Adam West Naked and other somewhat titillating journalism from Dangerous Ink

Smashwords Edition published by Nicolas Wilson Copyright 2012 Nicolas Wilson

Hi.

I’m Nic. This is a collection of my journalism for Dangerous Ink. This, and some of my other work is available for free from my website: www.nicolaswilson.com and various online distributors. If you purchased this, then you have my sincerest thanks, and please know that you’ve helped me continue writing.

By dumb luck I was hired on to work on the magazine’s inaugural issue, and I worked on every one that went to print (though one issue was published without my contribution). Unfortunately, Dangerous Ink died too young, but my sincerest hope is that these articles bring you a fraction of the amusement I had in writing them.

Thank you so much for reading.

Nic

P.S. I’m a novelist. Appended to the end of this work is the first chapter for my latest novel, Dag, out April 22nd for just $.99 for ereaders, and available in print for as cheap as I can make it. Table of Contents

A Photo A Day, interview with Hugh Crawford about the life and pictures of Jamie Livingston Adam West Naked: Somewhat Titillating, interview with Adam West My Name Is Bruce, interview with Bruce Campbell Real Ghostbuster, interview with Ernie Hudson The Shat Hits The Canvas, interview with Janine Vangool, curator of the Shatner Show The Promise Of Lewd Pictograms, interview with WETA rag gun designer Greg Broadmore Group Therapy, interview with grouphug.us founder Gabriel Jeffrey Religious Experience with BIGGER ROBOTS and Boobs and Stuff, interview with animator Paul Robertson Waldo’s Hawaiian Revue, review of the graphic novel sequel to Repo Man Rocky and Horrible, interview with Richard O’Brien Dag: Green Thumb, Originally a short story, A Photo A Day an interview with Hugh Crawford about the life and pictures of Jamie Livingston

Jamie Livingston took a picture every day for almost twenty years. But we should begin at the beginning. 1979 starts the collection on the last day of March, though according to Hugh Crawford, “it was about two months before it really got off to the picture of the day thing.” At first, you can see it’s barely the seed of an idea, just a man scratching an itch he’s not yet fully aware of, and “there are gaps in it where pictures would be missing. The first year, it gets off to sort of a sketchy start.”

Hugh met Jamie at Bard College, “up in the Hudson Valley, a hundred miles north of New York City” in the fall of 1975. It was four years later, the year Jamie graduated, that he began his Photo of the Day project. According to Hugh, this pictorial opus started much more on a whim than through any grand design: “it wasn't like him standing up and making some kind of commitment, like some sort of performance art thing, it just sort of happened.” Jamie wasn’t one of those “crazy outsider artist types,” but rather “would start long involved projects without really much fuss.”

Those early photos are mostly portraits, just a man futzing about with a camera, focusing on our narcissistic species’ favorite subject: ourselves. But by May 24th something's happened, and even though the subject is still people, it’s more distant, now, more abstracted, shapes and geometry become as much a part of the photo as the people are.

The change is far more organic than sudden, and we see it push out roots, searching still for fertile, nourishing soil, and the images become about more than people, and pan out to include background, once or twice even letting the background be the main character, with people cast in a supporting role. By September of that first year, we start to see abstraction take hold, and the focus drifts towards other things, a person, but in shadow, so it’s no longer about who the person is (except, perhaps, in the form of a question).

Then, in February of 1980, he gets onto a red kick that lasts several months (and recurs periodically from then on- photographic herpes). 1981 includes a couple of marking-pen additions, as well as a quest of sorts for the “Holiday Spirit,” which dovetailed into an obsessive documentary he was making about Christmas. Hugh tells the story of a “night I was over at his apartment and he was working on it, playing a fifteen second or maybe five second clip of ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause’ backwards and forwards for I don't know three or four hours, and finally the neighbor came out and kicked the door so hard the door knob came off. I can imagine that month after month of ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause’ played in five second bits backwards and forward would probably do that to me, too.”

While doing the collection any true justice would take a lifetime, there are moments that hint (though you might never know it without Hugh as a guide) at the parts of Jamie’s life percolating just beneath the surface. Hugh said of Jamie’s subject that “It’s mostly his life. If he was working on a film, shooting stuff, there’d be lots of stuff of whatever he’s shooting. If he was hanging out with his friends, skinny dipping, he’d take lots of pictures of that. If he was editing, there’d be lots of pictures of editing.”

On January 5th, 1989, he was at work on the set of a soap or shampoo commercial “and they’d been filming this woman taking a shower for two or three days at that point,” and he snapped a picture of the actress standing on set in her wardrobe- a towel. Hugh suspects several inscrutable Polaroids, with unrecognizable faces in unrecognizable places, have similar origins- though only the photographer himself would know for sure.

One of the recurrent themes is elephants and the circus, an interest he was apparently introduced to by an old roommate, Chris Wangro. Hugh tells of how “every year the Barnum and Bailey circus comes into New York, and for some reason they walk the elephants through the Midtown Tunnel from Long Island City at a brisk trot across 34th Street over to Penn Station. And if you know what night they're going to do it, you can sort of stand by the Midtown Tunnel and wait for them and about midnight they stop all the traffic and all of a sudden all these elephants come running across New York, and we used to go do that, several years in a row we’d go and run across 34th Street with a bunch of elephants.” This pachydermian fascination also translated to Lucy, a Victorian-era 6- story elephant-shaped tavern-cum-museum in Margate City, New Jersey that Jamie made regular pilgrimages to- and took many photos of- including one of its sphincter-window under a big “Welcome” sign.

But the photos don't stop at the trivially amusing or even the compositionally intriguing. There's an intimacy (and I don't mean the rare occurrences of tasty nudity)- you see Jamie at highs and lows, surrounded by friends or during periods where he “wasn’t as sociable.” The photos also run across the disclosure spectrum, ranging on the one hand from “a very heart-on-your sleeve, completely transparent, completely open, let everything hang out sort of exercise, and then on the other hand some of it is totally opaque and mysterious.”

Despite “all the sort of laying everything out for everybody to see, there was still a lot of mystery to him.” And Jamie’s mystery doesn't stop at obscure pictures whose reference is lost even to Hugh, his most consistent audience member, or the odd snapshot of his breakfast, but extends in places even to people. “There's this woman that nobody really seems to know much about.” The woman is young and pretty, but in a way that makes her seem approachable, yet still very smoothly confident. In the circle of friends Jamie kept cohesive, they've usually been able to identify the people in the photos, but this young woman, appearing early in ’91, has remained a mystery, though the assumption is she was briefly a girlfriend.

But the mystique isn’t reserved only for those new to Jamie. Even Hugh has found that it’s “been as much discovering a lot about him myself. I was a pretty good friend of his- he was the best man at my wedding- but there was a lot of stuff that I didn't really know until I started going through this project.” Over years of acquaintance, Hugh developed a clear respect for his friend’s talent and accomplishments. People often express surprise that Jamie's collection has 6,500 images- but Hugh, a photographer in his own right, sees it differently: “‘I've had months where I took that many pictures.’ But I look at it and think, ‘Man, the guy was so incredibly disciplined that he could do what he was wanting with just one picture a day.’”

