THE BOOK IS ON THE TABLE

(Before I get much further – many thanks to Ms’s GB and Jena for giving me some early issues of this publication!)

In an ideal universe, this magazine would come out as often as I want it to (i.e. weekly); of course, then its sparkle might be reduced by routine, pressure and sheer repetition.

As it is, waiting for this gem is not much of a trial, as I know it will be rewarding when it materializes.

As usual, it is jampacked with interesting interviews, including one with a member of a band I had written off by virtue of its location in my local record store’s sections (i.e. electronica/rave). Now that I have read about Goldfrapp , I shall have to check it out.

Mimi from Low offers some intriguing insights on motherhood, music and, yes, Mormonism (revealing she is getting tired of the questions – one never sees Donny Osmond nosily grilled on the subject – mind you, indie pop is not a very spiritually associated field, so perhaps it is a novelty factor…).

In general, the magazine is stuffed with pieces on pop stars of whom you have never heard, such as Stephen Duffy and Emma Pollock, and succeeds in making you think you know more about them at the end, as the questions are rarely rote and show genuine research/interest.

All this, plus tons of reviews and polls/surveys, make it a page turner extraordinaire (and the cover art is always such lovely, tinted and sharp photography – greenish this time…tasty as a Death by Chocolate cone, and only half as fattening…).

A gap-toothed, mildly furry guy on the front with nice nipples, dreads and fuzzy ‘pits? Count me in from the cover alone…*oh, I can be so SUPERFICIAL sometimes, kids *!

It’s also nice to see a fellow oldster doing a ‘zine, which Reb has evidently produced for ten years. There seems to be a general concept of Faerie and mysticism, but it’s well done and not in the least ethereal or airy-new-agey. There are also some reaction pieces to the events of September 11 in New York, and general op. ed. material on the (unacceptable) state of things.

There are lots of beautiful natural shots of naked fellows in this mag, including a goateed bald fellow with abundant fuzzy-wuzziness that made this writer’s pen quiver, which is also a plus to me (while they MIGHT be posed, they look very playful and spontaneous, and none of them are especially standard centerfold boys).

There is also an interview with Angela from the new Queercore label Agitprop Records that was quite entertaining and hopeful.

A profile of Dumba, a sort of queer performance art/festival/party/orgy/whatever thing that takes place in NYC, was also intriguing (I had WONDERED what it was like).

For the squeamish, I would suggest avoiding the middle section on uncircumcising, though that would mean missing more shots of the lovely cover star (it did not bother me, as it’s not an issue for me – it’s one of the few good Canadian things…mutilation is not standard outside of certain religious circles…).

Throw in some porn stories – please throw OUT the "ad" for naked gay male yoga that snarls that no fats, femmes or trolls need apply (P.S. correspondence with the editor on January 25 suggests that's pretty much HIS attitude too, so I gather its inclusion is a sarcastic fake...somehow I missed the irony first time around :) ) – and you have a mostly intriguing publication that shows even old folks like Reb and me can be down with the queer crew. J

Another thoughtful issue of philosophy, punk rock, sensitive but pragmatic meditations/observations and politics from the just-keeps-getting better Mr. Puckett.

He does long, in-depth interviews with Dillinger Four, Small Brown Bike and American Steel, the first of whom I had at least heard of (the second and third were unknown quantities), that are very insightful. Like Chickfactor (though the two magazines otherwise have little in common, one being sophisticated pop and the other being punkish), there are no lazy questions like ‘Who’s a poseur and who’s a real punk?’ (oh, really, how can ANYONE answer that and not put themselves IMMEDIATELY into the first category?) – there is clearly much cogitation behind both inquiries and responses.

His piece on the West Memphis Three (a trio of young men from Arkansas almost certainly railroaded into two life sentences and one death sentence for murders) is detailed and thorough (I must shamefully admit to only vaguely having heard of the case, and certainly did not know all the facts), and documents a very probable miscarriage of justice.

