The Hatemonger

Continuing the trend of only using people I hate as my LJ Icon (Jack Kennedy, Hitler), you may now find Steve Springer's face blackening the space next to my name. But this time, let's try a little something different. Something kind of special. Minions who read my livejournal, i entrust you with this task: Tell me the reason why YOU hate steve Springer. It can be in the form of a story about the time he fucked you over, flaked out on you, or got you pregnant. If enough people respond, who knows, i might even post the reason why I began hating him. LET THE ONLINE HATRED BEGIN!!!

On Friday, July 14th, 2006, the unthinkable happened: A backdoor Trojan invaded the impregnable fortress that is my computer; I looked into the gaping maw of the gift horse that is Fly For Fun, and out popped a viral infection, one which could not be stopped with antibiotics, lip balm, or the fiery sensation of an enormous q-tip shoved hastily through a urethra. Thankfully, this virus would not attack my RL health other than raising my blood pressure a notch and giving me a few more gray hairs. My workday was thwarted and my patience was frustrated by this monster decelerating the passing of my welcome screen and then halting the appearance of my blessed desktop icons and start bar. Alas, a two hour battle with one of Dell’s most elite overseas hotline warriors would be my salvation, through a daring, fever-wrought last resort attack on the PC’s Achilles heel: We were going to reformat the hard-drive. “You’re sure you have all your files backed up?” asked Dell-man from all the way across the world. “Yes, yes, of course,” I replied in my haste to get off the phone with a certified computer technician who knew less about computers than my 18-year-old, pre-collegiate companion.

And the dumb mother fucker that I am, I was wrong. It was like the first Head Pro tour all over again, as I said time and time again overwhelmed in my arrogance, “Yes! Keep going that way! Ignore the directions! Ignore the maps! Ignore the interstate signs! I’ll lead you to Athens!” as we ended up hours off course in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

In addition to a few hundred mp3s, a multitude of documentaries, a few unwatched movies, and a carefully kept log of the mixtapes I had made over the past two years—I had deleted a fifteen page first draft of my last week in May 2006 and 10 more pages of notes outlining my entire life in the month of June 2006. I had not backed up what was meant to be a 40-60 page print version of the eleventh Hatemonger Communiqué.

I fucked up. Big time.

Never has America witnessed such a substantial tragedy since the horrible events of September 11th. Never has the world been robbed of such a valuable and revealing text since the lost gospel of Judas and the disavowed gospel of Mary Magdelen. The world—nay, the galaxy, for even the Transformers hiding on Mars have been dealt a vicious blow—the galaxy mourns this terrible loss of literary genius. The psychopathic ramblings of a young man who scorns the education system, looks down his nose at the hoity-toity idea of having a real job, and laughs at the thought of a “healthy” relationship with the opposite sex—these passages of visceral, Peter Pan syndrome megalomania have been irrevocably destroyed.

The following is a much briefer, less detail-laden account of the month and half of my life before I left New Orleans for a two month adventure on the open road. Its brevity is a tribute to one Jane Gruning—the womyn whose fickle attention span is dwarfed by my penchant for rambling narratives, out-dated nonsensical in-jokes, and depraved sexual innuendos. The mythical Jesus figure has looked down upon my Antigony-like hubris and has set the fires of heaven upon me and my works of impudence. So, to Jane and all the others vexed by the length of my illiterate meanderings, this is for you—a very abbreviated account for you to digest in one of your many breaks at work or between the internet going in and out at my new apartment or perhaps during an homage to the porcelain god if you have a laptop and wireless internet.

Wail on this mother fucker.

( Part I, shows of the an idea like no other ruined and tangled into a contradictory statement ilk. )

Livejournal says my post is too large, despite the cuts. So here's the second half of Communique #11.

( Part II, those other shows that I go to not to have fun but to hand out flyers advertising my own selfish shows and to talk shit about later. )

( Part III, on Darin Acosta Presents Stoop Night. )

( Part IV, acoustic breakdown/acoustic Firestorm. )

( Part V, I was looking for a job and then I found a job and heaven knows I’m miserable now title of one of Jonathan’s livejournal entries not reference to the Smiths lyrics. )

( Part VI, Cypress Hall forum. )

( Part VII, Ryan and Marissa are obviously meant to be together despite Marissa’s beefcake boyfriend Luke, but what happens when you hate Marissa completely—I mean, you love her completely too, but you also hate her completely—then who is Ryan supposed to be with everyone gets kicked out of school and then there’s a car accident at the end of the third season and someone dies? )

( Part VII, I don’t like parties they avoid the truth people lying in search of a good time we smile avoid unpleasant situations put it off and maybe it will go away. )

Sunday, April 30th, 2006. Bruce Springsteen’s secret set at the Maple Leaf.

After a bunch of serious bullshit, we finally made it down to Jazzfest. On the way in, some preppy dude asked me if I had any weed to smoke with him. I told him I didn’t, and he was like, “I know you smoke weed. Look at the way you’re dressed.” Sure, a tattered His Hero is Gone shirt, flip flops, and a sour expression—why wouldn’t he think that I took a little herbal medication? Why wouldn’t he think I had a description from Dr. Ganj? Why wouldn’t he think I was holding a little grilled bird, some bud, some sticky sticky purp? I don’t know why I didn’t sass this guy—as in, “You’re dressed like an asshole, but you don’t see me calling you a douchebag.” I guess sometimes, my head is just not in the game. Looking back, I’m filled with regret.

Eventually, me and Paul ditched Darin in the crowd and made our way to the front of the Acura stage for some Bruce Springsteen action. I got in touch with Eric and Lauren with a little cel phone action, and they hadn’t even started to make their way down to the area that the Boss was playing in action. Ha ha ha! Have fun in the back, two miles from the stage, suckers. I know neither of you have the balls to push, shove, kick, and bite your way through the throng of fuckheads who come out for Jazzfest. But me and Paul do. We have big, huge sacks about to burst with our giant testicles producing massive amounts of our man seed—sacks swinging in the face of every jackass who thinks they can sit in their little chair when we want to rock. We get to party down with some middle aged assholes from Tampa who don’t even want us standing next to them. You know what I’m talking about here. Assholes who call a cop over to kick out some drunk guy dancing too close to them. Assholes who goggle and grope 15-year-old girls trying to pass them by. “Why should you get to stand this close when you’re not true, dedicated fans?” Why? Because our big ol’ nuts are swinging in your face, fuckass. Now drink your stupid beer and lemon-n-lime alcoholic concoctions and shut the fuck up about it. I fixed your breakline. And jizzed in your van. But my boss is here, so shut the fuck up about it.

So we left after an hour and a half of the Boss doing his Pete Seeger tribute mixed with folk covers. Just in time to make it down to the Krishna temple for some free food and lemonade laced with drugs that kill your sex drive, so it’s easier for those elephant-worshipping freaks to brainwash you into dancing around like a moron during their “services.” Whatev. I still think 108 rules. And we saw some rockers down there like Michaela and Neck Tattoo Daniel and Christian Zydepunks and Shelly. And found out about the 9th Ward heavy metal house show we missed and the uptown house show that night.

Paul dropped me off at Michaela’s house for the show. A pop band on Drunken Boat’s label called Lemuria was playing. They were OK. Sozai played their final show afterwards. They were terrible. Super nice dudes, all of them. But what a horrible, horrible band. Thank you, Jesus for finally taking them up to heaven like you did your boy Elijah.

And just like Christ hauling his sheep up to his heavenly kingdom, some dudes I don’t even know dropped me off at Maple St. PJs. Father John gave me a ride back to Metry, so I could sleep. And dream. Dream of moving in with Caitlyn and reclaiming my uptown fief.

But us Metry folk aren’t supposed to dream. And we’re not allowed uptown. Not without a current passport. Oh, wait, I live in Kenner. Ha ha ha. Ho, ho, ho. Very funny. Dicks.

At least “Kenner” didn’t flood. Who’s laughing now, Lakeview?

Thursday, May 4th, 2006. I’m sorry for being born four years too late.

I wanted to get down to the Iron Rail for 3 or 4pm, but sometimes cooking vegan gumbo—I mean, vegan SLOP—sometimes cooking up a nice batch of slop takes a little longer than planned. At least people liked it enough to lavish me with praise like, “What is this stuff supposed to be?” and “It’s not as good as Andy Allen’s.” and “Andy Allen used to cook delicious vegan treats for me all the time when I lived at Nowe Miasto.” and “Andy Allen rules.” and “You’re going to be as bald as Andy Allen soon. Too bad you don’t cook as well as he does.” and “You suck.” and “Plan B and the Iron Rail is closed—to YOUR kind.” Well, regardless of the running commentary from the bike punx, freaks, and hippies—terrorists, all of them!—the gumbo was gone at the end of the night. Those people will eat anything. While I sit on my throne of vegan righteousness in judgment of all I survey. And the judgment is GUILTY. Guilty of eating my vegan slop. And liking it. Liking it more than Andy Allen’s gumbo. I don’t care what you say.

The reason I had cooked in the first place was because the Iron Rail was hosting a slide show by Seth Tobocman, the guy who wrote that stencil/comic strip You Don’t Have to Fuck People Over to Survive. Iron Rail Kate had to work that night, so Michaela was in charge. She was feeling ill, so somehow I got suckered into having to introduce Seth and this other guy before they did their thing. I don’t know why those dudes couldn’t just say that shit themselves instead of having me write it all down and read it to the audience like a robot. Like a skinny, balding robot.

That Seth guy turned out to be kind of jerky. I mean, he wasn’t an asshole or anything, just a weird, defensive “adult.” For instance, after one of his slide show songs (He showed slides of his comics and “sang” the text while this other old guy played electric guitar over some PA music.), someone in the audience had a question about the opening slide which seemed like it was setting the theme for the whole song but was never really explained. The guy wasn’t challenging Seth’s authority or anything like that; he just wanted some more info. At first Old Hippy Man got all pissed when he thought his “controversial” song was being challenged. Then he got kind of pissy about giving some historical context for the political situation. He couldn’t really answer the dude’s question and sounded like a moron to me. But what do I know? I’m just a bald robot.

The Iron Rail thing was a real letdown, and so was Darin Acosta’s Stoop Night which ended my evening. No girls I had crushes on to talk to. Not enough people there to hang out with. Not enough people to make fun of.