For all his inspiration, Jamie's influence was probably greatest as a friend: “I think one of the biggest impacts that he had on my life and probably a lot of other people was that he made a real big effort to stay in touch with everybody he knew.” Jamie died in 1997, and at the funeral, people would approach Hugh and say, “'Jamie was my best friend.' He was the best friend to lots of people. He was very conscientious about that- in the same way he was conscientious about taking the pictures.”

Jamie developed a malignant melanoma in a mole on his back. Despite undergoing life-extending surgery, the cancer metastasized to his brain and killed him. His battle with cancer is chronicled in the photos, including his last days in a hospital bed. The Photo of the Day might have passed with him, known only to those who had been lucky enough to see it in its active state. But Hugh felt compelled to do something with it, because “the thing had been sitting around for almost ten years after he died and I thought, 'Somebody really needs to get this thing organized and out there where people can see it.'”

So in 2005, Crawford, with help from many of Livingston’s family and friends, assembled the photos for an exhibition at Livingston and Crawford’s alma mater. “The show was hung in the hallway of Bard College. Up in the Student Center there’s this long hallway almost long enough to hang this thing up. I think it was 8' high by 120' long and it went down a long hallway, around the corner and into a conference room, around three walls of the conference room to fit the whole thing on a wall.”

To build the installation, they “had the photographs reproduced life-size in strips and we hung them up on the wall, and the way it was done it was each year it was a horizontal stripe and each day of the year was a vertical stripe, so it was done in a grid.” An online version accompanied the exhibit at Bard (both can be viewed off the main page of HughCrawford.com), and it was the website that eventually went viral.

A new audience will always bring fresh eyes, and among more heady philosophical ponderings, they “wondered why February 29th there was this big gap.” Of course, February 29th only comes once every four years- on a leap year- but given the pathological consistency of his photography, it’s easy to see how an audience could be lulled into believing Jamie could have taken photos even on a day that didn’t always happen.

When Hugh first started looking through Jamie’s collection, he found it was “very organized. It was obvious that he was thinking of this as being some sort of legacy.” Jamie stored the Polaroids in the original SX 70 cardboard film boxes, and there were hundreds of those boxes with dates written on them in sharpie in suitcases. This organization was also helpful for the anniversary photos Jamie took for the first eleven years of the project, always on March 30th, of all the pictures taken up to that date. In the suitcases Hugh also found “some notes and there’s some diagrams in there from back when he was putting them out on the floor because he would make up a plan for where the beginning and the end of the row was so it would fit on the floor or on the early years he’d do it so it would be three or four pictures in the row, six or seven pictures in the second row, and they’d just keep getting longer as they went back so that they would fill the frame in perspective but not go beyond the frame, which took a little bit of planning.” On his twelfth and thirteenth years he simply took pictures of the cases with a card, apparently becoming bored with the idea (or simply overwhelmed at the prospect of laying out over 4000 photos)- and dropped even that subtler celebration photo in subsequent years.

This preparation was also a part of his daily routine, though only some days would he “know in advance what he was doing, but generally it was sometime during the day he would decide that that was going to be the Photo of the Day and he’d take the picture and then if something really interesting happened later on, generally speaking, he wouldn’t take a second picture that day.” But there are a few instances where Jamie had taken multiple pictures for whatever reason (oftentimes when he’d run into a celebrity), and because of the structure of the exhibit, Hugh was forced to display only one. He said there was no specific criteria for the ones he chose, but that, “sometimes it was obvious that one of them was better than the other, and I did that, and sometimes I had no idea why there were two and I just arbitrarily picked one.”

Among several other projects, including his own daily photo at Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn, Hugh’s currently compiling a book containing Jamie’s photos, and he assures that the missing double pictures will be in the book, along with notes Jamie occasionally scrawled on the backs of photos. The book is scheduled tentatively for the Christmas season of 2010, but he’s keeping details quiet at the moment because it’s a “fairly ambitious project but we aren’t quite sure which of the many ambitious things that we were planning on doing are actually going to make the final cut.”

Despite the fact the pictures were taken from 1979 through 1997, surprisingly few of them feel dated (ignoring that they’re Polaroids, which dates them by default), though occasionally a severely 80s moment happens. The photos cover a lot of territory, some personal, some technical, but the combination of all of its elements is what makes the collection so transfixing. Whether it’s the awkward sensuality of an unknown woman’s hand stretched across her torso or the patient discomfort of a man on the street, a gaggle of shadow puppets squaring off against a wall, or the odd visual poetry of a manhole cover misaligned from its road striping. Hugh personally prefers “sort of the everdayness of them. Apparently one day he was doing something with Keith Richards, I’m not quite sure what, and then there are other days where he just takes a picture of his shadow, and sometimes I think I like the picture of his shadow better than the famous people and stuff like that. ” He added, “It’s really the cumulative effect of all of them that's really powerful.” Part of the (and I don’t want to trivialize it calling it “fun”) but enjoyment of the collection is trying to understand what’s going on. An overweight gentleman in short shorts and no shirt seems like perhaps an object for ridicule, but when he returns the next week in a wheel chair, it becomes a portrait of an ailing friend or relation caught in a candid moment.

You begin trying to narrate the story in the photos, trying to pick up the frayed, exposed threats and place them into some meaningful context. In October of ’94 there’s apparently a cat illness, and I thought I recognized that story and knew its conclusion, only for the cat to reappear, looking spry and loved a scant month later.

Hugh said, “once he'd sort of started the thing, either Polaroid stopped making the film or him dying were sort of like the only two ways it could ever be finished.” Polaroid discontinued the SX-70 film in 2005, the same year as Jamie’s collection went on display at Bard College.

Some people, often those in the pictures, look at Jamie’s photos with nostalgia, and sadness for their loss and a life cut short. Others view them with an optimistic eye, as proof of a life fully lived, replete with beauty and wonder, and with a hope for similar achievement. Some people take a voyeuristic pleasure in simply watching, constructing of the photos a slow and silent melodrama whose ebb and flow they control. Regardless of what perch you survey from, it is quite literally a life lived in photos, and viewing them is an experience no one’s life should be without. Adam West Naked: Somewhat Titillating interview with Adam West

