Trash City Xmas Xuote Xuiz

* It’s dead simple: name the following films.
* No prizes, just glory, and immortality on the TC Site.
* Entries by 2359 GMT, December 31st, 1999.
* Answers to… Well, it doesn’t matter any more, does it?
* Anyone suspected of using reference aids will be excommunicated.
* The clue is partly in the question, partly in my film tastes i.e. no drippy chick flicks. Well, only a token one. 😉

buffymovie

1. We just cut up our girlfriend with a chainsaw. Does that sound “fine”?
2. My mommy always said there were no monsters – no real ones – but there are…
3. Greetings, my friends. We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. And remember, my friends, future events such as these will affect you in the future.
4. Kill him! A lot!
5. Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother.
6. Until mankind is peaceful enough not to have violence on the news, there’s no point in taking it out of shows that need it for entertainment value.
7. Boys, you got to learn not to talk to nuns that way.
8. Nuns. No sense of humour.
9. Ehm, look. Sorry, sorry. I just, ehm, well, this is a very stupid question and…, particularly in view of our recent shopping excursion, but I just wondered, by any chance, ehm, eh, I mean obviously not because I guess I’ve only slept with 9 people, but-but I-I just wondered… ehh. I really feel, ehh, in short, to recap it slightly in a clearer version, eh, the words of David Cassidy in fact, eh, while he was still with the Partridge family, eh, “I think I love you,” and eh, I-I just wondered by any chance you wouldn’t like to… Eh… Eh… No, no, no of course not… I’m an idiot, he’s not… Excellent, excellent, fantastic, eh, I was gonna say lovely to see you, sorry to disturb… Better get on…
10. Snakes. Why’d it have to be snakes?
11. I’m too old for this shit!
12. How sexy am I now, huh? Flirty boy! How sexy am I now?
13. Never take your eyes off your opponent — even when you bow.
14. Come quietly or there will be… trouble.

And finally, half a dozen imaginative uses of a certain word…

15. “Foul-mouthed”? Fuck you!
16. In two hundred years we’ve gone from “I regret but I have one life to give for my country” to “Fuck you!”?
17. Fuck like minks, raise rugrats, live happily ever after.
18. Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!
19. To know death, Otto, you must first fuck life in the gall bladder!
20. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Do I look like Mother Theresa to you?

Answers can now be found on the far side of this picture, which happens to be from one of the movies…

vampira

Christmas is dead, the New Year has arrived, and all that’s left of the festive season are a couple of freezer packs marked “T/key”, and a few stragglers still rying to get home from the millennium celebrations. Which means it must be time for the answers to the Xmas Xuote Xuiz…

1. We just cut up our girlfriend with a chainsaw. Does that sound “fine”?
Evil Dead 2. Though disturbing how many people put South Park…

2. My mommy always said there were no monsters – no real ones – but there ARE…
Perhaps the best action pic of all time, Aliens.

3. Greetings, my friends. We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. And remember, my friends, future events such as these will affect you in the future.
Plan 9 from Outer Space, the movie which also gave us classic lines like “He’s dead. Murdered. And someone’s responsible!”, as well as Bela Lugosi being body-doubled by the director’s chiropractor.

4. Kill him! A lot!
Back before it was a very popular TV show, there was a Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie, with Kirsty Swanson (who she?) as the chosen one. The above line was delivered by Pee Wee Hermann. The film bombed.

5. Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother.
As everyone got, this was Blade Runner, though I’m tempted to dock half a point from the smarty-pants who put ‘Harrison Ford’, because it wasn’t.

6. Until mankind is peaceful enough not to have violence on the news, there’s no point in taking it out of shows that need it for entertainment value.
One of the many great lines from Clueless (I was going to put the one which described the menstrual cycle as “surfing the crimson wave”…). The movie is based on Jane Austen’s Emma, not that you’d know it…

7. Boys, you got to learn not to talk to nuns that way.
Another one hundred percenter here, The Blues Brothers. Obviously, an icon of popular culture…

8. Nuns. No sense of humour.
I’m pleasantly surprised no-one suggested The Sound of Music. It was the best film ever, starring a Frenchman pretending to be Scottish and a Scot pretending to be Spanish/Egyptian: Highlander.