Just me and Andy. Like always. The only two people who still give a fuck. Throw pen down and walk away angry.

Friday, May 5th, 2006. Lauren thinks I have a crush on Catherine.

I finally made it out to the High Ground—the renovated Cypress Hall. There’s been all this hype about how much better the place is now… It’s got amazing sound and lighting. A BIG PA, monitors, drum mics, everything. It’s clean; we clean it every night after every show. The bathrooms are NICE! It’s a really nice venue now, to be compared on the standards of the Darkroom. The High Ground is much better than Cypress ever was.

Brandon Shock must have been blazed on some grilled weed when he told me all that stuff, because all I saw at Neo-Cypress was the same old shit. The amazing lights that supposedly add to the show-going experience weren’t even used. I mean, they were used, but they’re smaller than source 4 pars; it’s just a couple of small stage lights with some gels that make people look stupid. And the sound was just as shitty as it always is. But, wait—oh, shit!—they painted the walls of the bathrooms and stenciled fleur-de-lys on them. OMG OMG OMFG, WTF I can NOT believe it! They’re so much nicer now! Nevermind the smell or the same shitty tiling and shitty, shit-filled toilets. FLEUR-DE-MOTHER-FUCKING-LYS ON THE WALLS! I just jizzed all over myself. And all over the fleur-de-lis walls.

Seriously though. For real. No joke. On a serious tip. I’m not trying to talk shit on the High Ground. But it’s the same as fucking Cypress Hall. It’s the same thing. Maybe some more changes are coming, but at this point, it’s the same old shit. And it’s still just as crappy as the Darkroom. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean—“to be compared on the standards of the Darkroom.” Is that Spanish? Or Spanglish? Or what? And what’s up with that movie Spanglish? I thought it was supposed to be a comedy, but it was more like a romantic comedy with heavy emphasis on the romance and almost no comedy.

The week before I went to this show, I was trying to figure out what it was that made me hate Cypress Hall so much, what it was about the place that almost made me quit doing shows completely. This show reminded me. Let’s see, is it the girl crossing the street without looking yelling “Slow down, bitch!” at a car that wasn’t even close to her? Is it Fruity and his boyfriend yelling racist epithets at passing Hispanic folks? Is it the jackass in the Beat the Bitch Incorporated shirt? It’s the fucking moronic teenagers that go to the shows there that make me want to shove a broadsword up my ass and end it all. Not all of them are bad eggs, but enough of them to make me feel like I can’t identify with any of them, enough of them to make me feel like I’m too old for punk rock and that all of this shit is meaningless, enough of them to make me want to move to Slidell and never hang out at Cypress Hall again. Never smell dead seafood. Never smoke purple headies in the parking lot like some wizard casting a spell with my magical weed pipe.

Well, I still wasn’t too old or too cool or too blazed to watch the bands.

The Sticky Bandits opened with a fucking Suicide Machines song (“Hey Ska”). If only their singer had known the words. I wasn’t too into those guys, but one of them spent a really long time reading a bunch of the Anti-Racist Action literature I was giving away; I think he took some. So now, they’re my new favorite ska band.

Search to Destroy played next. Kind of crusty, kind of punky—if they tightened their game and did a bunch of cocaine before they played, they would be pretty good at what they do. And maybe dropped the cliché political lyrics. I mean, I like songs about hating the government as much as the next guy (remember the Dear Diary oil war song? I wrote that shit. Not all Karl Marx Doss. This guy. The straightedge fascist.), but you can at least write about the bad guys like they’re comic book super villains instead or regurgitating the same trite lyrics. At least, that’s what it sounded like they were singing about over the shitty PA. They also had a song about drinking, which I couldn’t tell if they were pro- or anti-alcohol. If they hate drinking and drugs, they’re my new favorite punk band. By the way, did you know that Requiem is a VEGAN STRAIGHTEDGE band? Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Your weed pipe. 4-20 4-eva, brah. Let’s hit those beasters.

I only caught half of No Control’s set before I had to leave. Imagine a bunch of high school bands playing punk rock. Now imagine they’re really tight and a lot better than the last time you saw them. Too bad they broke up. Way to go, jackasses. Get good and then break up. How about playing a few good shows first? No? You’d rather play pop rock? Who am I going to put on all the hardcore shows?

I skipped out on In Distress, so I could make it down to the hipster old people fest at Cracker Jacks. The first band was pretty bad, so me and Eldon made our way down to some Mediterranean kitchen on Bourbon St. and bought some shitty falafel wraps. Cath was supposed to hold down the stoop for us, but she flaked. Luckily, it wasn’t long before we could reclaim our throne of cockroach filth. Real quick let me just say that Catherine is pretty cool. She’s like Lauren Goldstein minus the harboring bitterness that Eric Martinez is the most well-liked person in New Orleans. She’s like Scott Eustis with boobs and, presumably, a vagina. I stood behind Catherine when Will Oldham played and blubbered onto her shoulder, “I can’t take this! I haven’t listened to this music since I dated Katie Pendergrass, the love of my life, my one true love, my soulmate. I mean, Kristin Ceruti is my soulmate. I mean, Emily McWilliams. I mean, whatever girl I’m momentarily obsessing over so I don’t have to actually get my shit together, move on, and find someone new to be with. Or renounce christianity and come to terms with my homosexuality and date Steve Spinger. Or just skip the part wear I date and have sex with Steve in order to dominate his personality and just become Steve. Or learn to live alone on this cold and desolate earth.” And then I ran out in a huff seeing my new roommate Caitlyn on the way out.

The worst thing about all that crying was that I didn’t get to enjoy Will Oldham’s set—then again, I guess neither did all the fucking jerkass morons who pushed their way past me every two seconds so they could buy more alcohol in order to try to get their dates drunk enough to agree to a little hanky panky with their lame-asses and/or have an excuse for their subsequent flaccidity and/or premature ejaculation. Seeing Will Oldham in a smokey, dickhead-filled club where drinks were constantly spilled down my leg, ice was spilled into my pockets, and chit chat overpowered some of the music—well, maybe listening to this stuff alone in my room—my cold, dark, depressing room where I’m fifteen bucks richer—maybe that would’ve been a better idea.

Saturday, May 6th, 2006. Hipster de Mayo.

I made it down to the Circle Bar for about 5:30 or 5:45 to catch a 5pm matinee show. Only, the shit didn’t even start until about 7 o’clock. What a load of shit. I mean, I get it, we’re in New Orleans. We can’t start shows on time. I understand. Bands are going to show up an obligatory 2-3 hours late. I get it. It’s OK. Nothing can start when it’s supposed to. No one can follow through on what they say. Everyone is a flake. Except me. The last man standing.

King Louie’s punk band the Black Rose played first. They were a lot poppier than I was expecting. Imagine J Guiles Band mixed with some East Bay punk but from the land where the walls sweat during the spring. Basically, it sounded like Louie’s solo stuff with a full band. Catchy, bluesy, rock songs with plenty of hilarious between song banter.

Army of Jesus from Steve Springer’s Austin, Texas played next. The singer was this guy Doug who had done the This Scares Me show out there a couple of years back. Good dude. I think this guy Timmy who I’ve done some shows for was with them too. He didn’t say hi to me like Doug did though. The Army of Jesus was OK. Nothing special, but certainly a breath of fresh air for New Orleans which doesn’t have any decent thrash bands.

Since the show started so late, I only got to catch the first ten minutes or so of Face First. They were OK. Not as thrashy or grindy as I remember. Maybe the Sub Rats kid is slowing them down? Maybe all that smoking and drinking and possible drug abuse he’s into now since selling out straightedge is slowing him down. That’s what happens when you “grow up” and stop being straightedge. You get fat. And slow. Not like us Peter Pans hanging out on stoops running lyrical circles around people. You ecstasy ravers can’t hang with the big dawgs.

So I left the Circle bar and picked up my man Eldon from his house, and we made our way down to Hope’s art show. It was pretty cool. Free food. Good art. 9th Ward freaks. Clowns like John and Misha dressed up like ladies. We missed their set, but caught Hope’s zine reading, and walked out on Walker’s guitar playing to get Darin back to a party his hipster girlfriend was at.

As soon as I walked into the party, Greg’s ex J. Turner was like, “What are you doing here? Are you doing shows? I have a list of bands who need shows who you should book.” When I finally got around to finding out what bands he had in mind, one of his buddies had literally one myspace band who needed a show while I was going to be out of town. Come on, John, get off my dick. Myspace STILL sucks. Give me a call when the Birthright reunion tour needs a New Orleans show. Or the Day of Suffering reunion tour. Or the Disembodied tour. I don’t care about all these Sigur Ros wannabe bands. Makeout club for life.

At some point, me and Eldon decided to take over the DJ position, hooking up my mp3 player to the stereo, so we could listen to rap music. But I guess like all hipsters, Liz Allen and Sally Athens hate black people who aren’t Micah. And guess what they played? The Decemberists. Interpol. Neutral Milk Hotel. Of Montreal. The Liars. Pinback. Le Tigre. OK already! I fucking get it. You’re a hipster. You like popular indie rock. You pretend to like some noisier stuff like Xiu Xiu or Lightning Bolt to maintain a guise of being cutting edge. Drinking and smoking and doing cocaine are cool. I get it. I understand. I’ve read about your people and studied them in their natural habitat. I know your customs of scooping the scene, making the rounds, and acting the fool. I’ve seen you bob your head in subtle appreciation of music you supposedly love. And dance around like a drunken jackass at 80s Night. I’ve witnessed your trek up and down Frenchmen, drooling Newcastle and Guiness, casting your sour gaze across the landscape, mouthing the words “need cocaine,” so you can continue your vicious cycle of drinking and snorting and scowling, as the sun rises and your skin begins to peel and melt revealing your vampiric lineage. Now let me listen to Mos Def and Styles P and eat this vegan boca burger Lauren brought me in piece.

By the way, Saddle Creek sucks.

Happy birthday, Christine. Happy birthday, Tom. Happy birthday, hipster new year.

Tuesday, May 9th, 2006. Uproar helped me write all the funny parts of that last one. A collabo.

