As we celebrate different forms of punk filmmaking today, I’d like to celebrate the King of Filth, John Waters. He is surely one of my favorite directors, but also one of my favorite humans to ever grace this universe we call home. He has been a pivotal figure in queer and transgressive cinema since the 1960s and has garnered cult status because of it. He’s also HILARIOUS. Some of his films include: Mondo Trasho, Multiple Maniacs, Pink Flamingos, Female Trouble, Desperate Living, Polyester, Hairspray, Cry-Baby, Serial Mom, Pecker, Cecil B. Demented (MY PERSONAL FAVORITE), and A Dirty Shame. Also his favorite film of all time is Pasolini’s Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975). Go look it up, thank me later.
Another fantastic piece of news regarding Waters, his hard-to-find film Multiple Maniacs has been deemed fit for restoration by Janus Films who are responsible for The Criterion Collection! Hopefully we can see a blu-ray release chocked full of amazing extras in the near future.
Now I will leave you with some of the wonderful wisdom that has been uttered by this truly wonderful man:
“Get more out of life, see a fucked up movie.”
“Without obsession, life is nothing.”
“I thank God I was raised Catholic, so sex will always be dirty.”
“I stopped taking drugs when I realized that pot smelled bad and LSD trips were becoming like TV reruns. I had had enough inner journeys — I felt I knew myself well enough, thank you.”
“We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.”
“I’ve always said that in the film world you have to pretend eight million people are gonna love it and in the art world, if eight million people love it, it’s really BAD. So it’s the reverse aesthetic, in a way.”
“’How could you think of such awful things?’ liberal critics always ask. ‘How else could I possibly amuse myself?’ I always wonder.”
“To me, bad taste is what entertainment is all about. If someone vomits while watching one of my films, it’s like getting a standing ovation. But one must remember that there is such a thing as good bad taste and bad bad taste.”
“Unfortunately I think that ‘The Golden Age of Trash’ is over. I think hardcore (porn) ruined it, and I think Hollywood co-opting violence ruined it. Because those were the two things that you really couldn’t have, and what was the staple of all drive-in movies was sex and violence. Now Hollywood makes them, so there’s no rules left to be broken.”
“My porn name, if you’re supposed to take your middle name and the name of the street you grew up on, would be Samuel Clark. That’s not a very good porn name.”
“Going to a sensational murder trial is the only way I can relax.”
“If you’re not sure you could love your children, please don’t have them, because they might grow up and kill us.”
“Maybe it’s time that we use humor for political actions. If there’s a local politician against gay marriage, let’s send scary drag queens to his house to yell fashion insults at his wife.”
“If you’re in Hollywood and you’ve taken a script to the studios and they say it’s too gay, well get your gay screenwriter friends and go back to the studio and yell out the grosses of all their hetero flops.”
“I’ve been called the Pope of Trash… I’ve been milking that title for years, and maybe that’s why I feel infallible.”
“I pride myself on the fact that my work has no socially redeeming value.”
Synthwave/vaporwave mix for chill rides at night with friends or if its just yourself and a body in the back.
track list; i.
Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number Soundtrack - Roller Mobster / ii.
Kavinsky - Roadgame / iii.
The Midnight - Nighthawks / iv.
Power Glove - Nightforce
Multipac & Flashworx Mix - Summer of 1984/ vi.
MACINTOSH PLUS - リサフランク420 / 現代のコンピュー
Porter Robinson & Madeon - Shelter/ viii.
Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number Soundtrack - Run
James Blake - Retrograde / x.
jinsang - Summer’s Day/ xi.
HOME - Resonance/ xii.
Ab Soul ft. Kendrick Lamar - Illuminate
Le Matos “King’s Filth”
Magic Sword - Sword Of Truth/ xv.
Magic Sword - The Curse
for @popliar (tumblr ate the ask?) who wanted junghope, 11pm, blue:
It was no secret that Jeongguk like to stay up late playing video games. He liked to think that they helped keep his reflexes and hand-eye coordination sharp. Plus, it was always great to kick his hyungs’ asses at something, which was often.
It was late enough that he was playing with his headset on to hear the game sound even though he wasn’t using the mic for game chat. The flickering blue of the television was the only light in his room, door swung open to catch a little light from the hallway.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jeongguk saw Hoseok walk by with a bowl in his hand, probably fruit, if his knowledge of Hoseok’s night time snacking habits was correct.
“Hyung!” Jeongguk called out and he held his mouth open in expectation keeping his eyes on the game.
He could hear Hoseok stop and sigh, but then a second later a grape was landing in Jeongguk’s mouth. He smiled as he chewed.
The match finally ended and Jeongguk put his controller in his lap, turning his head to look at Hoseok leaning in his doorway. Hoseok’s hair was damp from a shower and he looked comfortable and tired in his loose t-shirt and shorts, ready for bed. Jeongguk opened his mouth for another grape and this time he could see Hoseok’s eye roll before he threw another one. Jeongguk had to lean to catch it, making a satisfied noise when he was successful, smacking his lips together.
“You know,” Hoseok said, voice low enough that Jeongguk had to take off his headset to hear him clearly. “My room’s empty,” Hoseok continued, raising his eyebrows and ruining the look of fake innocence on his face. He ate a grape and Jeongguk found himself watching Hoseok’s fingers.