9. Ehm, look. Sorry, sorry. I just, ehm, well, this is a very stupid question and…, particularly in view of our recent shopping excursion, but I just wondered, by any chance, ehm, eh, I mean obviously not because I guess I’ve only slept with 9 people, but-but I-I just wondered… ehh. I really feel, ehh, in short, to recap it slightly in a clearer version, eh, the words of David Cassidy in fact, eh, while he was still with the Partridge family, eh, “I think I love you,” and eh, I-I just wondered by any chance you wouldn’t like to… Eh… Eh… No, no, no of course not… I’m an idiot, he’s not… Excellent, excellent, fantastic, eh, I was gonna say lovely to see you, sorry to disturb… Better get on…
As one entrant would have it, Four Drippy Weddings and a Drippy Funeral. Pardon me while I ring the dampness out of my keyboard.

10. Snakes. Why’d it have to be snakes?
Der-de-duh-deh! It can only be, Raiders of the Lost Ark. And it is.

11. I’m too old for this shit!
Interesting one: nominally, and frequently, in Lethal Weapon, but extra credit for those who came up with alternatives like The Rock.

nbk

12. How sexy am I now, huh? Flirty boy! How sexy am I now?
Mallory’s approach to suitors (non-verbal violence also included), from the infamous (and still unavailable on video in the UK), Natural Born Killers.

13. Never take your eyes off your opponent — even when you bow.
Ah, another pop culture icon (no, not The Karate Kid), with a funky 70’s score — Enter the Dragon.

14. Come quietly or there will be… trouble.
Though Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels and Basic Instinct were both imaginative and interesting choices, they were also wildly inaccurate. Try RoboCop.

15. “Foul-mouthed”? Fuck you!
Beverly Hills Cop. Whatever happened to Eddie Murphy?

16. In two hundred years we’ve gone from “I regret but I have one life to give for my country” to “Fuck you!”?
The first of two from Dennis Hopper, the thinking man’s Scary Spice: Speed.

17. Fuck like minks, raise rugrats, live happily ever after.
…not with Sharon Stone, you won’t. Michael Douglas gets overly optimistic in Basic Instinct.

18. Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!
It’s Dennis the Menace once more: Blue Velvet.

19. To know death, Otto, you must first fuck life in the gall bladder!
Perhaps the most obscure of the films in the list, but far too good a line to waste: Flesh for Frankenstein. The original line had “death” and “life” the other way round — Udo Kier said it wrong, but the director preferred the fluffed version.

20. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Do I look like Mother Theresa to you?
The berserk and totally wonderful world of Heathers.

And now, the winners… Leading the pack was Chris Fata — though being my girlfriend might lead some to suggest favouritism is at work, she simply has a better knowledge of my video tastes than most! Plus, I’ve probably quoted most of the above lines to her at some point… Second was Nic Barbano, who got the first one wrong (but only just — his answer was The Evil Dead) then stormed back to an almost-perfect score. Mind you, as a journalist and author of the highly-acclaimed Danish book, The World’s 25 Hottest Porn Stars, he is a professional in this field. The rest were, understandably, a little way back, but here are the top five:

Chris Fata 20
Nicolas Barbano 19
Glenn Pringle 8
Keith Tweed 7.5
Phil Brown 7

Well done to all of them, better luck next time to everyone else…

The name’s McLennan… James McLennan

I knew “something” was in the air for my 33rd birthday last Friday — but I just didn’t know what. I had suspicions that it involved girlfriend Chris flying across from America; she was mysteriously ‘out of town’, but her phone calls that day didn’t have the usual trans-Atlantic tinniness, and a couple of odd comments about the surprise being in my arms suggested much the same. But even after putting on the supplied white tuxedo jacket, bow-tie, and getting into the waiting cab, I was largely in the dark. Hints about 007 had been dropped by Chris, but that covered pretty much everything from sky-diving to a wrestling bout with Famke Janssen.

