Modus Operandi

ApOCCUlypse Then by Crime Storm

2012-01-21T17:40:00.000-08:00

(For this article, "street nicknames" will be used, because we don't want The Man to know who we REALLY are).

OCCUPISM REVOLUTION- DAY ONE, YEAR ONE.

Wett Doggg (Steven Purkey- he's a bad speller, so he uses two Gs in his fake name. I spell it with three because he's also a fanatical Satan lover, and GGG looks like 666) and I went to wander around the uprising on opening day and see what the revolt was all about.

Wettie was hoping for a riot, because he stands firm in his conviction that violence is the ONLY answer to EVERYTHING. I just wanted to look studly in my Crime Storm threads, maybe catch the eye of a foxy revolutionette and get in on some of that Free Love that everybody's fighting for nowadays.

You know how members of motorcycle clubs are always MURDERING each other just to get their little-bitty "One Percenter" patch for their identical uniforms? Apparently, this was a rally against those biker-people. Wait a minute, they're against the richest one percent of Americans? Look, I'm no fan of Puff Daddy either, but when I saw a guy start to BURN a one-dollar bill, I kind of regretted my decision to wear the pants with a dollar sign sewn into the CROTCH.

People were even carrying signs, so you KNOW they meant it. "This Is The American Spring". It was actually Autumn, that's why the sign would have been even MORE clever had it read "This Is The Fall Of America". A couple dozen more demanded that we "Eat The Rich". Why, when poor people are WAY juicier? (I should know, I work in fast food). Something about student loans, but higher education is a world I don't understand because I was too stupid to GO to college, and smart enough to know I certainly couldn't AFFORD it. Um, let's see... I guess people are being scammed by banks with shady mortgages... again, that's a problem I, as a poor person, can't relate to, because I've always rented. "Banks Are Evil". I know, that's why I cash my paycheck at Wal-Mart! Uh oh... they're evil, too?

Many of the more courageous freedom-fighters were hiding their faces, some with plastic masks depicting a skinny white clown dude with a smug grin. I later learned this was an inside-joke from a movie I've never seen (I tend to shy away from big-budget corporate Hollywood productions). Others too shy (or ugly) to show their faces were The Anarchists (aawwww!) Ironically, they were also the most organized, but that tends to happen to people in uniform.

Bored, we went off to the side of the park to smoke. (I must admit I was a little worried about being the target of anyone protesting the evils if Big Corporate Tobacco, and how they bury millions of corpses, mostly poor, under mountains of money all the TIME, and get away with it!) (As it turned out, nobody cared about that issue). Anyway, Purkey (I mean Wettie) fuckin' flicked his cigarette butt right there in the grass! I picked it up, stripped it, and threw it on to an overflowing garbage can. “Wettie,” I explained, “this seems like a Left-Wing action, and many of these people actually CARE about the environment. When the Tea Party has their rallies, they make it a point to leave the park in better shape than they found it. Everything is being recorded, and you don’t want to give this movement’s critics any fuel.”

“Crime Storm,” he snarled, “I’m gonna smash you through the bulletproof glass at Chase Bank.” Lighting a fresh one, he pointed out, “Look, they’re setting up tents. Go tell them that might leave a mark.”

“Well, you’re gonna get your riot at 11pm when these parks close. There’s no way the cops are gonna put up with this.”

“As much as I’m possessed by the Spirit of 99 (WTO reference), I can’t stay. All this weed smoke’s gonna make me piss hot at the sober house.”

“Pussy. There’s a news crew, let’s go get journalized.”

Over we strode, and I announced “Breaking news, coming through. We’ve got something for your broadcast.”

She tossed her cigarette out to the street and motioned her camera human to light us up.

“I’m Crime Storm and this is Wett Dogg, known as the Rock and Roll group called The Filthy Nightmares. We’ve got a message for the top richest bosses of ALL the corporations on the entire stinkin’ planet. The Filthy Nightmares are available to play your private parties for five thousand dollars.”

And Purkey added “Each.”

This footage was never aired, because The Media are afraid of The Truth. Having done our job, Purkey split, leaving me to stare at things alone.

If I may stray from my objectivity momentarily, I agreed with most of what I heard that day. The System is FUCKED, and it’s getting worse. Slime and blood ooze down from the top (AND up from the bottom), making everybody sticky. However, I disagree with the demonstrators that it can be fixed. Things will NEVER get any better. The turd is spinning faster down the toilet bowl, and it stinks. It’s over, and your best bet is to survive with as little suffering as possible. Hope is the thing that happens before disappointment. We’re nearing the end of the Age of Collapse, and trying to stop it is like chanting to the Twin Towers “STOP DISINTERGRATING, MAN.” That’s why I’m so fuckin’ happy all the time—every day, I’m shocked that civilization still exists!

Cool! There’s my co-worker Gituy, whose sign reads “Poor People Need To Get A Rich Girlfriend.”

“Uh, how does Linda like that?” I asked him.

“She dumped me for the 99 percent. That’s her tent over there.”

Eleven O’ clock came and went, I guess. Cops were everywhere, and not doing anything, so Gituy and I caught the bus, went to Heat Gentlemen’s Club, and talked work gossip.

Five weeks later, TFN finished off yet another hott show, rocking so long, hard, and with such passion, that by our last song, the only person left in the club was the bartender, sweeping the floor.

The busses were done rolling for the night. Purkey had moved out of the Sober House, and it was about an hour’s walk to his new ol’ lady’s.

“Hey, let’s swing through the Occupism camp, play them some sex numbers.”

We hadn’t visited the encampment since Day One. Returning, I was so appalled at the litter, I just threw my cigarette butt in the mud without guilt.

Purkey stopped in his tracks and breathed deeply.

“Wettness, you okay?”

“This is a heroin party.”

“Oh wow. How can you tell?”

His hungry, crazed, dark eyes pierced right through me and into the Wellness Tent.

“I can smell it.”

TO BE CONTINUED. (For a hint, refer to the picture on the Editor’s Page).

How I Spent My Summer Vacation Risking My Friends' Lives - by DL Johnson

2012-01-10T18:52:00.001-08:00

An '87 Dodge Dakota rests peacefully in an autoyard east of Missoula, and for this the world might sleep a bit more easily. Like every tour vehicle I have ever owned, this son of a bitch pickup tried to commit suicide on the road, hoping to take my friends and I with it straight down to hell. Through luck, ninjitsu, sheer fucking idiocy, and totem worship we managed to live to scorn the tale. And we kept it tight.

Day 1 - Uh-oh

Bridgebuilder wakes up at 5am and begins loading gear into the Dakota. Tin foil has been wrapped around the fuel line to insulate it against excess engine heat. New front tires, a full tank of gas, new glass windows put on the topper/ sleeping quarters/ fartbox of a truck bed, gear loaded, power drinks and cigarettes in hand, on the I-90 by 7am. Around 9:30am, 11 miles outside of Kellogg, Idaho (youdaho), fate takes a giant shit on us and the transmission starts slipping. Heartbeats accelerate, no one wants to give up tour, so we decide to purchase an ultimately fruitless tranny flush in Coeur da'Lene and push on toward Portland and the mushy embrace of the Filthy Nightmares. Having to pull over ever 8-12 minutes to start the truck in first gear again transforms our 8-hour drive to 15 hours. Bjorn starts praying to Gokroto, the wind totem of tours which he drew on some scrap paper and stuck in the glovebox. Matt keeps farting, you can smell it waft from the topper/sleeping quarters/ fartbox into the cab intermittently.
We arrive in Portland, having managed to figure out a bit of a pace for slamming and releasing the clutch to keep us moving. Fuck. Pull up to Mt. Tabor Theatre Side Lounge, load in, drink heavily to forget the day, play our fucking nuts off, laugh them off again watching The Filthy Nightmares perform, go drink next door with the first Bridgebuilder collaborator Katie Pfeiffenberger and crash at her pad. Meet the roomies in the AM, laugh hard and make tearful goodbyes, make way for Bellingham.

Day 2 - We are insane.

Almost die over and over again in Seattle traffic. Pulling over every ten minutes on steep hills with semis rushing by at fuck-all speeds. We detour into slow traffic on side roads with Matt navigating via smart phone. We inch northward throughout the day, praying to Gokroto and hoping to fuck to get some beer in Bellingham. Unfortunately, we're forced to hop back on that bastard I-5 for the last stretch . . . and then we smell it: the humidity of the Bellingham waters! Limp through town, park the Dakota on an impossibly steep street. The Shakedown is awesome, we get fed and drunk and play with PRND and some really tight hardcore band and someone else that I forget . . . My good friend Melissa climbs out of the woods to hang with us, we chaw some Redman, drive drunk through town, get a fire going and listen to records.
In the morning Melissa gets called out to fight a big fire out of state, leaving us to mooch from her fridge, get our guitars repaired by a really nice rock kid, feed up, head out.

Day 3 - We are kept alive by booze and broken bottles.

We limp along the coast back toward Seattle, and I'm hitting a really good stride with faking out the dying clutch. We catch salty air all the way, stopping to wade at a beach for a bit before fighting through rush-hour traffic in Ballard. The sunset blows my mind. We find our way to the Two-Bit Saloon, a last-minute show hooked up courtesy of James from Into the Storm. We play to some old Missoula-heads and a few other folks, don't get paid, have gear malfunctions but manage to kill anyway, get the most drunk of all. Bjorn and I get real intense afterward about some heavy personal shit, something I find almost always happens on a tour - heaviness abounds.

We sleep for three hours in the fart box and leave Seattle at dawn.

Day 4 - Fuck All.

We take side roads through Snoqualmie until we have to get back on the I-90, coasting real good with morning cool in our favor. Everything kicks ass; Bjorn and I are working out our personal shit, we are making better time than we did the rest of the trip, and we stop in Cle Elum (where my last tour vehicle died) and make it out without a scratch. Eastern Washington can lick my nuts for heat and misery - a fact aggravated by being forced to pull over with our shit tranny just as some highway pigs are tailing us. They had hands on guns, searched our truck, kept trying to get us to tell them where our guns and drugs were, and kept us delayed just long enough for the engine heat and summer sun to cause a massive vapor lock on the fuel line for the fucking Dakota. Pigs never found our weed.

We send Matt up the road, hitchhiking for ice and water. The truck cools down, Bjorn and I go after him, only to find him nowhere and being forced for another 2 hour wait as the truck cools down again. Bjorn looks like he wants to die. We finally get to Matt 40 miles behind us, keep the truck moving as he jumps in, and blast ass to Coeur D'Alene for a final gas-up and a cruise back across the Montana border.

I almost gave up the idea of touring ever again. I junked that shit Dakota for a cool $250 right before Christmas, so the fam got to eat for the holidays. And that is how I almost killed my friends for rock and roll.

Love,

DL Johnson

Ambrosia and Santorum Fly at a Town Hall Meeting in Manchester N.H. • Harold Deale reporting from a Rotary Club Breakfast in New Hampshire:

2012-01-09T08:45:00.000-08:00

Never, dear readers never, have I seen such a delicious spread set for

so many God fearing Rotarians as I did earlier at the Sons of Norway

Hall in Manchester New Hampshire. This morning Mitt Romney sat across

from myself and the most beautiful green Jello ambrosia while the

young local chairman of the H.J. introduced the keynote speaker. Ricky

Santorum! Actually from where I was sitting I counted no less than

eight fruit and mayonnaise based dishes on the table before us. The

glorious pancakes also in evidence were being served by the most

demure and submissive set of young women the likes of which I have not

seen since Newt Gingrich’s “Red Dawn” costume sleep-over. Golly! The

young speaker was finishing up his last joke just as I was reaching

for a bit more scrapple; he said, ”You know why we like to have sex

with our women in the butt?...(expectant pause) Because it hurts em!!

The room dissolved into laughter as my neighbor at the table leaned

close to me to impart his intimate knowledge of the proceedings.

“I don’t know much about politics” he said, “but that guy hates fags

almost as much as Rick! He’s awright.”

Amidst thunderous applause presidential hopeful Rick Santorum took the

stage and began his exciting speech about holding the fortress of

American moral virtue against various scurrilous assailants. I was

floored by his sheer charisma, the way he effortlessly spurred the

crowds slavering jowls to keen and shriek at the denunciation of

gayness, brownness, godlessness; “HIEL!” They cried. I admit dear

reader that I was developing a bit of froth myself and that a more

than slight tumescence was evident behind my khaki utilikilt. I have

not seen Pat Robertson so turned on since the private screening of the

Jon Benet Ramsey autopsy at Mitch McConnel’s house after the D.C. clan

rally. Rick was really working the audience at that pancake breakfast;

as he shouted about gay marriage being similar to bestiality, that gay

men should be marrying horses I think, the last scrap of my self

control left me dear reader. I withdrew into the church basement

washroom to abuse myself while the frenzied crowd roared for blood. I

could hear Hermann Cain speaking now about the godless Obama

administration leading black people astray from their natural position

in society and just when I was about to hail mary, the stall opened…

no knock, not a sound did I hear, but there in the stall with me stood

Rick Santorum in his stocking feet. He didn’t blink an eye but grabbed

at me and growled something about my ejaculate being his personal

property and in one swift, ruthless twist he bent me over the

porcelain bidet and roughly crammed one of his penises into my back

pocket again and again. I could barely hear the organ music in the

sanctuary over the much hotter and louder organ music pounding in the

quaking stall. I cried out that I was going to cum… and before I could

he produced a dirty pocket knife out of nowhere and cut me twice in

the side and yelled that “the rest of America is next fag”. The next

moment he had vanished with a clattering of hooves and I lay on the

bathroom floor smelling shit and pine sol; dripping Santorum and

coughing up blood stained spittle onto the linoleum. Dear reader I

assure you that you should be inspired to vote for Rick Santorum. He

will make sure the liberals keep their filthy dick beaters off

American moral sanctity.

Maced in the Face of America by Robert J. Severen

2012-01-02T16:22:00.000-08:00

Couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of girlies.
Don't tell me you bitches ain't having fun.
I know better.

Before I realized Global Welfare State is inevitable
I thought of myself as an anarchist.
Now being a cop looks fun.

Majority Rules Consensus-Based Decision-Making Process.
I don't care how many of youse is wrong.
Youse is still wrong.

You worthless D.A.N.C.s don't deserve freedom.
Since y'all cain't control y'allselves
Somebody's gots to dos it for youse.

Ain't nobody gots to take yo freedom neither.
You only act with truly reckless abandon
When you relinquish your will and submit.

Stay in School, Be a Homeowner, Don't Do Drugs
Vote, Pay Taxes, Watch TV, Get a Good JOB
Buy New Clothes, Play Xbox, Pray

And most importantly, don't forget the aliens.
They're coming and boy! are they ever pissed.
Follow me on Facebook FAGGITS

How I spent my summer vacation: a retrospective on the Portland music scene by Steven Purkey / Photos by Dr. Dirty Dishes

2011-12-31T06:56:00.000-08:00

Dr. Dirty Dishes decided to come spend his summer in Portland, doing nothing but bicycling and going to shows. He invited me to come along with him to see Guitar Wolf at Dante’s and I said, “Hell Yeah!” To get warmed up for the Guitar Wolf show we decided to hit up some local venues and check out the scene. We hit up Ella Street Social Club first, because the Modus Convention was scheduled to be held there a few weeks later. That night we saw Eats, Yellow Star, Grrrlfriend, Mythological Horses, and Saucy Yoda. This was our introduction to the Portland scene.

First off, it’s notable to note that this was not the only time we would see Saucy Yoda and Mythological Horses play together. Apparently they tour together and sometimes call Portland their home. We ended up catching them 3 times this summer before they took off for Alaska.

Mythological Horses seems to be a rotating cast of musicians, sometimes a three-piece, sometimes a simple two-piece, but always containing singer/guitarist Shawn Holley (of Beeicide fame).

Saucy Yoda is a dance/punk hip-hop diva who’s songs revolve around hoo hoo’s, wontons, and Garbage Pail Kids. I hate to reduce any band to just plain ol’ party music, and she definitely is not, but she does always bring the party. Baiting the crowd with her dance beats and taunting us to get off our asses and dance! She often has members of the audience on stage w/ her as “backup dancers” and utilizes party props such as toy guitars and the legendary “cameltar”, which you can either play or ride. Yr choice.

The guy from Grrrlfriend played in 3 of the bands that night.

We left Ella St. ready to explore this rich Portland music scene. But first, a stop at Dante’s to see Japanese garage rock legends Guitar Wolf. Guitar Wolf rocked with a fury not seen since the bomb was dropped on their hometown of Nagasaki.

Next up on the schedule we headed back to Ella St. again for the illustrious Modus Convention. Enough has been said of this historic event, so we’ll just focus on the performances of the night. Alan Berg introduced The Filthy Nightmares, who were playing their first show ever that night. It’s notable to note that the author of this article is in The Filthy Nightmares and will not be reviewing his own performance.

Fifth Wheel Fornicators @ Ella St.

The Fifth Wheel Fornicators was thrown together at the last minute to fill the place of Bridgebuilder who couldn’t make it from Missoula that particular night, but came a few months later.

Headlining the event was Portland’s own Hog Wild, who have apparently been around forever in one form or another. Modus interviewed Hog Wild back in issue #20, so it was appropriate for them to be playing for the release of that issue. That’s about all that’s appropriate about them, though. Crazy fuckers.

