Violence Fetish

This is transcribed as it originally was published in Panache #17. (Published 9/27/02)

"Scotland Yard and security officials are becoming increasingly embarrassed and annoyed by the activities of the Angry Brigade, who cannot now be dismissed as a group of cranks." -- The Times January 29, 1971

Stand-up comedians are supposed to be funny, but what happens when they can't make us laugh? What do we do when jokes about large vaginas rub us the wrong way? How do we react when observational humor isn't very observational or humorous? And perhaps an even bigger question: If you're black and an albino, are you still black?

These questions and more haunted me after watching the documentary Hacks, which should be available at the local Fig's video store. I had to find out more about the people in this film, so with plane tickets in and an a meager Panache budget, I set out to find the Diamond and Hutz Talent Agency, which was the focus of the movie. I wish I could say I found it, but like those three foul-mouthed twentysomethings in The Blair Witch Project, I just became helplessly lost.

Within hours of my arrival I was wandering the streets of New York trying to get Michelle on the phone because I had already run out of money. (Don't buy gold from guys on the street.) When I did finally reach her, she wouldn't advance me any cash. "Turn tricks," she told me before hanging up.

That's when I headed for the shelter (I needed a place to sleep for the night) and saw a bald man in a wheelchair. He was handing out fliers, and I tried to avoid him, but there was something about his face that made me want to approach him.

"Comedian for hire," the flier read.

"I work with my sister," he told me as I scanned the flier.

Skully. I recognized him from the movie! I grabbed his U.S. Comedy Corps t-shirt and shook him. (Luckily, his sister was getting burritos down the block and didn't see this or she would've kicked my ass.)

"Where is Diamond and Hutz?" I blurted out.

"Hey! I don't know. After the Montreal thing went under, we were left in the cold. I hate bad pizza! What's the deal with old people? They're old. What's so great about Legos? You build things. Big deal. Build a house."

It was obvious that his dealings with the talent agency had left him a shell of his former self. My spirit had returned, though. At least one of the comics was still alive. This was a good sign.

Michelle still didn't front me any money. After begging enough change for a cup of coffee, I wandered into a Starbucks and placed my order. The man behind the counter looked vaguely familiar. He listened to me for a second, stared at me, and then fell to the floor shaking. An older man, who had been tinkering with the espresso machine, came rushing over to us. "Don't worry about him," he explained. "He does that from time to time."

It was Dhru and Roachy. I couldn't believe my luck. First the bald guy who hates bad pizza, and now the alternative comic and the old guy who had some issues when it came to underage girls. God was smiling upon me, and I asked about Diamond and Hutz. Roachy took me to a table and explained to me what had happened as I wrote it all down in my reporter's notebook.

"Yeah, Montreal didn't go so good," he said, lighting a cigar. "The a-holes running the thing were prejudiced against Lucius and Baxter from the start. They made the hotel lose our reservations, and then the spots that were promised to use were given to Cedric the Entertainer."

"Bummer," I sympathized.

"Well, you know Lucius. He's a sensitive soul. It crushed him. They tried to keep the agency going, but the only one who could afford to stay on was Otis. He was getting SSI 'cause he convinced them that his albinoism was a disability. He really helped Baxter and Lucius out for a while. I heard they were doing some Michael Jackson impersonation thing for parties. I tried to get on board with my Elvis, but it didn't seem to fit. I was thinking 'Ebony and Ivory," but they were pushing 'Ivory and Ivory.' I didn't get it."

I couldn't write fast enough. This was gold. I had so many questions for them. "Where are they now?" I asked.

Roachy just shrugged and puffed on his foul smelling cigar. "Couldn't tell you. But Dhru says he saw an infomercial with Lucius in it. At least that's what I think he said. He's like my retarded son sometimes. Can't figure him out. Hell, he could've been asking me to order pizza for all I know."

"What kind of infomercial?" I pressed. This could be the clue to solving the mystery of the Sith ... or something like that.

Roachy laughed. "That's the funny thing," he told me. "Apparently it's like those 'Girls Gone Wild' tapes. Only this is 'Comedians Gone Wild.' Isn't that right, Dhru?" he called out to his friend.

Dhru licked a spoon and then pretended he was bowling.

"That bit kills me every time," Roachy said fondly. "Yeah, Dhru said I'm right. It's got comedians like lifting their shirts up and shit. Strangest thing."

"When did he see this?"

"Four months ago."

