Tuesday, August 27, 2013


From RW#5, 1995

Certain CD promos, certain demo tapes, certain seven inch singles that record companies send us, and even things we fucked up and paid for, get special treatment here at the Reglar Wiglar Offices. Which brings us to another installment of:

The Longest Noncurving Street in the World

Western Avenue, the longest, if not the cruelest, dirtiest, most unforgiving and merciless, noncurving street in the world: I've seen it rear its ugly, asphalt-coated head, open its guardrail jaws and devour countless autos, hapless pedestrians and innocent school children. I've seen it destroy people's lives, loves and dreams. So, if we listen to something and it really offends us--pisses us off because it sucks so bad—yeah, you catch on quick, it gets the toss down to Western Avenue, where it don't last log, genius—J. Germ

Jamies Walters self-titled (Atlantic)
Aka Ray Pruitt from the hit Fox television program Beverly Hills 90210. If you found yourself slowly, but surely, falling in love with the music and voice (and boyish good looks) of 90210's Ray Pruitt, you'll want to run right out and buy a copy of this Jamie Walters CD and play it over and over again. You'll find solace in his soothing voice and hope in his heartfelt lyrics. Or you can do what we did and give it the toss down to Western Ave. A Hasselhoff record coulda lasted longer under that Yugo.

David Hasselhoff self-titled (Critique BMG)
Hasselhoff may mean big blue-eyed stud in German but in English it still means Big Old Chunk of Moldy Cheese. As much as I laugh at Hasselhoff's work as an actor, he's much better holding in his gut on the beaches of Southern California than he is belting out annoying covers of classic songs. I thought for sure Hasselhoff was tuffer than that little Walters twerp, but no such luck, not under the wheels of that Toyota Camry.

Sponge Rotting Pinata (Sony)
What is the primary function of a sponge? Sponges suck. And so do records by bands named Sponge. What is one definition of a sponge? Kick it Webster's—"to live at another's expense." Yeah, like Sponge lives at the expense of sponges Stone Temple Pilots! You know what sponge cake is? It's cake made without shortening. Fuck that!

Wheeeeee! This CD didn't even make it past the sidewalk 'cause it sucked in the wind too. Ha haaaaaa!

Monday, August 26, 2013


From RW#4, 1994. After four issues of the Reglar Wiglar, an interesting phenomenon started occuring: record labels began sending me free copies of CDs for review. What to do with these CDs was becoming a problem that would multiply in the following years. I felt obligated to review them. Most of them were too awful to have any resale value. Well, why not toss them from the window of my office onto the Western Avenue overpass? Seemed like the thing to do. And so it was done. Actually of the five CDs listed below, two are fake. Can you guess which ones?

The Longest Noncurving Street in the World 

Western Avenue, the longest, if not the cruelest, dirtiest, most unforgiving and merciless, noncurving street in the world: I've seen it rear its ugly, asphalt-coated head, open its guardrail jaws and devour countless autos, hapless pedestrians and innocent school children. I've seen it destroy people's lives, loves and dreams. So, if we listen to something and it really offends us--pisses us off because it sucks so bad—yeah, you catch on quick, it gets the toss down to Western Avenue, where it don't last log, genius—J. Germ

The Blow Pops—American Beauties (Get Hip)
Shattered on impact.

7669—From a Bad Block (Motown)
Instantly swept under a large furniture truck with Michigan plate, perhaps headed back to Motown.

Mortal Combat—The Album (Vernon Yard)
I'd like to shake the hand of the prodigy in marketing who initiated the "theme music from a violent video game" trend. I hope it lasts as long as this particular copy lasted under that Chevy Blazer. Yeehaw!

Sin Nation Sinsation—The Second Coming of... (Metalli-Sized)
This CD exploded and literally disappeared upon impact.

Pole SmokerDevine Persperation (RoosterCow)
Once you hit a police cruiser with a Pole Smoker CD, it's pretty much game over.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Pop Culture Parasite: Raddest Toilets on Earth: Toilet Aquarium

Pop Culture Parasite: Raddest Toilets on Earth: Toilet Aquarium: Goldfish get the rawest of deals. Oh no they dint. Oh yes they did. What you are coveting there on the left is none other than the  Fis...



Hey, relax. Unwind, kick back and enjoy these record reviews and remember, when reading about the following artists and their work, most of our reviewers can't even write checks let along music criticism and they sure as hell aren't qualified to judge what you should listen to.

"Kira" b/w "Alibi" (Egg)
Midwestern pop music seems to be the theme running around our PO box lately and the theme for Indianapolis label, Egg Records, as well. From the city of auto racing and gap- toothed weathermen, comes The Mysteries of Life. Got an ex-Blake Baby on there, a a real baby too, sort of. The Lifer, known to me only as Mrs. Smith, was with child during the recording of this single. Ain't that precious. Oh yeah, I almost forgot the review part: I like this record. It's good—The Germer

Economium, Led Zeppelin Tribute Album (Atlantic)
I'm so fucking sick of tribute albums, man. You don't even know—Scat-in-the-Hat

Laura 4-song EP (Rhetoric)
From the Fugazi school of PC punk rock, comes None Left Standing--awww cool, it's snowing outside right now. Anyway, from the Fugazi school of PC punk rock comes None Left Standing--wow, it is really coming down!—The Germer

Split 7" (OFF-White)
Hey, fuck yeah. I like the fast guitar, dual shoutin' stuff from these two bands. They've obviously had some good influences on each other. Seen both of 'em live. Funny as all get out. I don't mind a free record every now and then either. Too bad you got to pay for yours. Which you should, 'cause stealin ain't for everybody. It's for Muggsy though. I got no problem with stealin'—Muggsy McMurphy
Split 7" (Off-white)
More pop anthems from two bands that like to serve up the pop anthems. I'm a little more partial to the Gone Daddy Finch tune. Sure both songs are catchy but "Driving High" reminds me of the time I borrowed my girlfriend's car and got pulled over for havin' a busted taillight and little did I know that in the trunk she had stashed--never mind—Muggsy McMurphy

7" EP (Mono Cat 7)
There seems to be a recurring BOC riff on this seven inch, but I'm pushing past that. "Chinese Funeral," although I'm ignorant as to what a Chinese funeral entails, is a Big Fat Rocker. "Flat Earth Society" is for all you nonbelievers out there. Don't know what to say about ""Mountainside so I won't say anything. I've heard the Ditchweed demo and take it from me, their best shit has not been released yet. Hopefully it hasn't even been written yet. All's Ditchweed need is for someone to put out their record and I'm flat broke so I issue the challenge to you out there reading this. Yeah you, Indie Rocker with the trust fun. Do it—Joey "I Have Spoken" Germ

