Read Hard or Die

I heard this is Mary Kay Letourneau's favorit book.

Oh, Otto!

Covers of two German comedy albums. How is it that the same country that was responsible for the Holocaust also produced this pussy? He's like Gallagher on estrogen pills. If Birkenstocks took human form, the result would look a lot like Otto.

Subway Graffiti

Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting!

5th Avenue and 7th Street Brooklyn

Read Hard or Die

The Beginning of the End by John Hagee (Thomas Nelson Publishers 1996)

As an evangelical, John Hagee, a pastor and televangelist out of Texas, believes that the end of the world will play out exactly as outlined in the Book of Revelation and other biblical passages. In The Beginning of the End, he makes the argument that the assassination of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin in 1996 was the first step towards the end times. Like most religious fanatics, his logic is a little convoluted, but basically his reasoning is as follows: Before his death, Rabin was making serious progress towards a peace accord with the Palestinians and Hagee argues that in honor of Rabin's memory, Israel would finish the work he started and end the conflict with Palestine. On the surface, peace in Israel sounds like a good thing, but for those in the know like Hagee, it is actually the first of a chain of events which ultimately lead to the end of the world. Although I have always thought that the end of the world would be just a one act play, it is evidently much more complex, involving several phases. I wasn't able to follow it all but let's just say that it doesn't sound like much fun. How does he know all this? Like a magpie with a magical decoder ring, Hagee is able to cobble together his prediction of the end times from various inscrutable bible verses about fantastic creatures like dragons and sea beasts with seven heads and an animal that is a mixture of a bear, a leopard, and a lion. It kind of reminds me of a nerdy fantasy novel. Who knew there were dragons in the bible? Of course, God and Jesus kick the bad guy's ass at the end, and everybody lives happily ever after. Well, most do; the rest spend eternity in endless torment, but hey, you can't win them all.

It's been ten years since Rabin's assassination and the publication of Hagee's book, and neither peace in the Middle East nor the end of the world seem to be on the agenda any time soon. One would imagine that Hagee's prophetic ineptitude would spell the end of his preaching days, but nothing could be further from the truth. He keeps truckin' along, ministering to his 19,000 member flock in person and on the boob tube every week. Although I would like to think that Hagee and his flock of sheep are an anomaly, the truth is that their ilk are now part of the mainstream. Exhibit A: In what has got to be a low point for U.S. foreign relations, bible banging George W. invoked the names of Gog and Magog, two players in the biblical end times according to Hagee, when he attempted to persuade then-French president Jacques Chirac to join the invasion of Iraq, reportedly telling Chirac that "the biblical prophecies are being fulfilled." Mama mia!

Visual Nose Candy

What the fuck?!?!? Could there be any other possible explanation for the cover of Kansas vocalist Steve Walsh's 1980 solo album Schemer Dreamer besides massive amounts of blow? God, my face gets numb just looking at it.

Read Hard or Die

Sometimes God Has A Kid's Face by Bruce Ritter (Covenant House 1988)

The word on the street is, johns prefer chicken.

Father Bruce Ritter was a Catholic priest who rose to prominence in the 1970's and 80's as an advocate for sexually exploited children. His most well known project was the Covenant House, a group of shelters throughout NYC for runaway and homeless children and teens. An outspoken critic of pornography, Ritter was especially vocal about the depravity of the Times Square area. Like many anti-sex zealots, he failed to differentiate between child pornography/prostitution and sexually explicit material made by and for adults, going as far as claiming that Dr. Ruth was a pernicious influence. As it turned out, Ritter himself had failed to walk the righteous path. In 1990, a former male prostitute who had also appeared in pornography alleged that Ritter paid his living expenses in exchange for sex. Several others, including employees and residents of Covenant House came forward with similar accusations. He was eventually forced to resign from the organization that he started. It was the first of many child sex abuse scandals that rocked the Catholic throughout the 90's.

Sometimes God Has A Kid's Face was a short book released by Covenant House as a fundraising tool. In the book, Ritter recounts the beginnings and daily workings of his organization in short diary-like entries. Incredibly, Ritter practically outs himself as a chicken hawk over and over again. I can't believe it didn't raise any eyebrows when it was originally published. For example, although Covenant House cared for both boys and girls, and commonsense would lead one to believe that far more underage girls are sexually exploited on the streets than boys, Ritter writes almost exclusively about boys, particularly those in their mid-teens. His descriptions are all somewhat strange, almost inappropriate. For example, he describes one boy as wearing "skin-and-muscle tight brief cut-offs and a body shirt unbuttoned to the waist" while another is "not exactly skinny, but not well muscled. Not exactly effeminate, but not strongly masculine either. Sexually indefinite..." You can almost see the drops of drool on the page! At one point, he recounts a trip to Ft. Lauderdale during which for hours he cruises a strip popular with male hustlers, checking out the action. Eventually, he stops to pick one up who has asked him for a "ride." Here is Ritter's description of the encounter:

"Do you want to give me a ride?" he said.

