Wednesday, December 9, 2009


I awoke to a shotgun muzzle in my eye and a husky Non-Perceptic instructing me to get my faggot ass out of bed before he shot my gay face off. He had onion breath and wore a bulletproof vest bearing the letters "A," "T" and "F."

It appears that the shit had finally hit the fan. A dozen years of service and worship—not to mention the generous donation of life savings—and we come to find out that not only is the Honorable Countess Von Hellschmidt neither honorable nor a countess but also that her real name is Becky Griswold and she’s from Fall River, MA? I mean, can you imagine? And now the rest of us are out on the street, just like that. We didn’t know about the embezzlement, the tax evasion, the bestiality … okay, maybe we knew a little bit about the bestiality. I never actually witnessed it with my own eyes, but when the grapevine whispers, us Perceptics tend to listen. Mostly because the Honorable Countess never allowed books, newspapers or television up in this pig. Radios and the Internet were also strictly forbidden. She said that such devices only dimmed the Perceptic light inside of us.

We were on the verge of moving the whole operation to Montenegro, too—free from the Non-Perceptic clutches of the federal government and all of its oppressive departmental acronyms. Another six months and we’d have been occupying a higher plane of spiritual existence, nestled safely in the Slavic bosom of Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina. It’s really too bad, because we had a good thing going. We grew our own crops, installed solar panels, dug compost pits. With the exception of our water supply, we were almost entirely off the grid. Life was simple: Each of us was issued a couple of pale yellow dressing gowns, a pair of sandals, a prayer mat, and a gardening tool. I worked my way up from hedge clipper to leaf blower inside of 18 months. I was a favorite of the den mother’s, too. On Burning Ring Of Fire & Advanced Behavior Mod night (every other Thursday, 7pm in the rec hall), we’d sneak away and do the business in a pantry just off the main kitchen. The staff was heavily sedated, of course, and took no notice of us.

They locked us in our rooms every night promptly at 10. After living in the Travolta wing of the Hervé Villechaize Dormitory for 33 months or so, the den mother began visiting me after lights-out. Sometimes, we would escape to the verandah for a quick telekinesis session and a round of naked Slip N’ Slide. Once in a while, the Honorable Countess would join us, her pendulous breasts spilling over the front of her distended belly like a pair of wet hams. After a few all-too-brief hours of gently lubed debauchery, I would be in an elevated trance state, in love with the cosmos, my fellow Perceptics and my beatific life at the compound. Nevertheless, I would be remanded back to my room to practice my psychic stress positions.

Meanwhile, my Kirlian photography classes continued unabated, and by 1999 my clearance level was relatively high. That’s when it all came crashing down, just days before the Honorable Countess had promised us that the impending millennium would signal the Great Xagog’s return to the earthly realm, upon which he would wipe out many of the Honorable Countess’ most contemptible mortal enemies, and the streets of Utopia Acres would run red with the blood of infidels or whatever. Instead, the Feds broke the door down, seized the entire compound, and kicked us all to the curb. It was a black day in Broward County, alright: Turns out the Honorable Countess was a total fraud, a former madam and probably a horse-fucker. And to think of all the things I used to do to her with my mouth.

This bullshit originally appeared in the December 2009 issue of Decibel magazine.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Beyond Thunderstick

The best thing about being white on Atlanta public transportation is that no one wants to sit next to me.

—Jim Goad, August 20, 2009

Thunderstick and I had only been at the fairgrounds for an hour, but it was painfully clear that I’d made a terrible mistake. It was barely one o’clock in the afternoon and he was already shitfaced. He had exposed himself in plain view of the Tilt-A-Whirl, and I’d just spent the last 20 minutes convincing the local constabulary that Thunderstick was mentally ill, not drunk, and that I was his chaperone from the group home and he had just gotten away from me for an instant and no, sir, officer, it absolutely would not happen again.

“What’s with the mask?”

This from an oily teenage “security” enforcer who had suddenly materialized in the officer’s considerable shadow. The cop, with his orange-tinted Oakleys and walrus mustache, shot me a look indicating that he, too, would like to know the answer to this question.

“Oh, uh… well… it suppresses his fear of being in public,” I stumbled. “It’s a defense mechanism. He’s really quite shy. Acute agoraphobia, they tell me.”