A Modern Adaptation f Selections from Jesus Christ Superstar (Off-white)
My mom used to have the Jesus Christ Superstar album and I used to listen to it when I was just a tiny little Christian. I was fascinated and awed by it. It was my first double concept album! Not until Zen Arcade was I to have such a religious experience. I found it to be quite exciting but at the same time it scared the beejezuz out of me just like a good religion is supposed to. If you're like me, and god help yah if yah is, then you probably stole the original copy of this record when you got kicked out of the house. If it's a little beaten and worn you might just want to grab one of these copies off the racks at your local music store. Vambo Marble Eye lay down the music. It's engineered at Ultrasuede. There's a short film that you can get to which is an interpretation of an interpretation of an event that may or may not have taken place. Look for the upcoming rock version of CATS out soon on Off-White—Muggsy "Goofer" McMurphy

"Passion Play" b/w "Lame to Be" (Minty Fresh)
Goddmanit, I think Minty Fresh has done it again. Papas Fritas; three smart kids, probably met at college out there in Boston. Big college town, Boston. Majored in pop rock, no doubt. "Passion Play" is an off-beat effort with a slightly Beatlesque string arrangement. It lilts. "Lame to Be" is what got stuck to my turntable. Couldn't get it the hell off. If this song don't make Q101 heavy rotation by mid summer, I quit. The Pop Prophet has spoken!—P.C. Jones

"Babe" b/w "I'm Okay" (A&M)
God what a voice and what a sad tune, "Babe, I'm leaving/My heart is in your hands." They don't write songs like this anymore. Ten cents at Village Thrift. Best deal in town—Malcolm Tent

Graveyard Train 3 song 7"
Good old fashioned Punk Rock music: "I don't need your special reports/I don't need your fucking sports"--The Controller; "Dress like we do/talk like we do/Act like we do/But we're not like you"--Punky See Punky Do. Fuck yeah! This kind of angst ridden, paranoid sentiment has long been absent from anything that's come across my stereo in recent years. Kinda sounds like Trenchmouth at times, but maybe it's just me—J. Germ


From RW #5
The Complicated Futility of Ignorance (Earache)
Hey guys, it's me, Malcolm. Haven't been feelin' too well lately, irregular. Yeah, same old same old. Can't give up drinkin' though. Gave up the old lady instead. Missed the last deadline for Reglar Wiglar #4. I know some of my readers were probably more than a little disappointed. Sorry. Here's a quick run down of what band's stuff I was supposed to review; Monster Voodoo Machine, suck (most RCA bands suck), Bolt Thrower CD was cool, sold it for dope though. Ahh, le'see, Craw, Lost Nation Road was heavy. I wonder if I can still get paid for those reviews now since I just did them in this review (kick ass if I do). As for Fudge Tunnel and their latest album (which I refuse to say or write the name of because it makes my brain hurt thinkin' about what it means): shit like this records makes me pull my lips from Eddie (my bong) and stumble over to my record collection in a violent panic and start destroying all my Grim Reaper and Iron Maiden records in a wild frenzied and brutal melee. I didn't though. As much as I wanted to I couldn't 'cause my records aren't all the way alphabetized yet (I only made it to Armored Saint) and I don't think I could have found 'em before the fit wore off. Heavy Detail is not dead, my friends. Go! Burn your Helix records if you can find them. All Hail Fudge Tunnel. I gotta go lie down now. See yah—Malcolm Tent


From RW#5 (inside joke much?)
Guided by Three Foot Graphx (RoosterCow)
Breaking no new ground musically, many of the current Chicago buzz bands are lapping up their position in the media's national spotlight. Choosing not to use this convenient media tool, Chicago's Three Foot Graphics still manage to be one of the smokinist acts around. From their rousing opening of "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore" to the signature Three Foot closing "Heigh Ho," the Graphx are out to entertain. Their debut EP, Guided by Three Foot Graphx captures the raw intensity of a child picking up an instrument for the first time. The cassette only release features ten one track cuts recorded live at Shitfull Studios, Chicago. Available direct from RoosterCow only—T. Bone


From RW#4, 1994

Gimme the Five Bucks (Dubious Honor)
You are now entering a bullshit-free zone. As much as the youth culture of this country embraces all that is "alternative", there's just some shit out there from Pittsburgh to Pasedena, that just ain't gonna fly in the mainstream. Your MTV, Q-101 listening ass just ain't gonna be down with the truly abrasive and corrosive sounds that lurk just beneath the surface of the passive commercial sea in which the feets of bands like Gin Blossoms and Toad the Wet Sprocket dangle unwittingly above the sonic feeding frenzied jaws of bands like Mama Tick.

Trebly guitar played with that little distortion knob jacked is the way Mama Tick be doin' it. From the humorous "Androgenius" to the soothing nocturnal sounds of "Naptime." Bullshit B Gone be the motto of the Mama Tick.

This is the first release for singer/guitarist Ben Keller's Dubious Honor Records. In an age where some (I said some goddamnit) Independent labels are only as independent as their major label backers can afford to let them be, it's good to know that alternatives to those alternatives do exist and Do-It-Yourself doesn't have a "if someone gives you a big pile of cash" qualifier tacked on it.

I remember back in my '80s hardcore days, when a band put out a record they put blood, sweat and tears into the thing and they sold it at shows and on the street and we were a fucking community and we looked out for each other 'cause we had a common goal of making music and not money for the Man.

(Editor's note: Although we appreciate Mr. Germ's glorious punk rock past, there's just not enough room in the pages of this publication for such putrid reminiscences of the glory days of yesteryear. We apologize to Mr. Germ for people not caring and we return now to the Mama Tick record review still in progress)

The cover's got pumpkins on it—Joey Germ

Saturday, August 24, 2013


From RW#4, 1994

Buford's Last Pusser (choke inc.)
Jason Drenik looks mad. When he's up there on that stage screamin' and a strummin', the boy looks mean mad. Mad enough to hurt somebody. Looks like he could jes up and bust somebody's head plum to squash. And he would if he had a might to. And Joe Patt, why that boy's crazier than a pack of coons in a creek. Crazy 'n' mean. Crazy 'n' mean an' scart to die. You can tell by the way he beats on them drums of his.

Jason and Joe, why they're the whole Hairy Patt band. A drummer and a geeter player from Columbus, Ohio. I seen 'em play a live show down there in Cincinnati about two-three weeks back. You can take it from me too, they're a sweaty, greezy, dirty, backwater, shit eatin', pickin' and a grinnin' grunge country rock band who like suckin' on melon, drinkin' with Granny and maybe killin' a feller if'n they git drunk an' angry enough.

