Search This Blog

Monday, October 31, 2005


So it's Halloween again, and I once more venture forth onto the unsuspecting streets of the Rotten Apple, looking like a loony. This time I wandered about in a Knights Who Say "Ni!" helmet from MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL, a cheesy plush helmet with bendable antlers that adds about two feet to my already six-foot frame, and I looked gloriously silly.

As expected I had to endure both kudos and brickbats from the general public, and here are the highlights of my brushes with the unwashed masses:

-A bible-thumping sista took umbrage with the obviously pagan bent of my outfit and told me in a shrill voice — accompanied by the dreaded neck roll that black women wield like whirling morningstar — "You KNOW your costume offends THE LAWD!!!"

-While eating lunch at the Manhattan Mall's Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips outlet, a sixty-something mentally-challenged man approached me and sweetly asked me if I was going to see Santa. I assured him that I was indeed on my way to the North Pole to see the big guy, hoping to get a job as a replacement reindeer in case one of the eight (nine if you count the red-nosed mutant) couldn't make it this year. I asked his name — which was Richie — and promised him that I'd put in a good word with Santa. He was delighted to hear that and thanked me profusely, while his caretaker mouthed a discrete "thank you."

-A guy was waiting to cross 4th Avenue in Brooklyn and when he saw me he asked if I was looking for a shrubbery.

-At Manhattan's Jim Hanley's Universe comic shop, two of my favorite staffers were attired as Will Eisner's the Spirit and Tony Stark with his Iron Man gear on under a suit jacket.

-I ran into and photographed two nubile you girls on St. Mark's place on the Lower east Side, both of whom rocked bustiers as naughty versions of Snow White and Red Riding Hood.

-A cute little toddler was dressed in a bonnet that made her look like Yoda, and her sheer cuteness was a joy to behold.

I'm going to skip the big NYC parade tonight since it's as crowded as the set of SOYLENT GREEN, but I will while away the hours with a stack of scary DVDs and luxuriate at home.



No surprise to most of the known universe, but George Takei, better known as Sulu from the original STAR TREK TV series has finally come out of the closet. If you ask me, the only person he was coming out to was himself, but what the hey? He's always been one of the coolest motherfuckers out there, so I wish the guy the best and congratulate him on finally going public. More power to the guy! Go to for the news story.

"Oh, my!"

Wednesday, October 19, 2005


SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, once the nation’s stronghold of irreverent and offensive humor that protested the utter uselessness of what passed for TV entertainment, and now a textbook example of how to kiss the ass that you used to kick. Since it debuted in 1975 several of its alumni have gone on to the metaphysical after-party, and one of the more obscure joined the Choir Invisible just the other day, namely Charles Rocket, the victim of an apparent suicide in Connecticut. Hey, I grew up in Connecticut, so I can relate.

You are now undoubtedly saying, “Who the motherfuck was Charles Rocket?” Well, little buckaroos let Uncle Bunche fill you in.

Charles Rocket was one of the mostly horrendous cast who replaced the original Not Ready For Prime Time Players in 1980, a cast that gave the world a teenage Eddie Murphy — who was relegated mostly to the sideline by idiot producer Jean Doumanian, who felt that he wasn’t funny (translation: he was black) — and, with the exceptions of Joe Piscopo and Gilbert Gotfried, the rest of that sorry cast vanished into well-deserved obscurity. Denny Dillon, anyone?

I discovered SNL during the tail end of its second season and was hooked by the dirty humor, sheer tastelessness and great live bands that I had never heard of — it was there that I discovered Devo, the Talking Heads, Elvis Costello and others — and once the original cast departed to mostly bigger and better things I resolved to give their successors a fair chance. As a result of that fair chance for the most part being soundly betrayed I have only periodically checked in on the show since it has devolved into the kind of safe, sanitized horseshit that I hated before the original SNL and still despise to this day.

Charles Rocket as a performer was just as bland and talentless as most of his fellow cast members, and despite taking over for Bill Murray on the “Weekend Update” segment with his feeble “Rocket Report,” he had not one character or sketch to his credit that anyone remembers...except for the following tale:

On February 21, 1981, the nation was gripped by DALLAS fever as viewers wracked their brains in an attempt to answer the burning question “Who shot J.R.?” and SNL was hosted by DALLAS regular Charlene Tilton. During one of the many weak sketches that ensued, Charles Rocket was unexpectedly shot by an unknown assailant, setting up the rest of the show for endless — and bad — jokes revolving around “Who Shot C.R.?”

My fifteen-year-old ass was underwhelmed by all of this, and when the cast finally assembled onstage for the customary goodnights, Rocket was brought out in a wheelchair and Charlene Tilton expressed her happiness at Rocket having survived the attack. At that point Rocket turned to the camera, on live television, and said “I just wanna know who the fuck did it,” followed by a smarmy smirk. That line was clearly NOT part of the script, since the rest of the cast looked as surprised as the rest of us, complete with Charlene Tilton looking so shocked that she could have fired her tampon into the audience.

A week after that sophomoric attempt at being a “bad boy,” Rocket appeared on the show during the news segment and apologized for his gaffe, after which he went into a story about a then-recent hockey game in which somebody got hit in the face with the puck. At that point Rocket turned to the camera and sarcastically uttered the phrase “Did somebody say ‘puck?’” He was fired not long afterward, and the last thing I remember seeing him in was a recurring role during the short-lived FOX television series FLYING BLIND, with Tea Leoni.