Pee Air’s contribution on songwriting is very methodical and helpful too (could have helped me when I was starting out – now I’m busy going back to old song ideas and expanding on them…).

All this, plus Puckett’s opening and closing short essays, makes for a magazine well worth having , reading and thinking about.

Once again, a well-produced, nice-looking book/magazine hybrid, full of odd music ranging from free jazz to noise, both in the articles and the enclosed compact disc.

This time, it truly delves into the obscure. I mean, I had heard of a few of the groups, but the only ones I had ever had cross my ears before now were Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci and Thinking Fellers Union Local 282. However, if you read these articles with an open mind, you are going to get some very interesting perspectives on music and art you might not have had or considered before.

The CD does have a few tracks that were just too obscure for me (some sounded quite a bit like wind or breaking china), but it is certainly not something you are going to forget or drift off to sleep to.

A labour of love and research, to be sure, and we are lucky to have such dedicated editors in any genre.

Aroused, ed. Karen Finley (Thunder’s Mouth Press, NY, 2001, $17.95 US/$28.95 CAN)

Canada Customs evidently did not like some of this book, and decided to edit it with a razor blade before it reached my hands. That alone should recommend it to the average intelligent reader. That and the fact that it is edited by controversial filth-monger Karen Finley, introduced by Richard Hell and contributed to by the likes of Vaginal Davis, John Waters, Hubert Selby Jr., Richard Kern, Lydia Lunch and Annie Sprinkle!

It is by no means a standard erotic collection, as you might guess from the above info (the sub-literate cretins that crawl through the corridors of buildings on our border rarely bother to mess with average het porn, but a few of those names are likely to cause the little bells attached to the zippers of their stained pants to jingle with alarm…).

The ‘straight’ stuff ranges from Lunch’s power games with analgesics (think about it) to Saint Reverend Jen’s ode to aural sex toys (you did read that correctly, by the way – think cotton swabs on sticks); ‘queer’ does not begin to describe most of the homosexual material put forth by Vaginal Davis or Alastair McCartney.

Did anything disturb or degrade me? I have to say Hubert Selby Jr’s "First Love" did a bit – but I’m not all that opposed to being bothered or humiliated… J

If you’re sick and depraved like me, there is bound to be something here for you. If you’re sick and depraved like Canada Customs, there’s something inside a gun for you…

The Bear Handbook, compiled by Ray Kampf (Southern Tier Editions / Harrington Park Press / Haworth Press, 10 Alice St., Binghamton, NY, 13904-1580, 2000, $23.99 CAN)

I had to know if I was fitting in. All that individuality was bothering me. I was beginning to fear that I was developing an independent mind.

All these nagging questions and terrifying developments finally drove me to pick up this book.

Phew!! Now I know EXACTLY what to do to get my proper ‘woofs’.

Uh…HUH…

Oh, this book was a scream. Dyed-in-the-woof Bears who have very, er, firm concepts of Beardom should read this to get their sphincters relaxed (not that there aren’t any number of more EXCITING ways to do that, or so I’m told…). Bearoids like me can learn to bend our quotation marks enough to let a big fellow into them by learning some history and some affection for the Movement.

Everything you could ever want to know is in this handy, plaid-coloured-cover volume, from exercises (who HASN’T done the 501 squeeze? ‘I know I can fit into these jeans, as long as I don’t BREATHE while wearing them.’) to teddy bear taxonomy to beard categories. There are also ‘serious’ lists of resources, clubs, etc. available.

So if you are the sort who, when he hears ‘woof’, first thinks ‘FUCKBUDDY!’ and then thinks ‘dog’ (again, the two aren’t always separate…*that is NOT how I meant it*), this book has your name on it, grrrrlfriend.

