The Dirty Issue Vol. 2 No. 3 May/June 2001
in Vancouver & Victoria, BC Canada: $2.50 USA: US$2.00
A Mag for Freedom’s Sake!
YOU CAN EAT
The Rhino Takes Vancouver BY FORCE
Sex with animals: Is it still wrong? CIVIXEN DOES STOCKWELL DAY
Sex and Politics
All You Can Eat
Ode to the Man Teet
Publishers: Pierre Lortie Bradley C. Damsgaard
Bobus the Clown
Editor-in-Chief: Bradley C. Damsgaard Contributing Editor: Heather Watson Music Editor: Paul Crowley Film Editor: Elizabeth Nolan Design and Graphics: Pierre Lortie, Bradley C. Damsgaard, Bill Hayley
In regards to this issue… “What the hell was I thinking?” When’s it coming!? When’s it coming!? All these people kept asking me, to which I could only reply, “I’ve had quite a few drinks baby, this could take a little longer than expected.” A week ago this issue was a mess. Somehow we’ve managed to stick together something close to what was promised: The Nerve’s 1st Annual SEX ISSUE. But it’s been renamed The Dirty issue and is pretty much a split between Sex and Politics. Don’t ask. I’m tired. And the beer just arrived. I quit. So bring on the hell fire all ye religious types… and as for the rest? Enjoy. Bradley C. Damsgaard Editor-in-Chief
In the end, one loves one’s desire and not what is desired. F. Nietzsche
SPECIAL THANKS! To :
Smoked Oysters Dissent Blem De La Blem for supporting The Nerve April 14th at The Cobalt.
Staff Writers: Atomick Pete, A. D. MADGRAS, D. Cat, Billy Tender Flake, Mike O, Mittens, Jeff Oliver, Elizabeth Nolan, Matt Prendergast, Michael D. Dammitt, Paul Crowley, Casey Bourque, Jason LeBlanc, Brian Else, Sinister Sam, Matt Whalley, Jason Ainsworth, Ronald Barbour, Contributing Writers: Adler Floyd, Rick Taylor, Aaronoid, Rusty, Nibby, Dave Bowes, Andreas Ohrt, Laird Salton Illustration: Mike O, Robin Bougie Ad Sales: Bradley C. Damsgaard Copy Editing:Grace Chin Cover Photo: Yasmin Dar Pre-Press, Printing, Binding: Horizon The Nerve is published bi-monthly by Tthe Nerve Magazine Ltd. (604)899-2406, (604)6329654 (fax) Circulation: 10 000 in Vancouver, Victoria and via subscriptions. The opinions expressed by the writers and artists do not necessarily reflect those of Tthe Nerve Magazine, its publishers or editors. First publishing rights only are property of the Nerve Magazine. The Nerve does not accept responsibility for content in advertisements. The Nerve reserves the right to refuse any advertisement or submission and accepts no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. Copyright 2001 The Nerve Magazine Ltd. Box 88042, China Town PO, Vancouver BC, V6A 4A4
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Sex with Animals p. 9
Fear The Rhino p.8
Off the Record p.17
Blue Movies p.13
Jeff Oliver p.5
Straight 8 p.12
Live Wires p.15-16
Rick Taylor p.6 & 15
It’s Rainin’ Sin p13
Photos by Martin Hatfield p.14
Hard Drive Me You Cyber Slut p.18
Uncensored - Viewer Discretion Advised Submission Guidelines
The Nerve is looking for music writers. If you think you know what you are talking about contact the editor with your ideas. We pay in beer. Cd reviews always welcome: 150 words max. Live reviews please contact: Brad: 734-1611 email@example.com
Sorry Isn’t Good Enough
ears ago, when they slept together for the first time, Elliot proudly remarked at how well it had gone. Leez replied (to his astonishment), “What can go wrong with sex?” Instead of saying that the condom might have broken, their rhythm might have been off, or that he might have been too quick in his excitement, he said nothing. Her illusion that sex was always good pointed to a lack of sexual experience that Elliot prized. But right then, the ‘things that can go wrong with sex,’ in particular the possibility of premature ejaculation, weighed very heavily on his mind. He didn’t want to spoil things. So he decided to eat her first. He sat next to her on the bed and kissed her shoulders and neck. He massaged her back, trailed his fingers along her spine, tongued the curved bows of her collarbone. Leez squirmed, twisting, trying to unbutton him; but Elliot stopped her. He fixed her hands around his ears, urging her to push him down to her breasts, along her ribs, drag his tongue along her stomach. When he met her thighs, he inhaled deeply. His own tongue quivered as he extended its tip beyond her soft pubic curls, meeting her, and experiencing a flash of recognition that set his mind alight. Leez tasted just right, like mangos and sour beer. There was a slight trace of urine that summoned his primordial instinct. He loved it down there. Her juices, the feeling they had on his lips. Leez never got so wet that he would lose her texture, but sometimes when they had sex she ejaculated and there were puddles on the bed. Elliot loved to watch her react to the puddles - just a shrug and a shy smile. Also, when Leez came, she bucked. A comedian once suggested that when a woman orgasms, there should be bells and whistles like hitting the jackpot in a pinball game. That would make things so much more fair. For Elliot, Leez’s bucking was the bells and whistles of a wonderfully responsive lover. Just as Elliot was cherishing his exploration of her, slowly dragging his tongue from her anus upward along her petals, Leez lifted herself up from the bed and made a bridge of her body. Elliot followed her pelvis to the top of the athletic arc, sliding up from the edge of the bed, feeding her to himself as if eating a tray of airplane food during turbulence. It was hard work to steady her but Elliot hung on, dutifully extending his tongue, pushing his face in, but becoming more aggravated (where, after all, had she picked this one up and with whom?), and was so involved with his thoughts that when Leez turned and caught a glimpse of his pensive face, she said, “Do you mind eating me?” (Now that really pissed him off!) He wanted to reply “Of course not! How could you ask me that after all the times I’ve gone down on you?” He thought maybe other guys had gone
By Jeff Oliver
down on her more, or better. He searched his pool of experience for tricks to beat them out. He moaned (very deliberately to vibrate his tongue on her clit), then slid a finger inside her and curled it, wet a pinky and worked it into her anus. Leez twitched, and Elliot (who had precious few tricks left) built a nice rhythm. But instead of letting Elliot continue, Leez changed positions
(subconsciously or not) and felt ashamed at being down on his knees for her, so submissively eating her, but too afraid to stop lest she not finish. The glasses were beyond repair, of course, and even if she offered to pay for a new pair, he’d decline. Still, what a symbol of her plan for him. Clearly! But women are like that, Elliot remembered – always trying to trap you the moment you lodge your
again, lifting herself out of the arc to stand on the floor. Elliot slid off the bed with her and kneeled on the carpet, meeting her pubic mound head on, bowing and davening like a Rabbi before the parchment, flattening his tongue, experiencing her in a smooth way, oyster-like. If she would only scratch my scalp, he thought, work her fingernails into my hair then I would be in heaven. He twisted his head towards her, a begging dog, but she didn’t catch on, and Elliot began to itch. Leez felt a minor orgasm nearing and she gave in to the weakening of her knees. She fell back onto the floor, but in a horrible twist of bad luck, landed right on Elliot’s pair of designer glasses that, in his abandonment, he’d left on the floor. Leez was too close to orgasm to even notice the glasses as they snapped in half beneath her. But Elliot did. A thousand protestations entered his mind at once; that they had cost him a lot of money, more than he was willing to admit, and he’d had to borrow from his parents to purchase them. He could have bought cheaper frames but these ones were more fashionable; they brought out his coloring and said what he wanted to say about himself. As Leez continued to writhe on the floor, Elliot’s tongue following her genitals like an electric current, he began to suspect that she’d broken the glasses on purpose. Clearly! Trying to make him ugly so that he wouldn’t be able to pick up any other girls (not without his hip frames to make him look mysterious). He resented her for what she’d done
tongue in their snatch. All they want to do is make sure theirs is the last one you’ll ever taste. Even the first time he was asked to eat a girl, at twelve, it was like this. Felicia Applebaum on the back of a pick-up truck at Camp Wahanowin in Northern Ontario. Her lips were spread wide through her damp blonde pubic hair, like a pink flower.
