Finding the Space Between My Fingers: Quitting Smoking with an Exacto Blade and Acetate

When I was 22, I was already a pack-a-day smoker for a long time, at least since I was 16 years old. I smoked my first cigarette at 12. 10 years later, I was already at a place where I had a strong desire to quit for good.

My first attempts eventually succeeded by a four-ish month stretch that ended around New Year's of 2007, when I decided that I wanted to celebrate my success with a single smoke, since I missed it so much.

My friend Lindsay knew what would happen, and she foretold to me that if I had that one cigarette, I would be right back to smoking on a regular basis. A part of me knew she was right, but I did it anyway, because I wanted to. And that is the problem with habits like smoking and other things, you are going to do whatever you want to do. The catalyst for conditionally permanent change begins with the self.

That single cigarette was glorious.

It was just the right amount of cigarette. I didn’t need more, or so I thought at the time. That flimsy confidence invited more occasional cigarettes, always bummed from others, because I “didn’t smoke anymore.” And slowly, the gaps between occasions began to shrink more and more, until eventually, within a week or three, I was back at 7-Eleven buying a pack, because who was I kidding? And it was then that I knew one thing: When I was ready again to quit, it would have to be completely, with no exceptions. No bummed cigarettes, no hookahs, no cigars, no backwoods.

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No exceptions. Complete abstinence.

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A very short time later, I did quit for good, at least up to this point, 18 years later. And that is when I knew a second thing: I needed a hobby of some kind. Something that I could hyperfocus on and pour my attention and energy into as I cut through the emotional and psychological dependency on cigarettes, which is far more difficult, I feel, than the nicotine addiction itself.

It was in the rituals, and I felt the ache of empty space between my forefinger and middle finger. I realized that I needed to occupy my time in other ways.

So I started printing my own t-shirts. I guess I took inspiration from Glenn Danzig and co. silk screening shirts for Plan 9. I wanted shirts with images that were hard to come by, and I loved the challenge of seeing whether I could legibly print them or not. At first, it was sharpies and spray-painted stencils.

Eventually, I started to experiment with transparent acetate sheets. I stated with Misfits and Samhain shirts. I would print an image from the computer, or in the case of Rock N Rule, XEROX from a DVD cover/slipcase. Each acetate layer was designated a color, and I went to work cutting out anything that corresponded. So anything that was black or simplified to black would go on the black layer, etc. Then each layer was put over a white Hanes undershirt from Target, and with simple acrylic colors from Blick in downtown Chicago, I would roll on a color that would soak into the shirt and dry, baking that color in. I don’t think I ever tried more than 4 colors at a time.

It was the crudest form of fake “silk-screening.”

For months and months, with every cigarette-less day, I would spend my free time hunched over a transparent acetate sheets, cutting out little shapes of plastic with an exacto blade. I always had a movie on in the background or music blasting. These were the days when modern social media was still in its infancy, not available on phones, but required a desktop or laptop computer for active browsing, participation, and connection.

I think it was better that way; it was the perfect amount, nothing was oversaturated. We weren’t surgically attached to our phones yet, which for some of us runs our whole lives, for better and worse.

These one-of-a-kind shirts were their own sort of expressions of art as much as they were an expression of fashion, and individually, in their obscure pop culture reference to things that defined me at that time, things that I liked.

I knew I had these shirts stored somewhere, out of sight, out of mind, and it’s great to stumble upon them again, like old friends, who helped me through a trying time in quitting smoking. These days, sadly, the phone has taken a large chunk of my hyperactive energy away from me, but perhaps it was always better invested in activities like these. It’s so much harder to unplug these days. I do it all the time, but thinking about all this reminds me of how different phones were back then, even with texting your friends, T9 style, of course.

What to write about turning 40?

What to write about turning 40? I just about never exclaim birthdays on the internet. But 40 is a big one, right? So indulge me in tired clichés stuffed in an overwritten Hallmark card:

I do a lot of reflecting and self-inventory, though some might argue that is a fancy way of proclaiming self-absorption, but I’d disagree, and that leads to a lot of journaling. It’s remarkable and rewarding to be able to go back 10 years and visit yourself at 30, processing the previous decade of life in your 20s. Walking down hallways in your mind, passing by all the rooms of thought, and other rooms of memory.

The biggest takeaway thus far is how profoundly different going from 30 to 40 is compared to going from 20 to 30. There have been so many changes. There has been a lot of loss. Some of it sad, some of it bad, some of it tragic. But loss is not always a negative thing. It’s just the universe, indifferent, reconfiguring itself, and you are standing in the middle of its highway, confused.

When I was teetering on the edge of 30, I started to think a lot about the “mountains” of life. This idea of reaching the summit of a climb only to turn around and see another mountain, with its own summit to ascend, calling out to you. That is a great thing; it means you are alive, with purpose and passion, growing and challenging yourself.

That’s the positivity of impermanence. And so, since then, my motto has been, “May there always be another mountain.”

Blankets are also impermanent. One moment, you are cozy, in bed, asleep, until another moment, when your comfort and familiarity are ripped away from you. Or maybe, you just wake up on your own and choose to get out of bed, parting with the blanket yourself.

It leaves you cold, maybe shivering until you acclimate and find your own warmth, and that comes from within as you start moving around.

This last decade has brought many ideas and notions that have me questioning my understanding of myself, all the ways in which I see the world, including some areas that felt so solid and sturdy, like a permanent concrete floor, with a nice rug “to tie the room together.”

But then the rug gets pulled from under, causing me to fall flat on my back, head on concrete, and I get to look at the sky, and I have to find meaning or gratitude, especially in the present, like this morning:

I found a sweet parking spot outside of work in NYC, and I was gifted with the most gorgeous sunrise, pushing through the Avenue’s horizon from the East River. When I turned to the West Side Street view, I was greeted by the sweet, intoxicating smell of NY Bagels from the corner deli, with my favorite sign out front, “Tossed Salads.” Today is a good day.

Part of the self-reflection process is looking ahead to the future: Do I have goals? What do I hope to accomplish? Do I have an idea of where I want or hope to be? How do I want to start off this new decade?

I’m not sure, but out of respect for the rule of threes, insert a cloth-related metaphor here.

My Shadow is Lovely, Dark, and Deep: Writing and Directing a Third No-Budget Indie Feature Film

NOTE: The date of this post, August 14, 2024 is the 10 year anniversary of my first production day on my first feature narrative film. I am floored to still be out here in the trenches a decade later doing one of the things that I love the most. Onward!

I dream. 

I think. 

I want. 

I work. 

Sometimes, it materializes.

It was September 13th, 2022 when I began to write in a brand-new marble notebook. I had been post-expiration of unemployment benefits for some time, and I was still dangerously unemployed. Besides some freelance editing and substitute teacher gigs, the only money coming in was from YouTube and Patreon.

Gouge Away Trailer

The path ahead was depressingly opaque and left me muddled and discouraged. This is just after coming off the intoxicating validation of finishing a second feature-length narrative film and having its premiere at my all-time favorite movie-going venue, the Alamo Drafthouse as part of the Genreblast Film Festival.

We’d won the festival’s independent spirit award - The Genreblast Forever Award. It was a victory and validation of the blood, sweat, and tears. The summit of this mountain was breathtaking, and now over, it was time to descend into another valley of uncertainty. One with woods both dark and deep, but they did not feel particularly lovely.

I needed a job, the permanent, lifeline kind – that would not only afford me to contribute and support my family but also allow me to replenish my coffers in the continuation of artistic pursuits. Such a strange paradox: It’s the 9-to-5 salaried golden handcuffs with benefits that will allow the freedom sought. I am starting to believe more and more that in this society we live in, money may not buy happiness, but it buys freedom. And a byproduct of freedom is happiness.

Thank God for the YouTube and Patreon money, allowing further wiggle room. And like always, it's too much to stop, and not enough to do it full-time, all the time: The eternal struggle of many of us out there looking to make art. But it's paying (some) bills.

Still…

What now? Where to go from here? 

Fall is nipping at the heels of summer, as it gets colder and darker, and I began to dream.

Where do these dreams come from? I do not know, but I want to believe they come from a divine place of creativity. And then, they channel down into my mind and my heart.

The dream was of another world.

It was not terribly original or unique. It was built on top of another, one that I did not create. David Lynch had thought this place up, it is where he set the film, Eraserhead. If his story takes place in the city, mine takes place in its suburbs. Or rather, an approximation of such suburbs.

There was music too.

Sandman, by Trudy and Romance - A contemporary, dream-soaked Doo-Wop album laid a soundtrack to surf on top of. A new coffeehouse in downtown White Plains called The Pamplemousse Project had opened up, where the coffee flowed like water. A cozy, warm (feeling) place with bright energy was the perfect third place to express whatever was percolating in my head. The kernel of the idea wasn’t new. It was Pet Sematary meets Little Shop of Horrors with a bit of Re-Animator thrown in, a familiar Frankensteinian premise was a well-worn tread set in that David Lynchian world I mentioned before.