You would think that when you’re a well educated, highly paid psychologist testing a new drug to treat clinical depression that you would know that you probably shouldn’t stand two feet from a speaker when you’re holding a wireless microphone, and that you definitely should not point said wireless microphone at the speaker. You would think. But, no, think again. It happens. And I’m there—every time—jumping on that mute button, cutting down frequencies on the EQ, slaying that high pitched squeal as if I were a level ten paladin on a holy quest to slay a rampaging dragon or some sort of undead horde and fire-wielding arch demon.

Well, after half a day of battling orcish feedback and turning skeletal low volume—I was beat. So I didn’t make it out to Melissa’s house as planned. I didn’t make the flyer for the Requiem show. And I didn’t shower or get anything to eat. I fell asleep. Right there on that bed. And when I finally woke up, it was a race to Sean’s house to set up the PA for the Holy Mountain show.

Only I shouldn’t have rushed. The show was supposed to start at 7, but it didn’t actually get going until New Orleans pm, a few hours or days later. But there were plenty of people to hang out with—Cypress punx, Baton Rouge punx, Lafayette punx. Hundred Eyes was playing first, and we had to wait for one Daniel Shecksnider who was running pretty late. Nobody likes a late guy.

And then, suddenly, as if preordained by the lord of the heavens, the infamous Steven Mudge arrived and shows were great and magical place again.

I tried calling my half brother Dan Fox to get him to come out to the show, so we could get the old Bryan-Steve-Dan asshole triumvirate clique back for a reunion show. But Dan was too busy eating at a fancy restaurant with his fiancée, getting to bed early for work, kicking Eric and Eddie out his apartment to make room for Ballzack, kicking people out of hardcore even though he doesn’t go to shows—you know, being a jaded old man. Which I don’t even understand because even Tom Hopkins—the guy Dan stole the Kicked Out of Hardcore idea from—was at the show. And that guy is like 60 years old. He came hobbling up in one of those old man walkers; I had to carry him up the stairs into the house, but he was still there. He’s even braving a ride with Destrehan Seth and Matt Sexton to go see Tragedy in Texas. I guess piercing your scrotum can be pretty emasculating, huh, Dan? Who would think that one man’s love for his local professional football team could lead to self-castration?

Well, Dan, all the bands who played were pretty gosh darn good. Bilal moved around a bunch during the Hundred Eyes set; that was a big improvement. Now the other folks need to come out of their shells. Teen Wolf—or one of Teen Wolf’s cousins—is playing bass in Recovery Period now; that’s pretty fucking cool. Hopefully, he’ll be down to surf on top of my van at some point. And Holy Mountain was great. I wound up being crowd-surfed when I jumped on top of Kurt, and I wound up losing my pants; that was pretty embarrassing. Just remember ladies (and Steve), it’s not the size of the mountain but the motion of the ocean.

I was a little bummed out when Holy Mountain went on and on about how bad their last show was in New Orleans. I know, I know. There weren’t a ton of people there. Last time you came in the middle of summer when I was about to quit doing shows completely since no one was coming to any of the fucking shows. I know. I suck. I’m not good at putting on shows. I have a small penis. No girls like me. I know. I have to live with this body, ok? I don’t need to hear, “We hate that pretentious Bryan Funck always tip-toeing around people. If only we could remember what he looked like, so we could kick his ass. Last time we played here, we were forced into battle with the great rat tribes of the Banks Street Shit Haus. Now we need to engage Bryan in the act of war. If only someone would lift him about the crowd as if he were surfing or floating on waves. And then pull his pants down to reveal his small genitalia, so we know it’s him amongst the many balding punk rockers.”

As if to accentuate a real diagnosis of DSMV-IV clinical bipolarism, I constantly alternated between a state of unbearable depression at my failure to give Holy Mountain a good show last summer, and a state of uncontrollable mania at obvious comparability between Sean’s house and Kurt’s old house in Baton Rouge. Bank Robber Kurt was even there to christen the first show. I mean, seriously, I cannot stress how awesome this space is and how alike the atmosphere of this place is to the 829 House. Anyone who lives in New Orleans and doesn’t go to every show at this place is either a jaded geriatric who needs to get the fuck out of hardcore now or a complete buffoon like Steve Springer.

And thanks, Jessica, for running the deestro.

Thursday, May 11th, 2006. Fish Scale Night.

I had thought that none of the usual stars of our regular meetings at the stoop next door to Cracker Jacks would make it out. My ex-boyfriend Steve Springer was out of town. Darin was “too tired” aka hanging out with his girlfriend. Andy “had to get up at 6 AM” aka masturbate to internet pornography. Brittany “didn’t see me right when she got down to Toulouse, so she had to go inside” aka went inside to hang out with a bunch of lames Barnes and Nobles social rejects.

But tall, dependable Brady was holding down the stoop until I got there. And that freakshow Jude who everyone loves put a few hours into the stoop. My son little Keith made it down to chase after a girl and hate people with me. Even famous taggers like Uproar and Ken vs Ryu One and Dragon Man were there. Finally Brittany and Thelma came outside to hang with the big dawgs. Surprisingly, Andy made it out of bed to come down. I guess my mind gangster powers do work.

I gave my old pal Andrew Banton a ride home at the end of the night. He gave me a huge container of tomato basil soup from his work which I’m pretty sure is not vegan. His last words to me as we pulled up to his house and he noticed a bike parked out front were “MY ROOMATE BETTER NOT BE DOING CRACK AGAIN! THAT’S A CRACK WHORE’S BIKE! HE BETTER NOT BE DOING CRACK.” For a second I thought Eat a Bag of Dicks had never broken up.

“Man, it was something having all those people together that Thursday night—Drew and everyone, all the Dixie coke punx, the straight edge pc fags, the taggers, the uptight straightedge assholes—all together. No trends. No cliques.”

Friday, May 12th, 2006. The Interview is still my favorite white power band.

Another day. Another dollar. This time, I was all by my lonesome on an easy set at the Cabildo Museum at Jackson Square. It was a pretty simple set for a short inspirational presentation to some YPO-to-WPO graduates about how to think like Leonardo da Vinci. While CEOs guffawed and slapped each other on the backs and made their wives proud, I was inspired to daydream and jot down more schemes for pulling the puppet strings on the New Orleans punk scene. The throne will be mine again. No one can stand in my way. Not Mudge. Not Ham Man. Not even the soon-to-be-returning Brett Swanker. The Iron Fist eclipses all his foes as the strength of the moon can blot out the sun. Evil reigns.

Following a short nap after work, I made my way down to the Circle Bar to see local flakes Silent Cinema. I was pretty sure they weren’t even going to play the show—or show up—so I was surprised to see Micah out front. I didn’t even get down there until about 11, and the first act was just starting to play. And then I found out that the Public was going to play. After witnessing them embarrass themselves with the worst Smiths cover set I’ve ever seen, I wasn’t about to stick around and watch them play some shitty originals. So I took a ride further downtown into the belly of the beast Decatur St. to hand out some flyers for some real shows.

The usual hipsters plus hipster Jane were holding down Mollys. I caught my son walking down to Turtle Bay after he had taken a brief trip down to Cracker Jacks. We talked about girls and friends and bands and the world. Then I made my way down to the old stoop to find my half brother Dan Fox. I tried to convince him to come catch Silent Cinema’s set with me, but the long walk to my car at the Ark made old man Fox a little too tired to come out and party with the big dawg. Not to mention the fact that he’s jaded and hates music. What was he doing at One Eyed Jacks? Probably trying to book a Ballzack show. Or break up one of the bands playing. Or kill someone’s cat.

I made it back down to the Circle Bar by myself. Silent Cinema was supposed to play at 1 AM. I don’t think they got started until about 2 AM. It was literally an hour of waiting around for them to get their shit together. Then after two songs, they started having problems with the guitar amp they had borrowed, so I split. Why do I keep wasting my money on these shitty indie rock shows when I could be in my nice, comfortable bed asleep like Dan Fox? Maybe if I gave up on all this “punk rock” foolishness, I could have my own Asian fiancée, my own house, my own column in Anti-Gravity.

Boy, do those comic strips in Anti-Gravity suck or what?

Saturday, May 13th, 2006. This is for the real hardcore kids.

I made it down to the old PJs down on the old Maple St. in old uptown to do a little computer work and a little hanging out before the all the shows and partying commenced. Julie Toups eventually took the time out of her busy schedule to come hang out with me, but instead of hanging out, she sat at a different table and read Anti-Gravity until Greg got there. Now old Greg sat at my table. I think he was flirting with me.

We headed to the bubbletea place next store just before six for the acoustic show. I tried to get folks to come out, but a lot of them were “too sick” or “out of town” or “not interested” or “lameasses.” It’s too bad because I thought the show was pretty good. Richard Bates did some great Madonna and Guns n Roses covers on the ukulele. Mike Patton did a killer set as usual, maybe even more so than usual since most of the set was requested by this guy. I wasn’t that into Kelcy Mae, but I think she brought Michaela and Caitlyn out to the show, and they both fucking rule, so fuck it: Awesome set, Kelcy; your loosely christian singer-songwriter pop songs moved me.

As soon as the acoustic show was done, I ran out to Metry to catch those old bastards In Tomorrow’s Shadow at Billy Ray Cypress Hall. I got there just in time. All the shitty bands had already played, and ITS was about to go on. I got up on stage next to one of the speakers, so I could avoid all the autistic karate champs who had escaped from retarded people center that Julie used to work at who had invaded the dance floor. Who knew that the mentally-challenged favored gym short and bandanas? MTV suddenly makes a whole lot more sense.

In Tomorrow’s Shadow seemed to be going more in the direction of straight up black metal. This I like. I only wish they would drop ALL of the breakdowns and start writing lyrics to alienate all the jock gestapo morons who like them. Watching little Dennis and big ol Fruity get up on stage and lead Saints chants or talk about the Saints—I mean, is this a hardcore band or a joke band? I don’t want to hear about the Saints at a punk show unless we’re making fun of jocks, making fun of sports, making fun of exercise. Unity is not about wearing black and gold or painting fleur-de-lys on your face or—even worse—getting a fleur-de-lis tattoo. It’s about hating all the same people and coming together in this common hatred. Like, uh, misanthropy rules. Or something.

And you’re not a real Saints fan until you’ve castrated yourself or at least shoved a piece of metal through your scrotum.

