Backwash

Jimmy the Fetus

Hey, kids, Jimmy the Fetus here, your guide to moral values in the Midwest, helping everyone see that what we learned in Sunday school really matters.

Dear Jimmy:

I think Kirstie Alley is really brave to do a series called Fat Actress. But my born-again friend Anna said that Kirstie belongs to some cult that worships space aliens and that I shouldn’t watch the show. Do you know what she’s talking about?

Beth

Leawood

Dear Beth:

Your friend is correct that Kirstie Alley is an outspoken member of Scientology, the band of L. Ron Hubbard worshippers who use Ron’s wack 1950s pop psychology to drive space aliens from their bodies. I may be smaller than an e-meter, but I can read court papers describing Hubbard’s weird beliefs just like the next pre-person. I’m hip to Hubbard’s idea that the memories of ancient clams are still swimmin’ around in my ectoplasm, but who else besides Hollywood actors can afford the $100,000 plus to learn his big secret about space cooties attaching themselves to our brains? Anyway, we figure Alley’s been a little too busy exorcising her E.T.s to do any, well, exercising, and so she let things get a little out of hand. But she vows to be skinny for the second season, which doesn’t really make a lot of sense. Whatever. Anyway, your friend Anna is sure one to talk, Beth. Remember what the Bible tells us: “But the donkey said to Balaam, ‘Am I not your donkey, which you have ridden all your life to this day?'” Now, talking donkeys are cool. But invisible alien parasites? Kirstie, you go, fat girl.

Got a moral quandary? E-mail Jimmy at editorial@pitch.com.

Threads
Off the rack and on the town.

The Point on 43rd Street, 12 a.m. Tuesday

If there’s one subculture that persists like a festering wound, it’s the world of goth.

Threads went in search of the terminally death-obsessed in the subterranean level of this Westport bar, where Mondays are billed as goth nights. And we got a kick out of the setup: horror-movie images playing on television sets and candles casting a sepulchral light. We felt so Buffy.

But where were the bloodsuckers? Just three figures wrapped in festive black were seen hugging the bar. There was Dhust, a 22-year-old from Grandview in a trench coat, a dog collar, and black eye shadow and lipstick. With him were his two female companions: Annadelin, a 21-year-old Kansas City Art Institute student with blue pigtails and black lace gloves, and Mecky, a 21-year-old UMKC student with two lip studs who was working the Angelina Jolie pout.

We made the mistake of asking them why they wear black, which would elicit a “because it doesn’t make my ass look so big” from just about anyone else.

Black is a “karmic reminder … of death and decay,” Dhust explained in an unnerving falsetto.

Dhust explained that his obsession with all things undead began innocently enough, with a black T-shirt here and a Victorian blouse there. Before long, after a little Marilyn Manson and a few makeup tips from girls on the school bus, he’d gone completely to the dark side.

Naturally, the conversation soon turned to that all-important consideration of scenesters of any type in their early twenties: the crucial distinction between authentic members of the tribe and poseurs.

“Weekender goths,” Dhust spat as he engaged in the time-honored tradition of dissing the only half-dedicated.

They discussed the marks of the genuine, including a preference for sufficiently spooky cocktails, Lip Service-brand clothing and a persistent aversion to sunlight. Our three claimed to be true night things: Dhust pays bills DJ’ing at Davey’s Uptown and Evolution, works a night shift at Home Depot and performs in a fetish troupe with Annadelin, who works as a Camel girl. Mecky waits tables on the graveyard shift at Perkins while wearing her dark makeup.

“I get called Wednesday [Addams] a lot,” she said.

All of them recoiled at the suggestion that they get day jobs.

“I hate to go out in sunshine, because I burn everywhere,” Mecky said. Dhust claimed that sunlight once blinded him and caused him to crash his car.

Annadelin showed that she carries a tube of SPF-50 sunblock on a keychain, just in case. And in her purse: sunglasses shaped like aviator goggles, UV protection 400.

For even more protection, Annadelin said that she and Dhust are planning to move together to Brookside.

“Isn’t it sad? We’re going to be yuppie goths,” she said.

We mourn for her.

Net Prophet
Notes from KC’s blogosphere.

There’s one American tradition that has blown my mind from day one. It seems whenever I go to a baseball, football or KU basketball game, there’s always some guy proposing to his girlfriend. For the foreigners out there, this is usually how it works: Guy gets an engagement ring. Guy says, “Hey, let’s go to the Royals game on Sunday.” Guy pays the $85 for parking. Couple walks into stadium holding hands. Guy says, “I’m going to go get nachos.” Guy goes to the stadium office and slips someone a fifty (actually, I don’t know how that really works; I’m guessing there’s advance notice required and a phone call involved somewhere in the process). Cameraman locks down on unsuspecting woman. During a stoppage in play, the stadium director puts the victim’s face on the Jumbotron and the announcer says something along the lines of “Hello, Charlene. Chuck has something to ask you.” Guy proposes. Girl says yes. Thirteen to 80 thousand people go “awwwww” in unison. OK, so sometimes they’re down on the court, and sometimes he gets pretzels instead of nachos. But if there’s one thing that doesn’t change is the fact that the woman always says yes. Maybe it’s pure schadenfreude, but I’d like to see, just once, the girl say no.

From “These Are the Contents of My Head,” the online diary of Bruno Pieroni