Issue 35:

Joyriding In Noah’s Ark

The Macho Film had its beginnings in the theater of ancient Greece and crystallized into perfection during the middle part of this century with the work of John Wayne, and then a little later with Clint Eastwood. More recent times have found us in the fun but ignoramus realm of the Sweaty-No-Neck-Badass-Motherfucker. I am talking, of course, about Stallone, Van Damme, and all the rest. While certainly these current Macho Film superstars have pushed no-neckedness and testicular shrinkage to a new level, they have also reduced the genre into something slightly blander than vanilla fudge. Wayne and Eastwood often played characters with some grit to them (often more than was apparent). Grit would reek havoc on the current Macho Guy’s hair cut, and interrupt their muscle sheen. Their films are Hallmark Cards to Macho Blandness.
Adam Haynes, City of Industry

Chris Best: I hear you’re performing in clubs again as well.
Kim Chambers (porn “actress”): Yes. …I’m the best there is, so everyone should come and see me.
CB: (sarcastically) You’re not biased at all, are you?
KC: Yes I am. I love women.
DEAD PAUSE
CB: So, do you do anything special?
KC: I light my pussy on fire.
CB: How do you manage that?
KC: With FM, baby! Fuckin’ Magic!
CB: How long did it take you to get that trick right?
KC: I got it right the very first time.
CB: I guess you had some incentive.
KC: Oh, no. I’m very sensitive down there.
Chris Best, Flesh & Boredom in Vegas

Demi Moore is the highest-paid actress in Hollywood, and has earned her coin by perfecting a screen persona likely to endure at least as long as the warranty on her chest, an all-purpose characterization that suits her regardless of time, place, or setting – the self-empowering feminist icon, openly defiant of the constrictions imposed on her by both the oppressive masculocracy and those damn clothes. (She reportedly shaved her head for G.I. Jane because that’s the only skin on her body she hadn’t shown off yet.)
William Ham, Cine Trash: The Scarlet Letter

We sat down to tea, Tetley I think, and began to chat.
“So, Mr. Greentower, you are a religious man?”
“I’m afraid not. How about them Bulls?”…
“Then you are a free thinker?”
“Are those my only choices?”
Kerry Joyce, The Mind Museum and Adjoining Garden

What happens when Goth wants to grow up? How does the crowd of pale nightcrawlers that clog the dancefloors of Dante’s Inferno Room and Atrophy Night at Club Me Senseless go about shrugging off the shackles (usually storebought) that weigh down their skinny shoulders, tossing aside the bottles of estrogen-for-men and anti-vitamins, and struggling into the light of day? I’m not sure either (and that’s one assimilation process to which I’d rather not bear witness), but I bet they hand out the Cranes’Population Four at the registration desk.
Nik Rainey, Cranes

In Trading Places, street hustler Eddie Murphy is dazzled by the jacuzzi in Dan Aykroyd’s penthouse apartment, commenting that he would have had to fart in the tub to produce a similar effect in his destitute childhood home. The problem with the makeshift jacuzzi is that no one’s butt can fart as quickly and efficiently nor with as much endurance as a hot tub. One might argue that the “human element” (or, in this case, stench) has been lost in the translation. Why don’t we make a jacuzzi that pumps suspended human farts into the water, then? Or maybe let’s not.
Joshua Brown, DJ Shadow

Few of us could have predicted the divergent fortunes of the Dinos a decade later – lead moper J Mascis 86’d Barlow from the band and has spent the ensuing years grinding away on the same worn-out groove, making increasingly self-parodic records pulled up from the same well of moan ‘n’ wank, whereas Barlow has become the toast of Indietown, the kinda guy who has more side projects than you have back hairs.
Nik Rainey, The Folk Implosion

A lot of people wonder why bands like this have the solar system revolving around their genitals, and I’ll tell you why. It’s the same reason the Huns were able to sack Rome. Because they had the balls to do it. They mowed down the whiniest, most decadent army in the known world. They didn’t think twice about why, they just broke down the city gates, stormed in, and with a hearty “Wooohoo! I hear Rome likes to PARTAY!” it was all over.
Chris Best, the Newlydeads

“Hey Greg. Going to football practice today?”
“What’s up, Keith. Yeah. Check it out. I got this new CD today.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I was at this store, and I asked the geek behind the counter if he had anything heavy.”
“Wha’d he say?”
“He gave me this band Nightstick. C’mon, let’s put it on.”
(Silence, followed by what sounds like a combination of an earthquake and a malfunctioning jet engine.)
“Greg, what the fuck is wrong with your stereo?”
“I dunno. Lemme check.”
(Greg fiddles with the wires for a few minutes. Rumbling continues, now punctuated with some sort of drums and guitar.)
“There we go. So, anyway, I was with that chick Shirley last night and I… Hold on, I think this is on the wrong speed.”
“It’s a CD, Greg.”
“Oh.”
Lex Marburger, Nightstick

While all the elements can be easily traced back to their “roots” (meaning a record that came out last year), the result is still a damn good song.
Scott Hefflon, One Hit Wonder

If this album had an ass, I would kiss it like the feet of Christ.
Austin Nash, Shiner

Sid did it his way. Which is to say, he played an awful bass for one of the most important rock bands ever, haplessly followed Johnny Rotten like a lost little puppy, acted as idiot marionette for Malcolm McLaren’s conniving manipulations, dated an obnoxious groupie, became a junkie, killed the groupie, died of an overdose, and had a movie made about him a decade later. By far, the most important of these acts was the dying part. In doing so, he secured himself icon status for every half-witted hedgehog-head with a leather jacket, low self-esteem, and a propensity for self-mutilation.
Chris Adams, Sid Vicious