Thursday, June 28, 2012

Sex In A Can (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 12)

Griff laid his head back on a lumpy foam head rest with his body on a raised medical table. A young, chunky nurse ran over to him with a clipboard, and said, “Is this your name? A. Griffith?”
“Yes, it is”.
“Fine, let’s begin”, she quickly tore some tape, pulled out an empty bag, rubbed his arm with iodine, and handed him a red, rubber ball. She plunged a needle in his arm. “Please squeeze the ball slowly three times and then let go. Thank you!”
Griff squeezed the ball, and then heard another nurse ask the man on the table next to him, “Well, all done, Mr. Mullins, that didn’t hurt a bit, now did it?”
“Yes it did, you promised me it wouldn’t you lied to me!” he whined, a fat, pasty man with a weak chin in a stained polo shirt.
“Well, I’m sorry it was so uncomfortable for you, sir. But now that you’ve donated blood to the American Red Cross you can take advantage of some juice and cookies at our snack table”.
“HUMPH!” he jumped off the table.

Griff tried reading a few pages of the crime novel he brought in, “After The Kiss A Murder”, but got bored and closed his eyes, hoping he could sleep while the blood seeped through the needle through the tubes and into the plasma bag.
He heard two women speaking.
“Girl, you looked stressed”.
“Oh, mamacita, that last guy worked my last nerve”.
“He was bitching and moaning all the time he was on the table”.
“Look at him now…don’t stare. He’s plowing through those cookies like it’s his last meal on earth. He’s double fisting the apple juice, Jesus. Can you believe him?”
“For real…Oh no, he’s not. He’s shoving bags of cookies into his backpack for later. Well, I’m going to put a stop to that, HEY MISTER!” the nurse ran over to the snack table.

The nurse leaned over Griff. “How you doing, man? Everything okay?”
“Just cool”.
“Another two minutes and you’re done”. She walked away.
Griff closed his eyes again and heard a body lying down on the table next to him. He heard two voices, one the nurse that yelled at Mr. Mullins, and the other voice belonged to a young girl.

“Now get comfy, which arm do you want…left or right?”
“My righty”.
“Grip the ball three times and then”…..FAAARTTTT!
“Miss Andersson!”
“There, you did it. You stuck a pin in me and let the air out!”
“That’s enough! Behave yourself, miss. I’ll be back in a few minutes and I don’t want any horseplay from you”.
“Yeah! Whatever!”

The nurse walked away and the sound of a hand tapping against the med table rang in his ears.
“’After…The Kiss…Uh… Murrrrrderrrrr!’ Must be a lousy book”, the young girl scoffed.
Griff opened his eyes a crack and saw a tall, thin, dark-skinned girl leaning over towards his table with her head tilted upside down staring at his book. She wore an Exploited t-shirt with a short skirt and Doc Marten boots.
“Why do you think it’s lousy?” Griff asked. She turned her head right side up and faced him with large doe eyes.
“Because somebody’s being murdered and here you are sleeping it off!” she feigned surprise.

“Ah!” Griff chuckled, “Still sleepy from last night’s show”.
“Who performed?”
“I did”.
“You’re a world-famous performer and you’re donating blood? Hah!” she scoffed again.
“Yeah, well all your soda pop bottle money goes straight to the scumbag club owner, the jock bouncer, the bartender who waters down your White fucking Russians, the cunty chick club booker, etecetera, etcetera. And the band gets nothing except ringing ears”.
“And punctured arms! So, Mister Nightclub, what’s the name of your band?”
“Garbage Truck, and no, you won’t hurt my feelings if you say you’ve never heard of us before”.
“Actually, Blood Boy, I have heard of Garbage Truck. What a novelty, I heard there’s this disgusting, smelly, homeless bum in the band”.
“That would be me”.
“Bullshit artist! You don’t smell. Hyped again!”
“I’m sorry I disappointed you”.
“If I caught your act I would have demanded a refund. What nerve. I can’t stand false advertising!”

Dead pause. The girl’s doe eyes rolled around impatiently.
“My name’s Audrey Griffith, but my pals call me Griff”.
“I’m Trixie Andersson. My father’s from Denmark and my mother’s from Belize. Small world, huh? So, are you guys punk or a bunch of fat grunge hippies?”
“We’re punk but the other guys are trying to edjimicate me”.
“Sorry to hear-“
“Well, well, Mr. Griffith, all done!” his nurse raced over, pulled out the needle, applied a bandage and some gauze. “Ready for some juice and cookies?”
“Yeah, I’m overdue a sugar rush”.

