Issue 82 November 2009
Blue Ribbon Boys
UNMASKED Sexting: How Legal Is It? Jell-O Wrestling
The Sinful Art of
Fear & Publishing
News, Rants & Politics
Anniversaries & Aneurysms
4. Sexting: How Legal Is It?
I’m sitting behind the desk now, whiskey in a night-old stamped-hand, internet out. It’s the last-minute/drunken publisher’s worst nightmare – communications down. It’s one thing to pass out behind the desk with a stamped-hand, another to have the internet pass out before you. Shit like that the night before print causes aneurysms for the most seasoned publisher, and I’m hardly seasoned, even after seven years of this shit. So what do you do 1200 miles from Home with an anniversary show on the loom needing to be promoted on time with the internet down? That’s a good fucking question, even for a professional publisher. Let one unprofessional bastard offer his take. Before the internet froze, my first thoughts were of seven years ago, when we first gave birth to this bastard. The goal was to create a publication that bleeds numerous ideas, opinions, rants, ideologies, and sinful bullshit with every intention of disregard to mainstream media and its PC format. Our foundation was a true voice, that if you were reading something in the weekly paper or watching it on the nightly news that you probably wouldn’t find it in The Sinner. It wasn’t the most profitable idea, but that’s something we’re still proud of! A lot of shit has happened to us over the past Seven years. It seems like only yesterday though that we were driving across country, moving to Seattle from Tampa, Florida. I’ll never forget Mother Teresa behind the wheel, asking if I would try to write for one of Seattle’s many independent publications after we settled in. As we left her brother’s house in St. Louis, traveling down some nameless-to-me highway in a stoned and drunken haze, I said, “Probably not, I think I’ll start my own paper.” She laughed, asking, “Oh yeah, what would you call this paper?” I thought for a second, in that same drunken and stoned haze, and said, “The Seattle Sinner, bitch!” Mother Teresa didn’t care much for the “bitch” reference, but thought my heart and soul just might be in the right place – if not my mind, too. Now some seven years later, we also have The St. Louis Sinner. This was never intended, nor was sticking my tongue in Sid Haig’s ear during a photo shoot at Crypticon last year when he was in Seattle promoting his run for President of the United States – yeah, president. It started with a simple question about his faulted immigration policy. I thought I was too sober to speak, but I did, starting off with, “I don’t like to ask questions.” That one question began an allout assault of questions from audience members, which frustrated Sid extremely. At one point, I even said, “Welcome to Seattle.” He returned the comment with a face as sinister as his words, “Well, that’s what the ticket I bought said.” When I asked for a shot with him afterwards, he said, “You know, for someone who doesn’t like to ask questions, you sure ask a lot of questions.” Perhaps we were both lucky that I wasn’t drunk enough yet to ask questions in front of such a huge crowd. If I had been, he might have chased me out of the building with a knife or machete that he probably had concealed under his coat. I’ll admit that I don’t know much about professional publishing, marketing, editing or writing. I don’t know much about aneurysms, either, except for the time some rat-bastard told my Ex that his wife had died from one. That was his pick-up line – that, and the big check that he liked to say was coming in the mail from the hospital for not diagnosing her sooner. From what I understand, a lot of gals fell for that one – like my ex, who he got pregnant. I guess I’m lucky we both survived that one. After chasing this cockroach to his house with a loaded gun, I really can’t say what prevented me from putting a bullet in his knee than his crotch. Maybe it was divine intervention, but you get the picture. If I had made that fatal mistake, I wouldn’t be writing this today, or have met so many amazing people in two great cities – nor would I have ever stuck my tongue in Sid’s ear. But that was the booze a few hours later, the drunken publisher that would have really asked a lot of questions. I guess I have once again rambled on, but that’s what drunken publishers often do. So when communications go down the night before
print, you fill the flask with Fighting Cock and head to a local punk show. There’s not a lot you can do when shit falls apart, other than kick back with a good pint of whiskey and enjoy the show. It’s better than worrying yourself to fucking death. And I get closer to shaking hands with that Fucker everyday that I continue to push my body past its designed limits. So you let it all go and have some fun until the problem can be solved the next day, or the next, because this gig of independent publishing is fun – or it should be. If it isn’t, or wasn’t, none of us would ever even attempt it. And that would be a sad fucking state, one far sadder than Sid Haig as president – because actors should make movies, just as independent publishers should have fun, get drunk and enjoy local music! I really wanted to talk about The Sinner’s future, but I can’t remember enough about the past to make an accurate prediction of where this gig is going, or going next – other than Salt Lake City to fuck with a few Mormons. So, thinking back at this past seven years, I thought we’d print something many of you have never read in The Sinner, “The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly”. These are our very first emails from year one. I hope you enjoy them as much as we did... and thanks for reading and supporting this drunken captain for seven years. From Issue 12: Chuck, Well, here it is... As I read the words that appeared across my computer screen in my bedroom at three in the morning, I immediately thought about the content of your newspaper and why I would want to run an advertisement in it. WOW. Fucking WOW. I forgot to tell you how much I totally appreciate the fact that there is someone out there, putting something out that is not afraid to talk about the truth, much more interesting read than the ego and the capitalism that has been built up around the publishing industry that I see in general. Thank you for making a real difference. Namaste, Bellial Darshan From Issue 3 To the Editor of The Seattle Sinner: Well after being told you could not print my last letter in its entirety because it was too long ( I think you could not take the truth) I will make this short. Well Chuck I see you will sell out to anyone for a beer and a meal, I do not know where you think you are a republican at, but you are as liberal as you can get. I almost think and wonder are you GAY? Now your going to these places that have these sickos that do not know if they are a man or a woman. Your art page was a waste, Limey needs to do his home work on gun control before he opens his liberal trap. If he had done his homework he would know that there is more murder in cities with no guns allowed than in cities that allow guns, and it is our right under the Bill of Rights. You know this is America you big cry baby Limey. And the guy that did your poem is a Hate Monger or just dumb as a rock. Your Religious expert is again way of base about everything, I was surprised that you waited to page 5 to slam Christians. But know your paper was laid out good again Adds versa Articles, and your review’s where okay on the books and movies and the lay out on Hendrix was Great, the only thing worth printing this time. And thank you for making all of us in the south seem like dumb Hicks ( YEP, YEP that’s US). Well the only thing I would use the paper for this time is to start our fire in the swamp here so WE All can Cook some PIG Brains up for dinner. Oh and I see you sold out your dream to run a paper to some Lez Ben. Man! You are out there in the deep water and you are drowning, But I will pray for you and your city out there in the great North West. I can hardly wait to see what Anti GOD thing you will say about Christmas, take care and the I Hope you and Terri the Best over the holidays. – I AM DR. Who
The Good, Bad & Ugly
From Issue 6 Read your article on new meter maid policy and I am visiting your city, sorry to say with the same bad experiences. I have had to retrieve my vehicle from impound 3 times since I have been in your city visiting family. My first encounter occurred from parking in an invisible crosswalk, even though I noticed others w/ Washington plates parking in the same place hadn’t been ticketed or towed. $180.00 later it made me more cautious of vehicle parking habits. Family & others had told me Seattle was a vehicle unfriendly city. A week later the same thing occurred in a different parking space others had advised to park in because no one had been towed on this specific street & location. $180.00 later the lady at Lincoln Towing told me it’s because of out of state plates. So $300.00 later buying Wa. State plates etc. I’ve decided to leave the state with my car before they have an impound auction of my car on the street to save the fuel of towing it again. Currently, because of distrust, I pay a lot $80.00 per week to park because it’s cheaper than a tow bill. Very unhappy, violated visitor to your grey, unfriendly city. Leaving very soon with my dignity but not my retirement money. I hope Seattle uses it wisely. – Margaret Marksberry
2. Fear and Publishing 3. Essay | Broken Promises
5. Weapons of Mass Distraction 6. Piper’s Pit 8. The New Fred Astaire
Music, Film, Art & Entertainment 10. Femme Fatale 11. Huggy Talk 12. Blue Ribbon Boys poster 13. KMFDM 14. Miscreant Monkey Crew at Succubus Club
15. Blue Ribbon Boys Unmasked 16. Tales From the Fish Tank 17. Raising Hell at The Central 19. Alec Dawson
Religion, Sex, & Other Sinner Shit 9. The Vice is Right
18. Jell-O Wrestling Extravaganza 20. Bitchin’ With Buddha 21. The Surley Gourmand 23. Dr. Dick’s Sex Advice 23. This I Shamelessly Tell You Publisher: Chuck Foster Layout: Terri Daniels & Danielle Correll Managing Editor: Brook Hatch Sales: Keith Calandra Cover & toc Art : Innovative Images Cover Model: Oralie Randall Writers, Ranters, Opinionists & Other All-Out Freaks: Matthew Robert Goad’X Mark Taylor-Canfield Rajkhet Dirzhud-Rashid The Surly Gourmand Paul Blow Matthew Gorman Buddha The Sinner is a group of contributing Lucifer writers. Their opinions, rants and ideas Saab Lofton do not necessarily reflect the views of Richard Art The Sinner itself. The Sinner encourages Guitar Doug contributions from its readers but retains Henry Nicolle the right to edit material due to content or length of submission. John Cole Dr. Dick For advertising or submission information, Jeff Diggs contact us at chuck@theseattlesinner. Fish com. Submission deadline is the 25th of every month. Joshua Merritt Jason Andrew Maija Kristen Ivy Bianca Malise
Essay | Broken Promises by Henry Nicolle “...that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights... that to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. – that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it... “ From The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, July 4, 1776.
John Trumbull's painting, Declaration of Independence, depicting the five-man drafting committee of the Declaration of Independence presenting their work to the Congress.
evolutionary words are these, intended to overthrow every government in the existing world. Words whose meaning perished with the lives of those who had penned them in a passion for Liberty. America, the “Cradle of Liberty” has become the grave for the remnants of respect for individual rights and the casket in which the dying glow of the torch of Liberty shall be buried. It was no war, no conquest, no invasion of hostile forces which destroyed Individual Rights and the Liberty of free exercise of inherent Rights of Americans. The abandonment of rights and the demise of liberty were acts of suicide by the individuals of our free society. No foreign violence came to America to destroy our free society. None was needed, we have always been our own worst enemy. The declaration by the founders of our society in 1776 demonstrated that they were intensely aware that the proposal that all men are created equal, bearing unalienable rights, inherent in unquenchable while they live was a concept departing from all Conventional Wisdom and customs of governing. Extending the concept of human equality and inherent rights to the concept of the purpose for government was a development which shocked the rulers of the world. The trial and error approach to development of institutions which would preserve individual rights and liberty brought a hope to the common people of the world that perhaps thousands of years of dictatorial governance might yield to the liberty of self determination of both individuals and their societies. The events and proclamations of our revolution have proven to be false hopes for humanity. We won our liberty by gunpowder, whiskey and blood. We gave it up again for the meager promises of free bread, free housing, free education and security from violence. In exchange for our liberty, we have accepted poisoned bread, vermin infested tenements, monumental ignorance and apathy and allowed ourselves to be disarmed and prevented from self-defense. For the gold of our liberty, we have accepted ashes and troubles. When we are offered the return of our liberty, we panic and run. We are
more comfortable with ashes and troubles than with the challenges of liberty and self-reliance. Perhaps the human race is indeed created to be the servants of Masters. Perhaps reality is the other way around, creating Masters to rule Mankind. Whatever the truth may be, it is clear from our experience over thousands of years with various forms of government that liberty is not valued by the common man or woman. Ask our social engineers and they will tell you that liberty is not what we commonly believe it is. What we experience is in their words, “structured liberty”. What they mean by “structured liberty” is that what we are free to do what they believe is acceptable for us to do and everything else that we might do is prohibited. This concept certainly approaches the old saw about totalitarian environment in which anything that is not mandatory is prohibited. We Americans love this concept. The absence of real choice, makes daily life and future planning a piece of cake. Henry Ford may have said of his 1st production line automobile, “You can have any color, so long as it is black.” That was good enough for us! Today we have choices that are limited by our rulers and we are satisfied that we are free to choose. We are free to travel (an essential individual liberty) and so we travel. Our choices are pedestrian, automobile, bus, train or plane.†\ But are those really free choices? There are no free choices because whether you walk or ride or fly, you must first acquire proof of permission to travel. So, in reality as a free man or woman, your only choice is whether or not to surrender your right to travel to the discretion of someone who will determine whether you are permitted to exercise your right or are denied the exercise of your right. You are certainly not going to travel very far without written permission. You are not free. The chains of our indenture lie so softly upon our liberty that we no longer notice that we are restrained from independent choice. The benefits that we believe we enjoy have secured our future in bondage.
