Law of the Roman Republic…

(originally a MySpace blog, but during the transfer over to this blog, I slipped up and forgot to enter the date… I’m not going  back through 20 pages of blogs on myspace to figure it out, and it’s not time-sensitive anyway)

Roman law has its beginnings in the code known as the Twelve Tables (449 BC). From there Roman law became highly advanced for its time, developing over the centuries many of the legal institutions that are taken for granted today.
Here are some excerpts from those tables:

  • “A father shall immediately put to death a son recently born, who is a monster, or has a form different from that of members of the human race.”
  • “If one has maimed another and does not buy his peace, let there be retaliation in kind.”
  • “Where anyone commits a theft by night, and having been caught in the act is killed, he is legally killed.”
  • “When a judge, or an arbiter appointed to hear a case, accepts money, or other gifts, for the purpose of influencing his decision, he shall suffer the penalty of death.”
  • “If anyone should stir up war against his country, or delivers a Roman citizen into the hands of the enemy, he shall be punished with death.”

Tampon terrorism…

(originally a MySpace blog, but during the transfer over to this blog, I slipped up and forgot to enter the date… I’m not going  back through 20 pages of blogs on myspace to figure it out, and it’s not time-sensitive anyway)
A bulletin was posted recently by a friend about tampons having asbestos in them. It’s a lie that’s been circulating around the internet since 1998. I responded with a link to the article about the subject:

My well meaning friend said in response: “…it gets women thinking about the things that they put into their body… without thinking. So myth or no myth sparking conversation and debate is important to me, especially dealing with womens issues.”

What follows is my response:
.I agree that it’s important that everyone is considerate of what they put into their bodies.
But sparking a debate based on a complete fabrication is not the way to go about it. It’s actually detrimental to any “cause” to promote lies about it.
This urban legend doesn’t seem to promote critical thinking about the hygiene of women as much as it is a  conspiratorial tale of the sinister collusion of government and “big business”.
What’s funny, is that every agency that has researched the subject has found that not only are modern tampons safe (aside from the concerns of Toxic Shock Syndrome) but that there are risks with all cotton tampons that you do not have with regular tampons. What this means is that the “organic alternative” solution is either no better or possibly worse than the ones manufactured by “big business”. The major difference between the two is that the “organic alternative” will cost you around $2.00 more per box (plus shipping if you can’t find them locally).
So in effect, what you’re doing is being a fear mongering shill for a company that charges more for a product without based in fallacious claims and vague “feel good” sentiment. This does not promote healthy intellectual debate, it stifles it with outlandish claims.
There are many lousy businesses that have done their best to lie, cheat and steal to get your last dollar. There are plenty of corrupt politicians that will take a bribe to benefit themselves over the people they are supposed to represent, and there are also well meaning folks who are willing to pass along lies unchallenged because of vague notions that it sparks debate.
If it did indeed spark debate, you would have looked into it instead of just passing it along. If it sparked debate, the message wouldn’t have continued to circulate around the internet for NINE years!
The real target of this report is not “women’s issues”, it bolsters fear and promulgate the idea that government and corporations are in cahoots to fuck over the “common woman”. It’s not true certainly in this situation, and not only is it not true – it’s a libelous statement. Not only that – but it takes away from debate and concern for actual, real, legit problems that women face!
Women’s oppression in muslim countries is real, and has real work consequences. For all the blather about women being oppressed in the United States, they’ve got nothing on the brain washing and shame and actual mutilation and murder that muslim women are subject to.
I have a pretty cynical view of the average persons ability to be reflective and considerate of truth. The continued propagation of urban myths is proof of this to me. The fact that most people believe in “god” is proof of this to me. So if you’re going to spend your time and effort advocating something you see as positive or denouncing something you think is negative, start the ball rolling and be considerate and reflective first! Fact check it!