The mask was a black leather job covered in glittering studs, with openings for the eyes and mouth. The mouth hole boasted a working zipper, through which Thunderstick had already rammed three corn dogs, four soft pretzels and a pair of Dee-Lux Polish sausages.

The cop cocked an eyebrow over the top of his Oakleys. He looked over at Thunderstick, who was—mercifully—subdued now, shoulders slumped like a scolded child.

“You sure you’ve got this under control?”

Thunderstick is 6-foot-8 and weighs about 260. “Absolutely. You can rely on me, sir.”

As soon as the fuzz and his teenage sidekick were out of sight, Thunderstick slapped me hard on the chest, grunted, and loped greedily in the direction of the concession stand. Within seconds, he was lost in the crowd again.

When I found him, he had a Foster’s oil can in each hand and was chanting “Rule, Britannia!” at the top of his lungs. He seemed to know only the chorus:

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!

And then this, to the tune of “The Battle Hymn Of The Republic”:

Glory, glory, Man United

Glory, glory, Man United

Glory, glory Man United

Your troops are marching on! On! On!

“This is America,” I reminded him. “These people don’t give a shit about soccer.” He unzipped the top of his black satin jumpsuit to reveal a t-shirt emblazoned with the pithy slogan, “I Fucking You.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ll get tossed out of here for that,” I said.

He peeled the shirt off and stuffed it down the front of his tights, leaving a misshapen bulge protruding obscenely from his crotchal region. He was shirtless now, the upper half of his satin bodysuit flapping behind him in the breeze. He was sunburned in that particularly brutal British way—angry, incandescent pink—his chest slick and sticky with misdirected lager. How had it come to this?

Simple, really: Thunderstick was hitchhiking on the westbound side of route 26 when in the spirit of Really, Really Good Samaritanism I offered him a ride to the carnival. I’d recognized him from the old album covers—Head On, NWOBHM ’79 Revisited—the custom bondage mask was a dead giveaway. But I was immediately sorry. After repeatedly cueing up and playing the first 30 seconds of Europe’s “Cherokee,” on my iPod, he finally froze the thing before breaking the volume knob off the stereo. He spent the rest of the trip grunting and fishing through my glove box for pills. In the parking lot he took a hot, sloppy dump in front of some old biddies and Rotarian types. Needless to say, they ran off shrieking.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Thunderstick spent the night in County after hurling himself down the Xtreme Rapidz waterslide completely naked. Except for the mask, of course. That stayed on. The police tell me he had a massive erection.

This bullshit originally appeared in the November 2009 issue of Decibel magazine.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Rainbows Over Tampa

In the Tampa of my dreams, Morbid Angel’s Altars Of Madness plays all day, every day at Alibi’s, and the lap dances are on the house. Instead of doing shitty coke off the back of the toilet with Thick Rick the men’s room attendant, I’m tag-teaming bitches in the VIP room with Erik Estrada.

In the Tampa of my dreams, I’m gunning down a butt in front of Morrisound when Glen Benton swings up on his Harley. He high-fives me and says, “Just canceled another European tour, brother. Can’t stand those fuckin’ pussies, am I right?” Then he asks me to record some guest vocals on the new Deicide album.

In the Tampa of my dreams, I’m cruising the Winn-Dixie parking lot in my cherry-ass arctic-white ’78 Firebird with the Van Halen logo airbrushed onto the hood. I’ve got the T-tops on because the air-conditioning actually works, which is more than I can say about the rusted-out Yugo Tempo in the Tampa of my reality.

In the Tampa of my dreams, Jeff Becerra walks again. In fact, dude walked here all the way from San Francisco just to kick some ass and take down the names. First fucker on his list? YOU.

In the Tampa of my dreams, I don’t have to sit around for two hours waiting for Julio to show up with my shit. I get higher than a hundred motherfuckers on the finest crystal this side of Ybor City but instead of jacking off to Internet porn for 10 hours straight, Gina Lynn comes over to my house and sucks my dick. For free.

In the Tampa of my dreams, George “Corpsegrinder” Fisher bodyslams Chris Barnes onto the broiling hot pavement before chucking his twisted carcass off an overpass and into six lanes of oncoming traffic. Barnes is so high he doesn’t feel a fucking thing. An 18-wheeler full of McDonald’s swerves to avoid him and slams into the barricade. Free Big Macs for everyone.

