Presenting an assembly-line floorfiller from the early ’90s heyday of Bitch-Can’t-Sing Italo House that became a dance chart Number 1 smash and a gay club staple thanks to its perfectly-balanced piecemeal design: typically ace production by super producer Gianfranco Bortolotti, some seriously ballsy sampling, a pulsating bass line worthy of Bomb The Bass, hilariously inept lip-synching, then-innovative video effects, and an unintelligible chorus ranking up there with Manfred Mann’s “Blinded By The Light” — interpreted as anything and everything from “Peter Pan had a plan!” to “Take a perv at my pants!”

At this time of year, when the moon turns orange and the witches fly, we think back on Rosemary Woodhouse, the unwitting mother of Satan’s son from Rosemary’s Baby, and Marguerite Perrin, the batshit-crazy “God Warrior” from Trading Spouses.

One is fictional, one is very literally in the flesh, but both are sisters under the skin.

Rosemary and Marguerite have each, in their different ways, decided that the world is full of witches — and not the Molly Weasley cook up some dinner with a spin of the wand kind, but malevolent, soul-sapping hags — give or take a Ruth Gordon chatterbox with a Noo Yawk accent and a brash way of barging into your apartment to quiz you on the price of the drapes.

At first Rosemary — sweet, hip, Mia Farrow-esque Rosemary, so proud of her edgy Vidal Sassoon boy bob — laughs at the idea ("in this day and age!") Then a good friend hands her the book All of Them Witches, which holds a clue to the true nature of her neighbors, the baby she is carrying, and the strange dream she had at the time of conception that involved a wolf-like beast with claws and slit pupils. (read the full article)

We’re living in a world of stars and dust.

Between heaven –
and all that surrounds us.

We’re travelers here –
spirits passing through.

And the love we give is all that will endure…

Tears will leave no stain,
Time will ease the pain.

For every light that fades
Something beautiful remains.

Words are here, finally, superfluous. Let’s us listen then. Let us remember Pavarotti, both the Sacred and the Profane. (read the full article)

(read the full article)

(read the full article)