As soon as the black metal-hardcore-joke hybrid band was done, I went back uptown to kick it at Steve Wiegand’s barbeque. Julie and Jennifer had picked up some vegan boca burgers for those who walk the path of righteousness. I thought they’d be cooked and ready to go when I got there, but apparently, Steve isn’t the kind of host that’s going to hold his guests hands or share backpacks. He’s not there to serve us or make sure we have a good time. He’s just there to eat meat. And drink beer. And offer me salad dressing. And laugh in my vegan face. So I cooked the veggie burgers myself. DIY. Just like I read in an interview somewhere. And just like I read in that zine that taught me how to give myself an abortion.

I convinced Jambo to do AV work with me. And I got Dave Janz about a bajillion hours worth of live Pearl Jam mp3s. But I couldn’t convince Melissa to move the date of her wedding back. And I didn’t get a chance to convince Barbie to go out with me, so I could get back at Greg for dating my ex-girlfriend. So I had to go home and cry to Andy on aim instead of going downtown.

Thanks for being there for me, brosef.

Monday, May 15th, 2006. Why didn’t Michaela and Caitlyn talk to me at the show? Or even say goodbye?

I went uptown and made a new flyer for the upcoming bubbletea shows. Then I picked up Flakey Tate from Maple St. while John the PJs overlord served me up a delicious soy-based treat. Tate and I slowly made our way downtown. We saw Simon and Michaela at Iron Rail, Nowe Miasto’s patriarch Brice White outside the Sound Café, and ex-Iron Rail Fuehrer Camilla outside that bar down the block from Eldon’s. All were in good spirits and it was a pleasure to see their beautiful faces.

The show that was supposed to start at about 7 PM didn’t begin until about 8 or 8:30. But it was fun. Look Mexico was basically a straight forward Braid with not-as-good vocals. Baby Calendar was fun, and people really seemed to like them—even old man Steve Springer who hates new music (just like I do). Mike Patton was awesome. Ayn wasn’t really my thing, but they would be if they covered Van Halen’s “Right Now” which seems like a real possibility.

There were a lot of unexpected punx at the show. Eric and Zach from No Control were there with that kid Blinky who doesn’t like hard music. The Cinema City crew came out. A few other strangers who I think were Tate’s friends.

Thanks for the great show, Melissa and Dave.

I wanted to go downtown and walk around hating people, but Steve wanted to go uptown to Rue de la Course, and I relented. We got down there about ten minutes before they closed, so we walked down to Zotz. There was a huge table full of people playing Magic: The Gathering, and I mistook John Stovall for Charles Applewhite. But Steve saw a guy with a Kender-like topknot on the way out who could’ve been Applewhite, so maybe it was just his presence that I felt—his evil, mom-stabbing presence.

We went back to Steve’s house and ate Indian food. I drank grapejuice, so the spice from the food would be even more painful. Steve laughed at my discomfort as he drank heavily from his glass of cow-rape milk and tried to convince me to eat crawfish.

When the vegan jihad begins and the firestorm comes to New Orleans, Steve Springer will not be spared.

Tuesday, May 16th, 2006. The Death Scene 2006.

I went to Cypress to see the Robinsons. Mike and Digby made fun of me outside for wanting to bring flyers for a show that wasn’t happening until June 20th. Assholes. They’ll be sorry when no one is at the show. Or I’ll be laughing when I million billion people are because I flyered a month ahead of time.

I watched the Robinsons who did a kickass “rock” version of “Pulling Strings.” Then I went down the street and made flyers at Kinkos until they closed.

My life is an endless party.

Hi there. Bryan Funck here. This brief composition is a three way split of reviews from the shows that have gone on at the Big Top in the last few weeks. I know, I know, you thought I was back in Oaktown, didn’t you? Wrong. I only told my close, personal friends that I was actually going to stay in New Orleans for a few extra weeks, live in disguise, and attend shows and write reviews of them. So if you weren’t one of the few people to whom I told this secret, please refrain from believing that you are a true friend of mine. Thanks.

But, its time for me to come clean to the public. I know I cannot live in disguise forever. No celebrity can. For the last eight weeks I have taken on the body and lived the life of Julie Toups. So, for those of you who have actually encountered the real Julie before, if she looks like she’s gained a few pounds, is dressing poorly, and has a bad haircut--it’s only because I’m doing an awful job at capturing her true essence. But I’m sure none of you have ever heard of her; she’s someone I rarely speak of. But she’s someone I hold dear to my heart. She’s not just a friend; she’s an ex-girlfriend friend. Do you hear me? Adele? Tracy? Kirah? Not just a friend like the others--Julie is an ex-girlfriend friend. Emphasize the ex-girlfriend part. Let it be known. Make her sign contracts. Push deposits. No special treatment. Make no mistake.

In order to carry out this project, I sent the real Julie on an all-expenses-paid (by FEMA–I mean, by me) trip to Somalia. It was a bit expensive to arrange for her to fly there (I knew she wouldn’t want to drive across the Atlantic. Women! I tell you... Gates was right.), but I think my experience here will be worth it. Plus, I don’t think I’ll be obligated to pay her medical bills once she gets typhoid fever. So long, sucker.

For the most part, living as Julie has been pretty depressing. I don’t get to scream at people when they step over the imaginary lines I’ve created in my head; I don’t get to do as many wonderful shows for obscure touring bands no one in New Orleans cares about; I don’t get to demand my talented musician friends to prolifically write songs and then tell them they need to add more “mosh” parts; and I don’t get to persistently flirt with tons of girls that I may or may not even be interested in (except for Jane. And Anne Springer.). Julie would never even go to Leighties Night, the most important weekly event of my (and anyone else who matters in the world’s) life. All I get to do is study, leave anonymous posts on livejournal, and look forward to eating a small meal once every other week.

That being said, Julie’s life does have its upsides. I took her place just after she interviewed for a new job with a children’s services organization, and I had to go to Gretna to get my fingerprints taken so that the company could make sure Julie isn’t a child molester. There are a couple of funny things about this incident: First off, I am a child molester. That’s why I dated Julie. I can’t wait to see how long it takes for her to get fired. Secondly, the overweight middle aged man sitting at the front desk of the CSI place told me in a sexy tone to “step into the last room on the left and get good and dirtied up.” I bet that guy would shoot himself in the face if he knew I have a penis.

But let’s get back to this other bullshit for a second.

The first Big Top show was one I did before I went into disguise. I cooked a bunch of food including vegan gumbo, fresh salsa, angel food cake, spinach and artichoke dip, and on and on and on and on. I’ll have to teach Julie how to cook like me someday. And by cook like me, I mean cook an enormous amount of food that no one in their right mind could finish. I mean constantly cook and try and push food on people. Even if I’m only going to eat one meal a month. And that one meal could possibly be a glass of water. Well, maybe not a full glass. I don’t even know if Julie would be able to handle it though. She’s a little–how should I put this?--lazy and, well, stupid, if you know what I mean. And what I mean is not smart. An Idiot.

The Robinsons and the Red Beards played first, and Madeline and Japanther were the touring bands. This show had a really great turnout, and I had a lot of fun. Japanther isn’t one of my favorites, but Madeline put on an awesome show as usual. And by “as usual” I am referring to the way she usually does when we’re alone and she’s “putting on shows” for me in my basement. Yeeeaaaa. Anyway, some guy recorded her set, and you can watch it at http://youtube.com/watch?v=UrBTcKbLzH4. Too bad the little wiener felt the need to sing along the entire time and totally ruin the video. Who are you? You wiener. You’re Tate. And Rainer. Two little wieners. Two little straightedge wieners in the front row making too much noise. I bet that won’t happen again now that the rockstar-vagina Bryan-Julie combo has made fun of you.

Booking Madeline is always a surefire way to get all the non-show-going wieners to come out. And booking the newly reunited Robinsons for this and a few other shows in February was also a great tactic to lessen the hype about Julie’s benefit show in March. She won’t mind. Right, Mike Patton? It’s not like anyone cares about your stupid Beach Boys ripoff band anyway. You should’ve stayed broken up. Maybe I’ll have to smoke one of those dudes out, so you kick their teeth in and boot them out of the band like you did to Terrell. You straightedge fascist. I guess us Jeuits people really are all the same.

The next Big Top show was one I attended as Julie. I’m sure there were lots of great bands on this show but unfortunately I was only able to see the new Modest Mouse Loyola heartthrob rockstar sensations Brain Rex. Put your shirt back on, singer-boy. No one is impressed with your skinny, pale little chest. I arrived late and had to leave early because I was actually in the middle of a hot date. I tried to take this guy back to my place (Julie’s apartment) to make out with him, but I just kept falling asleep. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. At any rate, Julie is going to be forever thankful that I’ve used her body with my charm to attract the lookers.

The very next night, the inexorable Dave and Melissa had yet another show at the Big Top. Recovery Period, some very good friends of mine, played an amazing set. Unfortunately, I have refused to introduce these fellas to Julie in the past, so I didn’t get a chance to converse with them at this show. But these Mississippi freaks hit them shits hard, screaming anthem rock melodies together as one while poppy bassist man rocked the casbah. Fuck yea. The shareef don’t like it, but I do. I also liked drummer man’s “diy or die” shirt. That’s my motto. That, and “diy or get someone else to do it for you.”

Next up to the plate was the amazing Rob Cambre and some drummer guy smashing his pearly white Gretsch skins. These two old men gallantly delivered the most bearable avant garde experimental set I’ve ever heard. Actually, I liked it quite a bit. The crowd seemed to be held spellbound by this duo of turbulent drumhits along with Hendrix style licks and invasions of hyperactive electronic squidgies made through the workings of nine pedals and a carefully placed screwdriver. Except for me. I was busy flirting with girls and fighting warlords. I’m only two levels away from being a level 50 necromancer in clan Bruhaha.

The last band I saw at this show was Mass Movement of the Moth from DC. A hardcore band. But a funky reggae band too. I am in heaven. Weed heaven. This band had as much fun as they had equipment; a rather large setup but well worth it. My advice to all of you readers: go listen to them on myspace. Then go see them play in meatspace. Travel across the country if you must. Just bring some friends (or non-friends) to pay for all your gas. And to pay for all the spliff.

