News: Jack Brooks: Monster Slayer Vs. Ahlana Demona: Monster Slayer

This weekend I watched a really cool movie called Jack Brooks: Monster Slayer. As I followed the adventure of an angry plumber coming to grips with the fact that his parents were killed by a werewolf, I realized that this movie was right up my alley.

The climax scene arrived, cementing my belief that this was really my kind of movie. A possessed teacher transforms into a bizarre blob demon in front of a classroom full of science students. The monster’s writhing tentacles pin the students to the classroom walls and, one by one, turns them into vicious demons.

Then it dawned on me why I loved the ending of the movie so much.

I wrote it.

Several years ago, I shared one of my stories with a fellow horror writer. The story was called “Ahlana Demona: Monster Slayer.” My fellow writer loved it and asked if he could pitch it to a friend who worked for one of the movie studios. I gave him the okay and never heard anything back about it. Figuring it disappeared into the Hollywood muck, I forgot about it.

Now my story isn’t about a plumber. It’s about a male-to-female transsexual monster hunter who teams up with a zombie rights activist to fight werewolves, obviously something that Hollywood isn’t ready for. My story doesn’t end in a science classroom. Mine ends in an art classroom. In my story, the beast with the tentacles isn’t just a blobby Robert Englund demon, it’s a werewolf demon. Both feature tons of glop spewing all over the place.

The similarities are eerie.

Yes, it’s possible that the similarities are a complete coincidence. It’s also possible that my tale passed from one scummy Hollywood hand to the next, eventually stopping at someone who had a great idea of their own, but just needed a title and an ending. It’s possible that they liked my ideas better than theirs.

Maybe I’m crazy?

You can read a drastically revised version of my story in issue number two of Polluto: The Anti-Pop Culture Journal and you can pick up Jack Brooks: Monster Slayer on DVD just about anywhere. Decide for yourself.

News: MTN Access to Art Zinefest 2008 Coverage

The new episode of MTN’s television program Access to Art features coverage of the 2008 Twin Cities Zinefest, including an interview with me and a heavily censored excerpt of my reading.

Watch it here. It’s the third video from the top:

MTN Access to Art Coverage of the Twin Cities 2008 Zinefest

They did a really good job editing out all the other dumb shit I said during my interview.

Review: Blackest of the Blech

If you asked someone where to find an evening of demonic metal and they told you it was sandwiched between a Toys ‘R’ Us and a Home Depot, you would probably stab them with a crucifix. Your violent act wouldn’t make the answer any less true, because that’s exactly where the ultra trendy and super shiny Myth Nightclub – the venue that hosted the Blackest of the Black show – is located.

The show started out strong with Skeletonwitch. Amidst the clouds of fog, they spewed out their gritty thrash. Unfortunately, they only played for about twenty minutes. Not nearly enough time.

Winds of Plague took the stage next, playing some bizarre jock hybrid of death metal and hardcore. I focused on the keyboard player, a tattooed chick who kept making sexy porno faces while playing her inaudible part of the music. This is an interesting new trend in metal. Bands enlist babes to come on stage and play one or two buried notes on the keys. The testosterone fueled teenagers fall in love and rush right over to buy the CD so they can stare at pictures of their new fantasy girl. Metal marketing rules!

A one-two punch of crap followed. Moonspell proved just how boring death metal can be. Dimmu Borgir’s watered down black metal seemed perfect for people too pansy to listen to Mayhem but too tough to get down to Cradle of Filth.

After a long wait, Danzig took the stage. As he ripped into “Skin Carver,” the monitors squealed in pain, unable to handle the power.

Danzig is tops in my book. I’m not sure what I would have done if I wasn’t able to put my headphones on and bury myself in “Hybrid Moments,” “Tired of Being Alive” and other classics during my high school years. Many days I walked home through the snow, blasting Legacy of Brutality and just forgetting about all the shit that took place in the halls of North High, just forgetting about how I was the shittiest swimmer on the swim team no matter how hard I worked, just forgetting all the crap the other kids said to me.

His music is permanently burned into my brain, playing whenever I need to feel good, whenever shit gets rough.

