The Nerve Magazine - September / October 2000 by The Nerve Magazine

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Another Issue Sept/Oct 2000

A Mag for Freedomâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Sake!

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Stir The Shit! Nervous Response! Send letters to:

Attn: Nervous Response By Mail: Box 88042, China Town PO, Vancouver BC, V6A 4A4 By e-mail: nervous@thenerveonline.com Publishing is not guaranteed. Letters may be edited for length and clarity.

Alain Glomo

Editor s Blurb I don’t know how many times I’ve heard somebody say how much they think this city sucks. But what, I ask, makes a city suck? The politicians? Their wives? The architecture? $10? Well maybe, but really, when you break it all down, it’s mostly the people. But we here at The Nerve Centre have big plans! Dammit! Get the fuck out there and do something lewd or send me letter. I love hate mail and I love the angst. That said, here’s another issue for your morning shit. Since I am but one man and we are but one magazine in an ocean of the damn things (and we got away with a drug giveaway contest last issue), I propose a new contest this month: First person to send me a photo of fresh graffiti on city hall will earn $50. Better yet, cream pie Phillip Owen and receive $100! Pie Minister HAHAHAHha, I love that shit. As A.D. MADGRAS once said. “Ask not what your city can do for you, I say, but tell it where to go.” (Mr. MADGRAS is absent this issue. He is on, um, hiatus. But after the transfusion treatment he should be back to his normal cheerful self. Quick recovery A.D.!) Nerve endings: Thanks to all who came to our party at the Cobalt Aug. 3rd. We know who you are. Look for other Nerve sponsored events coming soon. Check out the review of The Nerve in the next issue of Broken Pencil magazine available at any decent mag. shop. Special thanks to the great Casey Bourque for the M.C. Devils pics. And lastly, I’d like to welcome aboard Paul Crowley as The Nerve’s new Music Editor. Sucker. The Chief The Nerve would like to thank: Maxine Maddigan, Bonar Damsgaard, Cathy Legate, Kent McKenzie, wendythirteen, Jason Leblanc, and Gerry-Jenn Wilson. The Nerve would especially NOT like to thank: Van City Credit Union (if you have an account with this misleading, incompetent, big bank in community bank sheepskin, do yourselves a favour and close it. Fuck ‘em. Trust us, we have our reasons but their too much of a bringdown list here.)

This issue is dedicated to the memory of Jason Keller of SPY 66.

CONTENTS Issue 5 Sept. / Oct. 2000

Murder City Devils p. 14

All State Champion p. 13

Mushroom Contest Winner p. 5

Employee of the Bi-Month: Jeff Oliver

Going Public p. 16

Paul and Mary p. 6

Main Lines p. 7

Cattlecalls and Call Backs p. 8

Democracy in Action Nerve jet trasher Jeff Oliver, our former L.A. Correspondent, is now moving to Brooklyn to attend a writing school. We miss your smarmy ass but Jesus, New York City. Best of luck Jeff ma boy! ed.

UNCENSORED

Viewer discretion advised The Nerve is published bi-monthly by the Nerve Magazine Ltd. (604)899-2406, (604)632-9654 (fax) Circulation: 5000 in Vancouver and via subscriptions. The opinions expressed by the writers and artists do not necessarily reflect those of the Nerve Magazine, its publisher or editor. 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 2000 The Nerve Magazine Ltd. Box 88042, China Town PO, Vancouver BC, V6A 4A4

p. 21

The Nerve is: Publishers: Pierre Lortie, Bradley C. Damsgaard Editor-in-Chief: Bradley C. Damsgaard Music Editor: Paul Crowley Design and Graphics: Pierre Lortie, Bradley C. Damsgaard Staff Writers: Atomick Pete, A. D. MADGRAS, Jason LeBlanc, Liz Wakefield, D. Cat, Billy Tender Flake, Mike O, Brian Lindgreen, Mittens, Jeff Oliver, Matt Prendergast, Michael D. Dammitt, Paul Crowley,, Matt Burrows, Casey Bourque, Other Contributors: T.J. Lockheart, Laird Salton, Caroline Manuel, Paul Kincaid, Elizabeth Nolan Illustration: Mike O, Alain Glomo, Robin Bougie Photography: Casey Bourque Ad Sales: Bradley C. Damsgaard Copy Editing: Grace Chin Pre-Press and Printing: Benwell-Atkins Binding: Advance Bindery Distribution: The Nerve crew in the NerveMobile

cover artwork: photos by Casey Bourque, collage by Atomick Pete.

SECTIONS Off the Record Straight 8 Live Wires Books and Zines Blue Movies

p. p. p. p. p.

22 17 9-11 19 26

COLUMN Sick Little Monkeys p. 23

s t W i n n e r. e t B e s t M e u shro Th n om Story Co

ed.

T h e Winner of the Best Mushroom Story Contest is Bliss tha Gikachu! Is that Mongolian? Anyway, Bliss wins the Scoobie Snacks and the Scooby Doo comic. What follows is, for the most part, unedited.

(this was written a few hours after I came down from the 8-10 grams of mushrooms that my best friend Neil and I ate together.) Neil’s A present for him. Sophia black and white. softer than soft. sweet little baby rat. long scaly tail. beer. drinking. laughing. talking. a walk. more beer. back home. to Neil’s. more drinking and phone calls. then mushrooms arrive. a lot of them. tea. yummy. and him choking down the chunks. me laughing-at him. then. wow. bursts of light. fuzzy warm. giddy. laughing. high. then him-feeling it. realization-we must go out. a party neglected. Trance. walking and walking. seeing the most amazing things. faces in trees old grandmother tree. she smiled at us. we saw her. both. saw her morph out of the tree and smile. licking leaves and bark. dancing around trees i sprouted wings and long pointed ears. i glittered. silly giggles. a sprite! i am/was/am a sprite! dancing! dancing with glittery cellophane colored rainbow wings. and he joins me. joins me as Woodelf. with vines for hair and long pointed ears. eyes made of stars. fantastic. wow. holding hands. touching and feeling everything. all. glittery shape changing. all and nothing. so amazing so spectacular. so thrilling. the world too much around me. then noise. noise Noise NOISE NOISE. too loud. the noise too loud. sirens. screaming fireworks. banging and clattering of pots and pans. chanting loud. they were there. closer we wentcloser-closer-closer. watching. no please don’t stop. they kept banging and oooohhhhh it was good. then we walked more. to a school. there we peed. it was- it wasALIEN. to pee and feel it like never before. wow. and then- then Jones. feeling jones (Jones is my iguana) on that cool stony, grainy ground. almost see him. almost. so cool and scaly. touching and showing the Woodelf. he feels him too. then fiendish imps. imps with clicking shiny cans. dressed in colors. click, click, click, clicking. laughing. smoking. i sit and stare. Woodelf says we should go (so wise is he) but I just can’t. must watch. so amazing. feeling Jones on that ground and watching those imps spray their clicky cans on those walls. they come over and show me a glove of power. so sacred. i cannot even put it on. i touch it in wonder. they talk with us. then we go. leave. then a car. a white- A WHITE CAR! with lights on top of it. oh i’m scared. want to run. scared. Woodelf consoles Imps scatter. we walk. walk away away. onto busy path. scary here too. need trees. find one with canopy. go in. go in and laugh. jubilant laughter. in we

go oh pretty. safe in here. safe and dark and branches. Woodelf is my Branches. long, tall, elegant, sleek, stretching his limbs to protect and love. beautiful Woodelf. and I am his sprite. so peaceful in the tree. too close to the busy path. must go on. on to the Q.E. Happy place the Q.E. travelling through the beginning of it. faster, trees and branches reach out to touch us. roots and ground. earth. sharing. up the hill. up up. smiling, hands clinging. touching whispering then break through! we’re there! YEAH! look at it! LOOK AT IT! IT’s AMAZING! running, leaping happy. into the happiness and the trees. the plants. water grass. so lovely its thrilling. sit on the rock. the rock of me and HEr. Zarry. smiles. talking. thinking feeling smelling touching hearing things. too immense. too strong too powerful. too much to understand. too much. the meaning of - the ultimate power of gods and goddesses. what do we do with it!?! drink golden harsh burning liquid from bottle. it hurts. YUCK! open Poe. more mushrooms. more. consume dissolve. high. so high. philosophical conversation. conversion. yes. truly mind blowing experience. he teaches me. teaches me all and everything. concrete jungle outside. beautiful garden inside. all man made. all beautiful in their own way. all beautiful. beautiful and ugly. scary hurting pain. is this all? it? geezus. this has GOT to be it. water so lovely it glows. pollution. there’s got to be more than this? isn’t there? getting up to search and explore the more. we say goodbye to things that night. many things. love? love lost and long gone and never to return. GOODBYE! hate? hate was waved farewell to. all things together in this oneness? am i really not all alone. or am i all alone? what is this? mystery. late it gets. well early that is. sun breaks over the horizon. we travel home. retracing our steps through the Q.E. as i sit and stare into the eyes of a young dark girl as she stares back at me...staring at each other...her head is bobbing up and down. her mouth open. something in it. i chuckle and turn my eyes away as i realize what i was watching. i hear a man moan. we walk towards His home. the Woodelf ’s home. we buy water on our way home. it tastes amazing. we laugh and hold hands and try to see if we can find that grandmother tree. she doesn’t seem to be there anymore. slight disappointment. but happy smile. i know she’s there. she’s just sleeping is all. on to Neil’s. it’s warm and confining. but the bed is comfy and lovely. we cling together in happiness and let dreams take us away. an amazing night. an amazing day. sunny out as we drift off. it’s 1999. huh. cool.