And that’s all you really will ever need to know about the late Charles Rocket.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005


I am currently watching LAW & ORDER: SVU — featuring the ever-alluring Mariska Hargitay in undercover prostitute drag! Yes!!! — and have just seen my first Christmas-themed TV commercial of the season. For fuck's sake, it isn't even Halloween yet!


Today, while laid up fighting off a bad cold, I finally sat down and watched the much-ballyhooed OLD BOY, a film I bought on DVD several months ago on the gushing recommendation of a friend whose taste in cinema I rather respect. He explained the basic setup without divulging the major details and I must admit that it sounded great, so when I could I purchased it and sat on it until I could spare the two hours to immerse myself in a two hour subtitled thriller that demanded one’s absolute attention.

The months passed while I waited to see OLD BOY and literally every single review for it that I read or heard from those who saw it was positively glowing. Well, now that I have seen the flick for myself I am once again forced to conclude that since most of the Westerners I know do not watch much Asian cinema, they are easily swayed by the stylistic trickery, “out there” plots, and graphic sex and violence that are all several degrees more severe than anything to be found in the States or the UK at the local multiplex or Cocksucker, er, Blockbuster Video outlet.

At this point let me warn you that if you intend to continue past this point on this post I will be revealing all of the twists in OLD BOY, so proceed at your own risk.

So just what the fuck is OLD BOY about? It tells the story of a guy (Min-Sik Choi) who buys a present for his daughter’s third birthday and gets busted for public drunkenness. Once a friend bails him out and they get out onto the street, the protagonist is inexplicably kidnapped and taken to a cell that looks rather like your standard room at a Motel 6 and imprisoned there for fifteen years. He is fed through a slot in the door, gassed nightly to ensure sleep, groomed regularly while in a gassed state of unconsciousness, trains in fisticuffs against a foe drawn on the wall, and keeps up to date with world events via the kindly-provided TV set in his room. One day he is released onto an inner city rooftop and he immediately sets about figuring out just what the hell happened to him. He learns that his wife is dead — supposedly murdered by him — and that his daughter has been raised in Sweden, so now all he wants is revenge on those who locked him up. He soon is brought home to live with a cute young sushi chef — whom he immediately tries to rape while she’s on the toilet — and the two slowly piece together the puzzle with the help of a mysterious cell phone that places the former prisoner in touch with his tormentor. Much violence and weirdness ensues, including a scene where a guy’s teeth are removed one-by-one with the business end of a claw hammer, and eventually the hero has sex with the virginal sushi chef, who has come to love him over a period of about a week.

At one point the bad guy gives the hero a deadline of five days to figure out the whole story and when he does here’s what we learn: both the bad guy and the hero were classmates in 1979 and the hero discovered the bad guy’s incestuous relationship with his sister, a bit of info that made the rounds of the school’s rumor mill starting on the day that hero transferred to another school. The sister’s reputation as a slut is thus established, and rather than deal with the fact that she was pregnant by her brother, she supposedly convinced herself that her period stopped and her belly began to swell because she believed the rumors, and committed suicide with the help of her brother. The brother, now rich as all hell through no explained means, grew up and waited until the hero had a family of his own and had him kidnapped. He then secretly raised the hero’s daughter and had both of them hypnotized so that various plot points could be set into rather contrived motion, all leading down the path to unknowing incestuous love. Once the hero finds out about this he begs the villain not to tell his daughter what has happened, agreeing to literally become the bad guy’s dog — yipping and barking in a pathetic imitation of man’s best friend — and alarmingly cutting out his own tongue, the tongue that spread the story about the bad guy’s sister (the hero suddenly and inexplicably blames himself for all of the misfortune in the film). The villain agrees to keep the hero’s daughter in the dark about having fucked her own father, and then shoots himself in the head with a derringer since he now no longer has anything to live for (???). The story then skips ahead to find the hero now tongueless and in touch with the woman who had hypnotized him and his daughter; she hypnotizes him again so that his “bad” side, which knows the whole sordid truth of the story, dies while he otherwise lives on with his daughter as his doting lover. THE END.

I’m sorry, but, while visually interesting, OLD BOY is one of the most overly contrived loads of allegedly clever cinematic bullshit that I have ever sat through. I hope that I have saved you the two hours that were stolen from my life by this film, and as soon as my next day off rolls around I will trade the DVD in for something that I will really enjoy and watch more than the one viewing that a gimmick movie like this requires. For more opinions that echo mine, go to the entry for OLD BOY on the Internet Movie Database and click on the “user comments” section. TRUST YOUR BUNCHE!


Ah, the magic of the movie theater experience. The thrill of anticipation, the smell of the fresh popcorn, the twisted antics of the audience...they all meld to create the indelible tapestry of our moviegoing scrapbook. I have heard the accounts of those who bore witness to Psycho, King Kong, and other such cinematic landmarks being unspooled for the first time and found that most of the films that I have experienced firsthand are pretty much lacking in worth of any kind. I mean, how do you recount the nostalgia engendered by attending the opening night of Night Patrol, an alleged comedy starring Linda Blair and Murray Langston (better known to us aficionados of '70's trash as the Unknown Comic)?

