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Criffie,Sleep-deprivatiorr, Friendship By Nick See Pagingthrough an older copy of Duder P. Tailgate'szine recently reminded me that it's been nearly a decadesince thosefirst days of being punks,going to "coldass"basementsmore than once a week to "fall all over each other." Vhat I rememberat least as clearly*andI'm realizing now that this might seemstrange,but what I rememberrnosf clearly, is a certain donut shop and what that meant to me. For certain friends and I BuckeyeDonuts was a source of comfort, a place/or peoplewith no place to go, weirdos who seemedlike us. In addition to its obviousquality of facilitating sleep-deprivationthat I thrived on in thosedays,the Z-hour donut shop was and has always been special to me becauseof my faint awareness it before I took to hanging out there. Rumor has it that Prince once snakedthrough the kitchen and pasl the racks of donuts to use the bathroom. More personal for me is that my sister worked there in the early 8Oswhen she was in 'ffib"te-'ft lP6nrtxs, --**"--.' high school.Watchingher with my niecestoday,l try to imagine her pouring coffee,fielding inane questionsabout fritters, fending off obnoxiousstudents, converting change for the homeless,and turning the other way when peopleused the shop as their office for trade in nontaxable goods.I also wonder if, for her too. the donut shop has always been the venue for friendship that it has been 'l i .. i1 for me. f, " a' . . . . _ . . _ Duder P. and I spent a . .rtE!9*' t \, ".-s-\-,. .i/ (t t:.Z-hour in the donut shop cycle __e:S '-"'- ' â‚Ź.:i?,, l " '1 for ttre time inZffif, but the first ---'"''s '' conditionsfor that marathon f+pouk were set years earlier when he ,'."/ and I were in different states. Duder might rememberthings differently,but * if I recall correctly - the idea for the Z-hour cycle was hatchedin 2003,when he was in the Southeastcrashing on someone'scouch after riding trains. I . saveda letter thal he sent me in those days. "Last nite I stayedup all nite. From 4-61 was at a diner and let rne tell you what happened.A man did ballerina dancesfor us for like 20 minutes.Then another dude did a one handed cartwheel. He was about Z50lbsand short. It all reminded me of the nights of buckey-e donuts and how we MUSTdo the great'Z4hrexperimentwhen I get back" "Danuts"contin'ued on page 2'
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"Danuts" continued fram page l. At the time,as now,I was wrapped up in the university schedulewith no end in sight.Vhen my friend told me that he's going back to school for winter quarter, I couldn't help but be skeptical.I'm glad to say that he did return after squatting in an elementary school seeing New Orleanson Halloween, pushing back against the Miami police and the proposedFret Trade Area of the Americas,and riding a train through a hurricane. Still, I took him seriously when he said, "the summer will end when I freeze or die." Fortunately,we welcomed the New Year in the same city, both of us very much alive. Two years later, we both read about San Francisco'sCrescentDonuts in an issue of KAM. Here was a donut shop very much like ours. SC4if further stimulated our romantic longing for "the 25th hour," the possibility of seeing - from the counter at BuckeyeDonuts - that time of day another friend described as "the golden hour." For lggy Scam,CrescentDonuts was "the epicenter of crime" - crime he celebrated and the Mission'sauthorities despised then desirous as they were of the normalized landscapethat has emerged in that neighborhoodin the years since. In BuckeyeDonuts,loo, criminal abnormality was celebratedan thrived. If the donut shop was a vonex for the abnormal, the encounters of people embodyingwhat generated a veritable economyof weirdness that spilled its surplus out the door and into the street. At the prodding offered by SCAMthe ?Ahour cycle becameimperative. Since 2O(I7the 24-hour cycle becamean annual tradition with good friends irining us for the occasion.Over those years, as the experiment with "Punk Donut Nite" came and went, stories were written, donuts eaten. ideas and relationships hatched.This year we saw the golden hour but didn't make it ihrough an entire day opting to head for Mike' Grille. A suitable alternative, we thought.ln what is likely to be the last Z-hour cycle for years to come now that Duder has left Columbusfor the row housdsof Baltimore,an appropriate conclusion to the tradition. Or, as Chad said: "You're writing four hundred words on the donut shop?I have four Ietters.F-U-C-K."
