Issue 30:
With A Rhythmic Motion And A Little Hand Lotion, I’d Rather Do It All Myself
Undoubtedly, the type of sex that’s occurring the most at any given point on this planet is masturbation. It’s a lonely, bittersweet, some say shameful endeavor, but, even so, lone lovers deserve musical accompaniment to their onanistic acts. Elvis Costello’s rhythmically insistent “Pump It Up” is probably the definitive jackoff anthem, closely followed by Generation X’s “Dancing With Myself” during which the lead singer, lame-ass designer punk Billy Idol, shamelessly simulates the sounds of an orgasm at the tune’s (ahem) climax.
Chris Adams, Eat to the Beat
Back in 350 B.C., Diogenes spent every lunch hour prowling the streets of Athens with a lit candle looking for an honest man, without much success. But today, with a modem and a halfway decent web browser he could probably find one within a couple of weeks.
Kerry Joyce, These ARE The Good Old Days
I am seeking investors for “Truckstop-land,” a pet project. The success of chain restaurants is currently pushing roadside greasy spoons to extinction. To sate public desire for a glossed-over past, I will provide a quality “wildcatter” experience, while trucking in my own fortune. There will be vitamins sold as mock amphetamines, audio-animatronic “Julies” delivering the Gettysburg address, and a laminated, one page, coffee-stained, “Adam-and-Eve-on-a-Raft Gourmenu” with olestra dishes created by Wolfgang Puck. Mock diesel fumes will be pumped in from floor and ceiling vents. Overweight men will make eyes at you in the Men’s room. Pancakes larger than sofa cushions will be served on carefully chipped dinnerware with sulfurous powdered eggs caked on the side. Low-grade coffee will be boiled down to its darkest, bitterest essence before any cup is served. …The ketchup will be warm and vinegary while the coffee cream will stay perpetually on the verge of curdling.
Dave Liljengren, Gone Truckin’
Listen, “E”… it’s 1996, friend. You don’t have to kill all the instruments in a song so that people can hear you emote “fuck” with absolute clarity – people fucking swear all the fucking time in common goddamn vernacular, it’s no big fucking deal anymore, ya fucking pussy. I hear they even let you wiggle your hips on The Ed Sullivan Show now, too.
Chris Adams, the Eels
The Suicide Commandos were a Minneapolis punk band. Not much of a stretch these days, but this was ’77 – Bob Mould had yet to take his first cap of speed, Paul Westerberg could probably still remember to take out the trash (which didn’t yet clink with empty gin bottles), and Prince still had a name you could pronounce.
Nik Rainey, The Suicide Commandos
If you ever wondered what Al Jourgensen would sound like crooning Bowie-style through a phaser over an early Beastie Boys beat and a Purple Rain synth sound with an ebony-skinned Aphrodite with PMS belting out back-up vox, well, keep wondering.
Chaz Thorndike, Foreskin 500
The biggest downer on the album was definitely 88 Fingers Louie’s cover of the Misfits’ “Night of the Living Dead.” Some vocalists just can’t hold their “Whoooah!’s,” know what I mean?
Joshua Brown, Hopelessly Devoted to You
Somehow, the prevailing opinion seems to be that any intoxicated, malnourished hipster with a cigarette-scarred PC and a complete collection of books about moody vampires and their wise-cracking succubus sidekicks can merely belch out a few hundred incoherent words and automatically get them published in these pages. Strictly speaking, of course, that’s absolutely true… But for the novice, there are certain standards you are expected to uphold, and I would like to take this opportunity to reach out to you, the aspiring Lollipop contributor, give you a couple of good slaps to your bulbous, casaba-like cranium, and pick your pockets when you’re not looking. But as that’s somewhat difficult to do in print, here are some writer’s guidelines instead.
William Ham, The Culture Bunker: How To Succeed at Lollipop Without Really Caring
