The Resurrection

The Dead Lounge has been different things, but it remains a comfortable place, open to all. I remain your host.

Its original incarnation was one of the first unholy mixes of lounge culture and goth found online. It featured a cornucopia of neo-neon kitsch lined with leopardskin. Patrons relaxed on Barcaloungers with cigarettes and cocktails at hand, seen through a haze of smoke and suppressed sexual zeal. Spectacularly American automobiles with giant fins pulled into roadside diners and gas stations sporting Jetsonesque towers with stars and halos, celebrating an idealized future that never came. Mischievous Tiki gods ruled a world of pleasure, filling suburban white folks with the feverish need to mambo to sensual ersatz-tropical beats.


All this merged with the undead for a delightful concoction, all before anyone started buying Shag artwork.

Without mentioning that the '50s and '60s weren't all that idyllic for everyone, I've also moved on. I still have an appreciation for a particularly classy suit or a painstakingly raised beehive, but I've sunk back into murkier depths for the purposes of this place.

The Lounge itself has taken on an unlife of its own. More deathly and less daddy-o. More sarcophagi than swingers. Victorian over vinyl (unless it's one of those classic dark red vinyl booths with the brass button tufts). Fewer bachelor pads, more ballrooms. A Kick In The Eye over kidney-shaped tables.


All are welcome, living or dead or in-between. Wander the Lounge's hallways. Enjoy cocktails both conventional and lethal, and converse in low, sultry whispers. Fill the dance floor, writhing to a fabulous sound. Write some gothic poetry. Get a quick lunch from Sarco's Blood Bar & Grill.