“You’re here to find out about the wondrous life of Adam West,” the voice on the phone began, punctuating it with a laugh. There was immediately something exuberant, almost youthful in him, and I paused to drink in the fact I was talking to one of my childhood heroes. He told me he was speaking from his home in Ketchum. Why, of all the places in the world, do you hang your hat in Idaho? “We keep a place in Palm Springs and a little place in LA, but physically the area’s just amazing: We’re up in the mountains, we have one of the best ski mountains in the country, it’s reasonably rustic, and there’s culture; theater, music, whatever.” What should I call you? “Please, call me Adam.” I told him I’d be happy to. “Or you can call me by my nickname, Bronco.” Adam (or Bronco) was old hat at this. He had a sense of amused humility when he said, “I really am one of the luckiest guys around.” Then he launched into the story of his childhood, how he grew up on a dirt wheat farm in Walla Walla, Washington. To hear him tell it, it sounds like he had almost nothing to do with his success, at least at first; “How many of us are responsible for what we get? We’re presented with choices, to go through doors or not. And some of those opportunities, we make ourselves, some of them are given to us. And this is a competitive industry, sometimes almost hideously so. But the way you make it is if you have the drive and ambition. Timing and luck matter, too.” Timing and luck came together when he starred as a James Bond-spoofing spy character in a series of Nestle’s Quick commercials. This seemingly innocuous role resulted in a call from “Fox to come in and read for a part. And that’s how I got Batman.” And while he admits that chance played its role, “sometimes you make your own timing just by being there. But you better damn have what it takes, you better bring something." He expressed a reticence to critique his own or other’s work, saying, “I can’t really talk about it. Let somebody else do [that]. I just do it. I don’t know whether that sounds immodest, but I’m paid just to do it. It’s like being a hired gun, I guess.” He thought a moment, then amended, “All actors are whores, basically.” “But they slap make-up on us, and we go out there and tell lies the writer’s written for us. And there’s no big deal about it, you can do it or you can’t. And you’re either fortunate enough to get hired because of it or you’re not. It’s given me a good life; ups and downs and all-arounds, but a good life all around. But I’ve worked my ass off.” He described one of those downs, “a time I was living in my car because I didn’t want to ask anyone for anything.” But he didn’t quit, and inevitably his career has always swung back. Adam’s also spent time on the other side of the lens. “I’ve directed before. I started as a director in Honolulu. Before that I was directing shows in the army, and writing, and worked for the McClatchy [news] thing.” I wondered why he’d stuck with acting. “Maybe I’m just lazy. I felt that because I could cut it, that I could affect an audience, I might as well stay and be an actor. I didn’t want the pressure and hassle of being a director again. I’m not saying that if I found some material I felt really passionate about I wouldn’t do it again.” You’ve spent many years working in television, including starring roles on 5 series. Which of them was your favorite? “Well, it would probably have to be Batman.” I suppose that’s the obvious choice. How about besides Batman? “The first one, which was a big break for a young actor, The Detectives.” The Detectives marked Adam’s first regular series role as Sergeant Steve Nelson, joining Robert Taylor’s squad of investigators for the show’s final season on NBC. He added that he also “enjoyed playing comedy, and some actors say it’s tough, and it is tough. And I’m not being arrogant, but I think I have a gift for it. The one pilot that I really wanted to go somewhere was Lookwell, because I love that kind of absurd comedy, like a modern-day Office or something. But hey, I’ve always been ahead of my time.” Lookwell, for the uninitiated, is probably the funniest pilot that never got picked up. It features Adam as the eponymous Ty Lookwell, an out of work actor with delusions of being the crime-stopping cop character from his long-since-cancelled television show. The pilot includes a very tongue-in-cheek scene where Ty goes "undercover" as Willie the Homeless Person, introducing himself with, “Good evening. I live in the streets.” He crashes a black tie party, spouting unforgettable lines like, "The sidewalk is my pillow," and “Hello, nice to be indoors.” He explains away his odd manner with, “Pay no attention; I'm just a crazy old vagabond,” then excuses himself saying "Pardon me. [I] eat out of a trashcan." The pilot episode has recently found limited theatrical release, and was broadcast as part of Trio’s Brilliant but Cancelled. It’s at the very least worth digging up on YouTube for a watch, and TV executives, because I know you govern by my sanction, it would be well worth reviving, and with a little polish could make for a very good show. On the comedy front, Adam has a new internet series called The Bangors, about an infamous Hollywood family, of which he is the patriarch. "It gives me the chance to play something that's funny, but different from tough, irascible, mean, selfish, gritty, all those good writer words." Are the Bangors based off any specific Hollywood family? "I mean accomplished and famous as well. For example the Barrymores. Now how many people reading this will give a shit about the Barrymores? Besides Drew, of course," (Drew, if you are reading, I'd be more than happy to give you a chance to respond). He finished with, "I don't think anyone's going to identify with these people, but they will laugh at them." At that point he paused, and worried aloud that I would crucify him in print. I was in the process of reassuring him when my cell phone cut out. I had programmed his number into my phone, and almost immediately it rang, displaying “Adam West” on the screen. As soon as I picked up he began to facetiously chastise me, “That’s an interesting way to end an interview: in the middle of one of my answers, just hang up the phone.” I apologized, and we switched gears to talk about his burgeoning art career. What’s your process like for creating a piece of physical art? “I think the simple answer is, without being glib, I paint what I dream.” He elaborated, “In other words, I get images- for instance, if I feel someone wants something related to Batman, maybe six days later I get an image of the Joker, or Bookworm, and I just sit down and do it.” “The nice thing about it, the way the work’s been greeted critically, and I know it’s raw, and unschooled, but it does get an emotional reaction.” But he hasn’t limited himself to painting: “I’ve done all sorts of stuff, even sculpture with found objects and baked bread.” I stopped him to be sure I’d heard that right. “You know, if you see something in the process of being baked, and it has a fascinating shape that can be applied to some other material, you know, I’ll do it. And that sounds a little avante garde, doesn’t it? But I certainly don’t sit around doing much plein air or painting vases with flowers in them.” En plein air, and I explain this because I had to ask the wiki myself, from the French meaning “to conceive outside with your fanny in the breeze,” originally applying only to outdoor copulation, but eventually employed for artists as well (as artists were notorious nudists up until cubism). Which piece are you most proud of? “You know, I've never thought of it in those terms. I don't think I'm that proud of anything. I don't feel like I guess some people that you know I just gave birth to this wondrous critter, and I've got to hang on and nurture it. No, I just do them and kind of forget them, move onto something else, that's it. It's like acting in a way, you know, you can't really plan too many things, and the actor's abilities to craft, it's really mysterious in many ways. First of all, I know I don't like to talk about it, and analyze it. I'm always afraid that if I do I'll lose it, because it's so intuitive.” He went on: “It's a matter of gathering what you've accumulated along the way inside and making choices and having the confidence and reassurance to just do it, which is tough sometimes, you're doing a project and you think, ‘Oh, I can't do this, I don't know about this.’ But then you start to cook with it, and it usually turns out okay I guess. I'm not particularly fond of looking at myself or whatever I do. Except for Batman, of course, because that was so much fun. I can sit there and say, ‘Look at those idiots. Who was that strange boy in the tights?’ Yeah, Batman was fun.” How long have you been creating physical art? “I've been drawing, painting, for probably thirty-five, forty years. And I think only in the last 2 or 3 years have I done an exhibition or had any desire to get my stuff out there- I just hadn't thought about it that way.” What’s taken you so long to share your art with the world? “I’m pretty pragmatic. If someone tells me it's pretty vital, that it strikes a nerve, I say- 'How much?' I think it's the Mitchum attitude, you cook with the role, bring as much as you can, you do it, get out and say, 'Cut the check.' Because once you've done your thing, you don't have any control over it anymore.” His influences ranged from French impressionists like Monet to expressionists like Rouault, “and I suppose of course Picasso. And some of the more ancient, Velazquez, people like that, yeah. Even Dali and Chagall, because they were so inventive and seemingly carefree and humourful.” He said he was particularly fascinated by the epic scale of Monet’s work. “And you wonder, if you’re not formally trained- as I am not- you wonder in a sense how they were able to physically manipulate some of those canvases. You know, keep them in a stable way, where they could do their best work. I guess we all- or they all, because I really wouldn’t lump myself in with them- but they all have their methodologies.” He mentioned some of his artwork would soon be gracing the pages of his website, AdamWest.com, as part of the site’s facelift. “Well, I don't think it's been up to snuff- good enough and dynamic enough if you will- so it's being worked on, and I think there'll be more things on it.” He also said he’d be starting a blog of his own, joining such luminaries as the Monarch, a cancer-stricken Superman and Fake Steve Jobs in the blobe (combining blog and globe; admit it, it's more fun to say than blogosphere). There was a moment in the interview when I asked Adam about the defining moment of his life, and he said that question would be difficult to answer, because “in a sense, it gets under my skin.” I thought that was it: Adam West was going to kill me with his disapproval. Not that his disliking me would have crushed my ego (though it might have), but that he had some kind of supernatural ability (honed, no doubt, on his red Batphone) to destroy his nemeses via telephone with the mighty weight of his charisma. He asked for ten seconds, and there was a long silence on the other end. “I think marrying my wife, Marcelle, who's really bright with the greatest sense of humour. And she's managed to put up with me.” Relief was too small a word for my… relief. “I suppose that’s obvious to many, but when you’re fortunate enough to find a really good woman and have a really great family- not that my family’s perfect, a few of them have gone through some dramas. But right now, I think we’ve managed to pull things pretty well together. It’s only taken me fifty years. But I want to go on- I’m just midlife now.” Does that mean you’ll think about retiring in sixty years? “I don’t think creative people retire. The agent calls and says ‘Hey, I’ve got this project,’ and ‘Hey, talk to me about it. Well, I think I can handle that. It kind of scares me to death, but I think I can handle that.’ Can you stop writing?” I told him that, contrary to what my editor might think (and understandably so, given the sometimes deafening silence coming from my keyboard), I can’t. “I stop acting because you need other people, and a stage, but the painting, the writing. I really appreciate writers. I sold a series.” He started to tell me about Doc, then stopped himself. “It sounds like I dabble, but it’s okay to be a renaissance man. Jesus, Nic, you’ve got to get one foot out of bed no matter how drunk you are, and get going.” What’s been your most satisfying role? “As a father. In real life, as a father.” And what’s your proudest accomplishment as a father? “Stayed very close to my kids, and always listened to them, and given them the confidence and a sense that I'm always there, even though they're on their own. I guess that they can come to me with whatever. I think that's important.” What’s the best life advice you could give someone? “Life advice? Good God, I've never thought of giving anyone life advice. If I had to, I'd probably say something like ‘Ignore arrogance and hypocrisy- and live with a sense of humor.’” He added that it was important to, “Live true to yourself, and try to have a sense of humor about everything, because life can hurt.” During the interview, Adam also let slip about a new project he’s working on, one I’ve stolen part of the title for this piece from, a DVD set called Adam West Naked: Uncensored and Unscripted. “I turn on cameras in several locations and talk to the audience and tell them everything about every episode of Batman.” Adam has a way of slyly mentioning products or projects, a talent that might be a byproduct of his life in the “showboat biz.” When I asked him for a title for this piece he suggested "Adam West Shows His Bust," expressing disbelief at having recently received his own head statue. It brought back to my mind Adam’s description of the show he scripted in his pre-Batman days. “This was years ago, and it was called Doc. And it was about a traveling doctor in the old west. And he was kind of disguised you know in the wagon, everyone thought he was kind of a snake oil salesman, but he was really a good doctor who had to leave the east because of a family problem.” There's a charm to Adam that makes you wonder if it’s your own cynicism that colors these subtle product placement, that perhaps Adam, like the title character in the series he wrote, isn’t the shady huckster at all but just as genuinely decent in that olde-fashioned way as he can seem. And it’s that charm that eventually convinces you. In his fantastic autobiography Back to the Batcave, Adam said that he was married to the cape, tied irrevocably to his most famous character (though the marriage is only recognized in Vermont and the UK). He remains vigilantly passionate about Batman, and not just his series, but the character and all of his potential. At several points he brought the conversation back to his former masked persona. “I could even play Batman as an older guy. Maybe an alcoholic who wanders around Gotham City, and has to get himself back into shape, like a Rocky.” I asked, if he were ever offered the part, if he'd be willing to portray the harsher, older Batman from Frank Miller's apocalyptic opus The Dark Knight Returns. He said, “It would be a wonderful challenge. I think I could cook with that, because you have the chance to think about the extensions of that character.” What was your most surreal moment as a cultural icon? “Surreal? That’s great. Good question, because there’ve been many. The most. Wow. How about those times when you’re on a commercial flight, and the flight attendant very loudly says, 'If you're afraid of flying, if you have any anxieties, don't worry, because Batman is on board.' Imagine me staggering to the cockpit, taking over a 757.” I said he’d do better than most; he used to pilot a small tourist plane in Hawaii. "I'd try. Yeah, I did fly, but nothing like that." He expresses surprise that people “think that Batman was a big accident. It wasn't. It was carefully constructed, the sets, the acting, scripts, directing. Maybe that's one of the reasons we've been out there for so long. My god, we were only out there three seasons- 120 episodes. Just like Star Trek, it goes on and on. And people watch it today, and say it looks just as fresh. And we just created our own little world, with our own little crazies.” Adam, a veteran of conventions and the autograph & appearance circuit, has been a defender of the much-maligned fan culture and its oft-creepy and unwashed members. “Well, you know, there are those fans who are creepy, but then you kind of get inside them for a little bit, and you talk to them for a moment or two, and the creepy is pretty much superficial. Unless, you know, you're talking to a serial killer.” Still, he insists most “people have been really nice to me, I think I told you that before. They always have something fun to say or talk about. I go through airports now, like the other day, and these big guys come up to me and say to me, 'How do you stay in such great shape?' And I'm thinking, 'Oh god, he knows my real age.' But all I could say was, 'Hey, you know, just curling with vodka. Or is it the genes?' Or I try to listen.” Between his hectic schedule of appearances and acting, he retires to the solace of Ketchum to recharge. “I hike, and I ski, and I fish, and I work around a lot at our place up here. I love my tractor. I drive my tractor to town on the bike path, and nobody likes it. Late at night, down to the casino to have a drink. Just a lonely guy on a tractor.” But just the one drink, right? We’re not advocating drinking and tractoring? “That's a funny way to put it. But it might be kind of fun to get a DUI on a tractor.” Over the nearly two hours we spoke, I was impressed by the breadth and depth of his knowledge, experience, and interest. At times he wanted to speak about things as diverse as the architecture at the Beijing Olympics and the new Large Hadron Collider. “Oh, golly, if those one or two scientists are right, though, it’s really scary. They think that they’re really on the edge of the big bang, and if indeed the big bang created the universe, what’s going to happen on that soil in France and Switzerland when all those particles collide at the speed of light. Are we going to have a big bang? Then look out world.” If that happened, all we could hope was that the next universe fared better than ours. “There we go. Yeah. And we only know what astronomers, scientists have only discovered about 6% of our known universe. I guess we’re not supposed to know. Could be no more mystery.” But it was not his enquiring intellect, his stature, or his stories of daring-do that impressed me most: it was his humanity. Adam has been, for better or worse, typecast in his most famous role as a hero. It’s a part few men could pull off for an evening, leave alone as long as he has, or with his flair. “I have to walk tall. I can't be caught with a cane and a walker. I don't want to disappoint.” That has to mean a great deal to your fans. “That's just the way of the West.” I mean no disrespect to any of the other actors who have and will portray Batman, because they've been fine artisans (and likely excellent people) one and all; but from all of them I sensed that there was craft and design as much as foam muscles and batnipples between the audience and the people they were. Adam West is the Batman he played. His cowl was just another mask. My Name Is Bruce a brief interview/feature with Bruce Campbell