We drove up into Mayfair — was it going to be a casino trip? — then pulled up outside the Dover Street Wine Bar, where the driver left me in the tender care of the receptionists, who made bravely desperate attempts to delay me by waving jazz programmes under my jaundiced eye. Luckily for both them and me, I was eventually ushered downstairs, by now fairly certain that I was going to see Chris sitting at a table in the corner.

Yes, and in a very real sense, no. Table: correct. Corner: spot on, there. However rather than Chris, the long table was groaning under the burden of friends from all walks of life: work, home, ‘zinedom, the Net, TaB. To say I was gobsmacked was a massive understatement. The words “done up like a kipper” come to mind. Taking my place at one end of the table, in front of a pile of cards and gifts, it was only then that I noticed the Bond theme playing in the background…

Though I soon settled into chatting, drinking and consuming some interesting Bond-related chocolate novelties [watches, guns, bombs and handcuffs], there was one obvious absentee – Chris. However, the suspiciously empty chair, none too carefully concealed a couple of notches to the right did suggest she was still lurking somewhere behind the scenes. From past experience I know of her fondness for surprise parties, and I was fairly sure she wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun.

Indeed, I was still reeling from the shock, though I had at least started to socialise, when Chris turned up…on the arm of someone who looked uncannily like Pierce Brosnan, for reasons which would become clear in due course. Also appearing was a pseudo-‘M’, who proceeded to deliver a briefing which covered pretty much my entire life history and interests, and which has either elevated my reputation among my friends to a godlike level, or destroyed it utterly. I’m still not QUITE sure which, but it was highly amusing anyway! [For those who weren’t there, or were too busy pouring wine down their throats, the script for the briefing is available]

At the end of it, there was a brief opportunity for Chris (aka Dolly Bird, clad in an amazing black dress) and myself to “re-acquaint” ourselves with each other. The temptation to just sneak off together at that point was manfully resisted, and we returned to the table, where the party could now begin in earnest. Wine flowed freely, and the food was excellent — smoked salmon, chicken and chocolate mousse gateau in my case, though there were other choices available.

The magnitude and intricacy of the planning on display was awesome: the guest list had been drawn up from a mass email I’d done (hence the somewhat work-related bias to the list) with Chris mailing the other recipients and working from there. She’d been assisted in her endeavours by Caroline (aka ‘M’), a professional at this sort of party-planning thing, and it was her who brought in ‘Pierce’ — actually Douglas James, in real life (or, at least, the cinematic variety thereof!) Brosnan’s stand-in and stunt double. It had all worked quite perfectly, with no-one breathing a word to me, and everything going off almost like clockwork, despite the distance involved. The only major problem was Chris’s luggage not turning up until the following day, necessitating a frantic afternoon’s shopping to re-acquire the essentials.

Some of the guests had also gone way beyond the call of duty; a special credit goes to Pete Clark in his “Dr.Evil” get-up of bald cap, monocle and stuffed toy cat. He was totally unrecognisable: indeed, my first thought was that it was some kind of Care in the Community project involving the mentally ill. Strange how compelling his costume was though, during the course of the evening many sad individuals – including me, of course – felt the need to try it on. Doug with his (literal) Goldfinger was also worthy of mention, and left no orifice within reach unfingered…

Throughout the evening, disposable cameras (provided by Chris) flashed merrily, and you can see some of the results on this page. But all good things must eventually come to an end, and as midnight approached, the guests, stuffed with chocolate, began to drift away. A hard-core (Hi, Simon! Hi, Mark!) opted to move on to other pastures, but myself and Chris had other things on our mind…and at this point, let’s draw a discreet veil over proceedings!