In the Tampa of my dreams, the Hoffman brothers hand-fire muscle juice straight into their ballbags, take turns bench-pressing each other’s trucks and then rip the Empire State Building apart by hand.

In the Tampa of my dreams, the Empire State Building is in Tampa.

In the Tampa of my dreams, Obituary play Cause Of Death in its entirety at a keg party in my backyard. The dudes from Massacre are there with the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, who are all hanging out topless, and there’s an unlimited supply of High Life and Trevor Peres does a keg stand and Becky Griswold definitely isn’t invited because she ruined my life.

In the Tampa of my dreams, Julio forgets that I owe him that 80 bucks and then accidentally leaves an 8-ball at my house and then forgets that he did that, too.

In the Tampa of my dreams, I bring Chuck Schuldiner back to life and he dedicates the new Death album to me and takes me on world tour and then decides that he wants to focus on guitar stuff and asks me to take over as lead vocalist but I respectfully decline and say, “No, dude—Death wouldn’t be Death if you didn’t do the vocals. It would be something considerably less than Death, and that would be lame.”

In the Tampa of my dreams, I am a benevolent man.

This bullshit originally appeared in the October 2009 issue of Decibel magazine.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Not To Entertain, But To Annihilate

May 14, 2009: “Rock n’ roll collectibles” company Aggronautix announces plans to release a limited-edition GG Allin bobblehead doll. Two weeks later, one of the fuckers arrives at Decibel’s L.A. Bureau and starts talking to us. In English, no less. It doesn’t even have a pull string or anything like that. One night, we started talking back with the tape recorder running. A transcript follows:

… Yeah, we know, we know: Your body is the “rock n’ roll temple,” and your “flesh, blood and body fluids are a communion to the people, whether they like it or not.” We get it. Here’s the thing, though, guy: You’re a fucking bobble-head doll. Can you believe Merle signed off on this shit? Oh, wait—you died way before became The Official Resource Of The King Of Rock-N-Roll, so the full scope of his vicarious profiteering remains the exclusive burden of the living. Then again, you always said you were the one and only Christ Almighty, so maybe cranking out a couple thousand false idols at $14.95 apiece makes total sense. The lightweight polyresin seems kinda bush league for someone who liked to smash himself in the face with a microphone every night, though. And eat his own poo.

“People in this lifetime are just not ready for me.” That’s what you told Joe Coughlin over the penitentiary blower from Jackson State back in ’93, and we couldn’t agree more. The fact that those same people might be ready to embrace you as an unspeaking, nonviolent, distinctly non-shit-smelling plastic figurine speaks volumes about the coddled state of the western world, don’t you think? Specifically, the infantilization of two generations of morbidly obese, video-gaming, toy-collecting, soda-chugging dimwits who insist on wearing sweatpants and flip-flops at every opportunity while blowing their paychecks on every chintzy piece of Taiwanese fucky-foam that can be molded into something they might recognize from the YouTube.

Apparently, Tesco Vee from the Meatmen is getting the same spring-loaded treatment, and he fucking loves it. Even called you his “poopy soulmate” whilst anointing the so-called “Throbbleheads”—his and yours—with a ringing Dutch Hercules endorsement. Talk about “Tooling For Anus.” But then again, there’s a link on his official website labeled “Got Old Toys?” so it’s not like we can feign surprise. And yet New Hampshire’s Greatest Soldier remains permanently unavailable for comment on the matter.

So where does that leave us, my naked, shit-covered, heroin-overdosed friend? No doubt you’re enjoying the unlimited golden showers and endless supply of hooker-piss mouthwash in some sort of skanky scum-punk Valhalla that may or may not resemble the Lower East Side, circa 1986-91. Probably laughing your scabby tits off at all this petty mercantile nonsense, too. Who’s sweating unauthorized likenesses while you and Hank Sr. are high-fiveing each other from either end of Wendy O. Williams, right? The joke’s on them—the squares, the cops, the easily misled—and it always will be. It’s not your fault that Middle America never understood that Geraldo Rivera is just PT Barnum with less charisma, fewer brains, and a fascist streak. You peed in the stream of commerce a long time ago, anyway. So fuck it, man. No use spinning in your grave all night when you might need to use it as a toilet later.