Paul & Mary 12:59 a.m.

There is no running from the urine and the garbage. Urine is CEO here. It’s truly nauseating. The “scuff-clack-scuff-clack”-ing heels are not loafers on hardwood or marble. They’re actually tricks on their way to turning behind a dumpster. Drug-filled Styrofoam cups line up obediently in the gutter across from their owners. Occasionally, arm-in-arm bar hoppers engage a dealer and both disappear behind a garbage bin for closed-door negotiations. 1:40 a.m. A few “working girls” disappear and re-emerge almost as quickly. Dealers compare inventories with Dow Jones urgency: “No, G! Blow! I said blow! My boy’s looking for blow!”. The “satisfaction guaranteed” atmosphere implies a WalMart presence; strangely, there is no sign. There is no moon, either. No moon. No moonlight strolls, unless you consider temporary relations romantic. There are trips down Lover’s Lane, but not the kind of trips you think about when you think about Lover’s Lane. Is there a place called Lover’s Lane? Probably not. Shame. No lovers, it looks like. No. No more beans in the kitchen. No more beans on the grill. Took a whole lotta ter-y-in’ just to get up that hill. No reruns of The Jeffersons either. 2:10 a.m. Tired of observing. Thinking of approaching subjects. Thinking about all this watching stuff. Thinking of Far Side cartoon where the bear family’s father dons the dead hunter’s hat and re-enacts the hunter’s death to the delight of his cubs before bedtime: “You think there’s anything in this cave, Ralph?” “I dunno, Bill. Let’s check it out.” Wondering why I am watching, what curiosity brought me here again. That’s what it seems now, just curiosity and naivete. Thinking this is arrogance. Words of Toni Morrison come to mind: ”…people have copyright on their own lives. It’s not fair to use real people.” Is it okay to watch? 3-ish a.m.

photo by Julie Laroche

A woman approaches me – well, walks in front of me, looks down, smiles (curious, I guess), and says hi. “Hi,” I return. “You lookin’?”

(Inhale…exhale) “Sort of.” “Whatcha writing?” “Whatever comes to mind.” I think she likes me, and not just out of professional interest. She keeps smiling – not a faraway, drugged smile. I smile too. I can’t help myself. Her voice is soft. She is dark-skinned, smooth, but weathered on the cheeks. She is in a pink Lycra one-piece and heels. She’s a little shorter than I am. “What’s your name?” “John?” my eyebrows lift and separate to punctuate a question. She rolls her eyes, smiling. “My name’s Gwen.” I roll my eyes. “Okay, my name’s … John.” “Let’s go for a walk,” she says. “Okay.” We turn and begin up the alley. Just steps away, a skinny friend with spiralled blond hair and horrid teeth asks for a “safey”. The friend gives me the once-over with raised eyebrows and a confused stare which gradually gives way to a wide-mouthed grin. Libido at zero. She says something to Gwen. I see her over Gwen’s shoulder. I think she’s implying something. We walk down the alley. Circling gulls cry overhead, piercing the waning street sounds. We find a driveway and turn right toward its padlocked fence. I suggest we sit, and do so first, Buddha-style. Gwen sinks down next, letting her crossed legs rest against mine, pulling the hem of her dress down to cover her thighs. Gwen moved here 15 years ago during The Boom. She looks tired; sensing empathy, perhaps, she looks away and confirms that she is tired. She wants change. She wants not to be beaten by a jealous boyfriend who takes what little money she earns. She’s not a ‘user‘ just pot. And I believe it, looking at her earnest stare. I feel a little guilty about not talking as much, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She tells me about growing up back East, of summers on the lake, and of picnics there. She remembers how cold the winters are and shakes dramatically for effect, looking up into my eyes, laughing. Then she lets her head come down on my shoulder, sighs, and stares off between a gap in the buildings opposite. Then there is silence. I start thinking. I think of home, my parents, my roommates, and my

see Paul & Mary on p. 25...

Main Lines

T-Bone’s five-foot long iguana ate a

terrier at 7th and Brunswick in Mount Pleasant this Summer. George, dressed in a fifties-style woman’s swimsuit (replete with bathing cap), dove from his Vespa onto the sidewalk at Main and Broadway, joining a street-side DJ dance party and frolicking with the angels and elves. A man called Slickity Jim kept the bellies full and at least once the Northern Lights could be seen simultaneously with a meteor shower, albeit barely, above the pollution and city glow. Residents searched for words to describe these odd happenings, but the charms of Mount Pleasant often elude articulation. Most agree the neighbourhood was a fine place to be. There were a few problems. Like when Libby, resident crack-addled panhandler, went berserk on an unassuming Lugz patron, punching him, spilling his coffee, and reminding bystanders that cocaine psychosis is not gentle. And one day, Philip Owen came to attend the local Business Improvement Associations’ (BIA) ribbon cutting ceremony at Main and Broadway. For some reason the BIA and “Homer” (what the media calls Philip Owen behind his back) were christening the area around Main and Broadway with a new name: “Uptown.” This name changing silliness irked many business owners for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being the whole campaign appeared a fat waste of cash better spent combating neighbourhood poverty or installing bike racks on the sidewalks. As local café owner Michael Zalman put it, “I don’t think a less significant name could have been chosen… it has no character and in no way indicates anything about the neighbourhood.” Richard Shantler, local post office worker and BC railways historian, pointed out further problems with the Uptown coin, “That’s stupid… HA!HA!HA!… fumph…there already is an Uptown in Vancouver…HA!” Others commented the BIA, and its’ more active octogenarian supporters, harkened for a better time when there was a general store and maybe a streetcar now and then, when Mount Pleasant was “Vancouver’s Original Uptown” (BIA Slogan). A local clothing shop owner likened attending a BIA meeting to watching Shriners act out a Flintstones episode. “Homer” and other aging white men aside, most I talked to agreed the name Uptown is antiquated and doesn’t represent either Main Street’s ethnic diversity or the hordes of young people that have made Main Street their neighbourhood of choice. This last demographic is increasingly defining the neighbourhood. Mount Pleasant is in. Luckily, not in a pretentious way, which many point out is what makes the neighbourhood great. There is genuine form of successful urbanite moving into the neighbourhood, ones who judge success in ways beyond monetary and don’t feel the need to broadcast image-based attitude. Talented folk are getting together and creating an environment pleasing to live in: supportive, down-at-heel, and full of rich characters and stories. All kinds are more or less welcome in Mount Pleasant: freaks, movie people, dope-

heads, minorities, working Joes, brokers, starving poets, beer-guzzling Trans-Am aficionados, and all manner of slackers. Better still, Mount Pleasant is forming a culture of its own, a community and identity which isn’t themed or structured to emulate some other place, as can be the case in Vancouver (Californicated Kits comes to mind). There is an originality and diversity around Main Street that is refreshing. As a result, youth are coming en masse. Businesses are springing up, buildings are under restoration, and empty lots are being filled. Every week a new funky gallery, shop, or watering hole opens for business. One such place is the new Euro-hip coffee shop, “Soma,” whose owners have also been attempting to rename the area around Main and Broadway . . . to, “Soma.” And their efforts have not been unsuccessful: Vancouver Magazine and the Vancouver Sun have done stories on Soma, short for South Main, buying entirely the notion that it works as a nifty coin for Main and Broadway. Soma’s owners are expectedly keen. Others, though, are less enthusiastic, many because there already is a neighbourhood in San Francisco called Soma, and therefore,

A LOCAL CLOTHING SHOP OWNER LIKENED ATTENDING THE BIA MEETING TO WATCHING SHRINERS ACT OUT A FLINTSTONES EPISODE like Uptown, the name lacks originality. Moreover, they point out the name isn’t geographically sound considering that “South Main” hardly suggests standing at Broadway (I’m more reminded of 49th). A few see something more sinister: a glimpse of a future with yuppie-inspired development plans going horribly awry and automatons walking down Main mumbling into cell phones, “Soma, Soma, Soma.” Most, though, find the whole affair humourous: watching the Soma and Uptown camps plug away at getting their uninspiring names to stick. Especially considering the neighbourhood will undoubtedly still call itself Mount Pleasant or Main Street, and those needing to be more specific can always rely safely on “Main and Broadway.” Out of all this name-change talk, many entertaining parody names have surfaced- late entries now vying for the title. Full marks go to the folks at Motherland and Burcu’s Angels who used their display windows to house mannequins for a mock ribbon cutting ceremony that inaugurated “Main and Riviera” (on the same day “Homer” and his troops raised platforms across the street and bored anyone curious enough to stop by to feel the glory of Uptown). I also heard, “Mont Plaisir,” (Mount Pleasure in French) and this made me laugh my bag off. My personal favourite, though, is “Ma’ Bro’,” short for Main and Broadway, and said homey-style with fists of M’s and B’s. Laird Salton

Where to find

Zulu Records, Does Your Mother Know?, The Comic Shop, Couch Potatoes, Duthie Books, Vidoematica, Na’am, Blacksheep Books, Nevermind, Skull Skates, Book Warehouse 4th Ave, Benny’s Bagels, Hollywood Theatre, The Fringe, Black Swan, Funhouse Tattoo, Scrape Records, Black Dog Video, Kino Café, Park Theatre, Thai Away Home, Lucky’s Comics, Lugz Café, Grind Café/Gallery, Locus Café/Bar, Puff Main St., Cottage Bistro, Singles Going Steady, The Whip, Ink Bomb Tattoo, Boarding House, the Reef, Legends, Cinephile Video, Soma, Barbarella, Slickity Jim’s Chat & Chew, Ziggy’s Deli, Burcu’s Angels, Burcu’s Elves, Motherland, Station St. Theatre, Tragically Hemp, Café deux Soleils, Vicious Cycle, Waazubee, Highlife Records, Mag Pie, Joe’s Café, Havana, Cosmopolis, Desserts Falafel, Bukowski’s, Electro Ladylux, East End Book Store, The Record Shop, DV8, Internet Café, Doll & Penny’s, HMV Robson, Little Sisters, Porn Shop 1115 Davie, Otis Records, Book Warehouse Davie St., Pacific Cinematheque, Cheap Thrills, Underground, True Value Vintage, CNB Skate and Snow, Puff Robson, Sugar Refinery, Subeez, Scratch Records, Soho Café, Pharsyde, Granville Book Co., Railway Club, The Pic. Pub, Cherry Bomb, Rock Shop, Templeton, Emily Carr, Sam the Record Man, Retro Café, Blunt Brothers, Delux Junk Co., Kabbages and Kinks, Bassix, Cambie Hostel, Blinding Light!! Cinema, Brickyard, Columbia, Cobalt, Ms T’s Cabaret, Vinyl, Noise, 50 Bourbon St., Steve’s Broadway News (Seattle), etc. If you would like The Nerve distributed where you work (and your employer shares the same opinion)

please call us at 899-2406.