was Takisha, who asked Elliot to gargle with mouthwash before going down on her because his mouth was a damp place and bacteria grew in there at night. Instead of suggesting that her vagina was also a damp place that might grow similar bacteria, he teased her, suggesting he use a dental dam. Her reply sounded something like: “Eeeeeeewwwww….” The list went on and on…. The idea that all this former experience had come to nothing plunged Elliot into a depression that he didn’t come out of until she finally did orgasm, quite suddenly he thought, and collapsed, red cheeked and glistening, bucking like an epileptic, onto the bed. Elliot joined her in bed and Leez nestled her head against Elliot’s chest in a way that he thought at first to be very romantic. But as Leez tilted her head down, kissing his nipple, it became painfully clear that she had no romance on her mind at all – simply the duty to reciprocate the oral sex. It saddened him really, that in her post-orgasm relaxation she felt the need to fulfill the boring task of ‘giving him his,’ since it would have been so much better for Elliot if in the gush of her excitement she wanted nothing more, could think of nothing more pleasurable than taking him into her mouth, enjoying the heat and tingle of him growing inside her as their bodies became one bobbing wave of frenetic electricity. But now, as she inched down, lazily tonguing his chest, Elliot was enshrouded in sadness. He’d never felt so un-sexy; and what made it worse was that with all the build-up he wouldn’t last too long,
Her lips were spread wide through her damp blonde pubic hair, like a pink flower. “The French call eating pussy ‘tailler une rose.’ Which means: to carve a rose,” she tried to convince him. “The French call eating pussy ‘tailler une rose.’ Which means: to carve a rose,” she tried to convince him. But Elliot was too young. He just fingered her and said he couldn’t. The next girl, who was fifteen and from Georgia, came over to Elliot’s house with a wad of butter and a cup of cinnamon in a Ziplock bag. They snuck into his attic and while Elliot’s parents called him down for supper, she spread the contents of the Ziplock bag onto herself and told him that it would taste like French toast, which it did. In college there was Jamie, whom Elliot had to break up with when her feminist mentor told her not to wash, even with soap, because of the acid content. “What about non-acidic soap?” he had suggested, but she never looked into that. Their relationship came to a halt one day when she flat out demanded that he eat her, and Elliot replied by walking out of the bedroom to watch the bombing scene from Bridge Over The River Kwai, which he remarked was far more pleasant. Then there
five minutes at the most, and if she stroked his balls, sooner. He wanted to stop her completely but was so hard it almost hurt. If he didn’t orgasm too then he’d feel cheated and angry, and might want to fuck her (later when she was dry again), thereby having to go down on her again, which after all his previous labor would be irritating. So he let her go down. And she proceeded to give him the same blowjob she always had – the one that always did the trick, with the light circling of his head with her tongue, the stroking of his shaft, massaging his balls with her fingernails. There was something called “The Title Twist” that had come out of Elliot’s high school. It was invented by a girl named Jen Title who swore she could make any guy come quickly with a blowjob just by adding an up and down hand motion accompanied by a twist of the wrist. The technique spread across the school and gained its amicable nickname right before the
prom. Dozens received the Title Twist that night from their girlfriends, and right then, Elliot was sure, Leez was administering the Title Twist to him. But he didn’t want to lose control by so juvenile a technique as the Title Twist. He had grown in the three years they’d been apart and had learned techniques of control, methods of prolonging sex through deep breathing. The “Big Breath,” (a trick he’d learned first from a documentary about male prostitutes in Cuba and later from the most significant book of his young adult life, the Charles Mingus autobiography Beneath the Underdog) had aided him through many tight binds, and would certainly help stave off premature ejaculation right now with Leez. Elliot twisted uncomfortably as she wetted his entire shaft. It didn’t occur to him to moan; he received no pleasure, only the horrible knowledge that his heartbeat was building, and that soon, Big Breath or not, it would be over. He bit at the inside of his cheeks until they almost bled; he pinched at his ears and neck and then his thigh, working a purple bruise there that would remain for days. And she teased him, moving cat-like on top; stroking, pressing, rolling her tongue – Elliot focused elsewhere, on the ever-widening points of pain along his body. But it is a strange business, fighting off pleasure. He began to think how ridiculous it was and about how much he deserved to enjoy himself. After all he had eaten her to orgasm, had been sensitive, servile even (had ushered forth his very manhood like an egg on a spoon). And she had showed no appreciation, had in fact done everything she could to make the act more difficult for him, more humiliating for him (had engaged in aerobic activities!), and now, when it was his turn, he just lay there like a good dead pony, making it easy for her. AND WORSE, just like she suspected, he was about to come quickly too, and at the mercy of The Title Twist!!! But Elliot made a decision – he was going to shoot in her mouth. He would hold firm to that. He would be swallowed by her (or spit out), but he would come inside her mouth to at least call the encounter even. His mind dwelled just long enough on this as her lips tightened around him; he felt himself release (the tingles and molten lava rush), and in a moment that he would regret forever, pathetically leaned forwards and whispered: “I’m going to come.” Leez abruptly pulled back, just like she always had, finished with her part of the job. She rested on the pillow and kneaded it for comfort. Elliot sat on the edge of the bed, his face screwed up with shame, squirting onto his stomach like a baby soiling his diapers; and as he watched his bellybutton fill, Elliot said the second thing that he would regret that day, “I’ll get a Kleenex.” artwork: David Yonge
Newton’s First Law
By Rick Taylor
Inertia: In the absence of a force, an object at rest and an object in motion continue in that same motion.
anet propped open the door and scurried back to the mini-van. On her return she was greeted by Pitt, their seven-year old Basset Hound, who sat helping himself to a box of chocolate-covered almonds. Pitt she yelled, though not so loudly that she disturbed the neighbours. Mr. Clancy was recuperating from a stroke he had suffered while on a Caribbean cruise. In the still hours she could hear the sad labour of his lungs through the duplex wall. Tossing back the last almond, Pitt sauntered over to the rug, letting out one of his famous troubadour farts. Once the groceries were put away Janet set about ridding the backyard of Pitt’s droppings. Armed with plastic bags she contemplated the alarming efficiency of his bowels. Some of the more antiquated offerings held the added benefit of a slug going about its business of decomposition, the thin polymer small comfort as her fingers found purchase beneath the fetid waste. As was her recent habit, Janet set the oven timer and poured a bath in anticipation of her husband’s arrival. Tom was a firm believer in schedules. And now with the baby-project underway timing was more important than ever. Tom preferred to have sexual intercourse before dinner. When Janet heard his Jetta slip into the driveway she quickly lay face-down on the bed and positioned the pillow just the way he liked it. Crisp satin obscured all but
her elevated behind and upper thighs. From under the sheets it was easy to imagine Tom’s movements. The methodical removal of clothing. Everything folded neatly onto the embroidered chair they found at ‘Nathan’s Fine Furniture’. Shoes buffed with linen and placed on the rack. His penis washed, skin pulled back to ensure a thorough cleansing.
slowly in the other room.
Tom entered his wife without preface. Occasionally Janet stimulated herself before his return, but the loss of her almonds precluded this indulgence. He moved with metronomic severity for eight to ten minutes and then left the usual deposit. Nothing about it struck Janet as odd or deviant. Years before a college friend confessed that her boyfriend preferred to make love while she slept. A virgin at the time Janet nodded and said she understood. When later she betrayed this confidence to Tom he told her that he had absolutely no interest in the perversity of strangers. Tom and Janet ate separately. He was adamant that she remain on the bed with her legs placed high against the wall, so his sperm would take. Janet agreed, saying that she had read the same thing in Cosmo. She flipped through the book of names, sporadically calling out any that caught her fancy. Calliope. Cheyene. Cleo. They agreed that whatever name they picked would be one that reflected his or her absolute uniqueness. Sometimes Janet fell asleep like that, while Tom chewed his food
artwork: David Yonge
I Love the Smell of Schadenfreude In the Morning
ou know the pinball machine really needs a good kick when people start waxing rhapsodic about Preston Manning. But that’s what Ian Todd did when he resigned as Stockwell Day’s chiefof-staff – the third one that’s quit since Day became leader, amidst a swarm of other Alliance Party resignations and defections leading towards what is likely to be open mutiny. In a speech where he went out of his way to praise Manning’s inspirational leadership[sic], dude made no mention of poor wittle Stockles whatsoever. Deborah Grey and Chuck Strahl (the party pitbull and the house leader, respectively) are said to be ready to resign, deserting the sinking ship with such alacrity that they are getting a good aerobic workout stepping on their leader as they leave. Let us all shoulder our tiny violins for a pity party that befits this most pious of penitents, Mockwell (sorry) Stockwell “Don’tCall-Me-Doris” Day. But before we consider pitying him, let us rub it in, just a little bit more. Even from the start, you had to laugh at the lameness of the “media massage” he thought he was giving – the thing about not participating in the media scrum outside the
House of Commons. He insisted reporters come to him for a more dignified Q & A in the basement press room, where he could stand in front of flags and look Prime Ministerial. (You go, Miss Ross!) And then there was the gimmicky press conference by the lake and his moronic jet-ski arrival and exit. As an exAlbertan who grew up in the Okanagan, I don’t mind telling you my stomach turned twice. But you have to laugh … and part of the Stockwell Day: “We wilI air our differences comedy comes internally.” from the fact that you just know those he’s glad he dressed for it). I think have to be his own ideas. I mean, think about it: who we can agree that one of the largest else could be as clued out? Baby problems Stockles has is the fact that with a crayon? A Ouija board? A he fails to realize there are a lot of people who are smarter than he is. In monkey with a lawn dart? Ahh, Stockles … so aero- his case, a lot of people … a lot dynamically hoisted on his own smarter. (I really can’t stress that form-fitting, Neoprene petard (I bet enough). ‘Cause I mean, he does
ODE TO THE MAN TEET
teething kitten named Sucky. Four kids, five to eight, huddle out of the rain in an outhouse hewn without a single nail in the dank B.C. woods, and I’ve got my T-shirt up over my head, the non-
plussed pussy nursing, pacified, at my pre-pubescent Man-Teet. My brother and the girls are waiting their turns, and keeping an eye out so my dad doesn’t find us. Nothing sinister, really. Just misplaced, childish nurs-
talk some shit, doesn’t he? After Trudeau’s death, when he brought in a single rose on a black lacquer tray and recited lines from a fucking Bette Midler song? In Parliament?? I mean, what can you say about that? It’s just so … Melrose Place (shudder). And then there was the court case and the settlement to be paid by Alberta taxpayers (because Stockles couldn’t control his outbursts, the whole class had to be punished). Now, I’m not going to use words like pound and flesh, out of deference to our vegetarian (and metric) readers, but I don’t think I’ll be offending anyone when I say what an absolute fucking pleasure it is going to be to watch sanctimonious Mister Day get kicked repeatedly (and hard) as he goes down. The Neoprene will offer no protection, I’ll warrant. I’m so fond of kicking people when they’re down, I’ve devoted an entire wing of my home to it. So the poor muffin had to take out a second mortgage on his home to try to pay back some of the money … yeah, well, cry me a fuckin’ river, bub … maybe someone should have thought of that before he ran off at his fucking mouth. I have no problem setting aside a small portion of my life to indulge in some high qual-
ity schadenfreude about someone who has been hanging ripe and low on the vine for such a long time. The moral of this story has nothing to do with Preston Manning, thankfully. The fact is, Stockwell Day showed his true colours about eight seconds after he got into politics. Anybody who was fooled by his toy ‘media savvy’ should look over here into these bright flashing lights while I conduct a wallet inspection drill. Welcome to Chump City, population you. We’re the ones that let him get as far as he did –- that is the issue. The moral is about nipping things in the bud, and the timeliness of doing it. Dennis Miller says we need to get them at their “pod dispersal stations” before they can get out into society and breed. The danger of letting stupid people lead is that it makes other stupid people think they can lead, too. They can’t … and we really don’t want them to, now do we? Bye, Stockles … and don’t let the door hit you in the wet suit on the way out. photo left: Casey Bourque
ing-envy, right? Hmmmm. But even then, I knew there was something (huge) about the nipple…. I remember talking to my mom about a ticklish irritation in my left nipple, where the little polo man would rub against it. Grade Eight, I think; I was a plump little preppy kid with chipmunk cheeks and loafers. The diagnosis — a slightly-developing little boy-boob. My god!? I was practically a hermaphrodite! Was puberty to be such an undifferentiated humiliation? But still it was only a ticklish irritation, and you know it really wasn’t that bad. I mean, men do have nipples. There must be some kind of redeeming quality to such vestigial gynecology. Let’s face it — men’s nipples are (or, at least, can be) major erogenous zones. My nipples are connected straight to my cock. My left nipple is bigger and a bit more sensitive than my right one. I love being bitten and sucked almost more than getting head. I swear to god. Maybe I’m an anomaly, but I don’t know. Nipples are a big item in homo-erotica, as I’m aware, but I’m not gay. Could it be that many men have erogenous nipples and just aren’t comfortable enough
to exploit the sensory potential? I’m not suggesting every hot stud find a cat and get frisky, but I am saying that it’s a patch of uncharted territory for many guys. The nipple is a direct button onto the Freudian anima, the female facet inherent in every male. It’s a feminising touchstone that can titilize and fascinate. No other place on my body can trigger such a primitive emotio-sexual response, not even the primary erogenous zones. Again perhaps I’m peculiar in this regard, but I believe nipples truly are “all the right buttons” to press. Many guys are ambiguous, repressed, or even negative about them because they are capable of eliciting such a strong response and because this response can be so confusing to the adult male, as it represents something fragile, something alien and raw, something androgynous, something somehow sickly pure. How much is merely fetishistic or pathological about my nipple thing is certainly not the whole pistachio. Physically, they just feel good; they exclusively feel good during sex. Other times it’s just uncomfortable, or somewhat eerily infantilising.