This bullshit originally appeared in the August 2009 issue of Decibel magazine.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

The Future's So Bright

Try as you might, you cannot cheat destiny—which is why we here at Cry Now, Cry Later have consulted the stars in order to bring you the following astrological tidings. Consider this shit chiseled in stone.

ARIES (Mar 21 - Apr 19)

Your ride to the Maryland Deathfest fell through at the last minute when Bolt Thrower’s merch dude emailed you back and said they already had a merch dude. Luckily, the truck drivers down at Stuckey’s are always willing to give a lift to anyone who doesn’t mind smoking pole. This month’s soundtrack: Gorgoroth’s Twilight Of The Idols.

TAURUS (Apr 20 - May 20)

With Mercury in retrograde, you’ll have to be especially vigilant this month when it comes to posers. Ask yourself: Does dudebro have a Blue Grape receipt to go with those Obituary sweatpants? This month’s soundtrack: The Metal Massacre II compilation (on vinyl), Darkthrone’s Transilvanian Hunger (first edition only).

GEMINI (May 21 - Jun 21)

The Anvil documentary is finally showing at your local theater, which means Lips and Robb are gonna need a place to crash. Do your hesh brethren a solid and cook up a nice big pot of spaghetti while you’re at it. This month’s soundtrack: Anvil’s Metal On Metal.

CANCER (Jun 22 - Jul 22)

You know that hot chick from the coffee shop—the one you’ve had your eye on for a couple of weeks now? She’s got a huge cock. This month’s soundtrack: Copremesis’ Muay Thai Ladyboys.

LEO (Jul 23 - Aug 22)

Love might not be forever, but luckily, neither are restraining orders. This month’s soundtrack: Pig Destroyer’s Prowler In The Yard, Agoraphobic Nosebleed’s Agorapocalypse, XXX Maniak’s Harvesting The Cunt Nectar, Brainbombs’ Obey.

VIRGO (Aug 23 - Sep 22)

You are charming, handsome and always right. It must be exhausting to rule this hard all the time, but you’re witty and popular enough to handle it. This month’s soundtrack: Holy Diver on repeat.

LIBRA (Sep 23 - Oct 23)

Try to wear something a little less faggy to the Deicide show next week, and maybe you won’t get your ass beaten like last time. Just sayin’. This month’s soundtrack: Bob Larson vs. Glen Benton, The Complete Phone Calls.

SCORPIO (Oct 24 - Nov 21)

Hydra Head sold out of the fucking Melvins box set in like six seconds. Luckily, it’s already available on eBay for five times the price. This month’s soundtrack: Poison Idea’s RecordCollectors Are Pretentious Assholes.

SAGITTARIUS (Nov 22 - Dec 21)

Someone keeps changing the lock on your front door and tossing all your shit out on the front lawn. Maybe it’s time to take a hint and move out of your parents’ basement once and for all. This month’s soundtrack: Anything by Manowar.

CAPRICORN (Dec 22 - Jan 19)

Satan, as personified by the neighbors’ Labradoodle, has more instructions for you than usual this month. Be sure to stock up on shotgun shells, Milkbones, and meth. This month’s soundtrack: Judas Priest’s Stained Class, Black Flag’s My War.

AQUARIUS (Jan 20 - Feb 18)

Your record release party wasn’t nearly as well-attended as you’d hoped. Next time, hire some strippers and give the door dude a stack of drink tickets to lure in random passers-by. This month’s soundtrack: All Danzig, all the time.

PISCES (Feb 19 - Mar 20)

Death to all but metal. Death to all butt metal. Death to all but metal. Death to all butt metal. This month’s soundtrack: Anything by Steel Panther.

This bullshit originally appeared in the July 2009 issue of Decibel magazine.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Metal Militia: We're Taking Over This Town

A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

- Second Amendment to the US Constitution

We the People, having determined that the self-appointed leaders of this great nation have gone straight asshole on us, hereby invoke our right to establish (and well-regulate) an armed Militia to ensure our Security and Freedom, and to protect ourselves from a tyrannical government. Furthermore, we the People, having ingested a metric assload of military-grade amphetamines, and having listened to Metallica’s Kill ’Em All on repeat for 44 consecutive hours, do hereby proclaim:

1) After removing the current Administration from office and, uh, neutralizing the presumptive presidential nominees, the new Militia-appointed executive branch and Cabinet will be as follows: Secretary Of State Tomas Lindberg, Secretary of Defense (and Remixes) J.K. Broadrick, Vice President Fenriz and President Jesse “The Body” Ventura. This is effective immediately, or at least as soon as At The Gates finish up their US tour.