He was a nice-looking kid, 16, maybe 17, I thought. Nice eyes, nice hair. A little scared , maybe.

"Sure," I said. The kid opened the door and slid gracefully into the front seat. It took my foot off the brake and the Mustang moved slowly up A1A. By now it knew the way.

"Are you a cop?" he said.

"No," I said and laughed-mostly to put the kid at ease. "Do I look like a cop?" I said.

"You never can tell," he said.

"I guess not," I said. "I'm not. My name is Bruce," I said.

"My name is Dan," he said.

"Where're you from?" I said.

"Minnesota," he said.

"How long have you been in Fort Lauderdale?" I asked and turned of A1A on to Las Olas.

"Three weeks," he said.

"Where are you staying?" I said.

"In a motel," he said, "but I lost my room."

I drove south on Birch Road and made a decision to continue the conversation.

"How are you surviving?" I said. "How are you making it?"

"Hustling," he said.

"Are you hustling now?" I said.

"Yes," he said.

"How much do you go for?" I said.

"$80," he said and hastily added, "but I do everything for that. I can go for less," he said.

And then my eyes began to burn and then they began to glisten and blurred oncoming headlights and I was glad it was dark in the car and he couldn't see the tears forming.

"How old are you?" I asked. It was getting hard for me to talk.

"Eighteen," he said, although there was not much conviction in his voice, as though he didn't expect me to believe him. (I didn't.) He was a nice-looking kid. A gentle face. "How long have you been hustling?" I said.

"I ran away to L.A. when I was 15 and got into it there," he said. "I've moved around a lot," he said.

The blue Mustang seemed to drive itself up Birch Road, and I pulled it over on a quiet side street a couple of blocks from where the kid jumped into my car.

I turned to face the kid, and I guess he could see the tears in my eyes. He looked at me a little uncertainly.

"Hey," I said, "I enjoyed riding with you. Thanks," I said. I reached into my pocket for a $20 bill. "This will help you with your motel room," I said. The kid became very still, his eyes frozen for a moment on nothing I could see.

"This is certainly different," he said.

"I know," I said. "Be good to yourself," I said. "Take care of yourself," I said. The kid hesitated-he didn't want to get out of the car. He opened his mouth to speak and then changed his mind.

I touched him on the shoulder. "Be good to yourself," I said again.

"Thanks," he said. "I hoped you wouldn't hurt me," he said.

The boy got out of the car. "Thanks," he said. "Later," he said.

I am sure this is exactly how the encounter played out. Only Ritter forgot to mention that the kid sucked his dick right before he gave him the $20.

Here is his description of another encounter with a different hustler:

In the jargon of the street he's known as "rough trade," and he plies his wares, himself, up and down the Minnesota strip. He is 15 and looks 18, and he's seen the elephant.

We faced down each other across my desk, casually, relaxedly, while I carefully arranged my face and my eyes and my mind so that nothing I said or did or thought or felt in the next hour was spontaneous or unconsidered. He offhandedly, with the practiced skill that needed no explanation, probed for my weaknesses, inspecting my jugular with the guileless eye of the corrupted young. Slow waves of depravity and innocence washed in shadows of darkness and light across his face.

He used the shreds of his innocence with a kind of detached, hapless malevolence to evoke my sympathies. By turns he was cynical and callous, winsome and desperate-for knowing moments at a time, vulnerable. He drifted in and out of reach, in and out of touch, constantly probing, watching for that moment of advantage.

Jesus, could his description be any more homoerotic? You could cut the sexual tension with a knife. Half the book reads like gay porn with the sex cut out.

Read Hard or Die

Blue-Collar Aristocrats by E. E. LeMasters (The University of Wisconsin Press 1975)

In Blue-Collar Aristocrats, LeMasters, a college professor, details the lifestyle and mores of what is now an almost extinct species: the highly paid skilled blue-collar worker. From 1967 to 1972, the author became a regular at a Wisconsin tavern frequented by local workers whom he befriended. Through this contact, he was able to piece together a portrait of the lives of his subjects and the picture that emerges is not a pretty one. These men love fucking, drinking, gambling, watching sports, hunting, and polka music. They hate women, blacks, gays, and book learnin'. The book is ultimately pretty funny because the subjects are such unbelievably stupid assholes that they almost come off as caricatures. Here they are in their own words:

On Women's Liberation: What in the hell are they complaining about? My wife has an automatic washer in the kitchen, a dryer, a dishwasher, a garbage disposal, a car of her own-hell, I even bought her a portable TV so she can watch the goddamn soap operas right in the kitchen. What more can she want?

The goddamn women are trying to take over this town-they're just like the niggers: give them an inch and they'll take a mile.

On Rape: Did you ever try to screw a woman that didn't want to screw? It ain't easy, I can tell you. They can put up one hell of a fight. Take my word for it.