The following week we decided to check out Saucy Yoda and Mythological Horses again, this time at Tonic Lounge with Sistafist. Mythological Horses was a two piece this time, with a different drummer than the first time we saw them. They rocked even harder. Sistafist played next. Damn, you gotta check these chicks out! Hot ladies rapping and grooving…just look it up on youtube, you’ll see what I mean. Saucy Yoda closed the show with half the audience up on stage with her and this time she had a drummer: the same guy who was playing with Mythological Horses. Tonic Lounge is a great venue with a large stage and dance floor, two bars, and some excellent pinball.

Saucy Yoda @ Tonic Lounge

Since we liked the Tonic Lounge so much, we headed back over there to see Therapists. Now, I could swear that we had previously seen them at The Know with Organized Sports, but it’s damn near December now and it’s hard to remember exactly every show. It’s notable to note that Therapists are becoming a Portland punk staple. The lead singer likes to drink ‘til he pukes, often on the stage, and sings with the mic cord wrapped around his throat. They pretty much rock the shit and were enjoyable to watch every time we saw them.

BOOM!, Ghost Mom, and Scavenger Cunt were also on the bill. We saw BOOM! another time, as well. BOOM! is a noisy two piece consisting of a guitarist/singer and a drummer. Highly recommended.

After all this raucous rock n’ roll, The Doc and I decided to hit the chill out tent via the Hollywood Theater and hear some experimental electronic music. The show was called “Hobo With A Synthesizer” and included some primo avant musicians. Eye Myths came out in complete darkness, turning the nobs with their backs to the crowd. When asked who they were after their performance they mumbled incoherently and let the next act on stage. Now, they may have been called Brother Raven, or they may have been called something else, but they played with video accompaniment. Charles Berlitz Pro Alien also used video, this time of, uh, aliens and shit. Up next was Mark McGuire of The Emeralds, not the A’s. He played delayed effects guitar to the utmost level of perfection. About this time I started dozing off, due to waking at 6 that morning, and was in and out for most of Rene Hell. I think my dream state only added to the performance, though.

Wowza, back to The Know, which is a smaller venue up on NE Alberta. They tend to have kinda punky shows and this one with Dark Entries, Vegetable, Firebrand, & Karen was no disappointment. They had all kinds of merch available. Dr. Dirty Dishes got a Vegetable 7” which turned out to be pretty damn good and I got a zine that I think was written by one of the ladies from Firebrand. Vegetable are from Arizona and were the highlight of the show for me.

Backspace coffee house was the only all-ages show we hit this summer. On the bill was Saucy Yoda & Mythological Horses. The dude from Mythological Horses played the entire set with his back to the empty house. This time they were back to a 3-piece, and the Doc and I agreed that this was the best performance we’d seen them give.

Saucy Yoda played a brief set of her hits, but basically she performs best with a lot of crowd participation, and as I heard one the band members comment, the place was “more like an opium den than a coffee house.” That still didn’t stop the Mythological Horses dude from jumping on stage and performing most of Saucy’s set with her. And Dr. Dirty Dishes was handed the toy guitar, which he jammed the fuck out!

It’s notable to note that we had also been playing a lot of pinball at these shows, checking out and comparing machines. Backspace coffee house had a Guns N’ Roses pinball machine, and I was excited to see it there, but was hella disappointed that the game sucked and stole a damn quarter from us.

Tonic Lounge, on the other hand, has great pinball machines including The Simpsons & Family Guy. We headed back over there to catch Mean Jeans, who I’d read about in Razorcake. Also on this bill were Blood Beach & White Fang.

I was super impressed with Blood Beach. They utilize surfy garage guitar and layer theremin, mandolin, and saxophone over top. Actually, all three instruments are played by one person, as she switches off every couple of songs.

We saw Blood Beach a few times this summer, and kinda saw them gain in popularity after the PDX Pop Now! Festival, which we did not attend.

Mean Jeans were a fun band to see. Kinda pop punky with the crowd very into it and singing along. They were pretty good and I appreciated seeing a good punk band.

Unicron @ The Matador

Talkin’ bout fun punk rock bands to see, I gotta mention Unicron from Eugene. They came up and played The Matador with LSD&D, who also ruled. Unicron are punk rock unicorns from outer space and they weave that theme into their set when they’re not singing about asshole being the new vagina, and shit like that. They were funny as hell and have great songs. It’s notable to note that Ed, bass player for Unicron, was in a band with the author back in the day, called Thunderslut. So it was cool to see him again and his band was solid.

LSD&D play excellent punk rock n’ roll with a bit of a metal edge. I’ve heard Led Zeppelin references, but they are definitely better than Led Zeppelin.

The Know, in NE, had such great pinball machines (5 of them!), that we just couldn’t stay away. We headed back over there for a night with The Shivas, Hooded Hags, and Nuclear Aminals. The Shivas hail from Vancouver (Washington, asshole.) and play their own brand of psychedelic garage that had us trippin’ to the groovy beats. I liked Hooded Hags, too. They stop music promptly at 11pm at The Know, often leaving bands only 20 minutes to blast through a set. So, once the music was over and they turned out the lights, we headed over to see what was happening at Tonic Lounge.

We arrived in time to catch Lunar Grave, sort of a psychedelic metal droney kinda band. They gave us a free tape, which I believe Dr. Dirty Dishes listened to at least once before recording Pussy Eaters over it.

Pussy Eaters is the noise project that the Doc and I did sometimes before shows on his front porch. We’d switch off between guitar, marimba, ukulele, organ, record player, pot and pans, and whatever else was lying around. 3 albums can be found for free on Soundcloud.

The Jack London bar, which is in the basement of the Rialto, was the setting for the first ever Seantos Showdown. Seantos is the lead singer of LSD&D and he invited The Filthy Nightmares to come play. TFN ended up closing the show, which consisted of interviews, comedy, and a special appearance by Portland’s own Elvis.

Another venue we ended up frequenting was the East End. The first show we saw there was with Chemicals, Leaders, Midnite Snaxxx, & Guantanamo Baywatch. What a hell of a way to spend an evening!

Chemicals and Leaders are both great punk rock groups. Chemicals all wore lab coats and Leaders lead singer apparently kept dropping his pants and exposing himself, although I was too far back in the crowd to witness this first hand. Luckily, though, Dr. Dirty Dishes was up front and got this rad photo!

Leaders @ East End

Midnite Snaxxx hails from the Bay Area and they rock like seasoned veterans. They gave away free stickers and pins and put on a great show.

Closing the night was Guantanamo Baywatch. They’re kinda surfy garage rock and rocked the house. The guitar player shreds like a madman and the bass player is a hott chick, who can hold her own, which is even hotter. We ended up going to see these guys once or twice more and were never disappointed.

The very next day, East End was holding its 2nd annual summer block party. A shit ton of bands played out in the street on a stretch of side road blocked off to traffic. Sons of Huns were kinda of Sabbath-esque. They ruled. Therapists were up next, and rocked, but it was obvious that mid-afternoon was not their favorite time to play. Rabbits were loud as fuck. Lord Dying was more metal. Danava fucking shredded. And I think the singer/guitarist doubled as the East Ends sound guy. Red Fang closed the show as the sun set behind them.

Then it was into the East End’s basement where Truman’s Water and Manxes were playing. Truman’s Water were pretty damn good, playing noisy avant post punk. I thought they put on a great show, though the Doc, the music snob that he is, said he liked their older stuff better.

Manxes scared the shit outta me. The lead singer chick was dressed as priest and very confrontational to the crowd: taunting us as the rest of the band improvised noisy sounds behind her.

Manxes @ East End

We really liked it at the East End, so when we saw that Blood Beach were playing there, we had to go check It out. Also on the bill was Burning Yellows, who had this rad old analog drum machine, Prescription Pills, who was one guy and a tape, and Alps. Alps was one guy from Australia or somewhere, who used a bunch of effects and loopers on his guitar.

Back at Ella St. we hit up another experimental show. This time we saw Larold Will, theremin virtuoso. He played the theremin like I’ve seen no other, dancing with it and making all kinds of racket. Also playing that night was Ox Veneer, another solo act who filled in his sound with loops and effects.

The Rudy Roo & Davey Two! were scheduled to open up for The Filthy Nightmares at Agenda up off 82^nd. This was the first show by Rudy & Davey, who would later play under the name Nocturnal Sunshine, and are now going by Rollins Jenni.

The Rudy Roo and Davey Two! aka Rollins Jenni @ Agenda

It was still pretty early after The Filthy Nightmares finished up, so we headed over to Plan B to see what was happening. Bad move. A horrible and excessively loud jam band by the name of Black Black Things were getting there groove on and boy did it suck! Plan B is a cool venue, though. And we ended up checking it out a few more time before the Doc left Portland.

More fun was to be had at The Know when we saw Culture Kids, Geister, Face The Rail, and Defect Defect. Culture Kids and Face The Rail are both from San Francisco and provided some great punk rock masterpieces. Geister was from Edmonton, Canada and was my favorite act of the night. They play crusty metally punk rock with alternating male/female vocals. Dr. Dirty Dishes scored a cool collage zine from one of the chicks in the band, too. Defect Defect were fun as shit and were the only Portland band in the line-up.

Next stop: Mt. Tabor Theater, which is on SE Hawthorne, down past the Fred Meyer on the left. This was a party for Wild Child Magazine and featured some excellent heavy metal (no, that’s not an oxymoron.) Ritual Healing was up first, slaying the crowd with some old school heavy metal, and banging their heads in unison. In between bands we had some violin and acrobatics. And then, Toxic Zombie. Wow. What to say about Toxic Zombie?

Every Thursday night Sam Densomre (of Silverhawk fame) hosts an open mic at The Spare Room. This night we saw a guy known only as Gabe play some solo acoustic shit, and Sam himself rock all the hits and more. Sam has been around since the 1980’s, when he was rockin’ the hair metal with his band Suspicion. These days he plays guitar and sings in Silverhawk with his brother John C. Densmore. We had the chance to check out Silverhawk over at The Knife Shop aka Kelly’s Olympian. They play a brand of psychedelic rock with flavorings of Wilco and Lou Reed.

Also on the bill was Errata Note, Watch It Sparkle, and Hairspray Blues. Hairspray Blues had a White Stripes thing going on, which I can appreciate, and which made for a great live show.

Hairspray Blues @ Knife Shop

Down the street from the Mt. Tabor Theater is the Hawthorne Theater, where we went and saw Fucked Up. We missed the opening act, but Fucked Up are an awesome hard core band, in case you didn’t know.

The last show we saw of the summer was Bitch School at Tonic Lounge. Bitch School is an all-female rock and roll party machine. They fucking ruled!

Bitch School @ Tonic Lounge

Well, now it’s the middle of winter and the summer’s memories are fading and blurring into the past. I hope that wherever you are you take the time to go out and support yr local musicians. In Portland there is a great scene with many rad bands who often play to damn near empty rooms. Do yrself a favor and check some of this shit out. Do it now, fuckers! Do it now, before you DIE!!! Seriously tho, folks!

Gazorbnik by Robert Hand Ferry

2011-12-28T09:06:00.000-08:00

ok – i’m not the best writer.
i’m not a poet and i know it.
so, this is not a poem...

hipster disease.
undulating rhythmic egos out in the radioactive acid rain drizzle
downpour that soaks you to the bone if you're fool enough to stand out
in it.

what’s up, people?
are you scared?
me too.
they got us all down, don’t they?
but we are them is my philosophy.
take that and eat it.
may it serve you well.

being fucked by a goat is fun.
a goat by the moat with a coat of greasy whatever it is covering it.
meow.

nevermind...

so he imagines himself sitting on a beach on an island in the eye of a
storm raging on an otherwise calm sea.
the sea is humanity.
that’s how this story usually begins.

and the machine everyone knows as nancy comes strolling along and sits
facing him her back to the sea.
she rolls a joint and lights it and hands it to him.
he takes a toke.
coughs.

so, she says, where we at?
anywhere and nowhere, he says.
isn’t that nice, she says.
yup, he says.

as a spaceship hovers nearby.

damn aliens, she says.
they’re only imaginary, he says.
so it would seem, she says.
yup, he says.

this mortal world of fate and circumstance.
this easy life before the fall.
rock the boat, baby.
rock it with a goat.

nancy takes out a bottle of vodka from somewhere and takes a swig and
passes it to him.
her chrome flesh gleaming glittering generalities in the full moonlight.

are we bored yet? she says.
i’m boring, he says, but never bored.
yes, she says, you are.
oh well, he says.

as the spaceship takes off up to the stars.

meanwhile back in the bunker he sits before the computer wondering
what to write next.
i grow impatient with his idiot mind.
i should have better things to do but i don’t.
do you?

i read stories what real writers write.
they are so clever with their words.
but earth english is my second language – neptunian my first.
my beautiful blue gas giant home where i am just another balloon blob
floating bobbing in the deadly fumes of atmosphere.
if i wrote this in my native tongue you would go insane.
i have.

and so this is where this ends for now.

(to be perhaps continued...)

Steeping by Murphy Clamrod

2011-12-26T07:27:00.000-08:00

have you ever sat in a dark room

by yourself and wished you were

alone

have you ever lit your last cigarette

knowing it was your last till you

could steal another pack

have you ever looked out

beyond the crowd only

to see yourself

looking back

have you ever been in love

have you ever been in jail

have you ever wished you could fly

have you ever had a great

original idea only to find out

someone already had that

same idea

have you ever dreamed of death

enjoyed your life

walked out of a shitty job

have you ever had so much to say

that words get clogged

leaving you with

nothing to say

have you ever played dumb

just so they'd leave you

alone

I have

Occupy Wall Street and Civil Disobedience by Lisa Harp

2011-12-24T06:55:00.000-08:00

Occupy Wall Street is an ongoing political protest that began on September 17th, 2011 at Zuccotti Park in New York City. In a show of solidarity and support, the Occupy movement has spread to several cities across the

United States

. It all began when the anti-consumerist magazine Adbusters sent out an e-mail calling for the protest of capitalism and its disproportionate sway over American politics. People on the street are protesting a myriad of things, such as the disproportionate distribution of wealth in the

U.S.

, student loan debt, and capitalism’s negative effects on democracy. These negative effects are considered to be corporate personagehood, bank bailouts, and the privatization of our currency to the Federal Reserve. Occupy Wall Street is not likely to change our financial or educational policies because the movement lacks a clear political agenda and does not offer solutions that reflect mainstream American sentiments.

The Occupy Movement is different from other social movements of the past in that they lack leaders and have no agreed-upon agenda. They advocate group consensus, sit-ins, non-violent civil disobedience, online activism, and picketing. Occupy movements are peaceful in nature and they have the same characteristics as a non-violent direct action campaign. According to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s Letter from Birmingham Jail, the four steps in a non-violent direct action campaign are collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist, negotiations, self-purification, and direct action. When participating in a non-violent protest people need to consider the implications of their actions, which may include being jailed for years or even for life and being beaten without retaliation. This process is considered to be self-purification. The Occupy movements occurring around the

U.S.

have identified a list of injustices that exist, they have undergone self-purification, and they are utilizing direct action. However, they have not made negotiations with the community, business, and political leaders to bring about significant change.

Ron Paul describes civil disobedience as a form of personal nullification of unfair and unconstitutional laws (49). Civil disobedience is an excellent tool for drawing attention to a social or political issue. People practice civil disobedience for several reasons. They may find the law to be morally objectionable, or their government has become lawless, or they are occupied by a foreign power. Henry David Thoreau believed that men can withdraw their support, property and person if they do not agree with what their government is doing. If the Occupy movement wants to make a significant impact on Wall Street and politics they should make a concerted effort and close all of their bank accounts, refuse to pay back their student loans, stop using the currency, and set up bartering networks that allow people to trade goods and services. Boycotting a system that you are in direct opposition to is one of the most effective political tools available to a protester.

Some of the demands listed by the Occupy protesters confirm that they oppose our free-market economy and would like to establish a socialist democracy. According to World Book Encyclopedia, socialism is an economic and political arrangement where the government controls the economy and supports large social welfare programs that assist the needy. Private property and capitalism produce competition and conflict, and this has contributed to income inequality within our society. Modern social democracy advocates a welfare state, the redistribution of wealth to eliminate economic class inequality, public ownership of industry, centrally-owned banks, heavy regulation over private enterprise, and progressive taxation to fund government spending.

A recent online survey of

Zuccotti

Park

protesters conducted by the Baruch College School of Public Affairs shines light on who Occupy Wall Street is. Of the 1,619 people who responded, more than 1/3 of the respondents were over 35 years-of-age, half were employed full-time, thirteen percent were unemployed and thirteen percent made over $75,000 a year. Of the respondents polled, 70 percent identified themselves as Independents, 27.3 percent were Democrat and 2.4 percent were Republican.

The Occupy movement shares a common theme with the Tea Party movement in that both parties disagree with the bank bailouts of 2008-2009, ending corporate welfare, developing jobs at home, and leveling the tax code for Americans. However, Occupy protesters and Tea Party members differ on their stance on government. “Occupiers” want more regulation of business and larger government. Tea party members prefer more of a Laissez-faire market economy and a reduced federal government.

People are the only censor of their government. Therefore, we have a responsibility to petition our government when it does not act in the interest of its citizens. The Occupy movement is ineffectual because it does not offer any real solution for the current problems from which we are suffering. However, the Occupy movement has been successful in drawing attention to income inequality in America. According to a recent report by the Congressional Budget Office, the income level for the one percent of the population with the highest income grew by 275 percent between 1979 and 2007. The income level of upper twenty percent of the population grew by about sixty-five percent. During that same period of time, sixty percent of the population’s middle-income earners grew by about forty percent and the twenty percent of the lowest wage-earners’ income grew by only eighteen percent. Because of statistics like these, a lot of people feel that the government is improperly collaborating with big business and that our tax system is set up to favor the super-rich. One percent of our population owns ninety-nine percent of the wealth and the remaining ninety-nine percent of the American population own only one-percent. Most people agree that corporate bailouts were bad because corporations are not publicly owned, they do not have the best interest of the public at heart, and they are not held responsible to the communities in which they operate.