2) Just for shits and giggles, Tipper Gore will be forced to slow dance with Chris Barnes to “Stripped, Raped and Strangled” at Jesse The Body’s inaugural ball.

3) All US troops will be withdrawn from Iraq immediately. As in: Right Fucking Now. In their place, the Militia will send former President George Dubya Bush, former Vice President Dick “Thunderlips” Cheney, former Secretary of State Condi Rice, former White House Chief Of Staff Karl Rove, and former Secretary of Defense Don “The Winnetka Hammer” Rumsfeld, each armed with a white handkerchief and a boombox blasting Slayer’s God Hates Us All. They will be naked except for black KKK-style hoods, with live car batteries clamped permanently to their nipples. Additionally, General David “Peaches” Petraeus will be replaced by the dude from Mortician.

4) Upon returning home from Iraq, all US servicemen and -women get (A) To shoot the Congress member of their choice or (B) Five years paid leave with benefits.

5) Fuck Francis Scott Key. “The Star Spangled Banner” is antiquated, boring, and only serves to glorify the former Administration’s permanent war economy. Plus, we always leave off the last two verses. The new national anthem will be either “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister or something off of Diamond Head’s Lightning To The Nations.

6) No more gun-control laws. Well, almost none: Government officials will be forbidden to own firearms. Any official found in possession of one will be waterboarded on the White House lawn and then pilloried in front of the Washington Monument. For everyone else, gun ownership will be mandatory. Report to your local post office to pick up your Carcano M91/38 bolt-action rifle. This is the same model the CIA used to kill Kennedy, so you know they’re good.

7) The function of the Internal Revenue Service will be reversed, thus rendering it an actual Service. Instead of collecting taxes and auditing citizens, the IRS will now audit the ways in which the Administration is spending (and has spent) our tax dollars, providing an itemized receipt to each and every citizen. The new Co-Commissioners of Internal Revenue will be Wesley Snipes and Trey Azagthoth. This will also make for an awesome reality TV show.

8) Halliburton and ExxonMobil will be required to pay health care costs for all US citizens for the next 100 years or until the sun cooks the human race like eggs on an Arizona sidewalk in August. Additionally, the new Surgeon General will be Jeff Walker from Carcass. He will henceforth be referred to as the “Secretary Of Salubriousness.”

9) As many an astute scholar has pointed out, the American flag is really just a visual representation of the bars that keep us imprisoned (stained red with our own blood) and the cell window through which we gaze hopefully at a bright blue sky (filled with stars and the promise of freedom) in the upper left-hand corner. Which is exactly why we’re gonna replace that fucker with the Danzig skull.

10) The White House will be painted black. Make that Extra Black©. This one should be self-explanatory.

This bullshit originally appeared in Decibel magazine, but we forget which issue. Suffice it to say, George W. Bush was still in office at the time.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Garage Days Re-Re-Revisited

Unused Audio Commentary By Dave Mustaine and James Hetfield, Recorded Summer 2004, For The Some Kind Of Monster DVD

Hetfield: [Cracks open bottle of Gold Symphony vodka, produces two shot glasses, fills both] Here’s to old times, huh, Dave?

Mustaine: Chin-chin, Jimmy. [Both men down their shots] Excellent choice, by the way. Gold Symphony was always my favorite Russian—you know, back in my drinkin’ days.

Hetfield: Yeah, mine, too. I can’t keep any of this stuff in the house anymore, though. Francesca would shit a brick.

Mustaine: I hear you. It’s the same way at my place. Do you ever eat the gold leaf?

Hetfield: Hell yeah. I bet I’ve got a 23-carat liver by now.

[Both laugh]

Mustaine: Fuck, I think I’m gonna need another shot before we start here. That scene with Lars and me is tough to sit through.

Hetfield: Really? I’ve never actually seen the movie before. Cliff Burnstein says it’s a winner, though. [Pours two more shots] Bottoms up, Dave.

Mustaine: Cheers, Jimmy. [Both down their shots] Oh, hey—I meant to ask you about that hot-rod I saw out in the parking lot…the one with the “Jaymz” vanity plate. Is that thing street legal?