I’ll always go to his shows when he’s nearby. I’ll buy every piece of music he puts out. Still, I’m critical. I know he’s not perfect, and this show was a good example.

After inexplicably starting off the set commemorating the 20^th anniversary of his first solo album with the weakest song from his newest album, he backtracked to the starting point. Unfortunately, his focus wasn’t on “Twist of Cain” and “I Am Demon.” It was on making pissed off gestures at the sound guy.

Granted, the occasional hissing and cracking was annoying, but not nearly as annoying as watching a singer leave the stage and sit down at the soundboard instead of doing what he’s supposed to be doing. Between that and the two dudes in the front row slapping each other’s biceps, I started to wonder what I had sat through so many crappy bands for.

Danzig answered by playing through two rarely played tunes from his second album, “Devil’s Plaything” and “Tired of Being Alive.” I sang along to every word.

He moved forward in the Danzig chronology to tracks off his third album. Kneeling down, he smiled and said, “You can sing along,” encouraging everyone to join him on “How the Gods Kill.” His voice sounded perfect and powerful, leading the crowd through the song, reminding everyone what makes his music so special.

After “Brand New God” from Danzig 4, things really started to unravel. He became more focused on the poor sound, leaving me to become focused on how poorly the rest of the band was playing.

Danzig has a tendency to change bands like he changes clothes. This lineup, although it included veterans Tommy Victor from Prong and Steve Zing from Samhain, sounded particularly haphazard. They didn’t sound like they had spent much time practicing. They didn’t have the tightness necessary to ensure that each song would be delivered with the power it deserved. The whole mess bordered on sloppy, with the only piece holding it together – Danzig – spending more time yelling at the sound guy than keeping the music in order.

When it comes down to it, I don’t give a shit if the monitors suck. I can ignore the cracks and the hisses if a band just plays through it.

What I can’t ignore is Danzig pausing between songs to rant about the problem:

“These monitors suck, but I’m going to sing through it even if it kills my voice. I’m not even singing, I’m just yelling up here. I know it sounds bad, but you can thank that guy.” Danzig pointed to the sound guy. “Stand up and take a bow, asshole. What are you looking so angry about? I’m the one up here with my dick hanging out!”

What I can’t ignore is Danzig obviously cutting his set short, breezing over the later period songs and skipping the amazing “Black Angel, White Angel” and then playing a one song encore.

What I can’t ignore is getting psyched to see one of my favorite bands of all time and leaving wondering why I bothered.

(The Blackest of the Black fest took place at the Myth in Maplewood, Minnesota on 10/22/08)

News: Rudy Ray Moore is Dead

This is a major bummer. Rudy Ray Moore died on Sunday of Diabetes. He was 81.

A few years ago, I had the good fortune not only to be insulted by the man, but to act with him in what I guess will be one of his final movies, It Came From Trafalgar, which should be coming out soon.

Here is the piece I wrote for Freak Tension #12 about the experience:

Rudy Ray Moore – dressed head to toe in snakeskin and clutching his pimp cane – strutted up to me, peered at me through his shades and said, “You look like someone I knew down on the farm who used to fuck the pigs.”

It was the second insult the Dolemite star had thrown directly at me during his show. The first occurred when he started zipping down his pants to show his dick to some women standing behind me. He zipped back up before revealing anything, insinuating that I was trying to catch a peek of what was meant only for the ladies. He used the pig comment to segue into the last joke of the evening, about how his wife caught him having sex with a cow and threatened to tell everyone about it. Rudy’s response to his wife: “If you do that, I’ll be right behind you telling them which one of you was better!”

A few hours earlier, Brock, Shawn, Geris and I had arrived at Franklin, Indiana’s Millennium Club after a long day of driving, getting yelled at by psychotic rednecks and buying CDs off of gangsta rappers in gas station parking lots. The place was a dance joint with a distinct lack of dancing.

