sometimes it's just one of those days

Cosmic Trend

NEED A

PRETTY LITTLE

WORK BREAK?

In a successful attempt to one up Gaga's new space fetish, Katy Perry & our houseboy Kanye flip-flopped their way into our future presence! ET, you can phone me anytime.

But K&K aren't the only ones spending money on special effects in Adobe, peep this DEVINE video by our Manhattan counterparts:

But w8...hold your horsies...it gets hotter. I hope you're lying flat for this one...

Anybody wanna fly BSG to China for the weekend to see Zaha and really research this trend?

And even though we want to be, we must remember the fourth commandment and shouldn't be embarrassed by our parents. Just as Katy & Kanye pointed out, we all come from outer space.

RECRUITABLE D8ABLE

Chelsea Boy is almost as honest as Rebecca Black. It's not about a stereotype, it's about an experience. Can you say you kept your eyes open for 48 hours str8 this weekend? Well, Chelsea Boy did, and that means he's an artist.

STALKER (finally)

KERRYBOO- our bff (biggest fan 4fr)- recently published ----> a mighty fatty review! of our [H]OM[o]/e extravaganza. You're welcome! Please zoom in, read on, and relive the magic...

Zen My A$$
A Review by Kerry Mitchell

I recently described them as a “queer, transgressive performance art troupe.” And they are surprisingly adorable. A grass roots art collective consisting of a number of extremely sweet young women and a couple young men, BabySkinGlove (BSG) emerged out of the pavement of Brooklyn two years ago. Since that time they have put on over 30 events, including Colonial Bushwick, The Dinner Famine, Popol Vuhlva: A Story of MezoHysterica with Mega Calderos, and others. Their work often concerns historical reenactment in a decidedly loose, amateurish, and earnest vein (“100% accurate according to the internet”) and parody of the cult of celebrity.

I first saw them in Manhattan at their Dinner Famine performance, a not-dinner theater piece where the performers screeched at each other and threw dirt and potatoes at the audience who sat around the large table that was the stage. The arrangement forced the performers to crawl under, over, and through the audience to get on and off the table. Not something to “enjoy” necessarily, but I found them strangely charming. Their overblown theatricality and reliance on shouting were not easy on the ears and they thoroughly traumatized my date, but the closeness and tactility of the performers somehow won the day. The self-involvement, vanity, and aloofness that tends to infuse “avant-garde” art (the very term reeks of pretense) dissolved in the whispering “excuse me”s of the actors gently clambering across my lap to join the yawping chorus on the table. In this way they placed the separation of actor and audience, the “fourth wall,” at the surface of the skin, and they did not seek to tear it down so much as act upon it. Here their touch lived up to their name, as soft and transgressive as a glove made of a baby’s skin.

This latest Zen installation, part of SITE Fest in Bushwick earlier this March, carried much of the same style. The stage was their entire house whose interior and furnishings they had covered with white plastic bags. The floor was sprinkled with talcum powder. Bubble wrap runners led up the stairs. The costumes were white sheets and headdresses. The performance began from the moment I entered the door: an introduction into an intentional community of spiritual acolytes, their soft feminine drones seeping new age cant as we waited for others to arrive. Not quite funny, not near serious, they mixed their soft, angelic features with the manifest and intense weirdness of a group of friends who are willing to trash their home to put on something of a haunted house – except it’s not haunted, it’s not Halloween, and it’s not clear why they’re doing it. The audience arrived throughout the day and were led through the house in groups of one, two, or three every half hour or so. Each room demanded full participation on the part of the audience who were tied together at the wrists: primal scream therapy, growling exercises in search of totemic animals, tantric partner yoga (fully clothed), simulated extraction and consumption of an amniotic sac (a William Sonoma air-pack), vulva cookies on sticks, edible finger paints, fat whispering, chants of “Golden shower! Golden shower!” with invitation to collectively urinate (declined), and self-fingering (dry) with simulated orgasm. At this close of the performance we were introduced to pictures of Dr. Kegel, identified as “God.” This greybeard German doctor (whose name means “cone” in German) had discovered the universal sexual center of humanity that could be reached by pressing two fingers firmly up between the legs. Through running energy through one’s “Kegel” one could achieve the fullness of enlightenment. Or the emptiness of enlightenment. Or perhaps the cone-ness of enlightenment. Vaginal. Anal. None of this is implicit.