With that earth-shattering question on my mind, I settled on mostly recounting the memorable situations in which I saw some of the worthless flicks that I love and adore, occasionally focusing on the few true classics that have graced my life. And remember, kiddies, cinema is one of the few common threads that modern humanity has, and bad movies are truly one of our uniting factors. Rent John Carpenter's Prince of Darkness and see what I mean; love it or hate it, you'll find yourself strongly opinionated about it, with absolutely no middle ground.

In the bygone days of pre-gentrification, Norwalk, Connecticut was a scuzzy little town with a large quotient of criminals, junkie hookers, drugs, violence and questionable activity; sort of Connecticut's answer to Baltimore. In other words, a great place to go for a kid stuck in Westport, the ultra-boring town next door.

The movie theaters in Norwalk ranged from those owned by a theater chain to the independent art/porno/cult movie house, the Sono Cinema. The Sono could get pretty wild, but nothing could compare to a rowdy audience at the infamous Norwalk Theater. Norwalk Theater was the closest thing that Connecticut ever had to the classic Times Square grindhouses insomuch as it specialized in violent, sex-laden exploitation flicks, the kind that drunks and heroin addicts like to sleep it off to. The derelicts in the audience would even make non-sequitor comments at the screen, such as the time when a junkie started yelling "Give her the big one!" enthusiastically during a scene of two cab drivers talking.

Anyway, opening night came along for the "final" film in the utterly worthless Friday the 13th franchise, and I called the theater to get myself and a couple of pals in to see it on opening night (I worked for the Cinema National theater circuit at the time, and got in for free to most theaters in the state). The manager said "Come on down," so my friends and I went. Imagine our surprise when we arrived and found the theater looking like it was in the center of a demilitarized zone.

The front doors had been torn off, popcorn and spilled soda had turned the lobby into a quagmire that required a swamp boat to navigate through, and the poor concession girls were shivering and crying. I asked the manager what the fuck had happened, and over the Zulu Nation-like din that issued from the audience, I heard her tell a tale of misery and violence. She told me that the patrons had been worked up into such a frenzy over the possibility of finally seeing Jason Voorhees (the unkillable bogeyman of the series) get his ass kicked that they had actually stormed the entrance, barbarian-style. The place looked like it had been sacked by an army of crazed Visigoths on a PCP bender, was filled beyond capacity (over 550 seats), and roughly ten people in the audience had paid for admission (yet they did pay for their refreshments. Go figure...). There were even four squad cars full of police in attendance, and the poor bastards advised that it would be best to run the movie or else there would have been a full-scale riot.

My friends and I waded into the tumult, and actually managed to score seats when a bunch of stoners got up to sneak a few bowl-hits behind the screen. The lights went down, and an unholy roar exploded from the adrenaline-charged throng that would have been totally appropriate at a public beheading. The trailer for 7 Doors of Death came on, but it was impossible to see due to the impromptu shower of popcorn and malt liquor that obscured the screen. A chant of "Jay-son! Jay-son!" began and only died down when the main feature began.

What followed can only be called the greatest display of audience participation that it has ever been my pleasure to witness. Foul rejoinders hurled at characters who couldn't respond, people in the balcony sticking their hands into the projector beam and creating shadow hands that played with the actresses' tits, an out-of-nowhere sing-along to the old "car rock" hit "GTO" (which would have made a modicum of sense if the song had been included in the film)... Folks, we're talking two hours of humor, insanity and "will I make it out of this movie alive?" terror. If I could download the memory of this show and sell it on DVD, I would be a millionaire overnight.

Epilogue- the crowd dispersed peacefully, no one was arrested and the doors were repaired the very next day. Surprisingly, the subsequent showings went off without incident. Oh, and Jason is killed by a young, machete-wielding Corey Feldman (until he returns two films later-don't ask).

KILL OR BE KILLED- I saw this one in White Plains, New York back in 1980. Basically, it was a really bad South African martial arts film that was utterly unremarkable and a total ripoff of the basic Enter The Dragon tournament formula. The star was some talentless hack named James Ryan who attempted to capture Bruce Lee's sense of menace, but he was a big, fat zero of personality onscreen.

What made this movie a hell of a lot of fun was a small group of juvenile delinquents sitting in the back of the theater who made scathing and hilarious comments from start to finish, most of which had to do with their doubts about our hero's sexual orientation. However, their best barbs were reserved for the villain, a Hitler-wannabe who had a hand puppet that acted as his other personality (pre-dating South Park's Mr. Hat by about 17 years). The squeaky voice that they gave to the puppet while he was supposed to be saying something ominous will live forever in my memory. Picture this Hitler guy looking at his hand and having it say (in a voice reminiscent of Mickey Mouse) "Hey! Can I play with your dick?" Upon hearing that bit of improv, an irate father stormed out of the theater with his highly amused nine-year-old in tow.

OPENING NIGHT: NEW JACK CITY ON TIMES SQUARE- I went to see this now legendary "gangsta" opus during the last days of the pre-Disney Times Square, and the theater was packed with drunks, junkies, hookers, loud hip-hop fans (who considerately brought their blaring boom boxes), myself and my buddies Joe and Nina — the only two melanin-deprived people in the entire audience.