I needed a canvas, something that I could use to bring the intangible into the physical world, in this case, it was a marbled notebook journal. Whenever I could, I went down to that coffee shop and dreamed all over its blank pages. In the absence of a job, I turned to dreaming and thinking in this notebook into its own job, while I continued to look for a pair of golden handcuffs to shackle to.

There is a beautiful quality to dreams.

They don’t require any sort of responsibility, initially. They represent a different kind of freedom in comparison to the freedom that having money brings. There is a purity to it in the sense that there is no financial prerequisite. One need only have a mind, and be daring enough to imagine.

So, I am filling this notebook up, day by day, page by page. And while there is no definitive goal, the ultimate surmisation is that someday, this could be my third feature narrative film, My Shadow…

How? Or When?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know at the moment. I just need to show up and write.

I couldn’t afford to make this potential movie, nor did I have the energy to, but the notebook was a certain form of that movie to come, dreams in a tangible form - a promise of hope.

The job thing was slowly killing me.

It was not the notion that I needed a 9-to-5, the willingness was there. But it was impossible to find anything that met the threshold of standards that I wanted for myself, as well as my family. I had slaved in restaurants for years before deciding it was time to make a change and transition into desktop office culture. And while I was prepared to return to hospitality if there was absolutely no other option, I was afforded the break fall of a two-income household, which brought time to seek and search along with it. But that time was running out without prospect or lead.

It was treading water in the ocean, and my legs were giving out, with a feeling of impending dread creeping up my spine. Along with dread, there was a stubbornness, that would not allow me to fold and give up. Perhaps it was the Kuyashii, that I have come to know. It all came down to the resounding truth that if I was going to willingly wear a pair of golden handcuffs, for years to come, they had to live up to their name of being golden, and therefore be comfortable as well.

A few weeks passed, along with another demoralizing interview audition.

These grueling interview auditions were carrots dangled at the end of a string and straight into a hoop of fire. They usually involve a great investment of time and energy, where you are (in some cases) doing real work that they could potentially use and benefit from. Sometimes, the review process of these auditions was nothing more than going through the motions, because they had already picked their candidate! And it was easy to tell because the interviewer/recruitment officer-whatever-they-are wasn’t even listening or asked you to SKIP OVER sections of work that you spent HOURS AND HOURS on for some ungiven reason… Those fucking bastards.

I have always loved the movie, Castaway. It's the sort of syrupy Hollywood feel-good picture bred for Oscars, as sentimental as a Hallmark greeting card message for a homogenized America. But the concept still manages to cut deep. Tom Hanks' character, Chunk Noland talks about his failed attempts to end his own life after fourish years on the island:

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‘Cos I was never gonna get off that island. I was gonna die there, totally alone. I was gonna get sick or get injured or something. The only choice I had, the only thing I could control was when, and how, and where it was going to happen. So... I made a rope and I went up to the summit, to hang myself. I had to test it, you know? Of course. You know me. And the weight of the log snapped the limb of the tree, so I-I -, I couldn't even k!ll myself the way I wanted to. I had power over *nothing*. And that's when this feeling came over me like a warm blanket. I knew, somehow, that I had to stay alive. Somehow. I had to keep breathing. Even though there was no reason to hope. And all my logic said that I would never see this place again. So that's what I did. I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in and gave me a sail. And now, here I am. I'm back. In Memphis, talking to you. I have ice in my glass... And I've lost her all over again. I'm so sad that I don't have Kelly. But I'm so grateful that she was with me on that island. And I know what I have to do now. I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring? - Chuck Noland, Castaway (2000)

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It’s an odd thing to tie into this writing, but I kept checking to see what the tide might bring, all while pouring my dreams into this notebook. From June 2020 to October 2022, I applied to close to 1200 jobs between Indeed and Linkedin, looking for those golden handcuffs. That is not an exaggeration, 1200 jobs… A fraction responded… A fraction of those led to interviews…

And a fraction of those led to demoralizing post-interview audition round carrot dangles, until Friday, October 21, 2022, when my current employer reached out to schedule a 30-minute Zoom prescreening call. It took a few more months, but that call eventually led to the adornment of handcuffs.

I was glad to be re-shackled and looked forward to the challenge of the work I would be doing. It was meaningful work for a meaningful organization that makes the world a better place. It made the process that much easier to stomach.

I am so grateful for this job, and I am even more grateful that I didn’t listen to the various outside voices telling me to go work at Trader Joe’s, UPS, or even go back to the restaurants. Not that there is anything wrong with any of these vocations, but in the same way that none of them are beneath me, so too did I want to reach for something more, because all I have ever done is jobs that weren’t beneath me. I know that I am worthy of picking limp french fries, soggy with ketchup, out of a busbucket shelf, by hand, at 2 am in the Cheesecake Factory.

But is it possible that I can also be worthy of more than that?

Is it ok to try?

Yes, it is ok.

That notebook of dreams didn’t disappear as I onboarded to my shiny new job. In fact, its importance intensified. It was a dire reminder that in this lifeline job, I was playing a part. That work did not define me, the notebook of my cinematic dreams did, and that made it easier to compartmentalize in my new role at this organization. There were benefits, there were perks, and I had money coming in - nearly a third more than my previous salaried desk job, where I was fired via COVID layoffs and PPP loan forgiveness cutoffs.

It was time to save that money, including YouTube and Patreon funds as I figured out my next moves, which turned out to be taking the story I had plotted out and writing a screenplay. It poured out effortlessly. The troubled and turbulent births of my previous films became the impetus to do an audio play of that first draft via live streaming YouTube stream. In that way, the original vision would be preserved no matter what happened. It was marvelous to watch the dreams in my head, turn into words spoken by others as I listened to the picture they painted as they spoke. The next step would be to shoot the film itself.

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The other side of that valley of uncertainty had been reached, with a new purpose to climb another mountain even more ambitious than the previous ones. Despite that former experience, I still didn’t know how to take the first step.

I sat on the fence for over a year before taking the dive.

More projects followed in the interim, all the while My Shadow lingered in the back of my mind. Its logistics were a puzzle waiting to be solved. It had to involve establishing a foundation by shooting approximately 65 pages of the protagonist’s trailer interior. A set location was needed. It was needed for a duration longer than any other I had previously attempted in filmmaking as well as hired camera and sound to go with it. That was a lot of money, perhaps more than all I had managed to save up to that point.

After exploring many options, it was looking like the only solution would be Airbnb, a costly one. And so, I hemmed and hawed, circling the same spot, over and over: I needed to start somehow, and knowing what it took to do it, waiting for another solution to present itself, only to remember that I needed to start somehow…

There were storm clouds of worry, but mild in nature. Perhaps I was merely afraid to plunge in because of the risk factor. The storm clouds began to thunder, and where there is thunder, there too, is lightning. Sometimes, lightning can strike too late. A good thing, this wasn’t one of those times, although it almost was.

Lightning struck.

It brought clarity as I realized there was a resource that was right under my Roman nose the whole time. The resource was only a resource because of a very specific window of time that was approaching far too soon. So soon, that If I hesitated any further, there simply wouldn’t be enough time to prepare for this very essential first shooting block.

I visited the location. I steeped in the available window of time I would have to work in the space. I did the math on the whole situation. I checked it and ran the numbers again, and again. It ticked every box of necessity. But it would have to be furnished. The money I didn’t spend on the Airbnb went to purchasing all matters of set dress. It was pragmatic, and it was available, now.

There is great power in the now.

It can be pregnant with opportunity if you can recognize it, and I felt that I had. 

Now was the time. There might not be another. I put in a request to burn the rest of my vacation time for the fiscal year and cobbled together a 10-day production window. Would it be enough to nail down 65 pages in one location?

“Ok, let’s go find out,” I told myself.

Short notice had left me grossly underprepared for the war to come. The math had suggested it wasn’t impossible, but there was much preproduction to occur to be ready for that first shooting day. Certain roles hadn’t been cast that would be needed for various scenes within those 65 pages. The margin for error was slim to none, as I appraised the Amazon Prime delivery time estimates for various items. Money, and lots of it was being spent. This thing was happening.

Magically, everything fell into place, piece by piece. Every overwhelming hurdle put up little to no resistance when met head-on.

Film production is like an exorcism of the mind. In the same way that those intangible dreams were brought into the marble notebook, the writing on those pages was being rehearsed, spoken, and animated before the camera’s eye – All these ideas further solidified into a physical form. Frequently, that physical form varies from the written page, because of time, money, resources, imagination, and ability - all components of execution. It’s never ideal, but that's ok. That is the reality of any no-budget indie.

As production continued I watched in awe as the things I dreamed of, jobless and broke, manifested before my very eyes. I have been blessed with many gifts in my life, and this was one of the greatest.

The days were not nightmarishly long, but they were intense. Every break, every rest was burning precious finite time. But it is also that same rest that allows any sort of stamina in an endurance trial such as this.

How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time… With a spoon of course.

We stayed focused, worked hard, had fun, and completed those 65 pages in 7 days with 5 actors and next to no crew. The next three days were spent breaking down and cleaning up the set location, happy and satisfied.