Bruce Campbell. Half of you just nerdgasmed. I’ll start a new paragraph while you go change your shorts. But first, those of you who thought I meant Bill Campbell (the Rocketeer guy), I’m putting you in a time out. You can come back and read the article when you’ve thought good and hard about what you’ve done (as a side note, Bill Campbell will never appear in Dangerous Ink until he apologizes, publicly, for the movie Enough- the only way Jennifer Lopez will learn is if we stop encouraging her).

I was a kid when Army of Darkness first came to a theater near you, and its R rating and my strict ass parents kept me from seeing it. But that glistening poster and those television ads left an impression on me. There was something in the bare-chested protagonist’s machismo that was just distilled cool, like if you snorted his sweat your nostrils would sprout chest hair so thick you wouldn’t be able to breathe.

But the Universe had a plan. Army of Darkness became one of those cherished holiday films like A Christmas Story and It’s A Wonderful Life that had a virtually constant television presence during the right time of year. And AoD’s magic was enough to make any day a holiday (except Boxing Day- there’s just something… unwholesome about Boxing Day).

Every time I stumbled across the movie, I sat down and watched it again, from whatever point it happened to be at. It became almost religious; I was a convert in the newly formed Church of the Chin. Whereas previous generations had John Wayne, or even Rambo, to idolize as the pinnacle of masculinity, we had Ash Williams: a maniac with a chainsaw hand almost as sharp as his wit, who beautiful women flocked to until he inevitably sliced off their heads- because eventually all women turn evil.

It was later, in high school, when I found out that Army of Darkness was actually Evil Dead 3 dressed up in its own stand-alone adventure epic pants. Now this was before the DVD releases (or even before the IMDB- yes, I’m aware that makes me ancient), but a friend and I tracked down the fabled prequels, purchased them for way less than even VHS copies should go for new, and we were off. Evil Dead was, at least this late in the game, only slightly more than just another horror movie, but Evil Dead 2 was something else, a bridge between our world and that Camelotian Neverland of Deadite slaughter, bravado and quips.

But that was not the end of Mr. Campbell. In fact, over the years, he’s amassed an impressive resume which includes producing, directing and writing on projects as diverse as his autobiography, comic books, several television series and movies, and documentaries on fandom and land management. I asked him which was the hardest for him, and he replied, “It's all difficult. It's not an easy business. Not all actors are carried around on pillows and it's hard to write a good script and direct as well. But, I'd rather be over-challenged than under-challenged,” (it seems, with the semi-crippled nature of his most famous character, there’s a handicapable joke in there somewhere, but for once we’ll take the high road and only snicker at the possibilities).

Most recently, Campbell has returned to (relative) prominence, co-starring in the USA serial Burn Notice as retired CIA agent Sam Axe while preparing his latest directorial effort, My Name is Bruce. Bruce is a love letter to his longtime fans, especially those who can’t help but think of him as Ash. Of course, like all great love letters, the film contains a few loving kicks in the nuts. Campbell claims the film is, in part, based on his fans’ “warped perception of what I must be like as a person.” He says, “That doggone film will be out some time in 08 or my middle name isn't Lorne. We don't have a date, but watch for it. The sequel is already financed, and we're gonna shoot it fall of this year.”

Campbell has made no secret of his boredom with the cookie-cutter assembly-line of Hollywood films, preferring the improvisation and variation that established studios often shy away from. Bruce is one in a long line of independent flicks, which he says, “are the only way to go. I am drawn toward off-kilter material and indies let me do that and still make a living. For me, the choice is clear.”

One indie Campbell has specifically praised is Sideways, and that film’s costar, Paul Giamatti recently sent out an impassioned plea asking Bruce to reprise his role as Elvis in Bubba Nosferatu: Curse of the She-Vampires. I asked if that might be enough to get him to reconsider the part, and he replied: “Don Coscarelli has a very specific plan for the movie, and I don't want to get in his way,” and the sound of a million fanhearts breaking cursed the cool night air.

I asked if he thought Hollywood’s protectionist bent towards TV and movies, specifically in relation to content distribution sites like YouTube, were actually hurting them. Campbell’s response was conciliatory: “this is uncharted territory and corporate America moves slowly - until they can find a way to make money off it.”

On the subject of the internet; insane Campbell rumors have been sparse of late. He’s often said that stoic hero roles bore him and he’d rather play the villain. I felt it my nerdiotic duty to ask: if Sam Raimi decided to stay on to direct Spider-Man 4, would he be willing to play a secondary villain role as Professor Miles Warren, noteworthy for his cloning work in the comic books (perhaps even explaining why there are so many of Bruce Campbells running around New York)? With his usual distaste for hypotheticals, I was told to draw my own conclusion.

One of the greatest influences on Campbell’s life and career’s his father, Charlie Campbell, whose passion was found not in thirty-odd years of advertising work, but in amateur theatrical turns. Bruce cites his father as an influence in the way he interacts with fans, and presents himself to the public: “Charlie used to say, ‘Hey, your movie could be a work of art, but if nobody sees it, you might as well hit yourself on the head with a ball- peen hammer.’” Actually… if Sam Raimi directed it, I’d pay Krugerrands to see Bruce Campbell vs. the Ball-Peen Hammer of Darkness. Which in a roundabout sort of way brings us to the subject of Evil Dead 4. I’ll be the first to say that I don’t want ED4 (and not just because it sounds like a kind of science fiction impotence). That may shock you, but think about this: even if we get number 4, we’ll just want number 5. Then 6. It’s an addiction that will only grow over time. And even if Sam Raimi is nice enough to give us another sequel or two, at some point he’ll want to call it quits and film Quick and the Dead 2: Die Faster or another Spider-Man sequel. No. ED4 is dead to me. What we need is something Bruce could sink his teeth into, something that would give him the flexibility to direct, act, write and produce from his home, while working with a smaller budget that would give him the freedom he craves. What we need is Army of Darkness: The Series. Start writing letters now. Oh, and hail to the king, baby. Real Ghostbuster interview with Ernie Hudson