The room was thick with the fetid stench of low-grade ditch weed and semen, as the air chimed with the clink of discarded forty-ounce malt liquor bottles rolling under the knife-slashed seats. The floors were sticky with all manner of questionable effluvium, ranging from semi-crusty wino vomit to spilled soda that was acting as a breeding ground for minute flies. True Times Square ambience at its best!

My friends and I settled into the general chaos, and once the lights went down we realized that we were seated in front of a charming young crackhead couple. From the second the movie started, the crackhead chick loudly and violently berated her boyfriend for being "too muthafukkin' cheap" to go out and buy her more crack, when he had instead spent money on a large soda. The poor bastard seemed to shrink before my eyes as her nonstop torrent of abuse escalated into a sort of theater of the absurd. It got so bad that my friend Joe turned around and offered the guy some popcorn as a consolation (which struck me as not only funny, but humiliating to the point where I was afraid they guy would whip out a gun and ventilate Joe right then and there). Mister crackhead politely declined Joe's offer.

By about two-thirds of the way through the film (when Chris Rock's "Pookie" character was smoking tons of crack and furiously over-acting), the guy gave in to utter defeat and slinked out of the theater, screeching harpy at his side, and in search of her next fix. There was a brief silence when they left, and then some guy yelled out to the projectionist "Hey, nigga! Rewind this muthafukka so we can hear the muthafukka from the muthafukkin' beginnin'!" It was at that point that the entire audience broke up laughing; we all realized that we had been so absorbed in the crackhead antics that we hadn't noticed that the film had a plot and dialogue!

On a side note: unlike some of the opening weekend theaters in the Bronx and Long Island, surprisingly there were no murders at the Times Square showings of this film.

THE IRATE PRICK AT THE OPENING NIGHT OF SCARFACE- Let's face it: you don't go to see a movie like Brian De Palma's remake of Scarface if you're looking for wholesome family fare. This film has achieved legendary status for its copious amounts of gratuitous violence, ultra-indulgent cocaine use, and one of the all-time most flagrant uses of the word "fuck" ever committed to celluloid. In short, it ain't for the kiddies.

I saw Scarface at Westport's tiny little hole-in-the-wall theater Fine Arts IV on opening night, and the crowd was clearly in a bloodthirsty mood. When the scene with the now-infamous chainsaw torture came on, a middle-aged couple got up and bolted for the exit. The male of the couple stopped at the door and yelled, "The fact that you people are actually bearing witness to this filth voluntarily makes me vomit!!!" That pointed observation was met with a 300-person chorus of "Fuck You" that did my heart proud. He huffed and stamped impotently and fled into the night. The fucking pussy.

These are far from my only true life movie theater adventures and I will add more, but what about you? Do you have any such tales? Write in and share, ya bastids!


If you live in the Big Apple you have no doubt taken the subway on pretty much a daily basis. The city’s underground mass-transit system is pretty easy to figure out, relatively cheap, and an excellent opportunity for catching up on one’s reading. Sadly, in much the same way that a really good fuck can lead to unwanted pregnancy and a host of diseases, the wondrous subway is also a magnet for the worst behavior that one can find outside of a padded cell, perpetrated by both “upstanding” citizens and the vilest dregs of society. In some cases, the average straphanger would actually welcome the muzzle of a snub-nosed revolver stuffed into their bridgework rather than face some of the horrors of daily tubeway pests.

My own personally witnessed favorite example of the worst that can happen during a commute occurred a few years ago during the Christmas season; festive decorations as far as the eye could see, kids ready to explode with anticipation of Santa hooking them up with righteous swag, seasonal tunes filling the air, a general feeling of goodwill and happiness. Perfectly charming, right?


As the 6 train made its way to Grand Central Station, the doors opened at Fourteenth Street, allowing the Yuletide throng onto the already packed car. Among the entering swarm was one of the city’s legion of the homeless — once more frankly known as “those fucking bums” — who appeared to be foaming at the mouth while he incoherently rambled to no one in particular. It was painfully obvious from his lack of basic motor skills and wildly rolling eyes that he was totally drunk, on drugs, out of his mind or all of the above.

The mass of subway riders did their best to shift positions to allow this walking trash heap to pass among and away from them, but there was only so much room to let the guy through. For what seemed like an eternity, this wobbling waste of life lurched like a zombie while spreading his stench of days-old urine and dried-on vomit to the agonized nostrils of innocent passengers. Suddenly, the train came to a jarring halt, causing the bum to lose his balance and topple headlong on top of an adorable six-year-old girl while her mother watched in horror. As his intoxicated mass pinned the child to the floor, the bum lost all control of his bodily functions and the unmistakable sound of his bowels letting loose like a clattering volcano filled the air along with the most sickening reek of spewed shit that I have ever encountered. Now, I regularly eat Indian food and all sorts of spicy goodies, so I am not a virgin to horrible bathroom smells, so trust me when I say that this was a plague-upon-Egypt-level funk.

As the pinned child squirmed and shrieked at her violation, the bum then let fly with a bladder full of hardcore wino piss which flowed in all directions, soaking not only the poor girl but also the carefully wrapped presents that sat on the floor. As the bum lay thrashing about in his own personal filth swamp, the horrified passengers snapped out of their shock and dove to rescue the little girl before she absorbed more of his shit/piss stew like a sponge. The bum ranted and raved like he was possessed, and as he was positioned onto his ass there was a loud “squish” when he sat full force onto lake of turds within his pants. The girl’s mother swooped down to remove her daughter from the spewing bum’s unwanted attentions, grabbed the kid and fled to the closest door. The ruined child howled as if she’d been stabbed and when the doors opened she was whisked away into the less-foul air of Park Avenue South. The bum suddenly straightened up, looked around and said “Uuuruuggch???” And thus was a Christmas memory born.