My sex life is heavy on nipple nibbling — both hers and mine (as well as being categorically devoid of cats, I’ll have everybody know). Lately, I’ve gotten into the quaint little habit of applying bobby pins to the inflamed protuberances, pinching the shit out of them, then polishing the bright, blood-filled huckleberries with spit, or lube. Home-made nipple clamps, on a shoestring. Bloodless pain in the nipple procures great pleasure in the loins. I’m sure devoted piercees could vouch for the virtues of pointedly puncturing the pithy pleasurepoints, and I admit I’m still getting my guts up to have it done to myself. I guess I’m a bit worried, though, of losing sensation in the little suckers (all puns brazenly intended, goddammit!!). ‘Cause, for guys like me, the mighty Man-Teet truly is the one flashing red button that sets the whole fleshy gyroscope in motion. The Man-Teet marks its own exclamation point!! artwork: Robin Bougie
Hey, it’s No Fun City Wear it with Pride!!
FEAR THE RHINO
No Fun City T-shirts
with their own weapons. We will ”meet” our South and Central American brothers and sisters ”in the middle”, we will embrace, then rename our joint company ”Scamerica.” This is the fast track to world domination for B.C. Vote Rhino or make a large donation. You will receive kickbacks.
Only $12 tx incl.
Nerve: Why should the voting public believe you will implement your stated policies?
Black w. No Fun City logo on front Comes in M / L / XL
Girlie Ts available soon! Get them at
Does Your Mother Know? 2139 W. 4th Ave. Vancouver, BC
or Mail Order
Send Cheque or Money Order to Box 88042 Chinatown PO, Vancouver, BC V6A 4A4 Add $2 for Shipping and Handling.
FEAR THE RHINO Liar Liar is a Rhino Party candidate for Mount Pleasant in the upcoming provincial election. We caught up with Liar Liar to discuss his candidacy at the Anza Club, March 28th, 2001. Nerve: Liar Liar, what is your election platform? Liar Liar: Our main plank is investment. We should encourage investment. However, not to merely bring corporations and investment into our province as the Liberals would – as usual, they lack vision and foresight. What we need to be thinking about rather than bringing corporations into our province is turning our province into a corporation.
say, my friends, in Central and S o u t h America. They are going to manage the crack pipeline and inject exponentially more crack into American neighbourhoods. Nerve: And we are the potline managers? Liar Liar: As for B.C. I need only look outside, over Vancouver, to the mountains and tree line above. I suggest to the people of B.C. that this tree line is blocking our view. It is blocking our view to profits. Blocking our view to agriculture – and not agriculture for useless things like vegetables and handing out silly subsidies. Or even for
Liar Liar: I do promise not to say which promises I will keep. Glen Clark has already stolen this idea and used it in the last election a n d Gordon Campbell uses it all the time. I promise you that. Nerve: Why shouldn’t we vote for Gordon Campbell and the Liberals? Liar Liar: I think Gordon has the right idea by encouraging investment into companies he and his buddies have bought stock in. The only way that I vary from him in this is that I want to get in power so I can help out the companies I’ve bought stock in and to help all of my buddies. Nerve: Why shouldn’t we vote for Ujjal Dosanjh and the N.D.P.?
“The thieving politician fears the Rhino because he thinks we are stealing his votes.” – Liar Liar.
Nerve: Turn the Province of British Columbia into B.C. Corp.? Liar Liar: That’s right. In this way we will place ourselves more aggressively in NAFTA and begin our takeover of the United States. Nerve: How? Liar Liar: I intend to turn the Alaskan pipeline into the NAFTA crack-pot pipeline. In order to do this it’s going to take the collective willpower of British Columbians and the help of our friends, or should I
the cash you and I will make from cutting down all the trees. We intend to grow and sell our most valuable resource – primo B.C. wheelchair weed. The codename for our election platform is ”Operation Meet You In the Middle.” Once the U.S. is entirely hooked and sedated, broke from spending all their money on drugs and they still need, need, need, we will purchase their weapons. The Statue of Liberty will crawl to our borders and beg for more like the toothless crack-whore she is and then we will begin the arduous process of assimilating the people formerly known as Americans by forcing them to comply
Liar Liar: Ujjal can’t breakdance.
N e r v e : W h y s h o u l d n ’t we vote for B i l l Vanderzalm and the Reform Party? Liar Liar: That is good question. I have no idea know how to answer that. The man is the perfect politician. Nerve: How will you ensure victory for you and the Rhino party? Liar Liar: By lying and cheating and stealing my way into office, and furthermore, threatening those that don’t support me … they will be the first up against the wall. Laird Salton photo: courtesy of Walker Peters
SEX WITH ANIMALS... IS IT WRONG?
Bobus the Clown Goes Down
s the Rhino campaign for provincial domination
Consenting adults, of any species, should be free to do as they wish... shouldn’t they?
picks up steam, some of you might be confused as to where it all started. As with most politics, most of it was accomplished behind closed doors with snide sniggers and greasy hand-
shakes and is none of your business. However, the Rhino Party did go officially public on February 26th with an action that has since garnered a bit of press; thus, with inexorable tabloid logic, it deserves a bit more. The scene is a Vancouver Parks Board meeting to renew Bobus the Clown’s permit to entertain children in Stanley Park after fifteen years. Accused of illegal merchandising and promoting litter with his animal wrist balloons, this was Bobus’ last chance to convince the board that he should stay. Sensing a perfect tie in with their ‘No Fun City’ campaign, the Rhinos had planned an action to express their support for Bobus and to disrupt the meeting. A technical snafu delayed the Bobus debate in favour of a fence for some baseball diamond, into which bizarre context the Rhinos rampaged, chanting “Leave the clown alone.” While spokes Rhino Godzilla presented the board with much needed brains (jello mould) and hearts (candy), Board Chair Laura McDiarmid yipped that they were not yet discussing the Bobus issue. This point of order got her so excited she threatened to forcibly eject the herd. A skinny stuffed-shirt lap dog stood up, puffed his pigeon chest in the general direction of the Rhinos, and was promptly ignored. Foiled in their attempts to foil the Rhinos, McDiarmid and her toadies left. Finally realizing there would be no free beer at the meeting, the Rhinos became bored and shuffled off to better grazing. Though the Rhinos were gone, the best was yet to come. Rosyln Cassells of the Green Party, and the closest thing to a human being on the Parks Board, commandeered the candy hearts and offered them to staff and board members, whose receptiveness indicated there had been a shortage. Bobus was also taking advantage of the lull to express himself. First, a little background. At one point, the pretext for kicking Bobus out of Stanley Park had been thathis balloons presented an environmental hazard, since birds and animals could possibly, maybe, under some remote albeit well nigh inconceivable circumstances, eat them. Surprisingly, Bobus’ video revealed that birds and animals prefer food to rubber and petroleum byproducts. Not taking anything for granted, however, Bobus spent the minutes after the Rhino departure collecting and disposing of the silly string they had left behind, presumably so the board members wouldn’t choke on it when they were foraging for verbiage. Bobus’ presentation followed. Rhinos take note: with all Rhinos presumed safely ejected from the room, Bobus repudiated any involvement with their monkeywrenching on his behalf. Since he had openly lobbied for support at the Rhino ‘fun’ raiser at the Bourbon St. Pub, this seemed craven and hypocritical. As things turned out it was also ironic, since he ended up doing his cause much more harm than
the Rhinos ever could have. Addressing the board in a rising pitch of hysteria, Bobus accused its managers of an unprincipled and underhanded personal attack on him and on his livelihood. He threatened the board and Vancouver itself with unholy vengeance in the form of a global smear campaign, a campaign he assured us he was more than able to effect with his significant talents as a cartoonist and “philosopher.” The city should also beware of the hordes of minions he promised to unleash at his memorial service on April Fool’s day. To forestall the terrible fate
his appeal for “great grand-fathering” of his non-busker status and so signed their death warrant as well as his, apparently. As promised, the Wrath of Bobus was on display by the Vancouver Aquarium in Stanley Park on April 1st. Bobus was bronzed as a statue in his own honour, and had a styrofoam tombstone handy. The guy under the bronzing who was flogging Bobus’ leftover balloons identified himself as Bobus’ twin brother, “Whoknows.” The highlight of his performance was a demonstration of pathetic balloon “fireworks,” a satirical goose to ‘no fun’ city hall. That’ll show ‘em, Bobus. Unfortunately, the millions of devoted fans and large supporting cast of performers failed to materialize, and there weren’t even any pissy bureaucrats on hand to make a scene. In all, a whimper not a bang. Though Bobus is gone I continue to support his spirit, not in spite of but because he was a conniving, paranoid megalomaniac. This support is only partly out of fear for my life. Mostly, it is because he shared that special quality of mean-spirited insanity that elevates Krusty the Klown of The Simpsons fame from a child’s entertainer to a truly universal source of hilarity. If you never met Bobus, try imagining a cross between Mr. Rogers and Dennis Leary. I think you will appreciate the great entertainer we have lost. Press coverage of the meeting, funeral, and of Bobus’ tribulations, have generally conspicuously avoided mentioning the clown’s peccadilloes. I take this as sign that my journalistic betters have made a silent consensus to focus on NPA-bashing and not confuse the issue for their mentally challenged readers. Though clearly ignorant of proper journalistic protocols, I’m going to stick with what I know: the truth. Naively perhaps, I believe that most people can still see that the real villains of this story are the Parks Board and the NPA. Axing every pathetic little vestige of life they can find in this sick little burg, these people have declared war on fun in Vancouver. Banning a balloon-tying clown from Stanley Park is only the most absurd and symbolic of their crimes against the good times.
