Sunday, July 07, 2013


In 1994, O.J. Mania was sweeping the nation. The World Cup was in the States and kids were just discovering how to pierce and tattoo the crap out of their bodies and attended music festivals with silly names like Lollapalooza and Woodstock. 

It's all bullshit, of course. Don't believe any of it.

From RW#3:


It seems like the Reglar Wiglar is all you hear about these days. People in the clubs, on the street, even on the subway trains, are all talking about the-Reglar Wiglar. They're saying it's thee hippest, coolest, cutting edgiest, most alternative, grungy-type magazine around. Truth be told, we here at Wiglar HQ are a little embarrassed by all the attention, but that's not going to stop us from continuing to bring you the kind of hardcore journalism, in-depth record and film reviews, insightful editorials, and of plenty of what has become known around town as the "Wiglar interview", considered to be quite a prestigious honor among several local artists and at -least one musician.

As for the Reglar Wiglar Benefit and Second Issue Celebration Party at the China Club... none of you showed. To those on the Reglar Wiglar mailing list, hey, my fault. I think I may have put the wrong date on the invitations. I thought for sure they were RSVP, which would have saved me one helluva headache, but I guess we do operate in a PDZ (Postal Danger Zone) according to that recent postal probe they did, which would also explain why I haven't gotten a Hustler in months. The party, had anyone shown up, would've been a good time. There were many local celebs there, which weren't cheap, and for legal reasons we can't mention their names, because under their current contracts, we can't use them as an endorsement for a magazine whose benefit party was not attended by one member of the general public—except my cousin Dave was there.

We were also planning on running a photo essay of the whole sordid affair but we couldn't afford to pay the photographer twenty bucks an hour, plus film and developing costs, to snap photos of celebs mixing it up with absolutely nobody, except my fucking cousin Dave, who most of the local celebs found to be absolutely repulsive to at least three of the five sense.

Fuck it, these things happen and I just want all of you to know that I hold nothing against any of you people who agreed to be on our mailing list. Even if you purposely didn't show up just to snub me and The Reglar Wiglar and to cost us piles of money that we could have used to cover the production costs we were trying to cover by having the benefit party in the goddamn first place! Get it? Benefit? Worthwhile cause? Hello? Are your brains turned on? Do you spend all your money on Fugazi CDs?

I am not bitter, nor am I spiteful, nor do I believe in that eye for an eye, pound of flesh mumbly jumbly. I simply hate all of you.

Anyway, we got some new shit in this here Reglar Wiglar. Underground writer and poet, C.F. Buchanan has agreed, posthumously, to let us reprint some of his provocative and relevant works of fiction, and a poem or two, in our new literary supplement, "Rain Drops". We have an interview with the reigning Queen of Rock, Annie Baldwell, conducted by the always intriguing Jayne Wayne. There's a new record review section focusing on local talent and we also have the first installment of Joey Germ's most recent artistic foray. The rest is pretty much the same old bullshit for you nostalgia buffs so enjoy it 'cause ain't none of us gonna be around forever.


--Chris Auman

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