Yeah, that’s a pretty extreme story, but it is far from the only horrible and annoying thing that New Yorkers endure every fucking day. Despite increased police presence on the trains, there is no way that the cops can ever hope to combat the endless parade of idiots and irritants that infest the underground railways, in fact their efforts are pretty much as useful as electric earwax. Let’s face it: the authorities and the general public are fighting a losing battle against this bullshit so it is a good idea to be familiar with our common enemy. Here is a field guide to some of the human vermin whose complete and utter non-existence would make the subways a much more tolerable place. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

These are those obnoxious senior citizens who feel the mere fact that they’ve avoided taking the dirt nap for as long as they have should give them the uncontested right to violently slug their way onto a subway car (using physical prowess that would make an twenty-two-year-old Olympic athlete envious) in search of a seat and give you shit if you have anything to say about it, with the standard retort of “I’m old and fragile.” When I encounter this particular sub-species of the elderly I realize that the Inuit have the right idea about letting the seriously aged loose into the tundra to end up as an old-sicle or a snack for wolves or polar bears.

You’ve seen this foul collection of walking gin sugars and pork rinds a million times, in fact it is impossible to miss him or her since they are so fucking fat that they have their own gravitational field. Every centimeter of their doughy flesh wiggles like a dropped slab of Jell-O as they approach the three empty seats that can barely accommodate the continent that passes for their ass. Heaving and gasping for air in a fair imitation of a beached trout, this subway leviathan spreads out its hammy limbs, absorbing every possible bit of available space, causing distress even to the microscopic germs in the air. I understand the problems of being overweight, but what removes all sympathy for this particular assmunch is the attitude that they give off. I once had a jacked up ankle that required me to take a seat during my commute, and when I managed to find one of those seats that places your legs into the aisle I ended up next to a Jabba. The guy undulated his pudding-like head in my direction and said “It’s kind of tight over here, don’t you think?” I looked at this no-stranger-to-KFC fuck and offered the kind suggestion that he buy an industrial strength girdle and shut his fucking mouth, only this time around a mouthful of air rather than a steaming ladle full of simmered pork fat.

Among the most rock bottom annoying of the common subway pains in the ass, the top-of-his-lungs purveyor of the word of God would irritate Jesus himself to the point of the Savior backhanding the idiot with his stigmata-punctured mitt. Religion is best spread in such appropriate venues as churches, synagogues, mosques and Satanic altars, just don’t foist it on me while I’m pretty much held captive in a subway car. These would-be holy rollers aggressively shout about how all viewpoints other than their own are not only wrong but will send all unbelievers on a one-way trip to Hell, where they will smoke a turd for a pain-filled eternity. That would be enough, but most of these guys will stand there for several stops, never letting up on their tirade until inevitably out-shouted by irate free thinkers or Jews. And why is it that most of these guys are black? Speaking as a card-carrying highly rhythmic individual, I know for a fact that we have much more important things to do with our time, such as writing misogynistic rap songs, drinking forty-ouncers of Olde English and fucking fat white women, so where do these dudes get off?

It’s one thing to see someone fix their hair or makeup on the train, but it’s another thing entirely to witness the grody slobs who engage in all forms personal hygiene just short of applying Preparation H or changing a juicy, saturated tampon. There is a time and place for everything, but these people have personal habits that would make a monkey blush. I have personally seen people trimming their nose hairs, shaving their legs and armpits, and worst of all I have “caught shrapnel” as an inconsiderate twat clipped her toenails; I was in mid-yawn when a yellowed chunk of this woman’s talon careened into my open mouth. Much hardcore cussing ensued as I tried my damnedest not to puke up my breakfast all over the aisle.

I love me some porno. Videos, books, spank mags with shots of girls with their pussies splayed open like humid ham sandwiches, all of that shit. But I do not share my interest in such material with my fellow subway passengers. On several occasions I have been subjected to the awesomely creepy sight of an old man — invariably white — with a brown paper bag full of hard core jack-rags poring over their pages with an intense gaze usually reserved for studying for the SATs. These filthy old bastards have no concern for who may be sitting next to them; they have taken up residence in their own private reading room, utterly oblivious to the wide-eyed seven-year-old girl in the next seat who’s looking at what she may think are the old man’s photos of exotic pink sea life. The only way to deal with these pervs is to get up and sit somewhere else, preferably in another car, but by that time it’s too late; you now have the image of someone’s grandpa checking out a gash festival in public and not giving a shit if anyone notices his flaccid turkey neck of a cock attempting to sputter back to life.

Beggars on the subway are annoying enough, but the worst of the breed are those who fancy themselves entertainers. You know who I’m talking about: break dancers who move like they have cerebral palsy, violin players whose instruments are hopelessly out of tune, screechy-voiced would-be crooners who belt out songs that were old when God was born, and worst of all, the deafening doo-wop groups. Maybe this would all be okay if you happened to be into the harsh interruptions of your already miserable existence that they are forcing on you, but the odds against you actually enjoying what they are selling are pretty fucking slim. You are between stops with no hope of escape, and they know it. Consider yourself fucked.