Hetfield: [Laughs] Well, technically, no. But all the Marin County highway cops know me. As long as I don’t take it up over 80, it’s cool. Every once in a while, I’ll get pulled over by a new guy who doesn’t know the drill, but once he recognizes me, I’ll usually just sign an autograph for him and be on my way.

Mustaine: Nice, nice … Look, Jimmy, I gotta be honest. The real reason I came down here today is because I wanna convince you guys not to use that footage of me all crying and shit. I asked Lars, but he’s being a real prick about it. Can you do me a solid here, or what?

Hetfield: Yeah, Lars is pissed at you, man. He said that you called him your “little Danish friend” on camera… [Laughs] Did you really say that? [Pours two more shots]

Mustaine: Oh, man… I think I did.

Hetfield: Bad move, Dave. You know that fucker has the world’s biggest Napoleon complex.

Mustaine: [Laughs] I’ll drink to that. [Both down their shots] Fuck, man—I can’t even remember the last time I did three shots of vodka.

Hetfield: That’s probably because it was more like 20, with a heroin chaser. [Pours two more shots]

Mustaine: [Laughs] You’re telling me. [Both down their shots] Well, I guess we should probably fire this thing up here. I’ve got band practice tonight. You got the remote?

Hetfield: No, I thought you had it.

Mustaine: Nope. I’m feeling a little tipsy, though, to tell you the truth. I feel like I need some sort of pick-me-up … do you, uh … have any coke by any chance?

Hetfield: I knew you were gonna say that! [Laughs] Lars owes me 500 bucks! [Laughs] But no, I don’t have any. Francesca deleted my dude’s number from my phone.

Mustaine: No worries—I’ll call my dude.

[An hour passes. The sound of empty vodka bottles rolling on the floor is punctuated by snorting, sniffling, and half-decipherable torrents of inane conversation. Finally, the whole thing devolves into an argument.]

Mustaine: Mechanix!

Hetfield: The Four Horsemen!

Mustaine: Mechanix!

Hetfield: The Four Horsemen!

Mustaine: Fuck you! I hate you guys! You ruined my life!

Hetfield: Look, Dave, we’ve been through this a million fucking times with you, man…and… uh… fuck…I lost my train of thought here … Wait, can I get your dude’s number?

Many thanks to Jeff Alexander and Tom Bissell for the inspiration. This bullshit originally appeared in the May 2008 issue of Decibel magazine.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Punching In

The Highly Somewhat Anticipated Return of Goat Puncher

Tuesday, 2:36pm CST, Dubuque, Iowa. The office of George Pendleton, owner and proprietor of Pendleton’s Auto Repair & Billiards and Total Deathcrush Management.

The phone rings.


Randy from Goat Puncher on line one, Mr. Pendleton.

Oh, great. Thanks, Gladys. Put him through, I guess.

[A beat]

Randy! How are you, you old cock? Are you in Pomona yet?

It’s El Gonkulator, George, and yeah, we’re in Pomona. Lester has the shits and Bobby picked up some annoying skank in Tucson, but that’s not why I’m calling.


Shut up and listen to me, George. What’s this shit about Corpse Hammer headlining over us at Cunt Fest?

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

That’s not what Kevin said. We were slamming beers and watching Persekutor videos at some slut’s house last night and Kevin starts running his mouth about how Corpse Hammer got that tour and then he said they’re going on after us at Cunt Fest.

You and Kevin are speaking again? That’s fantastic…

Don’t change the subject, George. Just fucking fix it. Oh, and I need you to put Zander Schloss on the list for the L.A. show tomorrow—plus three.

Zander Schloss? The guy from Repo Man?

Yeah—and the Circle Jerks. Apparently he’s a big fan.

Of who? You guys?

Yes, George. What’s so hard to believe about that? You’re supposed to be our manager, for fuck’s sake. Don’t you even watch TV?

You know I don’t watch TV, Randy. It makes my facial tics flare up.

Look, George, are you gonna call up those Corpse Hammer assholes or what? I’m sick of them getting all the sweet festival slots. Plus, they ate all the Funyuns backstage at the Palladium last month. Just thinking about those d-bags makes my fuckin’ head spin.