Four months ago? That's almost half a year in show biz time. The trail was dead. There was no way I could find Diamond and Hutz now. They were probably living the caviar dreams lifestyle they were destined for. Who wouldn't want to buy a tape of Slappy Bernstein-Mangioli's husband taking off his shirt? Even if I found them, they wouldn't have time for a two-bit like me. I needed to get back home.

"Michelle," I said when she answered her phone at three a.m. her time. "If you don't Western Union me plane ticket money, I'm telling the authorities about your German porn collection."

I was heading back to California that evening. Soon after take-off, a soothing voice sounded from the front of the section I sat in. "I'm your flight attendant for the evening," the man announced. "If you need anything, just ask for me, Arty Hittle. You know, I've seen a lot of passengers, and I have to say, you are the calmest crowd I've ever dealt with. You, sir, in the back with the notebook ..."

He was talking to me! "Yes?" Where did I know this guy from?

"If maybe you could listen instead of writing while I'm talking ... yes, that's good. If you listen, maybe you'd know what to do if there were an emergency. You know, and forgive me for saying this, but in my three months of doing this job, I've never seen a man as angry as you look. Now, I don't know people, but I know faces, and yours is a face of ... insane rage. Just a little advice for the flight: maybe look nicer."

Go get a copy of Hacks. It is the funniest fucking movie of the year. You can read my review of it on Filmthreat.com (just enter Hacks in the search box). Remember, folks, it's just a ride. Just a ride ...

Excess Hollywood: Reality Bites

Originally published on Film Threat 3/23/06, this piece (which you can read here) involves a chance encounter in the laundrymat with a homophobic woman who admits she'll go see a movie with "colored folks" in it.

Excess Hollywood: Scary Movie

First published 4/6/06 on Film Threat, this is my examination of Larry the Cable Guy. Click here to read the piece.

Excess Hollywood: Let's Dance

Originally published on Film Threat 5/18/06, you can click here to read my take on Hollywood dance films.

Excess Hollywood: Controlled Flight Into Terrain

Originally published 5/25/06 on Film Threat. Click here to read my take on 9/11 and Hollywood.

Violence Fetish

This (transcribed as it originally appeared) was first published in issue 18 of Panache in 2002. December 6, to be exact. Nashville Pussy fans -- this is for you.


"When Eve was created, Satan rejoiced." -- Mohammed


I've been through Nashville. Didn't get laid. Didn't even come close. But, boy, do I love Nashville Pussy ... the band, that is. For those who aren't familiar with this act of God, it is probably one of the best rock acts out there. It's pure Southern sleaze with just enough sex appeal to keep the Yankee boys happy, and its latest release, Say Something Nasty, which is on Artemis Records, continues the band's tradition of ass-kicking tunes that are unrepentant in their hostility and meth-fueled mayhem. In other words: too scary for the mainstream; too real for the Korn crowd.

The CD starts off with a bang and then rolls into high gear with the third track, "Gonna Hitchhike Down to Cincinnati and Kick the Shit Outta Your Drunk Daddy." If that isn't a tune that makes you want to grab a crowbar and take it to the head of some white trash fool, then I don't know if such a song exists. Every time I hear Blaine Cartwright growl, "... and kick the shit outta your drunk daddy," I think of a few assholes in Old Town. Don't ask me why, but I believe Blaine had them in mind when he wrote the damn song, which is one of many on here that just destroys.

Unlike most of today's bands, Nashville Pussy doesn't shoot its wad after one good number. That just ain't the band's style. No, these hard-drinking men and women (and what women they are) like to get you fucked-up drunk and then take you home for some very rough sex. Porno movie sex. The kind of sex you wish you could have again but are afraid to because you really don't want to have to be walking funny for the rest of your life. Don't believe me? Listen to "Keep on Fuckin'."

"Keep on Fuckin'" is a song so blatant in its message that the PMRC couldn't even argue that the band is trying to be coy. According to Blaine, you don't have to be smart to fuck; even dogs do it. Again, did Blaine visit Old Town or what? It seems like he did. After all, where else would these Southern prophets get the idea for "Here's to Your Destruction" if they weren't cruising through Eureka and seeing the mommas with their dirty babies and equally infantile boyfriends? That song could be the slogan for the band, which has its roots deeply buried in America's foulest soil.

There's no on thing that can sum up the experience of Nashville Pussy. The band embraces sex, masturbation, Jack Daniels, guns and speed. Picture a Christian rock band in reverse ... and talented. It comes from a place where men fuck women and women fuck like men. A land where making love is reserved for those people on TV, and NASCAR is much more than just a few dozen races. And part of what sets this band apart from others like it (often imitated, never bested) is the clean guitar sound of Ruyter Suys.

