31 Mar 2010

March Feature - Mourning Glory – the Dance of the Dead Finds its Feet Online


There are some concepts that I’m not sure I’ll ever get comfortable with. But never has the term morbid fascination been so appropriate. During my daily inter-stellar exploration of the webosphere I staggered across a website so intriguing, I wasn’t quite able to fathom its significance or indeed its potential at first glance, and have visited several times since.

Allow me to introduce you to Obit-Mag.com. Obit takes its name from an abbreviation of obituary that is used in common practice in America; fellow fans of Curb Your Enthusiasm will remember the consequences of leaving Larry David in charge of a loved one’s obit.

In a morose twist on the notion that the obituaries are one of the most read sections of the papers, Obit are a dedicated team of writers, editors and researchers publishing content on the recently deceased – blogging for the dearly departed. But don’t just take it from me.

Behind this somewhat eerie spectacle are Bob and Barbera Hillier, a couple better known for their extensive work in architecture. ‘Our stories focus on the lives well lived and what death can mean to the living and what living meant to the dead’ reads a statement on the site.

‘We challenge traditional stigma about discussion of death and dying. In doing this, we weave together art, prose and reflections on the famous, the firsts and the ordinary folks around us. We don’t believe there is any other forum like Obit.’

Too fucking right there isn’t.

The homepage is awash with photographs of the deceased (before they died of course, if you want snaps of corpses I’m sure there are sites for that too), quotes and discussions about the great inevitable. On the right hand side users are met with Obit Mag’s proudest asset; the Just Died list. Clicking on a recent departure will fire up a short obituary and sometimes a photograph. At the time of penning this piece, the latest to kick the proverbial bucket was Dan Duncan, an oil billionaire ‘known for his philanthropy and global hunting of exotic animals.’

No love lost there.

But what fascinates me isn’t that this is a website about dead people, for this is the internet - guaranteed to thrill shock and shock again (if you’ve ever played the popular net game Google-Whack you’ll know that there’s a site for everything. EVERYTHING.) But with Obit Mag, it’s the professionalism, the tone and the overall feeling that this is a genuine, well oiled machine that is practicing a socially acceptable exercise, which in Western society – it really isn’t. We don’t talk about the dead, we certainly don’t tend to celebrate them and we tuck the obituaries into the back pages of shit papers no one reads for a reason.

That’s why Obit Mag is so exceptional.

It’s a whole new angle on the only certainty, that one day we’ll all be history, and that famous or interesting people snuffing it is actually, well, interesting. And the quality of the writing isn’t too shabby either. I read a piece about how the closure of a greasy spoon diner in Chicago represented the last hoorah for a town barraged with trendy wine bars and pretentious coffee shops, and how the author had enjoyed what would be his final meal with his dying brother there.

I read Forever Fido, a dry humoured piece about a [former] dog owner who was struggling to see any profound meaning in the death of his mutt, despite an overwhelming moral obligation to do so.

And now I’m hooked.
I’ve now considered the possibility that I’m just a late bloomer when it comes with a fascination with the bitter end. Most kids I knew doodled skulls and bones in their copy books, had gone into the woods at least once to look for dead bodies, or thought Sixth Sense was anything more than just another predictable Bruce Willis flick. I just assumed I’d skipped that phase or rather had gotten it out of my system having watched all seven series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the late nineties.

But like Wes Bentley with his zoom lens panning the gaping hole in Kevin Spacey’s brain with a smile on his face in American Beauty, I feel the need to hold up this new angle on death and share it with people.

I strongly suggest you find out about Obit, before Obit finds out about you…..

27 Mar 2010

The child gangs of Puerto Rico had started recruiting members from the age of four to defend their turf, armed with supersoakers filled with hydrofluoric acid their wrath knew no bounds.


22 Mar 2010

GIRLS GONE MILD (18)

Hold on to your seats as this collection of mild mannered unremarkable women go about their day, in an exclusive hot collection for 2010: GIRLS GONE MILD.
Images collected by Tommy Blank, Words by Tommy Blank and DB.