The [Parks Board and NPA] have declared war on fun in Vancouver. Banning a balloon-tying clown from Stanley Park is only the most absurd and symbolic of their crimes against the good times. awaiting us, he went on, the board could appoint him to head a committee to bring entertainers to the park. Anything less would be tantamount in his mind to complete rejection and lead to swift and fierce retribution. In short, he was aggressively paranoid, though aggressively paranoid in a clearly child-friendly way. At some point it became clear that the board had not actually asked him to leave the park, nor to stop performing. They had simply lumped him in with buskers, meaning that he would no longer be allowed to post a specific price for his balloons. While not to downplay the hypocrisy of the board in allowing the park’s painting vendors to continue their activities while attacking Bobus, it seemed that our friendly clown was overreacting a tad. Still the clown went on shrieking that they were “killing Bobus”. In fact, the killing/death metaphors reached Joy Division-like levels of fixation, suggesting some underlying pathology: the board had tried a “slow poisoning” but had “botched the job,” the “quiet killing” had been bungled by the highly paid “sharpshooters” of the Parks Board staff. Bobus had taken “seventeen bullets” (?) from them and was still standing. Yet it seemed they were determined, and he was either going to be saved or go down at this meeting. Which was alright, he said, since “it’s a good day to die.” Unfortunately for Bobus, it was indeed his Alamo. The board voted against
Seems like no matter how innocuous a search term you plug into the web, you inevitably get a thousand links to hardcore porn. A search for safe toys for kids brings up a long string of dildos, vibrators and the like. An innocent research topic like corporal punishment gathers up S&M sites and much, much more…. No surprise, then, while trying to find some info on “Beauty and the Beast” for my four-year-old, I came upon a plethora of Bestiality sites (spelled Beastiality on the net). So there I am, faced with a woman giving a horse a blow job, and another being done doggy-style, by a fucking dog, and I think: this is totally rude, completely utterly wrong, clearly morally repugnant, no matter how you look at it. And yet I have a brain that, whenever it has a thought, automatically has the contradictory thought just to keep things interesting. This contradictory voice inside my head said: “What’s the big problem? This is a victimless crime. (Is it a crime to suck off a pig, I wondered?) Those women, presumably, are old enough to make up their own minds about what they fuck, and those animals … well, those animals, honestly, couldn’t look happier, with their ecstatic grins and their eager tongues flapping. We all know that dogs will hump anything that moves, so do you think they are being harmed in any way, shape or form whatsoever?” Contrary Man says, “I doubt it; if I was that dog, I’d love to hump a 5’10” busty blond bimbo.” So why does it fill us with so much disgust to see people having sex with animals? I mean, it is obviously wrong, isn’t it? Everyone I have talked to feels very strongly that sex with animals is a disgusting, crass, rude, and filthy thing. Wrong, wrong, wrong! WHY IS SEX WITH ANIMALS WRONG? Actually, I can’t think of a reason, but it sure feels wrong. It must be wrong, it’s just sooo … wrong! I’m sure the gods wouldn’t approve, would they? Your mom certainly wouldn’t be too happy, would she, if she saw a horse fucking you. Your boss would frown upon it. Your best friend would probably disown you, if he or she found you humping a sheep or being boned by a dog. Who could possibly NOT be offended. Yet there are at least thousands of people who not only are not offended, but who are doing it, and they are letting people take pictures of them doing it. What are they thinking? Please, please, write to this mag to tell us why it’s so obviously wrong to fuck animals. Otherwise, we may just have to try it. (Send comments to firstname.lastname@example.org or to the address back on page 2) Andreas Ohrt photo: (I don’t wanna know!-Ed.)
Andreas writes the Curious Times section (www.curioustimes. com) of bizarre and trippy news in the West Ender. [Ohrt asked me to write this, which I wouldn’t usually do, but what would a Nerve Sex issue be without good animal fuck content? - Ed]
Dave Bowes photo: Dave Bowes
Heather Robertson Nikki Prime
All You Can Eat (and then some) Leigh Erdan
he scene: a steamy night at the Station Street Theatre, last March. Five sultry vixens prance onto the stage wearing short negligees in varying degrees of see-throughness, with highheeled boots. Singing along to Peggy Lee’s ‘Hey Big Spender,’ the girls proceed with a dance number filled with panty-showing high kicks, girl on girl ass-grinding and spanking. There is crotch grabbing and boob shaking galore. Who are these temptresses and who let them into this town? All You Can Eat is a troup of hot sexy mommas, all in their early to mid twenties, who’ve been shaking their stuff on stage and titillating the masses here for the last three years. They just live to explode sexual boundaries and simultaneously get the audience off, and unlike the strip bars, at one of their shows you don’t get pressured to buy drinks or to book private dances. Then again, one of them’s a guy. Actually All You Can Eat is not really concerned with getting anybody off (this being the Sex issue, it just seemed like a good idea to throw that in). And they don’t really live to push boundaries per se, although this is often a result of their work. What they do like is to dance and to perform. If more times than not their selfexpression turns rather sexual, well, that just happens to be part of who they are. The concept for the dance troup began in L.A., where three of the founding members met. Heather Robertson, Nikki Prime and Chris Lam were all professional dancers who’d been training since they were kids. Being in L.A. was great for the sheer number of auditions and events taking place, but it wasn’t so great if you were there trying to work illegally. Eventually all three returned to Vancouver (Nikki was actually forced to come back) and decided to try to continue with their collective interest in modern dance. Ben Newcombe was added to the mix, and Vancouver’s only dance group of this type was underway. Three years later the scene has changed: Chris has moved away, a fire dancer has come and gone, and two new members, Lee Marander and Leigh Erdan, have joined. All You Can Eat has performed at countless venues including Sonar, the Purple Onion Cabaret, The Brickyard, The Starfish Room, Celebrities, the
Lava Lounge and at various locations in Whistler. Their show varies according to their venue and the expected crowd. If they’re at Celebrities, for example, they come out with a burlesque routine with campy ‘50s hits; at The Brickyard, they’re more likely to pull out Guns ‘N Roses ‘Welcome to the Jungle.’ While the burlesque act is just one part of their repertoire, All You Can Eat does basically stay true to the original meaning of burlesque, which brought together music, sex and comedy into variety type stage shows with lots of props, scenery and effects. While it has since degenerated into strip tease, it started out with heavy suggestion and innuendo. Originally called
about sex, it is definitely a constant element. Nikki remarks, “We don’t always plan to do a big sex show … but [this aspect] seems to come out with stuff we do, you know.” And then there are their stage names, which have included “Miss Pussy Pants,” “Cherry Boom Boom” and “Johnny Schlongjohns,” evocative of porn stars but clearly making fun of the whole thing. If the performers from All You Can Eat do admit to any stance on sex, it’s a general message to lighten up: “Let’s all laugh about it because we all do it.” While Heather and Nikki claim they’re not overly concerned with sex or what other people think, these two issues come together full force during an All You Can Eat show. One of the trends the performers have noticed recently is that female audience members are telling them what “strong women” they are, that they are living proof women can be sexy and strong at the same time. They’ve also been accused of “promoting feminism.” They say this isn’t part of their agenda, but are happy if it gets promoted. Another effect they’ve seen is that girls who watch them get inspired to be sexy, too. “After we do a show,” says Nikki, “everyone’s all dancing sexy on the dance floor, all excited, thinking they’re pros, all ‘strong’.” And not only that. Heather says, “They all want to be in the show too; people always ask us.” One of the problems with All You Can Eat’s shows actually comes from the fact that audience members do relate, or at least strongly react, to what they see. “People don’t understand that we’re all professional dancers,” Heather explains. While this can mean girls coming up and offering to be in the show – “I took ballet in Kindergarten” – it can also mean some male audience members take it for granted that the performers are the characters they play. Being propositioned by some guy who can’t believe you’re not really “Drunk Whore” can’t be all that fun. Then there are the episodes where Ben is in drag for a number, and male audience members yell out “faggot.” But Nikki says, “That doesn’t break him at all. He’s like the strongest female of us all.”
In fact, most ideas for their numbers came from the original members getting drunk and then thinking up funny stuff. Innuendo, All You Can Eat embodies the spirit of burlesque in most of their numbers. The “Wet T-shirt Contest” is a number where sex and comedy come head to head: “Drunk Whore,” “Sloppy Cunt” and “Prissy Bitch,” names emblazoned on wife-beaters, come out for the contest but lose it to Carrie, complete with pig blood. In another number called “Birthday Cake,” Nikki and Heather actually make a cake on stage while dressed in tutus. In this one they get to throw flour and eggs at the audience. According to Heather and Nikki, All You Can Eat is a lot about them having fun. As Heather explains, “We poke fun at a lot of things, even being sexy we poke fun of sometimes.” For them, the “Wet T-Shirt Contest” is a fun way to show up stereotypes. Their name, which immediately sounds suggestive (especially when combined with “sushi”) is nothing more than an idea they got while leafing through The Georgia Straight when drunk. In fact, most ideas for their numbers came from the original members getting drunk and then thinking up funny stuff. Apparently, people in Vancouver have only recently been getting their humour. Despite the fact that All You Can Eat claim they’re not all
Elizabeth Nolan all photos: Yasmin Dar
Straight 8 EUROSLEAZE BABES
o it’s the sex issue and I have to write about something to do with sex. Not hard since every Eurotrash film I watch (no real exceptions at all) have a healthy dose of sexploitation, pitting cult actresses against killers, mafia hitmen, monsters, cannibals, the directors themselves, etc. Of course, some actresses stick out more than others as they pop up on more than one occasion, genre-hopping from film to film. You immediately start to notice that, not unlike porns, some actresses like to get into the gross stuff more than others. The directors like Joe D’Amato and Fernando Di Leo knew this and used these certain “goddesses of the silver screen” more regularly. One such actress was the incomparable Edwige Fenech. She starred in thrillers and comedies from the late sixties all the way into the mid ‘80s. Her claims to fame (in my eyes) were her roles in the Giallo film genre (Italian thriller), where she was continuously stalked by black-gloved killers. She teamed up with Giallo director Sergio Martino for 3 notable films – Gently Before She Dies, All the Colors of Darkness and The Strange Vice of Signora Wardh. All excellent films in which who the killer is cannot be guessed at, or how much blood is to be dropped by the next razor killing, or when we’re going to see Fenech nude again. She starred in other Italo comedies like Loverboy and The Virgin Wife. In both films, her good looks and breasts are at the helm of the features but her comedic ability proves that she was more than just a pretty face. Of course, not only were the women the victims in the films but also the bringers of evil. The ever popular women’s SS camp genre (that tests the limits of taste) often had women at the helm of all the activities. Dyanne Thorne is perhaps the most popular, with the “Ilsa” series (now finally available legally in BC). The gorgeous Macha Magall headed up the activities in SS Hell Camp as the commander, making the viewer wonder to him/herself how an Claudia Koll being fondled by actress can indirectly inflict so much on-screen director Tinto Brass
depravity without some mental help afterwards. In Women’s Camp 119, trash veteran Lorraine De Salle was forced to medically experiment on the prisoners. She can also be seen dealing with all sorts of on-screen chaos and depravity in the classic cannibal romp Make Them Die Slowly and in Fernando Di Leo’s masterpiece, Vacation For a Massacre. With on-screen, unpolitically correct spectacles that make you question why you’re even watching these films, you begin to think that the women on screen are indeed heroes as they were paid minimal amounts to participate in such core “horror” films. If what’s-her-name needed psychological help after completing Hannibal, what did these women get? Of all the other female skin-based genres out of Italy, the nun films are also a keen point of interest. With the ever growing anti-Catholicism going on in Italy throughout the late ‘60s and into the ‘70s, why not make a buck on the sexual encounters that “reportedly” happened in the churches back in the day. Of course gore film/porn great Joe D’Amato was at the helm of the most successful entries in the genre, Convent of Sinners and Images in the Convent. These are the best as they showed the most atmosphere, primarily skin from such softcore participants as Eva Grimaldi, Karin Well, Paola Senatore and Marina Belli. The features included LOTS of blasphemy, lesbian groping and whipping, due of course to demonic possession (or horniness, whichever). I mean, MAN, we could get into all the subgenres (the Emanuelle series, the decamerotics, the possession films, the rape/revenge films, the vampire films, etc.) but that would fill a telephone book. All the Italo films that involved heaps of gore and exploitation involved some form of sexploitation as well. Directors such as Tinto Brass still push the talents of his actresses and the boundaries of the erotic film, as did Joe D’Amato all the way up to his recent untimely death. Many of the actresses at the time were used as eye candy, but many also played valid roles that pushed the Italo genre films to levels that Hollywood is still trying to copy today. Most notable are Edwige Fenech, Rosalba Neri, Barbara Bouchet, Leonora Fani, Mimsy Farmer, Susan Scott, Laura Antonelli ... the list goes on and on! Sinister Sam
left: Edwige Fenech
Conventional, bi-curious, fetish, etc.. Cindy gives oral pleasure to large number of masked men. Wet teenage bodies spied upon with high-powered telescope.
