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 me. “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?”
“Yeah”.
“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?”
“What?”
“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!!!!”
“AAUUUUHGHHGH, JESUS! WHY ME?????”
“I CAN’T TAKE IT ANY LONGER! AWBWAHAHA FUCK ME! DAMN IT ALL!!!!”

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.
“I JUST WANT TO DIE!!!! IT HURTS TO FEEL!”
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.
“OH WHY OH WHY? IT’S NOT FAIR, DAMMIT! IT ALL SUCKS!”

“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.

___________________________

Artwork by Len-Yan

Dance Of The Iggy Imitators (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 11)

Garbage Truck were tearing up Interstate 5 in their rented Ford Econoline on the way to San Francisco to play their first club show with their new drummer, Fritz-Franz Klein. FF Klein was a typical Boyle Heights boy, German name but Latino as they come, dark skin and a thick Hispanic accent. He was a lot less punk rock than the other guys but had his arena rock moves down, twirling his drumsticks and striking other “rock” poses. It was the best the guys could do after their long-time drummer Ricardo quit two weeks before their national tour.

“If you listen to some Priest it almost sounds like punker stuff”, Fritz said, laying back on some guitar cases and a bulky amp.
“The fast stuff, maybe”, Griff said, trying to get comfortable lying on a pair of hard suitcases digging into his back. “Punk’s a little more athletic, though. It’s all about stamina, you start fast and stay fast. There’s no Thunder God crescendos in punk, it’s like a 500K run set to music”.
“Awesome!” Fritz cried, then lowered his voice. “If you guys are punk, why are you jamming Neil Young tapes?”
“Bobby!” Griff yelled at Bobby, who was driving the van, “Why are we listening to Neil Young hippie shit?”
Bobby turned his head sideways, bugged. “We’ve been through this before, dude, Drivers Choice. When you get the wheel you can play whatever the fuck you want”.
“When do I get the wheel?”
“When I say so”.
“Fascist!” yelled Fritz.
“Yeah fascist”, Griff yelled. “And hippie pothead music shit lover”.
“He’s been playing that crying Neil Young for an hour, man. Don’t you have any Maiden?”
“No, we’re fresh out of Maiden. We have Neil Young and a terrible band called The Pixies. When The Pixies tape starts playing that should be your cue to take a good, long nap”.
“No shit”.
“I have an extra pair of ear plugs. I’ll be happy to share”.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When the boys in the band finished their sound check they were still cracking their backs and revolving their stiff necks around to ease the strain.

“Shit, I’m tired”, Bradley, the third guitarist, slumped into a sofa, lighting up a cigarette.
“You’re tired? I drove all the way up the coast”, Bobby groused.
“You wouldn’t let anybody else drive. You and Neil Young held the van captive for six hours”, Trev, the bassist argued.

Fritz, sitting on the floor, drummed his fingers nervously on the coffee table by the sofa.
“What are you doing?” Bert griped, “Don’t you get enough of that on stage? You have to drum even off the stage?”
“What?” Fritz asked, oblivious.

“SHHH”, Griff quieted them down, stepping towards the club entrance, “What the fuck? What’s that douchebag Nelson Tweed doing here?”
“Who’s Nelson Tweed?” Fritz asked.
“Nelson Tweed. Shit!” Bradley cussed, crushing out his smoke.
“Nelson Tweed, That dickhead plays guitar in Stacey Gash’s band, Spin Psycho. He’s also her total slave, he drives her around, scores her drugs and does whatever the fuck else she wants”.
“No shit”.
“I repeat”, Griff griped, “What the fuck is that cock licker doing here?”
“I take it we don’t like him”.
“Nobody likes that asshole except for those idiots at Java The Hut, who’ll rim anybody in a band, anyway”.

Nelson Tweed strode up to the band, either piled on the sofa or standing around, with an absolutely condescending look on his face.
“Hey, Bert”, Tweed sneered, ignoring the rest of the band. “What’s up?”
“Not much, Tweed”.
“Are you guys here to see a show?”
“Not hardly, man, we’re playing tonight.”
“What? You guys actually got a gig outside of Hollywood? No way!”

“What are you doing out of town, Tweed?” Griff cornered this tall, lanky nerd, “Buying maxi-pads for Miss Gash?”
“You guys make me laugh!”
“Well, you make us sick”.
“Like I was saying…BERT”, he pushed past Griff. “There’s this girl, Poppy McPoppy, going around town talking to everybody about Stacey, see? She’s writing some unauthorized book on her. We don’t want you talking to her, she’s setting up a hatchet job”.
“Check out the messenger boy”, Griff shoved Tweed, “He ran all the way up here to make threats about some stupid book”.
Bert looked up at Tweed, “We haven’t spoken to anyone about Stacey”.
“Well, good! It better stay that way”.
Griff pushed Tweed aside. “Okay, errand boy, leave. Go score some junk for Chuck and Stacey. G’wan, beat it”.

Tweed walked away, shooting dirty looks at Griff. As soon as he walked out the front door, Griff turned to his band and glared at them. “Why the fuck did you guys get so quiet all of a sudden?”
“Stacey’s a big star. We don’t want to get on her bad side”, Bobby snapped back.
“Oh, pucker up while I back up!”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Garbage Truck hit the stage first as this was their first appearance in a big city like San Fran, so they kept their set short and sweet. The audience was fairly somnambulant until Griff piped up between songs, “It’s awesome to be here in San Francisco tonight!” Then the audience perked up from their communal coma and cheered the band. Point One. Then they did a cover, “Thursday” by Morphine with a dynamic trumpet solo that brought the house down. Point Two.