This was just the start of a wonderful weekend, which will stay in my mind forever. Inflatable Hello Kittys, nailbombs and the contraceptive effects of chicken parmigiana would all play their part, though perhaps some things had better be saved for my autobiography! Thanks go to everyone who attended, commiserations to those who couldn’t, who missed a GREAT night, with particular thanks to Caroline and Douglas for their roles. Plus, of course, above all, to Chris for proving once again why I am the luckiest man in the world…

  • Keith — “It was a relief to actually get to the party without putting my foot in it and giving the game away in some form or another, I can stop looking over my shoulder now…”
  • Simon — “A shame we never got to have that dance :)”
    [I’ve been asked to point out that the above was sent to Chris. Who’s a woman. Obviously. ;-)]
  • Andy — “I would just like to convey an extremely large and sincere THANK YOU for having us along to Jim’s party on Friday night, as well as an even more humongous WELL DONE for managing to organise such a great bash.”
  • Caroline — “I was quite nervous doing my bit. I didn’t feel it inside, but my hand was shaking as I turned the pages of the script!”
  • Doug — “The chocolate handcuffs were extremely tasty but tended to melt on the wrist.”
  • Phil — “No-one noticed how accurate my ‘passer-by #4, scene 8, Goldeneye’ characterisation was. I knew I should have gone as Grace Jones.”
  • Rob W — “One of the memorable bits was at the end of the monologue when 007 pulled the gun on you. I don’t think I was the only one to lean back in preparation for diving under the table!”

Attendees: Jim + Chris, Keith + Jo, Bill, Mark, Phil, Steve + Abigail, Rob D + Yuko, Simon, Kev, Rob W, Caroline + Douglas, Victoria + Lee, Pete, Doug, Andy + Kate.

Surveillance Footage

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Kate, Chris + Andy try to
avoid looking at Andy’s shirt

 


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Kev and Phil share a joke.
Pete looks on nervously.

 


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Phil and Caroline prop each other up

 


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Seconds later, the photographer was
killed by Abigail + Steve, 

And eaten by Bill

 


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Rob D, Chris, me and Yuko.
I’m standing on a box

 


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Chris, myself and Pete
with a condom on his head

 


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No, Simon — she’s mine! 🙂

 


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Victoria enquires about
being a Bond girl

 


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Some pics best left uncaptioned…
Rob W and Doug

 


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My birthday surprise…

 


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Keith fondles his pussy

 

 

Damp Squibs on Fireworks Night

Rockbitch
Islington Garage,
5th November 1998

The origins of this outing lie in the last Flesh + Blood book — as is documented, Harvey Fenton devoted no less than TWENTY-SIX pages to Rockbitch, a satanic/sex/heavy metal (mostly-)girl group. Eyebrows here were raised as to whether they were really worth the coverage — Mr.Fenton assured me they were, so when I found out they were playing London on Guy Fawkes’ Night, what else could I do but turn up?

At this point, readers might want to visit the Rockbitch web site to get the background, especially if they’ve not got the Flesh + Blood book, with its tales of on-stage fistings, fan-fornication and general Excess All Areas. But was it all just a cheap ploy to get attention? If so, it was remarkably unsuccessful: here is Time Out‘s complete listing for the gig:

Rockbitch + Leech Woman + Breed 77. Garage N5, 8pm, adm £7. The opening set is provided by hotly-tipped metallers Breed 77.

Between that, and the fact that this tour takes in such stadia as the Fleece & Firkin in Darlington, it seems that mega-stardom is not quite banging on Rockbitch’s door.

The crowd were an interesting mix of hard-core heavy metal, the dirty mac brigade, and casually dressed men whose significance would become clear later. I carefully scoped out a position to stand; not so close that I ran the risk of becoming part of the show, shall we say, yet close enough to satisfy my entirely healthy journalistic curiosity — oh, alright then, and my prurience.