The selection of a German doctor for the conceptual center of this creepy new age satire was perfectly appropriate. The amorphous streams that make up metaphysical spirituality have a strong European component and one that is as white as the walls, floor, costumes, and performers. BSG played up this whiteness to the utmost, heightening the aesthetic of innocence and purity in voice, dress, and skin while diving as deep as they could get away with into perversion. Instructions on how to fist your yoga partner’s soul, scatalogical confessions, and invitations to lick one another were presented as therapeutic and spiritually liberating exercises. They were serious about this in their own way. But whatever they were doing, they were doing the opposite at the same time. So make of that what you will.

For future work BSG will need to address the selectivity of the audience. Judging based on the three young men in my visitor group, and with a quick glance at the visitor log, I suspect that this last show held a strong contingent of Boyfriends/Suitors/Lusters-After (BSLAs) of BSG’s milky angels who fit the mold of the girl-boy next door. Subjecting these mate-seeking hipsters to the various sensual, homoerotic exercises therefore took on the character of hazing in an initiation ritual. BSG may not be fully cognizant of the fact that these fine young men never rushed a fraternity only because in their culture it is not cool to do so. This was their chance. Fraternity, sorority, soternity, frarority – close enough. As long as they’re in.

But if you are reading this, so may the genuinely disturbed who will not be pushed beyond their comfort zones by BSG’s work, but who will, in fact, enjoy the transgression with such enthusiasm that they will wish to push it further. If the audience becomes less 20-something, hipster, a-little-verklemmt-but-open-minded BSLAs undergoing their trial-by-weird, and more 40-something, online-stalker-stranger, good-to-grope freaks, then I foresee a problem. BSG, if you are reading this, you will want to hire security for your next show. Seriously. I’m not kidding.

Also, I did not notice an age restriction on the invitation to Zen (at Dinner Famine I believe the stated and recommended cut-off was 13). Such an oversight should not be repeated. If a minor were to take up the invitation to autoerotic fingering, no matter how dry, BSG could be sued if not prosecuted. And they would lose. Seriously. I’m not kidding.

So what does it take to make the most of a BSG performance? Answer: a willingness to get materially and socially dirty; prudence in inviting others; partial abandonment of trust; a small streak of masochism; a desire to support real, weird art. The shows tread the border between risqué and risky. Perhaps this review will heighten those risks for all concerned. Which is just another way of saying that BSG’s playing with transgression and pushing of boundaries are not without risk. Then again, what is?

One Year in the Making

On the one year and ten day anniversary, we present to you

Popol Vuhlva, A Story of MezoHysterica

the infamous collabor8ion with FreakButt & FlamingoFuck's Mega Calderos. It is the age old tale you know and love of twins who hire dentists to overthrow the Seven McCaw str8 from the Popol Vuh's crotch.

Enjoi fatties!

Popol Vuhlva from BabySkinGlove on Vimeo.

~*@%${"#!&+~

P.S. After you've been hyped up, remember to hug urself and return to zen. We do not endorse the following video ::: If only we had had the foresite to film and edit our barnyard yoga childhoods too, Popol Vuhlva would be as famous as this flexy creepster.

Gold-up those Cunts

OLD SCHOOL GOLD CUNT #1

Let's all take a moment now with the hand-mirror to examine our vaginas, internal or external, and thank the goddesses for such a complic8d and delicious gift. We've been doing a lot of artistic doll/soul/vag searching here at VVD and we want to encourage you to pry a little deeper while you digitally dig into that couch. In honor of the l8 hollywood glam, here's some women who have helped keep the vagina going strong.

NEW AGE GOLD CUNT #2

And (since we're on the subject of beauty) peep Die Antwoord's new short film, a work of ninja brilliance, & here's a little rat play to follow that golden vagina fun:

Get it rich bitch boygirls! And don't 4get to be open to love while ur gettin it.

Horney Much?

sum things 2 consider when choosing a m8:::

Womynhood; A Media Essay

YOUTH

(the root of ur boob obsession)

TEENDOM

(back when we invented the goth faasionz)

COLLEGE

(a time to find urself on mommie's money)

LOOKING 4 LOVE

(the chase is half the fun)

OLD AGE

(little boygirls, watch ur panties & mind ur elders)

BabySkinGlove is here to help you crawl under all the horsie-hurdles.

