop the movie!"8Some painfully psuedo-scientific explanations: "It’s a demon claw! I heard that they spread their contagion through scratches made by their claws."6
Moral message?Reasonable - whores and pimps get turned into demons first.6Very moral - only the married and heavily pregant couple survive. Even children die in this film!9
Inexplicable plot linesYou bet! A helicopter crashes through the roof of the cinema for no reason at one point.6Almost no plot to speak of - one group of characters drive around in a car for the whole film, for NO reason and NOTHING happens to them!5
Not so special effectsWatch Rosemary's yellow pus-filled boil swell up and then explode all over the bathroom mirror!8The demon-dog is just wrong - like something you'd win at the carnival.5
Kickin' sound trackYes! Cruise the neon-lit streets of Berlin to Billy Idol howling out "White Wedding". And if that's not enough we've got Motley Crue and Go West (!)8As well as Art of Noise and The Cult, there's also one scene where the party kids throw shapes to The Smiths. It isn't very pretty.6
Shock twist ending?Two for the price of one. The heroes escape the cinema to discover (oh no!) EVERYONE'S become a demon. And as the credits roll the hero's girlfriend spouts demon fangs and gets blown away.8Not really - the hero gets to smash lots of television screens and... then it's all over. What?4
TotalGround-breaking nonsense.81All very well, but does it add anything more?65

Saturday, January 04, 2003

Time to clean out the closet

Saw Star Trek Nemesis last night and was unable to concentrate on the plot much because of the people around me - the man sitting next to me had the worst heavy breathing/sniffing issues I've ever encountered. And the man behind me was a talker. During an advert for Eminem's new film he hissed "faggot!" at the screen. I was tempted to point out that Eminem is rather homophobic himself so to all intents and purposes they're on the same side, but instead I made do with sitting as high up in my seat as I could, so that his view was spoilt for the remainder of the film.

Casual homophobia seems particularly rife at the moment - especially among young males - the word "gay" as been re-reclaimed to mean "lame", and not a week goes by without the likes of Ricky Gervais making a flippant anti-gay joke. Rap lyrics tell us it's OK to burn the "battyman", and I heard one group of young men in the street guffawing at the word "gayboy" today. To channel Carrie Bradshaw for a second, is homophobia the new black (racism)? I've heard all the arguments before, straight men, feeling demasculinised and with no proper role models left, can only express their identities by denigrating other identities. The ironic, hedonistic, me-first "lad" identity is the only acceptable one that's on offer in the media, and it's increasingly spreading to all walks of life - note how many tv adverts show people (mothers as well as young men) being "hilariously" selfish now in order to get their own way. Like the current "Wycliff in prison" advert where he's afraid to pick up the soap in the shower, random homophobia is therefore not taken seriously, it's just the lads 'avin' a laff innit.

My theory is that this current jokey spate of homophobia is the last gasp of the closet cases. Give it a couple more decades and like Eminem, they'll have cleaned out their closets and be stalking the internet chatrooms vainly seeking "str8-acting men for hot fun". And in a few more decades, when the stigma of sexuality is removed altogether, straight male friends will have recreational casual sex with each other all the time - it'll be blokey, have a lot to do with maintaining their little power hiearchies and little to do with emotions, but most of them will enjoy it a lot more than they'd care to admit. Why do I think this? Because studies show that most people are bisexual. Because in cultures where sexuality is not talked about, an awful lot of gay sex goes on, and it's not viewed as gay. We'll eventually return to that state, but not before we've problematised, agonised and finally sanctioned sexuality. And after all the hand-wringing, we'll probably return to not talking about it that much - it just won't be an issue.

Friday, January 03, 2003

Yesterday I thought I'd try and be intellectual and watch Presque Rien (aka Come Undone), a French film (with subtitles) about a blossoming relationship between two young men. Well, it had the impossibly beautiful Stephane Rideau in it, being naked a lot. You can't go wrong can you?

Unfortunately, the film itself was a bit slow-paced and difficult to follow, with a non-linear narrative structure. There were some nice moments, but nothing really gets explained - you never find out why the main character ends up in hospital, why he splits up with Mr Rideau (why indeed?) One problem with gay cinema is that it becomes difficult to forge a balance between giving the audience a homoerotic buzz, and trading that with something which has "artistic intergity". Presque Rien was good at both things, and ultimately, that's what makes it so frustrating to watch.

And after all the fuss in the papers about the documentary Beijing Swings, I thought I'd give being intellectual a second chance and watch it. The phrase "eating dead babies" is drag queen slang for having lipstick on your teeth. But in this documentary, one of the artists took the phrase literally, and actually did eat a dead baby. This was apparently to exploit the gap between the law and morality - cannabilism isn't illegal apparently. So how are intellectuals supposed to respond to that? Should they admire the act as a wonderful piece of performance art that makes people think and pushes back boundaries? Should they be appalled because of the lack of respect the artist has shown towards a human body? Or should they simply be bored, like a sarcastic maths teacher who's seen it all before?