I’ve liked Ernie Hudson basically my whole life- since I first saw him in what may still be the greatest movie of all time- Ghostbusters. But there’s always been a… distance between Ernie’s character in the movie and his three ghostbusting, comedy-juggernaut co-stars, perhaps best dramatized by the fact that Winston isn’t brought in until halfway through the movie. Eddie Murphy, in the days before he sold his soul for a fat suit, was originally cast in the role. When he bowed out Ernie was brought in, and (unbeknownst to him at the time) the role was greatly reduced. But Ernie's taken it all in stride, and after 25 years, he’s still happy to be a part of such an enduring phenomenon. In case you’ve had your head up a chicken’s ass which happened to be up a duck’s ass (a youducken, if you will) and missed it, ghostbusting is making a resurgence, with a host of goodies correlating with the 25th anniversary of the film on June 8. First, the Blu-ray version of the original film (and for those of you who backed HDDVD- well, on behalf of Toshiba, sorry they pussed out- but you can always get it loaded on a flash drive to play on your Toshiba laptop- at least until that craps out on you). Second, like so many other pieces of entertainment porn from my childhood, the “Real” Ghosbusters cartoon has finally been released, though, like most childhood porn it costs a pretty penny. But most importantly of all, the 25th anniversary is host to something most of us have been waiting a good chunk of our lives for: something new. And not just another Slimer lunchbox, or the diverse but less-than-fellatiotastic Extreme Ghostbusters cartoon, but something from the original Ghostbusters creators. For years a third film has been stalled (apparently Bill Murray was busy with Garfield sequels), but a video game, potentially the first really good, interactive ghostbusting experience, is on the way. This game, appropriately- enough called Ghostbusters: The Game (though for a while it was tentatively titled Ghostbusters III), stars all four original ghostbusters in their respective roles1. And not only does it star the original cast, but it was written by Aykroyd and Ramis. Of course, Ernie didn’t start out life as a ghostbuster (or actor), but “started writing plays first; I thought I wanted to be a playwright, and I was writing a lot.” Ernie’s creative adolescence began in Detroit, at Concept East. “Concept East was the oldest black theater in the country up until that point… I was writing for them and it was a great learning experience because I was writing the plays, and also running the lights and, you know, acting. Doing a bit of everything, so it was a good all-round training.” But it wasn’t until his time at Wayne State University that he decided upon his career. “I started college, and I was looking for a major that I could- something that I could turn into a career. I tried a number of different things, and wasn’t very happy. Then I found acting, and acting was very- it was the most fulfilling thing I’d found. It was something I felt I could do.” Ernie says he tried many other things, but that most “of the other jobs I had up to that point- I never felt quite comfortable with. I felt suddenly very comfortable and very at-home, and so that’s really why I became an actor.” Contrary to the usual cliché of the struggling actor, Ernie says he’s been fortunate. “It was only in the early stages when I first started acting that I did a variety of jobs. Once I

1 My editor wanted you to note how we took the high road and didn’t make any cheap jokes about Aykroyd’s (and now Ramis’) extra rolls. Admittedly, I’d been drinking when typing this, or I probably would have. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road… committed to acting, which was about 40 years ago, I’ve never really had to work outside of acting.” By the time Ernie entered the public consciousness as the 4th ghostbuster, he was already an old hand in the world’s second oldest profession (I mean acting, not laundering prostitutes’ underthings). The movie made Ernie famous in a way he hadn’t been to that point, to a degree that only one other Blactor (maybe African Americactor is more politically correct, but God what a horrible thing to try to pronounce) to that point had really shared, Lando Calrissian (known as Billy Dee Williams when he wasn’t wearing that ridiculous yet somehow still cool little half-cape). But it wasn’t all chocolate chip cookie dough and teddy bear farts; Ghostbusters got Ernie typecast, “because people saw me as a comedian; I’m not a comedian. The movie was funny but it wasn’t until I got The Hand That Rocks the Cradle that I was able to get people to take me a little more seriously.” Acknowledging the bump the role was likely to give his career, he initially took a pay cut (a complete pay cut- he wasn’t paid at all for his work on the film), and it exacted a further toll on his career, because after “the first Ghostbusters it was 3 years before I could get a job or a movie, and then Weeds came up and I went in to the audition and I just said ‘I gotta get this job.’” For a while Ernie's work fell off my young radar; these were days filled with Ninja Turtles pies and C.O.P.S. that fought crime in a future time. But then we got HBO, and I was introduced to clown fetishes through Real Sex, and to real(ish) prison life as watched over by Ernie as Warden Leo Glynn in OZ. Through the role Ernie showed he’s a man who finds gravitas in his pockets where most of us only find lint. Still, it was a difficult role for him to accept, because “the subject matter was pretty dark… I loved doing the show but when I would watch it, it would come on late at night and my small children- I wouldn’t let them watch it. They’ve seen it now because they’re older, but when they were small I wouldn’t let them look at it. But, you know, there’s a part to life that is like that I guess. But yeah, it was hard for me to deal with some of those things; luckily I was the warden, so some of the things that the inmates had to go through, I didn’t have to really go through. It was hard.” Ernie’s character became the subtle, human soul in a drama that was often cold and inhumane. He said his “uniform” played a part in his characterization, and described how putting it on was a part of his ritual for entering that stark world and becoming Glynn: “once I was in my uniform there was definitely a difference between me being me, and me being warden. I just felt the weight of responsibility being that character. I don’t think I could do that, me personally. To run a place like that would just be a nightmare for me.” Ernie’s guiding philosophy as an actor seems to be working hard and working often, making him extremely prolific, and even today he isn’t resting on his Laurel and Hardies: “I try to stay busy. I just finished a miniseries for Hallmark called Meteor. I play a General in charge of stopping this meteor. And I did a movie called Dragonball Z, and it was a small part with Emmy Rossum and Chow Yun Fat for 20th Century; and an independent movie called Pastor Brown with Salli Richardson, Keith David, and Michael Beach – we shot that in Atlanta. I have a recurring role in Bones where I play a defence attorney, and a recurring role in Secret Life of the American Teenager which is a new series for ABC Family, and that’s a huge hit for them. So yeah, I just stay busy.” But while his acting shows no signs of slowing, his writing is something he still pursues: “I never really stopped, but I just put it on hold when I got out to Los Angeles, having a family, having children, I felt that...writing is one of those things that you need someone to produce, you need someone to say “Okay, we’re gonna do this”, whereas with acting, I felt ‘you audition, you get the part; you get the part, you get paid’, whereas writing will sometimes take years to develop a project. And so my first marriage ended, I was a single parent, I really just needed money to take care of the kids – I had two sons from that marriage, and so I really needed to make money now and acting did that. But the writing has always been around, and now is a good time and I’m bringing all those things back to play. Writing is what I really want to focus on now, much more than the acting. I mean, if an acting role comes up and they want me or like me; it’s fine, I love acting, but I think writing is really where I want to focus my energy on now.” Regardless of where he decides to focus his Ki, I hope he saves a little for the finally-progressing live action third ghostbusters film- it wouldn’t be the same without him. The Shat Hits The Canvas interview with Janine Vangool, curator of the Shatner Show

2007 won’t be remembered for many things. The Iraq War still sucking. Iranians behaving badly. Setting the Doomsday Clock back to five minutes of midnight. But there is one thing this mediocre year has given us that I believe future generations will actually give two fignuts about: the Shatner Show.