This thing between them was still new, starting when Jeongguk had finally worked up the nerve to kiss Hoseok in the dance studio, when they were sweaty and exhausted one night after practice. He had felt so awkward, like the proverbial bull in the china shop until Hoseok had put his hand on Jeongguk’s neck, stopping him. Jeongguk had been worried that Hoseok would push him away and say thanks, but no thanks. Instead, Hoseok had kissed him back, slow and gentle, thumb swiping back and forth on Jeongguk’s throat. They had kissed until Jeongguk felt like he’d been cracked open, until he had melted and seeped through Hoseok’s fingers into a very aroused pile of mush on the floor.
Normally, he’d play for another hour or two before he’d even think about going to bed, but given the chance to make out on Hoseok’s bed instead, he’ll take that option every time. He picked up his controller to quit out of the game and got up to turn off the television. It left the room dark, Hoseok’s silhouette outlined in his doorway by the dim hallway light.
Jeongguk moved to walk past Hoseok, but he stopped Jeongguk with a hand on his chest. Jeongguk wanted to push into it, see how firm Hoseok could be, how hard he could push back, but then there was a grape being pressed to his lips.
They had only made out a few times since that night in the studio, but Jeongguk found himself wanting to curl his tongue and pull Hoseok’s fingers into his mouth, to see if he could suck on them hard enough to make Hoseok hiss. He resisted the urge for now, taking the grape with a nip of his teeth. Hoseok smirked at him, shifting the bowl between his hands so he could smack Jeongguk’s ass, pushing Jeongguk towards his room.
Jeongguk grinned as he stole the bowl from Hoseok’s hand and ignored Hoseok’s protests as he walked down the hallway.
Some Tristhad for Tristhad Week: Offer Up at AO3 (6.5k)
For the wonderful @loshka, who gave me the prompt of galahad initiating an orgy with a bunch of roman soldiers in the tavern where tristan is trying to eat which I loved and which has become, honestly, one of the filthiest things i have ever written ever…
From over in the more bustling part of the fort’s courtyard, rising between the clash of bowls and click of dice, and the grumbling and boasting of warriors at rest, comes the loud, raucous cackle of Galahad’s laughter, and then a harsh clatter – he’s standing up, and his kicked his stool over.
Tristan, sitting in a quiet, shadowed corner, isn’t close enough to see the boy’s eyes. But he knows that they will still be shining too brightly - fever-sparkling, fierce with all his strangeness.
Sipping his ale, Tristan tilts back his head and allows himself the indulgence of a sigh, here in his own patch of darkness where none can see.
Not that anyone is looking at him, most especially not Galahad, who has all day – all week, all month, always – made a big show of when he looks at Tristan and when he very purposefully does not.
Sometimes this can be amusing. But today was long and cold and bloody – nothing special, and the worse for it, just a grim grind, more ice-cold mud than anything, thought the brief bloody parts stick with barbs in his memory – and Tristan does not have the patience for being loathed or poked at any more at present.
Five Woads, Tristan killed today. Warriors, or would-be warriors, or perhaps just people frightened and stirred up and running out of choice.
Twenty-three attackers altogether fell upon the patrol when they tried to pass through the valley, and it had been a desperate group, for whatever reason. No time, of course, between attack and reaction, to determine if it had been driven by some particular goal or fear.
Such episodes are only growing more common, these past months. Tristan needs to speak to Arthur about that, about what it portends.
Across the courtyard, Galahad has now smashed his pottery mug on the ground, shouting something in anger or irritation at whoever it is he’s cornered to talk to now. Tristan looks over despite himself – Dagonet is the one who’s listening and nodding, his hands full with Bors’ youngest whilst Kelda sees to the tables.
During the long ride back to the fort in the bitter wind, Galahad had argued with Gawain and Lancelot about the rights and wrongs of killing in the cause of defeat. Which is to say that Galahad had expressed opinions that were more Roman and more Christian in their origin than he would ever likely admit, and Gawain and Lancelot hadn’t bothered to do more than retort idly back at him in response. Galahad likes to speak of good and evil, Tristan has long learned, as though his tunic skirts make him a priest indeed, with some power to pronounce on the rest of them.
And Galahad had certainly pronounced then, and loudly, and had kept looking back to where Tristan rode some way behind the little knot of would-be philosophers, as if daring a response.
Half the time – most of the time – being the embodiment of Galahad’s distaste amuses Tristan and he feeds it idly with insults and insinuations, but today was too long, too much, one time too many. Despite what Galahad might think, Tristan is not the only man who has ever killed another, and killing well, efficiently, swiftly, is nothing for which anyone of sense should feel ashamed.
Oh, Tristan can relish a kill, can find a certain satisfaction in victory at its most absolute, but a killing is like a meal, and may be sour or ill-timed or inadequate or gratuitous or sickening, even as it can be nourishing.
And - to extend the comparison - both can be improved or ruined by the company in which they occur, and Galahad is no good for Tristan’s digestion.
As they had ridden homewards, Tristan had begun to tense himself more than once to set his heels to his horse’s flanks and speed on to meet Galahad’s words and looks in person, and tell him to close his mouth or let Tristan close it for him, and give them all some peace.
But that was what Galahad had wanted, and Tristan is not in the business of giving Galahad what he wants.