First of all, we had to get through the support bands; actually, I’m in agreement with Time Out, Breed 77 were actually very impressive, and I’d rate their chances of stardom considerably higher than Rockbitch’s. You heard it here first. The main support, Leech Woman, were familiar from Bradford; they were the ones with the angle-grinder, and once again the sparks were flying. The only noticeable change was the presence of black crosses of sticky tape on their nipples — again, the significance would become clear shortly. They cleared off, and the mob surged forward in anticipation of… well, whatever. It was really VERY tightly packed by now: I let go of my empty plastic beer glass and it took ten minutes to hit the floor. Then, to a roar from the audience, Rockbitch took the stage.

rockbitch

Let’s be honest. The words “Rawk Chick” do come to mind; rapidly smudged make-up, hair-colour from a bottle and so forth; not ugly, for sure, but not really my cup of tea. And hang on, what’s this? They’re also wearing crosses of sticky tape on their nipples! And one of them has ‘CENSORED’ scrawled on her stomach, above a large arrow pointing down… At the end of the first song, it became clear what was happening: the authorities had decided to take an interest, and the aforementioned casually dressed men were, in fact, plain-clothes coppers.

Now, if there’s one thing scarier than a Rawk Chick, it’s a pissed-off Rawk Chick. And, boy, were Rockbitch miffed; between every song, a tirade of vitriol was directed at the powers-that-be and the police for making them tone down the show. I had to sympathise, purely from a libertarian point of view, though some of their complaints were dumb. Saying “it’s just because we’re women” is palpable nonsense; they’d have got the same reaction had it been men sodomising each other on stage, or even straightforward heterosexual screwing. Claims to the contrary are just ignorant. I do also have to ask what they EXPECTED would happen; they’d have been better off going down the road a mile to Brown’s, where women ARE allowed to take their clothes off.

Anyway, despite the sign on stage saying “Fuck Censorship”, they didn’t, choosing to go under lamely; when the lead singer bravely exposed her nipples they was rapidly covered up again with more tape. Their stage act was reduced to a lot of lesbian kissing and some mock Satanic ritual, though covering the mouth of their skull prop with tape was a nicely ironic touch. The loss of their sexual exploits was a double edged-sword. While it certainly gave them something to complain about (Q1: is that why they’re called Rockbitch?), it meant they were thrown back onto their musicianship. This was largely bog-standard heavy metal (Q2: why do you only ever get Satanic metal, and never Satanic pop or Satanic C’n’W?), save their fretless bass player, who was not only the most skilled but the most attractive — and, an interesting point, kept her clothes on.

The overall effect was something between Spinal Tap and Showgirls, though sadly it had the sexual charge of the former, and the humour of the latter — though there was something ironic and almost charming in the way they described what we WOULD have been seeing, if it wasn’t for the presence of Mr. Plod. It is probably unfair to judge Rockbitch on a PG-rated performance, but the tame way in which this petered out does nothing to dispell the illusion that their attitude is nothing more than a cynical marketing ploy. [Whether or not it’s deliberate, it works as such, going by the inordinate interest the following morning in the office!] Still, at eight quid for the ticket, it was a ploy to which I was happy to succumb, having had an entertaining night. I may be deaf, as a result of leaning against the speaker stacks, I may be battered (the guy next to me was trying to slam-dance, even though there was about 3mm of play in the entire audience), and I may have no real interest in seeing them again, but it was an experience, and more fun than a handful of sparklers.