Since the band did well, everyone hung back by the beer to enjoy The Silver Apple’s micro-brewery beer, all except guitarist Bobby Callahan. Bobby hit the pay phone down in the basement to call his new friend, Moish Wilson from Varmint Booking.

“Hey! What’s up, Pally?” Wilson blurted.
“Just played The Silver Apple down on Broadway and Powell-“
“What the fuck are you hicks doing playing North Beach? Who booked that gig?”
“Griff did, and he-“
“Didn’t I tell you to play it like you’re The Big Kahuna, Sport? Give that Griff faggot the gate!”
“Well, dude, he already booked the show, and you know-“
“Fuck!!!! Well!!!! I don’t know if you’re Varmit material. I can always get Toolkit to tour with Kitten Claws if you brainiacs think you can do a better job than I can!!! After all, I used to book Shangri-La, you know. I can do well without you bums!!!” Wilson threatened.
Callahan’s face turned pale. Shangri-La was his favorite band, the one he was trying to steer Garbage Truck to sound like the most.

“Okay, okay, okay, I’ll let him have this one, but after this I guarantee I’ll take over the reins of the band”, Callahan broke out into a sweat.
“Not just THE BAND, Pally…YOUR BAND!”
Bobby Callahan laughed at Moish Wilson’s inherent pushiness and obnoxiousness.
Wilson’s assertiveness felt liberating to him, because by hearing this he felt he was being handed complete control over a band he didn’t create or write material for. He felt blessed.
Moish Wilson parted with, “Now go and sin no more…Pally!”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next band on was a Stooges imitation band called Dog Sandwich. The lead singer, Mutt, bare-chested, jigged around the tiny stage with a huge pink dildo, flipping it around and tucking it into his tight black jeans. They opened up with “Sunday Punch”, Mutt crawling around the floor and knocking over mike stands and disconnecting speaker cabinets. The sound man was frantically running up to the stage to correct the problem.

“Lame”, Trev scratched his chin, a new soul patch sprouting from the end of it.
“Lame squared”, chuckled Bert, scratching his long, curly hair.

Then they did their big hit, “Courtesy Flush”, Mutt pulling down his pants, pink dildo falling into some girl’s martini glass, while the guitarist pulled out a swastika emblem, kissing it and rubbing it all over himself. The drummer wore a tee that said "RAPE" in big, red letters. Mutt spotted Bert laughing and jumped off the stage, pulling at Bert’s hair as hard as he can.

Fritz-Franz jumped on Mutt and grabbed his microphone from his grasp and smashed Mutt in the face repeatedly with it until he was bloodied and let go of Bert. Bouncers intervened in the fight with the sound man jumping on top of the bouncers, screaming, “That’s my mike! Hands off my equipment!!!”

Dog Sandwich’s set was cut short, a real big deal with the locals. The fans all yelled for more, “DOG! SANDWICH!!” “DOG! SANDWICH!!” “DOG! SANDWICH!!” The screaming was deafening.
“Well, there goes my hearing”, Griff complained.
“There goes my hair”, Bert shook his head.

The next band up was The Giggles, fronted by yet another Iggy imitator, SKID, who hopped around the stage with a big jar of peanut butter in his hand. He was skinny but wore an industrial girdle. They tore into their biggest Frisco fave, “Sausage Fest”.

“Sausage Fest, sausage fest
Some folks like wieners but I dig titties the best….OWWW!”

SKID jumped around and eyed Griff with creepy opportunity. Griff cut him off by picking up a bar stool and throwing it at SKID’s face, making him drop the jar of peanut butter, shattering on the floor and spraying his band with the slimy stuff. SKID, furious with anger, dove off the stage. Fritz-Franz jumped in between, flashing an un-opened switchblade. Trev moved next to him, flashing his own unopened switchblade. Griff smiled, flashing HIS own unopened switchblade.
“Get your stupid ass back on stage”, Griff chuckled.

SKID skulked back up and did a fake blow-job on his bass player, who was done up like Herman Munster on a bender. The guitar player was naked except for wearing a wrestling mask.
“If I had a dick that small I wouldn’t be rockin’ that gherkin around the club”, Bradley groaned.
“Fuck no”, Griff yelled over the band.

The Giggles ended their set with “It’s Not Raining Men”, their rant against the disco classic, “It’s Raining Men”. The San Fran kids were choking each other just like they saw on some lame British punk documentary on television. The naked guitarist was jealous of all the attention he and his shriveled dick weren’t getting, so he, too, dove off the stage with his guitar. The audience parted at the sight of him sailing off the stage, to which he fell flat on his head, emitting a dull crack. The guitar suddenly stopped and the nude musician was out cold. End of set.

“Another great Giggles set!” some stupid girl in a crop top that exposeed a distended, hairy belly, yelled.
Griff polished off his beer and threw the rest of his drink tickets to the floor, watching the band pack up and the bouncers try to revive the unconscious guitarist off the floor. He looked across the room and saw SKID crying in the arms of his boyfriend, who was also dressed like him. Lights turned up brightly around the once-dark club, meaning Last Call, End of Show, and Pay Day for Garbage Truck. And Griff’s ears would ring for the next three days, so now was a good time as any to brush up on his lip-reading skills.

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.

Pret-A-Poseur

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.