Cattle Calls and Callbacks I try to pay my rent each month by acting TREK! And they act like the crew! Pretty outraon television. About once a month I get a gig geous! Well, at the audition I had to be a toll doing some “acting” on the box. This is a job for booth attendant asking the Trekkies for “A buck which I am well trained, and in some ways, well and a quarter please” ... fair enough. Then for suited. I arrive on time, I take direction well, and the callback, my agent called to tell me that the I’m kind of funny looking. I love being on set. I scripts had been revised, and that she was faxing over some new material. Alright! There were love being able to do my job. In order to get these jobs on TV I have to go to four fax-paper-shiny pages to look at, and I spent the evening learning the lines, getting into auditions. I hate auditions. Auditions are hell. If you look a good Star Trek kind of zone ... I could deliver in the Georgia Straight classifieds under Voyager, Deep Space Nine, Classic, Next Gen, “Auditions” there will always be ads for audition and all twenty five movies (and the animated workshops: OWN YOUR AUDITION! GET series!). I was excited at the prospect of doing THE BEST FROM YOUR AUDITION! some good comedic acting ... I felt very confident. AUDITION PRINCIPLES! I was quite excited At a cattle call, there’s Whatever. I might as well start to go to the callback never anywhere to sit; selling vials of MAGIC the next day. I was everyone’s jammed MIRACLE AUDITION OIL, very excited to be in together staring at the or SUPER LUCKY DOUBLE walls. It’s like being in a the presence of the GOLDEN AUDITION AMULETS. Here’s a tip for all big trunk full of ventrilo- director and producer. And I was quist’s dummies. you entrepreneurs: actor-types extremely excited are always eager to spend their when they said to money on finding out the secrets of the acting me, “Okay Paul, we’ll get you to stand off to the universe, but you know what? There aren’t any. I used to fear auditions; now, I just dread them. side there. You’ll be doing your toll booth guy With the current SAG (Screen Actor’s Guild) again”. I was excited when I left the building two strike down south the commercial biz has been minutes later. Cramming the screwed up fax going nuts. I’ve been auditioning almost every into a garbage can, and thinking to myself... day, sometimes twice a day. The worst kind of audition is the cattle call. This is a situation where no one has any idea what they are doing. There is a lot of confusion and high temperature stress. I went to two cattle calls last week. At the first one, at eight thirty at night, I was told there was a wait of about an hour. An hour ... see ya. The next day it was a different spot but for the same casting director, and it was almost the same. I can’t begin to explain how it feels going into a room crammed full of actors. I just know that I don’t like it. It’s a crab pot, lobster trap kind of thing. Everyone is oozing with uberconfidence and making with the nervous, over-the-top chatty-chat. At a cattle call, there’s never anywhere to sit; everyone’s jammed together staring “This blows!” Thar she blows! My Moby ego! I want more ... at the walls. It’s like being in a big trunk full of ventriloquist’s dummies. I leave the allusions well, who doesn’t? I’m tired of playing characters that don’t have real names. That are THIN there. It’s a psychic raping I can do without. MAN, BLIND MAN, CREEPY GUY... I want a name, dammit!! Oh, well ... no small parts, Then there are callbacks. only small actors, right? Whatever. Gotta go; my Callbacks are like second interviews. Usually pager went off, and it’s my agent … (for more the director and producer are there to have a whining about being an actor, watch my video look at you. For commercials the client and PAUL’S PATIO. E-mail me at paulspatio@canaagency types will be there too. Everyone wants da.com). their two cents thrown in. PAUL KINCAID Last week I was called back for a HONDA commercial. It’s a far out premise. See, these business types drive to work in their HONDA, and they like, pretend, that they’re on STAR

FIREBALL FREAKOUT 2000! The annual 3 day music festival from Fireball Productions August 17-19 @ The Piccadilly Pub

Thursday, Aug. 17th:

The Spitfires, The Vultures, Les Tabernacles and Hi-Test. The night started off with a kick in the ass from Vancouver’s Hi-Test. They had an early time slot but everyone there must have been in the know ‘cuz they were diggin’ it. If you like your music loud, nasty and fucking fast, check out their next show.

The Yo Yos hoping they’ll return soon. Rounding out the evening were Vancouver’s Spitfires. They had most everyone in the joint on their feet, with many singing and dancing along. They played an excellent set- one of the finest of the year (and I’ve seen them fairly often so far). It was a superintimate gig, more fun than seeing them at The Brickyard for sure.

special. The Yo Yo’s came all the way from England to rock my world. They were tough rock n’ roll but were also unabashedly poppy. I felt weak in the knees, as though I was watching The Beatles! Part of this was because they took turns singing, which mixes things up a bit more and always turns me on! I think I witnessed my favorite Black Halos show to date. They were super tight, enthusiastic and seemed heavier than I had remembered. The Pic is pretty much where they got their start and they were stoked to be back

cont’d on next page...

Fr i d a y, Aug. 18th:

The Invisible Men

I’ll try not to gush too much about Edmonton’s Les Tabernacles. The only way to describe them is that they fucking RAWK!!! They were on fire from the beginning to the end of their smokin’ set and definitely made an excellent first impression for many. If you missed them, don’t fret ‘cuz they vowed to return before the end of the year. Up next were The Vultures from Seattle. They had a fairly fresh and modern take on 60’s influenced surf rock. I shoulda been boogeying but was trying to catch my breath from the first two acts. Since Seattle’s so close, I’m

The Black Halos, The Yo Yos, The Poison Hearts and The Status I dragged my hung over ass to The Pic earlier than the previous night but managed to miss The Status. Since they’re local I’m sure I’ll get my chance. I also learned that Bubble didn’t make it over the border. I guess even Supergroups can’t beat the Border fuzz. I didn’t catch where The Poison Hearts were from but they seemed to be giving their all to an indifferent crowd. They were fairly standard rock, good but not really anything

The Load Levellers

Fireball Freakout ...cont’d from previous page after playing arena size shows with L7. The hometown crowd ate it up!

Saturday, Aug. 19th:

Bantam Rooster, The Invisible Men, The Load Levellers and The Harpys I walked into Round Three during The Harpys. They were one of the loudest rock trios that I’ve heard recently. Their final song was especially heavy, causing their guitarist to go off so hard he blew out his knee! He was carted away by paramedics, returning later to catch the rest of the show. Now THAT’S rock n’ roll!

Once everyone finished crying over the fact that Bantam Rooster couldn’t join us, The Invisible Men put smiles back on our faces. They hail from LA and were decked out in red velvet jackets, hats, glasses and bandages on their heads so we could “see” them. I think the disguises encouraged them to be especially sassy in between their classic surf sounds dripping with hot keyboards. I wanted to dance but I was POOPED! Once again The Fireball Freakout took it’s toll: 3 nights of blistering Rawk n’ Roll and all the debauchery I could handle. I had a blast but I swear it’ll take me until the next one to recover! Casey Bourque

photos by Casey Bourque

The Harpy’s guitarist getting the gurney treatment.

I was away when Seattle’s Load Levellers last blew into town but heard they were wicked. They definitely lived up to the buzz and more. They were like killer hoedown punk, super fast and dirty. I totally got down to their heavy sound; it was truly unique and they even had a banjo player!

The Saddlesores

(well kind of sort of anyways)

Brickyard, Vancouver, August 4th 2000

Not just another “pretty boy” band ....

Can we say attitude, boys & girls? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about this band being another rip off. Quite the contrary. I was impressed to find that I wasn’t hittin’ the gin + tonics as

The Saddlesores

often as I normally would or should. I’ll be honest with you, I like this band. I’d seen them play twice; once to a shoulder to shoulder squeeze packed in crowd and another to a completely vacant bar. (I prefer the latter. Who likes waiting in lines for drinks anyway?) Even though there was not much of a crowd this time, I enjoyed for the first time (in a long time) sittin’ comfortably with a friend and being able to see the band play. You know it’s about the music & not the ego when bands seem to enjoy themselves despite the size of the crowd. The music had an almost southern backbeat feel… smothered in a heavy rock ‘n’ roll edge which made for some great dirty dancing! (Some very sexy girls were gettin’ down + dirty on the dance floor) They even played a Johnny Cash rendition of Folsum Prison Blues which got everyone tappin’ their feet. You should definitely check this band out. If not for the music, these guys pull in some great vibes + sexy people! Yep it’s all about fun + these guys know how to do it.

photo: Tawnya Crowshoe

T.J. Lockhart

Who Is Mr. Black? ing gay celibate, which he fully admits to being and adamantly proclaims they’re, “more punk rock than pussy, but not as punk rock as pussy.” Can ya dig it? It especially rocked cause each one of them has some history in the old school rock and roll scene. Scotti (drums) plays with tons of bands like Strapping and Todd Kerns. Andy has a power over his bass really drives the rhythm along. Alan can’t fucking do anything except play guitar like a madman. Apparently, he also plays steel drum but not in this rock show. They formed this new energetic band out of pure love of the electric energy they get when they jam. By the looks on their faces you can tell.