Flesh & Blood: Book One

Editor: Harvey Fenton
Publisher: FAB Press
Price: £12.95
Pages: 208
Web site + ordering info: www.fabpress.com

fleshandblood

I’ve had the latest issue of ‘Flesh and Blood’ lurking around for a while, but haven’t yet got round to reviewing it. This is largely because it is one BIG mother: over two hundred pages of really quite small type, accompanied by the sort of illustrations which make it “interesting”, shall we say, to read on public transport. Still, with some nifty folding, I finally managed to read it at work this lunchtime — hell, everyone there thinks I’m strange anyway…

There’s something slightly familiar about F&B: like a certain other publication I could mention, they’ve gone perfect-bound, spread out beyond the boundaries of film, and have got Lino in to do the ‘zine reviews. Fine choices in all the categories, albeit with variable success. While the format is good, and Lino is as Lino as ever, F&B is on weaker ice when it tries to cover non-film territory. There are two obvious pieces which do this, and there which are borderline: to take the latter first, there’s an okay article on Willam Burroughs, two pages of incomprehensible and unreadable text on the noise group Merzbow, and a pictorial of “Gina Velour” — aka Marne Lucas, whose “photos deal with body issues, using self-portraits as a forum to inspire women to confront their sexuality”. Yeah, whatever.

Ever further on the outer fringes, we have a rather good piece on shrunken heads and [Harvey, you KNOW what I’m going to say!] a large waste of space on ‘Rockbitch’, a Satanic collective-cum-heavy-metal-band who do moderately dodgy things on (and indeed, off) stage. Oh, and they’re women. How much space do you think they get? Four pages? Eight, maybe? Try TWENTY-SIX. Yet what’s actually interesting is the media reaction to them, which is covered perfectly adequately in a neat side-bar. Editor Harvey Fenton has tried to explain to me why he considers them so important; I remain resolutely unconvinced, and still reckon he just wants to shag ’em. 🙂

This straying into ‘Headpress’ or ‘Divinity’ territory aside, the good news is that there is easily more than enough excellent material in the remaining pages to justify its existence. From Pete Thrower’s merciless shredding of ‘Scream’ (spoiled marginally by describing ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ as “flawless” — two words, Pete: flared trousers) through to Mitch Davis reporting on the hell of the American Film Market, there is a LOT of good stuff. They’ve carried over some of the features from the magazine version i.e.the British horror filmography, which gives a sense of continuity. However, new readers need not be put off, and the interviews cover the whole spectrum of film-makers from Coffin Joe through Gerard ‘Deep Throat’ Damiano to Freddie Francis.

Plus there’s stuff on Jack the Ripper films (he operated within an entrail’s throw of where I’m typing this, by coincidence), Marco Ferreri, ‘Cafe Flesh 2’, the abortive efforts of the BBFC to legalise porn, an amusing one-pager on the erotic exploits of French President Mitterand’s astrologer, and more reviews than you can shake an engorged body part at. The sheer volume of effort that went into this would be impressive on its own, regardless of the quality. And when the quality is as generally high as this – the odd self-indulgent piece aside – it becomes even more imposing.

The major qualm will be if F&B also follows TC down the line of infrequency — worryingly, this last issue did take longer to come out than anticipated. But even if this does turn out to be the case, at least you’ll have plenty to keep you going in between times.

That Damn Show

or “TRASH CITY RULES” or “VINDALOO…BUCKET!”

Phoenix Arizona Saturday 19 September 1998 – All Freaking Day…….

The Phunk Junkeez - out on 'work furlough'

The Phunk Junkeez - out on 'work furlough'

Let’s see.. where do I start? Picture this: A baseball stadium, big enough for 30,000 humans – and several more sub-humans – harboring a music festival of epic proportions, in an area of Arizona bordering a retirement community, which houses only ONE policeman. Picture the old farts paying extra money to hire Phoenix police as serious backup just in case we get a little ornery. Hehehe… Then, picture one of the bands being very late for the concert because they got busted in Buckeye, a town south of Phoenix, for “smoking controlled substances”, and being given a “work furlough” in order to make the concert at all.