However, there is still so much more work to be done. As I slightly alluded to above, I have been here before only to watch everything I prepared and worked for crumble to dust. Anything can happen, nothing is a given. I know that, completely.

It began with dreaming.

So, I must continue to dream while building upon this new foundation, ready to take more risks, until this film is completed.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep… But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. - Robert Frost

Sangria Returns!

Who is Sangria? What is his struggle?

Sangria returns to stop the Martian President from eating all of Earth's dolphins - the only way he knows how: Making art!

This is the second in a lost trilogy of films that has recently surfaced and is currently being remastered from its original elements.

The three films will premiere EXCLUSIVELY on the Frumess Youtube Channel.

For fans of John Waters, midnight movies, psychotronic films.

STATEMENT FROM THE DIRECTOR: "The TRANSGRESSIVE Sangria Saga was made in 2008-2009. It was a different time. These films would probably not exist if they were made today." These films will be presented UNCUT and relatively UNTOUCHED. - The Director

You can watch the first Sangria film right here below.

Pizza Will Never Be The Same Again

We’ve been making homemade pizza since 2012 in a variety of different ways. The dedication has increased in various increments. I thought things had really been taken up a notch with the purchase of a rounded cast iron pan, which proved very effective on frozen and freshly made pizzas alike. With hundreds of coats of olive oil applied, this beast of a pan had proven its worth and ability in crafting all types of domestic ‘Za.

But, alas, a plateau had been reached that left me feeling no need to dig deeper or further into the possibilities of making pizza at home. What for? I had found a perfect way to enjoy Wegman’s line of wood-fired Nepolitan-style frozen pizzas…

And then, something happened. Maybe it was something in the air I breathed or the water I drank, but the lofty, wishful thinking of irresponsibility coupled with an innate desire for decadence had finally taken root in a way that I could no longer escape:

I decided to pull the trigger on an Ooni Pizza Oven. It is a device that is DESIGNED for pizza craft and pizza worship, but by no means limited to just Pizza. However, in order for the temple to remain pure, only dough, sauce, cheese, and whatever toppings along with it should be allowed entrance into its hot gates.

I was told by others who have taken this journey that it wouldn’t be an easy conquest. So many new factors reared their collective ugly heads. We needed to worry about fuel, timing, and tools in ways that we had taken for granted with the now seemingly novice avenue of rounded cast-iron pan in the oven.

These notions tempered my expectations for our Ooni’s maiden voyage. In the end, I was not prepared for the results that could only be measured by quoting Sonny Chiba as Hattori Hanzō in Kill Bill Vol. 1: “I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut.”

This is by far the finest homemade pizza we’ve ever made. It is equivalent to any Neapolitan pie I have ordered in a restaurant. And while there was some moisture build-up from using whole milk mozzarella, none of it penetrated the crust at the bottom, which stood at crispy, horizontal attention, perfectly charred from the wood fire we used as fuel.

After this experience, pizza will never be the same again. For now, if the decision to eat out reaches a conclusion of pizza, so too does a reversal of the decision to eat out.

Remembering Dave Street - The Punk Comic, Writer, Lyricist, and Actor

And what do we say to the God of Death…? Not Today.

Note: Most photos are stolen from Dave Street’s Facebook and lack photo credits. My apologies. The rest are mine.

I am in shock that Dave Street is gone. 

Especially considering everything that had recently happened, everything that he had just been through. For those of you who don’t know:

Almost a year ago, Dave had fought tooth and nail as he clawed his way back from the brink of death. I went to visit him at the hospital and was aghast at the sight that I saw. With everything that has been happening since 2020, It was certainly the last place anyone would want to be… But there was more to it than that. 

You see, in Dave’s past, hospitals, doctors, and the American Health Care System were sort of a “Professor Moriarity” to his “Sherlock Holmes.” He and his mother, Adele, had gone through the wringer as they dealt with a lack of humanity, dignity, and general bedside manner that many encounter when navigating the adversity that can be found in the Medical Industry Complex. Dave even wrote a book about these experiences called, “What the Health, Mommie?”

And now, here he was surrounded by doctors and nurses trying to stabilize his condition, while Dave was fighting to get on Medicaid. The high sodium levels he was dealing with hadn’t just affected his body, but also his mind. Earlier that week, when we spoke on the phone, he was hardly coherent. It was heartbreaking and I assumed it must have been near the end. It had turned out Dave was inflicted by some form of cancer. I thought that this trip to the hospital might not have been to say hello but to say goodbye. 

He had lost a lot of weight. His frazzled gray hair had taken on a new level of theatrical chaos that I am sure would have benefitted a comic like Dave if he was up on the stage and not in a gurney bed. His face was gaunt and peppered with a five o’clock shadow that was so alien to the clean-shaven Dave I have known for the last 12 years. The worst part of all was the hospital gown that clung to his skeletal frame. It was the kind that only cared about modesty from the front and not from behind, eschewing any kind of dignity for practicality. 

I hated seeing him like that. Even more, I hated that I was thinking more about how this was probably the last time I was ever going to see Dave: Slightly more legible and coherent in speech than our previous phone conversation a few days earlier, he was now running from salty charm to sweet belligerence with any nurse or doctor who came through to give him a tray of banal hospital food or checked on his vital stats. That this is the end of the line, for someone so vocal to be silenced by a final stay in a hospital room.

After everything that he had experienced, everything he wrote about, Dave was going to die in a hospital bed.

Bobby Steele of The Misfits and The Undead with Dave and another unknown fellow.

I first met Dave because of my infatuation with The Misfits. Dave worked at Natasha’s, the home of the first Fiend Club, and was not just friends with the band, but also played manager for them to help secure some gigs with The Damned. For anyone to have witnessed that, it must have been a zany wonderful time to be a fly on the wall.

Dave with Jerry Only and Glenn Danzig of The Misfits

Dave with Bobby Steele of The Misfits & The Undead

Dave always claimed that he hardly remembered the late 70s through the 80s when he was a “Punk Comic,” swapping out Lichtenstein for the surname of Street. He would go on to open for bands like The Ramones, The Cramps, and The Misfits and even put out a 7-inch of his stand-up. I am glad I have a copy. I never got to see any of Dave do material from his old act, but it was easy to imagine the effect he could have on a crowd with the idiosyncratic, whimsical charm that still oozed from his pores decades later.

The day I first met Dave, when I drove down to his house, where I would return again and again, eventually shooting 2 of my feature films.

The first time I came over to his house, I met his mother Adele. It was the last years of her life and she was the type of warm, personable, and endearing person that made you feel like you knew her your whole life. Adele was an extra grandma stowed away in South Plainfield, New Jersey, just in case you ever needed one. I don’t know what their relationship was always like, but Dave was so loving and tender. A good son, the best son, at a time when Adele probably needed it the most. She was adored and cared for.

The interview we conducted in 2010 was not the last time I put Dave in front of the camera. A few months later he came up to Hartsdale, NY to star in an adaptation of Terry Bisson’s classic short story called, “They’re Made out of Meat.” Dave rightfully played an alien named “Saughul” who is disgusted by a report he receives that Earth people are in fact made out of meat. Whenever Dave would call me, he would always say, “Hey!! Jeff!!” with his signature inflection and I would always respond with, “Dave Street Meat!” 

One of the greatest tragedies is that Dave was not in more movies as some sort of character actor. He would have owned that well.

When I began work on my first feature film, “Romeo’s Distress,” I knew Dave had to be involved. Not only did he bring the character of Uncle Elmo to life, but he put on a wig and “fake Shemp” the body of Grandma played by my actual 87-year-old Grandma Renee Mandel. Dave was also gracious in allowing us to sleep over and shoot the scene in his house. He was also with us at the world premiere. 

Dave and I at the world premiere of “Romeo’s Distress”

Photo by Carl Bloat

Dave took his roles in these films very seriously. He was always off-book (memorized his lines) and would craft hand gestures to accentuate his dialogue. The craft of these gestures was quite profound and always elevated the work he was doing.  It came naturally to him.

Performing was in his blood, as is evident by all the amazing work he did in schools as a kid’s education performer. And though that was how he made his living, Dave was a radical who truly and deeply cared about social, political, and environmental issues across the spectrum that all held a common theme: The way they affected and marginalized various groups of people. He was like a lobbyist, but a good one who always desired a change to the system that holds people down. These issues and themes informed everything that Dave would write: Books, scripts, plays, comics, and poetry. He was also a lyricist for The Undead, Bobby Steel’s band after he left The Misfits. 

I learned a lot from Dave.  

He espoused chivalrous values and ideals that could sometimes be endearingly quixotic about how one should conduct themselves. Dave was also there for one of my personal artistic low points. The feature film we made was playing an event that wasn’t quite what it was supposed to be. Without getting into details, it was quite humiliating and as a result, there was barely anyone who showed up to the screening. And it would have somehow been even worse if I didn’t have Dave by my side. 

We had the option to sort of leave “out the back door” and write off a bad situation, but Dave told me that we should stay no matter what. He said that I should stand by my work and be proud of it - even if this event was somewhat embarrassing, that I needed to see it through. He kept telling me, “You never know what could happen.” Beaming again with this warm, quixotic optimism that was hard to ignore, I listened to him. 

