The Brazilian government released pictures yesterday of a previously uncontacted isolated tribe of indigenous jungle-dwelling people. The pictures, taken from an airplane, show men from the village pointing their bows and arrows at the plane, and a group of thatch hut-like structures similar to those employed by other, already known Amazon peoples:

"We did the overflight to show their houses, to show they are there, to show they exist," the group quoted Jose Carlos dos Reis Meirelles Junior, an official in the Brazilian government’s Indian affairs department, as saying.

"This is very important because there are some who doubt their existence."

He described the threats to such tribes and their land as "a monumental crime against the natural world" and "further testimony to the complete irrationality with which we, the ‘civilised’ ones, treat the world".

Maybe it was because of my one-time infatuation with Dead Can Dance, or that crush I had on Polly the goth in high school (I heard she’s a dominatrix now), but I’ve always had a soft spot for goth culture. But mostly, I think my appreciation of goth comes from its inherent humor. Be it greeting a goth with the most sugary, chipper attitude, or my sadly infrequent visits to www.GothOrNot.com, nothing cheers me up like laughing at someone else’s self-imposed misery.  Plus, you know, goth chicks are stupidly hot.

Any case, if you too have a soft spot for goth culture, or the making fun of it, please enjoy this clip of David the Friendly Goth as he discusses religion with a pastor.  

Along with The Fall of Troy, Video Matt also had a chance to sit down with brothers Ed and Riley Breckenridge from the amazing Thrice this weekend in San Francisco. Check out his interview with the band above, then go out and by their new quadruple EP (yes as in 4) set The Alchemy Index in stores NOW!

Sex In The City, The Crest Theater, Sacramento

Wednesday, May 28: The Ultimate Girls Night. My two best friends and I scrambled to get ready in Hotel Clarion, just down the street from the Crest Theater in Sacramento. "Which dress should I wear? The Samantha dress or the Charlotte dress?" I asked.
"I like the Samantha sparkly one, but if you wear the Charlotte one then we’re all in the same color scheme, and the pearls will go better with that one."
"Charlotte it is."
We hurried out and down to the theater just in time to grab a glass of wine and a couple bites of sushi for the Sacramento premier of Sex In The City. As we found our seats and rifled through the goodie bags (which included lotion by Chloe and Jane, Vitamin Water chapstick, a luggage tag, nail files, Arden Fair Mall coupons, and a make-up bag), we caught the tail-end of the look-alike contest. I applauded for the girl wearing the long navy coat and sparkly panties Carrie wore in the episode where she was picked to be a model at Fashion Week (my favorite episode). That took guts! Looking around the gilded room, I saw a sea of giggling girls in pink tank tops and fluffy skirts: the ensemble that started it all. Then, the lights dimmed, the familiar "dun dun dunna" began to play. Squeals of excitement and eager clapping spread through the audience as the skyline of New York came into view. This was the moment the three of us girls had been waiting for. Too long had we been missing the characters that had become our friends. For the next 145 minutes, we were reunited and captivated.
Throughout the movie I was laughing, grabbing for my girlfriends’ hands, and crying more than any other movie has made me cry before, out of joy, out of sadness, and out of sympathy for the conflicts the foursome face. Thankfully, no one died; I would have lost it for sure. But by the time the movie was over, I was emotionally exhausted.
"I’m satisfied with the ending, but I’m so sad it’s over!" I lamented to the girls.
"It’s never over! Samantha, Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte are reflections of girls like us. Now let’s go to the afterparty and grab some cosmopolitans!"
Don’t have to tell me twice.
Off we went, hand in hand, walking strutting down the red carpet we came in on. Approaching the long line of ladies waiting to get into Ella, our Red Bull friend took us around the corner to the VIP entrance. No line and no waiting caused us to smile coyly as we walked in. Surprisingly there were a number of handsome gentlemen in the bar. Smart guys, I thought. This was the chick event of the year. A table of smooth-looking black men kept glancing at us. However, one walked by, bumping Heather’s cosmo, which sloshed out and narrowly missed her uber-expensive, never-worn-before satin shoes. In true Heather-form, she accepted his offer for a new cocktail with a smirk. He said, "Of course. I’ll just be over there," and walked away. How ungentlemanly.
Perhaps it was time for a change of venue. So we took a cab to the next club, Dream. Once again, we met up with our Red Bull guy who again got us in with ease, sat us down at his table, and ordered a bottle of champagne. To our surprise, the same group of men from Ella (and one ungentleman) came in, sat in the booth behind us, and ordered a bottle of Grey Goose and cran. Heather immediately got that trickster sparkle in her eye as she stood up and flirtatiously said, "I’ll take that drink you offered now." The cheapskate hardly put any vodka in it. We learned later that the posse was none other than Kevin Johnson’s, a candidate for Sacramento mayor and former Cleveland Cavalier’s point guard. We danced in the corner with them (well, they kind of just stood there watching) for awhile before telling them that his friend in the hat is a little rude and then left for the hotel to discuss our epically girlish adventures we had. The night was unforgettable and bonding to say the least. Sex In The City made me fall in love with my friends all over again. To quote Carrie, "After all, things change, so do cities, people come into your life and they go. But it’s comforting to know that the ones you love are always in your heart…" and if you’re lucky, they’re in the movie seat right next to you.

We just got a press release from Steven Tyler’s publicist regarding the Aerosmith frontman’s recent recuperation in rehab:

Steven Tyler checked himself into a rehab facility earlier this month after a series of surgeries and post-operative physical therapy (to correct long-time foot injuries resulting from his trademark athletic performance onstage).
 
“The doctors told me the pain in my feet could be corrected but it would require a few surgeries over time,” Tyler says.  “The ‘foot repair’ pain was intense, greater than I’d anticipated. The months of rehabilitative care and the painful strain of physical therapy were traumatic.  I really needed a safe environment to recuperate where I could shut off my phone and get back on my feet.  Make no mistake, AEROSMITH has no plans to stop rocking.  There’s a new album to record, then another tour.

So…accordign to this his rehab stay has nothing to do with dionysian partying and drug use? This is jut a little fishy, innit?

I guess this kinda makes sense, though. If old Jagger lips were dipping into the horse again maybe his band wouldn’t need to hire pro songwriters to crank out the radio hits.  And with their legendary association with drugs, why woudln’t Tyler admit to poppin pain killers? I dont’ know about you, but I’m just about over tolerating his elder statesman of rock sobriety.

Video Matt headed down to San Francisco this weekend to meet up with our friends The Fall of Troy and they discussed everything from what the band members miss while they’re on tour to the band’s burgeoning list of endorsements. Check it above then check our YouTube channel for past TFoT interviews and a shit ton more.