Down with the clown There has been a lot of talk about frrggaloslately, but i feel that most peopledon't really understand the depth of the fuggalo cancer that plaguesthe Midwesl and most of the country. The Insane Clown Possefeeds propagandato their fans on every album, and in almost every song is some "family love."Songssuch as "Down with the clown", "fuggalo family" and "Homies"create a false senseof unity in young kids who might not fit in with the normal culture. Most of the clowns' lyrical content is focusedaround building this strong connection with their fans. They make kids believe they've been there, they understand and care about them, they are "family."There are no requirements to being a fuggalo,all you have to be is "down with the clown"...and buy merch. The clowns are marketing geniuses.They've made millions of dollars off the dumbest shit Shirts,_hats,baby wear, necklaces,action figures, ash trays - almost anything you can think of has had an ICPlogo on it. The pendant necklace of the "hatchet man" is the icon of fugaloism. But the real problem with this subculture is that it has more characteristics of a cult than a culture. They have rituals, such as spraying Faygoall over each other, wearing face pant and chanting "woot woot" The Insane Clown Posse even has its own afterlife, the Dark Carnival. The Dark Carnival is sort of like liinbo, you go there to be judged on if you'll go to heaven (Shangri-La) or hell. All fuggalosgo to Shangri-La. ICPput out six concept records called "ioker's cards."The albums were to prophesizethe coming of the Dark Carnival,all six have been realized and I'm glad to say ho fuggalo apocalypsehas happenedyet. The lyrics on the last song on the last ioker's card album is titled "Thy unveiling" and lyrics are; "Truth is we follow GOD,we've always been behind him, the carnival is God and may all fuggalosfind him!"
BesidesThe Biz Marki InterpolationPart One
One the hardest songs to listen to comesfrom an ICPside proiect tifled "SoopaVillainz" and the song called "Slow your roll." The chorus literally is: "Faggotsneed to slow your roll Ve'll fill you full of bullet holes Black eye for the queer guy If you come near us you'll die"
By:famesPayne It seemed all the raps that you rapped
Arguably,it's the most homophobicsong in existence. Being a |uggalo is intolerable, becausebeing a fuggalo means you support ICP,which is a materialistic, male chauvinistic, homophonic,brainwashingcult. -i mnotla ugh i ngw i tltyo u
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'lhere are many things that I'rn terrible at: Seasonirrg food, rollerskatirrg,memorizing information, card games,etc. Although I have a list tlrat could go on much longer, there's one thing that I'm especiallyterrible with and that's my sense of direction. I blame it on living in Pittsburgh for most of my life. See, Pittstrurgh is unlike most metropolitan cities because it isn't built on a grid system. Make three lefts alrd most of the time you won't end up back where you started. It's a confusing mess for visjtors and transplants, trut it's what ['m used to. Pittsburgh gave me a strong stereotype that all cities were similar with hills, rivers, and nonsensical streets.Once I ventured out into the world more, my naive stereotypes were quickJy shattered. While visiting places like Philadelphia, New York City and Chicago I soon realized that home was much difTerent. These other cities were planned using this crazy technology called a "grid system." You'd make three lefts and end up back where you started, it was so easy! Although it was simple and made sense, I couldn't trust it. I'd question mysell "was that a left or a right? Was that street parallel to where I started or where I turned?" I made it harder on myself because of curvy streets, dead ends, and the likes at home. I'd get laughed at a lot by nonlocal friends, looking for a challenge that didn't exist. At the errd of December I decided to sublet a f:riend's room in Columbus, giving a new city a try. Pittsburgh was stagnant and I needed a change. I wanted to be somewhere I didn't know a lot of people, know where everything was, and have a generally positive attitude about everything- I couldn't find that at home where I knew who people were befoqe we were introduced, going to a show at a "new" place but already knowing it's history, getting excited for a potential romance but realizing that person had dated friends. It was all so predictable. All i wanted from Columbus was fomething different and that's exactly what I've found. Of course, I don't trust the grid here either and have been lost more than once. A new friend and I went on a bike ride and I explained my grid theory. Our conversation eventually led to talking ahroutrelationships and romance and that's when I had an epiphany. Here I was riding bicycles with this sweet person who was doing everything right: Patient, honest, and supportive. I was frustrated at myself for not lalling head over heels.Why couldn't I iust be happy and commit to something that made sense? Make three lefts and you end up back where you started. I didn't trust it. AII I could think about was the past and a relationship that didn't make as much sense,one with lots of questions,different directions and unpredictability.It was ius( like a nongrid city, iust like home. You make those lefts and you could end up anywhere. II's where my comfort lies and what I know. I iust wonder if it's possibleto unlearn or if I shorrld just embrace it. Maybe the f irst step is trusting the grid.