They scurry into the train like a rat on crack, nervously surveying the car for cops, dragging a cardboard rack loaded with all manner of stuff no one — and I do mean no one — wants or needs. A blue, see-through plastic dolphin filled with sugar water or a pen with a picture of Nixon on it that loses its clothes when you shake it? He’s got ‘em. What makes these guys actually think that you would buy one single item from their display of worthless junk that wouldn’t even pass muster in the cheapest storefront in Chinatown? I have never seen anyone purchase anything from one of these parasites, yet they are as common as tits on women. Their even more hateful brethren are the supposedly deaf guys who try to extort you into buying cheap plastic ballpoint pens from them at insane prices by playing on your sympathy for their handicap. I for one would like to buy one of those pens and immediately drive it through the eardrum of the douchebag who sold it to me.

Why is it that there are guys out there who actually think that they’ll get some play by being as obnoxious to women on the subway as possible? They attempt a rap that has no chance of working, and those on the train continually witness these attempts at suaveness crashing and burning Hindenburg-style. I guarantee you that these guys have not seen a trace of pussy since the day they slid out of one, and it is likely that they never will again if they keep this shit up. And why is it that they are nearly always black, Italian or Hispanic? All of these groups pretty much win the stereotype sweepstakes, and it’s behavior like this that will keep such perceptions alive into the foreseeable future.

Loud, uncouth and obnoxious blacks and Hispanics who turn the subway car into a study of the most offensive ethnic stereotypes brought to life should be shot the second they open their mouths to scream “nigga” and rendered down into something useful, such as glue or lamp oil. I cringe in sheer embarrassment whenever I encounter these types, and they always represent the absolute worst of traits that make white people hate us. And do not get me started on the white kids who act and speak like Ol’ Dirty Bastard on a coke bender…

Intensely disliked even by those who share their faith, the subway is plagued with Orthodox Jewish men who frequently molest non-Semitic females whom they feel they can treat disgustingly since they are shiksa trash. Steering clear of black and Hispanic women who would most likely kill them for the slightest offense, these Chosen routinely choose white chicks as their favorite targets; several of my melanin-deprived lady friends have horror stories about the insanely vile things that these guys have tried on them, everything from whipping out their greasy Johnsons to trying to lodge their fingers into the girls’ unwilling snatches. The worst of these true life encounters involves a friend of mine who showed up to work looking utterly devastated after realizing that one of these black-clad blights upon society had massively spewed his love custard all over the rear of her new dress. This sort of behavior should be payable by having these assholes doused with the foulest menstrual waste possible, a fitting punishment since these guys have no respect for the female.

Long a mainstay of the late night trip home, the “here’s my dick” guy happily displays his flesh pencil to innocent ladies for reasons known only to himself. It’s sad that smoking is outlawed on the subway because it would be hilarious to watch some irate chick stub out a ciggie on some idiot’s engorged member. Talk about harshing the boner…

Eating on the train is no big deal… unless it’s some asshole that has hauled some fried food into the car. Usually stuff like Popeye’s chicken or smelly fried fish sandwiches are the irritants here; both of which are fine when consumed in a space with plenty of ventilation, but on an enclosed train the stench of rapidly congealing grease and fat can be overwhelming and nauseating. And the slobs who usually stuff their fat faces with this stuff on the train have no intention of properly disposing of their food waste and simply leave it on an empty seat or dump it onto the floor, bones, half-eaten thighs and all.

Inconsideration takes human form in the guise of the smoker who simply cannot wait to light up until they get above ground. A subway car is enclosed and stuffy enough, and it fucking sucks to be asphyxiated by the fumes of someone else’s carcinogenic self-destruction.

Is there anything more horrible than seeing some stinkbomb unsteadily stand up, drop his pants and start growing a tail? I don’t think so. Such a sight is guaranteed to clear a car the second the doors open at the next stop. (Dishonorable mention: insane/intoxicated female derelicts who change tampons and sanitary napkins on the train. Yes, I have seen it happen.)

Since passed out passengers are not an uncommon sight, it is inevitable that some poor bastard will give up the ghost and remain unnoticed, riding the rails as rigor mortis sets in. I once witnessed what I thought was simply some unconscious drunk being examined by a cop who had just entered the train; the officer tried to wake the guy up by banging his club against the seat next to him, and when that didn’t work the cop looked long and hard at the guy. He then produced a telescoping version of one of those little dentist’s mirrors and held it under the guy’s nose. When there was no trace of the mirror being fogged over by the guy’s breath, the cop stopped the train and called for a crew to haul the corpse out in a body bag. The woman who had been seated next to the stiff was visibly turning green and promptly flashed the hash all over the empty seat to her left.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005


Last night I watched the subtitled DVD of GODZILLA: FINAL WARS — supposedly the absolutely final Godzilla movie (yeah, right!) — and I have to say that the initial feedback and internet buzz is flat out wrong. One of the problems with those of us who love the giant monster slugfests is that we often forget that the films are supposed to be fun, first and foremost, and not some grand opera enlightening us on the vaguaries of the human condition, and I have read many posts about how FINAL WARS is nothing more than a kiddie flick.