Sexting: How Legal Is It? written by Jeff Diggs
exting is a hybrid word formed from sex and texting. It is the act of sending a sexually explicit message or photo electronically primarily between cell phones. Most teenagers have cell phones with a camera and the ability to send and receive photos and record videos, which seems harmless. Teenagers also experience their first sexual desires and begin talking about sex with their boyfriends or girlfriends, which also seems harmless and normal. Teenagers today use text messaging to communicate with friends rather than voice phone calls. Those text conversations often turn sexual. It’s much easier to send a text message with explicit sexual content then it is to verbaly say it in a conversation. Teenagers are using text messaging to push the conversation beyond the traditional bonds or causal flirting. It is quite common for teenagers to take self nude photos and send the photo to their boyfriends or girlfriends. In most cases, the girl is sending nude photos to her boyfriend, generally in response to her boyfriend’s request. On the surface it seems relatively harmless and not a big deal, but think again. It’s actually illegal and can ruin a teenager for life. How is this illegal? If you’re under 18 years of age and sending a nude photo of yourself, it’s classified as child pornography. A person taking a photo or recording a video is considered to be creating and manufacturing child pornography, even when taking self photos. A person sending a photo or video is considered to be distributing child pornography. A person receiving a photo or video is considered to be in possession of child pornography. All of these crimes are felonies and carry a minimum 7 year prison sentence for each offense under Federal law with life time sex offender registration. Vermont and Utah have passed recent legislation in 2009 to reduce the penalty to a misdemeanor. Ohio and Wisconsin have proposed legislative changes in 2009 but are not finalized. All other states still consider images of minors to be child pornography felony offensives, even when the image is taken by a minor and sent to another minor. Six teens in Greensburg, PA, were charged with possession of child pornography after 3 girls sent nude or semi-nude pictures of themselves to their 3 boyfriends. One girl took a bunch
photo by Guitar Doug Model: Peddles
of pictures of herself and sent them to a boy electronically in the hopes of seducing him. Now, she could get life in federal prison under current sentencing guidelines. If she does manage to get out, she may have to register as a sex offender for the rest of her life. A 13-year-old boy in Middletown, OH, is facing pandering obscenities charges after taping a sex act and showing it to friends at a skating party. In Fort Wayne, Indiana, a teenage boy was indicted on felony obscenity charges for allegedly sending a photo of his genitals to several female classmates. Another boy was charged with child pornography in a similar case. In October a Texas eighth-grader spent the night in a juvenile detention center after his football coach found a nude picture on his cell phone that a fellow student sent him. I think we can all agree that these kids need to be punished but should we be charging 13 and 14-year-old kids with felony child porn crimes and lumping them in with the adult pedophiles and labeling them as sex offenders for life? Sexting is wide spread. Roughly 20 percent of teens admit to participating in sexting, according to a nationwide survey by the National Campaign to Support Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy. More than 50% of girls said they felt pressured by boys to send sexual messages and pictures in order to get or keep a boyfriend. The bottom line is we need to educate teens, not incarcerate them. The education starts at home with the parents. Parents need to take an active role in their teen’s lives and monitor their teen’s texting, IM and e-mail activities. Imagine in the year 2063, a 70-year-old woman must post a notice that she is a registered sex offender because of a camera-phone picture she snapped of herself in 2009. The combination of poorly drafted laws, new technologies, draconian and inflexible punishments, and teenage hormones make for potentially disastrous results. Why do we even have legislators creating laws for us when they clearly cannot think outside the box when drafting legislation?
Untold Stories of US History, Part 2
n the second part of my series on untold stories from US history, I have included a few individuals who deserve to be mentioned in any discussion of our nation’s heritage. Their personal stories embody amazing and often inspiring values that should encourage us all to live more meaningful lives full of passion and courage. None of them were perfect beings devoid of all character flaws. But each one lived fascinating and sometimes dangerous lives in the pursuit of a larger cause. They were often ridiculed and treated unjustly by folks who just didn’t understand their dedication to the mission, but these people eventually received praise for their contributions to history. These men and women were alternatively famous and infamous. I submit the following stories from our recent past for your enlightenment and enjoyment. GENERAL JOHN ANDRE’ John Andre’ was a British officer who served as adjutant general of all British military forces in America during the Revolutionary War. He was convicted of espionage by a military court and sentenced to death by hanging. At the age of 49 he was executed by the American Revolutionary Army. When a treacherous plot was hatched by American General Benedict Arnold to help British General Sir Henry Clinton takeover the fort at West Point, Clinton chose his personal aide John Andre’ to serve as his representative. Andre’ sailed up the Hudson River to meet with Arnold to discuss the conspiracy on September 21, 1781. The next morning, American forces launched an attack on Andre’s ship. It was forced to retreat and he was left stranded onshore. Andre’ was able to make his initial escape behind the enemy lines and immediately headed toward safety in British controlled New York. His major mistake turned out to be the decision to discard his military uniform. Of course, he knew he was much less likely to be stopped by American soldiers if he were wearing civilian clothing, but according to military law, an enemy combatant who was captured without a recognized military uniform could be put on trial as a spy. If he had retained his stylish redcoat trappings, he would have been treated as an officer and a gentleman. His British mentor General Clinton had informed him of this fact, but Andre’ chose to ignore his old friend’s warnings. Instead of being offered vintage wine and gourmet food, the expected favored treatment of a valuable prisoner, Andre’ was summarily executed. General Andre’ had almost reached the British outposts when he was detained by members of a local militia. They conducted a search of his possessions and found the documents that Benedict Arnold had given
him. The American officer in charge of the area then immediately informed Arnold that his traitorous letters to the British General had been discovered. This gave Benedict Arnold a perfect opportunity to escape before the rest of the American military forces captured him. John Andre’, however, was not able to escape. He was taken prisoner by the colonial army. But even his enemies described him as extremely witty, intelligent and charming. In the British army he was widely admired for his knowledge of literature and music. The British commander, General Clinton tried desperately to save his life by appealing to authorities of the American army. But the Americans wanted to use Andre’s punishment as an example, presumably to deter any possible future conspiracies between Revolutionary Army officers and British military officials. John Andre’ remained stalwart and courageous even while facing death by hanging. His execution was carried out on October 2, 1780 . DR. MARTIN ROBINSON DELANEY Among his many accomplishments, the esteemed Dr. Martin Robinson Delaney received expert medical training from one of the most respected institutions of higher learning in the world - Harvard University. He practiced his medicine at an office in Pittsburgh during the mid 1800s. Born in Charleston, Virginia, Martin Delaney also served as a Union army surgeon during the Civil War. He was the first African American to rise to the rank of major in the US military. Before the war, the good doctor had already become well known as a leading social reformer. Delaney’s courageous public campaigns to end slavery and racial discrimination continued throughout his life. In the years leading up to the Civil War he was instrumental in working with the “Underground Railroad”, helping slaves escape to freedom in the years leading up to the Civil War. As a journalist, Martin Delaney wrote strident articles for the abolitionist newspaper owned by Frederick Douglas – the North Star. Founded in 1847, the publication was based in Rochester, New York. Delaney remained an independent voice and didn’t always agree with his fellow reformers. After the 1850s he began to question the “back to Africa” movement that many of his colleagues were promoting. Delaney withdrew his support from national efforts to assist former slaves to immigrate to West Africa. He maintained that racial prejudice must be faced and overcome here in the United States .
LUCY STONE Lucy Stone was a woman far ahead of her time. This famous lecturer and activist was born in West Brookfield, Massachusetts in the year 1818. At a period in US history when few women attended college, Lucy was teaching school children at the age of sixteen, long before she ever set foot on a university campus. In fact, she taught school in order to raise money for her college education. She was finally able to enroll at Oberlin College in 1843. As soon as she arrived, Lucy immediately joined an abolitionist group on campus. She earned her degree in 1847 and set out on the lecture circuit in the US and Canada, speaking out in favor of the universal abolition of slavery. Lucy concluded that the institution of slavery and the oppression of women in society were directly related issues of liberation. With this approach in mind, she began to combine the two subjects during her popular speaking engagements. Stone helped organize the first US national convention on equal rights for women. This event took place at Worcester, Massachusetts in 1850. In 1869 Lucy Stone founded the American Women’s Suffrage Association, one of the most powerful women’s organizations formed at that time. Her major life’s goal seems to have been to secure the right to vote for women in the United States . Stone was considered controversial because she was also probably the first woman in the US to refuse to change her last name after marriage. She also upset some observer’s sensibilities when she changed her marriage vows, deleting the word “obey.” For many years after her marriage to abolitionist campaigner Henry Blackwell, the term “Lucy Stoner” was used to describe women who kept their maiden name. BRONSON ALCOTT Bronson Alcott was the founder of a socialist co-operative community called Brook Farm. He was a major reformer and leader of the “transcendentalist” movement in the early 19th century. As a Boston Brahman, he operated the Temple School, an experimental learning facility that he directed from 1834 to 1839. His teaching methods were highly influential with educators who sought to assist students in developing a more all-encompassing, holistic approach to education. His curriculum was intended to address the physical, mental and spiritual development of each individual. Along with the creation of his utopian socialist
written by Mark Taylor-Canfield community, Bronson Alcott also promoted vegetarianism by founding another experimental commune in the 1840s named “Fruitlands”. His personal political views were considered counter to many of the mainstream attitudes of his time. Ever an iconoclast, Alcott joined with Mark Twain and Henry David Thoreau in opposing the US war on Mexico waged between 1846 and 1848. He was an outspoken critic of his country’s policy toward Mexico. Alcott claimed that the conflict was purely a land grab by the United States. As one of the leading spokespersons for the abolitionist movement, he saw the US acquisition of Mexican territory as a blatant attempt to extend the practice of slavery into Texas . BARON JOHANN DE KALB Baron De Kalb was a German officer in the French army who helped the Americans defeat the British during the Revolutionary War. Sound confusing? Well, let me explain. Johann De Kalb accompanied the Marquis de Lafayette when he came to the aid of the American Revolutionary army in 1777. Previously, he had left his native Bavaria and traveled to France. In 1743, he decided to join the French military. Eventually, by 1761 he had earned the rank of brigadier general. Around this time, De Kalb chose to add the title “Baron” to his name. During their gathering in 1777 the Continental Congress voted to commission Baron De Kalb as a major general in the Continental army. He served with distinction under the command of General George Washington at Valley Forge. He also fought alongside Washington during the battles of Brandywine, Germantown and Monmouth. In the Carolinas Baron De Kalb was assigned to General Horatio Gates. His last battle engagement ended in his death at Camden, South Carolina. In 1825 the Marquis de Lafayette laid the cornerstone for Johann De Kalb’s monument at Camden. This German-born French/American war hero’s military contribution to the victory over the British is appreciated only by very dedicated historians researching the Revolutionary War period.