Life At The Bottom – Theodore Dalrymple – Excerpt

This is an excerpt from “Life at the Bottom: The Worldview That Makes the Underclass” by Theodore Dalrymple. I OCRed the text without really proofreading, so there may be quirks in the conversion, and it’s not the entire chapter…
Anthony (A.M.) Daniels (born 1949) is a British writer and retired physician (prison doctor and psychiatrist), who generally uses the pen name Theodore Dalrymple. He has also used the pen name Edward Theberton[1] and two other pen names.[2][3] He is a critic of liberal thinking and utopian thinking in general. Before his retirement in 2005 he worked as a doctor and psychiatrist in a hospital and nearby prison in a slum area in Birmingham. His philosophical position is “compassionate conservative”.

Tough Love

LAST WEEK, a seventeen-year-old girl was admitted to
my ward with such acute alcohol poisoning that she could
scarcely breathe by her own unaided efforts, alcohol being a
respiratory depressant. When finally she woke, twelve hours
later, she told me that she had been a heavy drinker since the
age of twelve.
She had abjured alcohol for four months before her admis‑
sion, she told me, but had just returned to the bottle because of
a crisis. Her boyfriend, aged sixteen, had just been sentenced to
three years’ detention for a series of burglaries and assaults. He
was what she called her “third long-term relationship”—the
first two having lasted your and six weeks, respectively. But
after four months of life with the young burglar, the prospect of
separation from him was painful enough to drive her back to
It happened that I also knew her mother, a chronic alcoholic
with a taste for violent boyfriends, the latest of whom had been
stabbed in the heart a few weeks before in a pub brawl. The
surgeons in my hospital saved his life; and to celebrate his re‑
covery and discharge, he had gone straight to the pub. From
there he went home, drunk, and beat up my patient’s mother.
My patient was intelligent but badly educated, as only prod‑
ucts of the British educational system can be after eleven years
of compulsory school attendance. She thought the Second
World War took place in the 197os and could give me not a sin‑
gle correct historical date.
I asked her whether she thought a young and violent burglar
would have proved much of a companion. She admitted that he
wouldn’t, but said that he was the type she liked; besides
which—in slight contradiction—all boys were the same.
I warned her as graphically as I could that she was already
well down the slippery slope leading to poverty and misery—
that, as I knew from the experience of untold patients, she
would soon have a succession of possessive, exploitative, and
violent boyfriends unless she changed her life. I told her that in
the past few days I had seen two women patients who had had
their heads rammed down the lavatory, one who had had her
head smashed through a window and her throat cut on the
shards of glass, one who had had her arm, jaw, and skull bro‑
ken, and one who had been suspended by her ankles from a
tenth-floor window to the tune of, “Die, you bitch!”
“I can look after myself,” said my seventeen-year-old.
“But men are stronger than women,” said. “When it
comes to violence, they are at an advantage.”
“That’s a sexist thing to say,” she replied.
A girl who had absorbed nothing at school had nevertheless
absorbed the shibboleths of political correctness in general and
of feminism in particular.
“But it’s a plain, straightforward, and inescapable fact,” I
“It’s sexist,” she reiterated firmly.
A stubborn refusal to face inconvenient facts, no matter
how obvious, now pervades our attitude towards relations be‑
tween the sexes. An ideological filter of wishful thinking strains
out anything we’d prefer not to acknowledge about these eter‑
nally difficult and contested relations, with predictably disas‑
trous results.
I meet with this refusal everywhere, even among the nursing
staff of my ward. intelligent and capable, as decent and dedi‑
sated a group of people as I know, they seem, in the matter of
judging the character of men, utterly, almost willfully, incompe‑
In my toxicology ward, for example, 98 percent of the thir‑
teen hundred patients we see each year have attempted suicide
by overdose. Just over half of them are men, at least 7o percent
of whom have recently perpetrated domestic violence. After
stabbing, strangling, or merely striking those who now appear
in medical records as their partners, they take an overdose for
at least one of three reasons, and sometimes for all three: to
avoid a court appearance; to apply emotional blackmail to their
victims; and to present their own violence as a medical condi‑
tion that it is the doctor’s duty to cure. As for our women pa‑
tients who’ve attempted suicide, some 70 percent have suffered
domestic violence
In the circumstances, it isn’t altogether surprising that I can
now tell at a glance—with a fair degree of accuracy—that a
man is violent towards his significant other. (it doesn’t follow,
of course, that I can tell when a man isn’t violent towards her
In truth, the clues are not particularly subtle. A closely shaven
head with many scars on the scalp from collisions with broken
bottles or glasses; a broken nose; blue tattoos on the hands,
arms, and neck, relaying messages of love, hate, and challenge;
but above all, a facial expression of concentrated malignity,
outraged egotism, and feral suspiciousness—all these give the
game away. Indeed, I no longer analyze the clues and deduce a
conclusion: a man’s propensity to violence is as immediately
legible in his face and bearing as any other strongly marked
character trait.
All the more surprising is it to me, therefore, that the nurses
perceive things differently. They do not see a man’s violence in
his face, his gestures, his deportment, and his bodily adorn‑
ments, even though they have the same experience of the pa‑
tients as I. They hear the same stories, they see the same signs,
hut they do not make the same judgments. What’s more, they
seem never to learn; for experience—like chance, in the famous