Although the dance floor was empty, the bad rap music encouraged one nut case to bust a move: A very strange fellow with a square, gray mustache that hung over his mouth. He would gyrate onto the floor occasionally and shrug his shoulders repetitively in lieu of doing any real dancing. Similarly, some young ladies eventually made their way out to show everyone that – despite their youthful exteriors – they were actually middle-aged women deep down inside. Their strange arm motions as they shook “it like a salt shaker” were out of sync with the music and actually quite amusing.

“This is like a bad sitcom and I’m just waiting for the punch line,” I told Shawn. I didn’t realize how true the statement was until the music went off, the floor cleared and a couple of white teenagers who we had seen earlier in the parking lot adjusting each other’s dew rags waltzed out. They dropped bad rhymes about AKs, seeing their friends get shot everyday and other tales of the hard life of a thug. Luckily, their set was short, but it was still a long wait before Dolemite took the stage.

Rudy’s dirty rhymes were only part of the reason we were at a weird dance joint in Bumfuck, Indiana. Mr. Moore introduced the main reason after he finished his cow sex joke: a short, devil-bearded and metal-haired fella who went by the name of Solomon Mortamur. Solomon was the devil-sign flashing auteur behind a film called It Came from Trafalgar, the plot of which has something to do with aliens, rednecks and JFK conspiracy theories.

We didn’t really care what it was about, because we were going to be filming a scene for it the next day, not to mention that Shawn and Brock were recording a tune for the soundtrack. After the show, Mr. Mortimer told us to call him in the morning to put together a plan, so we headed to Brock’s mom’s house on the south side of Indianapolis to crash.

The next morning we hopped in the car and cruised past cornfields to Solomon’s trailer. “There’s junk cars, an ice cream truck, garbage all around. It’s a white-trash expo. You can’t miss it,” Solomon had described over the phone in his outgoing southern drawl. Sure enough, it was easy to find.

We entered the trailer. Solomon was agitated from lack of sleep and pissed off because he had just gotten a call from Mr. Moore, who didn’t want to film today. He was unhappy with his hotel, which was actually what he requested because it was next to the Ihop and in “the bro neighborhood,” as Solomon put it.

Sitting in his trailer’s kitchen, Solomon looked us over and assigned us our parts. We were going to be a bunch of thugs at a crack house that would be raided by Rudy Ray Moore. He looked at Geris – partially shaved head, from which emerged a chunk of greasy black hair, and a wife beater with “Fuck Art, Let’s Kill” painted on the back – “Yeah, you’ve got that cracked out look.” He checked out Brock and noted that his wiry frame would definitely work. I had the voice, he said, so he gave me the line. Strangely, he said nothing about Shawn.

Instead of filming, we went into his backyard. He slid the door of a shed open, revealing a really fancy recording studio. Brock and Shawn recorded their song, “Needles,” while Geris and I wandered down the gravel road to see if there was anything more interesting than cornfields and woods. We found a discarded bottle of dog repellent next to a driveway that had a sign that said “Miniature Schnauzer Lane.” Other than that, nothing.

The next morning, Monday, we got up early and cruised over to Solomon’s trailer again. We parked in the weedy dirt spot that passed for a driveway. Upon exiting the car, we were greeted by the sound of classic soul music.

We were in the presence of Dolemite.

Rudy Ray Moore sat in his car reading the script. Solomon seemed nervous. As he ran frantically in and out of his trailer, the dented screen door squeaking with each pass, I cornered him to talk about my line.

“Instead of ‘Hey pops!’ can I say, ‘Hey turkey!’?” I asked, preferring the way the bird word rolled off the tongue.

“’Turkey?’ I guess.”

Filming began with a scene around the busted down ice cream truck. It involved Rudy pulling some of his signature karate moves, knocking a guy out and taking his briefcase. We sat silently in front of Solomon’s trailer under the shade of a tree as Rudy repeatedly screamed strange kung fu noises. “Bawaaa Chigachinahaho!”

As the hot Indiana sun reached midway across the sky, we began practicing our scene. Geris and I would emerge from some overgrown foliage behind the trailer, gripping weapons to threaten Rudy Ray Moore with a bludgeoning. I had pulled my baseball bat out of my trunk for the scene, the bat I had won in a little league raffle many years earlier, the bat I reached for whenever trouble came my way. Of course, I wouldn’t be doing any bludgeoning with it. Instead, I would say my line and we would get shot, then Brock and Shawn would come running to attack. Then they would get shot.