Their CD, Bufford's Last Pusser is all about the stuff I just said. There's also a song on there called "Jack and Diane" and as near as I can figure, it's about two American kids growin' up in the Heartland. Seems like Jack, he wants to be a football star and Diane, she wants to be a debutante in the back of Jack's car. Sounds like somethin' that that John Cougar fellah would be writtin' a song about don't it? N'fact, he did write a song about it, but it ain't as angry and as mean mad as the Hairy Patt Band version.

Joe and Jason, they like crusty girls too 'cause they got a song called "Crusty" that goes: "I knew a girl/she was kind of a crusty girl/but that's OK 'cause that's what I like, I like 'em crusty." These boys are sure to get yah jumpin' and a-yellin with Bufford's Last Pusser. The cover is of some slobbery looking white trash breakfast gone wrong but probably looked oh so right after a night of hoochin' and koochin'. The whole thing is just sick enough to make it worth yer pennies. That's what folks like. Makes 'em feel swell—Scat-in-the-Hat

Thursday, August 22, 2013

VIDOE: So So Glos, "Lost Weekend"


The cover of Reglar Wiglar #5 was a photograph of what was RW HQ at the time. It was taken by Max "Shudder" DeZutter. who had a darkroom set up therein. The year was 1995. This was the second location in a string of RW Headquarters—a horrible, firetrap of a building on Western Avenue just north of Belmont in Chicago. It was owned by a bumbling buffoon of a slum lord. Oh, the stories I could tell. (You can check out my comic depicting life on Western Ave. here.) It was the birthplace of the "Western Avenue" reviews section whereby the worth of a CD was determined by how well it held up after being hurled onto the overpass just outside the office window. (Look for some of those reviews in upcoming posts.)

Yes, this apartment  drove me and everyone who lived there batshit crazy. The "This is Not for You" billboard was a part of Q101s brilliant yet insulting ad campaign for their new alternative music format which I allowed to irritate the shit out of me.  This issue was when the Reglar Wiglar really came into its own as  a sarcastic, snarky and sometimes bile-filled zine. The world would remain the same everafter.




RW#5, 1995

Hey Wiglar Fans. At long last issue five. Sorry it took awhile. We we're advised by our agent, Bruce Noodleman, that we should hold off on the street date for the new Wiglar until the street buzz had built up a little more: "Make 'em sweat like junkies waiting for a fix." (Bruce fancies himself as having somewhat of a clue.) We here at the Wiglar Braintrust found a little bit of wisdom in Bruce's wizened words. "Bruce is right," we all agreed. "Make 'em wait. After all, they ain't payin' for shit. And what do they get in return? QP, that's what; Quality Product. That's what the Reglar -Wiglar is; Quality Product."

Ahh, but then Bruce had a change of heart. God bless 'im. He told us, "You guys gotta get the new Wiglar out. Kid's wanna see it. They need it. If all you care about is testing the loyalty of your reading public, then you might as well just toss in the towel right now. The Wiglar isn't a fucking product, man. It's for the kids, about the kids, by the kids. YOU CAN'T PUT A PRICE TAG ON THAT!"

That gave us pause for thought. (Enough pause for a couple of cases of that new Red Mutt shit--5.5% alcohol, man. I love the '90s, they make the '80s look like a picnic at the tot-lot.) Bruce was right. We knew Bruce was right. I mean, what the fuck? The Wiglar is for the Kids, not for the Man. That's what "Alternative Music" is all about: bucking the system, going against the grain, swimming upstream and critics be damned. Bands like the Gin Blossoms and Stone Temple Pilots aren't out there sweatin' it in the arenas for their own personal gain. They're out there takin' it to the next level, testing the boundaries of what's acceptable, pushing people's buttons and pushing the envelope. They're not about commercialism or cashing in on a trend.

Artistic integrity doesn't keep the wolves from the door, but it sure as shit sounds good after a couple of beers. Then Bruce pointed something out. "You know, the Wiglar's got kind of a DIY feel to it," Bruce said. "And, hell even if it isn't DIY, it still looks like a do-it-yourself operation. People don't know if you're backed by Urban Outfitters or The Gap, man. As long as you look like you're going against the mainstream and convey that with enough conviction to make even the old school purists out there clench their fists and say, 'Hell yeah, Wiglar, sell it to 'em, baby!', then like the man said, 'Cash in now, honey!"

Sell out. Cash in. Just Do It. Don't jump through hoops.

So anyway, this Wiglar's late. Fuckin' Bruce.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

MUSIC REVIEWS: Tyranny is Tyranny

Let it Come from Whom it May (Phratry)

Tyranny is Tyranny is a noise rock band that is, in their words: "Proudly based in Madison WI, the epicenter of class struggle." Tyranny is Tyranny keep the sound of Midwestern noise bands alive and well into the new century with a little post-hardcore help along the way.  Let it Come from Whom it May is a seven track album with heavy riffs, dark lyrics and a fair bit of screaming. It delivers  an outlet for ever present angst and anger, but the band is not afraid to get melodic when the song and mood dictates. They're left wingers for sure, and they deliver their message in an extreme medium which is a good change from the more hippie vibe a liberal college town like the Mad City can give off (East Side, I’m talking to you). If you needed further proof of their politics, the band takes its name from chapter four of Howard Zinn's eye-opening and rage inspiring book, A People's History of the United States. You see, Tyranny Is Tyranny want to bring down the walls of capitalism through decibels, brick by brick. That could take awhile, but I think I can here some crumbling. [Tyranny is Tyranny]

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


I'm not exactly sure what this fictitious band interview from RW#3 was supposed to parody. Close-minded dudes? Political correctness? Riot grrrls? Or maybe just band interviews in general. Don't know. Do you?


I Wish They All Could be California Girls

Interviewed by MUGGSY McMURPHY

Published in RW#3, 1994

Chicks with guitars? Boner time, dude. Chicks are doin' the rock'n'roll thing now more than ever, man, and yah gotta dig that. Out to prove that anything we men can do, they can do cooler, if not sexier, gives these girls the rockin' right of way. From the West Coast, tourin' the country right now, is one such band, the Vag Girls (I wish they all could be California girls). The Vag Girls played recently at the Rock Candy Club in Milwaukee opening for the Woodrows and yours truly just happened to be backstage after the show, a little drunk of course, and got the opportunity to chat with these fine femmes for a bit. I wish they all could be California riot grrrrls!

Christine: vocals/guitar
Jody: vocals/bass
Melissa: guitar
Brenda: drums

Muggsy: Howdy ladies, how'er y'all doin'?

Christine: Good Muggsy and yourself?

Muggsy: I'm the luckiest dude in the whole world.

Christine: And why's that?

Muggsy: I'm sitting here with thee four hottest chicks in rock'n'roll, that's all.