Acid, cocaine, glue, hashish, heroin, marijuana, mushrooms, T3s, and XTC. Numerous scenes of alcoholic/pharmaceutical paraphernalia and behaviour. Fatal overdose due to misread label.
violence/scariness: Roger holds Cindy’s face over steaming kettle. Four rape scenes and destruction of small dog. Suicide attempt by razor. Kneecaps broken using tire iron. Mild pedophilia. objectionable words: 1265
IT’S RAINING SIN In the spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of ...SEX! Welcome to the Spring Sex Issue. New and improved! Now with 33% more sex. (But don’t quote me on that.) SAVAGE SEX MISTRESSES 1998 60 MIN MILE HIGH / LBO ENTERTAINMENT GROUP DIRECTOR: Henri Pachard EDITOR: Marlon Zapata STARRING: Angela Faith, Saki, Claudio, Coque Shuere I saw the box, read the title and the word “savage” leapt out at me. Conjuring images of dark dungeons, torturous devices, and women in SS garb barking orders. You know, like a Sunday afternoon at the Dammitt house. What we actually get is a well lit and nicely decorated apartment complete with a lacy canopy over the bed. As the movie begins we meet our two male stars, lets just call them slaves A and B. Both are unnecessarily hairy and roped to a rafter. Slave A has a dildo strapped to his face and is wearing a pair of rubber speedo’s with a hole cut in the front. If they held a Tor Johnson look alike contest this guy would make the finals. He’s also got a cute little Playboy Bunny tattoo near his right clavicle. Slave B sports a leather mask, a pair of cycling shorts and at times a rather bemused smile. Angela, our first sex mistress, looks extremely self empowered in her pink studded leather undergarments. Saki, mistress number two, wears a Star of David on her belly chain and her acrylic nails have grown out so far it looks like she hasn’t had a fill in months. Oh, the savagery! Both girls take a turn riding slave A’s dildo, (brings new meaning to the term fuck face) and they take safe sex to the point where they even use condoms on it. Slave B then gets a bandana stuffed in his mouth and while Saki shows us how exhilarating a ride on a hairy man’s shoulders can be and Angela puts a cute little cock harness on him. The slaves then get to lie around awhile for some group sex before the grand finale. Saki sucks slave A to a money shot and Angela licks a little hairy ass before bending him over the couch to finish him off analy with a reach around. Odd, though, that she doesn’t take the same condom precautions when fucking his ass as she does when fucking Tor’s face. The film lists at 60 minutes but only clocked in in at 53 on my VCR. Add that to the fact that every second scene is looped (shown twice) this flick is probably only about 30 minutes long. Definitely disappointing. All gear and toys were provided by Voyages. Call (415) 8634822 for a free catalogue. You can reach LBO @ www.lbodirect.com I give this one 1.5 out of 5 reach arounds. MARKED! PART 2 1993 90 MIN FAT DOG PRODUCTIONS / PEDIGREE DIRECTOR: Paul Norman WRITER: Ernest Greene STARRING: Ariana, Shayla(aka Shayla LaVeaux), Meo(aka Chris Collins), Alicia Rio, Jake Steed, Cal Jammer Sean (Cal Jammer) and Rosie (Shayla) go to a tattoo parlor. Sean gets so turned on watching Rosie get inked by Amanda (Ariana), that he has to initiate a three-way right there in the chair. Contrary to what we see on the screen, cumming all over a girls freshly tattooed ass is never a good idea. Afterwards while discussing relationships, Rex (Jake Steed), shows up to apply for work in Amanda’s shop. They do a little technical tat talk and she tells him she’ll call. Instead she pays him a surprise visit at home to let him know she’s interested in his stuff. His artwork too. They have a quick round of chesterfield rugby on his leather sofa, that just happens to have a strategically placed mirror behind it. Unfortunately for Rex, Amanda falls for him, hard. He can barely get any work done with her dragging him off to the bathroom for quickies. Poor guy. Anyways, his libidinous past catches up to him. Sean’s new girlfriend Cindy (Meo), a musician, tells him that Rex paradiddled his way through every member of her last band. Pure evil. And to prove this to Amanda, they get Liz (Alicia Rio) to seduce him. He does get to finish pounding Liz in her bathroom before the girls barge in and catch him “cheating”. Moral values in a porn flick? Go figure. So his ass gets fired and to celebrate, the girls have a lesbo three-way in the tattoo
chair. I just love happy endings. Ernest Greene, the writer of this screenplay was definitely watching a lot of afternoon soaps when he inked this one. I enjoyed it for the most part, and aside from a deleted line of dialogue in the crucial bathroom scene it was entertaining. Paul Norman puts out good work and this is no exception. The actors worked well together and Ariana could heat up any movie she happens to be in. She’s the Jane Russell of porn. I might just have to find another of her movies. Marked! Part 2 was distributed by Vidtex Video. Call for a catalogue. QUE.: 1(514)967-9765 THE REST: 1(800)461-3456 I give this one 3.5 out of 5 paradiddles. TATTOO 1999 2 HRS VALENTINE VIDEO / ADAM & EVE PRODUCTIONS DIRECTOR: Rick Blaine STARRING: Ariana, John Decker, Chloe, Angelica Sin, Frank Towers, Charlie, Kiss, Porsche Lynn, Alyssa Allure, Dick Nasty, Emily Jewel, Herschell Savage Well look at that, I did manage to find another of her movies. This movie opens with John (John Decker), a tattoo artist, finishing a piece of work on Chloe. She talks him into some endorphin laced sex after he finds a flyer advertising a circus coming to town. Chloe gives another fine performance (she was the Hostess in Leather World), exhibiting all her trademark moves. Plus the ability to get rear ended with nary a wince. She even offers to cook dinner for him, but John declines saying he has other plans. The next night John goes to The Circus Mystere to see the Tattooed Lady. Seeing one when he was a child is what got him into tattooing in the first place. Minerva (Ariana), the illustrated woman, dances for a tent full of local yokels. As she dances, certain tattoo’s come to life and members of the audience are sucked into another dimension where their fantasies are played out. A health club employee (Frank Towers), has a Xena type fantasy. He meets an Amazon warrior (Angelica Sin), and does battle with both swords. An English blonde (Kiss), has a lesbian fantasy. She meets a Goddess (Charlie), on The Isle Of Saphos, where they drink a little wine and break out the toys. The side show barker (Herschell Savage), has an ongoing affair with a Fay Wray type (Emily Jewel) in a King Kong fantasy world. Bill (Dick Nasty), and his wife Julie (Alyssa Allure), have a domination fantasy with a very strict mistress (Porsche Lynn). Julie puts on the best Linda Blair routine I’ve seen since Cunt Hounds. Bill, unfortunately, isn’t allowed to leave. Naughty boy. In each fantasy scene the participants have the best sex of their lives and are whisked back to reality without anyone noticing, or having to dress themselves. The movie closes of course with John getting to meet the Tattooed Lady. He, like every one else, has the best sex of his life. So great in fact that he decides to give up his career to go on the road with Minerva. He wants to be with her forever. I won’t spoil the ending, but lets just say he should have had dinner with Chloe. This movie is great. I even give it a couples recommendation. The effects are pretty good for a porn and the actors, besides being easy on the eyes, all handle their lines well. Some of this professionalism could be chalked up to the legendary Sharon Mitchell having a production credit. The only complaint I could possibly have is not enough Ariana. For more on Valentine Video go to www.valentinevideo.com or call 1(800)361-5508. I give this one 4 out of 5 Tattooed Lady’s.