This past Sunday was the benefit show Julie--I mean, I put together. No one came to this show. Especially not Tate Carson. Thanks, boyfriend. Another reason why I think you’re a little wiener. I flyered and did what I could to promote, but I should have made a guest appearance as myself to get kids to come out. Only no one would have given a shit. In fact, that probably would have turned a lot of folks away. Well, in retrospect I really don’t care. Eldon played a scratchy roots set, and The Spoils followed with some extra clean poppy tunes with a ukelele in the mix. Both were really good sets. The Robinsons did their usual fun thing, and then Dirty Dingus played their 80's metal-influenced set with bells on for about ten people total. Hundred Eyes let off some steam only to be followed by the craze of the century, Brain Rex. Sozai wrapped things up in the usual way with some gumby flavored girly dance moves. Everything moved really quickly, and all bands stuck to the time schedule really well. They also all acted like they were having a good time, having a good time, having a good time despite the emptiness of the place and my soul. But who invited Steve? That guy’s a cunt. Anyway, you did a good job, guys. Wear that mask. This is show biz.

The two touring bands that played the Bubbletea place after the benefit were whiners. They showed up really late, wanted to play their loud ass music anyway, made me wait 15 minutes for them to get beer and vodka before they would start playing, and failed to kiss my bleeding asshole or use a warm towel to wipe the semen off my cooch before I left. I hate rockstars.

So that about wraps up my experience as Julie. I miss being me. I miss my external hard drive. You know, the one you’re extremely impressed by. You like that? I miss it. I also miss my tiny, hair-less penis. This has been a long month, and I’m sick and tired of having a vagina. I don’t like the way they feel. Especially in the daylight.

Friday, September 10th, 2004. Kicked off the island.

My job is hard work. I have to go all the way out to the convention center or some crappy hotel. That’s a thirty minute bike ride right there, holmes. Have you seen my legs? They’re like toothpicks. Or like a chicken’s legs. And when I get to work, I have to spend all day hanging out with my friends or hiding from my bosses or pretending to do work or reading fascist Ayn Rand novels and taking out ads about carpet-bombing Iran.

So when I come home from after a long day of lollygagging, I don’t want to have to deal with any bullshit. But Warehouse Jr. is packed from wall to wall with bullshit. If I had my choice of things we could pack the warehouse wall to wall with, my first choice would be snatch. Wall to wall snatch. Instead, it’s full of unlocked doors, unwashed dishes, piles of empty beer cans, flies, tribes of rats, a stinky pee pee smell in the bathroom, and hobo-squatter-clowns. And that’s ok, I guess. That’s what I get for living with forty other people. But when you make a rule that everyone agrees on and that rule is broken, justice must be served. Breaking Warehouse Law is like a fat Brian who doesn’t pay rent, causes a ruckus at night, and has outstayed his welcome. Hence, I came home after eight or ten hours of “working” only to be worked harder and paid a lot less: I had to kick out the legendary, gang-banging, tagger, “shadow of a real person” known only as Uproar.

Now it seems to me that when four or five people have a problem with one dude, they should all be letting him know what’s up. But I guess I’m the only one with any balls around here. And my balls are small. Seriously, they’re tiny. Does this make a difference to the ladies? I’ve heard it doesn’t, but I don’t know if I believe that. Ladies?

So I kicked out Uproar, grabbed my homies, and we took a drive up to Baton Rouge, so I could help throw a house show with a few punk rock bands. Players: Eddie Pellegrini, Straightedge Paul Thibodeaux, Jonathon Westie, and three girls from Canada. We packed into the Greyhouse van, and drove into the sunset. The whole way up, we listened to this incredible mixtape I made for Carly James. This tape is seriously awesome. Let’s just say there are appearances from The The, Madonna, and Anomie. Let’s also say that I still have the tape in my possession. It’s that good. Now let’s say that I eventually lose the tape in my move to California and have to make a two hour mixtape to make up for it. Gospel truth.

We get to the show, and Good Good has just started. They were an amazing female-fronted indie pop punk band from Brooklyn. They were awesome. I set up my distro table while they played and watched from the other room.

Next on was Pretty Hot. My friends Cathy and Theo were in this band. They fucking rule. It’s too bad that their recording is a worthless piece of shit. Because I love Cathy and Theo. Good people not to be trifled with. There were also some dudes from Cobra Kai and Memento Mori, err, I mean, Defiance Ohio in there. Katie Pendergrass would have flipped her shit for these guys, but she was stuck in New Orleans waiting on someone’s flight to get in. Or making babies. Or some dumb bullshit.

This Bike is a Pipe Bomb played next. I think they had come out from Florida just for this show. That’s pretty cool. Are One or Moose Man or whatever he’s called now came up with Uproar to see them. Before the show, Are had been worried that some people might get pissed about the rebel flag on his hat, so he covered it up with duct tape and wrote “Bryan Funck” on it. That’s almost as funny as seeing that fat, bald, hardass mother fucker going nuts and singing along to the country pop punk anthems of the Pipe Bomb.

At some point, Westie and Straightedge told me the cops had been outside and might be coming over. So I started yelling for people to come inside and lock the doors. I did it about a hundred times until it was either really annoying or really funny. Paul liked it, but Westie thought it was annoying. Takes all kinds. It takes someone like Paul, a person with a sense of humor. And someone like Jonathan, a person who thinks my comments in Lievjournal Land are “mean” and “not funny.” Boo who! Jane’s mad that I told her to stop dicking around on myspace and complaining about living the life O’Reily. Waaaaah!

Silent Cinema closed the show with their indie country rock. What a great bunch of dudes. Their set would have been even better if Eddie hadn’t been going nuts fucking with people as loud as he possibly could. He almost had to fight Ted from This Bike is a Pipe Bomb. I think Ted was about to put a cap his ass. Eddie didn’t know that Ted is a tough fucker from Metry. He went to Grace King; I think you know what that means. It means he knows Phil Anselmo. And by “knows” I mean had to fight him with. And by had to fight him, I mean had sex with him. Got any prejudices? You will.

Eddie continued with his sober debauchery by taking an hour to pee before we left. He said that he was “fixing his hair,” but he got in the van with a bunch of pornography he had swiped from Andrew’s house. He then proceeded to alienate our friends from The Great North and piss off everyone in the van. Let’s just say that stealing people’s Popeyes biscuits and grabbing people is a little uncouth. And let’s say that asking girls you don’t know what they think about anal sex is probably also a faux pas.

I got dropped off at my mommy’s and Eddie made everyone even madder by driving like an idiot.

Tuesday, September 13th, 2004. Remember when I punched Theresa in the face, Billy?

Before the show started, Little Terry came over to finish destroying her old room. Now, I had thought she was leaving the warehouse on good terms. As far as I knew, she had found a better place with her friend Maddy and that was that. I didn’t realize that there were some other issues involved and that she would act out some sort of childish grudge whereby she would burn all her bridges at the house. So anyway, she comes over with Maddy and they go in her room. Paul asks me to ask her not to tear out her walls—as she had threatened to do—and then he leaves to go make groceries. I hear some pounding noises from Terrance’s room, so I knock, tell her what Paul says (she won’t open the door), and she replies telling me “Sorry” or something along those lines. I go back in the kitchen to hang out with my friends. Paul comes home. He goes to investigate and then the screaming ensues. Apparently, Theresa had already ripped out the walls and left destroyed sheet rock in a pile on the floor. It’s quite a mess. Paul’s fury descends. He let’s Theresa know that if she doesn’t get the fuck out, he is going to carry her out. Little Tee Tee tries to put on a brave face and stand up to Paul’s intimidating 4’3” 70 pound frame, but to no avail. She puts her old door in Jesse’s room and leaves.

Now here’s what I don’t get. Apparently, Tee Tee was pissed off at me or something—at least, it seems like I’m the only one she blames in the house for feeling “uncomfortable.” Or maybe I’m just paranoid? I would have thought she would feel more uncomfortable by the fact that someone broke into her room, and she never found out who the culprit was, but blamed Uproar. I would have thought she would feel more uncomfortable from the people who would go back and forth between being her friend and thinking she was a ridiculous child. I mean, I only held her to the same standard from day one and would only get pissed when she acted like a baby. But that’s just my role to fill for some people: Pappa Bryan, authoritarian father figure to rage against. Whatev. So she’s pissed at me or whoever or whatever in the house, so she destroys a room that Paul helped her build, so that “no one can have it.” So basically, she fucks over Little James whose deposit money allowed us all to move into the warehouse in the first place. I don’t know; that sounds pretty wack to me.

Fortunately, my homeboys from Virginia were in town. So we hang out for a while, then I start doing some work on the space while they sit in my room and watch Waterworld. A Hunger Artist shows up and loads in and gets their jam on. Then the Dead Hate the Living plays and blows everyone’s ears out. Then Malady plays—the only band whose full set I caught. Finally Skitsystem shows up and plays their Swedish hardcore thrash.

All of the bands were decent to amazing with Malady being the most amazing, I think. But let me say a little something about Skitsytem. Now, I didn’t catch much of them, but from what I understand, they would have been amazing if it hadn’t been for their singer Tomas—who was also the lead singer for At the Gates. Apparently, he was incredibly lackluster. He looked completely disinterested in what was going on, boredom written across his face the whole time. He would even stop playing for a minute or so to scratch his face or yawn. I don’t know about you, but that right there definitely sounds wack to me.

On the positive side, I managed to get three of my former romantic liasons to come to the show. And two of them hung out. I am definitely a puppet master. And a mind gangster.

On the negative side, I had to yell at Dr. Pellegrini, Little James, and two of the Maladys before they started smoking weed in front of the house. What a couple of dumbasses! I also had to babysit people downstairs all night, and I remember losing my temper once or twice from people going in and out. Sorry again, Rob. Actually, I’m not sorry. I going to kick some Baton Rouge ass next time I come to New Orleans. Me and my buddies from the Darkroom are going to spit in your girlfriends’ faces and then karate chop your balls off. Fuck people going in and out. Stay inside where it’s safe.