“So long, slugger!” Trixie smiled. Griff waved back.
He wobbled over to the snack table and cracked open his crime novel. Every once in awhile he’d peer up from his book to take a look at her. After the third peek he noticed she was gone.


Griff walked out of the plasma center and turned the corner. Standing in front of the bus top was Trixie Andersson wearing big, bug-eyed sunglasses waiting for her bus.

“Hey!” Griff walked up, “Do you accept rides from smelly, homeless bums?”
“What, you’ve got a car? Hyped again. They made you sound like a bus commando!”
“Shit, where do you get your gossip from, anyway?”
“Java The Hut”.
“Oh, Jesus, that dump. See that Plymouth Valiant over there, the one that some people think’s purple and other people think it’s red?”
“That’s our ride, let’s go”.


Griff drove the Valiant down the sunny Hollywood street towards the depressing decay of Silver Lake. Trixie was so beautiful with her dark skin and European cheekbones he kept glancing over at her. She lit up a cigarette.

“Does smoking bother you? Oops, too late!”
“What do you do outside of selling blood, Trixie?”
“I make guitars, sew fabric, bang metal, carve wood, make things all day”, she blew a plume of smoke out the window. “Today’s my day off”. She rubbed her bare leg against Griff’s and he felt a shock of electricity.

Griff’s pants got real tight. Trixie glanced down and smiled.
“What do you think of Chuck Skylar and Stacey Gash hooking up together?”
Trixie’s smile melted and her eyes narrowed into slits. “That Chuck asshole is such a loser, you know he’s dying to take his head and crawl it up his asshole, and who, Who, WHO does he pick for a girlfriend? That gypsy junkie no-talent crack head slut Stacey Gash!”
“Dead End Kyle’s just crazy about her!” Griff goaded her.
“Dead End Kyle’s just crazy, period! I heard he paid Stacey Gash to jerk off in his wig!!!” she yelled. Griff busted out laughing.
“Is that some more choice gossip you heard at Java The Hut?”
Trixie quietly snorted.

Griff stopped at a red light and saw a familiar figure on the corner, a broken-down old man, Jeffrey Chandler, his trumpet teacher, talking to himself and gesturing wildly. He tried not to stare too hard, afraid he might be recognized.
“Chuck Skylar, that freak”, Trixie chuckled. “You know what’s the difference between Schmuck Skylar and ol' Grandpa on the corner?”
“A recording contract!”
Chandler turned from the girl’s voice, widened his eyes and pointed at Griff. Thankfully, the light turned green.
“Thank God!” thought Griff and he stepped on the pedal harder than usual.
Trixie assumed something was up, chuckled and rubbed her bare leg against Griff again.
“Do that trick again!” Trixie smiled, tossing her cigarette butt out the window, hoping Silver Lake caught fire right then and there.


“Walk quietly”, Trixie shushed, “Don’t wake the baby!”
“What?” Griff whispered.
They walked into her combo studio – apartment with hardwood floors and all manner of materials strewn around the room, power tools, sewing machines, tailor’s forms, hammers, acetylene torches, cordless drills, nail guns, paper mache molds, drill bits, glue guns, chainsaws, some even lying all over the floor.

“What the hell is this?” She glared, exasperated at her floor.
“What’s wrong?”
“I always leave spare change all over my floor for good luck, you know, quarters, dimes, it’s an omen of good fortune. Somebody picked all my change clean off the floor!”
Griff reached for the light and knocked over a large pair of scissors, clattering loudly.

“Trixie? Is That You???” yelled a voice down the hall.
“Oh shit! You woke up the baby!”
“That’s a baby?”

Suddenly a white, buff guy with a shaved head with gray whiskers poking out of his skull ran into the room. He wore a beefy tank top, studded wrist bands and camouflage cargo pants with combat boots, and had piercings all over his face.
“Trixie, Trixie, Trixie! Look at what I painted, you just haaave to look at my new piece I painted, you’ll just love it, girl!” The man fawned.
“Ah, heh, we have company”, Trixie sheepishly chuckled. “This is my friend Griff. Griff, Dale Cryer, Dale Cryer, Griff!”
“Pleased to meet you, Dale”, Griff put out his hand.