I hope you have enjoyed reading these stories as much as I enjoyed doing the research and writing them. As I have always said, every individual is a fascinating story. We all have a history and we all share experiences that have shaped us as human beings. Every day a new story is born. There’s no doubt about it - we all serve as storytellers throughout our lives. Thankfully, some universal tales are forever changing and never seem to get old or stale even after the twentieth telling of the saga. Sometimes I think that life itself is simply a good story waiting to be told…
Dumbed Down to Hell
written by Saab Lofton
“It is often remarked in the First World that, from the president on down, Americans are the most ignorant -- in the literal sense of not knowing what they ought to know -- of any people with First World advantages.” – Gore Vidal, The American Presidency The best case scenario is the kind of utopia depicted in Star Trek – in which poverty, bigotry and atrocity have been abolished... In contrast, the worst case scenario can be found in a movie that should’ve won a dozen Oscars by now: Idiocracy by Mike Judge (of Beavis and Butt-head/King of the Hill fame), a dystopia which depicts the public’s I.Q. plummeting so low that starvation is common because crops are given Gatorade instead of water! Lazy cowards may claim they have A.D.D. (Attention Deficit Disorder) in order to escape reading or dealing with anything the least bit disturbing, but what their asses are really doing is signing Humanity’s death warrant. Those are two possible futures, but let’s glimpse at our past: In the movie based on Jean M. Auel’s novel Clan of the Cave Bear, Daryl Hannah portrays a young Cro-Magnon woman raised by Neanderthals. There’s a scene when Hannah’s character discovers a more efficient way of counting numbers, but is immediately told by a wise elder to suppress this knowledge. “Numbers were a difficult abstraction for people of the Clan to comprehend. Most could not think beyond three,” Auel writes. “With difficulty, Creb [the elder] could count to 20. Numbers beyond 20 blurred into some indistinct infinity called many.” Flash forward from the end of the Paleolithic period to the present and you’ll find that trailblazing pioneers from Preston Tucker to Ralph Nader are treated as badly as Hannah’s character. This must stop! Years ago in Las Vegas, I interviewed acclaimed cartoonist Ted Rall. In Rall’s anthology of political cartoons, Attitude 2, Aaron McGruder (creator of The Boondocks) assesses the American intellect: “The people whom I really despise are the Democrats and the American people who are too goddamned stupid to see what’s happening,” said McGruder, “the reason why people are so tolerant of the evil is because five men control 90 percent of what all Americans see, hear and read. Add onto that fact that Americans are not the most educated and literate people in the planet and you see how easy it is to manipulate them.” I asked Rall if he found McGruder’s comments to be bitter and angry or accurate. Rall stated that McGruder cited, “an opinion that’s really difficult to dispute. I think that the system is geared to encourage that level of stupidity.” An example Rall offered as to how this occurs is the “under-funding” of education. Rall then spoke of how dumbing-down the public is a
very complex affair. “Being intellectual is actually frowned upon,” Rall told me, “so it’s not just that people are stupid; it’s [anti-intellectualism] part of our culture.” When asked what it would take for America to choose a more intellectual candidate like Ralph Nader, Rall prescribed giving him $300 to $500 million for a massive public relations campaign. I’m glad Rall pointed out that, “what’s keeping the left out of office isn’t ideology, it’s money.” It’s a shame that Human evolution is so damn expensive. There’s a big difference between ignorance and stupidity: One is a lack of knowledge and the other is an unwillingness to retain it. Americans are obviously capable of great memory retention – it’s what they’re retaining that’s the problem. And it’s not America’s fault. Blame those who can regularly afford large audiences for folks knowing who hit the most RBIs in 1956 and not knowing who John Brown was. Blame those who can afford large audiences for folks knowing who won American Idol and not knowing who Paul Robeson was. Blame those with large audiences for folks not only knowing but actually caring about this trivia rather than their own history. For it’s not enough that something be allowed a forum – that which is important must be treated as if it’s important. There’s SUPPOSEDLY the civil liberty to be ignorant of what’s important. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but history is constantly growing exponentially, so each succeeding generation will have to learn MORE history than the last, otherwise civilization will collapse. You can’t go through life without ever having heard of WWII because your head hurts from WWI being too hard to understand. Also, figure that most people never use algebra outside of high school, most people never have to explain the theory of relativity, and most people never quote Shakespeare, but EVERYONE VOTES. If every place on Earth is supposed to be a democracy, then everyone on the planet is a potential voter, and if that’s the case, literally everyone must know “all that boring political stuff,” as the teenyboppers would squeal. Besides, if you’ll buy crap, chances are you’ll vote for crap too. Want Mind-Candy for escapism? EARN IT FIRST, by reading as wide a variety of newspapers as possible, Professor Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States and Orwell – especially for 1984’s classic line, “If there’s any hope, it lies in the proles.”
Pamela Grieco Makeup/Hair
Helene Hawthorne Fashions
The New Fred Astaire written by Robert Crisman U.S. POLITICS, my friend, is a buck-and-wing sideshow, hyped to rivet attention away from the pickpockets, killers and rape-os in boardrooms who rule us as surely as Ivan the Great ruled the Russias. It’s why the best politicians wear top hats and tails whenever they step out on stage. Democracy in action! Take the latest presidential election. The GOP sent out a clubfoot. The Dems came up with a guy who knew how to spin. The vote was the spinner’s to lose as far back as November ’06, the mid-term elections. The Dems, by pretending they wanted us out of the war in Iraq, stomped the Repos. Right after that, the Bush team dumped Rummy, old “Cakewalk” himself, as if that would make them look better or something. Talk about locking the goddamn barn door! The Repos knew that the mid-terms spelled big ’08 trouble. The party’d gone swimming in ratshit with Bush, through the war and Katrina and everything else, and all of their possibles reeked like a roadhouse back porch down in Mudflap. Yet, by God, it looked for awhile like they needn’t have worried that much! The Dems spent ’07 spreading their buttcheeks when Bush called for war funds. He’d ask for, say, $70 million, so Cheney’s old outfit, Rip ‘Em and Clip ‘Em, could stash it in offshore accounts—and those donkey cocksuckers would cough up way more! Their exit plan out of Iraq? Well, er, ah, maybe somewhere between 2010 and when pigs learn to fly. The ’08 campaign was a barrel of laughs. The Dems couldn’t dredge up a white guy that even the dead in Chicago would vote for. Edwards? Whose haircuts cost 400 bucks? Why not just exhume Dukakis? His haircuts were shit, but he always wore helmets and— Anyway, it came down to Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama. An arm-wrestling contest to see who’d take on whoever it was that the Repos came up with. At first it looked like Hillary’d take it, but she’s such a bitch and everyone knows it, and meanwhile, Obama seemed like a nice guy and smart with it too, and he wouldn’t scare too many white folks, and so on. The guy had some steps. The progressive sheepdips all flocked his way. He beat out the Clintons. Bill, who’s still got his crusty old socks in his mouth, wonders just what the fuck happened… Meanwhile, the poor GOP. They couldn’t dig Reagan up try as they might, and all they had left that had ever seemed human was one other dead guy, McCain. McCain sort of dribbled and drooled out his mouth on both sides. He couldn’t dance worth a fuck. The Oil Guys duked the Obama camp millions and millions. Obama was Kerry with game. And like Kerry, and Bush for that matter, he stood for foisting American Freedom on countries which, given the choice, would rather hold onto their oil… The money guys loved it! Obama would do the right thing when the time came. Meanwhile, to prop up McCain whenever he’d start to fall over, the Repos conjured this Ilsa Koch Barbie-Doll ding-dong for Veep, Sarah Palin. Palin winked and wiggled her ass and talked about Jesus and sewed up the peckerwood lardcans, and kept the race tight going into October. Then the fucking economy tanked. On the
GOP’s watch. McCain went tits up. Yet it wouldn’t have mattered if Dems had been steering the ship. They all had their prints on the dereg bamboozle that had kicked the economy over the cliff. All those banks, choked with shit markers! Next stop, a black hole in space! And sure, the Bush monkeys, stockholders all, pushed the dereg. The point was to fatten portfolios, man, and kick those stocks skyward like right fucking now. And, don’t forget, to make sure that their homeboys could grab all that bonus cash lying around, for making those year-end reports dance and sing. Billions and billions and billions of bonus bucks, baby! For Lear Jets and yachts, household slaves, nights in Paris, and all the rest of the shit that gives the Wall St. homunculi hard-ons. And if all that meant shoehorning folks who can’t pay into houses and all that good stuff—Buy now and we’ll snatch your shit up down the road when your interest rates all hit the moon!—well, uh, hey, that’s the way the game goes, n’est ce pas? So, yeah, the Repos pushed dereg like smack. But so did the Volkers tucked in with Obama— who’ve got what they laughingly call a plan to fish us all out of the soup! Get credit rolling again! Quick quiz: what’s the reason those dipshits dereged in the first place? You got it! Folks have to buy buy buy buy! But they don’t have the cash to buy popsicle sticks. And so, credit—or the shit that they used to make here, but now gets churned out by the peasants in China, will ship to these shores just to rot in some warehouse some-
where a n d — black hole in space time again… By the way, this stuff gets made overseas so the corporate greedhogs, who helped push the dereg, could rape all the cheap peasant labor. It’s also the reason that folks over here who used to work for those fuckers no longer have ducats. Which—are you ready?—is a big fucking reason the banks are awash in shit markers! No matter! Even folks who can’t pay have to buy buy buy buy!—till it’s time once again for a meltdown! To stave off this meltdown, Obama and all the rest of those dipshits voted to give the banks eighty-three billion godzillion dollars, along with your house and your car and your mother, to get credit moving again. The banks used the money for Lear Jets and yachts… Hey, you know what? Marx did have this shit down to the dime!