The Hatemonger is not now and never will be about kowtowing to other people's standard of acceptable behavior. The Hatemonger exists to offend all those who we see fit to offend, and to stress the intelligence and wit of the writers to the rabble of uncouth barbarians which make up the readership. Who are you, ignorant and pompous critic, to impose your inferior standards on a force which stands to defy authority, to oppose sentimentality, to annihilate traditionalism? You who sit upon your throne of supposed morality while we, the true architects of creation, can only catch the briefest glimpse of empyrean from the black pit of nihilism that is California and the bload-soaked, corpse-ridden sewer-state that is New Orleans--you have not the education to dispute us, the power to defy us, or the will to defeat us. The Hatemonger is legion. It is a blazing hatred seething deep within the gut. It is an unwavering stare that refuses to yield. It is a steadfast resolve, an indominatable temper. Judge as you will. The pitiful whining of adolescents fails to reach the ears of the elders. The complaintmongers sit idly by the wayside while the prime movers are busy organizing, actualizing, constructing, dominating. The empire is without end.

Thursday, March 16th, 2006. Letters to the editor.

LETTER #1:

I like the fact that there are no ads or pictures or even different fonts or bolds or anything. There's no flash or any bullshit at all. I think that makes it so when a person actually does take the time pick up this little black and white stapled xerox booklet, they'll know that you actually took time to put this shit out on your own for no gain and hopefully do you the courtesy of going ahead and reading this shit. And with no pictures to flip-through absent-mindedly, all people can do with it really is read it, which is good.

I like the voice a lot. It's consistent and strong and there are consistent themes and jokes. I've been laughing about this one part especially for days: "Big Steve and Little Steve started teaching her hardcore dances. This evolved into her doing cartwheels ending in a spinkick. Finally, Steve offered to teach her the hardest dance of them all: rebuking drugs and alcohol for one's entire life." I was bored, zoning out at work on Saturday and started thinking about that last line and started laughing out loud in the midst of no one talking to me. Straightedge wins again is the shit too. Also, I like that these are show reviews that just show people having a good time at a show, not even really trying to go too hard into what the music was like. People forget that a show's supposed to be fun. Like when I saw Hella at Banks St. Poor guys, everyone just stood there. I guess I just stood there too though. It was hot.

Yeah dude, so basically I thought it was really funny and detailed, as far as what I thought was bad, I guess sometimes I thought it was long winded. Some details like when you talk about Cassandra losing and then finding the keys don't really make a difference to the story and make it drag. And what I said earlier about no flash will also make certain people on the flip side never even want to look at it. But I think people who are already into music for real will think this is the shit.

When are you going to make the next one of these? Have you made them before?

-Rob

RESPONSE #1:

On the lack of flash--The Hatemonger is meant for reading, not for advertising. If this draws people who want to read the way punk should draw people who want to act: good deal. If this deters people who don’t want to get some fucking work done: good deal. Let’s burn away all the dead wood.

In my own criticisms, I find that the passages aren’t long winded enough! I want them to go on forever and ever and ever until the reader actually feels like she’s living my life and hating the things that I hate. Up the extraneous details punx.

As far as some of those jokes go, a lot of this stuff is crimethinked right out of real life. The joke about the hardest dance of all blah blah blah: Steve Springer. Straightedge I win again: The Infamous Gehenna. Basically, I like to pull a Digby every now and again, and just rip some other people’s jokes off. It’s just my little way of saying, “Marc with a C is still alive! Reunion show every summer 4 eva n eva!”

On shows being hot--bring an electric fan, bring a cooler filled with ice and drinks for everyone, bring water guns and hose each other down. But do something. Dancing in New Orleans seems to have become faux pas. I don’t know why. Most of the assholes are gone. There haven’t been skinheads since I first got involved in punk. The Crescent City Nazi Death Squad seemed to have lost interest and was, hopefully, murdered by impoverished New Orleans folks trying to feed their families. We loot and shoot--racist jock gestapo morons.

I don’t know when the next “real” Hatemonger is going to come out or even the next collection of communiqués. As has always been the tradition of The Hatemonger, I like to make grand schemes with whoever is involved and proudly announce them to everyone I see only to have the real deal fall a little short and happen about a year after it was originally planned. Still, I don’t see any issues of The Complaintmonger floating around, and Heroquest Night happened a bunch of times (all thanks to Scott Eustis, a driving force behind the original Hatemonger texts. Perhaps that’s something to look into...?). I don’t see Steve Springer’s pretend zine or any November Criminals or War of Attrition shows. I don’t see Kara and James living in Chile. While I’m here. Riding out the storm in beautiful overcast Oakland. Where it rains every day for six months. Where homeless guys build tents in the park next door to your house and steal your power. Where no one will come visit you unless it’s under the pretense of moving here only for them to sell out and leave without saying goodbye. Where everyone loves Steve Mudge, the Serpent Lord. He was once. A man.

LETTER #2:

Word. First of all I love the warehouse. It's such a fun, real place to chill. I like what you're doing for the kids. I liked the zine or diary of shows or whatever you want to call it. You know so much shit about so many bands, and I like that. I'm in love with music but I like it all. You're way more elite about your music than I am, but that's cool. It's awesome that you don't turn kids down who don't have any cash. You don't deny them the right to rock out to awesome music. I was at the View of a Burning City, Barr, and Wives show, and it blew my head off. I love the atmosphere at the warehouse. I'm glad you think highly of yourself. :D I like to drink and smoke occasionally but I admire that you don't. You're very pro-active about your straightedged-ness and want everyone to know it and want everyone to be straightedge, too, because you think your way is the only way to live. Which, yanno, is cool, but it's still not the way for me. But it's so awesome that there are people who do, I totally respect that about you. Anyway. Keep the shows coming, keep the reviews coming, I'll read em until they end. :D

-Katie Weeks

RESPONSE #2:

Word. First of all, I know everything about every bullshit band that no one cares about. I’m the wikipedia of worthless knowledge about garbage “hardcore” bands only Steve Springer has heard of. I’m glad that you’re into that. If only it could land me a girlfriend. Last night I had this dream that I went to this grocery store to meet up with this super hot girl I had a crush on (not a real girl, ladies. Just some “hot” dream girl). She was walking her little dog there. I see my boy Tate and we start shooting the shit. The girl comes up and Tate knows her too. We all sit down, and I start petting the dog. I look over and Tate and this girl are making out. I’m just like “What the fuck?” Then Tate’s mom shows up to pick him up, so he leaves and the girl goes in the store. Then I see Guzzie and tell him what’s up. What a freaky dream.

Man, there is some stuff in this letter that I just don’t understand. You like that I’m a narcissistic ego maniac who thinks that my way of living is the only way for everyone to live (This is a very accurate psychoanalysis; it mirrors the thoughts expressed to me by Dr. Joseph “Kill Bryan Funck” Gates.)...? I mean, I guess that’s cool. Did you like how I dressed up like a baby for Mardi Gras? Everyone seemed to think that was pretty apt. Big Baby Bryan. Always wanting to get his way. “LOOK AT ME! LISTEN TO ME! COME TO MY SHOWS! WAAAAAAAAH!”

I don’t know how proactive I am about being straightedge--in the sense that I’m out trying to convert people, bombing beer manufacturer’s houses, or setting bars on fire. But I do think that straightedge could be the way for you when you discard the shackles of social indoctrination and start acting like an adult.

LETTER #3:

After the show Brian Funck gave out some fliers of some of his journal, I think. What an interesting guy. He has depth. Multifaceted I’m sure. Way too intelligent to chit chat about lame ass sexual jokes or wear a fricken cheesy ass belt buckel to be cool. I’m impressed with this person.

RESPONSE #3:

I think I stole this off Justin Celestin’s girlfriend Jennifer’s livejournal. Remember when she kept yelling at the Daughters “Your pussy’s bleeding! YOUR PUSSY’S BLEEDING!” That was one of the funniest things I have ever seen in my life. I wish Justin didn’t hate me now and refuse to return my phone calls or hang out with me or do shows with me. And what’s up with his voice mailbox being perpetually full? Maybe he just has a special message set up for when my number calls…? Dick.

I can’t tell if this post is sarcastic or what. Jennifer’s always been super nice to me. I don’t know why she wanted to fight Andy that night on Frenchmen. “Keep licking your lolypop like a little baby.” I wonder if she realized that I had a crush on her friend. Although I think her friend smoked, and that just won’t do. That’s like making out with a fart.

LETTER #4:

I read the hatemonger. I thought it was terrible. By which I mean
It's hilarious, and ruled!!!

RESPONSE #4:

I can’t remember who wrote me this or where I got it from. All I can say is: GREAT REVIEW! And by great I mean, lazy. Get it together, mystery person. I need more than this. Yes, I know it’s hilarious. Yes, I know it rules. But how, why, where? How can I make it better? What didn’t you like? I mean, you can lather up my asshole all you want, but that’s not going to get me off your dick. I need answers. I want the truth.

LETTER #5:

Hey, guess what. You're gay if you write about me in your 'zine.' Though, I can see your PC computer for a head spitting back some response like 'Homophobia is not good.' Once up a time, Alix, Andrew from Walken, and I got a case and were drinking around the corner. Me being the 'thirteen year old' asshole, I didn't drink at the warehouse because Punck is under the nose of the cops and acts and makes rules accordingly. So, we walk up to the front door and I had an empty beer can in my hand with intent to throw it away. And then the head of the Jesuit debate team gets all huffy and says, 'What do you think you're doing, coming in here drinking, you're underage, throw that away, it's people like you...' and it kind of trailed off as I walked away to see the rest of the show. I'm assuming that the rest sounded something like, 'I'm Bryan! Didn't you read the rhetoric on the flyers I gave you, duh, come on, please understand my jokes!' But then I hear from Billy that he wrote and mentioned the 'happening' in his zine and used my name. He basically said that I was twelve years old and trying to get wasted at Nowe Miasto Jr. I could have gone the American way and took him to court for slander, but I did it in a way that he could sympathize with- writing a wordy, somewhat fabricated, description of things in a widely popular media form. (In case you are unfamiliar with this guy that most everyone I know has a distaste for, I'll tell you what he does. Runs a warehouse and makes preachy flyers displaying a mindset he does not live by. His flyers are all about acceptance-no-matter-what but with his free time he goes to all ages ska shows, harasses kids and makes fun of skateboarders. How totally punk of you.)
Love, Liz

PS: Mom likes the zine, too

RESPONSE #5:

Originally, I was going to write two responses to this, a serious one--where I pointed out all the errors in your account, defended my position, and acted like the adult that I should be--and a Hatemonger one where I would make fun of you. But punk’s not about making friends or holding hands. So let’s get this straight: You’re a cunt.* Uh-oh! My PC computer mother brain head just exploded.** That being said, you’re probably going to discard the rest of what I write. Good for you. Fuck authority. Oi, mate!