 

 My Son Divine by Frances Milstead with Kevin Heffernan and Steve Yeager (Alyson Publications, www.alyson.com, 2001, $29.95 CAN)

Well, it’s fairly self-explanatory. It is a profile of the life of Divine (1945-1988), star of many John Waters movies, as written by his mother.

Like Not Simply Divine, the out-of-print volume by Bernard Jay that is dissed in this publication, it suffers slightly from not being able to cover certain years, such as most of the Seventies, because Divine and his family were estranged from 1972 until 1981. However, we get a lot of information on his childhood, along with many photographs (which reveal that Mrs. Milstead was not without her own exhibitionist and outrageous side).

Lots of pictures – lots of love. Pester your local library to get it and put it in a display on families…that should cause a few bigots to choke on their rosaries… J  

 

One Thousand Beards by Allan Peterkin (Arsenal Pulp Press, 103-1014 Homer St, Vancouver, British Columbia, V68 2W9, CANADA, $16.95 US/$19.95 CAN, www.arsenalpulp.com)

I could hardly resist this, as I am finally growing my facefuzz in, after years of not being able to at my former job.

I’ve always wanted to, if only because I wanted to know if I had inherited the family curse of not being able to grow a beard (I’ve missed that one, though, sadly, the hair-reducing tendencies in a higher region have apparently been triggered at last).

Some of my fellow Bears have accused this volume of being silly, superficial and arrogant, and some have said the author strikes them that way as well.

Can’t speak to Peterkin’s character, as I do not know him. Some of the book IS a bit under-done or sloppy (Aubrey Beardsley was NOT gay, or so most sources claim). The chapter on the gay beard is sufficiently vague and shallow that there is some evidence for my colleagues’ claims the author is closeted or at least in conflict (I have no idea what his sexuality is).

The rest of the book , however, is entertaining, occasionally insightful and thoughtful. I mean, people, PLEASE! It is A CULTURAL HISTORY OF FACIAL HAIR – it is not a Marxist tome or a psychology textbook…it SHOULD be playful.

 I recommend it heartily for all the little (non)shavers out there. J

 

A Wind Across The Century by R.G. Powers (1^st Book Library, www.1stbook.com, probably obtainable from Amazon and the like ; available from the author for $18 US in that country (I’d add $2 for Canada, and get in touch regarding other locations), P.O. Box 92811, Long Beach, CA, home.mminternet.com/~rychp/index.htm)

 

This gent plugged his book on the Bear Mailing List to which I belong. It not being a place on which literary works are often promoted, and the subject being intriguing, in addition to me having been separated from my sweetheart for some time, it seemed like an epic romance I could get into.

A glib summary of this novel might be "Bronte Sisters re-write Gone With The Wind (without a war), stir in some Maurice by E.M. Forster (with less respect for class) and Death In Venice by Thomas Mann (without the typhoid or underage boys, but with the death of a transgressor) and populate the book with breathtakingly handsome furry fellows." Actually, though, I have not read Gone With The Wind, and I am not that wild about Maurice (it seemed too patronizing) or Death In Venice (the opera is better than the book).

I did, however, enjoy A Wind Across The Century quite a bit. While it could have done with a bit more background on the characters, it is, ultimately, more about the idea of Love and following one’s desires when they conflict with what ‘society’ wants (I always found it puzzling when people said ‘society’ wants something, since, last time I checked, I was PART of that society – but I have also recently learned that I seem to be devastatingly anti-social in some people’s book, as I do not naturally assume that what the majority of people appear to want is correct…). It is very mannered and witty when the main characters, such as Edward Willoughby, the protagonist, and his wife Margaret interact with fellow aristocrats/middle-classers, and then quite earthy and erotic when Heath Radclyffe, the groundskeeper who becomes Edward’s lover, is introduced into the equation. In fact, the best quality of the novel is the romantic interaction between Edward and Heath, as it is very sensual without ever becoming mere pornography.