dictum of Louis Pasteur—favors only the mind prepared. And
when I guess at a glance that a man is an inveterate wife beater
(I use the term “wife” loosely), they are appalled at the harsh‑
ness of my judgment, even when it proves right once more.
This is not a matter of merely theoretical interest to the
nurses, for many of them in their private lives have themselves
been the compliant victims of violent men. For example, the
lover of one of the senior nurses, an attractive and lively young
woman, recently held her at gunpoint and threatened her with
death, after having repeatedly blacked her eye during the previ‑
ous months. I met him once when he came looking for her in
the hospital: he was just the kind of ferocious young egotist to
whom I would give a wide berth in the broadest daylight.
Why are the nurses so reluctant to come to the most in‑
escapable of conclusions? Their training tells them, quite
rightly, that it is their duty to care for everyone without regard
for personal merit or deserts; but for them, there is no differ‑
ence between suspending judgment for certain restricted pur‑
poses and making no judgment at ail in any circumstances
whatsoever. It is as if they were more afraid of passing an ad‑
verse verdict on someone than of getting a punch in the face—a
likely enough consequence, incidentally, of their failure of dis‑
cernment. Since it is scarcely possible to recognize a wife beater
without inwardly condemning him, it is safer not to recognize
him as one in the first place.
This failure of recognition is almost universal among my vi‑
olently abused’, women patients, but its function for them is
somewhat different from what it is for the nurses. The nurses
need to retain a certain positive regard for their patients in
order to do their job. But for the abused women, the failure to
perceive in advance the violence of their chosen men serves to
absolve them of all responsibility for whatever happens there‑
after, allowing them to think of themselves as victims alone
rather than the victims and accomplices they are. Moreover, it
licenses them to obey their impulses and whims, allowing them to suppose that sexual attractiveness is the measure of all things and that prudence in the selection of a male companion is nei­ther possible nor desirable.
Often their imprudence would be laughable were it not tragic: many times in my ward I’ve watched liaisons form be­tween an abused female patient and an abusing male patient within half an hour of their striking up an acquaintance. By now I can often predict the formation of such a Øliaison-and predict that it will as certainly end in violence as that the sun will rise tomorrow.
At first, of course, my female patients deny that the violence of their men was foreseeable. But when I ask them whether they think I would have recognized it in advance, the great major­ity—nine out of ten—reply, yes, of course. And when asked how they think I would have done so, they enumerate precisely the factors that would have led me to that conclusion. So their blindness is willful.
Today’s disastrous insouciance about so serious a matter as the relationship between the sexes is surely something new in history: even thirty years ago, people showed vastly more cir­cumspection in the formation of liaisons than they do now. The change represents, of course, the fulfillment of the sexual revo­lution. The prophets of that revolution wished to empty the re­lationship between the sexes of all moral significance and to destroy the customs and institutions that governed it. The ento­mologist Alfred Kinsey reacted against his own repressed and puritanical upbringing by concluding that all. forms of sexual restraint were unjustified and psychologically harmful; the novelist Norman Mailer, having taken racial stereotypes as seri­ously as any Ku Klux Klansman, saw in the supposedly unin­hibited sexuality of the Negro the hope 01 the World for a more abundant and richer life; the Cambridge social anthropologist Edmund Leach informed the thinking British public over the radio that the nuclear family was responsible for
contents (this, in the century of Hitler and Stalin!); and the psychiatrist R. D. Laing blamed the family structure for serious
mental illness. In their different ways, Norman 0. Brown, Paul
Goodman, Herbert Marcuse, and Wilhelm Reich joined in the
campaign to convince the Western world that untrammeled sex‑
uality was the secret of happiness and that sexual repression,
along with the bourgeois family life that had once contained
and channeled sexuality, were nothing more than engines of
All these enthusiasts believed that if sexual relations could
be liberated from artificial social inhibitions and legal restric‑
tions, something beautiful would emerge: a life in which no de‑
sire need be frustrated, a life in which human pettiness would
melt away like snow in spring. Conflict and inequality between
the sexes would likewise disappear, because everyone would get
what he or she wanted, when and where he or she wanted it.
The grounds for such petty bourgeois emotions as jealousy and
envy would vanish: in a world of perfect fulfillment, each per‑
son would be as happy as the next.
The program of the sexual revolutionaries has more or less
been carried out, especially in the lower reaches of society, but
the results have been vastly different from those so foolishly an‑
ticipated. The revolution foundered on the rock of unacknowl‑
edged reality: that women are more vulnerable to abuse than
men by virtue of their biology alone, and that the desire for the
exclusive sexual possession of another has remained just as
strong as ever. This desire is incompatible, of course, with the
equally powerful desire—eternal in the human breast hut hith‑
erto controlled by social and legal inhibitions—for complete
sexual freedom. Because of these biological and psychological
realities, the harvest of the sexual revolution has not been a
brave new world of human happiness hut rather an enormous
increase in violence between the sexes, for readily understand‑
able reasons.