In conclusion, the Occupy movement has brought attention to the general public that income inequality in America has grown out of control. We need to protect our quality of life and our economy. We need to invest in higher education and make it more affordable, so that students will incur less debt while going further in school. We desperately need to manage the size of the federal government’s debt. Non-violent protests can only be effective if they possess a political agenda and strategy that allows for the creation of effectual change. If Occupy protesters are able to rally their efforts and come up with clear goals, they maybe able to offer viable solutions to the problems that plague our financial and educational systems. In order to make lasting change, we need to reform our banking system and the way we finance education. The answer is not a bigger federal government with expanded social programs; the answer is reform.

Works Cited

Harris, Edward and Frank Sammaratino. “Trends in the Distribution of Household Income Between 1979 and 2007.” Economic Congressional Budget Office. Oct. 2011. Publish No. 4031. Web. Accessed Dec.1, 2012

King Jr., Martin Luther. “Letter from Birmingham Jail” Prentice Hall Pocket Reader Argument. Ed. Christy Desmet, Kathy Houff Speak and Deborah Church Miller. New Jersey: Pearson Education, 2005. 1963. Print. 71-85.

Paul, Ron. “Liberty Defined”. New York: Grand Central Publishing, April 2011. Print. 44-49.

Thoreau, Henry David. “On the Duty of Civil Disobedience.” Anchor Books. Social and Political Philosophy. Ed. John Sommerville and Ronald Santoni. New York: Anchor Books, 1963. Print. 282-301.

Schneck, Stephen. “Socialism.” The World Book Encyclopedia. Nov. 2010. Print.

Argumentative Essay Outline

Thesis: Occupy Wall Street is not likely to change our financial or educational policies because the movement lacks a clear political agenda and does not offer solutions that reflect mainstream American sentiments.

Claim 1: Non-violent protests can only be effective when you have a political agenda and strategy that allows you create an effectual change.

Claim 2: If the occupy movement wants to make a significant impact on Wall Street and politics they should make a concerted effort by closing all of their bank accounts, refusing to pay back their student loans, stop using the currency and set up bartering networks that allow people to trade goods and services.

Claim 3: People are the only censors of their government because of this we have a responsibility to petition our government when it does not act in the interest of its citizens.

Introductory Paragraph: Occupy Wall Street is an ongoing political protest that began on September 17th, 2011 in Zuccotti Park, New York. In a show of solidarity and support the occupy movement has spread to cities across the United States. The anti-consumerist magazine Adbusters sent out an e-mail calling for the protest of capitalism and its disproportionate sway over American politics. People are protesting a myriad of things. While the protests lack an outright organized goal, many people are protesting the disproportionate distribution of wealth in the U.S., student loan debt, capitalism and its negative effects on democracy. These negative effects are considered to be corporate personage hood, bank bailouts and the privatization of our currency to the Federal Reserve.

Awesome Shit 2011 by D.L. Johnson

2011-12-18T09:45:00.001-08:00

There is time left for my opinions to change about radness this year, but I refuse to spend any more time digesting media this year than I already have. Everybody's gotta list something, and I will never become a bloviated blogger if I don't keep up with lists, so here goes:

Memo to Maury - one of my new favorite bands in Missoula, featuring virtuoso keyboard/bassist Ed Wrzesien carrying all the melodies, my bro Bjorn drumming way tighter than anyone dreamed, and writer/perennial skeptic Morgan Nelson manning the sub- King Missile/post-Neil Gaiman vocal duties. Not only doth tightness aboundeth, but there's a hint of latent greatness about to burst out of the seams of every song.

Monks on Fire - Dude, my King Crimson hard-on hath been stroked. I never really heard Ross Peterson sing much in any of his other bands, but this 4-piece megaprog affair has got me stoked on his singing and composition like nothing in the last 6 months. These guys rip it, their drummer Dylan Foley (ex- Stillborn, Penny Dreadfuls) sounds like a metronome hooked up to a machine gun, and they have this really slick guitarist from somewhere deep in the woods, wielding a chaos pad with taste and summary destruction. Ed plays keys for these guys too! Bitchin.

Shramana - okay, these guys didn't start this year, but guitarist Regignarl really bore down on the heaviness and songwriting/chugga-chugga chops, kicking out some of the loudest, heaviest, and dare I say grungiest tunes I have ever heard from a local outfit. Totally slick and barnyard dirty at the same time, like an '83 Camaro in restoration but ready for a one-seat hellride.

Throne of Lies - dude. Black Metal ist kreig! Close to At The Gates sort of death metal, but definitely screechy blackness on top of nothing but tremolo strumming, pinch harmonic blasty steak dinners. I don't know their names, but every one of those guys is a genuine article of metallic killpower. Best metal outfit in Missoula of the last 5 years, maybe more.

The Filthy Nightmares - okay, one non-local band made the list, but these ex-junkies-cum-performers put out a filthy filthy one-track tape and I love it as much as these guys love picking up single moms at Fred Meyers. Crime Storm hogs the mic and strokes his invisible member(s) while Wett Dogg hustles some acoustic strings like a C-rate pimp. I have never, ever laughed so hard or had so much seriousness-free entertainment at a rock show as I did with these Portland ne'er-do-wells. The Filthy Nightmares are breaking into your house tonight!

Uncle Jack by Bjorn Bergeson

2011-12-14T13:37:00.000-08:00

Uncle Jack was always smiling. It had been years since Mary or Bob had seen him do anything but smile. While he wasn't the greatest conversationalist, at least it seemed like he was having a really good time, sitting there, dressed in his Sunday best, with a nice big toothy grin always on display. He hadn't moved from the dinner table in quite a while. He seemed content though, so they let him be. His hair was looking thinner these days, and he smelled a little moldy but as Bob said, you couldn't really expect him to care for things like hygiene. You get past a certain point in life and things lose their meaning to you.

Mary was a frumpy little middle-aged thing. She did her hair up in a beehive style and wore glasses that looked as if they'd fallen through the '50's. Big horn rims with little gemstones around the frame. She wanted nothing more in life than to stay home, take care of the house cleaning, and do the cooking. Bob, a big graying bearded bear of a man, worked in the lumber yard at Plumb Creek. He'd been working for them quite some time, and was getting ready to retire with a nice pension.

Bob got off work at five o' clock and generally made it back home by five-thirty. He walked in the front door and did his usual “Honey I'm Home” routine. Mary scuttled over and gave him a kiss. He squeezed her ass lovingly. She giggled like a high-school-er. Bob asked, “What's for dinner?”

“Steak and potatoes, with steamed asparagus. I also picked up some carrots today from the store. But I know how you don't like 'em cooked, so I washed them and left 'em on a tray with Uncle Jack. Go wash up; the steaks are almost ready.”

Bob hung his coat on the rack and headed upstairs to the can. Mary busied herself setting the table for three. Uncle Jack was never hungry, but they always set a plate out for him anyway.

Bob returned, wearing a lovely white nightgown that looked like it had belonged to Elizabeth Taylor. Chest hair poked out over the plunge. Mary thought he looked pretty. Uncle Jack smiled approvingly.

“Work was a real pain today, I'll tell ya what.” Bob said taking his usual place at the table.

“Really? That's a shame dear.” said Mary.

“Yeah, that punk Jackson flunked his drug test this morning. All that really meant was I had to do the work of two for the pay of one. I swear if it keeps up like this, the jobs gonna kill me before I can retire.”

“It's a shame dear,” Mary replied, nonchalant and monotone.

“Yes, it is.”

They all sat in silence for a while. Cutting the steaks with fork and knife. Chewing contentedly. Uncle Jack smiled at both of them. Such a nice smile.

“Does it seem to you, that Uncle Jack needs his fingernails trimmed?” asked Mary.

“This is good steak, Mary. Well done.” Bob replied, oblivious to the question.

“Well, I got a recipe off of the Food Network. I just love those cooking shows.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Bob wiped his mouth on a napkin, stood, pulled up the front of his gown and turned towards Uncle Jack. Panty-less and erect he began to masturbate. At the sight of her aroused husband, Mary got excited. She grabbed a carrot from the table and coming up behind Bob, began to sodomize him. “Ughoooh-oh,” Bob moaned. Uncle Jack smiled.

Mary started slamming the carrot deep inside Bob. Softly panting in his right ear all the while: “You love it. Don't you – you bitch. Take it.” It became a mantra.

Bob whimpered a little bit when he came, making a mess out of Uncle Jacks face and chest. Mary pulled the carrot out and began to munch on it, absentmindedly. Uncle Jack didn't seem to notice anything. He just kept smiling.

“I'll go get a paper towel for Uncle Jack,” said Mary.

“Good idea. Hey, while you're at it honey, could you grab me a beer from the fridge. I'm dying of thirst.”

“Sure thing dear.”

Bob went back to hacking at his steak. Uncle Jack, rotted and yellowed skin, sunken and decayed cheeks, eye's like shriveled grapes, just smiled and smiled.

dogfights, cockfights, LAS CRUCES. by Frankie Metro

2011-12-13T07:48:00.001-08:00

hey!

I hope i have the right place here...uh, yeah. HI! shit i already said that...anyways, yg..i mean uh...I'm FRANKIE metro and I like to eat acid on occasion. sometimes when i do, i remember to look at kool magazines and such. and when i find them, i like to send them random thoughts. I AM A STOCKBROKER!!! my wife just told me so. so there. uh, yes, oh....submissions right, i want to send you something. be advised i will not be responsible for any hatemail/a man in a purple suit calling himself the master of funk and ceremonies will take on that responsibility, thank you very much.

signed,
stockbrocker, stook...wait, shit:

F. METRO

dogfights, cockfights, LAS CRUCES.

Phil,
the connection between transparency and reflection is really basic, if you stop to really think about it, living in a world of reflection-how it's obtuse and encamped upon itself. conclaved. sunken with mass and lines: amass all ye' can before the puzzle is solved.

soul train videos and parliament funkadelic. time travel movies. PRIMER. four friends build a machine in their garage, their fucking garage man!!!

I can't believe this is so cohesive right now. I feel jipped, but cosmically gleeful about it all, like... .... .... ..... ..... .... ... ... ... .....

I'll wake up when I'm 30 and still here, Joyous. Gleeful. Cosmos. A Writer's cave is a writer's cave after all.

My hand looks like a rubber band, stretched and wrapped around a steel geometry stencil.

Two wave: Boneless. Chickenless man with two serpents and a full jug of Shur Fine O.J. in his hand. O.G. Kush like O.J. Killer. Two verbs: stay JUICED in the mouth like a spit valve. double dollar. two gecko eyes. a blessed pack of Roman Candle Kids in three piece jumpsuits wishing they had a dollar and a half.

Three wave: is all silence and retrospection...
.....
three lane highways down interstates I never cared to know and one round a bout loop to end up South of the border on the North side 'cuz Mexico scares the shit outta me for real man...

Four waiver: is completely blurry. No sense in trying to make sense of that because before you even mention the name the whole meaning is absent-mindedly lost to you. Your daddy always warned you about that shit, but see! you went and did it anyway...of your own volition...of your own accord.

The Fifth Element: is a bunch of patterns and second guessing the word paternity. Who cares right? But the shapes of that coffeemug on the 'frigerator that's lying there dead as shit is making your left hand tense up...and we haven't even arrived at the future yet.

Audiences Love it When I Sparkle by Kevin Ridgeway

2011-12-12T07:22:00.000-08:00

Vodka isn’t fattening
over a belly full of uppers and downers
the makeup will hide my wrinkles
and frowning stretch marks
it’s a high-wire act, this business-

-darling, just a few of my classics
some muscle boys to carry me
across the boards of the stage

I’ll wink and they’ll melt
audiences love it when I sparkle

Retiring to my dressing room,
I’ll vomit and turn to skeletal dust

but until then--let’s dance!

Ten Hours North Of Daytona At A Rest Stop On I-95 by A.g. Synclair

2011-12-09T06:43:00.000-08:00

pissing away
three cups of
acrid, black
vending machine coffee
alongside men in wife beaters
who force deep coughs
and spit gobs
of tobacco stained phlegm
into a magical piss trough
where all things
suddenly become equal.

© A.g. Synclair

You Have To Be Asleep by Joe Cripps

2011-12-03T11:23:00.000-08:00

Bind me tight in your sacchrine womb
oh american dream
blind me to your shortcomings
with pictures of dead presidents
and illuminated symbolism.

I'll work myself to death
for one slow salty lick
of that glorious brass ring
like the kiss of a long dead lover
cold and rank
but so satisfying.

Like a troublesome child
I receive my toys for being good
and I am scolded for being bad.
I sold out and I bought in
at least I bought something
bullshit.

I can't remember how to play
only that I did once and I became something I hate.
Workboots and arthritis at 27
a bad back and blurry vision.

I bought the lie that money makes happiness
it only kills enough time that you don't notice the anger and resentment.
I suckle hatred from the decomposing federal tit,
chunky with maggots and pus.

The Portland Idiot by Robert Hand Ferry

2011-11-30T21:34:00.000-08:00

Germany Journal part 2 by Steven Purkey

2011-11-30T19:30:00.000-08:00

(Notes on a novel)

1) 1^st half. Intellectual reclusive, love of life, hate of people. 2^nd half we find the guy indulging in life openly, an internal search explored externally.

2) Deep in the hells of his head, pulled by the weights/temptations of the world, lost and trying to find his way back out.

3) Don’t know yet, possible redemption?

Notes: End of 1^stbeginning of 2^nd he tries to be the “Stoic Man”. By the end of 2 he’s questioning that.

June 9, 2003

We made it out of Bourdeaux despite the strikes and a fire on the train tracks that almost cancelled our train. After waiting 3 hours at the Garre, they finally switched us to a TGF (fast train) to get to Nice. All these fuckers on the train, so full people were laying in the aisles, scrambling to get to the other train and fight for a seat (us included). We finally did make it to Nice, but I had taken a Tylenol PM and was passing out everywhere. I slept on the floor of the train’s bar, my head on somebody else’s backpack. Then once we got into the station I crashed on the floor, only to be awakened by 2 mean-looking guards and their muzzled Rottweiler. I was so fucking drowsy and out of it that I bitched at Karen until she went and got us a room at 6:30 am. Shit it feels good to be sitting in this little hole-in-the-wall bar, drinking a beer and finally writing again. We’ve spent the last 2 days hanging out with Mary-Anne in Nice and I’ve managed about a fifth of whiskey a day. Too much! I’m really having a hard time with the alcohol since being in Europe. Not sure what to do about it just yet. Today we walked to a different part of Nice, trying to find out about a bus to Italy. This part of town is pretty cool. Karen and Mary-Anne are down on the beach swimming (tanning). We walked by the port which was so fucking amazingly beautiful! I’m the only one sitting in this bar, aside from the Algerian bartender, who I just spoke with in French about Northern Africa and Islam and hash. I think he’s secretly rolling a joint right now. I’m pretty sure he told me in French that he didn’t smoke hash, but I thought I just saw him rolling some up, which he now conceals in his hand, as if nothing’s going on. I wish I spoke better French.

June 16^th, 2003

We’re back in Germany after a hell-trip through the south of France and north of Italy. I’m glad to be out of the unforgiving heat and back in home sweet Deutchland. I actually feel really good here. Right now, anyways. Karen and I are staying with her family for the time being and have been walking around this beautiful little town taking pictures and buying junk. My huge Hefe Dunkel just arrived. Pardon me while I enjoy the first sip, overlooking the city park by the Kinzig River. I’m really finally enjoying myself. Best time since Bordeaux. As soon as we got into Switzerland, on the train, I started feeling better. Ah, those Swiss Alps. A memorable experience, even if only through a train window. Our first night back in Germany I ate mushrooms and went to a “party” with the guys. A great fucking experience. A great welcome back to Germany. I think Karen and I both know we will be back. This will always be our second home. Karen and I are already planning for when we get back to Oregon. Hell, we’re even planning for years ahead. I’ve realized how much I really want to go back to school and become a teacher. That’s it. That’s my calling. Teaching for the future generations. The future. The most important job I can think of.

June 17^th, 2003

Trying to keep sane is a hard thing to do. It’s much easier to just give in to temptation and impulse and take it all as it comes. Having to think about everything you do and pass away the day in a fit of rage provides too much time to lose yr mind. “I’m freak-ing out, man!” I’m just trying to ease my mind. And stop thinking about drugs. Drugs, drugs. Drugs. How does one keep a clean and sane mind? I’ve been drinking like a maniac and smoking like a fish. I’ve come to enjoy hash. I can go out in public and enjoy myself. I’m pretty sure I smoked opium the other day. In fact, I’m positive I did. It just went unspoken, but the effects were amazing. Had I not had hash with it, I think I would have enjoyed it a lot more. But still, opiates make me feel so much more clear-headed. As strange as that sounds. I don’t have the nagging voice of insecure thoughts constantly beating through my skull. I seem to just take life for what it is and not worry about too much. The whole time my brain’s still thinking. Focusing on what’s good, great, what’s worth living for. How do I figure out how to do that on my own? Will I always be this moody, manic-depressive, insecure, criminal/addict minded weirdo? I sure fucking hope not.