On Child Rearing: My boy came home from school the other day with a cut lip. I asked him what happened and he said this other kid hit him. I told him that if he didn't go back and lick that other kid the next day I would whip him when he got home.

On Integration: I realize that something has to be done for the black bastards, but I sure as hell don't want them living next to me. I don't care to work with them either.

On Interracial Dating: You should have seen the pretty white girl I saw with a big black jigaboo on the campus today. Sonofabitch if I can see how those girls can do it.

On College Campus Protests: I think we should get our shotguns and go down there some night and teach those bastards a lesson.

Read Hard or Die

Body Count is an autobiographical account of one woman's sexual exploits during the 1960's. Unfortunately, those exploits are less than noteworthy to say the least. Although the author seems to see herself as something of a emancipated woman and sexual outlaw, her own words paint a somewhat different picture. For much of the book, she is more of a neurotic Helen Gurley Brown Sex and the Single Girl square as opposed to a hipster. The sex is hetero and vanilla, and considering that it was the time of "free love," the number of men she engages in trysts with seems quite average. Since this pre-dates the 70's Women's Lib movement, the men in her life treat her like complete shit, which she strangely seems to be fine with. Worst of all, the author considers herself something an sexual intellectual, but her writing is for the most part vacuous drivel. Simply put, she is no Anais Nin. Then again, what can you expect from a book about sex written by someone named Francie Schwartz, possibly the least sexiest name of all time.

The book's saving grace is the chapter in which she details her brief time working for Apple Records and her affair with Paul McCartney during the recording of the White Album. Her depiction of Sir Paul is a far cry from the cheery, "cute" Beatle we all know and love. Rather, he comes off as burned out and depressed. Befitting the harder edged sound of some of the White Album, his drugs of choice are the scotch and speed of his Hamburg days as opposed to the pot and LSD of the psychedelic Pepper's era. Most shocking of all, he is not afraid to get a little physical when he feels that his woman has stepped out of line.

As a side note, this book only adds to my mystification regarding Paul's tastes in the lady department. Ok, Linda can be explained as proof that love is blind, but judging by the picture on the cover, Francie Schwartz was not exactly what I would call a looker. Then you have his second wife, the one legged model. Yes, she is attractive but SHE ONLY HAS ONE FUCKING LEG! On top of which, her post-divorce behavior leads me to believe that she is something of a psycho. Adding to the confusion, I remember hearing a radio interview once where Paul said that Yoko came to him first but he sent he over to John, apparently because she wasn't up to his standards!?!?!?! The mop tops should have taken a page from the Stones' playbook: Bianca, Anita Pallenberg, Jean Shrimpton, etc. etc. How is it that when the boys were at their peak, arguably the biggest rock stars of all time, George, the ugliest Beatle, had by far the best looking wife?

Body Count was published in 1972 by Straight Arrow Books, a small press that only put out a limited number of titles, all of which have been out of print for some time. Most of the titles deal with some aspect of the counter culture, including the wonderfully titled Acid Facism and an autobiography by Hunter S. Thompson's lawyer, immortalized in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. This particular title seems to fetch a pretty penny among collectors, dealer's prices on Amazon ranging from $40 to as high as $150. I can only imagine that it is the Beatles' connection rather than the quality of the book itself that accounts for the interest.

Hell Rocks!

The Burning Hell would be an awesome name for a metal band. In fact, if you got rid of the text at the bottom, the cover of this religious pamphlet would make a great album cover. I am curious why hell is only thousands of degrees hot. Why not millions or billions of degrees hot? If you are trying to scare people into repenting, you should really pull out all of the stops.

REPENT SINNERS!

Times are tough, and when the shit hits the fan, a lot of people turn to the man with the master plan: The Notorious GOD. Every day, the Broadway Junction subway stop plays host to a variety of street preachers spreading the good news. Unfortunately, their take on the good news is somewhat apocalyptic. The end is nigh, my brothers and sisters...Repent or ye shall spent eternity in the fiery abyss. Below are some of the pamphlets they hand out.

I like how confident they seem to be that judgment day is coming considering the fact that it has been coming for the past 2000 years. They are like somebody who has been stood up for a date. If they just wait a little bit longer, the other person is bound to show up. Unfortunately, God probably isn't having car trouble.
They could have saved some printing costs with this one. Is it really necessary to inform people fundamentalist Christians' views vis-a-vis homosinuality. In case you aren't hip to the low down, I will give you a hint: They are not big fans of San Francisco.
I can't figure out who the little mountain climber man driving the spike into Christ's forearm is supposed to be. Historically, it would be the Romans, but the lack of a toga rules that out. The artist does score some points on the historical accuracy scale by depicting the spike being driven through the wrist as opposed to the palm. I do like the fact God throws a "please" in there. Yes, he will sentence you to an eternity of unimaginable torment if he finds you lacking, but he probably feels kinda bad about it.
In the end, it is important to realize that God does love you. Just don't fuck with him or you will regret it.


Jesus does look like a pretty cool dude, though!