arc Mousseau, “Sexy, cute... nasty.” And the Sugar and Sugar Gallery. Here’s one from a while back that deserves mention and drippings of greasy praise simply for the high level of simple lewdness it contained. I mean, I don’t want to sound like a piker, but Jesus Christ here we had a heaving mass of pure degeneracy. I know far more about the photographer than I’d like, quite frankly. Jesus Christ, the things he said to me, Christ, I’d never repeat them. I mean, Jesus. All said and done, if I can be frank, this rather elegant show was really mashing my Swede, so to speak. (Tablura puttanesqua.) Let’s not beat around the bush – this is The Nerve’s fornication issue. Now I could rabbit on about print quality, and modernist approaches to picture hanging, or bleat like a sheep about issues of intent for hours on end, and it wouldn’t change the fact that this out-of-date review of a finished show is in here simply because the vast screaming display of shameless eroticism it contained would inspire a rock-hard penis in even the most unpleasant transvestite nun on double doses of Lady hormones. Really, I felt most uncomfortable at such an arrangement of the ladies in immodest poses. Dripping with fluids and tied up. I’m sure you can imagine it all for yourself. You don’t need me, you need this Marc Mousseau. Top chap. I’m not sorry to say that there was a particularly impressive picture of a simply massive genital stuck up a tap. Fornicating, more or less, with God’s honest plumbing (putanesca della tubera carnalis). Hats off to the photographer and to his remarkably patient models. And hats off to the gallery and it’s simply adorable range of drinks. Holy fucking mother of fuck, there was an ejaculate of booze, a howling of alcohols, all sitting there waiting to be drunk. Now, on the other hand, this bloody mess of an Artropolis show had no fornicating in it at all. How could it? It was crap. I mean, really. Four out of ten for effort, must do better. It reminded me of a university-juried exhibition, which is where art dies. Twenty years out of date, curated by a council of turnips, this is a black eye that will plague the province for a thousand years. Go and see it anyway, it’s in a loading bay somewhere. Look for the little signs that say “art” with an arrow. The Chaotica show had no fornicating in it either, and shouldn’t really be mentioned in this issue, but they always send information. Mildly interesting Art Brut, well worth a look. You’ll find it at the Gallery Gachet, on East Cordova in the slums. Oh, here’s an interesting submission of interest to all perverts and disgusting gutter penis types (carnalis della putanesca). They call this one Screamin Dave, for reasons best left in the plumbing. Extra points for perfecting the reverse transvestite geschtaltveiten. A quality submission reflecting the diligent and skilled pursuit of dirty vile self abuse that makes this magazine what it is. Hats off to Screaming Dave. Thanks for the photos, especially the ones the editor sold to those Finnish sailors, and especially the one with the simply massive branding iron and a sneaking coltish grin called Fist. ERRATA
I made a mistake. Cast your useless minds back to the last issue. There were some very good photos of ladies wrestling which were credited to me, but which I did not take. These were done by Molly Stroymon, who is quite a good photographer. It’s always annoying not to be properly credited. This was my fault. I hope to Jesus I haven’t spelled her name wrong. Jason Ainsworth artwork: Screaming Dave
Seeing as this is the Spring Sex Issue, I thought it would be interesting to see what you, the readers are up to. Audience participation. So we are introducing a contest of sorts. Basically, we want your smut. Do you have an amateur video tape of yourself at home? A polaroid of you and a porn star at the Paramount? A naughty play dough sculpture? Anything from dirty doodles to erotic art. Bring it on! We’ve got free stuff to giveaway. Video’s, toys, naked pictures of Bea Arthur. No, I’m keeping those. All we need is a reason. The best smut in any category wins some stuff. So send us your smut, send it today, attention yours truly, and keep reading The Nerve backwards. See you next time. MICHAEL D. DAMMITT
My studio heavy with the aroma of freshly cooked kippers and farting loudly as I write this brief bio, the world of Martin Hatfield, photographer of the bazaar, is revealed unselfconsciously to the readers of “The Nerve”… at least some of you can probably read. I was born in London in the mid-forties and took a few unpleasant photos before escaping the stifling gentility of post war England in 1969. Vancouver was fun then, with lots of creative people around, a decent daily newspaper and a small bureaucracy. I started taking photographs again ten years ago and have been spiraling downwards ever since….
Fear of a Fun Planet “New Grenada is a planned community set in the desert where there is nothing for the kids to do, save for a rec center – which closes at 6 p.m. The parents, in their zeal to attract industry to their town, have all but neglected their children. As a result, the kids begin to create their own entertainment, which involves vandalism, theft, and general hooliganism.” –Internet Movie Database plot summary for Jonathan Kaplan’s 1979 cult classic Over the Edge. (The film, written by Tim Hunter who later went on to direct “River’s Edge,” was based on real-life events.) After seeing this quintessential teenage rebellion flick (Matt Dillon’s film debut and Kurt Cobain’s favourite movie) and then reading Bryan ‘Silverfish’ Bone’s letter in the WestEnder about Surrey City Council’s passage of a “no gathering” bylaw, I felt compelled to attend Dayglow, a party/protest held March 17th on the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery to raise awareness about the lack of services (especially late night entertainment) for youth in the Lower Mainland. In addition to Surrey, Richmond has had a moratorium on raves since November or December of 2000; New West banned all raves a year ago, and Burnaby has had a ban in place for three years now. It’s all well and good to say it serves people right for deciding to live in the suburbs, but when you’re 14, you’re not the one closing escrow on the new house, now are you? 3 p.m.: I’m installed at the edge of the fountain, representing the home of real fun in my old-school “I©NY” t-shirt, when a white panel van begins unloading stuff under the athletically disinterested gaze of two bike cops who look like they’d rather be doing the Grouse Grind. Party people continue arriving … many of them are dressed for a rave, and some are holding signs. The guy with the JESUS WAS A RAVER sign attached to his garden rake is greeted warmly by friends and strangers alike. Little raver girls walk by wearing wings that look like they might actually carry them aloft, given the right, um, environment. As it is St. Patrick’s Day, people are sporting green pigtails and green rhino horns.
3:15 p.m: The part of me that will forever be a surly 16 year-old new waver trapped in Kelowna deeply resents the fact that my 31 year-old exterior now looks approachable enough to cause a befuddled grandad to ask me for an explanation about what’s going on with all these youngsters gathered here. Gramps doesn’t seem the least bit deterred by my hard-won Orchard Park Mall street cred, but rather, he surprises me by being
immediately supportive. Then again, my own grandfather broke his arm skateboarding in his driveway on his 65th birthday, so it just goes to show what a bullshit contrivance calendars really are. I don’t mind aging, but like the man said, I hope I die before I get old. Bitter life lessons from the mean streets of the Okanagan aside, it is a pretty groovy scene … hundreds of people are gathering under trees heavy with pink blossoms, and I’m sitting on the edge of the fountain amidst cell phone rings and butterfly wings. Up on the steps, someone has climbed a lion. 3:30 p.m: Both lions have been scaled. The steps are full of people stooping (as in “sitting on the front stoop”) and everybody is in a good mood, even without music. I’m noticing the banners for the current VAG show by homeboy artist Krieghoff, showing early settlers hurtling across the snowy Canadian Shield in a horse-drawn sleigh. No doubt about it, Krieghoff was a total partier in his rippin’
Kriegmobile! Thank goodness the scarlet-uniformed Downtown Ambassador / Skycap has arrived to keep the peace. You never can tell what vicious property damage can be wrought by youth wearing rhino horns fashioned out of toilet paper rolls. 3:40 p.m: The crowd cheers as the music starts! “May I say to you friend / There’s nothing wrong with a beat.” The lady in the tin foil dress is taking it easy … maybe
she is afraid of compromising her freshness or the structural integrity of the foil. The chill temperatures together with the glinting tin are making me think of school camping trips and pocket stew. The crowd keeps growing but the m.c. is still beefin’ with the p.a. Fittingly, he’s wearing a Public Enemy jacket, which he hangs, target side out, on a microphone stand. 3:55 p.m: TVs have been nestled in between the paws of one of the lions. Signs say TIANANMEN SQUARE STARTED AS A PARTY. Out of the corner of my eye I see a curious bulldog snuffling his way around the edge of the lawn. The dog’s owner is figure skater Brian Orser, in town for the World Championships. Does Brian Orser party, I wonder? His male companion looks like he could have huffed a few poppers in his youth, but B-rock himself looks a mite too cashmere to be mingling with the oppressed masses today. He is quickly led away by his snuffling bulldog. (This, of course, begs the oft-asked question, what
would Brian Boitano do?) 4:10 p.m: The phalanx of bike cops has swelled to a total of four. They stand beside their mounts, fielding questions from Rusty and Doris Q. Winnebago. Somebody’s hacky sack lands in the water beside me with a small splash. I spot a guy wearing a sandwich board that says I NEED TO BOOGIE. Journalist Steve Burgess passes by the gathering disapprovingly … I guess we’re getting no ink from him. Out of nowhere I realize I’m being hit on by a gingery-whiskered guy whose opening gambit is telling me he ”hasn’t been in Canada that long.” Back to the lab for you, Dr. Frankenline. I soon notice an equally unctuous Helly Hansen-clad guy giving me the hairy eyeball (and the handlebar moustache), and I wield my pen in a defensive posture. He stays put, but keeps looking at me with the air of a contractor who is ready to start building us a dream home as soon as I say the word. Keep hope alive, buddy. A third person has asked me what’s going on; why don’t they approach the dude in the rainbow wig, or the masked guy with the big, tall stovepipe hat? 4:45 p.m: MC Reid and Slice are wrecking shop on stage and people are dancing for real now. Oh, shit … someone’s bag just fell in the fountain. Svend Robinson is here, stoopin’ with the youth. It’s probably a safe bet to say that my man Svend has tripped the light fantastic a few times in his day. More signs up, reading DECRIMINALIZE YOUTH and PEOPLE NEED TO PARTY! 5 p.m: The TVs begin showing trippy visuals just as Bryan, the organizer, is brought over to meet me. He got permission from the VAG to hold this event through “lots of sweet talking,” he tells me, and I believe him. His parents not only came to support him, they also silkscreened t-shirts for him. He also received some assistance from the Rhino Party and AgroCulture. Equipment was donated by Nice Amusement, with the multimedia displays by Merlin.