Today we are scheduled to go to Rodolph and Marlene’s after lunch and K’s gonna learn to make marmalade. I’ll use the computer. Tonight we’re gonna make our debut out on the town. What is it? Tuesday? Maybe not too much going on. We’ll see. Yesterday, we went on a 3 hr bike ride with Dietrich, Bruno, and Erik. It was a very nice, beautiful ride, but I wore fucking jeans, K having told me it was only a 1 km, drink at a guest house, ride. Well it wasn’t and my jeans really fucked with my pumping struggling legs. And the fucking guest house was fucking closed! Fuck! Oh well, it was still fun. I’m really appreciating Germany more. Something about the age of their culture, how old and history-engrained it is, really affects how the people think/act. I haven’t seen much of the “I don’t give a fuck” attitude that plagues Amerikkka. But still, I don’t think I’ve found a solution to my problems. I think the solution is waiting for me back at home. And back at home I’ll be in only a few short weeks. So for now I just try and enjoy what Germany has to offer. The other night, Saturday, the whole town came out after dark to party together. People drinking in the streets, many large groups toasting giant mugs of beer in the street. Many of the shops stayed open and the less busy ones were filled w/ owner & friends having great food, wine, & good times. Everyone just seemed so fucking happy and tolerant of each other. I had a great time. Whenever K and I go off on our own we seem to have a great time. I always have a great time w/ Rodolph, but Marlene seems to be a stick in the mud. She’s nice, though. Just a little too motherly for me. Have I lost my mind or has my mind lost me? Sounds like a zen koan. There is no answer. I need a fucking guitar! I need to fuck a guitar! I need to go crazy on you!

Just ate some lunch. Lasagna. Very filling. Ich bin sat. I’ve definitely opened up to K’s family a little more. I don’t know if they really appreciate me tromping around like I own the place, but what can I do? They invited us to stay there, they insisted actually. At least I can let them know from the get-go who I really am. At least it keeps me from going too crazy! I need a drink, though I don’t think I should steal any more of their beers from the cellar. I feel like drinking today. Maybe I’ll buy some whiskey. Or Absinthe! I need to figure out where to buy some of that! Just something I need to try.

June 18^th, 2003

It’s nice and overcast today. Last night there was a beautiful lightning storm w/ thunder. I’m feeling a little extra home sickness today. Really, I can’t wait to get back and get on with my life. But I’m just trying to take everything day by day, as it comes. Today I’ve just been brooding around, thinking of my family and what kinds of things I can bring back for them. I need to feel something magic, something special for myself. I don’t know what that could be, though. K’s been calling to change our flight date and things aren’t looking so hot. I’m not sure at this point if we will be able to leave soon. Our return flight is August 13^th. That would mean almost 2 more months here. I’d have to find something to do. A job, learn German, write a book, start a band, something. We’ll probably end up finding a way home. I need to go sit in a bar and write. I need to go to another party, to go out and drink w/ the kids at the rock n’ roll bar. I think we might actually go to that bar tonight. I hope so. A mind is a terrible thing to taste. Fuck, I never thought I’d miss Coos Bay so much. I never thought I’d miss Oregon so much. Sitting here, waiting to go to Frankfurt. I’m getting fucking restless. I’d been waiting pretty good all day, but now as afternoon’s kicking in, I just want to go to the guest house and drink and write. But I know I can’t get away with that.

June 19^th, 2003

We went to a really nice medieval village today. Very touristy, but fuckin’ cool. They rebuilt the place after WWII bombings to look the way it did before. They’ve left the city wall and towers around it and for awhile I thought I was in a D&D game. It was kind of nice to go see something so typically German. Even though the place wasn’t really real, it gave me a sense of history. And a sense of well-being.

June 20^th, 2003

Luther Campbell. Karl. Luke. Allen? The story ideas: write the bulk as quickly as possible. Let it flow. Give it a rhythm. Make the sentences roll off the tongue and flow through the mind. Keep pace. Peaks and valleys. Truth as basis, but major emphasis on imaginary situations. Don’t underestimate the reader. Assume they’ll know what yr talking about. Basic storytelling (a good story) spiced w/ each character having his own way of thinking. Holding truths just for himself. Female character? How about a series of female characters. A rotating cast of original sexpots w/ great fucking minds.

It’s so fucking amazing to me how little Karen supports me and my ideas. She doesn’t give a fuck. She doesn’t care if I’m doing bad or good. I tell her that I figured out how to write my book. She rolls her eyes at me instead of being excited. I don’t fucking get it.

June 23^rd, 2003

Shit man, we’re sitting on a train on the way to Heidleburg and I’m just finally starting to have fun in Germany. It’s not such a shithole if you know where to go. “You gotta open your eyes!” Now that we’re leaving on Friday (today is Monday), I don’t want to go. We spent the weekend w/ Rodolph and Marlene biking around the Main River. It was way too fuckin’ much for me, but fucking great. A rite of passage. I’m a changed man. I feel totally different. I hope it turns out to be the life-changing experience that I was hoping for. I know for sure it was the magic that I needed. Fuck, I’m actually happy to be alive! For the first time in years I feel like I could live w/o drugs. I mean, I actually found happiness and a love for life naturally. With no artificial happiness. Artificial is nice sometimes, but you can’t live yr whole fucking life like that. You gotta find something to live for. Something to die for. Like I once said, “If you have no will to die, you have no will to live.”

The End.

Hank III or "How I Met Your Grandmother's Vagina" by Alan Berg

2011-11-28T13:00:00.000-08:00

Hank III September 30, 2011

By Alan Berg

It started with two 40’s of Mickey’s after a brutal closing shift at Tracktown Pizza, the place that keeps breaking sales records and keeps paying us minimum wage. The next day we’d be heading to Portland early or at least before noon. Dreading the long-term implications of living for the moment for so long and often I’ve started to get more drunk and drunk more often.

Robert pulled into my driveway around 11am. I was feeling a bit mad that malt liquor gives nearly the same hangover as real liquor. My head felt like the wasp on the bottle but I insisted on wearing a good mood for my buddies who were way more excited about this trip than I was.

First stop was Skip’s Records in Salem. Coty, Robert and I were starting to find common ground in our work relationships over vinyl collecting. Robert is a manager and the only person I work with close enough to my home to bum rides off. Coty is a large and hairy mammal who fancies any genre of any media that offends the weak of heart. I should be more troubled he bought my ticket.

At Skip’s I found an Iron Maiden color vinyl 45, a live Kate Bush Japanese import and some Cradle of Filth no one bothered to label anywhere on the record or the sleeve.

Next stop was a small brewery where Robert’s cousin worked and who fucking cares?!

The bitch at the door of Roseland Theatre gave me shit because Coty’s ticket was smeared ink at the grocery store he got it from. She finally let me in but confiscated the ticket so she could raise hell with Albertsons’. The upstairs bar was effectively out of order due to the entire audience wanting more alcohol. Downstairs, Hank was singing his hillbilly stuff which is insufferable when you’re in a drink line going nowhere.

Coty and I tried our luck at the lobby bar. More success, high prices and lots of security. Nothing mattered. I had finally licked the hangover and was ready to have my ears ripped off and sent to Nashville. Luck would have it though, we came back to an entirely different band. Hank now wore a bandanna and seemed engrossed in Doom Metal for what would be at least an hour and a half.

Most of the time, front and center made me wish there weren’t so goddam many people in this world. The concert sold out and we felt it. One guy tried to push past me to get even closer but there was no closer. I was the last satellite of the up front, dude. Past closer than me means you better fit your whole body into a vagina or ass somewhere. I told him so or tried over the noise and I’ll never forget his response: “Do you want to fight me?” I was trying to indicate there was no room and this guy genuinely asked (kind of politely) if I was interested in fighting him. I responded by shrugging my shoulders, more to show it didn’t matter if I did, he still wouldn’t make any distance forward. Coty was nearby. When he caught wind he asked nothing and shoved the guy forward against the human wall so hard his face ricochet off someone’s back.

There were other moments. Hank played for four hours with one break of literally five minutes. My favorite time at the Roseland was with Steve and his friends to see Nashville Pussy, Fu Man Chu, some other band and Motorhead. We had speed then. Was wishing I had speed at this concert. When we returned from the lobby bar the second time, Hank had moved on to more of a thrash metal and was wearing plate armor pieces on his arms and back and some sort of helmet to compliment the bandit bandanna. Maybe it was the booze but by the third hour, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to end or that it would end or that I was getting home.

Of course that’s when things got blurry. I remember buying a 40oz of Old E at the gas station for the ride home and that I was the only one to be drinking on the ride home. Upon entering Eugene, we connected with my wife who was just leaving the bars with other Tracktown co-workers. Coty and Robert headed for a good night’s rest. My wife and I took some other dude home to play dice, get more drunk and eventually pass out to “Better Off Dead”. My hangover was worse the next day.

THE END

Band Names part 2 by Shawn McMeats

2011-11-27T18:46:00.000-08:00

Alice in Chane's Addiction
Vai Halen
King's XTC
Fine Young Cannibal Corpse (an old one, but I don't remember if this one made it in Modus)
Iggy Pop Suicide
The Aero Smiths
Tripping Daisy Chainsaw Kittens (1 band + 1 band = 3 bands!?)
Armored St. Vitus
Acceptultura
Great White Lion (or Snake or Zombie)
L.A. Guns N' Roses (again don't remember, but this one was a natural)
Wingser (this one's just fun to say)
Biz Markie Mark
Rage Against My Twisted Sister's Machine
Matthew The Sweet
Teslament
Famous Monsters Magnet
Mr. Big Fun (1/2 fictional)
Body Counting Crows
Blood, Sweat And Tears For Fears
Genesisters of Mercy
Spin Doctor Dre.
The xxodus
Hanoi Roxette
Def Zeppelin
Tech9 Inch Nails
Vanilla Fudge Tunnel (obscure 60's psychedelic band vs. obscure 90's grunge band)
R.E.Mones
Zeke Z Top
Ratt-a-tat
Jesus Jonestown Massacre
Green Jello Biafra
Vince Neil Young
New Pornographers For Pyros
Citizen Fishbone
U.K. Subshumans
PJ Harvey Danger...Danger
Days Of The New Order
The Duran The Duran
Broken Social Distortion
Morbid Angelic Upstarts
They Might Be Mighty Mighty Bosstones
Ozzy Merzborne
Cracker Van Beethoven
The Goo York Dolls

Nashville Pussy or "How I Met Your Grandmother"‏ by Alan Berg

2011-11-26T06:16:00.000-08:00

Nashville Pussy @ the W.O.W. Hall

The day started innocently enough with a fifth of Jack Daniels. Coty and I brought it over to Tyler’s hoping he was home. Tyler lives in the Whiteaker neighborhood and drives a Geo Metro permanently decorated to look like a fish. His phone service was shut off but he came to the door when we knocked.

Tyler didn’t have shot glasses so we took turns pulling from the bottle. There are two reasons to always have at least one shot glass in the home. One is to prevent a fifth of whiskey from disappearing in an hour and a half. During that time we watched a documentary Coty brought about some aged moonshiner making his last batch. According to Coty, the authorities threatened use of the documentary’s footage to incarcerate him. Coty says he shot himself.

We finished the film and the whiskey around 4pm. The show started at eight. We walked to the Dairy Mart on west 1^st and purchased beer I’ve never seen nor heard of before and I don’t remember now. On our way back we saw one of our co-workers who drives for Tracktown Pizza walking back to his car from a delivery. I think we sort of dog-piled on him in the middle of the street. We meant it in a chummy sort of way but my memory isn’t complete on how he took it.

I black out a little on what we did at Tyler’s with the beer and some snack I don’t remember and probably didn’t eat. Memory returns when we’re walking towards the W.O.W. hall and saw a huge, metal tank fire extinguisher lying about the sidewalk. Instinctively I ran to it and pulled the trigger. With no precautions taken, the tank shot out of my hand, spewing fire retardant while flip-flopping about the street like a GrandBloomFlower. Possibility of the tank shooting into a passing car or a shop window sent me sprinting down the street and around the corner in the opposite direction.

What I remember about the show is what I remember from my dreams that morning. Mostly sure I was present and that Pussy kicked a lot of ass. Think I moshed for a bit, too.

During the break between bands I made it downstairs and bought myself two beers. Wasn’t interested much in the headliner and could watch the rest of the show on the big-screen at the bar. There’s nice leather couches down there, too. I put my surplus pounder of Henry’s on the table next to mine. I stared at the surrounding decorations for what seemed a month until Tyler came downstairs to say, “you really bought this for me?” I nodded. When he finished he expressed his hope I’d come join him and Coty for the headliner: Horten Heat.

Coty was sheets to the wind. I was sheets to the wind. Horton covered “Ace of Spades” and we moshed for a spell (I was told the next day). High alcohol content and throngs of people separated me from my friends. Whatever the mutual escape plan was, I snagged a cell phone outside and left a message on my wife’s phone saying, “I’ll be at the Horsehead.” I must’ve walked there because her phone says I called her from that number.

To make things clearer, I have never nor will ever own a cell phone because you all look like the worst kind of junkie worshipping your expensive rectangles. We used to call people with cell phones: fags (the equivalent of “douche-bag” in the early ‘90s, my apologies to actual fags). Then one day while I was taking a piss, everyone decided to become a fag.

I thought nothing of it when Jacy didn’t show other than she must’ve turned her phone off to take a nap before picking me up. I called maybe two or three times after that but all within a few minutes so I decided to wait till she woke up. In the meantime I was determined to make the venture less strenuous. I started walking west down 7^th planning on stopping at the first bar I came to and ask for a phone. Luck would have it, 12 miles farther; a bar was still open. It rested on the North-Western shoulder of Four Corners, which is a place that will serve alcohol to anyone with a warrant. I ordered a shot of whiskey, a Papst and a cordless phone.

After three rounds and at least that many phone calls it started to sink in that I was walking the rest of the way home which was roughly another 12 miles. I think that place is called “The Blind Pig” and usually bad ass but my gaze was the baddest as I slowly walked out the door heading vaguely northwest.

Didn’t take me long to get lost. Somewhere down the road I needed to piss. Remember fading in from a blackout in a field somewhere. The ground was soft and part of me thought sleeping there was the best idea I’d had. I looked around in every direction and still felt lost. My anti-cell phone gods had forsaken me. Self-righteous mockery of people texting or checking their messages in the middle of conversation were scenes of my life swirling about my head with haunting regret. If only I had a cell phone, I cried. Then I saw the lights, to the north. Could that be West 11^th, I thought. If my calculations were correct, there would be another bar within a mile of the field. With renewed purpose I stomped across it towards what might be West 11^th. It was but my calculations were way off and so was the bar I was thinking of.

One might wonder why I didn’t just call a cab when I had the chance. I wonder that too now, but after the Blind Pig at least, I only had cash enough for a Papst with a smidgeon for a tip.

My last stop was a 7-11 not far from the field’s edge. The lights of late night merchants with the pavement and the passing cars seemed like a bit of heaven compared to the cold and lonely grass and dirt I took a piss and got lost on. As I walked through the front doors, triggering the customer bell I wondered what I could do differently to get my wife to pick up the phone. She could be out on her own having multiple gang-bangs with all the people I’ve ever been jealous of, I reasoned. Or if she’s home and not answering, her faggoty cell phone might be turned off or out of juice. I decided to call our land line, my personal phone number passed on from bachelor pad to bachelor pad and finally resting in our kitchen, largely unused and cluttering the left side of the sink counter.

It only took me a minute to remember my phone number. Jacy answered on the second ring. “Ready to be picked up” she said. Almost didn’t respond I was so out of breath. Finally, I muscled out the question: “why didn’t you pick up when I called your cell?”

“I thought you had the cell phone. Thought I gave it to you so you could call me after the concert.” Though I was clinically drunk and possibly dead, she was mistaken on this point. Earlier she had offered her phone to me but hating the concept of cell phones and the faggotry they represent, I refused and watched her return the menacing gadget to her purse. After some rummaging and confusion over the phone she found it. “Oh, looks like it’s still in my purse.”

For some reason there is no blackout during the 20 minutes of waiting on the curb of 7-11. There were no profound thoughts either. I remember almost every second of waiting there, breathing like I’d just built a house. My focus was on the 40oz of Old English still rolling around in the fridge from some other evening now lost to obscurity. As soon as I was home I was going to march into the kitchen, grab the Old E. and chug it sulkily, then wine about how tired my legs were from the needless miles of walking. I was well prepared to be the biggest, most petulant child I knew how to be now that all the wondering was over and a ride was on its way. Yes sir, I had been wronged and the whole world was going to suffer for it.

Word from the wife is that I passed out on the floor upon entering the living room. Can’t wait for the next time Nashville Pussy comes to town.

By Alan Berg

Citizens for Decent Literature Online Seeking Submissions!

2011-11-17T17:06:00.000-08:00

Citizens for Decent Literature Online  is a new quarterly poetry publication founded by Michele McDannold and edited by Michael D. Goscinski.  Submissions are open now for the inaugural issue. This is a themed issue and the full guidelines can be read on the website. The deadline for submissions is December 24, 2011. We are looking for new and established poets not afraid to speak their mind. No matter how perverse, gritty, ballsy, political, gay, anti-establishment, women’s-lib, sweet, cynical, absurd, misogynistic, suicidal or rum soaked the poem is, if it’s well written and says something, there’s a good chance it’ll find a home here. No simul subs, reprints considered. Response in four weeks or less.

the website is http://citizensfordecentliterature.com

Harold Deale Reporting Over The Modus Operandi Emergency Broadcast System: 11:00 Friday Sept 2.