(several minutes of uncomfortable silence)

Muggsy: You guys sounded great tonight be they way. Fuckin' smokin'.

Jody: Thanks.

Muggsy: Hey, did you guys watch the Woodrows' set tonight? Fuckin'
smokin'. So why don't you tell me a little bit about the origin of The Vag Girls. I understand you're all pretty much rock veterans, or is it "veteranettes"?

Jody: I think you can just say vets, Muggsy. 

Muggsy: Vets, huh? What's the difference?

Jody: I think it would be safer for you if you were a little less gender specific, that's all.

Muggsy: Right.

Christine: Me and Jody have been playing together since we were in junior high school. Our first band was called Sealed Lips.

Jody: We were actually heavily influenced by the Go Gos. We played a couple dances and some of our friend's parties, pretty low key, low profile. We were only fifteen.

Muggsy: No drummer.

Christine: We had a drummer named Marla. She only had a snare drum and a tambourine, but she played them at the same time.

Jody: Then in high school we were in a band called Adultress. We were still dumb girls back then but we were in to the Pretenders pretty heavy, so we were just starting to come around.

Muggsy: What about you two? How'd you hook up with these ladies?

Brenda: Well, me and Melissa were already in a band called The Clitons when we met Christine and Jody. We were big fans of their band Jug Tank which was just starting to play out.

Muggsy: Jug Tank? I've heard the name.

Christine: That was our band after Love Carnal—which was pretty much Mrs. Thang with a different name—split up.

Muggsy: Ahh Christ! Let's talk about something else, I'm getting dizzy. So you guys have been around for awhile.

Christine: Eight months.

Muggsy: No, not Vag Girls, in general, as you've just illustrated, you've been playing rock'n'roll in some capacity or another for a while now, so this whole new focus on "girl bands" and the attention that bands like the Breeders and L7 are getting how does this affect you?

Christine: There have always been women in rock, no doubt, but sometimes all girl bands were considered more of a novelty than a serious rock act. Today it's different and hopefully it's not just a passing fad.

Muggsy: No but seriously, how does it make you feel to be a part of this new trend?

Christine: The fact that I really don't think it's a trend was my point.

Muggsy: Right, right, I know, but do you feel like this girl rock thing is just a flash in the pan like disco in the '70s?

Christine: We feel fine.

Muggsy: See, I knew you had an opinion.

(At this point, judging from the interview tape and not from personal recollection, as I don't recollect anything of this interview, Erin and Marvy from the Woodrows stop by to hang out.)

Erin: Hey Muggsy, how's it hangin'? Wanna beer? Looks like you could use one.

Muggsy: Thanks bro. So this is great man, equality in rockin' and rollin'. Are you guys fans of each other's music? Christine, what do you think of the Woodrows? They rock don't they?

Christine: Yeah, we've always had a lot of respect for their music.

Muggsy: Pretty cute too, huh? Maybe your two bands could get somethin' goin'. Know what I mean?

Christine: Yeah, I think I do.


Christine: You don't look too good, Muggsy. I don't think you need anymore to drink.

Muggsy: Fuck it, baby. I know when to say no, you know? I'm the man and that's wass up. Hey fuck. What time is it? I gotta get to the train stasssion. I can't walk.

(Unfortunately, I can't distinguish whose voice is whose at this point, which is extremely lucky for the parties involved as I was planning on killing them.)

What should we do with him?

We could put his hand in a glass of warm water.

How 'bout a glass of warm piss?

C'mon, that's a little too punk rock even for me.

Give me that marker.

What are you gonna write?

You'll see. Hey is that duct tape still laying around?

Shit, this isn't legal.

It's definitely justice though.

So that was my interview with The Vag Girls and to some extent, the Woodrows. Incidentally, I don't like these bands anymore. I know what you're thinking. I'm just pissed because I woke up on the train naked and bound in duct tape, with 'Asshole' written across my forehead, but I recently went back and listened to all my Vag Girls and Woodrows records and they really suck.

Monday, August 19, 2013



RW#4, 1994 

Being somewhat modest when it comes to the Reglar Wiglar and the obvious influence it has had on the local cultural community has made me -somewhat reluctant to write this issue's Idiotorial. I would just as soon forget all about the fact that this issue marks our one year anniversary as a -reputable, cultural publication, and just keep on working full throttle to get-this magazine to the streets where it can educate and enlighten the masses. The Reglar Wiglar staff, unable to understand my unique nature has insisted that I am simply too selfish to devote any time or this magazine's space to write about them and the hard work they've done to help get the Reglar Wiglar to where it is today. They were also quite vocal in complaining about how seldom it is that I recognize, much less compliment anyone who has contributed time, initiative or hard work to this production. They say that, besides being hopelessly cheap, I am also one of the most unappreciative, megalomaniacal individuals to grace this planet's presence. To the staff, I can only say "fuck you". None of you are indispensable, or talented for that matter. In fact, all of you can be bought or sold for pennies or less. When and if, however, any one of you do start returning my phone calls and showing up to meetings (scheduled weeks in advance) and, god forbid, write something worthy of newsprint, then and only then will you be recognized, paid or even complimented. All that I can really say to you is quit whining and for god's sake sober up, you dropped out of college years ago, it's time you started acting like it.

I'm sure the same goes for our readers as well. Yes, I can afford to belittle our readership, you sablistas don't pay for a goddman thing. I don't exactly open my P.O. Box everyday and exclaim: "Oh golly gee, another fat check from the adoring public! How will I spend it all!" Where's my appreciation for time and money spent? Where's my reward? My goddamn kickback from kissing the asses of record companies and their parasitic label whores? You know what I earn form publishing this bullshit? Headaches, ulcers, sexual dysfunction and early morning telephone calls from bill collectors and other Nazis I've been forced to borrow money from.

Now, as to my negligence in recognizing the contributions of my staff, unfortunately, we do not have the space in this issue's Idiotorial for such pandering like, "Jane Wayne has done such a neatsy-poo job for our magazine and she's such a talent and she's so fucking insightful and we never could have taken our first shit without her" (Relax Jane, it was just an example, no more memos, OK babe?) Maybe in our Second Anniversary issue we can thank all the losers who, because they aren't gainfully employed, have plenty of time and talentlessness to donate to "the cause". Maybe I'll print up a couple thousand flyers just listing the names of these people and mail them all over the world, but don't hold your breath, you look dumb enough as it is.

In addition, (you guys are gonna love this) due to a lack of submissions this quarter, we're rerunning some previously published interviews and other tired old gimmicks and gags for ya'll, but don't think of it so much as the same old recycled garbage that stunk enough the first time around, think of it as a sort of greatest hits compilation. Yeah, think of it like that.