Well guess what, Edison? It IS a fucking kiddie flick! And a damned fun one to boot! In fact, in many ways GODZILLA: FINAL WARS is the Godzilla movie I would have made at age ten if I had a budget and a film studio at my disposal. Here's the story in a nutshell:

The movie opens at the tail end of a battle with Godzilla, and the humans — lead by a white Sgt. Slaughter lookalike who says "shit," "goddamn" and "asshole" a lot, making this the most profane Godzilla movie ever — driving an updated submarine/aircraft/drill like the title vehicle from ATRAGON bury Big G under a glacier (upon which site a site is built a unit to keep the big guy frozen solid), keeping Godzilla out of the film until the last quarter. But have no fear, this flick has more monsters than Tommy Lee has inches! For no adequately explained reason nearly every monster ever to appear in a Toho movie shows up and they wreak international havoc, all at the same time so the human defense force is stretched pretty damned thin. For all intents and purposes it's pretty much the end of the world. Then — once again with no decent explanation — we are told that mutant superheroes have been popping up all over the place and they are the cream of the monster-fighting crop, one of whom is played by Caine Kosugi, son of the guy who starred in those crappy 80's ninja movies (he was always the ninja's pre-teen son who kicked much ass). Anyway. despite the best efforts of the super-mutants, the monsters manage to reduce most of the earth to a close approximation of certain areas of the South Bronx, but just as everything seems lost some friendly aliens from "Planet X" show up and offer to take care of the monsters for us. Of course it's all too good to be true and they end up controlling the monsters and make things 100 times worse. Finally somebody figures out that if Godzilla were free he'd consider all of the monster rampaging to be an attempt to fuck with his territory, so the flying sub/airplane/drill bombs the big freezer and Godzilla enters the fray. Big G then proceeds to hand out major league ass-kickings like they were Halloween candy, decisively killing all monsters stupid enough to even think of getting in his way (the exception being Mothra, who maintains her goddess role and acts as backup), the funniest of which is when Big G lays waste to the American Godzilla from that disaster of several years ago, prompting the controlling alien to describe it as "that good-for-nothing tuna eating monster." Godzilla puts his big gray foot right up the asses of King Seesar, two variants of Gigan, Gimantis, Spiga (that big-ass spider from SON OF GODZILLA), Rodan, Ebirah (aka the Sea Monster), Hedorah (aka the Smog Monster) and others while the humans and mutants destroy the alien invaders. At the end Big G walks off with Baby Godzilla (again, no explanation), and that's it.

On a scale of 1 to 10 for sheer entertainment I give GODZILLA: FINAL WARS a solid 9, and the monster fights get a solid 10;
Godzilla has kicked serious ass in the past, buit nothing prepared me for the mean-as-fuck, balls-out tough engine of destruction found in this film. I actually exclaimed "Motherfuck!!!" several times during the battle sequences, and the creators have amped up Godzilla's ferocity and radioactive blast to levels that make him a saurian equivalent to Superman when he was at his most powerful. The creators also remembered that the reason we see this stuff is to enjoy giant monsters kicking the shit out of each other, and this film serves up a banquet of such goodness on a silver platter, so who cares if it's just a high-tech remake of MONSTER ZERO?

Copies of this can be found on eBay, and if you live in a place where such stuff can be found, it's at your finer video purveyors. Simply put, if you love the Kaiju cinema, you must not miss GODZILLA: FINAL WARS. So sayeth the Bunche!

Tuesday, October 11, 2005


Yesterday I reconnected with an old flame for the afternoon and I have to say that I was surprised by how it went.

The lady in question is one of my favorites and she recently severed ties with her boyfriend, a guy who clearly was not on the same emotional page that she was. She called me shortly after the breakup and suggested that we hang out on Monday afternoon, with the intention of "making out" stated in no uncertain terms, and I of course welcomed the idea; this lady is very cute, sweet as can be and is a formidible force of womanly nature, a lady who gives off a palpable vibe of sink-your-teeth-in femaleness, and THAT is something rare indeed...

So we hooked up and danced around the main goal of the get-together by starting to watch a DVD, but our real purpose
was undeniable and the beast with two backs was soon made, a very pleasant bit of human contact that the both of us really
needed. And while the flaming osh-osh was a lot of fun, afterward we were both totally relaxed to the point of us simply enjoying each other's company in bed and chatting away like a couple of teenagers. Sadly, our time together was short and she had to leave shortly after 4PM, so we reluctantly threw on our clothes and popped around the corner for a meal at the Bagel-Tique. We both noted how well we get along and how much fun we have together, but a slight air of melancholy hung in the ether since our daily shedules confilict to a degree that barely allowed us to see each other even as friends over the last few months, and since she has responsibilities during the day that include a nine-to-five job among other things and I work nights with Monday and Tuesday amounting to my weekend, we cannot hook up on a regular basis. It's sad, but she's a sweet soul who's one foxy, sexy-as-hell mamma-jamma, and I have no fear that she won't reconnect with the dating arena and find herself a great guy sooner than she thinks; she may be hurting now, but I give it a month before she's back on the stick (so to speak).