2011-10-11T11:25:00.000-07:00

My fellow Americans we do not have much time. It has recently come to my attention that the end is upon us. My inside sources have reported to me this week that the technology to end the world exists and XXXXXX are scheduled to end the world of the surface dwellers in the coming weeks. Evil mechinations of the illuminati have set in motion the cascading dominoes that shall bring about our final undoing before XXXXXXX 2011. At a New World Order conference in May I spoke with our friend Zeke before the Cosa Nostra and Black Helicopter Lizard People breakout 66 floors beneath concourse B at the Denver International Airport and he said that HAARP and STAAR had finally brought together the necessary components to complete the alien device known as DDA14. Named for the secret file shared by the Masonic Order and leaked by the last of the Merovingian line to Clem Hatfield in a series of chem.-trail star ordering transmissions in April of 2008 at Shady Oaks Park Hollow in secret springs AK the file contained clandestine plans and physically manifested ATOMIC SHIFT PARTICULATE MATERIALS! Zeke told me that the D.O.D and the State Department had been in a fury all the previous week trying to verify the Viril Society rumors of subterranean Matriarchal Socialist Utopian invasion onto the surface from their subterranean trans-dimensional realm. He said that the Crystal cannon had been a dangled mole, black flag operation by the Church Universal and Trumpeters, but that the ruse had cleverly hidden the true objective possibly just long enough for completion! At the time I dismissed Zeke and his worries as mere rumor with DDA14 clearly impossible without the requisite Lochnar (having burned the holodeck to cinders before fully materializing on TISS in 2003. Unfounded and ludicrous fear I foolishly thought then because lo as the day dawned today my brothers I received a telex from a source inside of the Office of Secret Intelligence declaring rumors of recent SUCCESSFUL testing of the tsunami balloon catalyser, actually releasing the storm causing bombs in the upper atmosphere drawing warm air at such a rate as to cause a photo electrical charged release strong enough to damage the Earth’s crust while simultaneously causing earthquake, hurricane and tsunami off of the coast of Haiti in 2010. Such a step reveals to myself and the rest of the order that the necessary Mrubidnium complex has certainly come to Earth despite repeated Kremlin denials! I myself have IMMIDIATELY removed myself to the bunker in Succenter IA with the following(that I suggest you acquire and bury yourself with)::::::

1. Whiskey and Toilet Paper

2. MRE numbers 10234 and 10235 (self heating)

3. Some guns (various) also non reloadables like axes or machetes

4. Modus Operandi number 14

5. Clean Socks

6. Toilet Seat Covers (2500 ct.)

7. 6 halved grapefruits

8. 2 Bowie Knives

9. Magic Bullets

10. Maps of Easter Island

11. Star Maps (celebrity home addresses)

12. 55 gallon job size container of Vagisil (for those of you stuck underground w/ a bunch of pussies.)

13. 8 or 10 functioning cuckoo clocks

14. Fuel Filters

15. Snorkel

16. Bag of multi-sided dice

17. A bunch of dead batteries

18. A pen that doesn’t write anymore

19. Hair Dryer

20. One red shoe

21. Flashlight

22. Religious Tracts

23. Required Donation

24. Purple Robe

25. 6 pack of PBR

26. Carton of Pyramid Menthol 100’s

27. Embalming Fluid

28. Aluminum Foil

29. And bring the dead girl’s panties

The Filthy Nightmares Interviewed by Kenna Cook

2011-09-19T16:13:00.001-07:00

(This interview took place just after dark on

Saturday, September 17^th, 2011

at The Space Room in Portland, Oregon.)

Kenna: The Filthy Nightmares.

Crime Storm: That’s right!

Kenna: So names, nicknames, and roles in the band?

Wett Dogg: I am Wett Dogg.

Kenna: Is that the name you were born with?

Crime Storm: Cuz when he was born his mom smelled him and said, “smells like a wet dog!” Nah, he’s Wett Dogg because he gets shot all the time.

Wett Dogg: And I smoke so much PCP that it doesn’t even phase me.

Crime Storm: My name’s Crime Storm, but down on the streets they call me Matthew Braithwaite.

Kenna: That’s why you wear the hat.

Crime Storm: That’s right. Last time I wore the hat somebody said, “let me guess, you’re Matthew Braithwaite?” I said, “Nah, I’m just a big fan.” I was also sick of people stealing my hats, so I figure if somebody stole that hat then…I’m choking again…

(laughter)

Wett Dogg: You wanna hear my new rap? Listen to Crime Storm sing, sounds like he’s chokin’ on my guitar string!

(ohhhhhhhs)

Crime Storm: Wett Dogg was robbed of his shoes on the street, when he stepped in this trap and chewed off his feet!

Kenna: So, how would you guys describe your sound? Cuz I think you guys sound like very articulate punk rock. Extremely articulate.

Crime Storm: What does articulate mean?

Wett Dogg: We have been called Friendly Articulate Gentlemen.

Crime Storm: That’s right. Where we’re from, the acronym for that is….

Wett Dogg: Figure it out.

Crime Storm: That’s why we always write songs about masturbation.

Wett Dogg: How would you describe our sound, Crime Storm?

Crime Storm: I’d say we sound like Hall & Oates gettin’ the shit stomped out of them in the holding cell by N.W.A.

Wett Dogg: We sound like George Jones on cocaine. Oh, wait a minute….

Crime Storm: When’s George Jones not on cocaine?

Kenna: So then, what influences you guys besides like masturbation and Fred Meyer?

Wett Dogg: Satan.

Crime Storm: Satan.

Wett Dogg: That’s about it.

Crime Storm: Caffeine.

Wett Dogg: Caffeine, nicotine.

Crime Storm: That’s right. Back to George Jones, he was just kidding about the cocaine thing. We’re rock n’ roll rebels, you see. That means, we never practice under the influence of anything stronger than caffeine, nicotine, and the pure power of rock n’ roll.

Wett Dogg: I’m really into B12.

Crime Storm: You’re into B12, B-toff….

(Crime Storm shakes his head.)

Kenna: What kind of bands? If you guys had to pick a favorite band or artist, what would you go with?

Crime Storm: My favorite…it depends on the genre.

Kenna: Oh, I know what yours is. Billy Joel.

Crime Storm: That’s exactly right.

Wett Dogg: Billy Joel, Billy Idol, George Jones, Boy George, Geto Boys, George Bush.

Crime Storm: Did you say George Straight?

Wett Dogg: No. Of course we’re influenced by George Straight.

Crime Storm: And the way we look at, we look at other bands as, are they better than The Filthy Nightmares? Or are The Filthy Nightmares better than them? There are some bands that are better than The Filthy Nightmares, like The Kent 3. Led Zeppelin recorded, yes, sound better than The Filthy Nightmares, but The Filthy Nightmares put on a better live show than Led Zeppelin.

Kenna: Very true.

Wett Dogg: That’s definitely true.

Crime Storm: The Violent Femmes are better than The Filthy Nightmares, but we’re gayer than they are.

(Kenna belches)

Crime Storm: Wett Dogg punches Crime Storm. That’s right, Wett Dogg did punch me once. He punched me in the fucking face!

Kenna: Why?

Crime Storm: Oh, it was after we’d gotten out of Rehab and we were playing in a group called The Oil Gurus and….

Wett Dogg: We started drinking heavily.

Crime Storm: We started drinking heavily again, we both did.

(Waitress interrupts)

Waitress: You guys doin’ all right here?

Crime Storm: Yeah, we’re doin’ great. Thanks. So anyway, we were getting’ fucked up and Purkey needed to sleep, or he was done.

Wett Dogg: I wuz getting’ sick, the room was spinning, I wuz gonna puke, and I layed down and Crime Storm would not stop fucking with me. He wuz shoving me, kicking me, and tellin’ me to get the fuck up and quit bein’ such a pussy, and finish drinkin’ with him.

Crime Storm: I wasn’t done yet! So, he stood up and punched me!

Wett Dogg: But before that I warned you about 600 times.

Crime Storm: That’s right. But he did, and it shut my mouth, and then I went to the bar and they wouldn’t serve me anymore.

Kenna: So, is The Oil Gurus the only other band you guys have been in?

Crime Storm: Together, yes….

Wett Dogg: The Detoxitards.

Crime Storm: That’s right, we were The Detoxitards when we were in Rehab. That’s when we first became pals. We decided to start jamming as The Detoxitards and it was great because we performed for all the dope fiends in Rehab and they were a captive audience, mostly because many of them were ordered there by court. But they really liked us anyway. But it was really a place where fart contests passed for entertainment, so it wasn’t that difficult. It was a lot of fun. That’s when we realized we had it!

Kenna: What about before The Detoxitards?

Crime Storm: I used to host karaoke. They called me the Kaiser of Karaoke. I hosted that for quite awhile, back in ’98, my second favorite year on Earth.

Kenna: What’s your first favorite?

Crime Storm: Two thousand and eleven! Because The Filthy Nightmares are takin’ over! Takin’ over rock n’ roll! The 80’s is when the apocalypse happened, Purkey taught me that, that’s when it actually happened, and then the post-apocalyptic music came out of the 90’s, most of which sucked, because deep down inside they felt that they didn’t have anything to live for. And then once the millennium happened and the world didn’t end, people were angry. And that’s why Eminem, candy-ass….

Wett Dogg: Aka four-eyes.

Crime Storm: Four-eyes, yeah, who we diss hard. He ruled the 2000’s, but now it’s the 2000 and teens. That’s why The Filthy Nightmares are the best rock n’ roll band currently playing.

(Kenna belches again)

Crime Storm: Exactly.

Kenna: What about you Wett Dogg, what have you done?

Wett Dogg: Um, I’ve been in some bands. I’ve been playing since I was 15, when I started a band called The Scene in Cooze Bay. That’s was my first band. And the only other highlight in my career was a Guns N’ Roses cover band called Lines N’ Noses.

Crime Storm: Weren’t you in Thunderslut?

Wett Dogg: Yeah, Thunderslut was the last band I was in before I got together with Crime Storm here.

Kenna: Can I be like an honorary Filthy Nightmares member for like one song at a show and you guys can call me Thunderslut? That’d be super awesome.

Wett Dogg: That’s a great idea.

Crime Storm: That sounds fantastic.

Kenna: I’ll play the cowbell, I’ve done it before in punk rock bands.

Crime Storm: That sounds great Kenna, that’s a good idea. We’re also looking for back-rub singers. A lot of bands have back-up singers, but we need a back-rub singer.

Kenna: But you move around so much on stage, you’re all over the place. Am I supposed to just run around behind you?

Crime Storm: Yeah, that would make it even funnier. It would be coordinated like a dance. Oh yeah, I used to be in a band, too. Well, I was a solo act called Crime Storm up in Seattle. I played with a guitarist name John Vermont, who would just sit there and play guitar. He would sit, sometimes with his back to the audience, I think he was embarrassed, I’m not really sure. But he would play, and I would ignore him. It was back when I had my speed-rap act. I used to be a speed-rapper. Then I went country.

Kenna: So, you think you’ll ever get a drummer? What about some other kind of wacky instrument like an accordion, a harp, or a harpsichord?

Wett Dogg: Actually, we’re currently looking for a drummer and a keyboard player by the year 2012.

Kenna: For every song or just some songs?

Wett Dogg: Every song.

Crime Storm: Yeah, we’d like to, simply because we want people to dance. It’s not that people don’t dance to The Filthy Nightmares as it is, but y’know, a drummer makes people feel more comfortable for dancing.

Wett Dogg: Yeah. And it help me get into the groove. It’s all about the groove.

Crime Storm: We like to see the chicks bounce.

Kenna: Don’t we all like to see the chicks bounce? So, what are your favorite parts of being a The Filthy Nightmare?

Crime Storm: Well, really I think my favorite part is going (Crime Storm yells) Woooooooooowwwwww!!! Doin’ the yell. Doin’ the rebel yell that I stole from Billy Idol.

Kenna: Do you practice that when you’re at home? In the shower?

Crime Storm: Well, last time I did, the neighbors called the police because they thought somebody was getting murdered. I like everything about it: working out the songs, writing the songs with Purkey, playing live, recording, making tapes, making a lot of tapes and seeing the stack of tapes stack up. It’s very satisfying.

Wett Dogg: Cassette tapes.

Crime Storm: Cassette tapes, that’s right. Remind me to tell you about all the cassette tapes at Value Village, the blank ones in a bag. After the interview’s over, I’ll tell you all about it. It’s our ticket to riches.

Wett Dogg: The cassette album, it’s called “Power Pleasure”, and it’s available for $5.

Kenna: I have one.

Crime Storm: That’s right, you do. Have you listened to it?

Kenna: No, we don’t have a cassette player. Actually, you know what? We found like a super old like boom box in our closet when we were cleaning it out a couple of weeks ago. We found a really old one. It might still be in there, unless they donated it. If they didn’t, I’ll pull it out. It’s old and square.

Crime Storm: Yeah! That’s what we use. Ours is dual-cassette, so that we can dub all the tapes we want.

Kenna: Hmmm. High tech.

Crime Storm: Right. We’re a recording studio and the label’s called Modus Empire and he’s the king of it (pointing at Wett Dogg).

Wett Dogg: Dictator.

Kenna: (at Wett Dogg) What’s your favorite part about being a Filthy Nightmare?

Wett Dogg: Um, I really enjoy destroying Crime Storm in battle raps.

(ohhhhhhhs)

Wett Dogg: Yeah, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Crime Storm: I don’t. Although, wait, didn’t I write some of those disses? He’s the Eazy-E of our group (at Wett Dogg).

Kenna: Didn’t Eazy-E die of AIDS?

(laughter)

Crime Storm: Touché.

Wett Dogg: Good point.

Kenna: So what kind of wholesome activities do you guys like to do? Or are you just Filthy all the time?

Crime Storm: Right when you said wholesome I thought….(makes a motion).

Wett Dogg: Crime Storm mock-jacks it. Shadow-jacking.

Crime Storm: Shadow-jacking. Dancin’ with myself.

Kenna: Does that mean you’re Filthy all the time? Since you can’t give a wholesome answer?

Crime Storm: Well, the science fiction books I read are basically thinly veiled porn anyway. Just takes place in dome cities with lobotomized pleasure units or computer girls. Girls that used to be computer, but the data has been moved into flesh. Ok, I gotta go stroke it.

Wett Dogg: Notice Crime Storm has not left. He says he’s gotta go stroke it and then he just sits there.

Crime Storm: I said I got to. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna.

Wett Dogg: Um, ok.

Crime Storm: What was the question again?

Kenna: What kind of wholesome, unfilthy things do?

Wett Dogg: Um, I’m pretty wholesome. I don’t even drink or slam drugs anymore.

Kenna: Bummer.

Wett Dogg: Yeah. Everything I do is wholesome.

Crime Storm: Except all the PCP.

Wett Dogg: Oh yeah. But they don’t test for PCP, so it doesn’t count as a relapse. I gave up PCP. It’s all about java and kava, nature’s speedball.

Crime Storm: The kava’s gonna make you piss hot.

Wett Dogg: It might. We were reading about it. It said that it might throw it off for benzos.

Kenna: Do all of the B vitamins you take make your pee like the color of Mt. Dew?

Wett Dogg: I haven’t really noticed the color. I’ve noticed it makes it burn when I pee.

Crime Storm: What doesn’t make it burn when you pee?

Wett Dogg: Penicillin.

Crime Storm: Yeah, B vitamins make you piss neon green, and I drink a lot of Pepto Bismol and Pepto make your poop black as ink. It’s amazing, too! When you wipe it’s like weird!

Kenna: So, what do you guys think happens after you die?

(Crime Storm pretends like he’s blasting Wett Dogg.)

Wett Dogg: We don’t die.

Crime Storm: The Filthy Nightmares don’t die, they just wake up into Dirty Daydreams…wait, rock n’ roll will probably never die.

Wett Dogg: Rock n’ roll will probably never die. The Filthy Nightmares will probably never die.

Crime Storm: Probably not. I mean, probably will not ever die.

Wett Dogg: Probably will’nt not never ever die. Right?

END OF INTERVIEW.

Filth by Robert J. Severen

2011-09-15T06:11:00.000-07:00

How are you Filthy?
You posted this on Facebook.
Your thumb ring.
Your vapid, vacuous eyes.

How do you Triumph?
Mascara and the finger.
Bangs and belly art.
Dyed hair and only panties.
"X"s on the backs of your hands.

How do I Incenerate you?
Let me count the ways:
Matches and lard,
A bic and a bucket of butadiene,
The light in my eyes and
your own greasy secretions,
Or just watch you burn yourself out.

You silly bitches.
Doomed to rot in a cubicle.
Destined for mediocrity.
Like everyone else of your ilk.
Just make fish lips,
Shoot me a peace sign,
And shut the fuck up.

MODUS ARTICLE by Crime "Matthew Braithwaite" Storm

2011-09-14T08:51:00.000-07:00

Did you know that astronauts have a little stick inside their space helmets that they use to scratch their FUCKING FACES with when they itch? Me neither. I just learned that today, and thought "Now THAT'S the type of interesting factoid I should STEAL for the beginning of my new Modus Article. You know, to really GRIP the readers' eyeballs and SQUEEZE".

My original plan was to type out all the The Filthy Nightmares lyrics, but this e-mail box is too skinny for the long, hard, deep, passionate lines. Besides, I've already written them, and I'm not try'na sit here and push pens through previously spilled spray, you dig? What I WILL do for you, though, girl, is TEASE you by sharing the titles of ALL of our hits RIGHT NOW.