Left to Right: Scotty Too Hotty, Andy, Alan Borrowitz, Joe Party

Mr. Black played a stealthy debut at the Columbia on Saturday, Aug. 19th. I gotta hand it to them, they rocked like they would if it was some gynormass field full of people moshing. A sign of truly givn’ner for the fun of it. In my notes that night I wrote <circus gypsy road trip rock> What the fuck? Joe Party’s vocals sounded just like a true flam-

A flawless show. It seems the more they played, the heavier they go,t with improv in between songs and claiming, “everyone has to get a Mohawk!” Their Buddies from the audience guest sang and super unpredictable chord changes kept it interesting. “It’s better not knowing what’s going to happen next,” they told me, “so each show will be different.” Their next gig sounds like a setup for some spontaneous fun. They’ll be playing with JP5 at the Brickyard September 8. Liz Wakefield photo: courtesy of Mr. Black

Electric Caesar Salad What can I say, except: full, frontal, nudity. Electric Caesar Salad is a four-piece (plus guests) Vancouver comedy troupe. I recently experienced their show at Stranjahs in da Night.

00 photos: Tim 20

The focus of the first skits was pot. Songs were sung, guitars twanged. Then, dang! They wuz naked! The two male and the two female performers were completely comfortable, and were entertaining as they extolled the virtues of weed and nudity. Look for Watermelon and the rest of Electric Caesar Salad at this year’s Fringe Festival. Mittens

Stranjahs in da Night Stranjahs in da Night is a not-for-profit, “underground”, Vancouver restaurant. Open Thursday thru Sunday, it offers a variety of entertainment acts, as well as a unique, “west coast” menu. Stranjahs has a very comfortable vibe. The low lighting, eclectic café décor, and warm smiles of its proprietor make you feel at home instantly. Stranjahs is run on “100% pure passion” by the beautiful Cherise, and her adorable cook Emily, who believe in the spiritually, emotionally, and physically positive healing powers of ingesting marijuana. The food at Stranjahs is always vegetarian and frequently vegan. It is also always made with high-grade shake, donated by the same kind growers who support

Cherise: the lovely proprietor

photo: Tim 2000

see Stranjahs on p. 25... 11

What’s coming up ? Atomick Pete s Picks

As you pick up a copy of The Nerve, the new version of Music Waste should be underway. By deadline, the organisers still hadn’t returned our calls to confirm the final line up of bands and venues but here are some shows that are happening for sure. Punk rockers Blem de la Blem are playing with JP5 at the Anza Club on Saturday September 1st. That promises to be a hell of a good party that you must not miss for any reason whatsoever! H-Ray and Ignition 13 will open the night. Volatile plays the Columbia that same night with Hardware Speed Religion and Butcher’d. Mr. Black (see review on previous page) are at the Cobalt with the Full Blast. Oddly enough though, this festival which promotes independent music and D.I.Y. ethics is sponsored by the West Ender, a corporate owned weekly. Go figure…. PUNKFEST! Here’s a good last excuse to go camping this summer and party your ass off at the same time. Naughty Camp, a two day huge punk fest will let loose on the Mount Currie Indian Reserve on Friday and Saturday September 15th and 16th. There will be a shit load of wicked bands there as a sound track to this massive outdoor party. Almost 40 bands will get on stage. Check out the ad on p. 25. Bring lots a food, tons of beer and good dope. But hey, I only hope that people there will respect the Native land on which this will occur. Unlike all the corporate white trash that control almost all of our land and rarely allows us to have fun, the Natives are nice enough to let us party on their territory. So, they respect us, let’s respect them! CALL TO ALL OLD METALHEADS! Iron Maiden are playing the Pacific Coliseum as part of their world tour for their new album Brave New World. Judas Priest’s Halford will open for that show. The only downside is the price for the tix ($50!). What a difference from back in the 80’s. MORE SHOWS! The ska-rock-hardcore The Mighty Mighty Bosstones will be playing at the Commodore along with our editor-in-chief ’s favorite The Gadjits. Bad Religion will be mushin’ the Commodore for two nights in a row, Monday and Tuesday October 2nd and 3rd in support for their album A New America. Montreal’s dark and moody godspeed you black emperor! will appear at the Vogue Theatre. That’s it for the big shows that are relevant. As for the smaller, but always good, local shows, the best venues are as always, the Cobalt (917 Main St.), the Columbia (303 Columbia St.), the Pic (Pender St. at Seymour), the Brickyard (315 Carrall St.), the Starfish Room (Homer St. at Nelson). AT THE BRICKYARD, Bunchofuckingoofs will soak ya with beer on Saturday Sept. 2nd with Oppressed Logic and Strong Like Tractor, a really promising Vancouver act. And the day after, Guttermouth are taking the stage. They rarely come to Vancouver, so don’t miss it. JP5 will rock’n tease on Friday Sept. 8th along with Mr. Black and Tacklebox. On Friday Sept 22nd, the Spitfires perform with the Vultures and the B Movie Rats. SPEAKING OF B-MOVIE RATS, there is a night for them (us…) where you can not only watch wicked classic B-movies and cult movies, but guess what? You can do it while enjoying a cheap cold one served by JP5’s Gerry-Jenn and the popcorn is free. The screen is big, the seats comfy (leather couches, etc…)the admission is by donation, the sound is good and you can smoke! Could you ask for more? This happens every Monday night at the Cobalt, Gerry-Jenn’s B-Movie Nights. Oh yeah,

see What’s goin’ on on p. 26... 12

All State Champion

People either love it or they don’t get it... I’d hate it if somebody saw us and said ‘yeah, they were okay, they’re pretty good.’

Roses do sprout from shit sometimes

and yes, good bands sometimes come out of those ads in the weekly papers. Vancouver’s All State Champion stand as a living, breathing example. “We wrote our first song with two basses,” offers bassist Wes Cook, adding to the tale of their ugly-duckling beginnings. The band has been together for two years but has yet to find a comfortable musical category for themselves. So far

they’ve mostly been lumped in with the emo and hardcore bands in the city, though uncomfortably. “I hate that term emo, it makes me cringe,” says drummer Todd McConkey “why do they have to lump everyone under that term?” A brief roundtable discussion strikes up. They reject the “punk” title, as well, before (tentatively and reluctantly) settling on “post-punk”. It’s tough work coming up

with a handy label for a band with musical influences as diverse as those of the All States. The members agree on little except for their almost violent dislike of Creed. “That’s one band we all fuckin’ hate,” says Dan Sioui. The other three nod. Their self-titled EP, out since last November, contains six intricate, hard-driving songs that wind themselves to dramatic climaxes, driven by a synchronized rhythmic attack. With hints of Fugazi and Drive Like Jehu in the mix, the tracks are complemented by the ragged, emotional vocals of singer Sioui. While the dissonant, complex interplay between the two guitars and razorsharp drumming speak to the band’s highcalibre intstrumentalism, they emphasize that accessibility is important to their approach. “It’s not about playing stuff in a weird time signature. It’s got to have musicality and song structure,” explains first guitarist Tim McGuinness. They claim to be unable to learn a cover song for the life of them, or to decently imitate other bands’ sounds. Playing as often as their schedules would allow since they formed has led to opening slots for high-profile touring acts such as Sunny Day Real Estate, Modest Mouse and the Get Up Kids, as well as favorites of the band’s like Braid and At the Drive-In. They usually elicit a divided response from crowds. “People either love it or they don’t get it,” says Dan. “I’d hate it if somebody saw us and said ‘yeah, they were okay, they’re pretty good.” The band has recently obtained a van, opening them to the possibility of more extended road trips. They don’t rule out the idea of playing in the States or even moving there if need be. Gigs to date have only brought them as far as Victoria and the BC Interior. A recent show in Salmon Arm, memorably, was cancelled when the promoters found out that the show contained mostly punk bands instead of the rave they were expecting. Currently, All State Champion are focusing on writing new material, playing gigs (headliners, if they can get them) and shopping their EP around to various independent labels that might make a good home. All State Champion’s CD can be found at local stores, including Zulu on 4thAve. Paul Crowley

The Mud, the Blo

The Murder City Devils Lock up your daughters and the liquor cabinet, because they’re coming with the most tattoos, the loudest guitars. Hide your wallet; hide all your pornography! They’re pissed off, these leaders of the rock ‘n’ roll revival. They’re drunks and and they get drunker every time. Fire marshals track them from place to place. They like Neil Diamond. A lot. Plenty of ink gets spilled about you when you name yourself after what sounds like a biker gang, and you make noisy, sludgy rock records in the face of the biggest wave of pop music in twenty years. A lot of people wait to see what you’ll do next. The Nerve: You guys kind of get that title of being the new standard-bearers for the rock ‘n’ roll rebirth. Spencer Moody: Yeah, ‘cus I think the best bands in Seattle aren’t really so much like rock bands anymore. That’s probably why we get the attention or whatever. N: Have you guys grown more comfortable with that over the years? SM: It doesn’t really affect us that much. Seattle’s Murder City Devils have been together for three albums and for plenty of tours. Their road stories describe a legacy of ringing ears and an empty bottle or two. Their latest album, In Name and Blood, is their third on Sub Pop. The band is part of the label’s new roster of loud and raucous rock bands including Norway’s Gluecifer, the Hellacopters and Vancouver’s own Black Halos. Tours over the last couple of years have featured them opening Pearl Jam concerts for 18,000 people and selling out venues across North America. They were also featured at the opening weekend

festival of the Experience Music Project (EMP), Seattle’s high-profile interactive museum. Along with having played the gig they are featured in one of the museum’s exhibits, taking their place alongside the likes of legendary Seattle bands like Soundgarden and Mudhoney.