The hard part, of course, was getting shot. Solomon tried to talk us into taking some hits with a paintball gun. I wasn’t too hip to that idea, not because I was afraid of the pain that getting hit in the belly would cause, but because I was afraid of the pain that – if the marksmanship wasn’t so good – getting shot someplace lower than the belly would cause. Instead, we spent about twenty minutes flinging ourselves onto our backs to practice dying realistically while Rudy psyched himself up for the scene. Soon enough, we were masters at getting shot and Mr. Dolemite was ready to go.

Unfortunately, during our practice, Solomon had taken my “turkey” away, so I was back to “pops.”

Rudy rounded the corner of the trailer and swaggered toward Geris and me with a cowboy hat on his head and a shotgun in his hand.

Geris and I stepped forward.

“Hey pops. Thought we told you not to come back here,” I growled, waving my bat. In my mind, the threat served as retribution for the pig fucking comment.

“Pops? Who you calling Pops?” Rudy filled out his part with a “bitch” here and a “motherfucker” there. In fact, he added quite a bit that wasn’t in the original script, leaving me baffled and scrambling to make up new parts to go along with his. Somehow, everything he said was brilliant. Finally, he raised his shotgun and made a shooting noise. Geris and I flew back and laid in place.

We did different variations of the scene over and over from different angles. During one of the breaks, Rudy asked Solomon, “Where did you get these actors from?”

I responded by shouting “Wisconsin!”

Rudy said we should go to Hollywood, because we took direction very well.

Rudy’s big scene was him giving a speech introducing himself as Dangerous Dan, the man with the plan. He shouted intensely about how the plan was to get us crack dealers to stop selling drugs to kids. After the first take, everyone clapped and Solomon said it was great.

“Yeah. I liked that one myself,” Rudy said, before strolling back to his chair, indicating he wouldn’t be doing it again.

The final shots involved us getting soaked with chocolate syrup – a dead ringer for real blood when filming in black and white – and playing dead. I got a lot of it in my nose and ears.

Everything finished, we washed the chocolatey goo off. We waited for Rudy, who very slowly signed autographed glossy photos for each of us. Napoleon, the constantly laughing, hulking guy who accompanied Mr. Moore, made it clear to Rudy several times that we were in a hurry to get out of there. “They gotta get back to Michigan!” “They gotta get back to Minnesota!” “They gotta get back to Milwaukee!” After that, Rudy and the crew headed for the Millennium club to film more scenes, and we headed back to Wisconsin.

Review: Riot Fest 2008 = Poop

My Riot Fest excitement level plummeted a few hours before I departed for Chicago. I went to the fest’s Web site one more time just to look at the schedule. Instead, I was greeted with news that TSOL had cancelled. No reason given. Maybe they weren’t too hip with the idea of traveling from California to play for thirty minutes on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe they just wanted to surf.

Whatever. I consoled myself, remembering that I would still get to see All, DOA, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Municipal Waste… and some other bands that I didn’t really give a shit about.

I skipped out of work and picked Kate up. We hit the road, listening to music and just generally being psyched to get out of town and see some friends in Chi-Town.

Hours later, we arrived. Goofing around. Eating deep dish pizza. Riding the train. Record shopping.

Saturday night hit. We had decided to skip Friday and Saturday’s Riot Fest shows, which I later regretted after finding out that Pegboy – one of my all time favs – played a secret show on Friday. Mostly, the bands didn’t strike us as anything we cared about. So instead, we decided to go to…

The Texas Chainsaw Musical!

A brilliant decision. We got there early enough to not sit in the “blood seats,” but too late to avoid having to sit in front of some amateur horror fan who kept yacking about how Dario Argento’s cut of Dawn of the Dead was “unwatchable and had terrible music.” I wanted to turn around and slap him. Shit, everyone knows Argento’s version is the best because he remedied Romero’s terrible pacing and added music by fucking Goblin. Nerd out or get out!

Luckily, the show started before I could give the guy the what for.