                    'I'll pack the spare camera battery when its charged'



               'I'll go to Wicks on my lunch and get a new bulb for the hall'



                  'It means getting two buses instead of the one though'




                          'It just says iPod could not be synced'



'You've got a label sticking out of your shirt'



'I'll have to print it off at work because our cartridge run out'



16 Mar 2010

You'll like this - not a lot, but you'll like it...


One too many failed daytime television shows and a creepy exposé with Louis Theroux led cherished family magician Paul Daniels spiralling into a life of indirect murder and torture games.



13 Mar 2010

Classholes - A Scrutiny of the Young and the Restless


Tippy-toeing along the slender viaduct of the class war, I’m mindful that I could be consigning myself here to the abattoir that is assumed social superiority; somewhere I don’t want to be. However, it’s difficult to live and work in any city on Her Majesty’s soil without becoming markedly aware of the fact that a small percentage of the under classes aren’t doing themselves any favours with regards to falling foul of common opinion.

I’m talking of course, about Chavs. A term I’m reluctant to use, because it’s all too easy to become part of the blame culture. This historically dangerous transference of frustration isn’t healthy for a society; it breeds hate, typecasting and segregation.

It’s a cop out.

But allow me to play devil’s advocate, and shed for a moment the constraints of objectivity and empathy normally associated with freelance writings.

I’m sure that like me, you’ve felt uneasy walking through town on a Saturday night, whether you’re a female to be leered at or a bloke to be jeered at. It’s not quite a serene utopia for someone like me - more at home with the musings of Steven Fry than with these gobby creatures from the imaginarium of Steven King. Jager Bomb sinking Neanderthals, all of them blowing steam out of every orifice, spilling their weeks wages for a skin-full are hardly what Henry Ford imagined his consumerist legacy would come to.

But it’s not just the binge drinkers and bar hoppers that are adding crack to the pipe.

They’re forcing their fucking niche’ music on us through the crackling treble driven speakers of their shit Sony Ericsson phones with all the cultural awareness of a solvent abusing Scientologist. Bragging loudly on public transport about their (completely fictional) promising kick-boxing career that was cut short by their personal discovery of skunk, much to the wonderment of the tracksuit clad amoeba sat beside him, nodding as if he’s witnessing the teachings of Friedrich Nietzsche.

Perhaps I’m out of touch with the harsh realities of urban existence – confined to the safe houses of coffee shops, defiantly sipping decaf skinny mochas and talking about how much of a tool Danny Dyer is. I don’t face the trials and tribulations that build the character of the folk under the microscope here, and naturally we fear what we don’t understand. Why then, don’t they fear me? Presumably they’re equally as baffled by my ways as I am theirs; my thirst for melody and detectable substance in music, why my clothes don’t have three stripes down them and why my post code doesn't decide for me whose skull I feel entitled to shatter with a 75cl can of Nurishment. Their lack of understanding about my lifestyle doesn’t stop them shelling hostile glares that seem to warn ‘Look back at me I dare you’, so why are they exempt from the decree?

But the pen is mightier than the sword my friends – although a common sentiment among the skinny writer who can’t fight, you should side with me and consider this at least a small retaliation:

Buy some earphones, pipe the fuck down and read a book you inbred shitcunt.

You never know, you might learn something.


11 Mar 2010

Behind the smiles and the landscape gardening, visitors to his ranch would find Jeff to be fiercely defensive of his vast collection of animal porn.

10 Mar 2010

Defective arms, oversized foreheads and uncontrollable explosions of ginger hair may have been tragic side effects of interbreeding in Hull, but that wasn't goint to put a downer on Maria and Christopher's annual hiking trip.
After both her previous husbands had killed themselves out of sheer boredom, and all her friends had changed their phone numbers, little Rover knew he was fucked.

SM