The Murder City sound has always borrowed heavily from early punk, as well as Stooges-style rock. The new record features the full time addition of keyboardist Lesley Hardy, who contributes Nerve: I heard th songwriting credits as well. The organ adds a spooky tour... he lost his vo aura to their sound; it might sound campy in other hands but it comes off well, like the shock-horror of the get it back. Would Cramps or Misfits. They spent more time on In Name cam and Blood than on any prior release, and it shows as their most polished studio effort to date. Nonetheless, the band continues to favour visceral loudness and shouted Spencer Moody: I w vocals over instrumental subtlety, or the nuances of music history. N: So you guys did some kind of interesting covers on this album. There’s a Neil Diamond tune, and then, on the Canadian release, there’s a Burt Bacharach thing, too. SM: No there’s no Burt Bacharach. N: Little Red Book? SM: No that’s a, uh ... Love. It’s Love. They’re from San Francisco. N: Oh, it just gives credit... it gives the songwriting credit to Burt Bacharach and Hal David. SM: I don’t know. Maybe he has a different song that’s called Little Red Book. N: I don’t know; I was just going from the liner notes.

ood and the Beer SM: I’ll have to look into that. N: Are you guys closet fans of the polished, kind of loungey sound? SM: Well, the Neil Diamond song is fairly ... it’s on Shilo and it’s actually pretty, um ... it’s kind of the recording is pretty fucked-up and kind of raw-sounding. We just liked the song, we all like Neil Diamond.

SM: Yeah. Yeah, we’ve had ‘em show up. Mostly what happens is places will say we can never play there again. There was one time when the fire inspector showed up at one of the shows because he’d gotten an e-mail from a fire inspector in another city. So he stayed during the show and made sure we didn’t light anything on fire. I think we’re a good band with or without fire.

The liner notes for In Name and Blood also contain a death sequence for each person in the band. Even their roadie, Gabe, isn’t exempt (they count him as an equal member), suffering gunshot wounds to the head, neck and chest. It’s all a part of their over-the-top macabre image, one that’s only half-joking. In keeping with the times, this disc also has a CD-ROM component which hat when Meatloaf was on features a scrapbook of photos oice and had to drink urine to and a video.

The Devils play with enough intensity that during their EMP set, Spencer lost his voice completely and it took a song and a half for anybody to notice. He just dove into the crowd instead, and the show went on.

d you ever consider that if it me down to it?

would probably try port wine first.

N: Abdominal goring with a broken bottle...did it hurt? SM: No, but it was incredibly uncomfortable. It was cold and raining when we took those pictures. N: What made you decide to

fake your own deaths? SM: It was Nate’s idea (guitarist Nate Meany). We all chose our own deaths. We made up a couple buckets of fake blood and went out and did it.

For all their album work, though, the Devils are known primarily as a great live band, and have a devoted following throughout the U.S. Northwest and in Vancouver. Guitarists Nate Meany and Dan Gallucci, along with bassist Derek Fudesco, make for a formidable sonic assault: their heads bobbing, tongues out and legs a mile apart. Lesley Hardy stands behind an array of skull candles on her keyboard, smoking and seemingly oblivious to the fury erupting around her. Lead singer Spencer fronts the proceedings, mike cord wrapped around his hands, standing on the risers. His curly hair and thick-framed glasses seem incongruous with a voice that makes Tom Waits sound like the fourth tenor. Coady Willis pounds out a steady beat on the drums, pausing only to douse them with lighter fluid once in a while. N: Are you guys still lighting the cymbals on fire? SM: Yeah. N: Do you get hassled by the fire department, ever?

N: I heard that when Meatloaf was on tour and he lost his voice and had to drink urine to get it back. Would you ever consider that if it came down to it? SM: I would probably try port wine first. Given their open admiration for such crash and burn icons as Iggy Pop, Charles Bukowski and New York Dolls guitarist Johnny Thunders, one wonder how long the Devils can keep it up. N: Is [getting too drunk] a problem for the devils? SM: Well, it sometimes, uh ... I don’t know if I’d call it a problem, but it definitely affects what happens. The band was in Vancouver (August 25- 26) at the Brickyard.

Paul Crowley Photos: Casey Bourque

Going Public A straight guy s day in homo-heaven My Pride Day t-shirt was a hit. Guys in leather shorts patted me on the butt and the Evian boy kissed me. I was a pride day poster boy, a breeder on the up and up. Ironically, I had my father (the-conservative-homophobe-invest-banker) to thank - after all, it was his shirt. Tight and white, it proudly brandished the name of his first yacht, a boat he’d bought after cashing in on a post-IPO employee stock option. The boat’s name, “GOING PUBLIC,” was printed in big, bold letters across the chest of the crew shirt, and was my big crowd-pleaser at this year’s Pride parade.

photo: Micheal James O’Brien

‘Where’s Waldo’ becomes a major sex symbol in the next little while, I may not get another too soon. “You sailors look pretty sweet too!” I called back.

I took a drink and sat on the couch next to Mitch and Jane, the party’s one hetero couple. Jane was asleep on Mitch’s lap, Mitch looked drunk. “You’re getting hit on pretty hard, eh?” Mitch said to me, grinning. “Me too. They just love us straight guys - think they can get us over the fence… Fat chance!” he called out to the dance floor. Then he leaned in and whispered to me: “But then, that depends on how you define the word fat.” What he meant by that I had no idea, but his eyes were shining. I got nervous. Still, I was an outsider in the gay world. “Gotcha! Ha, ha!” He slapped my knee. Truth be told, I only went to the parade “You looked freaked there for a second!” because my old college floor-fellow “Oh… right. You were, um, joking...” Simon was having a champagne break- “All right everybody,” Simon the host fast. He promised me booze and bagels called out. “Let’s march!” Everyone and maybe even “camel-toe claproared, pack...unbeknownst to ing their ping” (his name for lesbian sex) if I arrived early. me, I was standing squirt guns there with a bit of a and pouring By ten a.m. the booze into boner. house was packed. Coke cans. Goateed men in Trixie saw. Mitch woke tank tops, Capri his girlfriend “Looks like your shorts and geloff his lap squirt gun needs a and released spiked hair danced drunkenly to better holster,” she his hand ABBA. A six-footfrom my said. three lesbian covknee. “We ered in tattoos better stick handed out Hawaiian lays together,” he said. at the door. A man in a leopard skin Speedo and We arrived at the parade by noon. glitter on his moustache Transvestites grinded to techno on a stopped me on the stairs. Vegan-Pride float that read: “Eat cock and “You’re hot,” he said, mat- pussy not cows!” ‘The Flesh Mohawks,’ a ter of factly. First Nations lesbian group hurled water “Well, um… I biked here,” balloons at the Mayor, who retaliated was my sheepish reply. with a fire hose. “Oh, biker’s buns. Se-exy!” I stood between Mitch (Mr. Hetero) and He went back to dancing Trixie, the big lesbian. Trixie was truly a and yelled out: “Hot biker- giant - six-foot-three, maybe three hunguy’s arrived!” Everyone dred pounds with big black boots and a hooted and whistled. I felt T-shirt that read ‘Bruisers kick’. I liked like the marble in a game of her though. She was tough but with a ‘Hungry Hungry Hippos.’ sweet angel face and freckles. She pulled Admittedly though, I out a huge super-soaker squirt gun and wasn’t unhappy with the aimed it at a police officer. compliment. I mean, they “You look hot!” she yelled, blasting the don’t come too often for me, and let’s face it, unless

See Homo on p. 25...

Straight 8

Punk as Fu ck! The Queer Punk Collective s Punk as Fuck night, (as part of the 12th Annual Queer Film and Video Festival) saw many things happen. This is what I saw, why it was good, and probably (between the lines) how it subtly traumatized me. A) A bunch of presumably gay punks. Why good: …why not? B) The Films: 1. Nicholas Dickmuncher, Australia, 6 min, World Premiere Why good: “…There’s a sick and sexy man with a hunger for genitalia.” … he lives in Australia. 2. Cunt Dykula, USA, 2 min Why good: Learned dental dams can be used to write movie credits on. 3. So Over The Rainbow, Canada, 6 min Why Good: Took a perhaps overdue poke at the branding of the “rainbow” symbol. Got hearty applause. Discovery: there are at least two gays in Tennessee. 4. Chew the Fat, UK, 5 min Why Good: Made Nicholas Dickmuncher seem like light fare. Intermission Why Good: Note to loud punk girl: I’d love to take you up on your offer if I get to strap it on too. I wish I hadn’t thought so much, but I’m a middle-class, straight journalist: how boring! How do you get your lipstick to do that? And yes, exactly what I thought was: I’m going to go to this event, sit there, and watch movies. Had I known you’d be there, I would have brought an entirely different set of guiding principles. Does the offer still stand? You are the heart and soul of punk, baby! 5. Legionella Manifesto, Canada, 3 min Why Good: The manifesto is rising. 6. Punk as Fuck Video Fanzine, a.k.a: The Barbie and Ken Show, Piss for Chris, the Happy-Faced Bull Dyke, and Danny-Boy and a Shrubbery Canada, 20 min Why Good: A desperate attempt to sum up and define the spirit of Punk as Fuck. What’s the first thing you do when you get Barbie and Ken together? A collage of gay/punk musing and lewd, beautiful acts that defy categorization –you can buy it and see for yourself! 7. Hardcore Minneapolis, USA, 17 min Why Good: Music, marketing, trans-gender politics. A nice time had by all.