No matter. The sheepdips elected Obama. He ran on a program of Change—no specifics, at least not the kind that the banks will allow—which means we’ll likely slam into Pakistan this time. Assuming that China keeps lending us money. Change! Yes indeed… And like I said, the sheepdips all bought it. He could have danced them all over the moon… One month after the vote, Osama bin Laden came out with a vid. He was grinning, in beach-
comber’s togs, kicked back in a lounge chair smoking a doob, down on the Gulf Coast somewhere. This CD in the background: a Willie Nelson lament, wafting softly. Osama said, “Hey, baby, what’s up with you? Just catching some rays here myself. Hey, dig my man Willie. I wasn’t even hip to this guy till I buzzed back through Texas a couple months back. Boy’s got that nice, laid-back feel, you know? That’s where I’ve been these past couple years, just blasé-ing hither and yon, digging the ladies, and having a ball. He yawned and stretched. “Too bad about old George and Dick. I’m gonna miss ‘em. They actually thought they could slam you guys into the dumpster and get away clean. I mean, 9-11, scare all the grandmas, and so forth. It got old. Plus, they tried to fuck all you guys without grease and that only works for awhile. “Now it looks like you’ve placed your bets on Obama to make it all better.” He laughed. “I like that guy too. He’s slicker
than George. And, actually, he’ll give me something to do. I mean, Afghanistan redux, then Pakistan, right? Get ready, get set, and it looks like I’ve gotta get back to the wars. In a way, it’s too bad. I like Texas. But you still got your gameplan in Asia, all that oil and shit, and you need me back there.” He laughed. “I’m the bogeyman, right? ‘Osama, Osama, he’s after your mama!’ “I wonder who thought that one up? I’m betting on Dick. The dude was a poet, you dig? “So, anyway, me and my guys, it looks like we’re gonna be busy. Osama laughed, waved, and the video faded to black. The new year kicked in. Obama was dancing all over the map. The two-step, the shimmy, the bugaloo, name it. You should have seen him breakdancing in Cairo! We love you, Muslims! And Zionists too! We love you all madly! When apprised for the ten trillionth time that the Zionists stole Arab land, Obama went into the splits—and ruptured himself, like Bush and the rest of those silly cocksuckers. Palestine! Israel! Two-state solution! The Arabs get six blocks of rocks where the Jews haven’t settled the West Bank—until it comes time when the Zionists want those six blocks of rocks for themselves. Then, uh, Barack? You might want to check out the truss ads… And that’s not the worst of it, either! On the homefront, under the guise of “bipartisanship,” Obama keeps spreading his buttcheeks for nazis on health care reform. Public Option? He’ll dump it, you watch. He figures his sheepdips will snivel and yowl, but he also knows that they too will roll over at nutcutting time. Meanwhile, just by way of no harm, the Insurance guys’ suit-wearing buttboys in Congress are howling that health care reform “costs” way too much. These are the same smarmy dipshits who coughed up those billions and billions and billions of your and my hard-earned tax dollars for ground wars in Asia, just so that UnoCal, Chevron, and all those cocksuckers could profit like big dogs. You’d think that Obama would point all this out—but he too has plans to dance into Pakistan sooner than later and, well, you know… Barack Obama, the new Fred Astaire…
o, let’s just say, hypothetically speaking, of course, that you spent the better part of your summer on dope. And by dope I mean real fucking dope - opiate narcotics. Maybe you whiled away those sunny days and hot, spicy nights gobbling down all manner of pills. Diladid, OxyContin, Percecet, Hydrocodone, and maybe you even did a little bit of smack-adoodle-do. Maybe you did a lot. Hypothetically speaking, of course. But now the party’s over lest you end up like one of those sorry ass junkies on the A&E documentaries using Burger King bathroom toilet water to shoot up with. Well, a perfect way to knock that ol’ monkey off your back is this month’s vice, the sublingual tablet, Suboxone. Suboxone comes in an orange hexagonal tablet that contains four parts buprenorphine HCI and one part naloxone HCI dihydrate in either 2mg/.05 mg or 8mg/2mg dose sizes. Now, buprenorphine is a drug that I’ve covered in this column before (regular readers may remember that the vet gave it to my cat after he had his tail cut off) and I believe that I mentioned that it is a powerful opiate used to treat pain. But in addition to being prescribed as an analgesic, it is often used to treat addiction to other opiates, much in the same way as methadone. This is due to its longer duration of action (alleviating the need for the more frequent administration of a more addictive opiate to combat withdrawal symptoms) and also because medical professionals say that it doesn’t produce as pronounced of a euphoric effect as do drugs such as heroin or morphine. I would argue against this latter point, however. It is only because of the smaller dose sizes of buprenorphine (a drug which is technically 40 times stronger than morphine) in Suboxone as opposed to say, a whole freakin’ needle full of black tar heroin, that users may not feel quite as “high”. Still, these professionals assert that this less-pronounced “high” makes the weaning process from the drug much less difficult. The other active ingredient in Suboxone tablets is the opiate antagonist (or opiate antidote, if you will), naloxone. Naloxone prevents one from abusing the buprenorphine in Suboxone by injecting it. If an addict tried to crush up and inject a Suboxone tablet the opiate agonist naloxone would make them very sick. They would essentially start experiencing immediate withdrawal symptoms from whatever drug they were hooked on. This can also happen if Suboxone is administered, even in tablet form, too soon after someone has used a powerful opiate such as heroin. The naloxone also prevents the buprenorphine from taking effect for sometime, I’d say like an hour or an hour and a half, negating the possibility of an instant gratification from the drug that junkies so desperately crave. Still, as I said, this drug is a vice and physical dependence can result following continued usage, though as previously mentioned it is typically easier to “kick” (a term actually coined from the kicking leg spasms that a junkie has while going through withdrawals) than drugs like heroin or oxycodone. It can also be used recreationally if you don’t mind waiting for the effects to kick in. After they do though you might find yourself extremely jubilant, bouncing around the room, and making a complete fucking ass of yourself at a local karaoke night. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
by Paul Ace Diamond “Huggy” Blow
Nov 3 From November....A Sic End....Seven Horses Nov 4 Disenfranchised....Time well Wasted Nov 5 Rebel Scum....Rebel Strike Nov 6 Antique Scream....The No No’s(mnpls).... The Screaming Starts....pain cocktail Nov 7 Swish....Custom....Samuri Bow Nov 8 Alpha Hero....(post game party) Nov 11 Fair Game(sacto) Nov 12 Moonshine....Orion Walsh Nov 13 Rat City Ruckus....NCM....Jaded 52 Nov 14 The Federalists(sf)....The Con of Man....Kenron Nov 15 Lauren’s b-day....High Class Wreckage.... The Badlands....Grindline the band Nov 18 Spittin’ cobras *(tour kickoff party)*....All Bets on Death....Greatest Hits....Dies Drear Nov 19 Threadspinner(santa barbara)....Offshore Radio Nov 20 Missionary Position Nov 21 Death Valley Murder Squad....Shy Ones.... Dirty Sidewalks Nov 23 Stoic Nov 25 dbs(delta blues spirituels) Nov 27 Central Grey Nov 28 The Days The Nights(pdx)....Tallboy Shotgun.... Riot in Stereo Dec 5 The All Star Porn Jam
Blue Ribbon Boys
I TOTALLY FORGOT that the Fourth Annual National Bullying Prevention Awareness Week was last month (October 4-10), but in honor of said Week I wanted to perform a community service and share my own personal experiences with bullying. You see, my friends, I too was a victim of bullying once upon a time. That’s right -- Paul Ace Diamond “Huggy” Blow was bullied!!! I remember it well... I was in the 8th grade at Assumption Catholic School, and apparently the 8th grade is when kids start trying to fit in and be cool. I had never had a problem with bullying before, but at the very beginning of the 8th grade I was picked on by the “cool kids” because I was the tall, shy nurd with glasses, greasy hair, and eczema on my arm. The bullying included name calling, taunts, insults, and even physical threats and violence. They even gave me an insulting nickname that I hated. After the cool kids started harassing me, the rest of the kids also joined in so they could be “cool” too. I remember there was one kid who refused to pick on me... I told him, “What’s the matter, don’t you want to fit in???” The abuse lasted the entire year and the next year in High School I made a fresh start. I washed my hair on a daily basis, I quit wearing my nurdy glasses (and was blind as a bat), and I wore long sleeved shirts to hide my eczema. I swore an oath to myself that if any of the kids from 8th grade were at my high school I would not let them carry the harassment and bullying on there too. But sure enough, they did, but I was prepared... when the first kid called me the insulting nickname from grade school I gave him a solid punch to the solar plexus and knocked the insults right out of him. I learned that punching a bully in the gut is an effective way to stop bullying. I punched a few more of my former harassers in high school and word spread: Don’t mess with the tall dude! I’ve come a long way since the 8th grade. I’m still freakishly tall but now I’m a super-cool guy, not a nurd. I wear contact lenses not nurdy glasses. I wash my hair once a day whether it needs it or not. I no longer have eczema on my arm but I do have some weird rash on my leg. I no longer have an insulting nickname, I have a cool rock’n’roll name. But most of all I have learned to accept and love myself for who I am, I don’t try to fit in, I love being a true individual. And last but not least I’ve learned kung fu, karate, tae kwon do, and other martial arts and if anyone tries to have their way with me, now as an adult, a karate kick to the ballsack usually takes the bravado out of them, or a round house kick to the kneecap will do the job if the groin kick doesn’t. And if the asshole still continues to be aggressive a palm heel strike to the nose, breaking the nose and sending pieces of bone into the bully’s brain, killing him instantly, will definitely handle the situation. I’ve found this to be quite effective with school-yard bullies and assholes in general. That’s right, kids... the best way to handle bullies is to teach them a lesson in manners by beating the holy heck out of them. Most all bullies are only tough on the outside and wimps on the inside. I hope that sharing my own experiences here will help out any kids who are being bullied at school. My advice to you is this: be an individual, accept yourself for who you are, learn some kung fu, and beat up a bully today!
HUGGY BLOW’S ROCK STAR OF THE MONTH: Johnny Thunders: Johnny Thunders made a name for himself back in the 1970s as a guitarist for glam rock band the New York Dolls. He later went on to a solo career (playing guitar and singing) with his band the Heartbreakers and also released many albums under his own name. He also had a very cool solo acoustic act that he did, an act that has inspired many (including myself) to play solo acoustic shows. Although Johnny Thunders was not the greatest of guitar players or even a very good singer, it’s his IMAGE that makes him so gosh danged cool. If you’ve never heard of Johnny Thunders, just google his name and check out the pics of him and you will see... what with his flamboyant outfits and his big ol’ mop of black hair, Johnny Thunders just plain LOOKS like what a rock star guitar player should look like, and there are legions of guitar players far and wide who try their hardest to BE Johnny Thunders, even today. Sadly enough, Johnny Thunders was a heroin addict most of his career, and died of a heroin overdose in 1991 at the age of 38, but his legend, notoriety and fame live on and he makes it as my Rock Star of the Month. This one’s for you, Johnny! Johnny Thunders
KMFDM : The 25 Years of Ultra Heavy Beats Anniversary Tour
Jules Hodgson and Steve White
text and photos by Bianca Malise On October 12th, Seattle was rocked by the legendary KMFDM at the beautiful Moore Theatre. As always, KMFDM put on an unreal performance with amazing charisma, lighting and raw power. The energy felt from the crowd was amazing as everyone in attendance was awe struck, including me! This was absolutely one of my favorite shows in what has been 24 years of live concert experiences. Opening for KMFDM were the Aussie two-some, Angelspit and Seattle’s Legion Within. Both bands mesmerized and were the perfect segue into KMFDM’s set. An after party was held @ Noc Noc where all members of KMFDM, Angelspit and Legion Within graciously attended, which we all know rarely happens! This was definitely one of the most entertaining and energetic after parties I have attended. KMFDM’s American tour has just come to a close in Florida and all are on their way home. We look forward to (yes, I can’t help but say it), “KMFDM, Doin’ It Again!” in the future.