That’s right. William Shatner has an art exhibition dedicated to his larger-than-life self, thanks to a husband and wife pair of his fellow Canadians- Janine Vangool and Glen Dresser. They concocted the show while driving through the Canadian countryside, listening to Shatner’s most recent spoken-word album, Has Been- which was applauded for the same gentle self-mockery that has become the calling card of the modern, gnome- insulting Shatner.

Now I grew up on reruns of the original Star Trek. I learned the lurid lapdance of love from the way Kirk’s gaze seduced countless alien women. I’m certain this warped me- no pun intended- beyond the reach of modern psychology; I am still inexplicably attracted to green women (partially explaining why I have a complete run of She-Hulk, but head trauma has to figure in there at some point, too).

Vangool (quite possibly the best sci-fi villain name ever), a graphic designer and owner/curator of the UPPERCASE gallery in Calgary, planned the exhibit to feature 76 artists, one to commemorate each year Shatner has graced this undeserving planet of ours with his quality. One artist missed the deadline, so there are in fact only 75- but there were enough artists contributing multiple pieces to take care of Shatner well into the next decade.

Vangool describes herself as a casual fan of Shatner’s when they started, but said that her admiration for the actor only increased, in part because of the fearlessness with which he attacks new projects. She explains, “Canadians are proud of other Canadians,” but that he is humorous, iconic, and loved by many. However, she was reluctant to quantify his value- I am not. He is easily the equal of ten Bryan Adamses. By comparison, Ryan Reynolds is a 5*, and Alannis Morrisette is a 6 (Rylannis Reynolsette- their combined tabloid persona, was a 7.5).

The exhibit is terrifically varied in its styles and tone, an homage in itself, perhaps, to Shatner’s many roles. When asked which piece she’d display in her home, Vangool quickly jumped at Karen Klassen’s depiction of “the classic ladies' man Captain Kirk, but he also seems vulnerable and innocent.” Dewar’s golden nightmare proclaims Shatner the Intergalactic Love God (although it could be argued birth pronounced him thus, and the painting merely echoes that reality). Mark Dulmadge’s addition practically screams at you, and is equally disturbing for appearing to be the deranged Trekkie lovechild of Shatner and Gilbert Gottfried (I think I can speak for our magazine when I say that we would pay multiple £s for verified photographic evidence of their coupling). Zina Saunders delivers up a thoughtful and contemplative Bill, backstage, lit with a low red light- the actor himself liked it so much he chose it as his gift from the exhibit. Fraser’s amorous embrace brings a smile to anyone who remembers the classic fight that inspired it, and, well, a smile of a different color to the herpetophiles among us (it’s okay, you can raise your hands, I won’t judge you- but my editor will- though I hear he’s a vorarephile, so you’re in good company, there).

Particularly imaginative is professional LEGO sculptor Sean Kenney’s impressive 9,000 piece bust of Shatner’s Boston Legal character, Denny Crane.

When I spoke with Vangool about the exhibit, I suggested Nimoy as a follow-up- he’s also 76, beloved, Trek-bonified. The Bad Spock blog has given potential artists a head start, and Nimoy could be enticed by offering to fill half the exhibit with his nude photographic portrayals of plump ladies. But Vangool insists that the gallery isn’t about Star Trek, nor even celebrities, and while this dashed my dreams of someday cutting the ribbon at the opening of the Bad Spock BBW exhibit, I realized she was right. Part of the glory of Shatner lies in his uniqueness, and a part of the majesty of the Shatner Show is its limitation.

When asked, Vangool admitted she was tempted to take the Show on the road, but the complexity and time it would have involved made it impossible. Many of the pieces have since been purchased by private collectors (and indeed, some of the other pieces are still up for sale), and sadly, the exhibit closed at the end of August. But it lives on (and prospers) in the book, which can be purchased from the site and in the virtual version of the Show. Vangool promises on a stack of babies (I didn’t ask where she got them) that it would stay online until the end of the year, viewable by anyone with access to a Commodore 64 (or higher) at: www.theshatnershow.com [now defunct- from the German meaning taken over by Asian speakers, and possibly featuring pornography].

My writing teachers admonished me about ending with a quote, giving someone else the final say, so this is a rare opportunity to give education the bird, while giving Shatner his due for saying: “out of awe, amusement, or pity, you should come and see this unique show.”

* Reynolds has, more recently, been Deadpool(ish) and Green Lantern, and come into his own as an actor, or so I’m reliably ranted at, in films such as Buried, so his value on the Adams exchange is easily a 7.5 on his own. And were Rylannis Reynolsette still alive, she/it would be an 8, 8.5 The Promise of Lewd Pictograms interview with ray gun designer Greg Broadmore

It was the year of somebody’s lord twenty-aught-something, and Richard Taylor of Weta, the FX sorcerers who made Gollum gross and slimy, gave Aslan his CG gravitas, and let Kong King the crap out of a putative Rex, put out the call to its stable of creators to sire a new brand of collectibles with the juggernaut of a filly that was its muscled production arm.

Enter Greg Broadmore, doodler extraordinaire, beard-wearer exemplar, typer of some merit, and fashionable dresser (for a New Zealander). Broadmore conceived of a set of matter-melting ‘Metal’ mayhem hand-machines, and he described their creation: “These Rayguns actually started as paintings on canvas. The originals hang on my lounge wall. I illustrated them at roughly life size and once we decided to make them as collectibles, I drew some diagrammatic views for Dave. Dave Tremont's skills are what really bring them to life. He scratch builds them almost entirely and textures them using some kind of moon magic to make them look real.” Scratch-building, my oracles tell me, is modeling from raw materials- and original sculpt, as compared to “kit-bashing,” which is assembling an original object from pieces of various model kits.

Aside from the physical collectibles (“toys” to the layman), Broadmore also wrote and illustrated Dr. Grordbort’s Contrapulatronic Dingus Directory, part old-tymey catalog (Sears Roebuck with a coat of Victorian lacquer), part new-fangled funny book travelogue of the brazenly masculine Lord Cockswain’s Easter Break. The directory is finely printed, indeed, and it is obvious that its construction took bucketful after bucketful of warm affection, slopped up the long verticular column of its creation by many a muscled and oiled manservant, the sun glistening off the sweat sliding across their chiseled… ahem. The directory, which by all accounts appears to have originated in New Zealand, was published by the "Dark Horse" company in the former American Colonies, a locale known not only for its vote-mongering females but also its moonward-leaning sympathies. Broadmore responded to Grordbort’s critics, particularly in the Antimoon League (formerly known as the Earth Antidefamation League), stating, “Yeah, they're Moon sympathisers from way back. Sometimes, in business, you just gotta let your ethics take a back seat.” A confidential source from within the publishing powerhorse confirmed that while the company was officially “Pro-Moon” in line with U.S. policy, the company was really “pro-dollar,” although with the growing strength of the Chinese economy, increasingly pro-yuan (though not yet enough to include it within quotation devices).

