Katherine Dunn died this week, but her work—especially the incredible novel Geek Love—spoke to everyone who thought of themselves as an outsider or weirdo.
I believe in equality, but I don't believe we're all equal. Some people are special. David Bowie was one of them.
For many, Halloween in New York City is a bigger deal than Christmas, Thanksgiving, Hanukah, Kwanza, Easter, Fourth of July, and their own birthdays and anniversaries combined.
Meet the Prime Minister of Dick, or PMD for short. He's a South African artist who "slings dicks and dicktures" for a living—i.e. absurd, surreal, and sometimes brilliant illustrations of, well, penises.
People have been lying about their identities in search of notoriety or love or thrills for a long, long time.
When you peep into a neighbor's window, the neighbor's window also peeps into you.
Memory Hole is a place of horror and wonder. When you're inside the Hole it's easy for minutes to turn into hours, hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into years.
Don't you hate how television is now a pile of shitty reality TV shows and binge-watching dramas? It isn't what it was 700,000 years ago in outer space.
Entering most of Plymouth's pubs, at whatever time of day, feels like entering a grimy nightclub in the suburbs of Novosibirsk, only without pole dancers.
For eight years, I've been holding this gathering of artists/weirdos in my backyard; the first one we ever held involved my pet goat, a bad acid trip, musicians nearly fighting one another over overzealous jamming, and a bunch of broken mirrors.
We ventured to Hooper, Colorado (population: 105) to investigate some of the stranger things that have gone down there—from shooting stars to strange weather patterns to aliens descending to Earth in extraterrestrial space pods.
Photos by Synchrodogs