If I have one minor qualm (in addition to its being too short – I like my epic romances to strain the ability of my hand to support them J ), it is that Heath Radclyffe’s name is far too reminiscent of Heathcliff. I do not know whether it was intentional, but it smacked of cleverness. Otherwise, a very diverting and heartwarming read.

 

Waiting For Gertrude by Bill Richardson (Douglas and McIntyre, 2323 Quebec St., Suite 201, Vancouver, British Columbia, V5T 4S7, CANADA, 2001, $19.95 CAN)

 Oh, dear! Yet ANOTHER novel set in Pere-Lachaise cemetery in Paris, featuring cats who are the reincarnations of historical figures ranging from Chopin to Jim Morrison. When will people stop stealing from each other?

Okay, so it’s a fairly unique conceit (just like a book I was reading about the other day which concerns a man and his penguin), but not an entirely successful one. A lot of it seems somewhat arbitrary, based around the fact that I believe Gertrude Stein (who has not made an appearance within the main body of the work, and is only imminent at its close) called Alice B. Toklas, who has been waiting for some time in her reincarnated form, ‘puss’ (one has to wonder exactly how old a certain slang term for female genitalia IS).

Make no mistake – it is a witty book, and very multi-media, filled as it is with songs, poems, letters, maps,

illustrations, interviews, minutes and recipes. Unfortunately, it fails to exploit the full possibilities of its conceit, and the more interesting subplots, such as Oscar Wilde’s lust for Jim Morrison, are restricted to letters never sent, while Alice’s love for Gertrude seems more like duty or a way to fill the day.

Amusing enough, but not eternal.

 

Rash by Charles Romalotti (Layman Books, P.O. Box 4702, Austin, Texas, 78765-4702, USA, 2001, www.flash.net/~layman, [email protected], $8 US direct-mail in that country (I’d inquire about elsewhere))

One must give Mr. Romalotti credit for range. His previous novel, Salad Days, delved into the world of punk/hardcore; this one explores psychosomatic illness, goth, lesbianism, cross-dressing, medicine, mad scientists, ethics, drugs, murder, revenge and so much more.

The endorsements on the back were quite impressive (I can hardly totally despise something that both Jarboe and cevin Key enjoyed). The cover is simple but captivating (one sees so few designers opting for deepest black and glaring, diseased purplish-red these days).

It’s a fast-paced tale of youth and disillusionment on the streets, though, when it was done, I was astonished to discover that it was only 172 pages, since it felt as though I had been reading forever (this is an endorsement, by the way – I prefer most sensual experiences to seem eternal).

One hardly wishes to give away too much of the plot, both because that would spoil it and because it is so dense that any summary would not give tribute to its layers.

Like his previous novel, it has moments where word choices seem awkward – but I am beginning to think that is his style. Besides, I am hardly in a position to complain about others’ misuses and missteps in the literary field – I have foolishly kept most of my juvenilia. J

Captivating – deeply disturbing (I was mostly reading this at work over lunch, and there were days on which that seemed ill-advised) – but, ultimately, rewarding.

 

We Got The Neutron Bomb by Marc Spitz and Brendan Mullen (Three Rivers Press, 2001, $20 CAN)

 

Like Please Kill Me, the classic oral history of New York punk, except set in Los Angeles and with more corpses/absentees from the narrative.

It briefly touches on early figures like Iggy Pop and Jim Morrison, and dredges up interesting, largely forgotten acts such as The Screamers, Black Randy and Zolar X (frankly, I’d never heard of the last act either…but it presaged Devo in many respects).

However, it is at its most interesting in discussing acts like The Runaways, The Germs and The Go-Go’s, if only because it attempts to spill the dirt (yeah, Darby Crash was a screaming queen; yes, Joan Jett was a big ol’ baby dyke; in fact, the early Go-Go’s were not very nice, and also had their share of sensibly shoed sisters), while also trying to set their work in context and in some respectful light.

Revealing – dishy – researched and documented – a diverting read (and not overly long, unlike Please Kill Me).

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