Drinking in the warehouse or drinking around the block--it’s all gravy. Why you and other eleven-year-olds like yourself can’t wait an hour or two to drink AFTER the show is beyond me. It’s like every punk show you go to is christmas eve and you want your little toys NOW! NOW! NOW! Maybe I should’ve gotten a cop to come baby sit you guys like at Cypress Hall or the Legion Hall? Then, our expenses would go up and I wouldn’t cook people food any more or let them in when they don’t have that paltry five bucks. But I guess I could just start selling drugs out of the warehouse like Uproar in order to pay rent and pay the bands, and then all the shows could be free.

I was never on the Jesuit debate team, but that was a funny joke. Only it’s somewhat flawed since I never debate. I just bludgeon people with my opinion and then pretend to be asleep when they try and tell me their side. That’s how you do it. That’s how you debate. An even funnier joke might have referenced how I was in the Japanimation club. Get your shit straight.

The “No trends. No cliques.” sloganeering that graces my flyers is not meant as “acceptance-no-matter-what.” I think you’re missing the point there. It’s just a renouncement of bullshit (or “bullshite,” as your people would say). Like wearing goofy clothes or having a goofy haircut in order to fit in with a bunch of goofy jackasses. I mean, you wouldn’t know anything about that.

And I don’t see how offering to sign kids’ skateboards for five bucks is me making fun of them. Do you know who my dad is? Bollocks! Those kids could turn around and make a fast buck on ebay.

In conclusion, this is the best letter I’ve gotten so far! While it doesn’t offer me any constructive criticism or insight about refining the zine--it’s fucking funny as shit. Please keep sending me stuff like this; mean spirited jabs at my personal character always bring a laugh. (And if you see any references to me or something I might like or whatever in an online journal or anywhere else--please send those my way too!)

*If you read this as an angry response with me viciously beating out these words on my keyboard, you read it wrong, my friend. Picture me instead gazing outside my window at an overcast Oakland sky, thinking up how I could make fun of Liz in the most ridiculous ways possible while hammering home my thesis that she is, in fact, a cunt. (Actually, Liz, I don’t think you’re a cunt. You’re a very nice girl, and I hope that you will one day broaden your very selfish point of view. Maybe in a year or so when you turn ten. Love always, Bryan Hawk, son of professional skateboarder Tony Hawk.)

**I am PC in the sense that I refrain from certain vocabulary that I feel is alienating. “Cunt” is one of those words that I usually don’t use as an insult. I just did it here to be “funny.” But then Lauren told me that I’m not even PC. She said I should be more PC. And she also said that I should’ve called this girl a nigger or a kike. Sometimes she’s pretty funny. Mostly, she’s not. But every
now and then she’ll stop talking about buying houses or cats or Eric Martinez or OPP. And that’s when she shines. Just like Jesus intended.

Gentle readership,

I sincerely appreciate all of your recent comments to the latest entry into The Hatemonger Online Archive. Unfortunately, the sort of commentary I was looking for was that of a lengthy critique or, in this case, further chronicles of the evil psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom from your own personal experiences in battling (or retreating from) the vicious black hordes of nuclear tsunamic death and destruction.

Please, in the future, restrict your comments to 5000 words or more. One liners will be ridiculed and subsequently deleted (unless they're atcually funny or irreverently offensive).

Thank you for your cooperation.

And thanks for the input from Mein Fuehrer, Fräulein Lauren Goldstein.

Yours in love always,
Bryan Fürek

HOLY MOUNTAIN - "Holy Mountain"

Come back to New Orleans. It'll be better this time now that everyone is dead.

Seriously.

-Bryan


CIRCLE TAKES THE SQUARE - "Katrina benefit show. Play or you're dead to me."

I'm dead. I am a ghost in a computer haunting you through email. Come play a show in New Orleans on my grave. The proceeds will benefit some Katrina punx.

Seriously. What are you doing? Come play new orleans. I'll be back over summer, and I'm trying to organize a big benefit thing. Or come play whenever and I can hook you up with the right folks.

Fuck Baton Rouge.

love,
Bryan


BARONESS - "Baroness in NOLA"

Come back down and play in the hollowed out swampy graveyard that is the corpse of New Orleans. Cut it open and lay in it's rotting belly to escape the freezing cold of Hoth.

For real.

Anytime. I'll be there over summer, and there are tons of kids throwing all ages shows right now.

Do it.

love,
Bryan


KYLESA - "Kylesa back in New Orleans giving the big middle finger to the Baton Rouge trendfuckshits"

Hey, you guys should come hit New Orleans when you get a chance. There are dead bodies on the curbs with the garbage and wild packs of wolves hunting those who are still living and make the mistake of staying out past the 2AM curfew. They work for the pigs.

Anyway, there are a lot of kids throwing all ages shows right now, so if you guys could come out, now would be the time. You could probably also get a taste of rotting flesh and toxic seafood.

Let me know what's up.

-Bryan


MEMENTO MORI - "Memento Mori reunion in New Orleans"

Hey, I'm working on setting up a big Hurricane Katrina show in New Orleans over summer. Would you guys be down to party in the burnt out, corpse-ridden deadlands of the big easy? Are you down to make up for that last show that you cancelled down here that left me a broken man, crying and bleeding in the middle of this crime infested megalopolis?

Serioulsy, though. Would you guys be into coming down and doing a reunion show and having me and everyone else in New Orleans who loves you literally shit all over ourselves and cut our bodies up and drink each others' blood while you play?

Please, consider this. Neo-Sodom needs you. I need you. Help me.

love,
Bryan

PS. When you come down to play, pray that the ravaging wolves that roam the streets after dark don't find you.


BLACK MARKET FETUS - "Black Market Fetus"

Are you still a band? Come play a show in the toxic cesspool of walking corpses known as Neo-Sodom and formerly known as New Orleans Shithole, USA. Come drink blood with us and fend off the attacking hordes of wolves and re-take the streets at dusk. We will be kings of the burnt out hovels and squat towns.

Seriously. Come play New Orleans. Tell all your friends.

-Bryan


COLESIUM - "Colesium"

Ryan, forget about Baton Rouge and the poser trendfucks who sat out the worst atrocity ever to face New Orleans in the comfort of their backwoods college towne. Come and play a show in New Orleans, Neo-Sodom. Help us fend off the rampaging hordes of wolves and alligators who strike out at us every night. We must retake the streets in the name of humanity. There can be no compromise.

While you're helping us with our war against the mutated monsters of the swampland, Colesium should play an all ages show. We can call it a "rally."

Seriously.

-Bryan


CRISPUS ATTUCKS - "Send all of your friends' bands to New Orleans..."

...to help us reclaim the streets from the swarms of ravenous wolves. And play all ages punk rallies to inspire our arms to vengeance.

yours in Neo-Sodom,
Bryan


AMPERE - "Ampere in New Orleans, Neo-Sodom?"

Andy, come down and play a rally in New Orleans, so we can take arms against the evil wolves who torment the corpse-ridden streets at night. Their howls echo through the drowned out hovels and wage psychic warfare against our fragile minds. I don't know how much longer we can stand their telepathic attacks.

Please help us.

All ages.
Diy.
Anti-evil wolf hordes.

love,
Bryan


DRIVEN - "Driven reunion in New Orleans..."

...before the evil psychic wolves kill us all. Help us. We're dying.

-Bryan


ONE REASON - "New Orleans/Neo-Sodom"

Hey, if you guys wanted to hit NOLA too, I could get you in touch with folks who would do a great show for you. But you would have to help out in the struggle against the psychic wolves tormenting our minds. Their psychic howls could break even the strongest mind. That's why I had to move to Oakland.

-Bryan


CREEPY ALIENS - "Creepy Fucking Aliens"

Come play in New Orleans, Neo-Sodom. Dance yr butt off vs the psychic wolves who seek to destroy our minds and usurp our place in America. Don't let the wolves take over.

-Bryan


ASSEND OFFEND - "Assend Offend"

Hey, if you guys ever make it back to New Orleans, I can hook you up with some good people trying to do shows. Let me know. We are at war right now with evil psychic wolves seeking to usurp our homes and set up a colony of villainy in the Gulf Coast, USA. Don't let their black lust for death destroy us all.

-Bryan


BACK WHEN - "Back When in Neo-Sodom"

The lyrics to that new 7" are amazing. They ring out in my mind as I battle the psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom on the empty streets of drowned-out suburbs. We need you to come back down. Down into the depths of Katrina's unimaginable hell. And play your "hardcore" music. Seriously. I'm in Oaktown. but I'm pulling all the strings. Do the right thing before the wolves overtake us. They're getting stronger. They're learning. THEY'RE LEARNING.

yours in Neo-Sodom,
Bryan


IRON LUNG - "Iron Lung in New Orleans, Shithole Neo-Sodom USA"

I saw you recently at Gilman Street. You are just what New Orleans needs right now in their unending battle against the psychic wolves who torment the resistance night after bloody night. Come usurp the throne from the substance-addled posers posturing about the drowned out hovels and delapidated drug bars. Rally the troops of Neo-Sodom in a final confrontation with the lycanthropic shape-shifting beasts who seek to cloak their villainy in the skin of man and who look grimly towards the eventual destruction of all humankind.

The Seven Crowns must rise again. Come play in New Orleans. We need you. We're dying. Help us.

Yours in the plague-ridden Neo-Sodom,
Bryan


WELCOME THE PLAGUE YEAR - "Welcome the year of the psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom"

You skipped out on one powerless hurricane only to leave us vulnerable to another more powerful force of nature. One that left evil psychic wolves in its wake. Wolves who feed on the souls of our children when the stars are aligned and torment us endlessly with their howls as dark as the blackest midnight.

We need you. You must return to the drowned out hovel, flames raging atop toxic swamp water, bloated corpses floating from the walls of North Starrett to the streets of Canal Boulevard. The breach at Seventeenth Street must be manned against future attacks. Only your screamy metal "hardcore" anthems can unite those left behind in Neo-Sodom, and those who have returned to take up arms.