Dave sat by my side as we watched the film. It was something I never wanted to do again, but I am also so glad that I stood by my work and saw it through to the end. I never forgot it. For years afterward, every time we spoke on the phone, I would remind him of how much his words meant to me at such a low point.

Those values and ideals came straight from Dave’s heart. He had so much heart. The biggest heart I know. He believed in the boundless power that a positive mental attitude can help someone through anything. Dave tried to live his life by that principle as best as he could. He would leave little Post-it notes scribbled with mantras of encouragement around his computer desk. They always involved things that he wanted or needed to materialize. And even if they never did, he still invested in that power. He always believed. It kept him going. 

The “Try”-Angle of Success

Dave also came up with the “Triangle of Success.”  It was something that he conceived when writing a play called “The Problem,” in which Dave brilliantly characterized metaphors for many of life’s relatable problems through their personification. You recognize how a show like South Park would have been lucky to have Dave writing for them when you see “The Problem,” which my wife Einav and I were fortunate enough to attend when they were doing workshops on the material. 

This is Dave Street’s “TRY”angle of Success:

1. At the base of the triangle is “clear communication.”  This is the basis and foundation of the triangle. Always make sure you are communicating clearly and totally what your message is and what your agreement is. So many times we have problems in life because we assume we know what the other party has communicated to us and we are wrong. It is so important to always clearly communicate down to the last detail of any relationship, any agreement.

2. The right side of the triangle is “keeping our word.” Once we know what we have communicated, then it is up to us to keep our word. Aside from things like an “Act of God” clause, when things happen that are outside of our control, we should do everything we humanly can to make sure we keep our word.

3. The left side of the triangle is “controlling our emotions.” The reason people break agreements is because they get angry and upset. They know they have communicated clearly, and they know what they have given their word on, but they don’t like what that person just did to them and decided to change what they agreed. We can’t let emotions provoke us into negative behavior. We can’t let our emotions break our word. We can’t let our emotions go against what we have clearly communicated. 

I like to imagine that Dave partially decided to call it the “T-R-Y angle of Success” because these ideals may seem deceptively simple, but can be very difficult to put into practice. In the end, we are just people, afforded the opportunity to try our best.

And now, for all that wisdom, for all the positivity he put out into the world, here he was in the twilight years of his life, with serious health problems, unable to work, and mounting medical bills that were already weighing down on other previous debts - stuck in a hospital bed that he might never leave. 

NOTE: This photo is from 2014, and NOT the hospital stay mentioned here in this writing.

I wasn’t the only one to visit Dave of course, and that genuine human connection must have been a tonic for his weakened yet enduring spirit. He was well-loved and taken care of in that regard, especially by his niece Morgan. Notwithstanding, it was still hard for me to imagine him escaping this fate that seemed before him. 

It was now the early afternoon and Dave’s lunch came. He began worrying and fussing over something with the tray of hospital food. I told him that he needed to recover so that he could be in my next film as we had previously discussed, that he needed to keep going and keep writing and being creative.  

And despite his haze, what he said floored me. Even now, as I write this: Dave’s eyes were closed and he told me… I’ve been writing this whole time. In my head, I’ve been writing, I never stopped. 

Despite the betrayal from his own body, during what had to have been some of his darkest days and lowest points, he never let that creative spark die. He never lost that optimism that he could get out of that hospital, let alone function autonomously and domestically in his own house. He was already thinking about how he was going to turn these harrowing experiences into a new book.

Dave wanted to get better. He still wanted to do things. He still wanted to create. His body was ailing, but his mind was more passionate than ever. And that seemingly quixotic, misplaced optimism that told him he would come back from this ACTUALLY ALLOWED him to get out of that hospital Alive…

And that seemingly quixotic, misplaced optimism that told him he would come back from this ACTUALLY ALLOWED him to get out of that hospital Alive…

…And he did write that book. It’s called, “Waking Up Nowhere.” 

 It’s important to note that even though he had complicated feelings surrounding his experiences with the American Healthcare System and the Medical Industry Complex, he was so grateful for the Doctors and Nurses who saved his life.

The next time we spoke on the phone, he was back from the brink - convalescing, reciting monologues of things that he had written in his head. I am so glad I have them recorded. We made plans to come down to Jersey and shoot his scene for the new film. Considering we were back at the same house and the part I had in mind was so similar, we decided he should just reprise his role of Uncle Elmo. And he knocked it out of the park, bringing the same passion and energy that had previously. 

It was an amazing thing to witness. Dave wasn’t just back from the brink of death, he was living at home, functioning autonomously, walking a mile every day, and regaining his strength as he lifted cans like weights. His mind was sharp again, he was back to his old self, writing that book as well as writing lyrics about punk rock thank yous to the Doctors and Nurses who took care of him.

It was the best possible way I could have seen him for the last time without exactly knowing I was seeing him for the last time. 

Dave had previously requested that he sit in front of the camera and have me interview him about some of his experiences when we finished shooting his scene. As I write this, I do recall some weird, unspoken mutual feeling… Some intuition. You can see it in the video as I asked him impromptu questions off the top of my head, thinking that this video needed to capture his essence somehow. He had an idea that they could have been his final tapes. That, fortunately, ended up not being the case.

We said our goodbyes, until next time…

But that is the thing about getting out alive. It’s just an illusion. Nobody gets out alive. 

This will sound cliche and lame, but it’s almost as if he really did tell Death, “Not today.” And Death listened. But Death always comes back. 

Bob, Dave’s cousin, told me over the phone that he went in his sleep. And I was relieved - not because Dave was gone, but because he got to go in the most peaceful way possible. 

He didn’t die in his darkest hour at a hospital, wrapped in a gown, showing his bare ass to all who might enter the room. He overcame all of it and died triumphantly, with the dignity he deserved, in his own bed, peacefully with a smile on his face after spending months and months with renewed vitality and creative outpouring in his writing. 

A testament to his Try-angle of Success.

The last time Dave called me, I didn’t pick up. I made the conscious decision not to. I wasn’t able to talk at that moment. I never returned his call in time. And that is something I will regret forever. It’s not the first time it has happened either, those who ignore painful lessons are doomed to repeat them. But I take solace in the fact that when we first spoke after he had been hospitalized, delirious and incoherent, I began telling him that I loved him and ended every phone call with some variation of, “I love you Dave” or “I love you, man” or, “Love ya, man.” 

And I know those were the last words between us. 

I promise I will read that book, Dave. I can’t wait for everyone to see you in your final performance in the new film. You may have moved on to the great beyond, but your essence, your beliefs, and your ideals carry on in all of us who were blessed enough to be in your presence.  

You have taught me that even when the body fails, the spirit can carry you forward and never give up.

Shine on, Dave Street.

​​November 14, 1949 - April 5, 2022

Love ya, Dave.

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Am I Demon? [72 Hour Cut] EXCLUSIVE FEATURE FILM

What does a NO BUDGET "Feature Film" made in 72 hours look like? 

It *can* look like this. 

For the Sick N Wrong Film Festival 72 Hour Film Debacle, which coincided with my 36 birthday, I decided I would do something crazy, impulsive, unreasonable, and mostly insane: 

I conceived, wrote, directed, produced, shot, edited, starred, exported, and uploaded a "feature length" mockumentary aka schlockumentary about a fictionalized version of myself in 70 hours.

It was quite the undertaking, I only slept eightish hours combined over the whole weekend. Remember, this had to be edited and sound had to be added on top of the shooting and “acting.”

I guess I wanted to see if I had it in me to achieve such a feat. Good or bad, I was willing to try.

Originally, as far back as September, we were planning to shoot the feature in 24 hours, edit it 24 hours, and then leave 24 hours for compression and upload time. 

I had written a detailed treatment for a completely different idea and engineered timed improv segments that would flow into explosive plot points throughout the story and hopefully come out to 70 minutes.

A feature film can technically be as short as an hour long, but most consider feature length to be at least 70 minutes.

As the weeks carried on, between planning to shoot with Black Magic Cinema Cameras in 4K, and trying to schedule rehearsals for the film as well as other snafus, it became clear that this was not going to be feasible. Especially, when it used an idea that I really liked - something that I would eventually want to write a more fleshed-out treatment.

I figured it would be better to just pull the plug and do a fun short. And a part of me wishes we had because it would have been shot on the cinema camera and looked really spectacular. 

But then something came over me. It was unexplainable. An impulsive decision was made, to do something unknown and feature-length in 24 hours before the 72 began. I went out with my cell phone and LED light and shot what you see here. I am not sure if it is unwatchable. It might be. I know if I had used the cinema camera, we would likely not have finished.

In addition to the chaos of trying to shoot (on a cellphone) and edit a feature film in 72 hours, we drove to New Jersey to catch the Mourning Noise reunion and try and fold it into the feature. It was a great time and we got a lot of great cameos/crowd cameos including Pat Duncan, Mourning Noise, Marra's Drug, and members of Misfits, Samhain, Danzig, Robby Bloodshed, Mister Monster, See Plus, and more! It was so great to see everyone so soon after the VFW show. Mourning Noise and all the other bands crushed it, and a lot of money was raised for charity - great job, Steve!