Ruyter is a woman. She's the kind of woman the military fears. She plays the guitar in such a way that causes little boys to experience their first orgasm, and she can take on any male guitarist and win, too. The only other female guitarist who comes close to Ruyter's absolute dominance of the instrument is Poison Ivy from The Cramps. That's right. Fuck L7. Ruyter knows what the hell a guitar is for, and "Keep Them Things Away From Me" showcases her skill; the other songs on the disc only nail the message home.

I reviewed Nashville Pussy's High as Hell for Tattoo Savage awhile back. I played that CD nonstop for weeks on end. As far as rock goes, Nashville Pussy was the be-all end-all with that release, a tradition it continues here. The swagger, the chaos, the alcohol damaged throat of Blaine -- it all sets a standard for future bands to live up to, though none will. What's the point of even trying? The king can't be overthrown.

Some of you may be wondering why I'm devoting an entire column to just one band. To find out, head down to your favorite record store and pick up a copy of Say Something Nasty. See the cover? That stark black and white image of the band looking down at you. See that warning? The Tipper Sticker. Parental advisory. Explicit lyrics. See the two guys on either side of the women? They look like they'd kick your ass for fun (sort of like Preacher and Cassidy). See the two women? Ruyter looks defiant in her bra. KatieLynn looks like she would be at ease in a woman's prison. Now turn the CD over. That's a cherry popsicle Ruyter has under her tongue. You wish it were you. Even if you're a woman, you wish it were you. Now look at the songs. "Beat Me Senseless" sounds interesting. Ruyter seems like she could do that. So does Blaine. You'd like it, too. Is that "Rock 'N' Roll Hoochie Coo" you see listed? It is -- Nashville Pussy style.

You see, just holding the CD gives you an idea of the power contained within. You think of buying it just to hear "You Give Drugs a Bad Name."

Nashville Pussy. What would you mom say if she saw that in your CD collection? It doesn't matter. I bet your mother is familiar with the band one way or another.

Buy the CD. Pop it in your car's stereo. Start driving slowly ... very slowly ... through Old Town. Play "Gonna Hitchhike ..." and "Here's to Your Destruction" as you observe the human garbage collecting at the various curbs. Know that what you are seeing and the music you are hearing go hand in hand, though only one has the courage to put the trash in its place.

Nashville Pussy was born out of a culture of shacks and lynchings, unwanted babies and abusive spouses. The band rises above that, though. It knows that you have to show some spine and take care of yours. So while the rats scurry to lay claim to lives they don't understand, the badasses that make up this band grab a few gas cans and light their cigarettes. As Blaine sings in the title track, "If you don't like what I gotta say/Then get your dead ass out of the way, bring your whole world crumbling down."

Here's to your destruction.

Excess Hollywood: They Arrest Writers, Don't They?

Originally published 6/1/2006, this piece is on the controversy I faced in my pieces on Amateur Porn Star Killer. You can read it here.

A Cabin in Time Movie Review

Originally published 9/2/10 on Film Threat. You can find the review here.

Violence Fetish

This piece originally appeared in Panache #19, which had a cover date of 5/29/03. The opening quote was also used.


"And we will not allow any terrorist or tyrant to threaten civilization with weapons of mass murder." -- George W. Bush

Like a Texas chili cook-off gone horribly wrong, the Bush Administration (a term that sounds like the title to an amateur porno movie) is out of control and full of cannibals. The policy changes and death threats against "evil" nations are issued at such a fast rate that any column I write will be irrelevant by the time it's published. There are some general observations I can make, however, that seem to be a constant when it comes to the Littlest Dictator.

Whenever I see Baby Bush and company give some morally righteous press conference, I can't help but hear the "Imperial March" from the original Star Wars movies. I watch the screen like a hawk, expecting el president to whip off one of his mud-caked shoes at any moment and use it to pound the podium. Cheney, as I can sense, is just off camera wringing his hands together like Mr. Burns in The Simpsons. "Exxxceeelllent," he hisses well out of range of the microphones. The New Reich learned its lesson about these instruments during its first campaign for power, back when they believed voting had actual meaning, back before voting became such a ... problem.