by Jason Andrew The rotating roster has become a hallmark of the team, although one theme remains consistent: the Miscreant Monkey Crew seeks out misadventure that no single self-styled hipster can withstand alone, hence their battle cry, “Monkeys Assemble!” THE SUCCUBUS CLUB is the party hosted by ‘Hollywood’ Shane Defreest where legends go to have that forgotten weekend. It started as a traditional thank you party hosted by gaming studio White Wolf to thank loyal customers and members of the official fan club, the Camarilla. That’s right, bitches! Fangdorks like to wear black eyeliner and get their drink on. When word reached the crew that the new owners of White Wolf planned to host the Succubus Club at local Seattle nightspot, Heaven, and had completely fitted the bill for free drinks and entertainment, we almost panicked with delight. How could we possibly cover this event? Was this too large a job for a couple of miscreant monkeys? And most importantly, would the free booze last long enough to satiate Professor C. T. Estlin? The answer was simple. Clearly, this was a job too epic for the normal crew, so all monkey reservists were called in to make the scene. I carpooled with Professor C. T. Estlin and the Mighty Mungo. We were greeted at Heaven by Sarazon, Killa K, Black Jesus, and Bloodbath McGrath. Descending the cement stairs felt like a high school reunion, except here I wanted to see these old friends. My old gym didn’t have a regular fetish night where I learned a great deal as an innocent lad new to Seattle and human bondage. Images of Dracula, Bauhaus, and Blade flickered on the wall as glitterpunks danced with Victorian Goths. Gamers in black t-shirts exchanged stories between drinks with urban primitives with decorative eye-patches and utilikilts. Geek Nirvana. The Mighty Mungo and the good Professor hatched a clever scheme to meet women. They found an extra cache of the Seattle Sinner at the entrance and wormed their way through the crowd. They began taking pictures of beautiful women posed with the Mighty Mungo, looking very disappointed. The theory was sound. Every man on the booty hunt tries to impress women. Few are so upfront with their ability to disappoint. What this says about his sex life in general is best left to the imagination. The lovely Sarazon held court in the center room while Black Jesus and Bloodbath McGrath chilled in the corner quietly. The staff at Heaven worked their collective asses off serving free drinks and bussing the dishes. I sampled their delightful Long Island Iced-Tea. The Mighty Mungo and the good Professor took turns waiting in line and downing a variety of alcoholic beverages. Monkey consensus declared the drinks quite good and not at all watered down. I spent the first part of the night in the quieter room hosted by the beautiful DJ Vicious and wandered through the crowd greeting old friends like Jen the Goth Moppet and chatted with local personalities such as Jillian Venters, author of Gothic Charm School. Amber, with her girl-next door good looks, bounced through the crowd quite excited about Halo OST. The main room had a large stage where various erotic dancers were plying their trade quite expertly. The fire dancers wowed the crowd to a wonderful pitch of excitement. Tenacious Tara twisted my arm and forced me upon the dance floor. For a few moments, I quit being a jaded monkey and remembered what it was like to be young. It was then that I passed by the Mighty Mungo sans shirt on the way to the restroom. A tipsy lady attending the party was quite happy to pose for the “Wall of Disappointment” and she showed her enthusiasm by vomiting all over the Mighty Mungo. Twice. Yes, somehow the Mighty Mungo was unable to dodge the second blast. We found a quiet collection of chairs in the quieter room and since good things come in threes, a blond surfer looking guy from Canada named Dan puked on the Mighty Mungo. Politeness is forcibly bred in Canada and this was demonstrated when Dan gave the Mighty Mungo the very shirt off his back. And despite all of the revelry, fans of games had plenty of opportunity to meet people in the industry. White Wolf Club Director, the sexy and delightful Kelly Barnes took the time to meet with fans. Jim Rivers of Obsidian Entertainment and I had a round of drinks discussing just about all of my favorite video games, which include Knights of the Old Republic and Fallout 3. The best part of the night was the way the staff controlled the party. There were no fights. No skinny douchebags with a ponytail and a pretentious goatee creeping on a frightened girl in the corner. Kudos to the Heaven staff for maintaining control of the wild party without letting any of us notice. That’s professionalism! The rest of the night faded a bit until the end. The cold concrete felt oddly comforting as I huddled next to Killa K sipping refreshing water. Someone turned on the bright florescent lights and the bouncers were politely asking us to leave. The mighty Mungo was wearing my clothing. How did that happen? I later searched for a photo of us on the Wall of Disappointment, but did not find anything incriminating. Professor C. T. Estlin was stewed to the gills. In fact, he was so inebriated that he decided to relieve himself on a Jaguar where a douche bag with a ponytail cried like a girl. To suggest a new adventure for the Miscreant Monkey Crew, email MiscreantMonkeyCrew@gmail.com. For more information about PAX, visit www.paxsite.com. For more information about White Wolf and CCP Games, visit www.ccpgames.com.
Raising Hell With Guitar Doug The Blue Ribbon Boys release an album, purchase a mail order bride and get arrested three times in one day.
photo by Julie Lary
he Blue Ribbon Boys are one of the many younger party bands, packing them in at the smaller to midsized bars and music venues around town. The term “party band” refers to the party like atmosphere these bands bring live, which is essentially a statement against what these bands see as an overly pretentious and serious Seattle music scene, saturated by Indie and EMO bands, who bring little to the table musically, and even less in entertainment value. There are many newer Seattle rock bands openly trying to “Bring real rock n’ roll back to Seattle”, as the Blue Ribbon Boys recently explained it to me. What they are talking about is rock playing and songwriting that grew directly out of Blues and early rock n’ roll. It’s a specific style invented in the 1950s by musicians like Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly, which was then carried forward into the 1960s and 1970s by groups like The Faces, The Rolling Stones, Aerosmith and many others. Sure, you’re never going to find a Blue Ribbon Boys CD in the front window of a hipster record store like Sonic Boom. But then again, anyone who would actually buy any of the albums in the front window of Sonic Boom would never read this column or attend a Blue Ribbon Boys show anyway, so no sense wasting time talking about those idiots. The Blue Ribbon Boys long awaited debut CD just came out and I strongly suggest picking up a copy through the band’s website. There are two threads that bind these party bands together. The first is an extreme sense of loyalty among the bands. You will never find a show played by one of these bands where members of a half dozen other bands are not in the audience. This not only insures a built in audience, but also allows the bands to feed off each other musically. It’s not uncommon to see the influence of one band cross over into another over time, if you follow along closely and know what to look for. The second is a collective persecution complex. In a type of mass paranoia, the bands talk endlessly about being overlooked by Seattle’s corporately owned print media, who the musicians believe are presenting a false reality of what is actually popular in the Seattle rock clubs, while endlessly hyping out of town, bearded Indie touring bands nobody has ever heard of. Even when the mainstream Seattle media throws an occasional bone to one of these bands in the form of a write up, they suspiciously analyze each and every word, picking apart the write up for even the tiniest mistake, inaccuracy or misrepresentation of the music. Most local Seattle rock bands you run into feel totally ignored by the Seattle print media. “Bad press is better than no press“, is the mantra you hear over and over, because it’s all most Seattle bands can ever hope for, which really is a shame. Especially with all the talent in this town. “Maybe if we’re lucky The Stranger will bad mouth us...” is the common thought process these days. It’s better than nothing, the bands figure. It would only be paranoid if it were not true. What these bands are claiming is in fact the truth. Almost all of the most well respected rock bands in the clubs are totally ignored by the media, which is the only reason I have kept this column running for almost three years now. I write about these bands by default - meaning nobody else will. “Well, you got any interesting rock n roll stories?” I asked. There I sat, for at least an hour, hearing all sorts of drunken stories about arrests, partying, groupies and even a tale of the time when the band ordered a mail order bride. That one piqued my interest and I insisted on getting that bad boy in this story. Brian from the band originally wanted to interview me, rather than make the interview about the band. At first I thought he was kidding. Obviously, I told him “No way“, but by the end of the night they had me agreeing to one interview question of their choice, which is at the very end of this interview. It’s a UFO encounter some of the rock guys like to drag out of me at parties. Now The Blue Ribbon Boys are forcing me to go public with it in their music interview, for God only knows what reason. Naturally, I would gladly submit to a polygraph test to verify every word is true.
After a about a half hour of waiting, my buddy suddenly shouts “Go! Go! Turn around and just go!” We book back to the car, probably looking like terrorists in the process, as I keep asking him, “What the fucks going on???” Finally, as we got to the car he shouts, “Dude, that was not the chick from the picture! I think that girl was really a man!” “What a pussy, “ I thought. “He got cold feet.“ So, we just left her there at the airport. I felt bad for a while and wonder whatever became of her. Maybe she is in the back of The Stranger? Nick, do you have a crazy rock n’ roll tale to top your brother Brian’s? Nick: About 7 years ago, me and Spencer from The Greatest Hits and The Shy Ones went to a party out in Federal Way, which was really fucking lame. When it came time to leave, we noticed that our ride had already left! We didn’t know these douche bags well enough to stay over and had no money for a cab, so we opted to walk. Before we took off, we raided all the beer from the fridge and stuffed them into our coats, pants, underwear. We chose to walk on the freeway because it was the only way we knew how to get home. About 50 yards into that, we got stopped by the cops. We were not only shit drunk, but we were currently drinking a beer, so the cops threw me down and put the cuffs on me as Spence got the “nice cop treatment“. As I was sitting in the cop car I started screaming, kicking the door and the other shit. Next, Spence gets in the car and tells me that we were not going to jail at the time and they were going to let us go. So, we start walking again, but this time on the back streets. We were hammered and we started knocking garbage cans down, tearing up mail boxes and breaking bottles in middle of the street, just for the fuck of it. About 20 minutes later, the cops came out of nowhere and stopped us, saying that we fit the description of a couple of kids who were vandalizing the neighborhood. Being the mouthy drunk I am, I started swearing at them, that they were stereotyping punk kids. Needless to say the cop didn’t like that too much, so he threw the handcuffs on me and threw me in the back of the car. Once again, Spence saved my ass and the cop let me go. So back onto the journey we go and now are by the airport and it’s 6 am, so you can buy beer again, so we had some old bum looking dude buy us some beer. About 2 beers into it, the cops come out of nowhere again and stopped us. I say “We got a problem?” They threw me in cuffs and back in the police car. In the car, the cop tells me, “I was a kid once and I know how you feel. I’m going to let you off with a warning, but still give you a drinking in public ticket.” Three times in one night! It’s got to be some kind of record.
Why did it take you guys so long to put out your first release? Nick: We have been through so many line-up changes, it’s crazy. We’ve had over thirteen guitarists since the start of the band. At one time, we were actually writing songs and playing shows with Spencer and Leif in a band and had to start all over once they left. We ended up dropping about 15 of those songs to start fresh. Then we just went through more and more guitarists, because they just couldn’t hang with us. Either they quit because we were too party crazy, or they quit because their girlfriend almost got stabbed by Skotfree of Creem City. I mean, I don’t know what their deal is! Anyway, taking time to teach each of these people the songs we know plus all the shows we play, puts huge delays on writing songs and such. Eventually, we had enough material to put out an E.P. So, we did. The EP has a song called High School girls. What’s with the whole Rat City Thing? Brian: Rat City is a nickname of The Blue Ribbon Boys Headquarters, which is White Center, Washington. It’s the home of pimps, pushers and prostitutes, but also lots of cool little businesses and shops, Full Tilt Ice Cream And Pinball puts on all ages shows, Zippy’s Giant Burgers gets us all fat and big Al’s brewery gets us all drunk! What Seattle bands are you into these days? Nick - There are so many cool bands in Seattle right now, that I feel blessed. There’s a rock n’ roll scene bubbling under the surface, that I am really excited about right now. We just went on tour and most other cities we played had no scene and were all about Indie/Emo/Metal. I think Seattle has something going here with bands like Neon Nights, The Badlands, The Pranks, Creem City, High Class Wreckage, The Greatest Hits, The Shy Ones, The Wrecked Chords, The Boss Martians, The F Holes, The Cute Lepers, Pain Cocktail and our hometown partners Rat City Ruckus. I also like where music is going right now, with the whole “Soul Revival” that bands like Welcome Home Walker from Portland and The Booze from Atlanta are doing it right! Brian: Now, I’m going to turn the interview on you Guitar Doug. What is this you have mentioned in private about an encounter you once had with an actual UFO. Guitar Doug: Well, I hate to even talk about it, but it’s the Gods honest truth. Growing up in New England we had a pretty safe and sheltered existence. The scariest thing we ever saw as kids was probably the occasional dead squirrel or cat in the road that had been hit by a car. The kids in the neighborhood all hung out at night together, because there wasn’t much else to really do. We were basically out in the woods, which cover about half of New England. Anyway, one crisp, clear, cold fall night, my best friend and I decided to watch the Boston Bruins on this little black and white TV set my Dad had in his camper that was behind my house. It was sort of a fort for the teenagers in the neighborhood. It was a school night, so it couldn’t have been any later than about 11 o’clock at the time of the incident. We were just carrying on as always, watching TV and joking around, when we heard what sounded like a large plane approaching, which was slowly getting louder and louder and creating the normal type of vibration you feel when a plane passes overhead. At first we really didn’t think anything of it. The problem was, the sound and the vibration eventually got so strong, that the camper began to rattle and it started to actually hurt out eardrums. We knew there was something seriously wrong and instinctively knew to get the hell out of the camper. It literally sounded like a Helicopter was landing on the roof and felt like the camper was coming apart at the seams. The vibration was so powerful, we practically had to crawl to the door and out of the camper where we both fell onto the ground. While trying to stand, which turned out to be impossible, I looked up into the sky, and not any more than 75 feet above the tree tops was a gigantic, and I mean aircraft carrier sized saucer shaped object, metallic in color and covered with thousands and thousands of lights. I hate to even tell the story, because it sounds way too hard to be true, even to me. It sounds cliché, but it looked very similar to the mammoth craft in the final scene of the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. No word of a lie. It was that large and had that many lights on it. Some blinking, others not blinking. Every color you could possibly imagine. To make a long story short, we followed the slow moving craft into the woods, but after awhile the brush was too thick and we were getting tangled in pricker bushes. So, we ran back up onto the hill my house was on, and watched as it slowly moved off into the distance for about 5 minutes. The following morning there were reports on the local news that dozens of people had called authorities claiming to have seen a UFO that night before. Easily one of the most pivotal events of my life, but something I rarely talk about. You never view reality the same after something like that. Believe it or not, but it’s totally true. So, there you go. Your one question for me is answered.