What do these bylaws say to youth, I ask? “They’re not old enough to work, they don’t pay taxes, they don’t vote, so fuck ‘em,” says Bryan. Young people phone the Surrey city council to speak to someone about the rave bylaws, and are told that they are “all out of town.” I suppose it sort of makes sense that the Surrey city council has simply opted to beef up video surveillance in public areas. Since drug use and vandalism are statistically proven to increase as opportunities for youth decrease, places like Surrey seem to have decided it’s easier to watch the destruction on the closed-circuit version of reality TV than to actually take steps to address the root issues of boredom and lack of late night services for youth. As our friends at Adbusters say, “the society that abolishes every adventure makes its own abolition the only possible adventure.” Hey now!! There does seem to be a fight erupting, and it is between youth like Bryan Bone and his friends and the many-headed beast that is the Suburbasaurus. Bryan’s advice is to bombard the press with more complaints about No Fun City, write letters, and blitz the media … remember, they want to move on to the next ”miracle baby” story. (And perhaps a quick email to ole Svend Robinson, since his appearances here and more recently in Quebec City tell us how he feels.) Most importantly, Svend urges anyone who cares to show up at the council meetings so they can stand up and be counted. (As a 30-year old JD friend of mine graffiti’d in his youth, PENETRATE THE PENETRATOR! – my favourite new slogan.) 5:45 p.m: The party is still going when the rain finally comes. My purse falls in the fountain, and that’s my cue to go. Bryan Bone plans to hold more events like Dayglow if his list of demands is ignored, taking some of the protests right to the steps of the city councils themselves. The Public Enemy jacket that hangs on the stage seems all too appropriate, given that it will take a suburb of millions to hold us back. Over the Edge is available at Black Dog Video and Videomatica. Leather Twatson photo: courtesy of Walker Peters
Dropkick Murphys, Lars and the Bastards, Reach the Sky and The Evaporators The Croation Cultural Center Vancouver April 14th 2001
We were up the street at my friends place putting the beers back as the announced start time of 7:30 began to roll around. I could feel my Spidey sense tingle, telling me that the show would probably be underway. When I asked if anyone wanted make way towards the venue I got a few responses along the lines of: “All age shows never start on time” and “We can miss the first band”. I knew that locals The Evaporators were up first; they have never been known to disappoint and it had been years since I caught one of their sets. Maybe next time. Another half hour rolled around before we arrived at the venue, where Reach The Sky were playing their blend of melodic East Coast Hardcore. Completely uninterested, I decided that the beer garden was a far bigger priority. Having been misinformed that it was within viewing distance of the hall itself, I lined up dole-queue style to purchase a couple. After the ordeal was finished, I proceeded to check out Lars and the Bastards, who were already into their set. Lars usually plays guitar for California’s Rancid, who I guess are taking a break for now. His side project included another mowhawked guitar player, whom I’m
pretty sure plays in The Forgotten. There was also this masked guy who looked like a reject from the WWF and seemed to do nothing more then jump around and sing along with the choruses. Lars talked about an incident the night before in which some of his ribs got broken before launching into a cover of “Leaving here” by Motorhead. I was pretty delighted to have heard that, with nothing else in the band’s set moving me as much. The band did sound fairly tight, though, playing some pretty decent mid-paced stuff. I also found the venue sound to be much better than it was reputed to. Next up were Boston’s Dropkick Murphys. I personally find the band to rapidly decline with every release, and found this performance to be pretty so-so as well. Now a six piece, with Lars filling in on second guitar, they played some OK tunes from their last few albums: “Sing Loud Sing Proud” and “The Gang’s All Here”. Nothing was played from their first release, which is, in my opinion, their best. After hearing their cover of the Iron Cross anthem “You’re a Rebel,” I figured things couldn’t get much better with The Murphys’ second-rate Irish Celtic crud and walked out Randy Rampage
bored. Fortunately, the night was still young with free Skytrain service and another show going on a few stops away at The Cobalt. Aaronoid.
Starfish Room, Vancouver, BC March 29th, 2001 D.O.A. decided to throw a party to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the seminal “Hardcore ‘81” show, so they invited a bunch of their friends to play and held it at the same venue. I’m not sure what Dick’s on Dicks was like back then, when it was called the Laundromat (I was too busy learning how to ride a bike), but today it’s one of Vancouver’s cheesier venues and quite a fun place to watch a milling crowd of punks gather. An absurd number of bands were slated to play, and by the time I got there the show had been going on for several hours. M r . Plow was enter-
taining the crowd between sets with acoustic punk. The JP5 were up next and took a good million years or so getting their stuff ready. Trying to kill some time while waiting, singer Gerry-Jenn invited a guy in the front row to tell a joke. His punchline was “bad sex is in the ass.” The band briefly got their shit together enough to start playing... things went downhill from there. The only thing shorter or dumber than their 20-minute set was Gerry-Jenn’s 6-foot patchcord and the way it kept coming out in the middle of songs. The main event was the Dayglo Abortions. People who had been standing on the sidelines moved to the front of the stage, forming an aggressive, sweating pit before the show even began. There’s not many punk bands that have been around as long as the Dayglos, and fewer still that have changed so little. The lineup has been rearranged plenty over the years, but they still pound out the tunes with ferocity every time. They mostly stuck to the well-worn favorites from their first two albums, with head singer Gymbo making faces, dancing in silly ways, doing handstands and complaining about the lack of enough beer to go around. The Cretin, the band’s main creative force, was a bit angrier when it was his turn on the mic, taking time for a shout out to some dead homies. Although not technically the headliner, they still got to do an encore and played “Proud to be a Canadian” for everyone to sing along to. This was supposed to be D.O.A.’s night, and most people were polite enough to not leave before their set
Adults by Rick Taylor
alvin grabbed the woman’s head and pulled it close, smelling the fear that leaned out her body. He inhaled the scent that was her, the sweat, the rush of Obsession over his lower brain. “Don’t. Please don’t Calvin. Things are different now. I have a husband, a baby. I want to be faithful.” she whispered against his stubbled jaw. “There is something I must confess. I have been having dark thoughts about you. Recurring fantasies. In my favourite you have come over to our place for a visit. A cup of tea. English Breakfast I think. Jill is in the shower, wanting to look her best whenever you come by of course. We discuss books, movies, the usual topics. I get up and walk over to your chair, insert a finger into your mouth while continuing a conversation neither of us care about. You pull out my cock. I feel your lips surround me, beautifully swollen as they always are when you take me like that.” Calvin felt the woman’s breath swirl across his throat, rivulets of air knifing beneath his shirt, stinging his nipples. “You know I’d love to fuck you Calvin. It’s just that things have changed in my life. I am committed. Please don’t make me do this.” the woman said, her heavy breasts pushing into Calvin’s belly. “The way I see it there are three alternatives. I completely understand if you wish to preserve your little flower for your husband. It is the matrimonial altar after all.” Calvin said and laughed. “However, there is still your mouth, which you know I worship. If you opt for that method of
genuflection I would prefer to pull out and cum over your breasts. I remember how much you liked me to lick the cum off and relay it to your
mouth. You greedy thing you.” The woman rubbed the length of Calvin’s cock, nipping its head between thumb
began. Personally, I stayed for about two songs before becoming too weirded out by the Spinal Tap appearance of bass player Randy Rampage and overcome by my lack of giving a shit about D.O.A.
Paul Crowley photos: Sprout
see Live Wires on p. 18
and forefinger. “No, no, please don’t push your big hard cock into me”. “Actually I intend to break new ground as they say, and take you anally. I assume your darling husband is far too genteel for such nocturnal manoeuvres. And none of that Vaseline diplomacy either! I think it’s absolutely vital to our relationship that there be some pain involved, for us both that is. I’m no misogynist.” The woman giggled and stroked her tongue along his collar bone. “I want everything you have to give me. You bastard, you’re ruining my life.” she said. C a l v i n shoved the woman away, her body collapsing over the kitchen counter. He began to remove his clothes. A thick animal groan bubbled up from the woman’s throat. “S h us h . You’ll wake the baby.” artwork: David Yonge
Dead Empty Blame Luck, Blame Fate CD Cyclone Records Dead Empty hail from the streets of Reading, PA and have a street punk style with a tinge of southern rock influence. After hearing a few songs I couldn’t help but to be reminded of that post-Clash sound that is so much in abundance these days. Lyrically on this 7-song release the band tackles the dead-end struggle of the drug addiction lifestyle and the uphill battle that proceeds it. Nothing particularly groundbreaking here, but still fairly catchy, well-produced and tightly played. Aaronoid. Jack Breakfast Rock and roll album Troubled Cat Record Remember boozing with your friends in a limo on prom night, blasting music, smoking dope and screaming paaaaaarty!!! out the sunroof? Remember that awkward guy in the ill-fitting tux you saw walking home alone as you sped past? Remember feeling kinda bad for the guy? Well, don’t cause he’s become a genius and his name is Jack Breakfast. His first
full-length cd Rock and roll album is as innovative a debut as those of Tom Waits and Velvet Underground. The guy’s incredible; he plays all the instruments (including accordion, bass, drums and mission organ), gets away with a crooning falsetto by its sincerity alone, and is gutsy enough to write lyrics that are unabashedly romantic without being sappy. Breakfast knows some things about loneliness and yearning that most songwriters can only fake. He’s genuine. Plus he’s got about fifty other great tunes that are just waiting to be produced if he gets the cash. So do yourself a favour – go to www.jackbreakfast.com and pay a paltry ten bucks to get his album. You need this! Jeff Oliver Free Coke For Supermodels Groove Street Sticky Records Even though Free Coke For Supermodels has been playing clubs and parties around Vancouver for several years, this is the first time I’ve seen anything recorded by them. Guitarist Nathan Bird lists James Brown as one of his major influences and the old school funk on this record proves it. Songs like ‘Feel So Good’ and ‘Disco Party’ (I want your body/ For a Disco party!) groove heavily while borrowing from the only salvageable parts of glam. The vocals tend to hover in the upper register and though the lyrics are often lost in singer
David Jacquest’s ‘I’m-Strung-out-andthe-band-is-playing-way-too-fast, baby,’ crooner-esque vocal style, it works. Fat 70’s guitar tones are always welcome in my speakers and this record contains plenty. A.D. MADGRAS Oxymoron Best Before 2000 CD Cyclone Records With an overabundance of fast-paced poppy hardcore and sappy-assed emo out right now, it seemed like almost anything true to original punk roots was dead and buried. My first encounter with Germany’s Oxymoron was a good five years ago with the full-length Fuck The Nineties, Here’s Our Noize, a fitting title. Oxymoron’s fierce sound was comparable to 80’s English acts such as The Insane, Major Accident and One Way System. Their next album, The Pack Is back, came as something of a disappointment and still sits in my collection barely played. While there was nothing downright awful about it, a certain energy just wasn’t there and it was my prediction that things were on a downward spiral. However West World, the band’s next release, showed a natural progression into more technical fields with a new, intricate guitar sound. Now, two years later, we’re given this package containing all of the group’s 7” material along with some covers of obvious influences, an interactive video clip and an in-depth biography.