Finding the right type…

The closest type faces I can find are Perpetua and Arno Pro, but both of them are wrong.
No “Th” ligature in Perpetua, and the one in Arno has a rising serif that the orig. doesn’t. The italics of both Perpetua and Arno are totally different than the orig. found on TSR.
There’s a typeface I don’t have called Lapidary 333, but there’s just a really good chance that I won’t find a digital version of the typeface.
Notice that the two books are actually set in different faces, or, at least, variations of the same face. The lowercase "y" in both are drastically different (see 5 at the bottom of image).

Finding the type

Decree Against Christianity

Decree Against Christianity
Declared on the day of salvation,
on the first day of the Year One
(—on September 30, 1888 of the false time-chronology)

War to the death against depravity: depravity is Christianity

First proposition.— Every type of anti-nature is depraved. The most depraved type of man is the priest: He teaches anti-nature. Against the priest one doesn’t use arguments, one uses the penitentiary.

Second proposition.— Every participation in divine service is an assassination attempt on public morality. One should be more severe toward Protestants than toward Catholics, more severe toward liberal Protestants than toward the orthodox. The criminal character of a Christian increases when he approaches knowledge . The criminal of criminals is consequently the philosopher.

Third proposition.— The accursed places, in which Christianity has hatched its basilisk eggs, should be razed to the ground and be, as vile places of the earth, the terror of all posterity. One should breed poisonous snakes there.

Fourth proposition.— The sermon on chastity is a public instigation to anti-nature. Every display of contempt for sexual love, and every defilement of it through the concept “dirty” is original sin against the holy spirit of life.

Fifth proposition.— With a priest at one’s table food is pushed aside: one excommunicates oneself therewith from honest society. The priest is our chandala—he should be ostracized, starved, and driven into every kind of desert.