Location: Zeke's on Ashland
Chairman: P.C. Jones
Secretary: Joseph Titanium Germ 

7:00PM Meeting scheduled to begin at this time. Present are P.C. Jones, myself (Joey Germ) and . . . and that's it. We have a couple of drinks.

7:30PM No one else has showed as of yet. Mr. Germ (me) wishes silently that he were somewhere else getting drunk and in better company. More drinks are ordered.

8:00PM Thought I spotted Muggsy McMurphy's Duster cruise by, but it may have been someone else. Mr. Jones has started a twenty minute monologue about the horrors he encountered in high school P.E. class. It may be time to make a break for the door . . . wait a minute--holy shit, he just ordered me a beer and paid for it. Will wonders never cease?

8:03PM Muggsy McMurphy just showed up, looks stoned, dude thinks of everything. Meeting officially starts at 8:03PM.

Mr. McMurphy has motioned for the meeting to be postponed until someone who actually gives a shit about the meeting shows up. The motion has been seconded by Mr. Germ and the meeting will be postponed. Heavy drinking has been suggested as substitute.

Mr. Germ has motioned that Mr. Jones be required to buy the next three rounds. The option has been seconded by Mr. McMurphy. Mr. Jones will be required to buy the next three rounds. Shit, this motion has been vetoed by Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones motions for Mr. Germ to buy the next five rounds. This is seconded by Mr. McMurphy and I am screwed. Not I'm not. I'm out of money.

9:00PM It turns out that Mr. Jones actually told everyone but me that the meeting was to start at 9:00PM and not 7:00PM (which he denies) and that the only reason Mr. McMurphy showed up at 8:03PM was so that he would have a good hour to get rocked before the meeting started. Don't know what Mr. Jones deal is.

7:05PM Mz. Wayne, along with T-Bone and Larry Leffert have arrived. Some diseased-looking creature, who closely resembles a Biohazzard roadie, has just walked in. the Budget Movie Critic has just, ever-so-lightly-in-his-loafers, skipped into Zeke's. Some other people who look really bored came in too.

7:10PM People are staring blankly around the room and nobody has got shit to say except Mz. Wayne who is very vocal as usual, having plenty to say about not much at all. I'm drunk and actually start to act like it.

Jesus Christ! Look at this collection of freaks and burnouts. This place looks like a concentration camp for the butt-ugly. Why did I agree to come to this god awful bar?

8:00PM Not much business has been discussed. Just a bunch of bickering and griping mostly. Forgot to type most of it--all of it actually.

8:30PM Just used the can. Pissed on my pants a little, gotta watch that in front of these people. What the fuck, they're probably all going back to Joliet after this anyway.

9:00PM Very close to puking now.

10:00PM Am vre y drnk . . . m ust passs out afor I barass miself agin.

Notes from Meeting:

No Wiglar function shall ever take place in a bar or anywhere near where alcoholic beverage are can be consumed, smelled or even thought about.
Future staff meetings will be an opportunity to bounce ideas off one another, NOT beer bottles.

Some modicum of political correctness should be adhered to in speech and conduct so no one will walk out feeling deeply offended and resentful making threats of revenge and mumbling certain words like castration and modified circumcision. No names will be mentioned concerning this. Enough said, just drop it.

Sunday, August 18, 2013


I bought this CD from Buttsteak after their show at the Empty Bottle in 1994. I thought they were pretty damn entertaining. One of the opening bands was the recently-relocated-from-Ohio band, Vambo Marble Eye. A couple weeks (or months) later I walked into the kitchen of my new job at the Chicago Diner and there was Vambo's big tall guitar player, Mike Wing, ready to train me on the grill. No good would come of that I assure you. I said in the review below that the opening band was just OK but subsequent VME shows would change my mind in their favor on that count. Also, I never lived in North Center. That was an inside joke for Clyde Wayne Steele the Third—a joke I don't even get by the way.

Also, I should note that I find this review to be pretty annoying overall, and I find myself wishing I could punch my 24-year-old self in the face when reading it. Enjoy!

From RW #3, 1994

Old Terror in a New Building

What a fun band! Devo of the fuckin' 90s, bro! Or maybe a B-52s? Maybe? I seen Buttsteak at the Empty Bottle way the hell down there on Western Avenue. (Maybe it's not far from you Wicker Park folks but for a rich little poor kid from North Center, it's a haul.) They played after this band that was OK and before this other band that was all right. There weren't that many people there to see them which was too bad, butt that's what you get when you support your own tour which I think is what these cats are doin', but I may be wrong. These peoples are a five piece, they got a keyboard player and she's a cutey (is that sexist? If so let me know and I'll apologize).

Theze folks, from Norfolk, VA, were fun to watch. They said the F word in their songs and they spit on each other lots and they did a little impromptu thingamajig before they played in which a guy from the audience, who was actually a member of the band, heckled them as they were warming up. The guy from the audience, who was really a guy from the band, made the drummer, who was wearing a dress (not a bad figure actually, sort of waifish, Kate Mossy look) sing Happy Birthday while he smeared chocolate frosting on the guitarists neked bun cheeks which he put candles in, lit on fire, then stomped out with his boots. The dude pulls up his pants after that and plays the whole set with that chocolatey stuff on his buttsteak, which I'm bettin' he totally dug. Fuckin' Moon Pie.

Anyway, the CD is equal nuttiness, got songs called "Lee Harvey Keitel" and "Fucky Sucky" and "Smacklord" but you should see 'em live and maybe buy the CD at the show like I did 'cause I got three free stickers when I did, except one of them was ripped, but hell it was free, well actually I paid an extra dollar for the CD because dude didn't have single but dat's OK., 'cause I had a nice time, even though the beer was warm, butt butt-ass cheap, which I ain't used to so I tipped big to make up for it which the waitress dug lots (she was wearing a Styx concert jersey and I think she was serious).

I am so easily entertained, it's downright frightening–Scat-in-the-Hat

SONG OF THE DAY: Parquet Courts, "You've Got Me Wonderin' Now"


While it is true that I did see this band at the Avalon and John Nash did throw a 7 inch record into the crowd, it did not hit me in the head. He didn't insult my shirt either, he made fun of my friend's shirt who was standing next to me which I thought was pretty douchey. From RW#3 1994

Braille (choke inc.)
Help, I'm choke, inc. I'm choke, inc. (heh, heh, hee, whoo boy!) Anyway, introducing Milkmine, starring Paul Miur on drums, Jay Wilson on bass and Jon Nash.... on bass? What the f-f? No guitar? C'mon now? No, it's true, there ain't no six string slinger in this band. Yah see, Milkmine don't like guitarists, they think they're assholes, think that guitarists treat their guitars as an extension of their peen-i. What is Freud in a rock band now? What is a bass but a heavier, thicker, longer guitar that can be slapped and pounded with more ease than a skinny little geetar stick? Eeiii! Milkmine sorta sounds like what Jesus Lizard might sound like if they kicked Duane Denison out of the band and Sims and McNeilly were left to their own devices. It wouldn't be The Lizard but it would more than likely still rock.