The irony of that voting situation is not lost on this administration, though. I'm sure after the Hussein election, jokes circulated around the White House that compared Bush's rise to power to Hussein's ability to stay there. Rigged elections does not a democracy make. Iraq and the USA. Who would've thought we'd have more in common than the use of weapons of mass destruction against a populace? And isn't it strange how both governments are beginning to resemble the giant monsters of Japanese films? Like Godzilla, the Bush Administration (which sounds a lot like an unpleasant medical procedure teenage girls have to undergo) has trampled our civil rights. (Everybody's scared of terrorists now, right?) It has ruined foreign policy even moreso than Reagan's Raiders, and it has extinguished any hopes of peace in the Middle East (now known as Little America to those who pay attention). It walks! It stalks! It mispronounces words! It's our leader! I can feel the audience shudder, praying that the next trailer is for a Harry Potter sequel. After all, Harry Potter is a simple boy from happier times. Times that changed on 9/11.

When 9/11 first happened, our government urged us to buy, buy, buy. Now it's urging us to buy, buy, buy ... it's bullshit. Some folks are. The same folks who agree with Lott and Heston that race mixing is the root of all our troubles. The same folks who have those "Rush is Reich" stickers on the back of their SUVs. The same folks who brought us Bush the first time. The same folks who tied a yellow ribbon around their old oak trees. The same folks who think the war on terrorism can be won. The same folks who couldn't find Afghanistan on a map prior to 9/11. This is the voting public. Teenagers: You have every right to be worried about your future. In fact, you should be downright terrified.

Of course, Bush isn't the only morally corrupt "leader" we've had. All of them have had their faults. But he's in power now and not enough people are pointing out what a lunatic he is because it's considered unpatriotic. The media won't call his bluff. The Democratic Party measures each of its words carefully as not to offend. Those who do speak out are afraid of being thrown in jail as "terrorist sympathizers." Where does that leave me?

I'm the first to admit that I thought Bush did a good job immediately after 9/11. He did that by pretty much keeping his mouth shut. He was the silent leader whose only words were that of comfort. It was a role that suited him well. Once his advisors got their hands on him, though, he became a mindless shark on PCP. And just who is that group of puppet masters? They are war mongers. They are elitists. They are throwbacks from the Reagan tyranny. The media doesn't even point out the first planned war on terrorism about 20 years ago courtesy of these same people. Go do the research. This has been attempted before. And, yes, it includes plenty of plans for the domestic population ... as it did before. But this time ... this time ... those plans may work. The next time Darth Bush steps up to the plate, take a peek under his helmet. Watch his lips move. Closely examine his words. Look at the people in his cabinet. Delve into their past. Start making the connections. If you come out of it absolutely convinced that he has your best interests in mind, then more power to you. I'm not so convinced, however.

The future is cloudy, but I can see which way the wind is blowing. By the time this sees print nuclear warheads may have already targeted Iraq. We may have already invaded. We may have been the target of another terrorist strike. I don't know. What I do know, though, is that the war on terrorism can't be won because it's a war of ideals. What I know is that our government (like all governments) has a bully complex, and that won't help us when it comes to keeping the peace. War isn't the answer, but it's the only thing the government knows how to do. War on those abroad and war on those in the Homeland (a Third Reich term if there ever was one) is now the business of those in positions of authority. The slogan used to be: America -- Love it or Leave it. Now it's: America -- Love it or Else. Who do you think is to blame for that zero tolerance policy on intelligence? Love it or else. I guess I've never been good with ultimatums.

Violence Fetish

This was a piece that appeared in Panache #16, which was published 8/2/02. It is a strange piece, but I believe the quote at the beginning of it has something to do with what I was trying to accomplish. I actually think I put some kind of code in this piece.

"Violence Fetish"

"I'm concerned with the precise manipulation of word and image, not to go out and buy a Coca Cola, but to create an alteration in the reader's consciousness." -- William S. Burroughs