The Blue Ribbon Boys
You once ordered a mail order bride. Let’s hear the story behind that. Brian: We used have this party house and there was this off night where there weren’t many people there and we were sitting around bored on the Internet. Somebody said, “I wonder how hard it would be to get a mail order bride?” So then an internet search began. Low and behold, we found a site that had girls from Cambodia for a fairly decent price. At the time, I thought nothing of it. Then a couple weeks later, my buddy that was totally into the idea, came over and said he had made the transaction and was picking her up from the airport in a week. My first thought was “Oh fuck, what have you gotten yourself into?” Then he convinced me that we could have a lot of fun with her and that he would share her. So, being a sucker for Asian girls, I started to see his side of things. I went along with him to the airport and waited with him at the terminal where she was supposed to arrive.
was going to originally compose some political rant inspired by my alter ego’s momentary lapse into lucidity last month. But you know what? It’s November. Two Sinner Anniversary shows are happening. My band is appearing at one of them. I’m in too much of a good mood to get all dour and political. So I’m going to keep it light and short. I’m responding to my esteemed colleague’s, a one Paul Ace Diamond “Huggy” Blow, article as to why those of us who are no longer young, yet not quite old, are still playing in music and are in bands. Even though it is a wonderful read, I have to take opposition on all his points, based on my own personal experiences. He first says that playing in bands is a good excuse to drink beer. I counter that any excuse is a good excuse to drink beer. Congratulations, Mr. Jones. It’s a boy. Crack open a beer! The original Star Wars Trilogy is finally on DVD. That calls for a beer! My colon has been irrigated. Beer time! You see what I mean? While it is great to get free drinks from fans and audience members, it isn’t the sole purpose for me to strap on a bass to this day. He then says that it’s for the chicks. While
that is true for the single musician (or one that’s in an open relationship), for me it’s not so much. I have my chick. A wonderful woman whom I’ve been married to for a long time. She is understanding, gorgeous, intelligent and I have no intention of losing her ever. She wants me to be happy and is thrilled when I perform. So maybe one chick is my prime motivation. But you can keep all the rest. Hey, I’m doing you guys a favor. He finally says that you can act crazy being in a band. Well...um...he’s got me there. Based on my own personal experience of acting crazy in and out of a band situation, it seems socially acceptable to do it in the former. So I’ll agree with him on that point. But what Huggy failed to address is this. We have no reason to do this. There are probably younger, more able, and more likely to succeed, musicians doing the exact same thing we are. So why do it? I can sum it up in a scientific fact: Nature abhors a vacuum. If I’m not going to play bass, some other goof is going to it. And I’ll be damned if some snot-nosed punk is going to show me up on an instrument I’ve put my heart and soul into for over 15 years! I’d also like to add that we do it because WE CAN. Case closed. Enjoy your Turkey!
GALAXY MACHINE with Angel Alabaster and Gypsy Sound System Wednesday November 11th @ The Funhouse $5 9:30 MECHANISMUS Thursday November 12th @ ReBar DJs SAVAK, V.O.M., Omega Brain, Paul Aleinikoff Dance show with Medea, Katy, Pandora Live art by Spiral $5 doors @10pm 21+ SPITTIN’ COBRAS TOUR KICKOFF PARTY Wednesday November 18th @ The Central with All Bets on Death, Greatest Hits, and Dies Drear ERIC APOE AND THEY Wednesday November 18th @ Egan’s Ballard Jam House with Paul Benoit. Solid Ground Benefit BLUE RIBBON BOYS Friday November 13th @ The Morgue with Creem City and High Class Wreckage A ROCK-A-BILLY BURLESQUE EXTRAVAGANZA Saturday November 14th @ Club Motor featuring Little Ray and the Uppercuts, Billy Dwayne and the Creepers, Ravenna Black, Hotty McNaughty, The Shanghai Pearl and a lot more AN EVENING OF GOOD TIME DEVIL MUSIC Saturday November 21st @ Showbox Market Jupiter Crash, Space Cretins, Stone Axe, Hills of Elysium ALL Ages $8 adv/$10 dos - show starts at 8pm NITZER EBB, GOD MODULE, LEGION WITHIN Saturday November 21st @ El Corazon THE PURE CIRKUS ROADSHOW: PLEASURE AND PAIN EDITION Wednesday November 25th @ Heaven’s Nightclub Fire Performance! Freaks! Geeks! Piercing/Suspension! Jello Wrestling! And More! With Music Accompaniment By Amphetamine Virus!
Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and let me know why you still play in a band or dance or arc weld or whatever passion fuels your soul. Also, check the SINS out at the second Sinner Anniversary show at Club Motor on Nov. 15th. See ya there!
Send your event listings to email@example.com 16
Raising Hell at The Central review by Guitar Doug
Thanks to everyone who came out to Raising Hell At The Central - Sponsored by The Seattle Sinner. My God, what a show… I mean, talk about a positive vibe in the air and a mutual respectful society among all the bands that played and the many rock musicians from around the rock scene that showed up. Not to mention the large audience, that was consistent from the first set all the way through to the last. Keg opened the night with his one man show, and I must say, the guy is a natural born entertainer. He broke out some tunes from his vast original catalogue, as well as a bunch of covers. He also performed a tune from his appearance on the TV show America’s Got Talent. It’s impossible not to have a great time with Keg. Some tourists from Maryland were pretty excited when I explained to them that Keg was the guy from the show. They happened to be big TV watchers who knew exactly who he was right away. The first band up to the mound was The Badlands, who smoked em’ this time, with a much better sound mix than I have ever heard with this group. To think, this is basically a brand new band and watch the audience react to them the way they did, is really pretty cool. Great Job Ginny and Joanna, who are just getting over the Swine Flu. A killer set all around and boy, that little Casey Chaos, cranks out some pretty wild solos when she’s sober. (OK, I could not resist. Sorry Casey, but you’re a public figure now and I have you under surveillance.) Nah, everyone knows Casey rocks. Creem City also rocked the house, with Greg from High Class Wreckage filling in on drums. Drummer Jeff from Neon Nights mentioned that he thinks Greg is the best Seattle drummer out there, and on several levels he is right. But, I think there are a half dozen on the scene just as good, just playing a different style all together, though Jim Laws (The Valley) and Sean Johnson (Mos Generator) leave a huge gap since retiring earlier this year from playing. Thankfully we have drummers like Troy of Drown Mary and this cat from Torture Box who is great. (I could write a whole story about that fantastic band, but that’s for another day. Monster, must see group is all I can say about Torture Box. Totally, totally sick live.) Creem City is another interesting band, because they are also so new and you can literally watch them develop from show to show. They are sorta like a pot plant you watch grow from some seeds, that you are never sure if it’s going to bloom into something that will get you high, or just drop dead unexpectedly one day for no obvious reason. But, as always with guitarist Herb, you can watch how seriously he takes tweaking the sound and the songs as they develop and you can follow lead singer Lauren, go from one of the shyest front people in the business, to a lady who these days, is down in the trenches with the audience, working the crowd.. This band will be one of Seattle’s most popular by the summer if it continues on this path. Trust me, I know these things. Saturday’s show really reminded me of exactly why I love what I do. Not because I am covering bands like Mudhoney, who have nothing to prove. I could cover those type of bands until the cows came home and would be miserable. I am out turning over every stone and asking anyone who might know something, trying to discover the NEXT Mudhoney, Nirvana, Screaming Trees, Hendrix, or whoever. They are out there, Believe me, but nobody seems to be looking for them any more. Go through my list of bands I have featured as Rock Art-
ist of The Month in The Sinner, if you doubt me. I was the first to cover almost every single one of them. All killer bands and all as good as Mudhoney. I felt pretty lucky and proud to be able to be the one who put this show together, though, I am starting to feel more and more like Dick Clark or Ed Sullivan these days, especially when Darren from High Class Wreckage keeps introducing me as his Dad and everyone believes him. Trust me, if I were his Dad, you would never have heard of him, because he would be grounded for life. Fuck it though, I will be Seattle’s oldest teenager any day of the week. Besides, David Letterman sleeps with half the 20-year-olds at CBS and is 60-something, so I figure no sense in calling it quits myself. It would not be fair to you or I. (I just celebrated my 64th birthday in June and have never felt better in my life.) High Class Wreckage – The featured band in the October Sinner – topped off the night. As always I spent what seemed like hours talking with people who showed up about High Class Wreckage. I will admit it. I dig that fucking band and am trying to figure out if I am the only one. The waters safe now guys. No sharks, but watch out for the broken glass. Yes, you can come out of the closet now, Seattle music journalists, and admit you like the band too. Nobody will flip your school books, or stick a frog down your kickers, I promise. By the way, I think one of your guys from Deathcab for Cutie just floated by. You better hurry, before the rip tide sucks him back out to sea. In fact, will go on the record and say High Class Wreckage is the most original rock band I have heard in at least two years in the Seattle clubs. They are going way out on a limb trying what they are musically. Go to a show, get right up to the stage and listen very closely to what is going on between the three players and see if you agree. Am I saying they are the best band in Seattle? No, because there are so many great bands that are totally different in style. But, as far as song writing and stage presentation goes, High Class Wreckage is the best at what they do, because they are the only one who do what they do. (Lou from Neon Nights would like to go on the record that The Wrecked Chords are Seattle’s best band. So, there you go Lou. I didn’t forget you.) The show was hosted by Sir Marc The Poet, a personal friend of mine. Thanks Sir Marc for the stellar and professional job. Luckily for me, Marc had some time to talk with me more about his new book which covers the Illuminati. It’s a topic we discuss every single time we run into each other. (Well, that and things like the British government finally declassifying their UFO files). Sir Marc is a fine fellow Scotsman to be sure, with ties to The Nights Templar. Incidentally, our secret society, is in the midst of a New World Order plan to take over the world through covert means. I will keep you updated as to when we begin the round ups for the FEMA Death Camps, which Sir Marc and I are handling for the international bankers, for the greater Seattle area and some outlying areas as well. So, thanks again to everyone who performed, Dickie, Geoff for running sound, Photographer Keith and the Photographer from Punkrock.org, Randy and his team for the security and all the sexy bartenders down at the Central, namely Samantha, Kristy, Eryn and Angelina. By far, it was one of the best shows I have been involved with, and once again it was a huge honor to be allowed to work on a project with some of Seattle’s best rock musicians.