This all reminds me of the first time I saw Milkmine here in Chicago when they played at the Avalon; I was first introduced to the Milkmine seven inch "SuperM" (also on choke, inc.) when it hit me in the bead after singer/bass player, Jon Nash threw it at me after insulting my shirt (a nice button-down J.C. Penny number that my aunt bought me for my birthday). The disc hit me squarely in the forehead and all theses grunge rockers in the audience turned and looked at me like I was a fucking burn victim, a look of pity and repugnance. I heard one little girl whisper to her boyfriend "Oh my God, Look at that shirt." What the fuck" All my flannel was at the cleaners man, I fucking swear it! See these ripped jeans? I ripped them for you, man!

So Braile is a damn fine release if you like lead heavy, rock'n'roll. These kids're from Cincinnati but they aint' no fuckin' Whigs, dig? And for those rock'n'roll purists, all too comfortable with the guitar/bass/ drums format all's I gotta say is, that bass'll sure mistake yah for a geetar. The way these boys play it anyway. They would probably be offended by that remark, but what're yah gonna do? Huh?–Muggsy McMurphy

Saturday, August 17, 2013


In retrospect, I'm a little embarrassed by the gushing tone of this review, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I went out and bought this seven inch when it came out and listened to it repeatedly. A non-interesting side note to this, is that me and my pal, Bobby G. were in the process of starting a band with Steve L. when he joined this band instead. (I know I would have.) Getting to practice for our embryonic power trio required that I take the Red Line to the Loop to catch the Rock Island Line of the Metra to 111th Street, where Steve would pick me up to take me to Palos Hills where we practiced in the funeral home his family owned (they lived upstairs). Steve was a bit of a band slut and courting all kinds of different people through the Reader classifieds, so when he answered Veruca Salt's ad looking for a female bass player and was accepted anyway, it was game over for me and Bobby G.

From RW#3, 1994

"Seether" b/w "All Hail Me" (Minty Fresh)

Please Pass the Veruca Salt

If I were writing a story on Veruca Salt, that would be the headline. So just in case, I got dibs on it and if'n I never do write a story on Veruca Salt (which I probably won't seein' as how the last time I wrote a story about a band, I was beaten bloody with a baseball bat( I'll sell yah the title for five bucks, cheap).

Veruca Salt, the name was taken from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (which I thought I had a copy of, so I was gonna try to figure out the deep hidden significance of said name, but seems like I only had Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator which has got cool names in it but no salty ones, dig?) Anyway, this band is very cool. People gonna say "Breeders, Breeders, Breeders," and there's definitely the influence there but influences are suspect and ripoffs are a little more obvious. Hard rockin' and dual harmonies sung by female vocal chords is the comparison. Veruca Salt is Veruca Salt simple and plain.

Nina Gordon and Louise Post and Steve Lack and Jim Shapiro, those are the people that people this band and I seen 'em live and that was fuckin' groovin' too. The show was packed with what looked like yuppies so if you're a critic and a cynic and a little too punk rock fer yer own good, you might write these folks off as some lame-ass, ready for MTV buzz band. That's only if you buy into the bullshit you profess to hate so much. Just dig the music, man. It's the music man!

This 7" disc was produced by Wicker Diva, Brad Wood and it's got a cool lil' cover goin' there, sportin' old Evil Sailor 9 and it's on Minty Fresh and it's on peach vinyl and...and that's it–PC Jones

Friday, August 16, 2013


Ben Keller and the Mama Tick boys practiced in the attic of Ben's apartment across the street from RW HQ on Belmont Ave. in the early 90s. That's how I got to know them. I think they may have been my first real band interview ever when I wrote an article on them for Pure Magazine the year before. Read that article here if you dare.  If you care. If you dare to care. 

From RW#3, 1994:

"Action City" b/w "Shout (at the Devil)
(Three Little Girls)

Mama Tick has left a legacy of 7 inch singles behind to chronicle their three year career in Chicago. With a full-length LP recorded and ready for pressing, Mama Tick has scattered to various parts of the US from Alaska to Maine, to the tennis courts of Chicagoland and are pursuing different projects these days.

The Tick, as some of the rock'n'roll kids refer to them as, have released records on Amphetamine Reptile of the Mini Apple, Chicago's Skin Graft and Madison's Bovine and as their parting gift to us "Action City/Shout (at the Devil)" a 7 inch on Louisville's Three Little Girls Recordings. Action City is the chaotic and quite amusing anthem that best captures the Mama Tick sense of humor. Ben Keller, Adam Laats and Chad Moore simultaneously spout off, sometimes scream off, a collage of stream of conscience rantings about god-knows-what over a steady tangent of guitar noise

"Shout at the Devil," a song included in their live set, is an ode to the Crüe that the Crüe does not even deserve. Sure Too Fast for Love was a good record but never forget Theater of Pain, Girls, Girls, Girls or egads! Doctor Feelgood. Incidentally did anyone see the Motley Crew interview on MTV where the Nikki Sixx prompted the whole band to walk out because the interviewer asked the Crüe about their 80s videos—what with the hairspray, fiery explosions and half neked women sluttin' around hungry for heavy metal gratification. They were insulted by the question. Seems like everyone, even the crew, wants to put those decadent '80s behind them. I guess the crew at thirty-something has finally grown up, but there's really no need to deny your very ridiculous past, boys....bad boys...bad boys of rock.

So pick up that there Mama Tick 7" or any of the four Mama Tick 7 inchers and be entertained by the new bad boys of rock–Malcolm Tent


I don't think this relic from 1994 needs much explanation other than to say, this is how I felt at time time.
Take time with a wounded hand. You know why.
Researched by Joey Germ

Originally published in RW#3, 1994

We all have our favorite rock stars; singers with whom we identify, feel a certain affinity towards, musicians whose music we turn to in our times of need. They comfort us and give us hope. Who we chose as our role models often tells us a little something about ourselves and what kind of people we are. Who is your favorite rock icon? If it's one of the following, you might find out a little something about yourself that you may or may not have already known.

You are very industrious and hard working and also very appealing to members of the opposite sex. You are a trendsetter, much to your own disdain. You're down to earth and uninhibited. You seem to have overcome your tendency to go publicly shirtless much to the relief of many.