Frederick Cummings

photo: courtesy of F. Cummings

Afterwards, The Sugar Refinery sacrificed itself to the cause. Filmmaker Frederick Cummings (that’s his real name) and faithful dominatrix, filmmaker sidekick (a.k.a: loud, punk girl) Pendra did the things with luncheon cheese that surely were meant for it, overlooked by manufacturers. (Incidentally, Mr. Cummings is being featured in a documentary about Vancouver film-makers by Italian Directors with enough of a budget to rent heli-tours for filming purposes.) There was a dildo insertion (“…only half way. I was nervous,” says Frederick), and some spoken word monologue with musical accompaniment. The evening has to be called a success. Where else can you get this type of entertainment? The answer kind of typifies Punk for me: nowhere else. Gay punk is like everything truly punk –go for it! You want to sit there and watch it happen, then you’re not getting it! Loud punk girl… I think I understand now. p.s. If you want to find out more about gay punk, or Filmmaker Frederick Cummings’s upcoming projects/showings, you can do so through: www. derf.8k.com Brian Lindgreen

Straight 8

What I Might Have Thought of Another Girl, Another Planet Blinding Light!! CInema, August 11-13 Once upon a time, a man named Micheal Almereyda wanted to create a film which would express

his talent through an engaging narrative, backed by a strong visual aesthetic. Because he could not find any money, the man made his film with a Fisher-Price toy camera which actually helped him create the very artistic vision he desired. Another Girl, Another Planet (1992), which received praise from critics (and even from David Lynch), was shown at The Blinding Light Cinema (Aug. 11- 13). Unfortunately, I missed this film due to my fairly weak grasp of the calendar. Would I have appreciated its Pixelvisiony, dreamlike look? Would I have found the wanderings and encounters of a set of East Village personalities engaging? Or would I have found it pre-

tentious film school dreck, and as reviewer John Roderick claimed, “redeemed only by an elephant cameo”? Based on Almereyda’s later work, including the 1995 vampire flick Nadja and this year’s Hamlet, I probably would have liked Another Girl, Another Planet. However, I suspect I would have willed myself to do so. I would have overlooked the pretension and reveled in the truly lovely visual qualities; I might have endured the parts that dragged on and enjoyed the spots of quirky humour. I think I would have liked this film. I just can’t say for sure. Elizabeth Nolan

Snatch

by Judy MacInnes Jr. Anvil Press, 99 pp., $12.95 Local publishers Anvil Press bring us what can only be described as a little gem. Snatch, for so it has been vaginally named, is a collection of short poems and prose by Judy MacInnes Jr. Penned at different stages of her life, the poems veer from the dreamlike to the down-right jarring. By page 96 the reader is left in no doubt that MacInnes Jr., 30, has one of the most fertile and vivid imaginations of anyone who has ever grown up in Surrey, B.C. Take “Imagine a Stranger” for instance. This poem asks us to imagine our Doppelgänger, for we all have one, “making love to your wife.” Yes, that’s right. Get over your own ego boundaries and have a sexual out-of-body experience through your alter ego – your “zweites Ich.” It goes on. “He does a pretty good job screwing her but not as good as you. You see this man as an extension of yourself and get off watching him, not your wife.” As one reads through this, there is a built-in sense of voyeurism. Each poem digested by the reader rips open the walls of the psyche, leaving the consumer (us) vulnerable to the undertow of this multi-layered collection of Freudian nuggets. JMJ hands us the cookie jar, daring us to read on, knowing we will tuck in whether we will or no. “America’s Funniest Home Videos” was my least funniest moment. The hand, to continue the metaphor, was swiftly withdrawn from the jar. In these four stanzas JMJ deflects attention from herself and the reader onto an external target — North American TV viewers and a society obsessed with instant fame. A mother catches her toddler with a sliced open bean bag and Exacto knife. MacInnes Jr., cleverly, never tells us how the mother let things get to this point of danger, but instead shows us an image even more ugly. The mother is “frantic”— not because she hasn’t grabbed the knife from the tiny tot’s hand—but because her camcorder battery is dead. (“Stay put til I get the other battery.”) What is most admirable about JMJ’s work is the sense of a parallel universe. Like a set of curtains letting in shafts of sunlight, she combines the most horrific moments of her adolescence with her clearest visions of beauty in suburban life. Violent images are juxtaposed with gentler moments, flashes of genius are counterbalanced with moments of immense weakness and subservience, and all combine to leave us in no doubt that, despite playing with us here and there, JMJ is letting us look at a day in the life of her former world. This will appeal to anyone who places any importance whatsoever in his or her years spent “growing up.” Matthew Burrows

We Want Some Too:

Underground Desire and the Reinvention of Mass Culture by Hal Niedzviecki Penguin Books, 359 pp., $25.00

malaise (mal-ayz) noun a vague sense of mental or moral ill-being. According to Niedzviecki, malaise plagues the generation he writes for: one reared on mass culture, passively and actively trying to express individuality by reacting to the pop-is-product culture that has shaped our collective experience. Heady stuff, Niedzviecki charts us through the causes of this malaise by examining the explosion of underground culture (‘zines, pirate radio, indi music, etc.). He finds a common motivation among those seeking to reinterpret the way in which our lives have been sold to us through a litany of pop culture marketing channels. We want our pop, because we have been bombarded with it since birth and are powerless to avoid it, but we seek to validate ourselves and our “art” by expressing mutated versions, ones that we as individuals have created. Niedzviecki, surely the most thorough of all Canadian underground culture researchers, cites examples from throughout North America of unique ways in which we are controlling pop. He cites a ‘zine called Heinous that is devoted entirely to Evel Knievel- creator Steve Mandich’s says, “My goal is to get it published someday and better still, become required reading for Oprah’s Book Club.” Niedzviecki finds “Bleek,” a guy living in Meritt, BC, who broadcasts an indie station from his house that can be picked up only within a few blocks. Throughout, Neidzvieki provides entertaining anecdotes in his often cerebral tome. Hal’s book is a fantastic read; an engaging treatise that manages to make sense of the complex. We Want Some Too: Underground Desire and the Reinvention of Mass Culture charts our reactions to the global entertainment industry. Neidzvieki articulates with precision inherently elusive generational sentiments, a task made harder by the fact that we suffer so from malaise. Caroline Manuel

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Books & Zines ...cont’d from previous page Deviant

“True Documented Sexual Perversions in a Splendid Comic Book Format” by Robin Bougie

artoonist Robin Bougie takes stories about sex from the ‘Net and his friends and acquaintances, illustrates them, and mixes them in with bits of his own views about sex and sexuality. The result is Deviant, a cartoonformat digest of sex-related things. Exhibitionism, feces, stuffed animals, toys, animals, fists, Ed Wood, cripples, history, fire, electrocution, lesbianism, milk, she-males, fences, bondage and even celibacy: all are dealt with in the two issues I was presented with by my esteemed and perverse editor. “You were the first person I thought of,” he said about finding these in the mail. Well, I guess I AM a cartoonist. Does Robin Bougie have a point to make? I suppose he does. Stripping away the taboos, shining the light of Reason on Dark Practices. Presenting “perversions” in a matter of fact way. What consenting adults do behind closed doors is their own business, and HERE THEY ARE. Deviant is well drawn, lettered and presented. It’s quite funny and entertaining. If you are a person not easily shocked or made uncomfortable by things you read, you may want to check it out. If you are easily unsettled by frank depictions of things not ordinarily frankly depicted, then you probably SHOULD check it out. Many weird and “deviant” practices are presented with a view to demystifying and de-eewwwing things some people enjoy doing. Almost all are presented in a non-judgmental way. There are, however, a few disclaimers of the “don’t try this at home, kids” variety, just because…. Oddly enough, there is one sexual practice judged harshly: celibacy. Personally, I found this the funniest thing in either book. Both strident AND didactic, I have NEVER in all my years heard celibacy mentioned in such a light. FUN! Learning what a sexual libertarian thinks about this particular perversion was well worth the price of admission. In the end, it all comes across in a spirit of informative fun. Look into it if you want, or especially, if you should. Mike O

I HATE YOU, YOU PERVERTED FUCK, AND EVERYTHING THAT YOU STAND FOR!

A Family Suck-Ass collection ore from Robin Bougie. Basically, these are Family Circus cartoons drawn by Bil Keane with new captions substituted by Bougie. Such as: young Billy sitting at the piano, proclaiming “ I’m a fuckin’ prodigy!”, and mommy telling the daughter “ You’ll be a dyke and you’ll like it! If I hear anymore ‘marriage’ talk, I’ll beat you again”. Plus! Charity canvassers passing Marmapuke’s house and saying “ Last time I stopped there he ‘gave’ it to me like crazy”. Fun to pass around at parties. Really. I’m not kidding.