Sixth proposition.— One should call the “holy” story by the name that it deserves, as the accursed story; one should use the words “God,” “Saviour,” “redeemer,” “saint” as invectives, as criminal badges.

Seventh proposition.— The rest follows therefrom.


From Chapter 1 of A Jew In Love by Ben Hecht

JO BOSHERE (born Abe Nussbaum) was a man of thirty—a dark-skinned little Jew with a vulturous and moody face, a reedy body and a sense of posture.

The Jews now and then hatch a face which for Jewishness surpasses the caricatures of the entire anti-Semitic press. These Jew faces in which race leers and burns like some biologic disease are rather shocking to a mongrelized world.

People dislike being reminded of their origins. They shudder a bit mystically at the sight of anyone who looks too much like a fish, a lizard, a chimpanzee or a Jew. This is probably nonsense. The Jew face is an enemy totem, an ancient target for spittle and, like a thing long hated, a sort of magic propagandist of hate. Its persistence in the world is that of some repulsive and hostile fauna, half crippled, yet containing in its in­effaceable Yiddish outline the taunt and challenge of the unfinished victim. This, of course, is true only of the worst looking Jew faces and the worst Jew haters.

Boshere was not quite so bad as this. The racial de­cadence which had popped so Hebraic a nosegay out of his mother’s womb was of finer stuff than that glandu­lar degeneration which produces the Jew with the sau­sage face; the bulbous, diabetic half-monsters who look as if they had been fished out of the water a month too late.

These bloaters are truly a vicious drag on the vanity of the race, and nobody winces at the sight of them so much as the Jew.

Boshere was no matter for wincing, yet he had an un­comfortably Semitic face, a face stamped with the hieroglyphic curl of the Hebrew alphabet. For this face, however, he had invented such unJewish expressions, surrounded it with such delicate mannerisms (although he never quite outgrew the semi onanistic activities of his hands) that his personality had almost lost its Semitic flavor.

He had a way of standing, one hand spread genteely over his epigastrium, his skimpy shoulders hunched for­ward, his slightly enlarged eyelids drooped in an artificial and brooding smile, his red-lipped mouth widened in an actorish grimace of meditation; a way of posturing, purring and smiling in the teeth, as it were, of his Jewishness, that gave him the look of a Prince Charming in the midst of a pogrom.

Boshere was wealthy. He had won a million in the stock market, a fact which he disdained. He also dis­dained his calling, which was that of book publisher. He considered his wealth and his vocation as accidents which in no way reflected his true soul and genius.

It was because of this true soul and genius that Boshere caused his face to wear, whenever he thought of it, a brooding, ironic smile. Originally this expression had been invented by Boshere to reveal his superiority to his Jewishness. During his pathologic Jew-conscious adolescence this smile had done varied service. It had hinted at De Medici ancestors, philosophic preoccupa­tions, eerie and delicate dreams; it had played its mysterious and transforming lights over the synagogic façade; it had battled so tirelessly with the racial en­zymes that even in his sleep Boshere looked as much the poseur as the Jew.

Now at thirty, this smile revealed to people his amuse­ment with their estimates of him. He was much superior to the Boshere they knew. It was his obsession that people either admired him or envied him—but not enough.

There was a Boshere, said this brooding, ironic smile, who was beyond the reach of people to understand or appreciate. Inasmuch as he had not yet taken the time to develop some form of self-expression which might advertise this true soul and genius to a dull world, his critics appealed to him as superficial. He snorted at all their fumbling estimates. His knowledge of literature? His ability to publish successful books? His luck in the stock market? His brilliant and alluring personality? These were small matters to the Boshere ego. One had to be Boshere to taste the inner flavor of his greatness.

This biologic handicap he sought to overcome, in those he wished to know him, by making them fall in love with him. He regarded an overwhelming love in either man or woman as the only critical approach to an understanding of him. Or perhaps he looked on love as the only attitude which those who really knew him must feel. In either case, he devoted most of his time, ener­gies and even money (despite his fantastic miserliness) to inspiring this emotion in the hearts of his chosen audience. He carried on a sort of Messianic campaign for disciples of Boshere.