This adaptation of the classic horror flick played perfect homage to the original, while adding a hilarious new dimension by adding goofy musical numbers influenced by the songs of Tool. Case in point: There is a pivotal scene in the original that involves Leatherface opening a door, going murder crazy, and then slamming the door. That door slam is incredibly unnerving. This show emulated that door slam perfectly.

Then, minutes later, Leatherface emerged to sing about how he didn’t really want to kill people, it just sort of happened. Hilariously, he chased his victim around, singing about how he doesn’t usually get to talk to people his own age and asking a barrage of questions. “Are you from around here or are you from out of town? Do you have any pets?” Eventually, he just got frustrated, turned his chainsaw on and started growling with rage.

The show ended with Leatherface’s insane street dance meaning a lot more than it did in the original movie.

Sunday. Show day.

We got to the Congress Theater. The first thing I did was look up at the schedule. Looking at the schedule must be bad luck, because another band had disappeared. Municipal Waste this time. Ouch.

I talked with the Casualties merch guy, since MW was touring with them, and he said “the official story” was that the Waste couldn’t come due to a family emergency. Perhaps it was the family emergency of not wanting to play a half hour set on a Sunday afternoon opening for goddamn Mustard Plug. Who the fuck listens to Mustard Plug anymore?

We chilled out and made the most of our day by laughing through the unintentional hilarity of Black President’s cock rock and the intentional hilarity of Valient Thorr’s viking rock.

Then came a band I cared about. “We’re DOA… from punk rock’s Jurassic age.” They played a thirty minute mix of classics and stuff that sounded like classics. I smiled as the crowd kept the circle pit going the whole time.

After a fun set by the HorrorPops, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones were up. The crowd went pretty crazy, obviously unaware that the whole ska thing kinda died out about ten years ago. I love the Bosstones because they reach that perfect balance between hardcore, rock and ska. Never too angry. Never too cocky. Never too goofy. Always just right.

When they broke into the melancholy “Another Drinking Song,” I was surprised by a drunk dude who charged in front of me, shoving people around and yelling along. It’s a slow tune, not exactly built for moshing. Also, I wasn’t in the mosh pit. This dude had the beer impairment, so I’m not sure he even knew where he was or what song was playing. I watched him and laughed.

Then I did something I’m not proud of.

His fist waving and elbow swinging caught some dude off guard. The dude politely tapped Mr. Drunk on the shoulder and asked him to settle down. Mr. Drunk turned around, clenched his teeth and cocked his fist. Before he could launch his punch, I gave him a shove. I shook my head and – like a disappointed mother – said, “What are you doing?”

My gesture must have conveyed to him how ridiculous the idea of fighting during a ska show was, because he put his hands up and backed away.

Then I realized what I had done. I had prevented a fight. I love fights at shows. I love seeing a couple morons pound on each other. That sort of thing makes my day and I went and ruined it. Shit.

I enjoyed the rest of the Bosstones set, which they closed by segueing from “The Impression That I Get” to a cover of “The Impossible Dream (The Quest),” during which they dropped a huge banner with a picture of Barack Obama on it. Baffling.

I was a little bit worried because the schedule called for a mere ten minutes between bands, and it was taking a lot longer than that. I crossed my fingers, hoping it wouldn’t impact All, the night’s headliner.

Jay Reatard played a fast set that confused pretty much everyone in the crowd. Big Drill Car bored the crap out of me. Leftover Crack’s singer proved to be the best dancer at the whole shindig.

The Casualties… Ahhh, the Casualties. My previous run ins with the Casualties were back when they were still playing basements, VFWs and dive bars. Now, their CDs can be found in Target. Has their music changed? Not at all. In fact, their set pulled heavily from their first album. Fast, hard and really loud. I think they actually turned the volume up for their set. Awesome.