Then, picture quite the number of strange and unusual people, some carrying inflatable dates (I witnessed that) and quite the number of vendors selling everything from stickers that said “nice people swallow”, to adult novelties (which included to my utter delight an inflatable sheep that came with its own KY jelly), to free condoms and old, used cd’s… Where else to find the tent for Trash City? Right in the damn middle of it, where else? Yes, folks, your American Ambassador squatted her team of Trash vendors and journalists here, at the Peoria Sports complex for “That Damn Show” sponsored by a local alternative radio station and a local American beer company. All my fans who read my stuff on a regular basis should recognize the Peoria Sports Complex when I had to take my son’s class on a field trip there to see a baseball game and wrote about it.

The festival itself started at 11:00am and went on till almost midnight. I arrived at the stadium at 7:00am to set up our tent. The bands were great, let me try to remember all of them, here goes:

Harvey Danger, not sitta-ing on a flagpole

Harvey Danger, not sitta-ing on a flagpole

  • Urge
  • Harvey Danger
  • Cake
  • Fuel
  • Jackie the Jokeman
    from Howard Stern’s show
  • Blink 182
  • Sugar Ray
  • 7 Mary 3
  • Goo Goo Dolls
  • Phunk Junkeez
  • Lenny Kravitz

There were more, but I can’t remember…my brain was fried. The temperature was 109 degrees and I got a serious-ass farmer tan on my neck and shoulders. There was a ton of people and I set up the camcorder to do “man on the street” interviews for Trash City. At some future point we will show you photos of just how weird people can be and just how willing they are to do anything, and I mean ANYTHING, in front of a camera, if they have the smallest inkling that they may be on TV. I just neglected to say that it would be MY television they would be on, not network TV of any sort. But hey, you know my favorite saying: “fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

And we all love vindaloo...

And we all love vindaloo...

I got a good 28 minutes of hysteria on tape. Lots of TC fans telling the camera just what they think of Trash City and most of the responses were funny, witty, neglible, ignorant, unintelligible and downright obscene (may be considered offensive by British Customs and Excise). But despite the moral turpitude, one of the best parts was introducing the fans to the exercise of learning the lyrics to your pep rally song “Vindaloo”. [Oh, dear. I have to raise my hand at this point as the guilty party who sent Chris the CD… JhM] They began to think it was part of “Trash City Rules” so a lot of them used the chant “Vindaloo… Bucket!” in the videotaped interviews. Some day we may make that tape available for viewing to the general TC public, perhaps a “director’s cut” with everything left in, including a special wide-screen edition of “Trash City Bloopers”. But that’s only on the back burner of this American Ambassador’s charred flesh-for-brains.

One charming thing that stood out was “Miss Kathy’s Concessions”. I was reminded of the nostalgia days of ballroom dancing, of Fred Astaire dancing in night clubs, of the atmosphere of the 50’s and the romanticism that were “night clubs”, except these were Concession girls “Retro style”! They pulled up in a hot pink van and piled out of it, inflating plastic furniture and changing into costume: sequined miniskirts, fishnet stockings, 7″ spike high heels and bustiers that pushed their cleavage out into huge mounds under their chins. Then they hung trays from straps around their necks, filled to capacity with all manner of concessions, including lollies, chips, cigarettes, cigars, Ultra-sour Mega Warheads, and each girl went out into the bleachers spouting Betty Boop-like “Cigars, Cigarettes, Candy”. They were constantly selling out. I wonder why. I thought the concept was brilliant. It was retro, it was nostalgic, it was perfect. They told me they travel all over the country to different festivals doing this. I was impressed — and I am a female, and NOT a Lesbian. After saying that, I am sure that a huge percentage of the male populace enjoyed the visual displays they had on offer. And I don’t mean the trays around their necks… I just thought it was original thinking on Miss Kathy’s part.

All in all, a fun day, full of wild fans, great music, crappy food and expensive beer. This is the second year for this concert and judging from the enthusiasm shown, more than likely to become a tradition, unless the old farts from Sun City have any say about it. But we know what we’ll say if they try to stop it next year:

TRASH CITY RULES! VINDALOO…BUCKET!

Chris Fata