For this business of breathing his soul into another and converting him or her into a Siamese twin, Boshere had a disastrous aptitude. But in the process of attaching a fellow human to himself, he invariably ended by coil­ing his own spirit, temperament, mannerisms and ex­citements so avidly around his conquest as to smother it—were it man or woman—and leave an aftermath of anger and revulsion. He was hated most by those on whom, from time to time, he had pounced in this quest for love and Siamese kinship.

His face, ugly, vulturous, malformed though it was, figured importantly in these conquests. It provoked analyses, stuck in the memory and personalized rela­tionships to a point of abnormality.

For his intimates, there was something peculiar in the look of this face, as if it were unduly naked, as if it had been plucked and deprived of some essential cover­ing. Freshly shaved, he reminded one of an evil birdling, all bill and no feathers, or of the breast of a thin chicken ready for the roasting pan.

His centered eyes, flat, negroid, slightly upturned—their stare indefinably tipped with mania—seemed un­duly exposed. In their look, there was something too close, too intimate. Too much of himself filled these eyes—a love-haunted self smiling in an obscene Narcist embrace.

Sensitivity was Boshere’s most treasured character­istic. He was almost professionally sensitive. His sensi­tivity found its most perfect reflection in the contours of the lower part of his face, the protruding, Spanish looking jaws, the orthopteran, girlish neck. Elsewhere, in his studied gestures, his fish wife angers, his Prince Charming purrings and sadist explosions, he was a pe­culiar enough but still worldly creature. He was domi­nant and full of that fearlessness to be found in puny men who bombinate behind the feminine certainty that  a strong, valorous antagonist will never stoop to attack them physically.

But in this lower half of his face was stamped another story. Here a timid and veritably cringing soul obtruded. Boshere was as conscious of his cheeks, jaws and neck as if they were a peculiarly crippled part of his body, crippled not with the stamp of Jewishness but with the deeper disfiguration of inferiority. He felt most at ease unshaven.

The sensitivity that was the vital basis of Boshere’s nature was not a matter which refined his tastes and his intellectual powers. His mental life was in the main a process of kleptomania. He was clever enough to absorb and appropriate informations and attitudes which at times gave him the air of a considerable fellow. His nimbleness and his unscrupulous parrotings enabled him to shine, even among his betters, as an anarch and an original. But through all such essays in objective thinking, through even his most successfully worded paradoxes and stolen unconventionalities, there remained obvious the uncreative fibre of his mind.

In matters, however, which related to himself, which had to do with the tormented turnings and hungers of his egomania, he was an inspired and shockingly pene­trant observer.

Boshere’s gift, in fact, lay in a realm beyond thought. He owned an organism whose sensitiveness bordered on mania. A stranger’s hand resting in his during a greeting could become an appalling phenomenon. His conscious­ness could enlarge such a contact to nightmarish un­reality. The pressure of palm and fingers, the texture of the stranger’s skin, the pulse beating in the stranger’s flesh—these took on such disproportionate significance that the stranger himself appeared to Boshere for the moment as unreal, fabulous—a veritable monster. In the same manner, a strange voice speaking, strange people laughing, a strange woman smiling or any human antic performed in his presence assumed for him, if he made no effort to control himself, an overwhelming existence —a gigantism beyond life.

Against this hysterical concept of reality, Boshere had engaged for years in a violent inner struggle. He had spent his youth steadying himself before the onrush of gigantism, combating within him this maniacal cringing which translated the simple surfaces of life into hor­rendous and menacing Goliaths.

This psychic battle with life had fitted him in an amusing way for success. As the mania ebbed, as the disordered senses of his adolescence subsided into mere worldly eccentricities, he looked about him with de­tached, ironic eyes. He who had fought and vanquished giants found reality pleasurably small. The violence with which in his youth he had ridden into the teeth of hallucinations and scattered them, left a habit of assault in his nature. Only now it was not against giants he charged, but against an absurdly shrunken, unintimi­dating reality of people. And it was he who felt a giant among pygmies.