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Ridiculoushorror movie reviewsby Matt-Tard
FRANKENHOOKER Link to watch streaming online: veoh.com,'collection/docscheese/watch/v7A32876aIG-vG{tDW *x*$peilsps inqludgclt<**. I was looking threw rny DVD collection and fbund this little gem, a friend ol mine (Dave Layshock)had burned it for me a f'ew years ago, By the way, no, it is not a porno, I wish il were because this movie kind of sttcks...There are funny parts and ridiculous mornents,but it is just horribly slow, bad acting, bad New fersey accents and bad looking naked actresses.'lhere is a strrprising lack of blood and guts,.especiallyfor some of the stuff that happens in this movie, but ftrck it, there are funny parts, but it's pretty weird a room full o[ people explode and there's no blood. The movie starts with a BIIQ and a bunch of really annoying New |ersey accents.-fhe main characler gives his father in law a remote controlled lawnmower, tliings go wrong when his strrpid girlfriend tries to drive it and she gets ran over and her bodies are in variorrs pieces around the yard.'Tltis is when we get to the crappy slow build up that seems like it never we go on. The movie takes a Lligchunk of time showing the main characters descent into madne5s.He saves ends.....Anyway, her head in a freezer full of goo and takes it on nice romantic dates. l"le then decides to rebuild her, but most of her body parts were destroyed in the accident. How can you get a bunch of body parts 10 rebuild a girlfriend? You guessed it: CRACKWHORES! 'l'he problem is that they are all pretty gross looking. Anyway, he goes looking in a shady bar, full of bikers, hookers, and drugs. he finds z-arro there.zarro is a dnrg dealer/pimp.tle then talks buisness a bit and goes home. He goes home and goes to his lab, to do what? Yep, he goes home to make supercrack! After a little experimenting, and a bunch of exploding hampsters,he's got itl Time to put on your doctor cqat and go hang out with some whores. He gets a big room of crar:kwhores in their skimpy underwear, gross. There is then like l0-t5 mitrutes of him measuring boobs,rubbing legs,and tottching butts. After deciding killing a bunch of crackwhores is a bit immoral (psh. dtrmbass)they tie him down ancl find his big bag of superclack. PARTYTIMEllltYelling.crack smoking, dancing, and dumb shit insues. The supercrack did exac{ly what he wanted it to, leading to the best part of tlre novie; A room full of naked, exploding crack ho's!
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"Fellowship" cantinued from page 8. vibrating in the background,everyone still at the front of the bar becameconsciousof a gradual lamentationrising from the rear of the room. As I went back to use the resfoom I saw my favorite Rainbow Trout, now leaning against the wall-mounted "iukebox,"his hand pawing the LEDglow of the video screenlike a cat trying to get inside.And he continued to bellow the same five words over and over and over again in full-throated, deep sobs.
:l purrormed the ultimate . cruelty... taking a renewed interest in the mirrored images of the liquor labels, which were now... whispering something about a paradox." When I arrived back at my seat, Lisa asked me,'The fuck is that guy moaning about?" "Love Me Like a Reptile,"I answered. "Vhat," Shad asked,half chuckling. "He keepssaying'Love Me Like A Reptile',over and over." A general silence ensued amongst us. There was really no way to respond to this scene.Ve watched him for three or four minutes, his lunging sorrow continuing to lung and be sorrowful. Then Shad made a face and asked me what I thought of Lisa and I paid, "She's standingright here,"even though she wasn't anymore. I encountered him one last time as I left the bar. Shad opted to hang around for another couple of hours. I was going to head home while I was sti[ sober enough not to walk into traffic. |ust outside the door he sat with his back against the front wall, his legs splayed out on the sidewalk before his denim girth. He appeared comatose, staring wide-eyed into the darkness. "Are you OK man?" I asked him. Eyesstill agog,he turned his head and looked at me. "lt's here," he said clearly, matter*of-factly, almost_ prophetically. "Vhat's here," I asked curiouslv. "springtime.Springtimeis here. tt's here...lt's springtime..." And with that I left him there, gazing into the darkness,waiting for his own day to dawn--a day which no doubt, would be lovingly crewed by a cold-blooded populace:Snakes,iguanas and crocodilias of all sorts. I thoroughly enioyed the journey home feeling the warm weather in my shirt sleevesfor the first time that year. Springtime is here, I said to myself. 0h buddy, springtime is here.