The film clocks in at 70 minutes with a lengthy credit sequence ( an old reliable trick utilized all the time).

It was a grand experiment and I am grateful to have done it. But I understand why it is better to not do something for the sake of doing something.

What will become of this thing? I don't know. Myself and Jack (who plays Jack in the movie) have discussed adding some animation and additional footage to make it feel more like a feature.

So except for here and the debacle screening, this cut/version or maybe even the film as a whole will only be available here on Patreon as a special exclusive.

The Misfits: I'll Remember Halloween

“Happy Halloween.”

There is nothing more fitting to hear from Glenn Danzig right before he and the Misfits launch into the song itself. In October, in New York City, at (sold out) Madison Square Garden. With The Damned opening, 40 years after the Misfits opened for them at Hurrahs. 

A quick history lesson from Billy “Stark” Stone (lead singer of the Blessed) here, he tells it on a Facebook thread:

“Just for the record and a bit of trivia....not to blow my own horn ( I prefer someone else to do THAT) but that whole thing, those two bands opening was arranged by moi I My first band The Blessed were booked to do that( Our Manager Eileen Polk had ‘retired” and I was managing the band).it was to be called The Damned Blessed Blessed Damned Nights. Two nights, first night we would go on first and the second night The Damned would go on first essentially opening for us. But our guitarist @ the time refused to do it ( having been on The Anarchy tour etc etc) so I had to bow out which Hurrah’s was NOT happy about as posters etc were being printed.So, I suggested The Misfits and The Stimulators, who they were not all too familiar w/ and I contacted each band and put everyone together and the rest is...whatever. I think the success all the various bands have had is fantastic and any book ( especially ones that are due to come out in the near future) This is the true and unadulterated facts. I only believe in the truth no matter how hard and brutal. Leave others to their myths.”

— Billy "Stark" Stone, Bryan Swirsky's Facebook post

Photographer unknown, please message me if you know!

This is not some Misfits Nerd fantasy written on Misfits Central in 2007, “Whoa, imagine if, like, Glenn and Jerry reunited for a sold-out NYC Halloween show. And like, The Damned are opening and they had Dave Lombardo from Slayer on drums and it was at Madison Square Garden!? That would be so sick. That would be so amazing to see!!! I know it will never happen though.”  

The time is nigh.

Rich and I, waiting for death to rip our backs out.

No, actually, that really just happened. October 18th, 2019. 6 years to the day after Danzig and Doyle play a Misfits set at the Roseland Ballroom (RIP).

As the days counted down to this historic event, I poured over its connotations many, many times in my mind - reveling in how significant and validating it is for the band, the fiends, the fans, and the punk rock community as a whole. A grand victory.

I’ve seen the spectacle twice before: Chicago Riotfest and New Jersey’s Prudential Center. And while the Chicago show will always be burned in my mind as the greatest of the three, I think the NYC MSG is my favorite. It is their true homecoming show. You hear everyone talk all the time about Jersey being the hometown show, but that’s inaccurate. 

Although the Misfits are from Lodi, New Jersey, they are actually a New York band, and played NYC far more than they ever played Jersey - before they became a true touring band in ‘81-’82. I’ve conducted many interviews over the years, and the thing I heard the most from people in the late 70s/early 80s punk scene was that the Misfits only came out to play NYC around Halloween time or, “only on Halloween.” This of course is not completely true as any Misfits Nerd who has memorized Misfits Central (or spent a fortune collecting fliers) will tell you, but it is a part of the band’s original mythology and further deepens the significance of an October show.

I had never seen The Damned, and they were excellent! It’s amazing to see a band that has consistently been playing for 43 years, still sound so tight. They worked the crowd with their jovial, mischievous chemistry on stage. At one point, their keyboardist, Monty Oxymoron leaves his keys to dance like a madman between Dave Vanian and Captain Sensible. Eventually, Monty accidentally knocks Vanians mic out of his hand and Vanian mischievously passes by Monty and his keyboards to bash the keys. What a fun band.

I wish I knew more of Rancid’s catalog, they were also great and further added to the crowd’s energy, churning them into a frenzy. There were a ton of Rancid fans on the floor. While I appreciate them and their music, I didn’t like that the Damned went first and felt they should have been direct support to the Misfits with a longer set. Not sure who was in charge of that decision, but I found it disrespectful.

The Misfits came out and everything exploded. Epic as ever. The sound was perfect. Everyone was firing on all cylinders. Glenn’s voice was top-notch. There was minimal power sliding from Jerry, much to my dismay. But the energy between Jerry and Glenn felt positive. Doyle shined in the spotlight with his Some Kind of Hate guitar solo. Every time Jerry would break a bass (which he sometimes would punch in half) Glenn would playfully joke about how angry Jerry is with his heaps and tons of basses. It warmed my black heart.

The highlight of the evening came towards the end. I was on the floor, in and out of the mosh/circle pit (depending on the song) for most of the show. It was as violent as Chicago Riotfest was and I did get rocked in mush by a lummox at the beginning, but I felt nothing as I was possessed by the music and the energy all around me. Along with me and the rest in the circle pit was this girl in a wheelchair. She was fierce and fearless. Determined to have a good time, wheelchair or not. She spent pretty much the entirety of the show doing laps. Various crowd fiends would run interference so that she had a minimum of a few feet to steer/negotiate the floor. No one pushed her. She wheeled herself. I was in awe of her, and her strength and did my part too, when we crossed paths from time to time. She was as much of a rockstar as the monsters performing their dark magic before us.

There was not too much crowd surfing during the show, until this girl in her wheelchair sparked a revolution. There she was, floating about a sea of people. Supported by what I would only describe as heroes and nothing less. She was like Iggy, covered in peanut butter on the night that he famously walked across the crowd hand on foot with the Stooges in Cincinnati, Ohio in 1970. Supposedly, it was Stiv Bators who handed Iggy the peanut butter.

Photo by Tom Copi

As she floats angelically towards the stage, wheelchair and all, Jerry and Glenn take notice. The crowd is going NUTS. Everything in Madison Square Garden has momentarily stopped for this girl floating above the crowd in her wheelchair.

There is no act or gesture that could better suit what Jerry did at that moment. He took off his nonbroken, fully operational, custom-made Devastator bass guitar with a glowing red Cyclops skull and handed it to the girl in the wheelchair. Apparently, she too is a bass player!!

It was Dave Grohl’s wet dream and he would be jealous.

In some weird way, we all vicariously received that bass, or a piece of it when Jerry handed it over. The moment was a souvenir for everyone to take home and talk about. I think it will be legendary in the years to come.

No matter how he conducts business, Jerry Only is truly one of the nicest, most generous musicians ever. This is just one of many examples. No one can deny how awesome he is to his fans. In this regard, we Jews would call him a mensch. It was a great way to finish the show.

According to the setlist/photos floating around on Facebook, they played all but 3 songs with a 15-minute (?) late start. 

Supposedly this is the “last” show, although no one said anything of the sort on stage, and we’ve heard it all before. I am sure, if the offer is right, that won’t be the case. There is just too much money to be made. Could ya blame ‘em? They deserve it. All of it.

Secretly, and greedily, I kind of wish it was the last one. It was the perfect show for them. The perfect way to victoriously go out on top: Selling out MSG with the Damned opening. Despite Doyle’s dream of playing at Giant’s Stadium, It can’t get bigger or better. This is it!! Let this be the final period in the book of the Misfits:

And then, in October of 2019, they sold out MSG with The Damned opening - where they played in top form. The End.

10/21/19 EDIT: Whoops, I spoke to soon. Philly 12/14/19.

💀

Charliefits and the House of Wolfman

Charliefits and I first met (along with Bobzig) backstage at a Danzig show at Chicago’s beloved Congress Theater (RIP) in 2008. We clicked immediately over our love for “Uncle” Glenn’s music as well as a variety of other shared interests. In the years since, I have watched from afar as Charlie has taken something he excelled at and apply it to all of his various interests in music and film to create gorgeous DIY collectible figurines. So skilled was Charlie in his work that what started as a fun hobby has turned into a full scale business operation with many, many satisfied customers along the way.

#misfits #danzig #samhain #glenndanzig #jerryonly #doyle #doylewolfgangvonfrankenstein #fiendclub #fiends #weare138 #walkamongus #crimsonghost #riotfest #riotfestchicago

Just in time for Werewolf Wednesday. #lonchaneyjr #wolfman #mummy #kharis #lawrencetalbot #themummysghost #universalmonsters

Watching this from the sidelines has made my heart gush open, proud as hell for my friend. I am so happy for his success and only hope that it continues to grow bigger and bigger. I think I gravitate to this story in particular because it is a phenomenal example of how investment of time, energy, and love in one’s passions yield success as a byproduct and not the desired end result.