LaVey’s bookshelf 1995

This is obviously just one of many bookshelves, but because it was caught on film, we get to browse. From the Nick Bougas Documentary “Speak of the Devil”.
I’d gone through this a few years back on the VCR and a pad of paper, but because of a comment on my myspace blog I thought I’d do a photocollage since I had the docu. on my hard drive and could easily take screen shots and photoshop them together… BECAUSE I’M A NERD.

LaVey's Bookshelf 1995
I’m typing the below list on the fly, there’s a few titles I know I have at home that I haven’t identified here and can’t remember the title of…

Shelf A
2. …Magic?
3. …Magic?
6. A Little treasury of ?

Shelf B
2. Psychopathia Sexualis
3. … Sex
4. The Sex Life of the Foot and Shoe
5. Sex…
14. Funeral Customs The World Over

Shelf C
1. Divine Horsemen: the Voodoo giods of Haiti
2. Human Curiosities
3. Man Into Wolf
4. The Werewolf
5. Encylcopedia of Esoteric Man
6. A ___ of The File Story of Bram Stoker
7. Dracula
9. The Piranha Book
10. Freaks
11. Very Special People
12. something from Julian Press
13. It’s a Small World
14. Animal Hypnosis
15. The Frankenstein Legend

LaVey's Bookshelf 1995 - Detail 1
LaVey's Bookshelf 1995 - Detail 2
LaVey's Bookshelf 1995 - Detail 3

LaVey’s bookshelf 1967

LaVeys Bookshelf 1967
Click to view large version…

LaVey’s Bookshelf 1967
See if you can add to the list!

7 Guide for the Bedeviled
19 Skid Row USA
20 The Bowery War

20 Mammy Pleasant
33 Sex From A to Z?

2 Ships On The Sky
7 Her Majesty The Cat?
10 My?
18 Wild Tigers & Tame Fleas
23 My ?? For Wild Animals?
25 The Sawdust Trail
28 Magic
36 Step Right Up
37 Center Ring
40 Monster Midway

French Vogue – “Devil Worship Is The New Black!”

Stolen from Jezebel:

French ‘Vogue’: Devil Worship Is The New Black!

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When we saw the September issue of French Vogue on stands, we knew it was going to be good. Good as in completely and ridiculously over the top. Seriously. Check out the ensemble on the cover. Even the logo is animal print. Anna Wintour has never known that kind of wild (heh) abandon. And then, inside, we found the “Sacrément Inspirée” fashion shoot photographed by Terry Richardson and “realized” by editor in chief Carine Roitfeld. The theme? Voodoo/wicca/satanism! After the jump, a few of the images. Find out what to wear… if you’re the guest of honor at a Salem witch trial.


Chain mail dress? Check. Tarot cards? Check. Powerful coma-inducing herbs (not seen)? Check.


Buddhism is sooooo 2005. This season, it’s all about trances.


Us: “In Greek mythology, Medusa was a monstrous female character; gazing upon her could turn onlookers to stone. In 1940, Sigmund Freud’s Das Medusenhaupt (Medusa’s Head) was published posthumously. Medusa is presented as ‘the supreme talisman who provides the image of castration — associated in the child’s mind with the discovery of maternal sexuality — and its denial. The snakes are multiple phalluses and petrifaction represents the comforting erection.'”
Model: “My extensions are stuck in the barbed wire, can someone help me?”


It’s not creepy that she is standing in a pentagram in the woods. It’s creepy that her extremely long-rise pants have hands.


“Fashion is about sacrifice, bitches!”


“Alas, poor Yorick, I knew her well.”
“Who’s Yorick?”
“The other model assigned to this shoot. She was trying to lose that last 5 lbs… She succeeded, in a way.”

Finally! A subtle, daytime look you can wear to the supermarket, to the gynecologist’s office, or to pick up the kids from school. Pentagram not included.