I did find that section of the programme to be upsetting - and ultimately pointless. I can see what the artist was trying to do, but then so what? Why bother, except just to shock people and make an easy name for yourself? It's about as artistic as Jackass, which is at least more honest because it never claims to be anything else. Anyway, artists will never impress me unless they're first able to prove that they can draw a reasonable facsimile of a horse, unaided by photos. And I don't care if that makes me sound like a 75 year old granny from Middle England. Impress me with a horse drawing - then I'll call you an artist!

Thursday, January 02, 2003

Why I Love Portmanteau Horror

As a child, I always loved what are called "portmanteau" horror films, and now I never miss an opportunity to watch them if they appear on the telly now.

1. This is a particularly 1970s British genre, although there have been American entries (notably Creepshow and Tales from the Crypt). Portmanteau horror films consist of between three and five separate stories, all bound together by some central theme, and with a very predictable twist at the end. A good game to play while watching portmanteau horror films is in spotting the famous actors (Diana Dors, Donald Pleasance, Kim Novak), as well as those hardy character actors who crop up again and again.

2. These films are very hokey, moreso than normal horror films, very easily parodied, and at least one of the stories tends to verge on comedy. The earliest one that I know of is Dead of Night, starring Googie Withers, about an architect stuck in a recurring nightmare who hears the tales of various guests at a country house. It had stories by E.F. Benson and H.G. Wells, and was influential and ground-breaking in its own right. Many of the stories in portmaneau horror films are about mystical objects that have (unexplained) powers of their own. In Dead of Night there's a magic mirror that shows you a different room when you look into it, and a ventriloquist's dummy that comes to life.

3. Some of my favourite portmanteau films are: Tales that Witness Madness set around a psychiatrist ward where we get to see the reasons why four of the patients are in there. One story involves Joan Collins whose husband becomes obsessed with a dead old tree (!) In The Uncanny, Peter Cushing's research reveals that cats have strange powers of revenge, while in From Beyond The Grave he's an antique dealer, and strange fates befall his customers who try to cheat him. Dr Terror's House of Horrors (a title that sounds like a bad parody of itself), involves tarot card reading on a train, has Peter Cushing AND Christopher Lee, and allows Roy Castle to show off his trumpet playing skills.

4.The Monster Club was an attempt to modernise the genre in 1980, and had Vincent Price as a vampire, taking a victim along to The Monster club and relating three tales about various breeds of monsters. The most notorious portmanteau horror film featured Karen Black in Trilogy of Terror. Ms Black really got to show her acting ability, playing four separate roles, although the best was saved to last when she was pursued by an evil African fetish that had come to life.

5. Portmanteau horror films are rarely very scary, they don't feature much characterisation or make you think too much. They're the horror equivalent of a tapas bar - a bit of everything but nothing particularly substantial. And it doesn't matter if you don't like one story, it'll be over in 20 minutes. Portmanteau horror films also suggest the beginnings of postmodernism in film - directors playing around with structure. Pulp Fiction is the natural extension of the portmanteau horror film.

Wednesday, January 01, 2003

A new television channel has caught my attention in recent weeks (channel 688). TDC2 (The Dating Channel 2) offers a window on the world of gay video dating. It's a little too easy to make fun of the profiles, many of whom were filmed in pubs or events like Pride, and as a result, tend to be a bit drunk or out of it. Like passport photos - nobody really comes off very well from them - it is very difficult to have a camera pointed at you and talk in a natural way about yourself without coming across as a self-absorbed, deluded character out of an Alan Bennet monologue. And taken together, the videos represent a world of which I have no experience - a world where your ideal date would be a trip to Pizza Hut, where musical tastes run the gamut from Celine Dion to Steps (but not classical), where it's acceptable to say you like "pubbing and clubbing", where your favourite colour actually matters, where you are allowed to say phrases like "largin' it", "total nutter" and "follow your dream" and where you must always only like younger and fitter men than yourself. It makes oddly addictive viewing, although for all the wrong reasons.

I once read somewhere that advertisers hardly ever show two men in a scene alone together because of the implication of a *gasp* homosexual relationship. So I am looking out with interest for the new Marmite advertising campaign, featuring the first male-male kiss in a commercial. The campaign shows a lifeguard giving the kiss of life to another man, who returns the kiss because the lifeguard's been eating Marmite. On one level it's a fun message and it's good that the media are able to push boundaries like this. However, one possible reading of the advert is - "People will do the most gross things to get their fix of marmite, even *gasp* kissing another MAN!"

Saw a refreshingly weird music video by a group called Electric 6. Their debut single "Danger! High Voltage" is reminiscient of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, with two freakish characters who have huge glowing bulges around their private parts. I predict they will be huge.