Yeah, didn’t you post something on your blog about that? But your mom made you take it down?

Stepmom. And fuck you, George. Just make the fucking call, or I swear to Christ I’ll come down there and stab you in the neck with a number-two pencil.


And don’t forget: Zander Schloss, plus three.


This bullshit originally appeared in the September 2008 issue of Decibel magazine.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

An Occurrence At Lake Titicaca

When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle.

--Martin Sheen as Captain Benjamin Willard, Apocalypse Now

Black Pazuzu was standing on the eastern shore of Lake Titicaca, chewing coca leaves with President Evo Morales, when he had a vision. It was the ghost of Kevin DuBrow, urging Black Pazuzu to “cum on, feel the noize.” The late Quiet Riot vocalist was resplendent in a red leather jacket he had borrowed from drummer Frankie Banali. He was thrusting his hips suggestively and doing that sweeping index finger move that had become de rigueur on the Sunset Strip back in what Black Pazuzu’s American friends referred to as “the day.”

At this point, however, Black Pazuzu was not even aware that Kevin DuBrow had recently passed on. Had he known, he no doubt would have thought it both sad and bizarre that even in death, Quiet Riot’s lead singer was relegated to covering Slade. And because bad English-language puns seem not as bad when English is your second language, it also would have occurred to him that the vocalist’s “metal health” had finally failed.

“I think the coca leaves are getting to me, Evo.”

Only when Black Pazuzu said this, he said it in Spanish.

“I know what you mean,” Morales replied, also in Spanish. The Bolivian president casually produced a banana from his coat pocket, peeled it, and took a bite. Suddenly and without preamble, he began cursing the Coca-Cola Company aloud.

Black Pazuzu groaned audibly. He knew this presidential diatribe well. Coca-Cola was the only American corporation authorized by the US federal government to import and process coca leaves from Bolivia. The gringos had also forbid the export of coca leaves to anywhere else in the world and had been funding coca crop eradication in Bolivia since 1988. This preposterous and flawed transnational scheme was called Law 1008, and Black Pazuzu was familiar with its articles and provisions. Morales himself despised it, and had famously appeared before the UN after his election, making a clear distinction between coca and its most notorious byproduct while denouncing Law 1008 to the palefaces’ pale faces. And here on the bank of Lake Titicaca, he denounced it again.

“The worst enemy of humanity is US capitalism,” Morales said for what Black Pazuzu felt was easily the thousandth time since the two men had first snorted rails off the back of a toilet tank at an Inquisition show in La Paz five years ago. (Inquisition is Morales’ favorite band—he even secretly had them flown in to play a private post-inauguration bash.) “That is what provokes uprisings like our own, a rebellion against a system, against a neo-liberal model, which is the representation of a savage capitalism.”

Had there been a large crowd of coca farmers gathered, Morales’ words would have surely been met with cheers and applause. But Black Pazuzu’s thoughts had moved on to a recurring fantasy he liked to call “Live Mystical Violence.”

He imagined himself onstage in full corpsepaint, stripped to the waist and soaked in goats’ blood as he and his band shredded their way though their signature song, “La creación, la traición, la violación y la caida de los Angeles,” the unholy berserker aggression of which would no doubt bring the eternal full-metal furies of both Lucifer and Viracocha down up on the heads of gringo and brown man alike. As usual, the audience was comprised entirely of topless women and the members of Slayer.

“Fuck, yeah,” Black Pazuzu muttered as his eyes rolled back in his head. “Muerte total…”

“Silencio!” Morales shrieked, cocking his ear toward the jungle. “It’s the FARC guerillas! They’ve come to assassinate me!” The Bolivian president began calling out for his bodyguards.

A branch snapped. Tropical vegetation rustled. A pair of silhouetted figures stepped out from the dense underbrush into the sweaty Bolivian dusk. At first, Black Pazuzu couldn’t make out their faces, but he could tell they were holding hands. As the figures drew closer, Morales whipped out his TEC-9 and a machete. Just as the president was about to go shit-house on the approaching interlopers, Black Pazuzu stayed his hand. He recognized these men: It was Kevin DuBrow and former Quiet Riot guitarist Randy Rhoads.

“Hey, dudes—we’re getting the band back together,” DuBrow said with a smile. “You in?”