Jell-O Wrestling Extravaganza text: Gregory Baxley photos: Steve Marshall
eattle is renowned for its sport-fans, as many commute from all over the state to watch games of various forms. The Emerald City shares a love of athletics and team pride that rivals any other. The activities generated beneath our city roofs can easily be described as both magical and exhilarating. No matter the game, squad, venue, or league, there is something for everyone between these city limits. This past Saturday demonstrated that consensus both beautifully and viciously all at once. Long celebrated internationally, somehow until now, Seattle eluded one great sporting event. An exhibition dirtier that football, louder than hockey, and potentially rougher than roller derby. An occasion so monumental that diverse fans of varying interest will convene together in cramped theaters. To be a part of something so grand that risking the threat of being speckled seems insignificant. An affair so great that it can only be matched in excitement by Christmas morning to children. Where opponents risk injury, cleanliness and sobriety for the sake of their own brave spirit. Seattle can now officially boast itself a town full of jell-o wrestling spectators. The Rendezvous in Belltown hosted an extreme battle that could only be referred to as the Jell-O Wrestling Extravaganza. Dozens of patrons filed into the small Jewelbox Theater to be entertained, or at least oddly aroused by the nature of cohesion before them. Press and photographers from an array of publications rushed the front of the stage, all in hopes of glimpsing what could be the most riveting moments in modern history. Eight beautiful women from around the city banded together backstage sharing cruel stares, surrounded by clear plastic tarp covering floor to ceiling. Maybe not the usual sporting scene, but one equal in anticipation and revelry to any the city has previously produced. With towels hanging from the ceilings and costumes strewn about, the attitudes and focus were evident. This wouldnâ€™t be the normal evening, abandoning the usual shows of music and burlesque. Tonight was something special, something different; tonight was war. Maybe not the typical battlefield, but war all the same. With each women of stature standing side-by-side, their day jobs and well wishes were out of sight and mind. Tonight makeup and hair-dos were forgotten, instead paving way for exuberance and fascination. A screaming crowd was constant from the second the doors opened, and host Brushetta made it clear what was about to come. Announcing the first two wrestlers between banter with the mysterious announcer hidden in unseen upstairs quarters, things quickly got underway. With fierce glances the two beautiful ladies wearing revealing, yet intimidating costumes sat back to back in a large pool full of red shaded gelatin. In that split second, nothing in Seattle would ever be the same. During the duration of the evening the women faced down throughout seven rounds of exhausting physical exertion. Pounding, rolling, waving, kicking and forcing their way to victory. The crowd was more than happy to get involved, screaming for each winner and eliminating the other. Some might contest the fact that this sport is anything other than eyecandy, but let me tell you with all honesty, men couldnâ€™t have endured what those women did. More brutal, and especially more beautiful than any sect of fighting could ever be, Jell-O Wrestling is a sight to witness. For an evening those in attendance were lucky to see the birth of sports at their finest, and the rebirth of feminism and equality. This was the first bout, but it surely wonâ€™t be the last. Check the event calendar at www.JewelboxTheater.com for upcoming shows.
umerous factors separate the better-than-average photographers from the average, run-of-the-mill ilk. While some might consider grades and degrees to be one of these variables, I would argue that not to be entirely true. Any student can be taught which camera to buy and how to point and shoot it for a magazine ad, but not every student is born with a keen eye, immense passion, or the attitude to step out of the box when need be. It’s these variables that I seek when looking for a front cover artist, not a GPA. And this is where Alec Dawson comes into this picture, even though it has been months in the making. Beyond Alec’s keen eye and immense passion that connected us on this project several months back, I discovered a trait of his not always common in these situations: humor. He jokes that he has always toted a camera everywhere he has went, admitting to generally outflank the average Japanese citizen in the number of photographs he takes on any given outing. If you had been a fly on my shoulder a few of these nights while looking through the hundreds of
shots he sent over, you would know that might actually be an understatement. Alec rediscovered photography a few years ago after moving to Seattle when his other hobbies (scuba diving and shooting firearms) lost some of their allure. He quickly purchased a new Nikon DSLR and jumped right in, a move he admits to being much more pleasant than scuba diving in the frigidly pale underwater of the Sound. It was also about this time that he met a local mentor who changed the way he “presses his shutter button.” He explained their discussions were often cryptic at times, but that he stored every lesson deep in his subconscious. He also credits The Strobist’s blog (strobist.blogspot.com) and the basic lighting class offered by Bill Seymour at Glazer’s Camera with his growth. Of the two images I asked to use for the cover, Alec chose the sexy Oralie against the brick wall from downtown Seattle. I asked him about this shot, and how it came to be? He mentioned his passion for the brick-lined alley passageways of downtown Seattle, that the scene itself evokes many creative images of the sorts of creatures that might scurry here and there in the darkness. He explained it is the sort of scene he has always wanted to capture, so he began to put together some ideas to achieve that end with Oralie, his gaffing assistant (Sanjeev), and his significant other. He settled on this particular location because the street was composed of cobblestones and not asphalt. He felt that the patina of the cobblestones would better lend itself to this scene for that reason. So one Friday night the three ventured into this alley in a well-traveled nocturnal area of downtown Seattle,
where a number of drunk people made their way through, as did the occasional vehicle and police officers. At first he struggled to achieve the lighting that he desired, but quickly realized it was because the light was being placed in an unnatural way. His assistant then had the distinct pleasure of serving as an impromptu boom stand holding the light as steady as possible over Oralie’s head. After a series of photos he liked the result. They then quickly packed up before gambling a chance encounter with the more nefarious sorts that travel the darkness of those alleyways. While not featured here, Alec’s main photographic interest is artistic nudes. One would think this preference makes it easier for a photographer to get noticed. While this blind assumption does hold some water, that is not always the case. Alec explained that preferring the artistic approach of the human body even makes it more challenging to get noticed, compared to those who do shoot the more explicit material. For right now he’s hoping to cut through the divided and find a measurable audience who appreciates his artistic approach to nudity. Presently he’s tackling this issue with the production of a book of artistic nudes, “A hefty coffee table book... one that is large enough that it is difficult to abscond in a book shelf.” With so much information to digest, I asked Alec if he had any words of wisdom for young photographers? Be open minded was his first thoughts, then to study the art works of those who have come before you in addition to the contemporary practices of your peers. Last it was, “Don’t be *that* guy. You know the guy I’m talking about. If you don’t, then you probably are *that* guy.” I also offered Alec a moment to shout out a few thanks to those who truly deserved it. He wanted to thank everyone who has worked with him to pro-
duce the photos he has captured so far. He feels indebted to their perseverance, hard work, and dedication. Most of all, he wantede to thank his significant other for her tolerance and patience in allowing him to pursue his art. To find more of Alec’s work, please visit www.alecdawson.net. I promise it be a venture much warmer to the senses than the frigidly pale underwater scene found in the local Sound... and perhaps look for his work at our 7th anniversary show at Club Motor on Sunday, November 15.
Models: Iana Klenz (bandit), Frevonna Mazique (hostage), Mary Little (good gal)
written by Chuck Foster Model:
The Sinful Works of Alec Dawson
Bitching with Buddha Lu c i fe r
Dear Wicked One, Well it’s about time. I heard on the radio that our Pres, the mighty O, has finally pushed to reign in executive bonuses on government owned businesses. Since “we the people” are now stock holders in Citibank, Chrysler, and the like, our opinions as investors matter. “We the people” say that if those bozos needed us to bailout their sorry asses then to hell with their bonuses. (No pun intended.) Show me the money, ass wipes, make me the profits and we’ll see about a Christmas bonus. Can the Christmas party in Hawaii, it’s the Spaghetti Warehouse like the rest of us. All those bad loans they gave away to people who couldn’t even afford a good latte much less a mortgage payment. Now I hear that Citibank will have to divest their holdings from foreign banks they own. Since Citibank is government owned, some countries get nervous about their banks being owned by foreign governments. Citibank owns a bank in Mexico which it now has to sell. That Mexican bank was providing almost 20% of Citibank’s income. That’s going to hurt. If those Mexican banks are generating a good profit and ours aren’t, then maybe we should out source our executive positions over to Mexico? – Poor in Sea-Tac. Well, PIST, Aren’t we the cranky one. What a bad year my poor bankers are having. Everyone wants to ream them a second asshole when only 18 months ago they were lining up to kiss those same asses. PIST, why don’t you help them out by bouncing a check. The late fees and penalties it would generate will make them so much happier. – Lucifer, Lord of Ultimate Darkness. Dear Most Evil One, I just read that a third of all surgeries are unnecessary. That’s one in three tits that are removed for breast cancer, or one in three balls chopped off for testicular cancer. Oh my God, that’s so creepy. – Creeped Out in Denver Well, Creeped, With everyone’s IRAs having fallen through the floor, and property values sinking fast, I would expect that percentage to increase. They got to make that boat payment somehow. Besides that’s only true if your insured. What, you’re going to say “NO” to your doctor? – Lucifer, the Evil One
If you want to talk to God, see a psychiatrist, or email firstname.lastname@example.org. To intercourse with the dark lord Lucifer, drink a bottle of Everclear or email email@example.com.