WE'RE BREAKING IN TO YOUR HOUSE TONIGHT

I'M GOING TO STROKE IT TO YOU TONIGHT

DOPE, GIRL

OVERNIGHT MALE

KILL YOUR HUSBAND RIGHT NOW (DO IT NOW)

I'M GOING TO DIE ALL ALONE

MY BABY IS A TERRORIST

SWEET NIGHTMARE

POWER PLEASURE

THE APOCALYPSE TWIST

ROCK AND ROLL WILL PROBABLY NEVER DIE

WE HOPE YOU TAKE US HOME WITH YOU

Now THOSE are some good songs. They were all written by good ol' Mr. Purkey and I (except for "Overnight Male", by the twisted and disgusting George Strait). Wow, think about it. Two years ago TODAY, Mr. Purkey (I'm contractually obligated to call him that) and I were brand new buddies in rehab performing as The Detoxitards (along with Dustin Heroin), entertaining ALL the scabby, greasy, nice dope fiends and at the SAME TIME. But you already know that, having read all about it in my article "Sober Camp" in Modus #16 (written under the pseudonym Big Curtis B. Washington Junior, back when I actually put some thought into what I was going to write about). (And didn't end my sentences in prepositions, NERD).

Just kidding, I THOUGHT about writing all kinds of things for this issue, but never did, because I figured I'd just be transcribing The Filthy Nightmares lyrics.

Oh my GOD, I can't BELIEVE we're on the cover of a magazine! Mr. Purkey is SO SMART to use himself to exploit us! What a SELLOUT! Okay, I'm not going to talk about The Filthy Nightmares anymore, lest we die of overexposure before we finally get murdered onstage (we're VERY controversial).

The Oil Gurus were what The Detoxitards became after rehab. (TOLD YOU I wouldn' talk about The Filthy Nightmares The Filthy Nightmares The Filthy Nightmares anymore!)

I NEVER thought we would get this big.

THE

FILTHY

NIGHTMARES

NEW FULL LENGTH (and turgid) TAPE

"POWER PLEASURE" AVAILABLE. 5$. CONTACT MR. PURKEY WITH THE MONEY, AND HE WILL MAIL IT TO YOU WITH THE MODUS YOU ALWAYS GET FOR FREE.

Bar Writings part 5 by Alan Berg

2011-09-13T14:18:00.000-07:00

7/28/06 @ Horse 12:30 (Thursday)

Just arrived and already I’m at a loss. Why the hell am I here? “Eighties Night” is across the way at the John Henry’s, but there’s not much bustle over here. So there I was again, out of ideas and at the bar ordering shots for myself. “Women don’t even look good anymore,” I thought. What do you get the man who can’t enjoy anything? You give him pain. That’s what. You make things worse so he’ll wish and long for his previous existence before you fucked w/ him. Maybe that’s what I needed, an enemy who really exists.

12:40am

Alan wanted it so bad, a purpose. The poor bastard was open to anything that night. “Hell,” he said. “I’m drunk enough to accept Christianity.” But, of course, neither claim was true. The man had just ordered his first round.

12:45

Finally, some “Eighties Night” folk, carrying on loudly, and chicks. Some hot chicks just gravitated towards the part of the bar closest to my table. Tall girl w/ tattoos. She’s all over this place and now she’s gone. Where could Buddha be?

Alan took one meaty glance over the lobby of the bar. He recognized in an instant the women he’d normally pick out and eat if he was hungry.

“Where’s my appetite?” I said to myself. But I knew it before I walked in: there’s too much of nothing for me here. Maybe I went out tonight to escape logic. Logic is worse than a girlfriend, you know. Your girlfriend can be asleep and still logic will nag. If logic had a human form, it would throw all of your clothes out on the street outside your own apartment.

Buddha just came by and made me feel more drunk, I thought. I just ordered a Shirley Temple w/ vodka. Should I have done this? No. No, I shouldn’t have.

Tonight I have enough money $ for chew and I think I’ll get some on my way home. I have 16 blocks to walk after all.

Al scanned the full stretch of the glossy-wooden bar: bunch of ok-middle-looking people trying to hook up for the night. Nothing appealed to his constricted senses. He’d die an old maid, of this he was suddenly sure.

“Do I have to break my glass on the edge of this table to get any action?” I thought. But really, who would I stab? What’ve these folk done wrong? And seriously, who can fight w/ a broken pounder glass anyway? Surprise attack is one thing, but a real hand to hand? I’d rather have a butter knife. Sad truth is, I’m gonna have to walk back the 16 blocks home soon. It’s 1:40am.

And what was he hoping to accomplish by making an appearance at this bar anyway?

“Everybody’s hooking up. Why am I not trying to hook up?”

Alan was lost in a cesspool of logical waste. All the thought once deemed illogical came to him in rows. For the first time in 20 years, Alan Berg found himself alone w/ his own conscience barometer for alcohol drinking and when it’s too much, and his own cleverly constructed bar-social environment. For the first time, Alan was out of cards. The last hand was played just for himself, which was a change. Still, the hand was shit.

I left that horrible place thinking I was leaving that rotten parasite on my brain, too, but it keeps telling me it only leaves when its host is dead. Naturally, I said I’d be the first to see it die.

I am lonely. Sure, I have a beautiful woman to have sex with and talk to sometimes, but I’m lonely. Tamra is not a playmate. The more playful I get, the more irritated she seems. The relationship I’m in seems doomed and that’s why I’m open to anything, like the web-spinning spider who throws its tether string out for the wind to catch.

1:55am

I especially hate those fuckers who think it’s a good idea to start a web across a pizza delivery customer’s walkway. I hate them for 2 reasons: 1. They’re doomed to failure (unless the house owners die) and 2. They keep trying like it’s gonna work after the 30^th attempt. Like we’re not gonna smash through their predatory artwork each and every time they put that shit up on the main door walkway! I don’t mind them trying to catch flies on my walkway once, but when it’s the same stupid spider trying so hard to do the same damn thing the next day…I hate that guy. Fuck that guy.

2:25am

I’m writing upon a covered trash can on 18^th and Oak. I had a thought: crap, I forgot it. My obsession w/ writing the context first ruins spontaneous thought. Boo me and my obsessive-compulsive habits.

Now I’m on 18^th and Willamette on some concrete steps of some place I know not. Still, I feel more comfortable writing here than anywhere else. Everything is quiet.

“What is my future?” cried Alan. He was desperate to ignite a conversation with himself on the walk home. Just one more pinch of snuff and he’d be there. He knew this, but for some reason he stopped and sat on those strange steps to write something before this 2^nd nicotine high. Nothing. No inspiration.

“Fuck this,” I thought. “It’s too hard to think in this climate.” I had the chew, so I popped it and chewed it. “Let’s see how far I can get on this high”, I said. But there was no one around.

3:10am @ Al’s place

I’ve had 4 dips tonight on my way home, one of which was dipped when I got here, so really just three.

So I just kept getter higher, you know, alone, but w/ the thought someone was close by anyway. I got home unsatisfied and grabbed a beer and a chew. Both influences kept telling me something I should’ve already known. Like a chorus you sing along to even if you’ve heard the song only once before, a long time ago. I wanted to belong by myself, in my own home. Should’ve known what would happen. Think what you want or have to, you can never change your feeling, your desires, your self, the self you know more than others.

Fuck, why is it so much easier to write when I’ve a wad of chew in my gums?

Alan, when will you write important letters? Essays? You will die if you don’t wake up.

I’m watching PBS, some special about Nixon, Walter Cronkite, freedom of speech. CBS was targeted by the government. Al wonders if Dan Rather wasn’t targeted recently (past 2 years) as a move to eliminate any bastions of established credibility that might criticize the current administration.

5am

Last night I dreamt I was rock climbing and it was very scary for me to look down from the top. At first it was scary to reach the final dozens of feet. I reached and climbed despite my fears, but felt intimidated to let myself down any way but which I‘d climbed up, which turned to a convenient stone staircase. I started descending the stairs when I was awakened by Tamra, ready to take me home before going to work.

the only magic left in this world is intention by Christy Harrington

2011-08-29T09:06:00.000-07:00

A woman walks into a bar with cocksure hipstride straight towards you, the escape artist act who got booed offstage about 3 hours ago, the man drowning in his drink.

She says, “hey mister. I saw your show. It wasn’t terrible. You inspire me. Ya wanna see MY magic trick?”
She flicks her lighter, takes a light slow drag of vitamin n
You raise your glass, without ever looking up to see her face as if to say cheers, now fuck off.
“what’s your name, sir?”
“what’s your magic trick?”
She takes another slow pull off her cheap offbrand bad habit, blows the smoke in your face, slow and gentle-like.
You don’t even flinch.
You just stare into your drink, watching the sting of the alcohol melt the ice cubes.
“I’m gonna take another puff of this magic wand I have here, and then I’m gonna whisper a spell and turn you into an inanimate object.”
Little smoke rings billow beneath the brim of your hat from her exhale.
You turn your head just enough to get caught in the contact of her eyes.
You notice one eye looks a touch innocent yet melancholy, the other filled with mischievous wonder.
She gives a slight smile with just her eyes
She waves her ‘wand’ away from her body towards you, the cherried tip just in front of your nose.
She gently bows her head without breaking eye contact and mumbles what sounds like gibberish and taps the wand with one finger, the ashes landing all over the front of your clothes
“oof-pay, ou're-yay an-ay ashtray-ay.”

The Portland Idiot by Robert Hand Ferry

2011-08-27T19:15:00.000-07:00

Bageldog Haikus by Shawn McMeat

2011-08-27T08:28:00.000-07:00

50 People
Fifty people scream.
Wasn't really listening.
I couldn't hear it.

First Period
I didn't get scared,
Until it wanted to spar.
Kick you in the face.

Tuffer Than Nails
What is next tuff guy?
I think I'll call your bluff, guy.
All you do: bitch, moan.

Cobwebs
Cobwebs. In my head.
In my neck and in my brain.
Cobwebs still remain.

Dusty
Unsuspecting drunk.
Hump me please, I love you best.
What does Dusty care?

By Hiding A Gay
Sitting in a tree.
First comes, and the second too.
I am your master.

Bageljuice
Leaking though my toes
Loyal to the Bagelking.
Think I know a bitch...

Bitch!
Dumb bitch, stupid whore.
Stupid bitch, bore me to death.
I will kill you bitch!

Square Song
The rhombus married
A square, four sides to a pair.
Extreme scene. Lick clean.

Bagelhogs
...But you taste so sweet.
Dying here from lack of meat.
We're the Bagelhogs.

and one more...

Damn You. Damn You All!
Lies! Liar! Lying To Me!
Damn You. Damn You All!

"Frankie Metro fucked a goat" by Newamba Flamingo

2011-08-26T08:55:00.001-07:00

Recently I did a BTR online radio show with the poet Frankie Metro. During the show, a poet by the name of Yossarian Hunter called in and proceeded to read a poem about fucking a dog. Yossarian went on to discuss various forms of animal fucking as well as the numerous virtues of bestiality. Seems this type of thing happens a lot where he lives in Mississippi and that his favorite animal to fuck is a goat.

I'd never really thought much about fucking a goat. But Yossarian made a really good case for it. You can buy a goat for much cheaper than you can a hooker, and a hooker you only get for one night, whereas a goat you can keep for many years, plus it'll mow your yard. (Try getting a hooker to mow your yard!)

Plus all you gotta do to make a goat happy is feed it. Just 99 cents will buy you an apple to feed a goat and make it happy, as opposed to a hooker who you gotta pay at least $50 for head alone, plus you might also have to buy him or her crack cocaine or some shit.

Frankie Metro and I were initially repulsed though amused by Yossarian's praise of bestiality. However, through telepathy after the show, we discussed the matter in greater detail, and the more we talked about fucking a goat, the more turned on we got by it, so we decided to meet up the next night, at a peyote farm in the New Mexico desert, to try it ourselves.

We agreed to rendezvous up at the farm at around 2am. When I got there, I didn't see Frankie Metro anywhere. I was walking around for a little while making tropical bird mating call sounds, trying to locate him, when all of a sudden Frankie Metro fell from the sky, landing right in front of me. Upon landing, he made some kind of mentally retarded, retching type yell, and did a Japanese style bow. I swear a gong clanged in the background.

Frankie Metro was in perfect attire for the occasion. He was wearing bright red tights, knee high silver platform boots, a brown leather motorcycle type vest, and a white, ill fitting cape with a large marijuana leaf on it. He was also had on weight lifting gloves, one of those leather 1920's football helmets, and pink Barbie swimming goggles.

I couldn't make out much of his face, probably because underneath the football helmet smoke was pouring out, a greenish type smoke, and I could see that he was pulling on a fat blunt. Without even saying a word, Frankie passed me the blunt and motioned me to follow him up to a nearby hill.

I hit the blunt a few times and was instantly buzzed. It was some chronic shit. I almost forgot why we'd met anyway, but then I saw a goat gnawing on a bushel of hydroponic ganja up at the top of the hill, and I remembered why we were here.

At first I thought maybe we were going to tag team the goat and suggested this to Frankie. However, neither of us wanted to be the one in front and to take a chance on the goat biting our dick off. Neither of us wanted to go for sloppy seconds, either, so we flipped a coin for first fuck.

Frankie called heads and won. Initially he was somewhat reluctant to fuck the goat since he's married to a lovely transsexual midget, a Korean Karaoke singer named Tang Wu Doo Doo Kai, and worried fucking the goat would be like cheating on him/her. I assured Frankie that it's not. Bestiality doesn't count as cheating or adultery. I confirmed this as well through telepathy with Yossarian.

Frankie and I hit the blunt a few more times and Frankie was like fuck this shit, it's time to get all up in this goat ass. He yanked down his tights and broke out a penis I can only describe as monstrous. It wasn't as big as Yossarian's, but it was still big, about the length and width of a 1.5 liter water bottle.

Besides the sheer size of it, noteworthy as well about Frankie Metro's penis was that it had dragon wings tattooed on it, big, neon purple ones, and that it was uncircumcised, with an especially long and floppy foreskin, which kinda resembled a folded slice of smoked turkey. His dick really looked like a weird fucked up faced neon dragon or something you might see if you were taking acid and watching Sesame Street. I was expecting Frankie Metro's penis to start shooting fire or singing the alphabet at any minute.

His testicles were also unique. One testicle was damn near the size of a football, and the other the size of a ping pong ball. I'd no idea how they got so uneven like that or how this motherfucker even managed to walk. They were some hairy shits too. Fucking hairiest nads I'd ever seen. Looked like somebody'd caught Slash in a headlock.

Frankie Metro cradled his dragon penis in his hand, stroking it 'till it achieved erection. He calmly approached the goat, which seemed oblivious to the whole thing, and rested his hands on the goat's furry buttocks. Frankie arched his ass backwards, then gave the goat a sudden pelvic thrust, and his massive unit rocketed right up into the goat's vagina. His dick entering the goat's pussy made a loud squishy type sound, like someone'd squashed an orange with a sledgehammer.

Frankie closed his eyes, bent back his head, and began thrashing away at the goat, truly fucking it like the animal it was. The goat only made slight “bah” type murmurs, but Frankie, in trance of pleasure, started screaming uncontrollably, speaking in tongues, and again making those retarded retching sounds he'd made when we first met.

After about five minutes of frantically fucking the goat, Frankie Metro appeared to orgasm into it, his whole body gyrating in spastic, violent, epileptic fit type convulsions, except his arms, which remained frozen still, in almost a yoga-like contortion. Once it appeared he'd finished orgasming, he reached down and tried to withdraw his penis from the goat, but couldn't. It seemed his penis had gotten stuck.

Frankie Metro tried in vain to pull his penis out, but it was to no avail. Soon he started really freaking out, yelling, slapping, and punching at the goat, trying to break its vaginal grip. He cried out to me to help and I ran over to assist and attempted to yank the goat's head forward, thinking this might undo it. But it didn't. Actually it just pissed the goat off. The goat glanced up at me with a Satanic expression, as if it'd been fucked by one too many poets and it growled and butted forward, knocking me over.

The goat “bah”ed with such an ear splitting squeal that I had to cover my ears, and I thought for a second my eardrums would explode. The goat then took off running... with Frankie Metro still attached to it.

It ran like a racehorse, faster than any animal I could recall. The last I saw of it, it was dragging Frankie Metro by the dick over the slope of a sandstone hill. Frankie Metro's arms were flailing and slapping madly at the beast, his cape flapping in the wind, as the goat pulled him away, and I could still hear Frankie Metro's painful, retarded retching type screams for a couple minutes until they gradually faded away into the moonlit night.

I then tried to contact Frankie Metro by telepathy but only got his voicemail. So I picked up his blunt, which was on the desert floor and still burning, hit it a couple times, plucked and ate a handful of peyote, sat down on a rock, watched the stars in the sky change colors, and for some reason thought of that episode of “Who's the Boss?” where Tony sees Angela naked in the shower.

Hottest Bitch of the Year!

2011-08-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

Tasty!

Filthy!

Nasty!

Hott!

Bitch!

Psychotronic Sprockets: Gene Siskel Died For Your Sins Edition by D'Artagnan Flewelling

2011-08-14T07:46:00.000-07:00

RUBBER (2010)

This little piece of meta-whatever concerns a sentient tire named Robert who pulls himself up out the desert sand, brushes himself off, and goes rolling out into the world. It isn't long before Robert the Sentient Tire (RST) discovers his ability to destroy things telekinetically, causing more human heads to pop than in SCANNERS. This is one pissed-off Sentient Tire. There's a concurrent plot regarding how we view movies and a group of spectators (including Wings Fuckin' Hauser [WFH]) observing RST's rolling roadshow of exploding heads and commenting on the action.