They all laughed and shook hands. They sat on the bank of Lake Titicaca and chewed coca leaves, plotting what would surely be their complete domination of the world metal circuit.

By the time the sun rose the next morning, all four of them had vanished.

This bullshit originally appeared in the February 2008 issue of Decibel magazine but was written in November of 2007, just days before Kevin DuBrow's death by cocaine overdose.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

The Unabomber & Me

Ever since I became pen pals with Ted Kaczynski, I’ve had conflicting feelings about the mail.

Still, I joined the Freedom Club sometime around 1981. What can I say? I was young and impressionable. And I had an insatiable bloodlust for then-United Airlines president Percy Wood. To me—like most six year olds at the time—Wood was the living embodiment of the techno-fascist state. (Behind Reagan, obviously.)

Later—on September 19, 1995, to be exact—I read Uncle Ted’s Industrial Society and Its Future in the Washington Post, and it changed my life. Especially that part about “oversocialization.” But then they arrested him out in Montana and threw him in the can.

In 1998, shortly after Uncle Ted tried to hang himself, I wrote him a letter of solidarity. I told him to “keep his chin up” and implored him not to drop the soap.

When his response finally arrived from the ADX Supermax in Florence, Colorado, I was elated. Ted regaled me with tales of life on “the inside,” describing each and every inch of his 7x12-foot cell, with its polished steel mirror, concrete desk, and tap-free sink. He said he had been recruited by the Aryan Brotherhood via a secret transmission written in grapefruit juice and semen, but was debating the efficacy of gang membership in a prison where one spends 23 hours a day in solitary confinement. He also requested some stamps and a few dollars on the books so he could buy legal pads and, like, cigs.

I responded with a letter written on Hello Kitty stationary. I told Ted about my life, my hopes, my dreams. I told him about Cave In’s Until Your Heart Stops and Iron Monkey’s Our Problem, both of which had just been released. I figured maybe he could identify with Our Problem cover artist Mike Diana, who had been unjustly persecuted (and prosecuted) by the Floridian authorities for the supposedly “obscene” contents of his Boiled Angel zine.

In his second letter, Uncle Ted said he had never heard of Mike Diana. But he sent me a copy of a short story he had written called Ship Of Fools, along with a Xerox of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. The tone of his letter was excited—he had spent one of his rare “fresh air” hours lifting weights with Larry Hoover of the Gangster Disciples and Sammy “The Bull” Gravano. He had also spotted John Walker Lindh walking around the exercise yard with Omar Abdel-Rahman. They were holding hands—not because they were into man-on-man butt sex, Uncle Ted explained—but because that’s how friends roll in the Middle East. And also probably because Rahman is blind and needed help getting around or whatever.

I was fascinated. By now it was the year 2000, and the hard drives of the world had not crashed like Uncle Ted had predicted. Better still, I had purchased my first CD burner. I made Uncle Ted copies of all the shit I was into at the time—Electric Wizard’s Dopethrone, Gogoroth’s Incipit Satan, Scissorfight’s New Hampshire, and SubArachnoid Space’s These Things Take Time. I’m not sure if he had a CD player, though.

Then I received a package wrapped in brown paper and posted with a neatly-arranged row of Eugene O’Neill one-dollar stamps. The return address was 04475-046, Florence, CO. I guess that was Uncle Ted’s official Supermax number. As you might imagine, I was hesitant to open it. But then I thought: “No, Uncle Ted is my friend.” Besides, how could he have access to bomb-making materials in a federal Supermax prison? So I opened it.

Inside was a copy of the Department of Defense’s Improvised Munitions Handbook. I guess Uncle Ted had stolen it from the prison library. The enclosed letter was written in some kind of mathematical Zodiac Killer-type code. “This is it,” I thought, “Uncle Ted is asking me to continue his fight against technological subjugation.” I fished through the packing peanuts—Uncle Ted had lovingly drawn a smiley face on each and every one—to see if he had included anything else I might need to begin my training.

That’s when I found them. Uncle Ted had returned the music I had burned for him. I thought of consulting the munitions handbook and sending him a taste of his own medicine in the form of a nail-and-splinter pipe bomb. But that’d be stooping to his level. Besides, it would never make it past the guards.

“Fuck Uncle Ted,” I thought. I knew he was full of shit all along.

This bullshit originally appeared in the December 2007 issue of Decibel magazine.