Cryer gasped.“Ohmygod, Griff from Monkey Wrench, my favorite band!!!! Your trumpet playing was such, such, such an influence on me! You were my idol for so many years! The best clothes, the coolest style! I was your biggest fan, me, Dale Cryer!” he flexed his muscles. “If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have started my own band, Suave Style…oh! The way you held your horn, why it was….just….PERFECTION!” he yelled. Trxie jumped back a few feet.
“Thanks for the nice –“ Griff started. Trixie pushed Dale down the hall. Their voices drifted down the hall.
“Why don’t you show me this new work of yours, Dale?”
“I bought a 24-pack just to celebrate my new work, Trix!”
“Would my missing change have anything to do with this new beer, Picasso?”


Dale Cryer went out to The Strap-On because it was “Game Boi” night (Asian go-go boys), leaving Trixie alone for some quality time with Griff. They laid in bed together after having sex for hours. The most fucking Griff had in months, his unit ached from all the homework he put out. She held his erect penis with one hand and stroked his cheek with the other, kissing his soft black hair.

“Let’s go to sleep, honey”, Trixie whispered.
“Okay”, Griff giggled, “Nighty night, Matey”. They both passed out from sex exhaustion, or sexhaustion. The apartment remained quiet and still for two hours, until 3 AM.

Griff and Trixie woke up slowly to the sounds of a grown-man keening and wailing down the hall.
“OH MY GOD!!!!”

Griff stirred uncomfortably in bed, his pecker quickly growing limp and cold. “What the hell’s that?” he whispered.
“It’s the baby”, Trxie turned around, scratching her hair. “He’s home from the club”.
“No, come on”.
“It’s that fucking Dale Cryer. I gotta get another roommate”.
“What’s he crying about?” Griff had to pee.
“He’s fucking drunk from all the beer he drank….FROM MY SPARE CHANGE!” she lowered her voice again. “Probably struck out at the club again. The only guys that score at The Strap-On are twinks and rich Arabs”.
“Uuhhh…What should we do?”
“Who cares? Fuck him, he stole my spare change”.

Cryer ripped out a few more moaners and weepers.
Griff laughed.
“Go ahead and laugh”, Trixie pushed her skinny black finger on his chest, “But when we went in the other room he told me he always thought you were gay and he used to fantasize being alone with you. Go ahead and laugh, Mister Garbage Truck, but that’s probably what he’s really crying about!”
Griff’s unit got smaller and colder.

“Hahahaha”, Trixie laughed, grabbing a pillow and wrapping it over her head.
“I told you it’s funny, you bitch”, Griff smirked.
The night ended with one man screaming in one room and two people laughing in the other room, and it all started with blood money.

The complete edition of EVERY GOOD BOY DIES FIRST is available in eBook form via Amazon Kindle, iTunes, Barnes & Noble Nook and other eReaders. Don't miss it!


Artwork by Len-Yan

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Sheitan (France, 2006)

Trashy, nutty and absolutely demented, “Sheitan” is one of those films that’ll leave you scratching your head wondering what the hell you just watched for the past 90-plus minutes. Sure, it’s a horror film, but one that treats Christmas Eve as a satanic ritual. It’s that twisted!

“Sheitan” begins with a clique of hip-hop club kids led by the annoying Bart (Olivier Barthelemy), a rowdy punk who tears shit up who basically gets his French ass handed to him all through the movie. He meets a comely nymphet, the mysterious Eve (a terrific Roxane Mesquida), and since he doesn’t have any wheels, persuades his pals to take them to her home so he can bang her silly. Here’s where the trouble starts.

The clique is a veritable United Nations of teenage immigrant punks, one from every continent, i.e. an Asian pal named Thai, an African guy (Ladj), and his date for the night, a cool Perisan girl named Yasmine, all out for sex and thrills.

Eve lives on a farm in the middle of Nowheresville, France, where they meet her uncle, Joseph, a creepy farmer played with lip-smacking relish by Vincent Cassel, much better here than in the turgid “Black Swan”. Joseph, looking like some demented Jethro Tull roadie, is all smiles, charm and racist remarks about the visiting ethnic teenagers. Before anyone can call him on his nasty remarks he treats everyone to a squirt of milk from an overly pregnant goat. The only taker is Eve, who happily gets on her knees and takes a fresh goat titty squirt of milk in her mouth.

Joseph takes an exceptional interest in Bart, even going so far as introducing him to his slutty niece Jeanne (Julie-Marie Parmentier), who looks like she’d go down on anything that moves. Actually she does a plum scene where she jacks off a big black dog. All the farm kids look inbred and deformed, with two boys in particular who resent the attention paid to Bart and his pals. All sorts of weird pranks are played on them, including a bed-ful of crickets and cockroaches.