You are rebellious and spirited. You are a hard man/woman to pin down. You are a perfectionist and want people to see only the best you can do. Many people find you annoyingly offensive, yet harmless and insignificant in terms of things that really matter. You have a childlike fixation with death and have recurring dreams and fantasies of your violent, tragic, youthful death in which thousands mourn and attractive young blonds weep uncontrollably at your grave.

You don't like attention but you can't help doing things that draw it to yourself. You strongly dislike the system you find yourself a part of but are forced to play the game anyway. You feel the need to escape from the pressures of your everyday life and sometime choose very foolish ways to do this. You are very talented but are more than willing to throw it all away. If martyrdom is your goes you may very well achieve it.

Being devoid of talent and creativity, you ride on the coattails of others. You would have people believe that you are a sensitive, 90s kind of person but your true macho self shines through often enough to give you away. Enjoy your unearned success, it will be short-lived.

You have always been hungry for attention, but until recently were satisfied being basically unrecognized for your achievements. You have always held a venomous contempt for those who aspire to fame and fortune and having gotten a little taste of success by way of broadened public exposure, you are gaining quite an appetite for it yourself.

You are strong and confident yet sensitive and sometimes reclusive. You are driven to succeed but sometimes embarrassed and withdrawn when your achievements are recognized. You are politically aware and not afraid to stand up for what you believe. Even though you may seem quiet and subdued on the outside, there is a massive ego lurking somewhere beneath the surface that will one day explode.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

MUSIC REVIEW: Landmarks, Public House Digital 7"

Public House Digital 7”’
If I am to believe what I read, the Landmarks band is a part of a larger collective known as Public House Sound Recordings which was formed by recording engineer, Dave Vettraino. This digital seven inch, while not measured in inches, covers a lot of musical space starting with the arcing jam of "Overflow". At its best the song aspires to the near perfection of Deerhunter’s "Nothing Ever Happened." At its worst it's just a damn fine tune with a driving bass line, Rhodes piano and swirling and clashing guitar lines seasoned lightly with minimal vocals. “Cuscutta” is slower and trancier with meandering vocals, another steady bass line and hints of xylophone and a not so subtle guitar with effects pedals at play. RepresentChris Auman
REMINDER: Never, ever take a critics word for anything. Download the song for free from the Landmarks Bandcamp page.

ZINE REVIEW: Les CarNets de Rastapoloulos #9

Les CarNets de Rastapoloulos #9
This is issue #9 of Robert Gauvinov's Les CarNets de Rastapoloulos zine and the second installment of the pen pal theme. I have not seen the first one, but the back story is that when Robert was a teenager in Canada in the 1980s, he signed up to become a pen pal through a Communist youth magazine. Quicker than you can say Glasnost and Perestroika, Robert had dozens of pen pals from behind the Iron Curtain. In this issue of the zine, Rob reprints some of these letters with updates from the people who wrote them. This is a pretty fascinating concept and my only complaint is that this zine merely whets my appetite for more. I’d love to find out more about these people who grew up under Communist rule: what were their lives like then? And now? What sort of future did they see for themselves then and what do they see now? More, more, more. I'm greedy. More.

Les CarNets de Rastapoloulos is a photocopied zine, laid out by hand. It's 14 pages. For more info, and to get free copy, check out Robert Gauvinov's page at We Make ZinesChris Auman

VIDEO: King Tuff, "Sun Medallion"

VIDEO: RocketNumberNine, "Lope"

Monday, August 12, 2013

Donald Trump reviews Metallica's Kill 'Em All

Believe it or not, burnouts, Kill 'Em All is thirty years old this year. To celebrate, Pop Culture Parasite has asked Donald Trump to do a track-by-track review of this classic album—Muggsy McMurphy

Metallica - Kill Em All


Just some terrific riffs on this record. Very, very heavy. Cliff Burton was a really, really nice guy -- he looked like a total loser, but really, really nice. Great singing from James too. Really good. Look at the band photo on this album. These guys are kids. Look at all those zits. Jeez. I never had bad skin. I was really, really lucky. Always good with the ladies. I wasn't a loser like these guys.

"Hit the Lights" 

Really great guitar solo from Kurt on this one. Kurt Hammett, I mean, his hair in '83... is it Kurt or Kirk? It's Kirk. That's what I thought. He looks like one of Melania's poodles with that hair. Completely ridiculous, but a really great solo. Really, really terrific.

"The Four Horsemen"

I don't know what this song means. Four Horsemen? But it's really, really terrific. These guys went on to make a lot of money. A lot of money. Not as much as me, but a lot of money.


I've never had motorbreath. I don't know what it is. Maybe Dee Snider can tell you, I don't know. I'm kidding. Dee is great.

"Jump in the Fire"

When you're in business, you have to jump in the fire, right? I know I've jumped in the fire. I know George has jumped in the fire. Terrific vocals. Really, really good.

"(Anesthesia) - Pulling Teeth"  

Is there no singing on this? Not a very good business decision, no vocals. Not very, very smart. I would never do a song with no vocals, but I don't know, maybe they knew what they were doing. Is this just a bass solo? No, wait, there's some drums. Lars, now that guy gets it. That Napster thing, suing fans? That's smart business.

I can't bang my head like these guys. If Ivanka ever dated one of these heavy metal guys, I don't know. I'd be very, very upset, but she wouldn't do that, because she's smart.

"Phantom Lord" 

I don't know what that is, Phantom Lord? Is that a Lord of the Rings thing? Like Hobbits? I don't know. I never read those books. Some people like them. George likes them, but I don't know. Not my thing.

"No Remorse" 
In business you have to have no remorse. You can't have remorse. I can relate to this. I am very, very good at business. I make deals worth millions of dollars and you can't have remorse. I love this song.

"Seek & Destroy" 

Seek and destroy is what you have to do in business. I've seeked and destroyed my opponents in business. I have made a lot of money making really, really good business decisions. Seek and destroy. I kinda like that.

"Metal Militia" 

I don't know about metal militia. Militias are protected in the constitution, I believe. Metal militias, I don't know. Sounds like something Obama would like. Doesn't sound American to me.  


Pop Culture Parasite: Donald Trump reviews Katy Perry's "Roar" single

Pop Culture Parasite: Donald Trump reviews Katy Perry's "Roar" single: Katy Perry is very, very good. Katy Perry Roar single (Capitol Records) Katy Perry is just a terrific singer. Just terrific. Reall...

Cassetty on a Keychain!

Friday, August 09, 2013


I have no idea what this was all about. I guess it was a parody of some literary journal or supplement I saw somewhere. Maybe. Whatever. It's all made up. Enjoy!