Alexander & Jam

After the untimely death of our Liz, here's a wonderful song (followed by three more) to make you feel better by the amazing Alexander and his Dandylioness. Str8 from the lips of Max Steele's FAGCITY, go ahead a rock out in your afternoon leopard house coat. You're welcome.

A Diamond Death

To the woman who taught us how to divorce gracefully, how to clutch a fur on camera, how to use hairspray properly, how to inspire . . .

BabySkinGlove sends a tearful goodbye up to the divine Elizabeth [Hilton-Wilding-Todd-Fisher-Burton-Burton-Warner-Fortensky] Taylor. May you and MJ be surrounded by the gentle queens who have gone before us at a pearly-gilded dinner party up in heaven where the champagne is endless and the diamonds are forever.

You're forever in our hearts and our Netflix queue.

We'll be puppy piling at VillaVulvaDiva aw8ing the headpiece inheritance.

With Love, OliverBoo

Monsoon Wedding Recap

EGG DAY

HAPPY LONGEST DAY OR SOMETHING!

So the winter blues is finally over and you can keep lenting strong because your eggs (grocery store chicken not in-ovary) will stand on their edges today! I'm so dead serious this is not a trick! Last night (in case any of you aren't witches (what?)) we saw the moon closer than she's been to earth since Cindy was covering Vogue and tonight (EQUINOXXX) you can balance an egg on its edge. Wow, this world is plain fatty.

And after the eggs, give your nails a buffin'

xo

Adoption APPROVAL

Not that we're looking for more (3 teens is euff 4 now) and no, we're not preggo, we just wanna celebr8 sum hot youngsters:::

Inspir8ion Activity

Paint those nails and glam up those toes boygirls, we all deserve some fresh air.

Another N Another

(((and the revewes poored in,,,

FROM THE INSIDE
i cannot say enough about my time at [H]OM[o]/e . . . I went in with the intention of helping others to connect at a higher level and help them transition from a bottom to a top (chakra) but found that I myself was the one who connected the most deeply, most often, with so many, again and again and again . . . you're welcome for the experience [H]OM[o]/e!!!

-Erinboo, partner tantric yoga

&THE OUTSIDE

\My friend Hans was in town visiting from Germany and I asked him what he wanted to do or see on our Sunday afternoon. I suggested lunch and he requested something familiar to him as he was sick of "all the fucking pizza and shitty 'beer'" we had consumed thus far. He's German, so I scoped out places on Yelp for a sausage fest that weekend. One result came up called [H]OM[o]/e; this place was all the way over in the Shwick but I figured I owed him a good meal and the only comment for the place was: "Mmmmmm, so good."

Alright, so we show up at the address which looked to be somebody's house, but I've been to stranger bars, so we knocked. This guy opens the door and says, "Yes, hello, can I helps you?" Dude was clearly off the boat from Eastern Europe so Hans said emphatically, "Are you having the sausage fest today?!" His comrade was like, "Noooo, we don't have zee sausages . . . but we do have zee enlightenment. Please comes in and joins us." We both looked at each other, shrugged and followed him inside.

Best. Choice. Ever.

This place is baller. Enlightenment like you wouldn't believe; I'm talkin' zen buddha realizing yourself type shit. For five bucks we got meditation, yoga, affirmations, urine analysis (I'm a 2 on the color chart), artistic expression, immaculate conception and an overall new self. Seriously, you can't even get a slice and a lager for $5.

Turns out Mr. Euroman is actually a doctor (and an awesome one at that) so all of the procedures are totally eastern based instead of our usual pharmaceutical based bullshit western treatments. Yeah, Dr. Dixieboo held it down.

Hans and I spent over two hours there and it was more than worth it. After we wrapped up our little harmony session I could feel my new self sprouting. Fuck yeah.

Your welcome [H]OM[o]/e!

-Anonymous disciple

Peek

In case you weren't fron t n center @ the fun show, here's a clip! Can you spot us?!

Testimonial Contd

"Existence @ [H]OM[o]/e altered my future, past, present self's

perspective of the real-reality realm. Daily tonal affirmations of
universal vocal communic8ions of thy animal kingdom led me to
saliva-sweaty bliss. I now own my own enlightenments. You're welcome."

-VivaBoo

Pajamagay