We left it Noisy. That way it scares any pain-in-the-ass innocent bystanders away.
Copies available now: http://www.20buckspinshop.com/collections/front/products/chips-beer-the-magazine-5
Holy Cannoli! #5 is going to the printer today foax. Cover by Hand of Beaver, oil on wood panel
THE WURST OF 2012 PT1
Pick Up Your Balls
By: Adam Ganderson
The enemy advances. A concussed C&B unit of heathens rebuilds the bridge every four months so Charlie can blow it up again and the generals can say the road’s open. Meanwhile, wimps, hired geeks, and careerists need official clearance to cover the war like it’s play-by-play commentary on casting calls for soft core porn shoots. An obscene game maybe, but it continues as long as supplies hold out: hot dogs, beer, cooze, reefer, Utz, bourbon, flying tits. Might as well swallow the last acid tab. Cold rat meat and rice will not get us upriver any sooner no matter what that snake eater Capt. Willard thinks.
Neither will adherence to protocol. Fuck protocol. The Brass train Kurtz to be a killing machine and then whine when he goes AWOL and starts his own army. Of course his methods were unsound, deranged even, but his recordings have been playing the whole time. Album of the year. Thumbs up. Inspired. So here we are. A long way to the top of the palace steps and they are littered with the heads of music writers. Fait accompli. Radio back to base and I want you to tell them to call off the air strike.
South of the Tropic of Capricorn, Land of Oz. Bilgola Beach was a little hairy for R&R with all the mortar fire. But hell, a six foot peak. Breaking both ways. At least until the napalm wind came off the tree line to blow everything out. Salt and gasoline in the air just before getting pulled under. The day before things had been more relaxed. A debriefing with the Wizard while he signed records. The food arrived. He cast an invisibility spell. We ordered more drinks. Finally, he said “That last chicken wing’s got your name on it,” and it was time to move out. But it was there. The gasoline smell. Refined black evil, thick and sweet. Stuck in traffic near D.C. for Maiden/Cooper summit, the team agreed with an assertion from Private Dickinson that this is the place from where we launch all U.S. wars. Every war that Dickinson’s own tea bagging country is too chickenshit to ride in on the first wave.
Sometime later Chevron crude began rising from the ground, to the surface, and beyond. A stink that drenched the bars and stages and seeped into the speakers at a club near the oil refinery in Long Island City where several members of the team tried to trade two barrels of diesel for a couple hours with Playmate of the Year. It didn’t go as planned so they ended up throwing dollar bills at red eyed courtesans who cursed at the men in some obscure version of Dracula speak.
But the real trouble started long before. Pearl Harbor. Gulf of Tonkin. A rock concert at a house just down the block. Amps and drums set up in front of a one car garage. Kids standing around on the sidewalk and front yard not knowing what to expect. The sky turned purple. Big entrance when a garage door slowly creaked up and they emerged: three long haired radical teenage grits. Sunlight going away and the drummer lit cherry bombs. A clumsy attempt at a thing like “Ladies Room” that to a nine-year-old brain was the ultimate terror train through magic mountain. Smoke bombs turned the driveway black and drifted up through yellow leaves. Everything stopped. Called off by a mom with arms crossed, wrapped in a sweater. Other parents and neighbors came over from dimly lit houses. It was a school night. They worried what would become of their children. But the crowd would not disperse. Night had come and the band launched into a dime store version of “Flaming Youth.”
Flashing rollers appeared. Mirror shades. Pointing. Fists thrown. More cherry bombs and one of the fuses ignited a pile of dry leaves. From there the fire was on a gas trail that had leaked out from the garage. In an instant the house was in flames. Kids ran, parents screamed, dogs barked, cats ran up trees, someone brought a horse and the MP’s kicked his teeth in. The pigs never had control. Pushing away on a banana board, the background exploded. Underground fuel lines at the Citgo station had caught, then the gas lines, then half the town was taken out in a ball of shimmering flame. Thoughtful moment; destroyed beach;
smell of victory; for those about to rock…
Degial – Death’s Striking Wings
Accept - Stalingrad
Sleepy Hollow – Skull 13
Superchrist – Holy Shit
Fingernails – Alles Verboten
Martire – Brutal Legions of The Apocalypse
AC/DC - Live at River Plate
REISSUES
Manilla Road - Metal
Mythra - Death and Destiny
Deep Switch - Nine Inches of God
Xinr - Xinr