Mike O

250W

wo Hundred and Fifty Watts is a new zine created by the people of the Blinding Light!! Cinema (36 Powell St.) The square, 37 pp. publication will be released quarterly as an accompaniment to the theatre’s own 3 month schedule. The zine contains film related interviews, reviews, stories, comics and personal observations on the experience of projected light. The current issue contains an interview with Brooklyn filmmaker Lee Krist, a short story by Paul K. Jamieson (of Paul’s Patio fame) and an interactive comic by Robin Bougie. With a very stylish design and wide ranging articles written by volunteers, film makers, projectionists and ‘hangers on,’ as the introduction credits, 250W is a little blue gem. You can pick one up at the theatre for a small price. Anonymous

Democracy in Action Topless people at the beach and an eminently sensible solution

here are those who believe that women should be allowed to go topless on public beaches. There are those who oppose this view. Many who have opinions on the subject even have rational, well thought out reasons to back up their point. Many just want to see more boobs. Many don’t want to see boobs for fear of how they might react in the presence of mom, or of the girlfriend. Secretly, they want more boobs too. Learned reader, I also have an opinion. Myself? I come at it from a different angle. Not owning a car or a bicycle, I don’t worry about the distraction causing me to crash. Plus, since I almost always wear shades when outdoors, my chances of getting busted for peeking are about fifty-fifty, which aren’t really bad odds when possible repercussions are taken into account. When confronted with this issue, my thoughts encompass a broader spectrum. The first thing I think of are the legions of humans, both male and female, who should never, ever remove their shirt in the presence of any human being other than their doctor. Maybe, just maybe every living person has the right to wear or not to wear whatever the hell they please in a public place. But come on. Most people ought to cover up. For the greater public good. The city has passed laws to combat eyesores and nuisances; street vendors, loud parties, panhandlers and buskers are all supposed to be regulated, banned, suppressed or moved around at the will of our duly elected or appointed powers that be. If the city fathers and the social elite are going

to weigh in on eyesores and nuisances to the public, then they ought to weigh in on ALL of them. This includes people who refuse to cover up, but really should. Male, female or whatever. “What to do, wise columnist?” you ask. Well, here’s my proposal: public toplessness should be regulated and licensed. Buskers who wish to perform in SkyTrain stations apparently must audition and obtain a license from the city. The same should hold true for people who wish to go topless at the beach. I propose a panel of ordinary citizens, chosen to represent as broad a cross-section of age groups, economic status, body types and ethnicities as possible. Anyone wishing to bare their assets in public would go before this body and “whip it off ”. After a proper and sober appraisal is taken of whether this particular person’s bits and pieces would contribute to, or

see Nude on p. 24...

contemporary writing that wonít put you to sleep . . . 3 times a year 2

YEARS:

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SAM PLE:

M A K E C H E Q U E S P AYA B L E T O S U B - T E R R A I N P. O . B O X

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Huevos Rancheros Muerte Del Toro Mint Records

Attention Bands! Wanna get reviewed here? Send a copy of your material to: The Nerve, Box 88042 ChinaTown P.O. Vancouver, BC V6A 4A4

Pleasure take the time in their album credits to thank “all the Wreck Beachers in ‘98”. I imagine the band naked and stoned, trying to reach the middle part of their backs with sunscreen. “Hey,” says one member “You know what song I really love? I wouldn’t normally tell anyone this... but seeing as how we’re naked and everything....” Fast-forward two years. Their album is out and the result of that conversation is there for all to hear: an eager, almost gleeful cover of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax”. Yep, that one. It’s the crowning jewel of Joyologist, along with their odes to “gettin’ st-oh-oh-oh-ned” (“high”) and 18-year-old girls (“She’s Eighteen”). You get the ideanamely, that there isn’t one. You’ll like this album if you like your music the way I don’t like my cereal, which is sugary sweet and completely un-filling, with those stupid fake marshmallows.

Paul Crowley

Resident Brickyard fire eater Hiro doing the Hawiian thing. photo: Tawnya Crowshoe

Surf ’s up... again! and againandagain! Calgary’s very best surfers, and probably its best band (wouldn’t know for sure, don’t want to), return with this, their 4th album. It sounds a bit like their second album. Or their first. No, maybe more like their third. In this case, sameness isn’t all bad. Muerte has just the right dosage of surf rock with a Mexican flourish, like a picador wearing boardshorts or Dick Dale in a sombrero. It’s what made the band worthwhile in the first place, and as long as you know what you’re getting into, the album’s pretty good. The moodier songs-“Ride, Cowboy”, “Dead by Sundown”-stand out as the best tracks, while “Bring me the Beard of Billy Gibbons” is the best titled. The band has been playing together for years and their skills are finely honed. Guitarist Brent Cooper bends his strings and whammy bar to the breaking point and conjures up some interesting low-end sounds. The rhythm section, with flourishes of organ, backs things up solidly. Muerte Del Toro begs the question of whether your money would be best spent on this album or an actual plate (or two) of huevos at your nearest Mexican joint. If the restaurant is really clean and is known to have good food, go for the eggs. If it’s dirty, has shitty service or you happen to be full, I’d favour the CD.

Pleasure Joyologist

Pony Girls

hands over the girl’s arms, legs, and ass. The pony girl was smooth and soft. Cat massaged the girl’s breasts, and stroked her pussy lightly.

“Where’s the stable master?” Cat commanded upon arrival to the livery. One of the grooms quietly ran to get him, while the other led Cat to a chaise lounge in the spacious living room. While she waited, the groom asked if he could massage Cat’s feet for her. She consented and he slid off her knee-high leather boots. His hands were rough, from years of stable work, but they were strong. Perfectly pedicured feet stretched, Cat purred gently under his touch.

The g-string the pony girl wore was, like her chest harness, made of thick leather straps and silver buckles. Through a slit in the leather, the pony girl’s tail was inserted via a butt plug into her anus. When properly suited up, with bit and bridle, the pony girl could be harnessed to pull Cat’s carriage. If she acted up, a swift whip to the buttocks would quickly remind her of her role. Cat was eager to inspect the other pony girls, hoping to find the best ones. She patted the girl’s ass sharply and left.

Within minutes the second groom reappeared, the stable master with him. “Nice to see you again, Cat,” he spoke. “I suppose you’ve heard about the new stock?” Cat was an animal lover, and had purchased a stallion and a filly from him before. “I’d like to see the fresh breeding stock,” she replied. Immediately, they left for the barn. Several grooms were preparing the livestock for inspection. The stable master apologized and said he had to leave, to discipline a feisty new filly. Cat was to inspect the livestock as thoroughly as she saw fit and to call a groom for assistance if necessary.

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Eight stalls contained some of the finest pony girls Cat had ever laid her eyes on. Each one was unique in her appearance, spirit, and level of discipline. Cat tread lightly to the first pony girl, a blonde, with plump tits dangling from x-harness. On her hands and knees, the pony girl waited for further instruction. Cat opened the girl’s mouth inspected it for piercings and the like. She ran her

Cat moved to the next stall, where a dark haired beauty was fighting with her grooms as they tried to insert her tail. Cat removed the whip from her side and cracked it above the pony girl’s head. The girl fell to the ground as if stung. Cat strode over to her. The grooms pinned the girl to the stable floor and Cat brought out the pony girl’s “special” g-string. Special, because within it’s leather straps was a firm, 8-inch gel dildo. Cat spread the girl’s labia, stuck her tongue inside, and began moving it around. Cat made sure to moisten every area up to the pony girl’s ass, and stuck her fingers inside her to make certain she was ready to play. Then Cat strapped the dildo g-string inside and onto her pony. While the pony girl wriggled and adjusted the dildo, Cat slipped the tail plug into her ass. She squirmed, but then settled down as Cat massaged her inner thighs and buttocks. When Cat left the stall, she could hear the pony girl being reprimanded for her difficult behaviour.

cont’d on next page...

Paul & Mary... from p. 6

Pony... from p. 23

inability to get a student loan for journalism school. I would like to tell this to Gwen but I can’t, despite the feeling of asylum. Instead, I decide to try and enter the moment, staring off with her past the dark cobblestones. I put my arm around her. She’s humming some melodic, made-up tune. I think of it as penance and decide to let it serve us both.

In the next hay-lined bed was a petite, brown-eyed, brown-haired, pony girl. Her groomers were cleaning her. Using big soft sponges and slightly bristly brushes, they drew great wet patterns all over her body. Vapour from the hot soapy water spiralled up from the girl’s body like smoke in the filtered sunlight. The groomers paid special attention to the pony girl’s pubic area, between her legs, her ass, and her large, coffee-coloured nipples. She could not be any cleaner, but the sponges kept washing her. Cat left them to their bathing, but not without promising to return later for the rubdown.

5:30 a.m. The sky begins to define itself over the murky buildings. We’ve been talking for hours. Night gives way and it’s time to walk Gwen home. We do, holding hands, which I can’t really believe. But it’s 5 a.m., and probably nobody is going to see us. Anyway, not taking her hand seems like some kind of betrayal. A strange relationship: I think this must be more common on the streets. We hug, and wish each other good luck. “Don’t take anything off that boyfriend of yours,” I advise. “Yeah, don’t say that too loud, fool,” she whispers, glancing toward the hotel windows. We stare at each other for a moment, smiling, then the moment is gone. And so is she, up the stairs. I figure I’d better go too. If I weren’t so tired, though, I’d swear I had nowhere better to be. Brian Lindgreen

Nude... from p. 21 negatively impact upon, the public good, the panel will go to secret ballot. If a majority say “take it off ”, the petitioner will be issued a license after paying a small fee. The license could be a laminate worn about the neck with picture I.D., name and address. In the event of a “keep it on” vote, the petitioner would get no laminate and be subject to large fines if caught naked. What good would this do? Well … fat, hairy people wearing nothing but a Speedo two sizes too small? A thing of the past, democracy willing. People with no reason for “body issues”? Running naked and free and pictured prominently on every postcard and tourist brochure, enhancing both civic pride and tourism revenue. Speaking of revenue: an unpaid, volunteer Nude Squad issuing licenses to the viewable, and the Vancouver Police Department or bylaw enforcers imposing fines on the boldly unappealing, would contribute much to public coffers. This would help pay for a tunnel to North Van, a big noisy SkyTrain route up the Arbutus Corridor, rehab centres in Point Grey, and the constant ripping up and repaving of Clark Drive. It’s a win-win situation. It’s democracy in action. Mike O.