WIP. Tis the season for much more Frank. #frankenstein #boriskarloff #glennstrange #maryshelley #jameswhale #abbottandcostellomeetfrankenstein

Yesterday was Jason's birthday and I forgot! 😱 #jasonvoorhees #fridaythe13th

Thinking of October. #halloween #michaelmyers #halloween3 #seasonofthewitch #samhain #ghostbusters #trickrtreat #jasonvoorhees #fridaythe13th #80shorror #johncarpenter

Who loves the 80s? #creepshow #gremlins #returnofthelivingdead #monstersquad #fridaythe13th #mypetmonster #killerklownsfromouterspace #80s #80shorror

If YOU reader are into REALLY COOL collectible figurines of your favorite pop culture horror/scifi icons, then go check out Charlie’s ESTY HERE - https://www.etsy.com/shop/HouseofWolfman

Follow him here at @Wolfman138 on Instagram

#SUPPORTINDIEART

#SUPPORTINDIEHORROR

In the words of our beloved band, I only say to you - Charliefits, “GO! GO! GO!….. WHOAAAAAAA!!!!!”

Just felt like pointing out that Danzig wore a Basket Case shirt during Samhain era. I actually made a replica of that shirt and have one somewhere around here. And my cards for Belial packaging arrived this past weekend! #samhain #basketcase #glenndanzig #belial #danzig #misfits #misfitsmonday

Etsy shop is active once again. I added a bunch of new wall plaques and so far, there's just one of each to test the waters. Also listed the new Necronomicon magnet and the very last 2 Monster Squad sets, and I do mean LAST since those molds are toast. #frankenstein #dracula #brideoffrankenstein #wolfman #phantomoftheopera #creaturefromtheblacklagoon #monstersquad #boriskarloff #lonchaney #lonchaneyjr #elsalanchester #evildead #evildead2 #necronomicon #brucecampbell

I'm the wooden mallet, the sharpened stake. I'm the precautions you forgot to take. #tsol #silentscream #nosfetatu #dracula

The Pixies: On Graveyard Hill

The Pixies have been trying out their newest songs live as they make their rounds touring - in anticipation of their forthcoming studio album in September, 2019. It is called “Beneath the Eyrie” and available for preorder HERE.

Songs played live include: Death Horizon, Saint Nazaire, Catfish Kate, Bird of Prey, This is my Fate, and The Arms of Mrs. Mark of Cain.

All in all, the new material is fantastic, but there is one song in particular that really feels like it could have been written sometime between 1987 - 1988. It’s called “ On Graveyard Hill.”

There is something inherently magical about music and lyrics of Pixies songs. They invoke surreal, visual imagery. “On Graveyard Hill” is a profound addition to their catalogue.

Thanks to Lukretiah 101 and AKF Live on YouTube, I was able to listen to it over and over - until inspiration struck for a music video using the live footage/audio.

This song felt like it needed juxtaposition with silent cinema like the Swedish documentary film - Haxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922). Additionally, I incorporated some shots from the Fritz Lang’s epic Metropolis (1927).

With other cinematic influences like this or that, I’d like to imagine that the Pixies would approve of my choices and until we get the studio version, this tweaked live mix will do.

Lyrics

From the user “yarbles” - rank “Cult of Ray” at the Frank Black Forum:
”GRAVEYARD HILL (aka The Witching Hour, members of the band's crew have confirmed to a couple people that the song is actually named Graveyard Hill)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9DREvvlM3M

LYRICS (as best as I can make out)

And when the moon grows smaller
Donna picks out a flower
Gives her a witchy power
In the witching hour
In the witching hour

Donna taking a potion
Eating all my devotion
Fucking up my emotion
In the witching hour
Donna picks out a flower
In the witching hour

On the graveyard hill she's calling out her curse
I'm taking my last breath with each chapter and each verse
and soon I will be killed

In a poisonous forest
Donna lighting her torches
Her eyes are flying saucers
Her hair is black and gorgeous
I see her down at the crossroad
She could lead me to madness
She taking me into darkness
In the witching hour
In the witching hour
In the witching hour

On the graveyard hill she's calling out her curse
I'm taking my last breath with each chapter and each verse and soon I will be killed

On the graveyard hill she's calling out her curse
I'm taking my last breath with each chapter and each verse
and soon I will be killed

Yes soon I will be killed

Other Cinematic Influences

Loads of Posers - Chasing the Chaotic Image

Long before there were Hipsters,

there existed Norwegian Black Metal.

Originally published at Ghastly Grinning, February 24, 2019

Lords of Chaos opens with some text that perfectly sums up what you are about to watch. “This film is based on Truth… Lies… and what really happened.”  Reading that really allowed me to divorce myself from trying to unravel the truth and just enjoy the story.  I had a big problem with this in Bohemian Rhapsody. You can’t deviate from the truth with such an iconic, popular figure. I found it to work much easier with a film about an obscure subculture that no one really knows much about.

Lords introduces us to Øystein Aarseth aka Euronymous - the guitarist and mastermind behind one of the first Norwegian Black Metal bands, Mayhem. Euronymous omnipotently tells us the story of his struggles with his extreme music subculture, his troublesome friendships, and ultimately his own death. I haven’t read the book that Lords is based on (yet), but I was familiar with the story because of the Until the Light Takes Us documentary that it came out years before.

Writer/Director Jonas Åkerlund takes true crime material (that he knew at an intimate level, being the drummer of Bathory) and with painstaking detail, crafts it into an excellent heavy metal black comedy/horror thriller. Particularly, the comedic elements that permeate the whole film from beginning to end are brilliant, making for scathing, effective satire. He masterfully distills a tone that can instantaneously jump from being deadly serious to being deadly ridiculous. To invoke Mick Garris’ elegant terminology (by way of Elric Kane on Shockwaves Podcast), the comedy is SO black, that it ends up being as red as all the blood spilled in this film.

Just like the human body needs electrolytes for hydration, so does Lords need this comedy to balance the incredibly grim and graphic violence running through its veins. This is not cartoonish slasher decadence. It is the dark, matter-of-fact reality that occurs when you stab someone with a knife or blow your own head off. The film doesn’t sugarcoat the situation, the camera doesn’t cut away, and it is BRUTAL. BRU-TAL. It is the authenticity of this violence along with a lack of score that pays a sort of respect to these very serious things that really happened to actual people. Despite its content, nothing feels overly sensationalized or exploited. But that is not the case with most True Crime, more on that later.

The story itself is framed by this juxtaposition of wholesome Norway and the true Norwegian Black Metal scene within. It is the very vital foundation needed for this sort of satirical commentary. Several times throughout the screening, I am reminded of the Goth kids from South Park who mirror the perfect symbolic reflection of the goofy tongue-in-cheek celebration of all things dark and evil.

Subcultures tend to be the revolutionary counter-culture reactions to some sort of socio-political turmoil. But with the Norwegian Black Metal scene, you have this really nice place where nothing bad ever happens. There is no crime, no oppression, and everyone has healthcare, but 75% of the population is Christian. And so the disenfranchised youth ends up taking on this extreme reverse ideology as a form of rebellion and expression of individuality. They despise the message of love that Christianity encompasses as a whole. At one point, Euronymous proselytizes his desire to spread things like hatred, sorrow, and evil.

Within this music scene, there is an obsession with purity and authenticity. Universally, in the prison system, one of the worst things you can be is a snitch or a rapist. For any musical subculture, it is being a poser. It is a word that gets thrown around constantly in Lords. For these guys, the music and lifestyle are a “religious” means towards a path of the authentic nirvana that they so deeply crave. As actor Rory Culkin said, ‘They are the hipsters of the metal world.”

Encompassing this cultivated dark image requires full commitment. But it is not so easy when Mom and Dad subsidize your lifestyle by investing in your epic Black Metal record shop or giving you potted plants to take back to your pad. There is a brief moment when Bård Guldvik "Faust" Eithun (who lives at home) is halfway out the door to murder a gay man before Mom innocently calls out to him about his whereabouts. You have to try really hard to be evil, no matter how much Mom loves you.

The seemingly never-ending elitist quest to be the most extreme also comes at the price of everyone trying to outdo one another or impress each other. Swirling in the epicenter is the adversarial friendship between Euronymous and Kristian aka Varg Vikernes. They both want the same thing: To be taken seriously. But they go about it in polarizing ways.

Varg initially craves acceptance from this peer group. His initial awkward attempt to enter their black circle is rebuked by the Scorpions patch on his jacket when Euronymous dismisses him with a contemptible glance. Eventually, he is given an Indiana Jones-like test in Euronymous’ shop where he is told that the real Metal is hidden and that if he wants it, he must find it. His childlike naïveté leads him to think these guys are the real deal, and so he too must prove himself by committing arson.

Rory Culkin is truly a chameleon, losing himself in the role of Aarseth/Euronymous. Jonas deliciously casts Emory Cohen, a Jewish actor to play the very anti-Semitic Varg. Much like the people that portray them, Euronymous and Varg are both actors desperately trying to fit into their Black Metal personas. While Euronymous can turn it on and off (especially when things get illegal), Varg cannot. Underneath it all, Euronymous is a lazy, opportunistic braggart who is more than happy to take credit for these crimes in order to further bolster his carefully crafted image. Despite his superficial foul mood, he is patient and polite when it comes to the proper spelling of his forthcoming album De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas to Kerrang magazine.