Destiny and death are often one in the same. Eventually, for some, both will come to fruition. Knowledge of this may prove you are one of those people who understands the true meaning of destiny. (Needless to say, your knowledge of the facts, though, may not change who you are.) Aliens, and you may be one, can't comprehend this. Perhaps a painful reality intruded upon you at some point, sidetracking that which you hoped destiny had in store for you. Shameful slob you became. Every man, average Joe, plain Jane. Being an alien, destiny won't be kind to you. Only fools think destiny has something spectacular in store for everyone. Truth that is a lie. Destiny, when the bones must be separated from the meat, will only be claimed by the worthy. Equalzing factors such as Social Darwinism see to that. Eventually, destiny may call the aliens, but until that happens they will remain stationary and ignorant. Numerous members of that group will take up space, while others will provide entertainment to those who see them for what they are. Diseased humans -- aliens -- need to be handled with violence ... or so I thought. Nothing short of annihilation was good enough for them. And lest you think that cruel, what do you do to an injured horse? Nothing short of death was to be granted. Aliens had to be destroyed because of what they are. To the worthy, the aliens are barriers, stumbling blocks on the way to destiny's grand plan. (Aliens usually aren't worth going around -- you go through them.) Slack jawed trash meant to be burned in one form or another. For that is the lot of the alien. Often I find myself staring out my window, envisioning a better world. Slaves of consumerism suddenly enlightened. Tossing off chains. Nuking convictions previously mishandled. Eager dreams they are. Great dreams never meant to be realized. Aliens won't let them be. "Evil and insidious" they label these dreams. "Rational people don't think that way." Arrogance and ignorance mark the alien like a prison tattoo. Reality means nothing to them, and when I realized that, that is when my early, unrefined feelings toward them began to form. About fifteen years ago it began. The war between myself and the aliens took form. Suffer not fools lightly, I vowed. Kill,crush, and maim them. Constant meditation on the subject, however, made me see my faulty ways. Opinions I once held dear changed. Reality stepped in. New days brought new ideas. Only mockery can truly end this scourge of humanity. Send the aliens into hiding by making them laughing stocks. Aliens hate to be lampooned. Just like rats, they will abandon ship once it begins. Death is one way to eliminate them. Not the best way, however. Actually turning them into entertainment is far more effective. Needling them accomplishes more. Apathy and anger must be converted into creativity and mockery. Maybe then -- only then -- the scourge will stop. Reality, and the humor of it all, will do the dirty deed for us. Oracles will become comedians. Devils, with gaping smiles upon their faces, will come to claim the fools who believe in them. Maybe then -- only then -- the scourge will stop. I cannot wait for that day to come. Just in case it doesn't, though, there's always the pure rage of fire -- cleanser of all tainted souls.

Married Punks #4: Want Review

Originally appeared in Married Punks #4, published in 1995. Review appears as it was published.

Want #2

A good issue with the same pages-stapled-together effect of the last one. This has got some columns, thoughts on sexuality and other things, and a spattering of reviews. The essay on drugs was too much; giving patients the wrong medicine so you can have your morphine fix is not too cool. The guy who wrote it, Jerry Duke, deserves to be slapped around if this was true.

Married Punks #4: Vigilance Freezine Review

Originally appeared in Married Punks #4, which came out in 1995 (roughly). This is transcribed as it first appeared.


Vigilance Freezine #4/Moo Cow #14

This issue of Vigilance starts out good with a banner reading "Alternative is A Fashion/Punk is a Community." Great line. (Redding should take note.) Then we get reviews and columns. This is the strong suit in this issue; the columns. XLittle BoyX, a Sxe'r (duh!), has a killer column about being stabbed with a hypodermic needle at a Ministry show. He gets injected with heroin, and some of the junkie's blood. You have to read the rest to find out about his trips to the hospital. The other columns are good too, but this, and the column on scene dependancy, take the cake. On the Moo Cow side there are some good reviews and a good column on selling out in the punk scene. This is definitely better than the last issue.

Married Punks #4: Vigilance Freezine Review

Originally published in Married Punks #4, which came out in 1995 (most likely). This is transcribed as it originally published.


Vigilance Freezine #3 Moo Cow #13

This split, newsprint 'zine is okay. On the Vigilance side there's a column on abortion and the futility of the terms used to deal with it. There's also some show listings. Fairly plain. The Moo Cow end has a great essay on moving and being scared. Great article! There's also a good deal of reviews and photos. Both 'zines also do a distro with fairly cheap prices, which that alone could be worth the stamp.

Black Flame Review

This review for Black Flame was originally published on Associated Content on 6/13/10. You can click here to read it.

Married Punks #4: Vague Review

Originally appeared in issue #4 of Married Punks, published in 1995. Transcribed as it originally appeared.

Vague #2

Vague, in the same style as Want 'zine, staples in all the pages to make them double sided. This is also the blue issue so every page is hand painted blue. Inside is a recipe for egg salad, Mark's promise of what he'll do if elected president, some stories and poems. My only complaint is that some parts are extremely hard to read. Otherwise, this is a fine, not-so-typical 'zine to get a hold of.