You can't make shit like this up (well, apparently you CAN but no one would believe you). RUBBER gets mucho bonus points for being original and for existing at all, I guess. Things tend to drag a bit at points but the whole weird atmosphere is addictive and thankfully the film is pretty short. It feels pretty slight but there's just something about RUBBER. Like the tag line says, “Are you TIRED of the expected?” If so, then RUBBER is worth a viewing.

MADMAN (1982)

In my search for lost “classics” in the horror field I stumbled upon several laudatory online reviews for MADMAN and I'm here to tell you, friends, do not believe the hype. This piece of cinematic excrement makes FRIDAY THE 13TH look like a David Lean production.

The plot: At a camp for gifted children (where the counselor-to-camper ratio appears to be one-to-one and the summer camp is apparently held around Thanksgiving) a tale is told of Madman Marz, a backwoods type of guy who went crazy one day and chopped up his family, then went down to the local bar and ordered a beer, bloody ax in tow. Mysteriously escaping the fate a lynch mob left him to, Madman Marz is rumored to live in the old house that happens to be about 50 feet from the campsite. A “gifted” child calls out mockingly to the forest and Mr. Marz.

Well, old Madman isn't going to take that type of shit, and before too long we're treated to axings, lynchings, decapitation by truck hood, and the stupidest collection of counselors this side of Crystal Lake. It's all very tedious, but the high points are Gaylen Ross (here credited as 'Alexis Dubin') from the original DAWN OF THE DEAD flashing topless (in tandem with a hilarious hot tub disco synchronized mating dance) and the fact that Madman Marz has his own theme song. Perhaps with some alcohol this would fall into the category of So-Bad-It's-Good, but I watched this stone-cold sober and believe me, it's more entertaining to read about than it is to see.

VIDEODROME (1983)

At Civic TV Channel 83, Max Renn (James Woods), is looking for new programming for his station. Soon decoded is a pirate video broadcast showing torture murder mutilation clay walls electricity called "VIDEODROME.” Max is intrigued because he's one kinky SOB (it is James Woods, after all), and wants more. Meanwhile, he's hooking up with Nicki Brand (Blondie's Debbie Harry) and a little erotic ear piercing quickly leads to self-mutilation via burning-cigarette-to-breast, and Nicki's desire to star on an episode of everyone's favorite family snuff show “VIDEODROME.” There's something hidden in the signal of VIDEODROME'S transmissions, something that causes a tumor that in turn causes hallucinations....because TV is the retina of the mind's eye according to PROFESSOR BRIAN O'BLIVION, a man who will only appear on TV while appearing on a TV.
This DAVID CRONENBERG classic has long been a favorite and is heartily recommended to all. His body-horror aesthetic is in full pure bloom here, with fleshguns/breathing televisions/cancerous bullets/vagina stomachs making for a potpourri of hallucinatory goodness. He later revisited many of the same themes in eXistenZ (which is also a good flick with some awesome conceptual meat ideas) and his Brundlefly version of NAKED LUNCH, but was extremely prescient here...on the cusp of the VHS boom where every living room had a sinister-looking VCR attached to the modern fireplace we call television, and years before the InterWeb and DVD and Smart Phones and all the other shit we have that has truly evolved humans into something new: a biomecha hybrid amusing ourselves to death and unable to see reality as it truly is. Of course, the sage R.A.W. Said 'Reality is What You Can Get Away With.' I digress...if you haven't seen VIDEODROME, do so immediately. After that, check out everything else DAVID CRONENBERG has done, because he's the shizz.

Folk-Punk! (a shitty exposé on how I discovered a genre) by Steven H. Purkey

2011-08-13T17:05:00.000-07:00

It all started when me n’ my old pal, Crime Storm, started playing around town in our rock n’ roll duo, The Filthy Nightmares. Since we play high-energy acoustic music, people started calling us Folk-Punk and comparing us to some other bands. I had no fucking idea what they were talking about, so I decided to set out on an adventure to find out just how similar we were to this genre.

I found an article in Razorcake which served as the perfect introduction. They talked about the style of taking punk songs and playing them on acoustic guitar, often with a fiddle or other instruments that are not normally associated with punk rock music. What a great fucking idea! Or maybe taking a country and western song and punking it up a bit. I liked what I heard, and it wasn’t too far off from what we were doing.

The next step was to listen to some of the bands that they were talking about. I couldn’t find anything by Can Kickers, so I went with the next one, Bread and Roses. Damn, girl, these guys are rad! Yeah, it’s punk rock, not slowed down at all, but played acoustically, with some old-timey fiddle. The vocals aren’t quite as harsh as punk rock, it’s kinda more sing-songy. Almost like if Crimpshrine went unplugged, which for all I know, maybe some of those guys did. I really didn’t do any research for this article. It’s for Modus for chrissakes!

I did, however, listen to a lot of different bands. I noticed that Folk-Punk can go a few different ways. Some bands prefer the style I already described, of just playing punk acoustically, while there’s a whole different style also associated with the genre. It’s more like Celtic punk. You know, like Flogging Molly type of shit. Some of the bands I liked in that vein were Mahones, Paddy & The Rats, and The Rumjacks. It’s all great high-energy Celtic punk.

One thing I’ve noticed about Folk-Punk is the use of folk instruments. Defiance, Ohio and Bread and Roses both have fiddle players, as do many of the other bands. Some have organists or flutes. Harmonica is also common. Drummers are optional.

Well, that’s about all I’ve got to say on the subject, so I leave you with this handy list of some of the bands I discovered.

This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb- basically just a folking punk band

Bread and Roses- is that a fucking banjo???

Captain Chaos- pared down punk songs

Defiance, Ohio- one of my faves!

Ghost Mice- Sid Vicious sitting around the campfire

Johnny Hobo and the Freight Trains- is it soft punk or hard folk?

Mahones- the Irish Ramones!

Paddy and The Rats- who knew the flute could be so punk rock?

Pretty Hot- pretty rad!

The Rumjacks- jiggin’ in the pit

Tim Barry- I could see this guy getting banned from open mic

Wingnut Dishwasher’s Union- who will wash the dishes after the revolution?

A dose of does does the body good. by Waldo Finney

2011-08-07T08:02:00.001-07:00

If I wanted to tell a story about drinking I guess I'd just begin with a slur. I'd rather not introduce myself that way, not in this esteemed crowd.

I'm now so far off topic I might as well say anything really. Anything just to get this damn motor running. I've checked the oil and I've pulled my pud until my skin wore off, now I'm dry and tired.

What I meant to say is this - Hello dear friends and also hello to you deer and doe. Buckskin will never be worn in your presence but I will hang my hat on your head. The very same head that is hanging off your body and on my wall. This wall has so many stories to tell but the only mouth it has is dead. No words are coming. The lips are too stiff.

Everyone I know who knows anything about deer jerky really loves deer jerky. They just don't like to eat it when dead deer eyes are peeping in on them. Judging them. So this is my advice to them - just put a bandanna over the eyes of the deer on your wall and eat all the jerky you want. After you are finished with your delicious snack remove the bandanna and thank the deer for his belly. His belly is now in your belly. Your belly has a deer belly. I hope someone doesn't mistake you for a deer and hang your head on their wall. If that should happen I at least hope that they have the decency to place a bandanna over your eyes while they eat the jerky that they made from your belly.

It's really too bad that jerky is so good. No one can resist it's pull, not even a tractor. And tractors are very strong.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you're ever ashamed of your actions just put a bandanna over your eyes and let everyone eat the dried jerky from your body until you are dead and then you can't feel it anyway and someone else is malnourished from your shame. They can wear your shame as I have. In a closet with the lights turned down low. Playing an old record and remembering.

Rant In A Bar by A.g. Synclair

2011-07-30T19:35:00.000-07:00

Dumb Bitch
bars are meant for drinking,
not texting.

In better days,
men would come here
to talk of books, and life,
and women, and sport.

Men of letters would cry,
and drink, and smoke,
and write in filthy notebooks
with curled up edges

on cocktail napkins
and matchbook covers
that became novels,
and stories, and poems.

Wisdom borne of scotch and bourbon,
The Brooklyn Dodgers, and
not a frilly umbrella drink in sight.

Dumb Bitch
stay out of my bar.

©A.g. Synclair

Hogs! by Waldo Finney

2011-07-04T18:51:00.000-07:00

Q: What's better than bacon??

A: Sucking a pig's dick!

Germany Journal part 1 by Steven Purkey

2011-06-28T07:00:00.001-07:00

May 16, 2003

We arrived in Deutchland today. Noon local time, 3:00am my body’s time. Marlene, a middle-aged German, picked us up from the airport and drove us through Frankfurt and on down the autobahn to Rothenbergan. What is jet-lag? I’m running on five hours of sleep in the last two days. All the pills I took before the flight are the only thing keeping me going. I’m stinky and sweaty and totally out of my mind. But we carry on. We met Marlene’s mother, who is in a wheelchair recovering from a stroke and doesn’t speak a word of English. Then we went down to the bank and exchanged our dollars for euros. Across the street we sat and ate ice cream, shaded from the sun. Later, Rodolph got home from work and gave me beer and hash and I stood outside drinking with him and his friends until about 8:30 when I had to stumble up to my bed. Long-deserved and blissful sleep. Except for when I awoke at 3:00am and had to turn on the TV. I watched German soft-core porn. Mostly just women stripping. Pretty standard: boring. Guten Nacht!

May 17, 2003

Ahh, woke up today after a very long rest. I got up, argued with Karen for awhile and then went to experience the German shower. Not that different really. I just took it as quickly as possible, as there didn’t seem to be much hot water. The shower head was only half way up the wall, but all in all it wasn’t a bad shower. Not nearly as bad as my first shit here. The hole in the toilet is in the front, so my pile of shit (first one after all the plane food and pain pills wore off)…my huge pile of shit sat on the flat spot. When I flushed, the power of the water could not budge my shit. After about six flushes, I used the toilet brush to push it to the hole in the front and it finally flushed. I seem to have that problem every time, no matter how big or small the pile is. Once I was out of the shower and dressed, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went outside, where I was greeted with, “Guten Morgan”, by the same guys who had been hanging out drinking last night. I smoked my first zigarette and b.s.’d, practicing my infantile German. I’m already sick of being the center of attention, the “American Curiosity”. And everyone is all too eager to try their English on me, even if they don’t speak it. For lunch we drove to a small village in the Bavarian countryside and ate fresh trout. The fish was served whole and you had to skin and debone it yourself. Rodolph even talked me into eating “the best part”, the cheek. I’m not so sure about eating fish heads. After a quick nap at home, I drank coffee and looked at Marlene’s photos: pretty boring. Karen and I went on a bike ride with Rodolph and his buddies to a WWII Army bunker and on down the Kinski River where we enjoyed a beer and a joint. It rained the whole ride home and we arrived totally soaked. I ate my first bratwurst and then we headed into Gelnhausen while their son, Otto, and his blonde hottie girlfriend stayed at the house. Gelnhausen was beautiful. We walked up to a park overlooking the town and the big gothic cathedral. The streets were narrow and cobblestoned, dividing the houses and storefronts. Very traditional German houses. We drank at two different bars and I couldn’t help but to wish that Karen and I were by ourselves, instead of with a middle-aged couple talking our ears off with broken English. A German girl gave me eyes and a smile and some boys glared at me with a challenge to fight. The fire of my youth burning inside me, I suppressed it, behaved myself, and waited for freedom. We’re now at the house and I’m listening to The White Stripes on headphones, enjoying the most content peace of the trip. I can only imagine what the next months have in store for us, and I know I’ll be caught off guard, surprised, and experience life like never before. I can’t wait!

May 21, 2003

Sitting here in a bar in Gelnhausen, waiting for my beer. It’s been 10 minutes already. Ah, he’s finally bringing it. There is just so much foam in the beer here that it really takes them this long to get it right. Keine Anung! Other places didn’t take so long. This is our first outing alone and it’s nice to be by ourselves. Freedom! My beer has arrived. It’s very good. Refreshing. I get so tired of walking around towns with Karen’s family, going to all the places they want to go. And although it is much more difficult for us to get around on our own, it is much more interesting. Finding a place to eat or drink a beer is an accomplishment. My beer tastes 10 times better because I found it on my own. The only reason we’re here having a beer is because we couldn’t find any restaurants open. We want to go to a pizzeria and one opens in a half hour. So we wait here. The last few days have been so hectic. We spend the whole day with Karen’s family. Just one thing after another, with no time for ourselves. On Sunday I saw my first castle: Ronneburg. Rodolph and I rode bikes through the town and country while Karen and Marlene drove in the car. It was so amazing to be riding past farms, fields, and through the woods, until finally we came out in front of the castle. A great experience. But the ride was maybe 45 or 50 minutes, lots of hills, and I was very winded. Then we walked all over the castle, up the towers to see the great views. On one side you could see all the way to Frankfurt, with its modern skyscrapers. It provided quite a contrast to the medieval castle. The bike ride and the castle were my favorite things so far. After walking all over the castle, up its many flights of stairs, and drinking dark beer, Karen and Marlene drove home. Rodolph and I walked to the back side of the castle and smoked some weed. And then we had to ride home. I was so stoned and tired from the ride there that I barely made it, but I did.

May 26, 2003

Today is packing to leave for Lyon, France. We’ll have to get up at about 5:00 am to make the train and we still don’t know how to read the train schedules.

May 27, 2003

We’re in France. On a train to Lyon. It’s 3:00 pm and we’ve been on trains since 7 or 8 this morning. I’ve managed one hour of sleep with my head bumping against the window. I woke up scared and disoriented. It’s easier if you just don’t sleep. I’m starting to feel more comfortable. France. The villages seem similar to the German ones, but the mountains, rivers, and greenery beat the hell out of the Fatherland. I keep asking myself why I’m on this trip, as if I’m not getting anything out of it! I guess I’m just wondering what I’m doing with my life: feel the need to produce writing/music, anything to give my life meaning. Which is why I started writing this, I suppose. I think of Tim in the Malaysian jungle. Lance with his seemingly comfortable life in Coos Bay. Ronnie and his massive producing and playing of music. I guess I was just hoping for some monumental life-changing experience. Or one after the other, day after day. And in a way it’s been that way. New experiences every day forcing me to evaluate my own life and life in general. Is this just another meaningless piece of the world for me to waste my time? Am I learning anything? Will I come out a better person? Who knows. Who cares. I’m enjoying myself. I like being here, the fact that I am here, right now. If anything at least I’ll have another story to tell the grandkids. The French countryside is beautiful. I’m eager to get into Lyon, though. Find our hotel, go see The White Stripes tonight. Glad to be doing anything on our own. That little German village was starting to wear on me. Making me into a crass, manic depressive, alcoholic, little whiner. But hey, I’m in France! It’s the music, the words, the time, and the place. And that’s pretty close to it. To what makes life. Not just a life worth living, but life itself.

May 29, 2003

Well hell’s bells and shotgun shells. It’s Father’s Day in France. We just left our hotel with all of our shit. The weather: hotter than hell and humid as fuck. Earlier, before we got kicked out of the hotel, we went for a walk in the still cool of the morning. I enjoyed a beer in a park overlooking the river and a great view of the hillside. Up on the hill are a lot of old French buildings. I have no idea what they are, but beautiful. One did look like a miniature Eiffel Tower. The homeless men we keep seeing in front of the church joined us in the park, at the bench next to ours, as they broke out their hobo breakfast. About 6 of them all sharing the food they had. I liked those guys. Especially when one toothless man ripped his shirt off, grinning, as if he had worn the damn thing way too long and, with pleasure, put on a new one. I understood these men. Survival and small pleasures. Not too different than us. Sitting in this bar is nice. I’m about to go order another beer, but know I can’t get too drunk as it’s just barely past noon and we still have to go catch the Metro and make our way out of town to our host’s house. Picture them enjoying a relaxing Father’s Day and us showing up, a smelly and drunk embarrassment. But this bar is one of the most comfortable places I’ve been in the last 2 weeks. Men just drinking and smoking, laughing, enjoying life and conversation with their fellow man. My kind of place. Most of the men seem to be of Middle-Eastern or Moroccan descent. No frog snobs among this bunch. Karen said they might be Italian. Je ne sais pas.

June 2, 2003

We stayed with Servas for the first time. A nice family living in the country just outside of Lyon: Jeanine and Hilaire and their 2 daughters. It was both comforting and strange to be staying at their house. I think it all went over ok, though. Hilaire made copies of Einsturdzen Neubauten for me and I said I’d send Modest Mouse when we got home. Karen made a peach crisp that everyone seemed to enjoy and they’d never had anything like it. Jeanine got the recipe. They also drove us through some French countryside which I thought was very nice and wish I’d taken pictures. On our way out of Lyon we mailed a box of our shit back to Germany, as we didn’t want to carry it around anymore. Even though we’ve paired down twice, the bag is still too fucking heavy for me. Maybe we could throw some shit away!