Aaronoid Mr. Underhill Vamp Independent It’s a sorry, sorry state of affairs when the goth band with all the ridiculous vampire drawings and Cure-like press photos that I was counting on making fun of turns out to be the best CD I got this month. It just goes to show you can’t judge a book by its ... stupid press photos and Edgar Alan Poe quotes. Sure, at times I thought I’d flipped the radio on by accident, but at least it didn’t sound like one of the stations I really hate. Picture Billy Idol meets the Damned. You could do worse. It’s the perfect soundtrack to pump your parents and teachers full of hot lead to. So throw on your black trenchcoat, load up your automatic weapons and sing along. Rusty Haight Various Killed By Hardcore LP Red Rum Records Warning: T h i s 23-band comp doesn’t comprise the mosh metal, testosterone-filled crap usually associated with the term hardcore these days. Like the many releases in the Killed by Death series, this album is a collection
of hard to find songs by bands that played the original fast HC stuff. The record begins with Urban Waste, an early act from NYC who probably inspired the likes of Agnostic Front and The Cromags. Many other American bands are featured along with some from Europe and Japan. The one Canadian band featured here is Montreal’s Genetic Control, who had an EP released in ’84 called “First Impressions” that fucking kicked ass! My only complaint with this release is it only has one song per band, but this is only the first volume. Will we see a big resurgence of bands emulating this style in the near future? One can only hope! Aaronoid. The HardOns This Terrible Place Bad Taste Records Well, it’s the sex issue, so I guess it’s only appropriate that I’m reviewing the Hard-Ons. This Terrible Place is somewhat different than what I’d expected after looking at the cover drawing of a cartoon character with a big dick with spikes coming out of it. It sounds kind of bubble gummy and stuff, y’know, and I’m alright with that in some respects, except when they bring in the keyboards and then it’s bad. At its best I like some of these songs in the way I like the Knack on a Saturday afternoon. Pop bordering on indie rock that’s tolerable, if not spectacu-
Off The Record cont. on p. 18
H a r d
D r i v e
Live Wires from p. 16
“Stick it to the Man” Tour. Starfish Room, Vancouver, BC April 10, 2001
The ambitious “stick it to the man” tour sent the heavy hitters of Winnipeg’s Smallman Records on a coast-to-coast punk pilgrimage. With their Vancouver show being one of the last ones, the guys from Layaway Plan, Choke and Moneen can be forgiven for appearing a little bit haggard. The midweek crowd was dwarfed by the massive merch table that offered everything from Moneen toothbrushes to Smallman skateboards, as well as the prominent sponsors’ banners that formed a backdrop for the stage. The signature Smallman sound is a relative of skatepunk, with the same fast playing and emphasis on melody but less polish, with a more serious attitude. Live, things seemed to get washed out and the subtle differences between these bands and the Warp
’ve been sitting and starring at my 17-inch screen for about two hours. My current inspiration for this article is the picture of a perfect amateur female onion that a friend from Toronto emailed me few minutes ago. Her perfect ass is pressed up against the wide-angle lens of a 35mm camera, and her woman secret is exposed to all the computer junkies. So yah, back to the article, I am contemplating between these two topics – “cyber fucking “ or “crazy bitches” – and as my friend once said, “they are all fucking crazy, but some hide it better than others.” Fuck it, I’ll write about cyber sex. Let me begin by introducing the personal computer as the human invention that will leave many men and women forever lonely, with sore wrists … and it’s not because of the spoon that scooops ice cream, if you catch my drift. Let’s go back a few years, and see how this cyber fucking fad began. The mid ‘90s slowly introduced semiaffordable (at Cdn$4500 for a 486DX) personal computers to the public, and the ability for everyday folk to connect to other computers all over the world – something previously exclusive to college/ university nerds who had never seen pussy in their lives (coming out of one doesn’t count). Back in the day, the BBS (bulletin board system) was what the Internet is now, a giant index of porn, but slower and more personal (only one person could connect at any given time). Sure, it would have been faster to go out and buy a magazine. But that’s embarrassing, so why not sit in front of a Tandy 15-inch monitor for ten minutes and download a fuzzy porn scan? It was easier, and it was free. A few years later modems improved; downloading porn became much more enjoyable and less time consuming, but
tour types were lost. Layaway Plan’s energetic movement and well-timed leaps were out of sync with the general mood, and they never got any momentum. Choke, who have put some great songs down on record, seemed a bit tired and were sort of going through the motions. But things perked up noticeably for some of their better tracks (“Recoil”) and one where some Moneen guys got up to sing with them. It’s obvious that all the bands get along and have bonded over the kilometres traveled, lack of decent food and stinky clothes. Moneen, playing last, are the best-known of the bands and drew good crowd response with their consistent set. Smallman honcho Rob Krause could be seen banging his head enthusiastically behind the band for most of the set... a rare level of enthusiasm for record label management to show and a promising sign of future things to come. Paul Crowley
Bandfest 2000 Awards
Y o u
C y b e r
something was still missing. That something was the interaction between real people (let’s be honest here, they were geek’s who had their two gigabyte drives filled with photos of 1993 December Playboy playmate Erika Eleniak and March 95 Penthouse pet Lynn Turner, that they scanned after hours from equipment in their computer science class). The problem of being unable to talk to other perverts (and normal people) in your area and to the rest of the world was solved with the introduction of software that would further isolate and demean the human interaction process forever. The software, most likely developed by a 26 year old virgin (the same guy who stayed up all night scanning nude photos of Lynn Turner instead of studying for his finals) who got a boner whenever a woman sat next to him at the library, was the first of its kind. Lonely men everywhere caught on quickly. Now that we have the history somewhat covered, let us move forward to the cyber fucking debauchery and keyboard/mouse violations of the new era: of individuals sequestering their minds into masturbatory states of content, and lustful overloads of pixilated gratification. The need to feel wanted by anyone or anything is very powerful indeed, and with the right software it can be fully realized. A few years back I was a chatroom addict. I used to sit and chat for hours on end, doing exactly what everyone was doing, trying to meet hot women. But I quickly grew out of it after realizing that my pitiful actions were a waste of time and energy, and that I was slowly becoming a hermit. I was fucking sick of seeing people with nicks such as StudBC and AsianHung, who verbally assaulted anyone who joined the room with a female name. Every guy would automatically go for the jugular with questions about age, sex, location and whatever else you could imagine. You would never see such idiotic actions in real life: can you picture some 40 year old walking up to
S l u t
a teenage girl in a mall and asking for her age? He would be charged with molestation faster than I could spell that word. But since it’s the Net and identities can be easily hidden, the whole idea of having a non-sexual conversation is whored by horny fuckheads. Once I changed my nickname to look female just to see how many men would message me. I was flooded by sweet-talking nerds who would spew in their swimming trunks at the first sight of a girl wearing a thong at the local pool. I wasn’t surprised at all at the the creeps who wanted to trade photos and cyber, but what I found disturbing was the aggressiveness of these fucking pussy hungry wannabes. After I declined to chat, some of them would keep messaging me to no end. At that point it became clear to me that I needed to quit before I further became a slave to the machine. In a drastic move, and to be entertained, I changed my approach and made fun of all the pathetic people who were doing what I had previously done. My continuos vicious attacks on strangers got me banned from a Vancouver channel for eight months, which was the best thing that could have happened to me. During my long hiatus I was freed of all the fake people and their constant lies in order to impress each other. I was spared the routine that fat old sweaty NAMBLA guys pull on other fat sweaty NAMBLA guys pretending to be girls. I didn’t need any more messages from young girls from the Philippines asking me to marry them. And I sure as fucking hell didn’t need to see any more of the formulaic conversations between wannabe suicidal posers with lower self esteems than the Internet start up guy who lost his house and wife because of dot-com fever. Anyway, after my long ban from the channel I hesitantly returned to see what had changed. Nothing was different. The channel operator who banned me was still there; the same
Off The Record from p. 17
March 20th, 20001 Piccadilly Pub Put on by Hyperion Entertainment, Sound by Volume and DC Productions, The Piccadilly Pub was host to Bandfest 2000, a contest involving 38 local bands over 3 months. Judging was based on live performances and done by ballot and comment cards by people involved in the local music industry. The grand prize, some quality studio time, was awarded to female duo New Eden, with second place going to Porchclimber, 3rd to Honey Box, 4th to Red Scare, 5th to The Sky Fishermen and 6th to Shine. According to Sound by Volume’s Myk, Bandfest 2001 will start accepting demos soon and more information is/will be available at their website www.bandfest.ca.
lar. At it’s worst it’s really piss-ass horrible industrial shit that comes way outta left field. A mixed bag... of what I haven’t exactly decided. Rusty Haight Moneen The Theory of Harmonial Value Smallman Moneen need to learn one basic rule: you can’t be “emo” all the time. From this, they would figure out that alternating loud and quiet song parts every few bars ad nauseum eventually becomes as interesting as checkered linoleum. Moneen’s previous EP was fresher-sounding and a lot briefer than this release, and the clever liner notes that came with it have degenerated here into a booklet of bad writing based on the (presumably) fictional Dr. Lazlo Pronowski. The band’s obvious energy and ambition could be much better focused.
by Adler Floyd
horny guys were there. I was very disappointed at myself for being dumb enough to double click on that icon, and log onto the pathetic highway of right hand drivers. I still visit the Vancouver room once in a while just to kill some time, but my ventures last maybe ten minutes. Seeing uninteresting people full of themselves on a poser high is not my idea of a good time. Let me quickly cover a sensitive issue. One has to be blind not to grasp that the Internet is a breeding ground for sick fucking perverts and pedophiles. It’s one thing to jerk it to some fine lesbian porn, but its another to trade photos of minors and stalk women through email. Unfortunately pedophiles will never be eradicated, and with the invention of the Internet, their hobbies are more easily satisfied and their tastes broadened. That’s just a fact that we have to live with. It is wrong, but it would be foolish to say that cyber space should be policed and regulated (unless we’re dealing with child exploitation). The Internet is a privilege just like your driver’s license or your F.A.C, it is not a right. The Internet will be what destroys the human ability to properly socialize with one another. Human interaction levels will decrease gradually over the next few years, and if people can’t see that, they should be on the forefront of that revolution. Each day more and more young people waste their days sitting in front of the pixilated eye, with nothing to show for except sore wrists, high hopes and pubic hair on their ergonomic keyboards. When I think of all those miserable people trying to get lucky on the Net, I wonder if they actually have any valid aspirations in life. A wise man once told me, “When you’re masturbating, you’re only cheating yourself … unless it’s a rare Tracy Lords porn bootleg.” photos: courtesy of Adler Floyd
Paul Crowley The Old Ripper S/T Ripe Red Records Cameron McKinnon, the man behind The Old Ripper, seems to have locked himself away for the last 7 or 8 years with a crate full of early 90’s grunge records and only recently emerged. It’s left his band nicely untainted by the virulent strain of bloated, mid-tempo, major label alt-rock that’s since infected the airwaves and recordbuying public. This self-titled debut bristles with fuzzy energy, featuring vintage Nirvana-style guitar riffing and a dash of Soundgarden’s metal mysticism. The somewhat one-dimensional songwriting and production leave this album short of perfect, but overall, what might have sounded like a pale imitation a few years ago now comes across as a pleasant return to form. Paul Crowley