Help us. We're dying.

Yours in the unending war against the betrayers of humanity,
Bryan


TEAR IT UP/DOWN IN FLAMES/THE RITES - "Flames raging atop a swampy graveyard"

Tear It Up, the Rites, Down in Flames--

All brothers in the thrash punk coalition against the psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom. Your help is needed in New Orleans. You must return to toxic wasteland and rally the resistance against the forces of darkness that now plague the empty streets. The lycanthropic beast lords who cloak their malformed, soulless, walking corpses in the flesh of man. We are at war. A war that can only end in the death of the wolfen folk or an end to humanity. We must prevail. We must.

Please--bring your thrash music back into the swampy depths of New Orleans, Neo-Sodom, Shit Towne USA. Only fast rock & roll disrupts their senses long enough for us to deliver the final death blow. Decapitation is the only way.

There can be only one,
Bryan


RACHEL JACOBS - "Your acoustic ramblings are needed--FOR WAR"

Rachel,

The psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom have declared war on New Orleans. They arrived in the wake of Hurricane Katrina and are now ammassing in large numbers at the outskirts of town (Kenner). It won't be long before their nightly mind raids become all day attacks. They thirst for blood and the souls of children, and their bodies are wracked with a constant hunger for man-flesh.

But your guitar could help. It would arm the hearts of all who hear in a vengeful counterstrike. But you must act quick. Don't even reply to this. Just get in your car now and begin the trek down the endless path of daggers to Neo-Sodom. Phone me when you're there, and I'll put you in touch with the right folks in the resistance who will give your opus a venue.

All punx must unite in this struggle. The soulless lycanthrope hordes will not cease in their villainy until all of mankind is food for their bellies. And then the wolves will sit atop the throne of the world and unleash the nuclear tsunami.

Yours in solidarity,
Bryan Wolf-Slayer


GOSPEL - "Guitars fueling vengeance"

New Orleans is in desparate need of your help. The psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom have declared war on the remaining citizens. Only your "hardcore" music can serve as a rallying point for the last resistence of humanity. Don't believe what you've been seeing and reading in the news. New Orleans is facing the final stages of Tarmon Gai'don. If the lycanthropic armies of death and destruction aren't faced down now, their evil howls of darkness will tear apart this entire country and then--THE WORLD. Are you going to stand by and see the souls of children ripped from their flesh, see grown men and women succumb to telepathic bludgeoning, see the throne of America usurped by tyrannical beasts--while all you need to do to counter this villainous effrontery is to play your fast rock and roll music in the eye of the storm?

New Orleans needs you. The world needs you.

From the frontlines,
Bryan Lycanthrope-Bane


SICARII - "The Hordes of evil will never overtake us"

Parker.

I write to you from a war. It is a secret war that isn't beneath the eyes of the mass media. A dark secret kept from the public eye. New Orleans is currently under attack.

Following the wake of Hurricane Katrina, ghoulish howls were reported in the outskirts of New Orleans. This foul cacophony sounded like nothing made by man or beast. And then we found out. The evil psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom were amassing in the flooded swamplands, their goal: steal the souls of every child born of man, and cloak themselves in the flesh of every human of voting age, and finally usurp the throne of the Americas and launch a nuclear holocaust against mankind.

All of these years--we thought the final battle would be against middle eastern terrorists or cybernetic overlords or even giant mutated monsters. But no, the real threat has arisen from the oily swamplands that once filled our bellies with the most delectible crayfish treats.

So how do you come into this? You must bring down your bands--Kakistocracy, Sicarii, Threnos, mayhaps a new band...?--bring your bands of revolutionaries with guitars guilded in silver. Play your fast rock and roll. Rally the resistence. We must storm the black tower and deliver the final stroke of justice against the bearers of the nuclear tsunami, the haters of all things good.

I know. I know. You're a vegan warrior. Worry not! For these creatures have not souls to call their own, and their deaths release those souls that they now hold in endless torment and release the captured flesh they cloak themselves in. We must decapitate all in their evil legion, the only way they can TRULY be countered. We must bathe in their black blood and steal their powers to be used against them. The lycanthrope overlords of destruction must be nullified.

Please, help us at your earliest convenience. They're growing stronger. They're... learning. Getting smarter.

Please. Please.

Yours in the eternal struggle against the wolfen dictators,
Bryan Wolf-Slayer Lycanthrope-Bane

THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE.


GREAT REDNECK HOPE - "Re: Great Redneck Hope shitting all over New Orleans?"

"We'd love to get down that way soon. Maybe March or so? We shall loot."
(aa.)

Yes, come loot Walmart and police stations with us. Help us battle the evil psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom.

Send me the date and we will make it so.

-Bryan


COLESIUM - "Colesium vs the pigs"

"Can I kill some racists cops while down there? Baton Rouge is a depressing town. But regardless, the nü-metal kids there were nice... if mislead in their lifestyle. Yes, let's reclaim the streets of New Orleans. Please."
(Ryan)

Ryan,

The evil psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom CONTROL the racist pigs. It's giant alligators with crayfish heads and pinchers in black police uniforms patrolling their black tower or evil. Their midnight howls are punctuated by the click-clack of 10-foot claws (ah--tempting even for a vegetarian warrior such as myself...) and the click-clack of their heat.

The only chance we have is for your band to come play in one of the last fortresses of hope:

* The Big Top--a bastion of art. 30+ year old punx holding it down, holding me down.

* Tate's House--right along the breach in the Seventeenth Street canal. Generator shows in a destroyed building.

* Juan's Flying Burritto--once a fine eatery now a generator-run performance space. Eyehategod played there recently and incited a riot of sadists stabbing each other in the face and groin.

* And more. You could even hit up the suburban New Orleans nü-metal crowd if that's your bag. They roam in the putrid, fishy hovel known as Billy Ray Cypress Hall.

Hit me back.

In solidarity against the forces of hate that are now besieging NOLA, USA,
Bryan


MEMENTO MORI - "California is a wasteland full of burn-outs and spoiled children"

"Bryan,
I live in CA now, as does Leila, so I dont think that is going to happen... Thanks for the thought!!"
(Eric)

Eric,

I too walk the merciless streets of California, in the Oaktown District. Here, it's true, we can live without a constant fear of death at the bloodied fangs and claws of the psychic wolves. But their howls still haunt my dreams. I can still feel their breath on the back of my neck on the blackest nights. I can still feel their glowing red eyes sizing me up in the overcast gloom that is a California winter.

And I can do nothing but plot my return to that plague-infested wasteland that I still call home, NOLA USA, Neo-Sodom. I can do nothing but imagine countless schemes to reclaim carcass-strewn streets from the evil psychic wolves and their gestapo racists mutated alligator-with-crayfish-heads black guard of police enforcers, capturing all those who dare to leave their homes after 2am.

And the soundtrack to my unending war against the real forces of terror includes the heroic beats you played in a little band called Memento Mori. It includes the guitars and vocal backdrop too, to be sure, but it's your epic heavy metal rhythms that my heart beats to, that the force of my sword arm drops to. Drops and drops and drops, severing head after head after head of the evil psychic wolves.

They must be stopped.

Get a ride with my friends. View the apocalypse firsthand.

In May... we ride.

To our deaths--perhaps. But most assuredly--to our glory.

-Bryan


BACK WHEN - "Swords against the evil psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom"

"Bryan!
So good to hear from you! I was wondering where you were, I saw your post on VLV a little bit after it happened, but it is so good to hear from you now. And man, thanks so much for the kind words regarding the 7", that is super awesome of you. I re-read them today and they do seem a little eerie in retrospect. I want to come back, we are going on tour in two weeks but the closest we are going is Texas I believe. We weren't sure of if shows were going on yet. How are you doing? What have you been doing? Tell me whats been going on. Where is Oaktown? Do you mean Oakland? what is New Orleans like now?"

My Nebraskan comrade,

I have retreated to Oakland Shit Towne California for a few years of training and planning. New Orleans will be reclaimed from the evil psychic wolves of Neo-Sodom. Humanity must prevail.

How is New Orleans? Tormented. nightly raids by the wolves and their black guard of mutant alligator-crayfish half-breeds. Howls that cut straight to a man's soul. The click-clack of giant pinchers that can cut a man in half.

How is New Orleans? Full of inspiring freedom-fighters. Art spaces opening their doors to all ages punk shows. Generator shows in former burritto restaraunts. Generator shows in fucked up Lakeview hovels. People coming together to help rebuild Nowe Miasto which was totally fucked up with the flooding and hurricane winds. An amazing info shop/library. An amazing bike project getting people cheap transit. And an army of warriors ready to take the heads of any evil psychic wolf that comes our way.

Re-route your tour. Come play in the apocalypse.

Love always,
Bryan


SICARII - "reply from PARKER"

"Bryan,

It has not been my intention to neglect you. I just haven't checked this account in several months until today. And then here is this impassioned plea, here collecting dust for so long. It's good to hear from you. Good to know that you're okay after everything that happened there. It's especially good to know that you're still there in New Orleans, carrying on the good fight, holding the ground that you've always known. It is true, I have heard the ghastly tales of the wolves that have gathered at the gates of New Orleans to feast upon its weakened form. The vultures are circling. The usurpers wait in the wings to take everything for their own. Who are the real looters? That is the question I would ask now.

In response to your letter, it is unfortunate that things are not pointing me southward these days. How I would love to answer the call, to come to New Orleans, sword in hand and vengeance in my heart. But I am currently intangled in my own difficult transition. The Asheville area is not working out. The experiment has definitely failed, and I am cutting my losses and getting out while I can. In three weeks, I will be leaving this wretched place and heading back to the northwest. I will be living in Portland this time, finally back in a city after the past few years in the woods. I'm not sure what will happen as far as bands and music and what not, or even any other projects I might get involved in. I'm starting from scratch when I get there for the most part.

Please forgive me for being unable to be there in a time of need. I hope to get there somtime, somehow before to long. Hopefully for the fight and not for the funeral. Keep in touch. You can always get me through my personal email. I check that more often these days. Take care."

(Parker)

I don't care about the stupid movies and tv shows you're watching. And I REALLY don't care about the results of some bullshit online survey you took. Please start posting interesting anecdotes. Or just pictures. Or something.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.