The Surly Gourmand 5307 Ballard Ave NW 206*453*5014
Devouring Slices of Misery so You Don’t Have To As many of you know I love the French. I want to go to France and have sex with every last French citizen (provided they took a shower that day, which of course is iffy at best). The French are so fucking awesome, especially since we don’t have to call French Fries “Freedom Fries” anymore, and your mom can stop “Freedom Kissing” my asshole, and I don’t have to wear a “Freedom Tickler” when I fuck her. So I was excited when Bastille opened, even though I question the choice of name. The Bastille is a very loaded term in France; that ancient and now-destroyed prison was the symbol of a decadent monarchy famous for cruel torture and unlawful imprisonment and which deserved to be overthrown. Naming a French restaurant here in the USA “Bastille” would be akin to opening a Southern food restaurant in France and calling it “Jim Crow.” The French Revolution was totally fucking retarded. They claimed to have been inspired by our very own American Revolution, but I think those motherfuckers missed the point: after all, WE managed to overthrow the reigns of aristocracy without resorting to indiscriminate head chopping and ridiculous purple prose. The French had the right idea but ultimately fucked it up when the Revolution turned on itself; among the many innocent people who didn’t deserve to lose their heads were: winemaker Francis Bertrand, accused of producing “sour wine injurious to the health of citizens;” Mary Angelica Plaisant, a seamstress who was guillotined for exclaiming “A fig for the nation!” (I can sympathize but COME THE FUCK ON; I don’t like cilantro but I’d never want someone decapitated over it); and of course Antoine Lavoisier, France’s most famous chemist, who devised the metric system and discovered the principles of combustion, who was sentenced to his own ride on the “National Razor” after being accused of selling adulterated tobacco. Just as arbitrary as the odds of having one’s head removed during the actual French Revolution are the odds of getting a reservation at Bastille. Your best bet is to use Open Table; if you’re computer illiterate you could give Bastille a call, but you’d have better luck trying to fuck a leprechaun (does wanting to fuck a leprechaun make you gay? Jesus I hope not). I’d rather take my chances with the National Razor than call Bastille again. But what about the food? I daresay it was better than what was available when the Bastille still stood, at least. The Lyonnaise Salad ($12), with frisee and lardons topped with a poached egg, was fucking killer: the bitter fronds of the frissee was balanced out by a creamy dressing and the poached egg, which when cut into wept its golden tears of tasty yolk all over the salad. The lardons were chewy, salty, and smoky, and dropped into the fray like perfectly thrown Molotov cocktails of porky deliciousness. The steak frites ($18) was maddening: the steak had a good, seasoned crust, but the motherfuckers overcooked my medium rare into well done. This has NEVER happened to me before in a restaurant. The accompanying frites (in a cup) were all too short. I only had 1 frite which was what I consider an acceptable French fry length of 3 inches. The frites were crisp outside but a bit mealy. If dudes could lose their heads
for selling bad wine, SURELY someone deserves to be guillotined for these crappy frites. The lamb burger, on the other hand, was a fucking thing of beauty. For $12 you get a luscious ball of ground lamb, topped with a bird’s nest of arugula and caramelized onions with some kind of spicy sauce on a sesame seed bun. And it wasn’t some pussy sesame seed bun like you’d get at McDonald’s, either: this bun was soft, yet somehow still as firm as the hand of Revolutionary justice meted out by the Committee for Public Safety. The bun had to have some substance to it to restrain the lamb patty, which was so juicy and sweet it was almost like a piece of fruit made out of flesh. And it comes with fries! Unfortunately, as previously mentioned the fries suck, which is ironic considering that they’re FRENCH fries. (or not, for you “correct use of the term ‘irony’” Nazis), Caille Grilee aux Lardons ($14) was a grilled quail, which arrived splayed open like a porn star, reclining on a bed of quartered Brussels sprouts and lardons in a creamy mustard sauce with lots of thyme. The pornographic quail was attractively cross-hatched in grill marks and had a wonderful charred smoke flavor while still remaining a rosy pink inside. The Brussels sprouts were tender yet not mushy. Frankly, the lardons struck me as overkill, even given the now-famous dictum that Bacon Makes Everything Better. This dish was ridiculous; it was so good I wish I could fuck it and make it have my babies, which I would then eat the way obsolete gods in ancient myths always seemed to eat their children. Crispy Pork Belly ($10) was, as the name suggests, crispy. On top. So I guess that description is only 50% accurate. On the bottom it was soft and succulent, with gentle artesian springs of melted fat bubbling out from between the tender striated layers of meat with every forkful. Accompanying this perfect cube of pork – at this point I’d like to formally define a “perfect cube of pork” as the act of fucking your mom 9 times – were a couple pink rings of pickled shallot and a pool of a mildly sweet plum confiture. We finished things off with a perfectly serviceable lavender crème brulee ($6). It was a perfectly serviceable crème brulee with a crackly sugar crust that, like a broken light bulb, surprises you with how strong yet brittle it is. The crème beneath was as creamy as the breast of Lady Liberty herself, bare chested, arms raised, gun in hand, leading the French people to VICTOIRE over the Revolution’s enemies, like in the famous Delacroix painting. In the best tradition of obnoxious food bloggers everywhere I went to Bastille twice. After the first disastrous time in which they overcooked my fucking steak, and I was too afraid to send it back because we were waiting FORTY- FIVE FUCKING MINUTES BETWEEN COURSES, I was prepared to suggest that THIS Bastille should suffer the same fate as its namesake. Luckily (for them) I returned to try it again, and my opinion of them, like history’s opinion of the French Revolution, has softened with time. So VIVE LA FRANCE, you fuckers, and, uh, Bastille is also nice too.
Rating: 6.5 sans-cullotes out of 10
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Doc, Like I’m totally straight, right. But my roommate is gay. He’s hot and all with a great body and he’s this total sex addict. Sometimes I hear him pounding ass through the wall. When he’s d runk he tells me about the guys he’s screwing and it’s like all this really nasty stuff. I’m like totally not into cock or anything, but I can’t help but wonder how it feels to touch one. I see my roommate naked all the time. He’s like this total exhibitionist. Sometimes he even has a piss hardon in the morning. Nasty! I don’t pay much attention, but I sometimes just want to reach out and grab his thing just to see what he would say. I just don’t want him to get the wrong idea. If my GF ever found out she’d freak. So do you think my roommate would mind if I copped a feel? It’s not like it isn’t already hanging out and stuff. Do you think he’d rat on me to my GF? — Curious Like you are so totally NOT straight, dude. You’re like the biggest closeted flamer in the whole world. You’re just itching for an opportunity to smoke yourself some pole, but you can’t admit it. Hmmm, sounds like several prominent Republicans I know…but I digress. Like I’ll bet you totally jerk off while your hot roommate is pounding ass next door. And I think your GF is a pathetic beard. She’s got her eye on you, don’t ‘cha know. She knows that if she turns her back for just one minute, you’ll be taking it up the poop-shoot before she can say “Friend of Dorothy”. Let’s face it; you want your GF to find out about your secret obsession. BTW, what kind of selfrespecting chick dates a closet case like you anyway? I mean, like how could your roommate rat you out when everyone already has your number? Darlin’, when you find out you’re a homo, everyone will know. Dude, like you are totally gonna grab your roommates package one of these days, regardless of what I say or what he may think. Like you are totally self-deluded about not caring that he walks around the house sporting a giant boner. And that shit you’re
trying to feed me about being scandalized by his nasty exploits; PLEASE! Me thinks you doth protest too much. Listen up! If your roommate is a nice guy, and you aren’t the total skulking dweeb you appear to be. If you have the balls to come clean with your roommate about your true identity, and he’s hasn’t pounded any ass in the past 12 hours. And if he’s feeling really generous, and you ask him real nice; Yes, I think there is a slim chance he’ll bone you big time. It will, of course, be a mercy fuck, but at least you’ll finally know total bliss. Like, totally go for it, dude. Sheesh! I got more of a story than a question. I’m gay, average looks, kinda burly and I really dig sex. Problem is, cuz I’m not all gym buff, I’m not gettin laid like I should. I’ve tried everything, online personals, internet chat rooms, phone hook up lines, everything. WTF? While I’m online lookin for a hookup, I notice something that blows me away. There are a lot of queers lookin to hookup with straight guys. At first I think that’s messed up. There are a lot of us queers out there, like me, who ain’t gettin their share and you wanna service a straight dude? Now I’m all depressed. Ok, so then I try little experiment. Next time I’m online, I post an ad like always, same stats same everything, only this time I say I’m straight. Damn if I don’t get hit up by a half dozen guys right away. Guys that wouldn’t have given me the time of day when I was “gay”. I decide to go for it, like now I just want to see if I can pull this off. Guess what, I got the best sex I ever had. I turned guys away even. This is really messin with my head. I decide to really get into this. Sayin things like my girlfriend can’t suck dick for shit and I got this five day load of straight man spunk hold up for some faggot cocksucker. I can barely keep a straight face, no pun intended. I put this picture of my sister in a frame by my bed and tell all my tricks she’s my girlfriend. I’ve even got this chick at work to join in the fun and call me when some dude’s blowin’ me. I have her start raggin’
Dr Dick’s Sex Advice
Richard Wagner, Ph.D., ACS Sex Therapist, Sexual Health Counselor and Sex Advice Columnist www.drdicksexadvice.com
on me like some real girlfriend and then she wants to know what that sound is in the background. This fuckin’ drives my trick wild, cuz he thinks he gettin authentic straight man dick. BTW, the chick from work thinks it’s a riot. This works for sure. Fags are so gullible; it’s fuckin incredible. But I worry cuz I want a boyfriend and this isn’t gonna get me one. Even if one of my tricks turns out to be the man of my dreams, I couldn’t respect him or trust him knowing he’s tryin to make straight guys. — Scott What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive! All this just to get laid, Scott? Holy Cow! While the good doctor is truly entertained by your delightful story, he is as depressed as you to learn the lengths a gay man has to go to these days just to get
another gay man to suck his dick. The good doctor also concurs with your statement that you’ll probably not find a BF this way. And I’d like to point out the obvious. What’s with this bullshit double standard you have? You say you couldn’t respect or trust any guy who is out trying to make straight guys. Yet you don’t call yourself on the mammoth deception you practice. Curious how we can point out the sliver in another man’s eye, even when we have a plank in our own. You do, however, get extra points for your creativity. I love the touch of having the chick from work call you while you are in flagrante delicto. That’s beautiful. A+. Good luck
This, I Shamelessly Tell You Thoughts On the Politics of Food and Sexy Bits On How to Love Beyond Gender, or How I Learned to Embrace the Man In Me and Love Him Dearly by Rajkhet Dirzhud-Rashid
(c) 2009 Seattle Next Door Model: Mikano
wo things are happening as I’m writing this (well three, if you count me having to pee, but ignoring so I don’t lose my train of thought to write this column). I’m indulging my inner beast by pigging out on some delish broccoli beef instead of ‘being a good little dieter’ and enjoying a meal of soup and salad (okay, I don’t diet, but I do cut down when my feet start bothering me, indicating I’m carrying too much weight on my small frame). Also, I’m reflecting on how I hated last night’s soup, something that came out of one of those ‘Imagine’ boxes touted to be healthy ‘cause it’s sold in a health food store (in this case, the newly yuppified Madison Market). Maybe that’s why I’m eating broccoli, beef and rice tonight.
At least I know what’s in this un-pc foam container, having watched a human being prepare it in front of me. Last night’s soup, tomato, was as little actual tomato as the company could get away with and still put that name on the box. Not a good meal. That experience and a few others like that have gotten me to thinking of how much our food has become more about profit and shelf life than actual nutrition and makes me long to finally have the money to return to the farmer’s market I usually go to. Except money’s been too tight for that until this week, and it’s not Sunday yet, so that could change. That makes me think of my eternal rant that my life partner and I – both of us being the untypical worker, who are at our core artists, not drones – both who rant about that food and shelter should be guaranteed to all. That healthy food should be a priority, not the attractiveness of the product or the length of time it can stay on a shelf. Makes my head hurt to think on the whole matter, but there we are for now. Ah, but as I ravenously consume my hand prepared meal, I’m also reminded how hungry other parts of me are. How much I do miss my life partner, who is as I write, doing the ten to when-
ever they allow him to leave, on his/her job at yet another Walmart clone. How, being an energy vampire – or so I classify myself – I’m starting to feel the pangs of hunger only another human being’s sexual response can satisfy. Starting to even fantasize about people I’d cross the street to avoid on a regular basis and putting out so many pheromones at my gym, that two guys walked near me on the treadmill and nearly turned into instant, chest beating cavemen in my presence yesterday. I need my little wonder kitty/slave desperately and that makes me think about how I came to be involved with this lovely package of gender bending sexiness in the first place. I won’t take up time telling you the whole deal of our meeting, and then taking a top/bottom relationship into the bedroom, then declaring like silly teenagers how we were in love after four months of play. I will tell you that we’re on a frontier that most people not only don’t dare walk into, but most run away from like their genitals are on fire. He’s a she when I dress him up like my life-size Barbie doll and I’m a he when I’m with that transformed person, even if I’m wearing my usual goth makeup, a bra and racy undies under my leggings. The package isn’t who I am. The ‘wetware’, my stuff inside, the point of view from which I look at the world (like the kind of male
Hugh Hefner created Playboy for) is. That person is a guy who flirts with men and women, in front of my partner or on my own. Good thing he/she’s not jealous or my ass would be grass by now. Was I always a boy in girl’s undies? Yes, so much so that I distinctly remember trying to pee standing up when I was about four and being hella pissed that I couldn’t make it work. So much so that when I slept with only the second Black woman I’ve even slept with and she, being as butch as me, flipped me on my back the way I’m used to doing the women I’ve slept with, I blinked like a deer in headlights. Needless to say, we became better friends, but didn’t repeat that first foray into sex. I like being in charge, like being the Bogart to my life partner’s Katherine Hepburn (in The African Queen). I like ‘my woman’ to be submissive, and ‘my woman’ likes being submissive, so it works. No matter that most folks whisper when we enter a room ‘dressed’. Oh, and the sex is dynamite rolled in a volcano topped with a tsunami. Now, if only I could get the average Joe to stop catcalling me on the street, or get them to just give themselves to my vampire tendencies, then walk away, life would be just damned near perfect. Another day. This, I shamelessly tell you.