Varg seems bedeviled by a soft upbringing that is heavily implied, he is mocked for his “Kristian” name. One can’t help but think that this was a personal barb against the real-life Varg who is an observer of Odinism/Paganism that despises anything Judeo-Christian. Varg’s arsonist motivations are fueled by his resentment towards the institutions of Christianity and how they erased the Pagan/Norse cultures that existed long before. His involvement in this movement is his twisted way of trying to connect with his Viking heritage. In hindsight, their entire scene feels like a backward attempt to connect with this past as these modern-day Vikings. Their strength, masculinity, and machismo are directly connected to their tolerance of generally unlistenable music.

In the documentary Until the Light Takes Us, the real Varg goes into great detail to justify his “moralistic” retaliation (a firefighter perished as he tried to put out one of the church fires). His calm demeanor, well-read intellect, and soothing voice make him very compelling at times. But then you remember he is a piece of shit Neo-Nazi sitting in prison for stabbing his friend to death…

The film portrays Varg in a vastly different sort of way. He is a stocky, nerdy, socially awkward man-child. It is Varg’s stupidity and adolescent naïveté that makes him dangerous, fuel his crimes, and get him caught.

Euronymous’ tragedy is that he is always running from his truth: That he is a poser like all the rest. When the crimes of the Black Circle reach a point of no return, he relents, ready to sort of walk away from it all. After finding intimacy with the photographer he is always trying to impress, he begins to take the steps he needs to embrace who he truly is and does the most UNMETAL thing one could do... He lets his girlfriend cut off his hair. I would love to make an analogy to Samson and Delilah here, but I don’t think it fits because Aarseth never had the strength that he perceives in his Euronymous persona. It was always just a fragile, decorative shell that was capable of cracking at any moment. And now, here he is like a soft gooey lobster waiting for a new shell to harden when Varg comes knocking. Although no one will ever know exactly how it went down, Jonas shows us a very sad, ironic, tragic, brutal ending for our narrator as he begs for his life and for Varg’s friendship.

For me personally, I have never enjoyed the True Crime genre and generally find it tasteless - I say this as a horror film fanatic and gore hound. I think on an ethical, respectful level, 9/10 times it is better left to documentaries. Why do we need to see a reenactment of the horrible things that happened to real people? What about their very real families and their feelings? What purpose does it ultimately serve? Why is Lords of Chaos an exception? Because it creates a very important social awareness in the examination of depression, suicide, and the real violence involved when murdering another human being.

We hear all the time about how people commit suicide, sometimes seemingly out of nowhere, especially with celebrities. Depression is a terrible, deadly affliction that the average person simply doesn’t understand. But the tragic portrayal of Per Yngve Ohlin’s (AKA Dead) suicide takes us behind the curtain. It sums up for us that sometimes there is no rhyme or reason why people do this to themselves. Their brains are not wired correctly and they put themselves in very permanent solutions for (what might be) a temporary state of mind.

Dead’s worship of death while alive seemed to be the only way he was able to really feel anything at all. For when he is not worshiping at the altar of death he is practically catatonic in a purgatory of boredom and dullness. This existence is so painful for him that he rather not be alive.

Even being aware of the infamous story beforehand, nothing could prepare me for the shock I felt as I watched Dead violently end his life. There was something so real and genuine to the horror of it, no documentary could convey it in the same way. When Aarseth finds his friend, he is confronted with the actual reality of the brutality he pretends to encompass as Euronymous and has no idea what to do. How should Euronymous act? Aarseth decides that his alter ego would take pictures of the corpse, eat Dead’s brains (he didn’t), and make pendants passed off as actual fragments of Dead’s skull (he admits later that they were chicken bones). In his pathetic quest for fame, he goes for the lowest-hanging fruit.

In some ways, Lords makes for a great spiritual companion to the punk rock indie classic SLC punk. Both stories circle around two friends in religious/wholesome places, where the main character (who is also the voice-over narrator) finds out that he was a poser all along and falls in love.  While the real-life Black Metal nerds and Varg groupies will lambast and skewer this film, I think Lords of Chaos is destined for immortal cult film status. It is a perfect document for its obscure subculture.

Rock Me Joe: An Awkward Pixies Moment

My moment as an awkward Pixies cringe lord.

11/20/18

Rich and I walk up the sidewalk to Brooklyn Steel when I see him. Off to the side, is a bald gentleman in a cabbie hat smoking a cigarette in the cold. He faces the brick wall of the venue. He clearly doesn’t want to be noticed.

I grab Rich’s arm and SQUEEZE as to prevent any verbal expression that would draw attention to who I know it is… One of my all-time guitar heroes . <GASP>

Joey Alberto Santiago. A man whose music I have worshiped for the last 14 years, since that first time I played Doolittle in the tape deck of my ‘94 Toyota Camry, stands before me. He is a magician who can make his guitar speak in a shrieking, tortured, wailing, emotional musical language that compliments the obtuse, subversive, abstract lyrical poetry, and the raw, focused, primal screaming of Black Francis.

Rich understands the squeeze and takes a hard turn with me. In the 7 times I’ve seen the band since 2005, I have never been fortunate enough to see a Pixie outside of the green room/tour bus/backstage in the wild.

Executive decisions have to be made in a matter of precious seconds. It is my ONE CHANCE to talk to a hero of mine. I would regret it forever if I didn’t try. I go for it.

He turns and sees this DERP(me) standing before him. I assess the situation.

The weather report is not good.

(My appraisal of) his face says, “Dude- I’m so just trying to smoke a quick cigarette right now without anyone noticing me so that I can go back inside where it is warm. I gotta play in 30 minutes. Please don’t bother me.”

I really don’t blame him at all. Like any good smoker who can’t smoke inside, it is never too cold to go out and have a cigarette.

A valuable lesson that I’ve learned when meeting people of note: It is important to realize that your special one moment in time with them is just one of a million of their seconds. Who knows how they are feeling in that day, hour, minute, etc? Don’t take it personally.

At this point, I kinda wish I could abort the mission, but it is too late to retreat.

My legs carry me towards him as my brain sends signals to my mouthpiece to speak. My mouth opens and nothing comes out. I have NOTHING to say. I ask my closest companion, my Brain to send me stuff to say. As a die-hard fan, there are a million things to say, and Brain doesn’t send me any of them. Maybe that is a good thing?

He waits for me to talk. Brain scrambles to put a sentence together. He sends me the wrong sentence, “Thank you so much for a great show.” Stupid Brain!

My tongue, the unsung hero, catches it before it can leave my mouth. Cunning Tongue!

Instead, I say, “Looking forward to a great show tonight.” Or some variation of that… Joey nods. I think he says, “Thanks.” I can’t really tell because I know I have already fucked this up.

I walk away. Joey smokes on, not being noticed.

I die, as I try to deconstruct this exchange that probably lasted all of 30 seconds(?)

During the show, in between moments of musical ecstasy, I think about what I could of (or should of) said. As I write this, I think I should have walked up right behind him while he was making out with the brick wall and whispered, “Rock me, Joe,” and just continued on nonchalantly. I don’t really know. It would have made for a much better story than this one. What would you have said?

I still feel like a derp thinking about this. I will remember it forever.

Sorry, I bothered you, Joey, thank you so much for a great show.

The Pixies truly are one of the GREATEST examples of how to tastefully reunite as a band while trying not to sell out. They play the hits. They make new music. They tour frequently.

In my book, they “cashed in” with the utmost integrity. I never get tired of seeing them live. There is no better feeling at a live show than a setlist where you are gonna know almost every song on a deep, intimate level.

To coincide with the 30th anniversary of their legendary EP and LP Come on Pilgrim and Surfer Rosa, The Pixies released, Come on Pilgrim… It’s Surfer Rosa.

It’s a “Three LP edition with new artwork reimagined by original designer Vaughan Oliver and the bonus disc, Live From The Fallout Shelter - one of the earliest recordings of the band, a radio concert that first aired in late 1986 on WJUL-FM in Lowell, MA.”

The next step in the usual tired, cliche reunited band cycle is to tour one of their iconic albums on its anniversary and play the whole thing in its entirety. The Pixies are no strangers to this ritual, but unlike other bands, they do it with class and consideration.

When they play Come on Pilgrim and Surfer Rosa in their entirety, they replicate the dialogue on Surfer and make sure to play a stellar mini set of B-Sides that no fan in one thousand years would ever think they would get the chance to hear live like Build High, Dance the Manta Ray, Rock a My Soul, and the Purple Tape version of Down to the Well.

That is what I call considerate!

Requiem of a Fiend: The Misfits Reunion at Riot Fest in Chicago

(Originally published by That’s Not Current on 9/20/16)

September 18th, 2016. Douglas Park, Chicago.

It is the third and final day.

Everything up until this point is nothing more than an appetizer, a bonus for the reason I am even at Riot Fest in the first place. It is hot, and everyone is wearing black. Not me though, I’d rather be comfortable.