Raising the blasphemy level ever higher is the fact that this all takes place on Christmas Eve, with the plan being that Joseph’s wife/sister Mary will be giving birth that night to a young Satanic king. Cassel plays a great French Satanist, investing generous amounts of dogma to his passionate speeches about the Devil and his omnipotence.

“Sheitan” is filled with great scenes of debauchery and depravity, one standout scene being a naked battle between Joseph, the urban club kids and the inbred farm kids. What starts out as good clean fun degenerates into raw aggression, with Bart once again getting his face smashed in.

The film reaches its grand climax when the clock strikes midnight turning the night before Christmas into Christmas Day, when Joseph’s wife Mary breaks her water and drops her baby. The baby, as it happens, is a doll with newly installed human eyes, eyes belonging to…guess who?

“Sheitan” will never be accused of being great art, but it’s trashy good fun and far more interesting and twisted than any teenage horror film produced in the past twenty years. Kim Chapiron directed and Vincent Cassel co-produced this dirty little gem, a pretty wild piece of French filmmaking that’s an antidote to junk like “Amelie”. It's also the only horror film about Christmas worth a damn, for whatever that's worth.


I recently saw Gregg Araki’s 1995 film “The Doom Generation”, a combination of Jean-Luc Godard nouvelle vague and Richard Kern erotic psychomania. The Godard influence can be seen in the first half with his patented hipster frolicking of “Band Of Outsiders” and “Pierrot Le Fou”, even down to naming his three main characters Red, White and Blue. The Richard Kern influence begins with Rose McGowan pinch-hitting for Lydia Lunch by playing the cunty vamp, culminating into a full-on, explosive Cinema Of Transgression finale, where a gang of jocks brutally assault Red, White and Blue while reciting “The Pledge of Allegiance”. Pretentious as hell but still worth a view. Outside of “Mysterious Skin” I don’t think Araki’s made anything else of substance -Smiley Face, Nowhere, Kaboom are just plain awful- but at least he knows how to grab your attention.

Thursday, June 7, 2012


Clothes might make the man (or woman), but selling them in editorials make the clothes more exciting for all of us. An editorial can be an amazing collaboration between a magazine’s art director, the photographer, and even the models themselves. Three recent shoots really made a big impression on me, and they’ve also made quite a splash in the fashion world, too.

Oyster Magazine recently published a terrific photo shoot by Benny Horne starring Tati Cotliar modeling Prada, Derek Lam and others playing a hysterical 1964 Beatles-English Invasion fan. The shoot, titled “Baby It’s You” is wild, stylish and very funny. Benny Horne’s photography brilliantly recaptures images of the British Invasion and their hysterical fans with dazzling accuracy. I also detected some badass Weegee flash photography action in many of these shots.

On a personal note, I think it’s pretty awesome Tati was born on my 34th birthday (October 31, 1990).

Stav Strashko (last week’s blog cover boy) is in the Andrej Pejic tribe of androgynous models, meaning he does quite a bit of drag. One of his most infamous photos showed him dressed as a French maid on his knees doing a bit of dusting with a cig dangling impudently from his lips. Very drag badass.

In this group of pictures he’s modeling some cool rock wear and probably some ladies wear, too, and styled to look like an elegantly wasted rock star, down and out in the streets of Paris and London. Just like the Tati photo shoot we’re seeing some great vintage rock imagery showcasing some brilliant new fashions.

One of the most controversial and outrageous photo shoots in recent memory is the “Battle of The Sexes” for Forward by Elyse Walker shoot featuring Andre Pejic as the abused girlfriend and Erika Linder as the abusive boyfriend.

Photographed by Sara Saric in Robert Longo style, this would be a fairly offensive editorial were it not the fact that both parties are absolutely brilliant in their gender-reversed roles.

Fashions worn by Ms. Pejic are from designers as diverse as Proenza Schoeler, Stella McCartney, Lanvin, among others. Erika’s modeling Givenchy and Rick Owens.

If there is one thing these models all have in common, it's style, and style is the invisible cosmetic they wear that captures our imagination. Bottom line, whether fashionistas run out to buy these designs or not doesn’t matter because once again, the sizzle’s usually a lot better than the steak. Presentation is everything, and the audacity of these rock-inspired images make an enormous impression that lasts.