Another stall revealed two potential customers inspecting a pony girl’s mouth and vagina with their penises. One held her head as he fed her his cock. The other had a firm grasp on the girl’s leather g-straps, which he was using to pull himself in and thrust himself deeper into her. The leather strap of her g-string being pulled stimulated the pony girl’s clit. Occasionally, one or both customers would start massaging the pony girl’s tits, pulling and twisting her nipples in their excitement. Cat thought she’d return after they had all made their decisions. And so it went until Cat reached the last stall. In the far corner, alone, -at least for now- was the stable master’s personal pony girl. Cat was envious. The girl was well trained,

There was a buzzing sound; Cat reached down to feel the familiar vibrating of a Venus Butterfly on full throttle. muscular, and fit, with burnished copper-red hair. The triangle of her pubic hair shone with the same colour. Her pink nipples, erect, stood out of the cutouts in her bra harness. Cat walked around her, but the girl did not move. Her g-string, like the others, had the pleasure or punishment “orifice”. In this case it was difficult to discern which, as the pony girl’s cunt was so pink and wet that it definitely appeared to be experiencing pleasure. Yet the chainscrews that held her open that way seemed painfully tight. There was a buzzing sound; Cat reached down to feel the familiar vibrating of a Venus butterfly on full throttle. “It would seem I’ve interrupted a training session,” Cat admitted to the pony girl, and pressed the butterfly down firmly on the girl’s clit. “Let’s see what you’ve learned so far.” Cat laughed, and looked around for the rest of the gear.

The stable master, as if on cue, returned carrying two large bottles: one of lubrication, and another of massage oil. Apologizing for her obvious interruption, Cat took care to mention her appreciation of the master’s private pony. He sensed a unique opportunity, and offered to share his pony girl with Cat for an afternoon ride. \ “But first,” he added, “We must stop and get the real horses.” to be continued…. D. Cat

Stranjahs... from p. 11 the Compassion Club. There is a popular Saturday buffet, which rotates weekly. The day I was there the buffet included: (always complementary) shake tea, Mean Green Salad, Peaceful Pizzas, Crazy Curry, Conscious Cous cous, Rasta Pasta, and Get Baked Apples. I have to admit it was all pretty tasty and for a suggested donation of $15, a good deal. I left full, but one motto at Stranjahs is: “An all-you-can-eat buffet that’ll make you hungry”. I can’t imagine why. To answer everyone’s main question: “Yeah, but can you get baked eating there?” Answer: Depends on your tolerance and how much you eat. The buffet will have a subtle, relaxing effect on most people. One guarantee: you’ll get a great nite’s sleep. Coming Up at Stranjahs in da Night: The Mary Jane McGyver Home Pipe Building Contest Fringe Festival: Electric Caesar Salad Mittens

Homo... from p. 16

What’s goin’ on?... from p. 12

cop in the face. Any other day of the week the cop would’ve hauled her in for assault. Today, he just smiled and walked on, dripping. “Look at all those sweet asses,” Trixie said to me. “This year is fuckin’ awesome! Just as long as I don’t bump into my ex.” “I’ll keep an eye out for her,” I offered. “Oh, I’m not gay,” Trixie said, giving me a curious look. “I should be though. The last asshole guy I slept with was a biker… fucker gave me crabs!”

this bar also has live bands! AT THE COBALT on Tuesday Sept. 5th, it will be raining beer as Bunchofuckingoofs, Oppressed Logic and Lupus are gonna rip. On Friday Sept. 8th, the Golers, Nunstakler and Aging Youth Gang are playing and on Sat. the 9th, it’s the Excessives with The Vaccines from Seattle. For updated listings all the time, check out www3.telus.net/wendythirteen/.

I was drunk. Mitch was shirtless. His girlfriend was buying water. “Yunno Jeff?” Mitch said, squeezing my shoulder. “I really think this is our day. We should come-out. These gay guys love us!” “Yeah, seems like it,” I said. We were veering dangerously close to ‘straight-guy-joking-around’ boundary. Mitch squeezed my other shoulder. “You and me Jeffy-boy, whaddya say? Let’s be gay.”

CREAM PIE FEST…At any time over the next little while, stay tuned for a potential cream pie fest on Mayor Owen. Have fun and keep it up! Respect. Atomick Pete Did I forget your venue or show? Well, just send listings to listings@thenerveonline.com or fax them to (604) 632-9654. Thank You.

Transvestites grinded to techno on a Vegan-Pride float that read: “Eat cock and pussy not cows!” And before I had a chance to reply, he kissed me. Simon pulled me away. “Jeff, let’s go,” he said, tugging at my arm. Mitch released me and I walked off. “What is it?” I said. “What is it?! Are you drunk? Mitch is totally all over you,” he said. “You know he’s flaming, right?” “I didn’t,” I said. “Well he is. I dated him a couple of years back. We even had a threesome with James. Thing is, his girlfriend doesn’t have a clue about any of it.” We headed to the beer gardens. Techno pulsed. My GOING PUBLIC shirt was drenched from super-soakers. Someone pinched my ass and catcalls followed. I didn’t mind any of it. In fact, I sort of liked it - played it up. I swung my hips like a diva, threw my arms in the air. I even made eyes at people that walked by, earning more catcalls and squeezes. Was I fagging out? I didn’t think so. It’s just that… I don’t know, I guess I felt attractive. All the hugging, the compliments and half-naked people smiling had gotten me a bit turned on. I felt sexy. And unbeknownst to me, I was standing there with a bit of a boner. Trixie saw. “Looks like your squirt gun needs a better holster,” she said. “Yeah… um. Sorry, I’ll move it…” But she’d already moved it for me. And right then, there under the Heineken Pride beer tent, we went at it… hard - smooching and groping like wild animals in heat. Kissing like gay couples seemed to: happy, horny, defiant. And as we smooched and passers-by whistled us on, it occurred to me that I’d rarely felt so free. Maybe it was the booze, maybe – but more likely, it was the spell of Gay Pride Day taking over: a spirit of sexual abandonment that naturally leads your body to do what makes it most happy. For me it was kissing Trixie. For Mitch it was exploring his as-yet-undefined sexual lean. And as for the rest of the marchers, whatever their reason, Gay Pride Day celebrates their own self-discovery in a way that is fun and uninhibited. Gay or not, that’s reason enough to go public. Jeff Oliver

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, movies that is!

BLUE MOVIES

Well, my purveyor of porn, the Crazy Englishman, has disappeared. As I write he is probably in some underground lair gesturing wildly at the big board and plotting total global dominance. But there’s been no lack of material in his absence because loyal NERVE readers have been lobbing review ideas at me left, right and center. And if I get my hands on the guy who threw the homemade amateur tape through my window …well, nuff said!

PRIVATE XXX #1 06/99 90 MIN STARRING: No names given. Private has been in the hardcore pornography biz since 1965, and it shows. Nice sets, schmaltzy music and actors and actresses that are easy on the eyes. Shot in Spain, Paris and Cannes, this is a sampler tape with six different shorts, trailers, and an international “big dick” contest. In “Crime Does Pay”, our blonde heroine catches two thieves and gets double plugged. In “Mistress Katalyn” the dominatrix lets her slaves, complete with masks and restraints, have some action. The dialogue is in French, but the real detraction in this scene is the guy who sounds like a donkey in heat when he cums. But don’t let that deter you because there’s plenty of anal and facials and even a slow motion cum shot, or should I say shots (five and then some). All in all a pretty good tape, rent it with your partner or on your own, either way it gets a 3.5 on a smut scale of 5. You can check out Private on the web @ www. private.com Michael D. Dammitt

D.O.M. DIRTY OLD MAN 06/98109 MIN DIRECTED: Steve Sweet, Tom Sweet, Rey-Rey and Mike Lyons PRODUCED: STP Productions BUTTCAM OPERATOR: Mike Lyons MUSIC: DAYCAMP STARRING: D.O.M., Sarah, Tori, August, Mecca, Shannon The plot: a dirty old man named Mike scours the streets of our No Fun City in search of young girls to be in their first movie. Same routine for each girl, head, sex, toys, anal sex, more head and then the facial. First up is Sarah, a cherubic redhead with breast reduction scars. She’s made a member of the four-finger club and then takes on a vibrator the size of a night-stick. Next up is eager Tori and her caesarean scar. She gets the buttcam in both mouth and vagina. August is next, covered in acne and sores, pregnant and sporting more hair between her legs than… actually I can’t think of any thing that would have near that much hair. Mecca’s a raver with gogo boots and fake hair. Her fingernails have been chewed to the quick and her eyes look like she hasn’t slept in a week. Last is Shannon, probably the best looking girl in vid. She goes through her paces and gets her butt turned inside out. Trust me, you have to see it to believe it. On top of it all is the D.O.M. with his wrinkly old butt, baldhead and a bad habit of leaving his socks on. Creepy! Being local you just might see one of these girls in a club or on the bus. This movie sticks by its title, it is dirty and Mike is old. I know some will get a kick out of it and some will rent it for the song by DAYCAMP, but I have to give this one a 2.0. For more check out, www.buttcam.com Until next time, remember to pull rank and exercise your veto power. Michael D. Dammitt