As for me, I have been surfing a wave of good karma lately and I think that my booty call with the previously-mentioned goddess is just the start of other good adventures. And as if getting some wasn't good enough, less than twenty-four hours later I received the new Godzilla movie on DVD. Some much-needed lovin' from a favorite lover and a kickass flick that features more giant monsters than I can shake a stick at... Yeah, it's a good day to be Bunche.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005


Last night I attended the first installment of a serialized comedy performance called “The Baby Daddy Show” at Mo Pitkin’s House of Satisfaction at # 34 Avenue A on Manhattan’s Lower East side, and I had one hell of a blast.

The basic setup involves an homage (?) to those trashy TV shows where women who habitually get knocked up and bear the children of uncaring scoundrels attempt to identify the fathers of their kids via DNA testing after regaling the audience with their ghetto/white trash sob stories, and the mothers on display in this show are two flamingly stereotypical specimens of deep Brooklyn trash named Brandi and Crystal. Hosting a show on Brooklyn’s infamous public access television system BCAT, shot in Brandi’s living room while her horrid little urchins cause periodic havoc offstage, the two fecund broads pontificate at length in thick Bensonhurst accents about their staggeringly promiscuous, prophylactic-free adventures and burst into occasional and hilarious song and dance numbers that test the limits of good taste with off-color dialogue, goofy and exuberant booty-shakin’, pseudo-sapphic Lamaze excercises and a stomach-churningly schmaltzy rendition of “The Greatest Love” that had me wiping away tears of laughter. And as if that weren’t enough to entertain even the most jaded of NYC theatergoers, the ludicrousness goes through the roof when the assumed fathers arrive for paternity confirmations, last night’s “baby daddies” including a screamingly gay disco regular and the most Guinzoed-out greaseball of a butcher that I have ever beheld (played by the same actor). The men came on when introduced, had their say on whether they were responsible for the gestating blights upon society, and had their genetic material taken by a buxom blonde nurse whose arrival was punctuated by John Williams’ “The Imperial March,” aka Darth Vader’s answer to “Theme From Shaft.” All of this madness did have a denoument of sorts, but the story ain’t over yet and will be continued each first Monday night of the next three months.

Bottom line: “The Baby Daddy Show” is a ton of fun, and you have not lived until you witness the rocking of the “Shurse.”

The game and gloriously over-the-top stars of this vortex of madness are Laura Sweeney (“Brandi”) and Katherine Valentine (“Crystal”), two dyed-in-the-wool burlesquers who are bursting with such verve and rubber-faced silliness that they seem to be deranged animated cartoon characters come to life; their trashy mannerisms, sub-K-Mart attire and hideous hairdos — Crystal’s electric-purple corn rows being particularly horrid since, in my opinion, that hairstyle does not work on non-blacks, to say nothing of the clownish shade — contribute to their image as dead-on grotesques who can be found all over the goddamned place, but especially in certain areas of the wilds of good old Crooklyn. Hats off to both of these talented ladies, and may they perpetrate more such offenses for a long time to come.

The show costs ten bucks per ticket, there is no drink minimum although there is a bar on the upstairs level, and the performance space is quite cozy, so get off of your lazy borough-centric tuchases and go see the motherfucker already!

Monday, October 03, 2005

IT “REARS” ITS UGLY HEAD - a reminiscence of a song from my bygone youth

The other night I was chatting with the patriarch of a charming family at the barbecue joint, and we hit it off rather well (the guy turned out to be a bit of a comics freak, and music goon so there was plenty in common to discuss). As the family was preparing to depart, they introduced themselves one by one, and their little girl stated that her name was “G.G.,” not “Gigi.” I told her dad that I would have no problem remembering her name since she share’s her handle with the most vile and disgusting rock ‘n’ roller of all time, namely G.G. Allin, the genius behind such timeless classics as “I Wanna Piss On You,” “Abuse Myself, I Wanna Die,” “Shove That Warrant Up Your Ass,” and the deathless “Expose Yourself To Kids.”

Her father was quite amused when I explained about the late minstrel, and offered “Ya know, when I was a kid I really loved this song by these maniacs from California called the Feederz. Ever hear of ‘Jesus Entering From the Rear?’” I told him that not only was it one of my all-time favorite records, but in 1984 it was also the tune that got me started on my quest to find the most offensive song ever recorded.

“Jesus Entering From the Rear” has long since been eclipsed by such songs as “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em” by the Mentors (an impassioned, comedic ode to the joys of wife beating), “The Village Idiot” by the Sonics (in which the masterminds behind “Strychnine” have a simulated mentally retarded guy warble an incredible version of “Jingle Bells”), “Kotex” by Bytches with Problems (a self-explanatory ditty that only a truly nasty female could have written and gotten away with, the line about “you fish-smellin’ bitch” being particularly choice), along with “Necropedophile” and “Entrails Ripped From A Virgin’s Cunt,” both by Cannibal Corpse, but it will always have a special place in my heart for the absolute, blind, vitriolic apoplexy that it incites in Catholics and Christians in general. Forget the satirical analogy of Christianity being equated with a 2,000-year-long homosexual rape; what really cheesed off the believers was the mere idea that Jesus would buttfuck anybody, or as the song screeches in your face, “fucking YOU in the AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSS!!!” Even the post-G.G. Allin Murder Junkies’ like-minded “Jism On the Cross” can’t touch it for sheer incendiary offensiveness.

They just don’t write ‘em like that anymore.

And if you, dear reader, can suggest any supremely offensive songs that I have not yet encountered — GOOD LUCK! — please clue me in.