BesidesThe Biz Mafkie InterpolationPart Two By fames Payne Vhen you were rapping while standing in the subway
you rapped over a Fleetwood Mac sample that looped
You rapped over a Fleewood Mac sample that looped
You rappd over a Reetwood Mac sample that looped
you rapped over a FleetwoodMac sample that looped
You rapped over a FleetrvoodMac sample that looped
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you rapped over a FleetwoodMac sample - that looped
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.By Pai Hauser It was one of those things the weather forces you to agree to. My good friend Shad proposedwe go to a new bar, one where an acquaintanceof his tended drinks. "C'mon,man, it'll be a new place and besides,Lisa can get us free bmze. She'slike one of the assistant managers or some shit." Polluted by the giddiness that comes with the first genuinely warm day of the year, I assented.I had spent the day airing out the must and grievance from the past four months of winter decay.This seemedlike another good bit of fresh atmosphere. Besides,new place,new people,free drinks, could be a time. As you can imagine, when we got there that thing happenedwhere you show up at the bar, and the drinks are, of course, not free. Becausereally, however peripherally your friend may or may not know the person behind the bar, it still isn't enough far them to get free drinks, let alone you, the friend of a friend. And so it went. Shad and Lisa hovered around each other with that imploring narrowness of attention familiar to those of us who have been left sitting there, trying to read the backwards lettering of liquor labels in the mirror, realizing this night would becomeanother wasted part of our already questionablyspent lives. I am not a social person. Although I always enjoy meeting people,l'm not what you'd call an initiator. So,left there with my awkwardness in a bar halfway filled with people-most of whom had apparently pulled through the same hostagesituation together--l sought to alleviate my social anxiety in the basestand most expedient way possible By closing with and destroying those twitchy nerves with cheap,shit-inducing beer. Like Stanley McChrystalusing his remote control airplanes to do quietly terrible things in some obscure,starlit valley, my efforts were successfulin an obiectivelymotivated kind of way. I listened to Shad and Lisa. each taking an exorbitant interest in the banter of the other, and occasisnally took the liberty of participating in their conversation despite not being actively admitted. So here and there I contributed a comment,which was more or less ignored (and rightly so) in the pleasantatmosphereof their mutual absorption. It was like bouncing a tennis ball off a concrete wall and catching it again--pointless,yet relieving. "Yeah,so Sheila came in here yesterday and walked out the fucking door without paylng." "Are you serious?That's shitty. She'sso fucking lame." "Hey Lisa, how long have you been working here?' "l know, that fucking bitch already owes me twenty from when I lent her gas money." "Yeah,she got into someweird shit with Kyle from Cincya couplemonths ago.l'm still not sure what that was about." "l heard she stolea'bunch of DVDsfrom his apartment." "Kyle?From Cincy?Yeah,I don't know what that was about either." "Like I fucking wanl to know anyway, right?" (mutual laughter.) "l wonder how PeopleFrom Outer Spacefelt about the Battle of Antietam?' "Yeah,that bitch is crazy... Hey Pat, did you say yo-uwanted another beer?" "Can I have two please?" "Sure,that's $4.00." "Yup." * Eventually I gave up and drank quietly, until I becameaware of the sizable mass sitting alone two stools down from me, or should I say, he made himself aware lo me. He was a large mammal,approximately six-feet, two-inches tall, Iong hair, beard and the obligatory denim vest wrapped around more pounds than I care to guesstimate.A three-quar{er full stein sat squarely in front of him, the contents of which danced as his fist pcunded the bar. "Hel HEY,"he shouted gruffly. "Vhat," I answered him, skepticaland not wanting to get drawn into his obviousiy twisted mental state. "Play some FUCKingMot6rhead,*he commandedme, his face eagerly blank, "FuckIN'MMMomt0rHEADf' Now in actuality, I wouldn't have minded a little Motdrhead,especiallyin lieu of the Montrose which was then emanating s from the "virtual" fukebox"on the back wall. However,I figured it would be better to let this one drop. No use throwing gasoline on the fire. Once you make contact with a woefully drunken loner it's like becomingthe surprise guardian of someone's slrategically misplacedstepchild.So I performed the ultimate cruelty and fixed my gaze forward, taking a renewed interest in the mirrored imagesof the liquor labels,which were now infinitely more legible and whispering something about a paradox. Unfortunately, their full meaning lost itself in the Montrose and the noise of my new friend flopping, as a dying trout does on crisp, limey gravel. 'This is SHIT!Fuckin'...ehhh...play some FUckin'MOT0RRheeeead!... This fuckin'...buncha faggots.SAMMYHAGAR!.... zaICANTDRIVE zeHEcan'tdrriiive, FIFty five FAmCII scooter,heesa FAGGOT!scooter," ln my own haze, I lost track of him until about an hour later when the bar had cleared out a bit. Suddenly,and faintly "Fellowship" continued on page 7.