Not Recommended by Michele McDannold‏

2011-06-26T15:23:00.000-07:00

this poetry is not recommended
for the young or bright-eyed
not recommended
for those weak in the stomach
or head
i might use the words
nigger
fag
or retarded
and will definitely use the word
cunt
this poetry is not recommended
for the high-brow
sissyfied
punk bitches
who would turn a phrase
just to make you feel stupid
poetry is not recommended (period)
if you want to bury your head in the sand
and pretend the world is dying under corruption
we have a voice

this poetry is not recommended
for twitter or myface
you cannot like it
or share it in less than 140 characters
this poetry is not recommended
for NBC
definitely not the Disney channel
we've got balls in our face
and dirt in our shoes
hot shit
red blood
cum stains on the inside pocket
there's a line in the sand that says go fuck yourself
anyone can do this
with enough guts and blaze
to set your ass on fire

Portland Interlude by Frankie Metro

2011-06-25T13:13:00.000-07:00

The birds are barking in the trees this morning. I'm considering the definition of the true individual anarchist versus the philosophy of Buddhism. The dogs are chirping behind the fence next door. I'm considering the possibility of imminent insanity versus the dynamic between fact and fiction.

Admittedly, I have grown weary with poetry as of late... It's lost its luster in my eyes. I'm buried under a rock just east of here and I don't ask that you go digging for me or anything. But Franz Kafka wrote a short paragraph about The Excursion into the Mountains...about how if they come for "me", then they come for me.

I'm sweating bullets lately. I have a mysterious knot on the top of my head and it's soft. I don't remember having an accident or being attacked. But then again, I don't remember much these days. If I want to move, then I have to consider the amount of walking involved. I'm buried under a rock just east of here. I'm estranged with poetry. I'm doubting all around.

Two nights ago, I was in Portland writing about being cold and "hipster" scenes. I was urban camping (bummin' it) next to a Fed/Ex deposit box; while the party was packed a couple of blocks west of Washington Park. I was asking myself if that could be considered anti-social behavior-trapped in the nook of a ritzy shopping center; while there's live music, high drink prices and full-on memorabilia for sale at the table in the back.

Crimestorm & Wett Dogg (The Filthy Nightmares) put on an amazing show earlier in the night; even over the massive feedback emanating from the amplifiers. The kid sitting across from me raved about Oakland, L.A. and San Francisco...driving too fast in the slow lane...internet dating sites, "picking your spots", train crashes, and how Portland is in a transitional phase right now. I lost track of the conversation about halfway in and remembered the entire course at the exact instant the cop woke me in my seat on the red line.

Crimestorm threw C-Notes (fake) into the crowd divided at the center of the room and pretended to jizz on everything and everyone the entirety of the performance. He wore a teal bandana, what appeared to be a sleeveless tuxedo shirt and some of the raddest sunglasses I have ever seen. Dead sperm rose to the dry surface of Ronnie James Dio's nutsack when he wailed into the microphone. I was pretty enamored by the whole display and almost became violent when he tossed a bag of chronic to someone that wasn't me in the audience. Later I would realize that it was a member of the headlining band, who I did not hang around to see.

The Red Line didn't run for two hours after I left...There were two douchebags in the parking lot I was staked in-too close for comfort. I continued to write to stay warm...buried under a rock just east of there or here...whichever floats your sperm.

I smoked Spice joints and was ravenously hungry watching other bums play dumpster toss at the Jeld-Wen Field Transit Center near SW 17TH or 18th or 19th avenue. I didn't want to move from my spot because it was well-lit, relatively quiet and besides...I picked it.

It occurred to me that the bar (Ella Street Social Club) had been the loudest mortuary. It also occurred to me I was alone in the city and that my feet were frozen in place.

Kafka said:

'I don't know,' I cried in a toneless voice, 'I really don't know. If nobody comes, then nobody comes. I've done nobody any harm, nobody ever did me any harm, yet nobody wants to come to my aid. Nobody upon nobody. But that's not it either. Only nobody comes to help me-nobody upon nobody would be fine. I would quite like-and why wouldn't I-to go on an excursion with a crowd of nobodies.'

(Kafka excerpt from The Excursion into the Mountains found inside Metamorphosis and Other Stories: A Penguin Classics Book)

Call for Submissions!

2011-06-16T17:06:00.000-07:00

The Montucky Review is a new online poetry publication looking for submissions of well crafted, edgy, dark, and just plain good poetry!

Check us out here, read the guidelines, and submit! http://montuckyreview.blogspot.com/p/submissions.html
We look forward to reading your work!

A.g. Synclair
Publisher/Editor-in-Cheif

Hog Wild Interview

2011-05-20T05:05:00.000-07:00

Line up: Harvey Hog: front man

Jedediah “Diamond” Aaker: bass

Dan Eccles: guitar

Jasin Fell: drums

Interviewed by: Steven Purkey, Matthew Braithwaite, & Paul Allen

Steve: So, Modus knows nothing of Hog Wild, except you “put the cunt back in country.” What does that mean?

Jed: Whadd’ya like cunts?

Harvey: And we like country. We like cunts from the country.

Jed: And we stick it back in it.

Harvey: Nah man, you know, it just means that we got fuckin’ hillbilly, psychobilly, rock n’ roll with lotsa attitude.

Jed: Little shit stains on the fuckin’ dirty fuckin’ whities.

Harvey: That’s right.

Steve: So, how about the history of Hog Wild?

Harvey: Jed played with me…what was that, 1998?

Jed: Nah, it was like ’97. ’96, ’97? I joined Hog Wild and I was a teenage boy. I’m 35 now. I was a teenage boy and Hog Wild and Dead Moon were my favorite bands and then somehow fuckin’ baby Jesus, Harvey, asked me to fuckin’ be a member of Hog Wild. It was like, what?! Sham Wow!

Harvey: And it was the best, ‘cause Jed fit perfect. And I’d done the, uh, Spinal Tap bass player fucking thing and blew through bass player after bass player until Jed. And then, uh, I had John James from L.A. Guns playing guitar at the time and he and I decided to do something really nefarious and we ended up going to prison together.

Jed: Didn’t John James, he robbed the Pizza Hut by knifepoint on a mountain bike?

Harvey: That’s right.

Jed: And then he got hit by a garbage truck.

Harvey: And he was supposed to take the money from the Pizza Hut heist and get the guitar that I pawned outta hawk, that was not my guitar, but the other guitar player’s guitar.

Jasin: What ever happened to my brother’s?

Harvey: I didn’t touch your brother’s.

Jasin: Was that John James then?

Harvey: I guess so.

Jasin: There was two guitars.

Harvey: No, there was only one: the SG.

Matt: Did you ever get it back?

Harvey: Oh, she got it back, yeah. I did 14 months on that one.

Jed: But yeah, John James got hit by a garbage truck after robbing a Pizza Hut by knifepoint and that was right after measure something and so got 7 years, y’know.

Harvey: No criminal history, first offense, robbed a Pizza Hut on a mountain bike with a carpet knife…broken leg, layin’ out in the fuckin’ parking lot, waitin’ for the cops to come. It was a bad deal. So, I showed up at prison like a year later for the guitar and he’s wiping tables in the dining room in the chow hall…thought he saw a ghost.

Jed: He is a great guitar player.

Harvey: Yeah, he’s awesome. So, anyway, that was the demise of the first Hog Wild line-up.

Jed: And then I was just kinda like, “well where’d Hog Wild go?”

Dan: Went to jail!

(much laughter)

Harvey: Well, if ya haven’t gone to jail or rehab at least once what kind of rock n’ roller are ya?

Jed: I’ve never been to jail or rehab.

Jasin: Never been caught.

Harvey: Well, not yet.

Jed: Well, look at me…

Matt: (at Steve) We met in rehab.

Harvey: Right on! See, rock n’ roll, motherfuckers!

Matt: It was his third time, my first…where’s my coffee?!

Harvey: He’s got a good constitution, he knows how to take an ass beating.

Steve: So, what would you say are some of the influences of Hog Wild?

Harvey: Well, all the glitter shit. So, all the 70’s glitter shit…

Jed: Like, sweat and glitter.

Harvey: You know like Gary Glitter and Slade and fucking, uh, Sweet. I can’t speak for everybody, but I think that most of the guys in the band like that shit.

Jed: I think there’s some Dead Moon in there, too. You know, Hickoids.

Harvey: Definitely cow punk. I mean, that’s my favorite genre of music. That’s my biggest influence. That’s strictly what I did for a number of years.

Jed: A lot of Iggy.

Harvey: A lot of Iggy. Lots of Parliament Funkadelic. Um, y’know, we’re basically like really fuckin’, I mean I know I am, shaped by the 70’s and 80’s rock n’ roll. You know, I like the heavier shit that came along, from the 90’s and now, but I just feel like they were doin’ so fuckin’ much, ya know, with like gender bending back then, and social commentary, you know. For someone like Ziggy Stardust to make it as big as he did was a huge shaping of society.

Matt: Sendin’ people for a loop!

Harvey: No shit!

Jed: With Hog Wild, y’know, as fuckin’ forward as we are, but most of our songs are moderate tempo. They’re not all fast and all “bluuuuggghhh”, ya know, but that’s how it comes out either way.

Harvey: Well see that’s the definition of punk rock that differs from hardcore. Punk rock was never (starts screaming incoherently). That was hardcore. Punk rock was four on the floor. It was mid-tempo shit.

Jasin: Well punk is wherever you find it. It’s a spirit not a style. Buddy Holly was pretty fucking punk.

Steve: So, what is rock n’ roll all about?

Harvey: Uh, fuckin’.

Jed: Yeah, it’s like the taste of my dick after it’s in yer ass.

Harvey: Rock n’ roll is about truth. Rock n’ roll is about hitting ‘em in the fucking face until they see red, until the blood just won’t stop. That’s what rock n’ roll is about, and it doesn’t matter if it’s pounding their face with yer fist or pounding their pussy with yer prick, it’s the same shit. It’s just unmitigated, un fucking bridled, self-expression.

Jasin: Right, it’s carnal. It’s carnality.

Jed: You gotta do it ‘til yer satisfied.

Steve: So, uh, you guys bein’ Hog Wild, do you get a lot of fat groupies? And do you have sex with ‘em?

Jed: Well, there’s nothin’ wrong with a chubby chaser.

Harvey: Let me tell you something, fat chicks are hot.

Jed: You ever seen a chubby hand givin’ you a hand job? It’s nice, it’s soft.

Matt: Other than yer own! Ohhhhh!!!

Harvey: Here’s the cool thing about fat chicks: you can fuck a fat chick as much as you want, until yer totally wore out, and then you can put all yer weight on her when yer done cumming. You can just go “uuuggghhh” and she won’t go, “gaaaasssppp, get off, get off me!”

Jed: It’s like Jer Bear, you get a free teddy bear when yer done.

Dan: Get a bear.

Jed: Get a bear!

Harvey: I think all the fat pushes their pussy walls together and makes it tighter.

Jasin: What’s that old saying? Find a fold and fuck it?

Harvey: Yeah!

Jasin: I’m a recovering chubby chaser.

Jed: Actually you are. How long you been clean?

Jasin: Uh, about 3 or 4 years, so yeah. I like athletic chicks now. I don’t like ‘em skinny necessarily, but….

Jed: But you got 3 years clean from chubby chasin’?

Jasin: Yeah, that’s right, that’s right. I was way into it, but it seemed to directly coincide with, uh, the copious amount of cocaine I was doin’ at the time, too. It was like a gluttony sort of a thing.

Harvey: How’d you get fat chicks on cocaine? I guess there are some of those.

Jasin: Nah, it fucks up yer metabolism. That explains John Belushi and stuff. Chris Farley, Marty Lang.

Steve: So, uh, what’s this rumor I’m hearing about a roller skating tour?

Harvey: Well, yeah, me n’ Jed just started discussin’ it today, actually. And Jed kind of like connected Hog Wild up to it….

Jed: Harvey called me…Harvey kind of disappeared. Harvey disappeared and it’s like I’ve been tryin’ to book shows and stuff and it’s like Harvey disappeared. And so Harvey, he calls me back finally, and he like apologizes, and it’s like, “no problem, Harv. Don’t worry. It’s like you just gotta let me know I’m gonna disappear for a month. It’s no big deal.” And so then we talk and Harvey says, “You know what I’ve been doin’ Jedediah? I’ve been rollerskatin’. 30, 50 miles a day. I’ve been goin’ to Sauvie Island and back…fuckin’ Boring and back.” It’s just like insane. And he’s like, “I’m gonna rollerskate across America and back.” And so I started thinkin’ about that and so I started talkin’ to Harvey about that today and I talked to a film friend of mine, and (to Jasin and Dan) you guys don’t quite know know about this either but, uh, April 1^st, April Fool’s Day, next year, um, I’m thinking I’m gonna get the backing and do a documentary of Hog Wild going cross country with Harvey rollerskating all the way there and back, with us on tour.

Dan: And he’s gotta play a show when he’s done doing 80 miles a day?

Jed: Yeah. Well look at him, look at him! Look at that face!

(Harvey is bouncing up and down, grinning.)

Harvey: Yeah!! Fuck yeah! I’ll roll in there and fuckin’ rock!!!

Jed: But that’s next year. Next April 1^st.

Dan: For how long is the tour?

Jed: As fast as he can fuckin’ skate! It’s gonna be a documentary and we’re gonna fund it and we got a van and everything.

Paul: He’s training for it, so he’s gonna have a certain amount that he can do and it’s gonna be planned out.

Jed: He’s doing 30-50 miles a day right now.

Dan: I know, but I mean it’s still a huge country.

Jed: But it’s just that big on the map….

Dan: It’s like an ocean, man, of land.

(Much debating on how long the tour would take.)

Paul: So, why America?

Harvey: Well because, uh, rollerskating was the #1 American sport until the 70’s. Football couldn’t compete with roller derby. Roller derby was the #1 televised sport in America. It was also the #1 participatory sport in America, uh, until the 80’s came along. Skateboarding changed rollerskating forever cuz the skateboarders decided that it wasn’t as cool as skateboarding. So, uh, without the endorsement of the skateboarders, one by one, uh, rollerskaters just kind of ditched out. In the beginning, we used to do it together. We were just as cool. We used to skate ramps just like the guys with decks, and do tricks and stuff, but just in the Thrasher community, they just like decided that rollerskating was like “fruit boots”. You know, like we call in-line people “fruit booters?” That’s what they thought about us. Now, that whole perspective has changed.

Jasin: However, with rollerblading now, I’ve noticed…I’ve spent some time in skateparks…and it’s like, if guys do it, it’s just ridiculous.

Harvey: Rollerblades are fruit boots!

Jasin: But chicks that are at the skateparks with rollerblades, it’s fuckin’ awesome.

Paul: Do any of yer songs relate to this?

Jasin: I don’t think so….

Harvey: I don’t have any rollerskating songs yet, but I’m workin’ on them right now.

(discussion and singing of rollerskating songs)

Jasin: Is this going in the direction you’d hoped it would?

Steve: Yeah, definitely, but what I’m really wondering is why you guys wanted to do the interview down here on this couch?

(Jed proceeds to tell a lewd and lurid tale of John “Elvis” Schroder having sex on the couch.)

Jed: Anything else, Dr. Purkey?

Steve: Well, what else do you want the Modus Operandi readers to know about Hog Wild?

Jasin: That we’re a rock n’ roll good time, comin’ to yer town, party down.

Jed: And we love Cooze Bay. We’re gonna come to Cooze Bay and spread our seed.

Paul: Hey Jed, when are you gonna get that date with Tara that Modus promised you?

Jed: I wrote an essay….

Steve: That’s right, and actually you were the winner. You were the only entrant.

Paul: It was win a date with Tara Garkow.

Jed: And this is Paul’s ex, right? And I still haven’t got the date.

Steve: So, we’re gonna have to set that up.

Jed: Alright, can we do it in Cooze Bay when Hog Wild plays?

Steve: Sure.

Harvey: There’s never been anybody that’s ever gone and seen Hog Wild and forgot about it.

Jasin: Yeah, I can attest to that. I’d go see a Hog Wild show and Harvey’s like in a g-string, deep throating corn.

Jed: Or puttin’ the fuckin’ microphone in his ass, on all fours, and then Poison Idea plays afterward and Harvey takes the microphone out of his ass, puts it in the mic stand and says, “Thank you, we’re Hog Wild!!!” And then here comes Jerry A. from the basement from doin’ his whatever he’s doin’, ya know, and he’s all “Rrruuggh rrruughh” (into microphone) and everone sees it and it’s like, “Heee hawww!!!” And it’s just like, boom, it’s like Jerry A. sang into that microphone all night, just like right against…

Harvey: With my love juice!!

Jed: It was in his ass and he’s buckin’ like a bronco!

Jasin: So fast forward along to the time when I joined Hog Wild, present form, right? And y’know we rehearsed and everything’s cool and we got our first show and, of course, it was like terrible sound, couldn’t hear shit, nobody could tell where we’re at, whatever, and we’re in the middle of kind of a trainwreck and I’m like, “Where the fuck is Harvey?” And I look on the ground and he’s got some guy in a scissor lock, so I’m playin’ the drums going, “I’m in a band with fucking G.G. Allin!”

Paul: What’s yer favorite song?

Harvey & Jed: “Brand New Way Of Livin’”

Paul: And what’s that about?

Harvey: Well, that’s about how we live!

(The whole group starts singing)

“Out here in Portland Oregon
We drink pabst blue ribbon everyday
And we show the girls our peckers
We don't have a clock
Cause we can't tell time
And we're always home
A half past nine
It's a brand new way of livin”

Harvey: “I woke up naked yesterday mornin’ out in Hillsboro in a room full of Hispanic women. They were smokin’ cigarettes and talkin’ Mexican about me. I seen the face of baby Jesus in a (?) can, it made me cry. Oh lord, how I cried. I was raised by a tribe of gay Indians”…anyways, yeah, it goes something like that.