Published in RW#3, 1994

Welcome to the first addition of what I can only hope will be a long and successful career for the Rain Drops Literary Supplement. Regrettably, I had not a modicum of time to contribute any of my own work as I was so diligently working on the supplement as a whole—contacting various writers, poets and procuring the works of the legendary Charles Franklin Buchanan. The latter was a task accomplished with great facility, as Mr. Buchanan is deceased. Getting young writers and poets to contribute was a little more difficult, however. I would think that young artists would spring at the chance to be involved with a publication such as this. Rain Drops is, after all, affiliated with the Reglar Wiglar. But alas, none could meet my very lax deadline. Apparently, in today's hectic and poetic world, six months to complete a three stanza poem is too taxing on the creative mind and too stifling on the creative spirit. Whatever the case, or excuse, here is Rain Drops, what little of it there is. I hope you enjoy it or at least appreciate it and the work I've done, or at the very least, read some of it or maybe just read the titles and give a little contemplative "hmmmmmmm" for my sake, please—Jayne Wayne

C.F. Buchanan: Hard to the Core

The man that was, the legend that is, the late Charles Franklin Buchanan will never die. Too much legacy has been left to us for his memory to ever fade. Often thought to be the father of Hard Core Fiction, C.F. Buchanan wrote for over fifty years, leaving behind a body of work that fills three volumes of poetry, essays, and fiction. A political satirist and a sharp, unrelenting social critic, Buchanan remains unchallenged as one of America's greatest writers and crankiest old drunks.

The Forgetter of Things
by C.F. Buchanan

The rain urinated from the sky like a steady stream from a back alley drunk on garbage cans, concrete and broken city dreams. Cracker box laughter rifled through the avenue, piercing ears in its wake, sounding off like a bumper car chainsaw, waterfall screams from some hormone screw cup gushing like a bucket. Weeds, forgotten like beanbag chairs, collecting the ages in dusty neglect and discarded shoe trees whined for a little more than what they were getting. Weeds. Fucking weeds.

Booker staggered through the front door of the Back Door Tavern, wood creaking like a ruptured spleen in the night. "Goddamn the machine" were the only trio of words he could udder out of his crooked vain lips, flesh sagging like a sack of dead rats in the river. Syllables splashed on the cobblestone like dishwater--dirty and mean, filth from a thousand years of toilage and internal judgement. Bitter, then silent. Who could understand his pain? Not she. She who twisted, mangled his pumping organ rendering it incapable of any emotion with the ragged exception of rage, putrid and unholy, unclean like a bus station floor, grime, sin and filmy dirt of an unknown, undesired, unforgiving origin. You clean up this mess, man. This is your mess, man.

Booker swayed, unsteady like a ball bearing. External orbiting around playground perverts, sick and twisted. Mind? No, I insist, happy as only a molester of children can be, a forgetter of birthdays and anniversaries, unfit for the society that produced him, that preys on the weak and the sick and the tardy. You, man, you are the forgetter of things. You, man. You!

Then hunger. A new emotion sensation pelting, plastering, toppling, grating then chiding his gut wrenching bellow, balk and stammer in the sickly train light of the captured moon. Profess to know nothing. Stir, pillage, plummet, cut your gains and imitate your losses. Punch shock your sweaty deceptive dreams. Reach and shatter drive them. Watch them flutter, bewitched, hung like a horse thief in the night. Climb, grab and cling to the things you hate yourself for hating. Tamper with the pulse of the jiggly night. Be the beggar mouse princess, the pacifier of things that can not be. Son of a tax payer. Son of a brick layer. God damn the son of man.

I gotta get some sleep Booker imagined he thought to himself as crunchy knees consummated some sacred ritual with cold concrete coated earth. And then silence more soundless than the bottom of some gigantic cup of cool. Blackness to rival the dark side of Pluto's moon under an oak tree old as Jesus.

"Forgetter of Things" appeared as "Cup of Cool" in Reaction Magazine ©1990 C.F. Buchanan. This version excerpted from the novel Dirty Deeds Done for Free originally published 1991 by Big Horny Publications.

Under the Pus Filled Moon
by C.F. Buchanan

Under the pus filled moon
Things less then human dwell
Midnight to noon
In tattered rags
On nightly jags
To ring the bells of hell
In soaking trousers desire lurks
In Turkey where they sire Turks
In a can of lye a hot brain jerks
To summon sleepless voice
From prison walls to urine stalls
and shopping malls where freedom falls
Life never had the choice
Go brethren of man
Go sisters with sickly livers and splattered crow's feet
Hear not he/she who judge thee
Judgement shall you not meet
From the poison pig that danced a jig
Of those jowls you shall eat
Under the pus filled moon
I thought I heard a cry
It was the man I used to be
It was no other man than me
"Under a Pus Filled Moon" originally published in Graft Poetry Anthology. ©1981 C.F. Buchanan

Legalize Crack, Give Guns to School Children and Kill the Homeless
13 Steps to a Better, More Violent Society
by C.F. Buchanan

The press fiddles have been at it again. Fired up with their pearl lighter football games, strutting around with toothache smiles and sloe gin grins, tooling for some asphalt dumb dickey, too loaded on jag hornet bullshit and pocket swivel to cop a sense of the times at hand. It burns me like a dust bottle scalp spray when clear, clean stone demographics of where the lagheads dwell and are drowned in their own self pity are traded like a Tuscon winter sled ride for some two bit information super highway that never knew what hit it.

Leaving you and me to fight off the overzealous zealots, despots, crackpots, hacks and other politicians bleeding like an ulcer in the stomach of a nation too crushed on candy-coated sound bites and spin doctored keep-you-in-a-can cucaracha baby, "ya no puedo caminar."

If the sinners keep sinnin' then the devil keeps a-winnin' and we know better than to let a bunch of fool proof, off the bottle into the pan hooligans with jack boots and ignorant pants flailing in the heat like so many unborn burdens we least desired most. There's no easy way out of the twisted forest this time, Cinderella. We all gotta face the music even if it is your own twisted bodily nosing off about the price we pay for the people we lay.

So give crack to school children. It couldn't hurt their tiny souls anymore than the lies we pack into their knowledge vessels. Pack the pipe and clean out the filth that a plumber and a can of 'fuck you up' couldn't cope with in a termite's ass. Unpatriotic? Maybe. UnAmerican? Never.

Yes, the press fiddles have been eagerly at it again, conjuring up these mad, yet benign messages forcasting doom for the damned. Stone Demographics don't lie. You can crack a hundred eggs in a bucket and not break one yoke but that doesn't change a thing. Put that in your screw cup and drink it.

Moronic men have made meaning out of the meatless items on the menu, not knowing, not caring about the jellyfish stigma of unwashed heathen at the gate, prepared to do battle with the neverending, the unphotogenic, the cursed multitude who show no gratitude.

*excerpted from a lecture at University of Wisconsin, Madison in March 1990. ©1990 C.F. Buchanan