Alice Cooper as the Monster Under Pop Culture’s Bed: 15 Versions of “Eighteen”

Through his cameo in Wayne's World, Alice kicked through my proverbial sternum and into my heart.

Through his cameo in Wayne’s World, Alice kicked through my proverbial sternum and into my heart.

The last few times I’ve seen Alice Cooper, he’s been opening for another act. An appropriate reaction would be “Why?”, but watch Alice open a show and it becomes clear: He’s hungry. He loves to hide under other people’s beds—Rob Zombie, Marilyn Manson and Motley Crue—and drag their assembled masses into his nightmare for a little while.

The nightmare has had to adapt a lot over the years. Alice doesn’t receive the same “chameleon” praise afforded to Bowie because although Alice has changed throughout the years, he remains distinctly himself, acting not like a chameleon, but as a snake, shedding his skin, wrapping around your neck, squeezing just hard enough to scare you.

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Halloween Resurrection Non-Fan Fiction

This is the face I made through the entire movie.

This is the face I made through the entire movie.

Thinking that I might have been too harsh on it in it’s initial release, I recently rewatched Halloween Resurrection. I was hoping it would be entertainingly bad; instead, it was so bad that my tv doesn’t turn on anymore. I have to assume my TV would rather die than have to display that movie again, even if it was just because I wanted to see if the commentary track had an apology on it.

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Genetic Decree – A Death Metal Song About Cystic Fibrosis (video)

Most songs about disease don’t reflect the experience of the disease. Instead, they’re packed full of maudlin sentiments designed to drop a tear from your eye on the car ride home from the supermarket. I can’t speak for all diseases, but neither one of mine came with a soaring string section.

Sure, there’s a bittersweet beauty to the frailty of life, but in an age where people cry at beer commercials, that button is too easy to push. It’s time for a new approach.

Cystic Fibrosis makes it possible to drown in your own mucus. If you get sick enough, they harvest lungs from the dead to replace yours. Cystic Fibrosis is brutal. It requires brutal music.

So, here’s a death metal song I wrote about CF (technically, it’s blackened death thrash, but let’s not split hairs here). Even if you don’t like Death Metal, you should watch the video, because I made a lot of people—Producer and Arbiter of Taste Bekka Wrynn, Director Walter Forbes and Script Doctor/Key Grip Thomas Forbes—work on it for nothing but pizza rolls. Plus, you can see me stab myself!

You can download the track at It’s a pay what you want download. Anything you can throw in the hat would really help out.

Writing About This is Exactly What an Impostor Would Do

Pictured: Me dead.

Pictured: Me dead.

Over the weekend I went to visit my grandmother in her nursing home. I know I should go more often and I probably would if 9pm were an acceptable time to visit an old person. As it stands, having to wake up an hour early to visit her before I head to work is just difficult enough that not doing it makes me feel the exact amount of terrible required to deem myself a victim of circumstance (“Getting up is so hard, I can’ breathe…blah, blah, blah”) instead of a monster. Continue reading

The Ballad of Bayou Rick

Bayou Billy Box Art

I believe him to be a close cousin of Bayou Billy.

Back in 2003, I and about 83% of my friends worked at a hotel in the middle of Nowhere, CT. A Minnesota based chain had thrown a franchise out in the woods in hopes of catching some of casino cast-offs on their search for reasonably priced accommodations. I was young and this was my first full-time job, so I learned a lot about how the working world works. I also learned that I can do 7 revolutions in an industrial dryer, but that’s a story for another time.

This story is the Ballad of Bayou Rick.

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Slither, Guardians of the Galaxy and My Hypocritical Stance on Commercialization

I like comics that ask the big questions like "Who dares to defy me??"

I like comics that ask the big questions like “Who dares to defy me??”


In my younger days, few things were more important than being able to say “I told you so.” This need burned particularly bright when it came to movies. Nowadays, we dismiss this as hipster bullshit—“Oh yeah, I saw that before it was cool—but back in the videostore era, boasting after finding that sweet nugget of gold was your reward for panning through so much shit. Remember that for every cult movie that thrives, some Lewis and Clark motherfuckers had to watch hundreds of hours of bullshit.

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