Pop Rocks

Think queer art is a recent craze inflicted on a crumbling heteronormative hegemony by the post-Stonewall stormtroopers of gay liberation? You should have a gander at Miss Magnolia Thunderpussy’s Flickr page dedicated to gay pulp fiction novel covers from the ’60s. Young college jocks wrestle together on a bed. Tan twinks frolic on the beach. Bi-curious baby beefcakes tear entire towns apart with their fierce sexing. Enormous pecs sit atop disturbingly narrow 24-pack abs, making you wonder if the artists had ever actually seen a man. More subculture than counterculture, the books don’t look hippie-dippie; they look like old Playboys, if Playboy were aimed at guys who prefer priapic poolboys to teen versions of their own just-pregnant mothers. What you can’t glean from the amazing cover images you can get from the titles: Gay Traders, Hot Pants Homo, Mother Truckers, Little Boy Lavender, Male Bride and the compelling military drama Killer Queens. In the modern era, when J. Crew families are moving to Fire Island, and even Republican senators and born-again Christian preachers are same-sexing like billy-o, these books are a treasured snapshot of the (bulging) bygone era when gay was bad. (Alli Katz)

Monster Ballads Xmas

Two words: “Jingle Bells.” Four more: performed by Skid Row. Think Sebastian Bach is a tad gauche? Well how about “Winter Wonderland” performed by everyone’s favorite black-and-yellow-clad Christian metal asskickers Stryper? Welcome to this year’s front-running entry in the “so horrible it should’ve been done years ago” sweepstakes, wherein blonde douche-bombs Nelson play “Jingle Bell Rock,” Dokken give “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” a go, and “Silent Night” is given its due respect by Faster Pussycat. These bands are terrible. The songs, worse. Combine them and they morph into a sublime otherworldly type of suck, one that—for reasons beyond the ken of science—become amusing, oftentimes knee-slappingly so (see Queensrÿche’s “White Christmas”). Hate your family? Play it while they’re over for the holidays. Love your family? Play it while they’re over for the holidays. (Brian McManus)

Cake should taste like cake, and beer should lacerate your tongue with over-the-top hops. Or so I thought, before stumbling upon Young’s Double Chocolate Stout at the Colney Delicatessen (2047 Chestnut St. 215.567.5250). One sip and—boom—I was in love. Two sips and I was kinda disgusted. But intrigued enough to give it a second chance. Malty like Guinness, but sweeter and lighter. A little smoky. Chocolatey. Would be magnificent with a scoop of sweet cream Capogiro. For the classier stoutheads who shun cans and affordability, Tria serves a bottled Brooklyn Brown Ale that has more caramel and coffee than cocoa, and Nodding Head’s award-winning Grog is more delectable than anything called “grog” has any right to be. (Caralyn Green)

Google image search John Street, and you might find a photo of the mayor exuberantly holding up a laptop at a citywide Wi-Fi press conference. A screenprint of this photo is on the cover of A Love Letter to Pennsylvania City—a bizarre and somewhat surreal throwback to the scurrilous fake biographical political pamphlets that were the pre-TV equivalent of attack ads back when Philadelphia was basically Fallujah with sedan chairs. The 28-page illustrated story opens with a Street speech purportedly made at an annual Independence Day picnic. And then it gets really weird. Street stabs the president with a fork, and kills vampires and mummies. The story gets a little too cute at times, but it’s still the best John Street biography to date. (Daniel McQuade)

Taking place in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse, the Dark Horse Comics miniseries Living With the Dead follows slackers Straw and Whip as they adjust to life among the walking deceased. Instead of succumbing to panic, the guys divide their time between lamenting how the annihilation of mankind has killed their chances of ever becoming famous and getting involved in a bizarre love triangle with a beautiful fellow survivor. Big on laughs (the pair analyze the lyrics to “Born to be Wild” while mowing down flesh-eaters on the interstate), the book downgrades the zombie phenomenon to just another problem to be dealt with in a life full of petty irritations—offering up the perfect commentary on both our balkanized post-Shaun of the Dead pop culture landscape and the annoying background buzz that is (for most of us) the war in Iraq. (Chris Cummins)