Finally, All. For this particular show, they reunited with Scott Reynolds, one of their older singers. He’s not my fav All singer, but that didn’t matter. All is one of those few bands who are so strong it doesn’t matter who is singing their songs. With Bill Stevenson’s insanely jazzy drums leading the way, they really can’t do any wrong. For the most part, they stuck to the tunes they recorded with Reynolds, getting favorites like “Dot” and “Carnage” out of the way early. They dipped into the Descendants’ catalog (All = Descendents) here and there, as well as some songs from the Dave Smalley All albums. Everything was strong…

…but not for long.

As I feared, the other bands had taken too long to set up. All got shut down early. Actually, they tried to shut All down early. They cut the microphone, but All still pounded out a few more, including a rousing version of “Coolidge.” Some old man even ran out on stage and started yelling at Scott while he was trying to sing. Eventually, the show stopped.

Bill Stevenson wrote a sign that said “The Cops Fucked Us” and walked across the stage. The cops didn’t fuck anyone. The bastard who thought that bands could set up in ten minutes is the one who fucked up.

The show organizer yelled something from the stage. Instead of an apology, I thought it sounded like he said All would be playing at the after party.

Needless to say, we rushed over to the Double Door to see what would happen. The Cola Freaks and Jay Reatard put on awesome sets, but I had All on the brain. As Jay Reatard finished up, All walked in. All of All. Not just Scott Reynolds, but current singer Chad Price as well. My brain swelled up with the thought of old All colliding with new All on one stage. Whoa!

Didn’t happen. The night just fizzled to a conclusion with unfulfilled promises. Fuck Riot Fest.

(The Texas Chainsaw Musical played at the National Pastime Theater in Chicago on 10/11/08. Riot Fest was on 10/12/08 at the Congress Theater with the after party at the Double Door, both in Chicago)

News: Review of Dark Animus #10/11

Australia’s HorrorScope posted a great review of Dark Animus #10/11, specifically calling attention to my short story about killer puppets, “No Hands”:

“What if…all the puppets in the world, from unadorned sock puppets to intricate ventriloquist’s dummies, came to life, and decided that the human race didn’t respect them enough? What if…they decided that the only way to get that respect was through terror? What if…this tale was told through the eyes of a contract gardener whose hidden hero came to see the light of day in a wonderful exposé of violence through the application of lawn mower blades and weed whacker cord. Then I guess you’d have the amusing read that is “No Hands” and be thankful for it.”

Read the full review.

Review: The Best Prop Comic Fronted Heavy Metal Cover Band

Nobody gets hurt in a food fight, right?

Well…

I got to the Triple Rock just in time to see In Defence initiate a food fight to demonstrate the superiority of tacos over pizzas. Little Caesars and tortilla chips hit the air to the sound of intense hardcore.

I stood on the taco side, more because that’s where I happened to be than out of any real support of tacos. Actually, In Defence hasn’t quite convinced me that tacos are the king of the party foods.

I should have stood on the pizza side.

If I had, I wouldn’t have caught a chunk of pie with my ear. The crust must have been over baked, because when I cleaned the tomato sauce out of my hearing zone, blood came out too. I got sliced by a slice.

My wound was nothing compared to what my friend suffered. He slipped on a pile of tortilla chips. When he hit the ground, he caught himself with his hands. The only problem: he had a bottle of beer in one of them. It shattered, cutting into his hand. On the way to the emergency room, he showed me the injury. A flap of flesh hung from his finger, revealing bone beneath the glisten of flowing blood. I think a piece of meat fell off.

So, tacos versus pizzas? They both got in some good blows, but tacos dealt the most damage.

When I got back from dropping my friend off at the hospital, I zoned out until the headliner took the stage.

“We are Metallagher,” the singer announced. “We are the ultimate prop comic fronted heavy metal cover band. We are way better than ZZ Carrot Top and Chevy Chase of Base. We don’t even acknowledge Gilbert Godsmack.”

Their Metallica impression may have been a bit on the sloppy side, but the singer’s Gallagher worked for me. As they careened through the classics – “Battery,” “Master of Puppets” – I dodged streams of Kool Aid, chunks of sledgehammer smashed watermelon, apple grenades, crushed cantaloupe and other fruit. An onion hit me square in the balls. Thankfully, onions aren’t very heavy.

(Metallagher played at the Triple Rock in Minneapolis on 10/04/08)