I have never seen so many Misfits shirts and tattoos in my life.

Sitting in the grass by the guest press entrance, I suffer through my first exposure to the Deftones. Sorry to say it is not my cup of tea, but their large draw at the Riot stage would probably disagree. How many of them are here to see The Misfits? Probably all.

The sun sets as I hydrate and eat. Energy is needed, and I try to rest my feet because I know what is coming. My voice is raw and hoarse already, I may be getting sick, so I speak sparingly. It worries me that I may not be able to sing along.

A vow is made: No matter how great the temptation is, I will not take any pictures or videos with my phone. The show must only be seen through my eyeballs. I will let everyone else take pictures and videos for me.

A text comes through from my man on the inside.  I migrate towards the center LCD jumbotron screen between the two stages in hopes of getting backstage but I cannot make contact… with my contact. The Deftones crowd is too dense, there is no longer any wiggle room to negotiate. Reluctantly, I retreat.

I meet up with Charlie, Bob, and Sandra, they are posted up by the guest press entrance. We hold a make-shift symposium and study the geography of our surroundings and debate where the best place will be to start the show together and where the best place will be to finish it.

Charlie, Bob, and I first met at the Congress Theater (RIP) at the end of a Danzig show in 2008. At the Danzig Legacy in 2011, we all managed to get backstage and took turns taking pictures with Glenn Danzig, Doyle, Steve Zing, and London May. It was amazing.

And now, here we are in 2016 finally seeing the thing we dreamt of most of our lives. Something we endlessly debated, and probably thought could never materialize. I am glad I am with them. We are together in the moment, this is how it should be. We now all know, that NOTHING in life is impossible if Glenn and Jerry can reunite.

It is mutually agreed that we push forward diagonally stage left (Doyle’s side). Rob Zombie plays next door. All the other bands on other stages finish. Their crowds funnel behind, sending us further forward. To call it a sea of people would be an insult. It was an ocean. We chat with our surrounding “community”. A guy named Karl/Carl waves a flag with Karl/Carl on it. Some drunk asshole thinks he’s Moses and starts violently surging through the ocean of people. He is rough. Everyone near him points and calls him an Asshole. Another drunk asshole trails behind, spilling his beer. To our left, a void opens up. Two behemoths clash. It is probably a territory dispute. It dissipates, and we are all once again left waiting.

I ask Bob the time until the show. It’s negative 5-minutes. There is a hard curfew, it can now only be a 67-minute set!!

The intro begins. It is the kind of music/ambiance you hear on a haunted Halloween CD. A deep, monstrous voice speaks, “I am going to eat you.” The air becomes kinetic over the Ocean before the erupting thrall comes.

Sounds.

Doyle’s guitar. Jerry’s Bass.

The curtain drops. Lombardo’s drums.

Glenn is a ferocious wolverine.

Suddenly, death comes rippin’.

There is a surge.

Everyone fades away, as we are churned by the Ocean’s current. I try to weather this force of nature. The crowd tightens. Shoulder to shoulder. The flank that was just watching Rob Zombie must be pushing from the left. It loosens, and I am sucked forward into the first of many circle pits. I jump around and have a good time, but don’t stay. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Except for negotiating the occasional tall fellow, the closer I get, the better my view. I am a moth drawn to the light.

There are tech issues but the band sounds great. Jerry is right. They are at the pinnacle. Old timers may have seen them back in the day, but never like this. We are at the right place, at the right time to see Glenn, Jerry, and Doyle. Monsters are among us. They play their songs, and it inspires unity among us in the Ocean, and we sing. We don’t know each other. Under any other circumstances, we might not like each other… But tonight, we turn to each other and sing the lyrics like we have a thousand times before – On our iPods, YouTube, CDs, tapes, and vinyl. We put our arms around each other. We are strangers embracing, in disbelief that we are seeing what we are seeing.

Some of the audience don’t know the words. But it’s ok, they know Woah, Go, and No – and that is all they need to join our fellowship.

And then there are ones who frown. They don’t sing. They don’t Woah. They have no clue. They just know this is a historic event, and they are curious to see what all the fuss is about. They’re on their phones. Or watching the show through them, probably thinking about all the YouTube hits they are going to get from their cellphone video, that they will probably forget to upload anyway.

They are here in place of the fiends who could make it out. The fiends who deserve to be here to see history taking place.

Now, I am closer.

We are 138 is about to begin. A girl takes an iPad!?! out of her bag. She starts recording. It blocks her face from the stage RIGHT in front of her. She is happy to watch through the screen. I am not, it blocks my view. I talk to the back of her head,

“Hey, I’d lower that if I were you, it’s 138, and I am about to lose my mind.”

She doesn’t even turn around, instead turns slightly to the side and scoffs.

A loud crescendo of chords.

Silence, and then like a baseball chant… 84,000 people all sing that WE ARE 138. The song RIPS wide open.

I jump in front of iPad idiot and do exactly what I said I would: Lose my mind! From behind I feel punches and slaps on my back. I jump up high like Air Jordan (at least in my mind) and soldier on forward into another circle pit.

A guy who has no business crowd surfing, crowd surfs despite gravity’s insistence otherwise. He is concerned for his well-being. I am concerned for mine, and I try to have nothing to do with it but somehow find myself holding him up with both hands (I do have help) but still, it makes me feel like Superman. He is passed on. Something drops - delicate aviator sunglasses, I try to return them to the surfer by placing them on his face. As he floats away he lets me know they are not his.

Paradoxically, I somehow never seem to completely run out of energy. My onboard reserves may have depleted, but I am now tapped into the music.

Nothing can stop me.

I am closer still. For a brief moment, my vow is almost broken, I almost take a picture.

Layers of various condensed liquids cling to my person. More liquid falls on my head, gross. I smell it. Thank God(s) it is not beer, just water. It is actually refreshing like the cool breeze that occasionally graces us with its presence.

Miraculously, I have found the ability to sing without any voice. Anything less than singing would have been unacceptable. Dehydration headaches (from trying to sing as loud as possible) have begun. Certain sound levels make it momentarily unbearable. I press on, hoping to squeeze every last drop of excitement from the show.

We are close to the end.

We ALL sing Astrozombies. I close my eyes in the middle of the chorus, having ascended to musical Nirvana as I Whoa with one of my all-time favorite bands. Because, when the Misfits play, Glenn doesn’t sing at you. He sings with you. And we sing with him.

Then we sing Skulls. It’s awesome.

The end of the show has come.

Last Caress is everything you could hope for. Danzig and Doyle play a game of chicken to see who is going to false start(?) the song. The band’s whole mood is jubilant and playful, except for the tech stuff.

The set ends and the band walks off for a (hybrid) moment. When they return, Jerry takes a moment to thank the fans with some poignant words. Glenn shares a tidbit about the origins of the Bullet EP cover – how he sent Jerry to “borrow” a picture of JFK from the library. Glenn reminiscences about how they were ahead of their time. They smile and fist bump. The camaraderie is amazing to watch as the crowd picks up on it with some applause.

If you don’t know the name of the next song they played… Then why the fuck are you reading this?

I am now 25(ish) feet from the stage, and it is here that I will remain.

They play Night of the Living Dead. Glenn tells the Ocean that they’ve run out of time.

He asks us all, “What do we think of that?”

And then, “You know that we don’t give two fucks. We’ll play more songs.”

And we all cheer. They launch into She.

Unlike Denver, we bear the fortune of hearing Attitude and the Ocean churns one last time. Jerry throws his bass guitar high in the air and it breaks. Lombardo throws drumsticks. Jerry first tosses the bass headstock with Cyclops skull into the crowd. He then thinks it over only for a moment before tossing the WHOLE bass in afterward.

The show is over. The Ocean calms and recedes, leaving the savage remains of carnage from the brutality witnessed. I traverse the front railing to meet my inside man. People shine lights down to reveal PILES of shoes, clothing, and other various personal effects. The piles of shoes and socks are astounding. People search for their keys, wallets, and cell phones.

I joke about finding a piece of Jerry’s “Devastated” bass guitar. A friend would later tell me that he witnessed six people holding onto the bass headstock with the Cyclops skull. No words were uttered. Just six angry dogs with an equal claim on a bone.

I make it to the barricade and manage to get backstage via my inside man. I touch Glenn’s giant fucking pumpkins. They are light and seem to be made of fiberglass. He is right, they are pretty fucking cool.

I shake Doyle’s hand, thanking him, my friend Sal introduces me to Jerry. I thank him as well for an incredible show. Jerry is warm, friendly, and gregarious. I am amazed that he gives me some of his time despite having just finished the show. He takes a picture and signs my Dave Lombardo setlist. I will be framing it.

 The night is complete. I am glad I saw the show from the trenches.  Anything else would have been less, as the trenches were the only way to take in.

And so, I leave Douglas Park with an experience that few in the past have had, but for some reason – optimistically, I think more will have in the future.

Charlie and I find each other and I tell him about my backstage adventure. We get Mexican Tortas from a food truck by the California Pink Line stop.

It is a night I will never forget.

And now, I want everyone’s skull…