The directory is filled with many modern and post-modern (of the after-today variety, not poncey design fluffery) conveniences like the Plexington 55 Dirtmophone, for those interested in “what Jonny Foreigner is doing on the opposite side of the world,” or those who might find themselves in need of something to almost non-lethally incapacitate “Humans, Moon Men, and women.” The directory is a cornucopia of futurity that will appeal to consumers both fictional and corporeal, but even when the out-of-stock items are stricken from the list, most purchasers will find their eyes deeper than their wallets. With that in mind, I asked Broadmore, the grand architect of Grordbort’s arsenal, if Moon Men were invading and you could choose only one of the infallible aethir oscillators currently available from the directory, which would you use to defend your valuables (and perhaps the missus- if she hasn't been back chatting or vote-mongering too much of late)? His response was brief, but firm: “My favourite is probably the Goliathon 83. It's hefty.” Hefty indeed, as showcased in the lovely hands of the exquisite Miss Leila Phantom (as pictured here (or not)), which “can dissolve 7/9ths of an African Elephant in 10 earth seconds.” Presumably, the other 2/9 will have been cooked to perfection, ready to be served with whichever glaze or brown sauce one prefers. I’m personally holding out for the bowel capitulators, as I’m aware of many a bowel in need of capitulation.

The Goliathon, aside from its heft, boasts that, “Some say its ambient radiations increase the manhood” with “tumefactorous growths,” and while these may not be covered in the warranty, it is not the only dingus claiming curative properties. The Fahtbauss Model 9 “has one of the best racios for successful kills over accidental catastrophic malfunction,” and its excess electromagnetic pulses “are thought to be beneficial to ailments and are assumed to cure Eczema, Lumbago, Sciatica, Herpes, Women’s problems and a host of others.” I asked Broadmore if any of these claims had been vetted by an independent scientific agency, to which he replied, “I can't say that they've passed any clinical studies and the FDA haven't returned our calls, but the Goliathon 83 will cure the common cold. Just buy one, leave it beside your bed while you sleep and one to two weeks later you'll be good as new.” The FDA was contacted to verify this statement, but they did not return our calls, either. If you happen to be one of the moon-sympathizing swine stateside, write to your congresspork suggesting the FDA get a voice answering box (not yet available from Grordbort, but presumably for sale by contrapulatronic vendors elsewhere).

At present time, only a select few of the items in the directory are being stocked, but Broadmore insists there are more on the horizon. “We have some new items coming up, we'll be showing part of a new range at this year’s Comic Con in San Diego. I won't reveal what they are just yet, but if the readers have any favourite items from the Dingus Directory they'd like to see as collectibles come to www.DrGrordborts.com and submit a testimonial telling us.”

Only about half of the directory’s pages are spent on dingusry, with the other dedicated to beautifully rendered pin-ups and a lavishly painted addition to the library of Lord Cockswain’s adventures. It is a masterful recreation of the flora, fauna and landscape of the Venusian countryside of the planet named for the “Greek god of flatulence and vomiting.” While Broadmore almost certainly took liberties with their conception, it is here more than even in the wonderful mechanery that his background in concept design shines through. And Broadmore isn’t done with Cockswain, or the lovely Moon Mistress, either. “We have some big plans in the works. I'd love to do a lot with these characters, those two especially. Lord Cockswain is great to write for, he's a human wrecking ball. And the Moon Mistress is his antithesis. In as much as she's not a retard.” Oddly, Bolivia is mentioned several times in the directory, under darkly circumstances. When questioned if ulterior happenings were transpiring, Broadmore replied coyly, “In Bolivia? Always. I hear they invented poison and that their King shoots arrows made of shit from his eyes.” Quite possibly the most disturbing thing a person’s ever said to me- or the new direction of Japanese or German erotica (the Axis never folded; America went nuclear, the Axis merely went sexual).

The directory contains a very specific style that weaves misogyny, Victoriana sensibilities, quirkish idiosyncrasies and a delectable flavor (papery, with an occasional hint of inkiness). Broadmore explained some of his influences: “The retro stylings are just appealing to me, always have been. It's more early 20th century Sci-Fi that's inspired me. The whole book is satirical, I've really enjoyed poking fun at male and particularly western male attitudes to the world. Quirkish idiosyncrasies? Those are just spelling mistakes.”

The listing for the Automaitre D’ states that an added bulb displays the botservant’s mood, blue for neutral, and red for murderous intent; it is also suggested to have the double-use as a “nightlight for perusing lewd pictograms, under the cover of darkness.” In the margins of the listing, a promised supplementary section of the catalogue is promised for ordering said pictograms, but Broadmore unfortunately informs that such supplement has been canceled at this time. “We were going to make that available, but I did a quick Google search and found that the internet already has a few lewd pictograms on it already. That market might be cornered.” The Dangerous Ink staff are certainly curious about this “Goo-gull,” like a descriptive name for the newest fetish equipment from Germania, to be found on this so-referenced “intranet,” and its pledged bawdy repository. Expect the next issue to be several months late as we investigate. Group Therapy interview with grouphug.us founder Gabriel Jeffrey

“Group Huh?” was my response when asked to write about grouphug.us. I was apparently one of a handful of the internet-enabled unacquainted with the filthy high that is the web’s largest confession site. The site’s founder, Gabriel Jeffrey, describes it aptly as “entertainment, catharsis, voyeurism, disgusting, funny, beautiful, sad, and kinky. Also other adjectives and nouns.”

At four years old, the site boils down to a human train wreck nearly half a million bodies deep, piled one atop the next so you don’t know if the smell is coming from one loosed secret or the next. Quickly, anyone excavating their way through the excrement will find that everyone’s shit stinks, and the only real denominator is how fecal-smeared or filled the cadavers may be.

The site’s confessions range from the heartrending, “the day after new years i attempted suicide, sometimes I feel bad about calling for help,” the enigmatic “she can effin open it,” to the geekish awesomeness of “I fantasize about my guild leader” to the just disgusting, “i can't remember the last time i brushed my teeth.”

The site is approaching the half-million confessions mark- more than enough to swing a U.S. Presidential election- and as is written cryptically on the side of the front page, “the new group hug is coming soon.” Jeffrey is uncharacteristically shy about the upgrade, saying that while it’s taking longer than he would have liked, when it launches it will “rock so hard- it’ll be epic.”

The site has spawned a successful book, Stoned, Naked, and Looking in My Neighbor’s Window, collected by Jeffrey containing “200 confessions that I chose, with some help from readers, and organized into sections. Each section starts with a personal confession that's absolutely true. When it came out, my dad told me that my grandmother had ordered it online. I told him to call her immediately and tell her to throw it out when it arrived. She did.”

The site also spun off into Audiocrush, a podcast that started as an excuse to play phoned-in confessions and drink good scotch with friends that grew its own audience and its own identity. Sadly, Audiocrush as we know it is over, and while the 28 shows (minus all but edited-down chunks of the near death-by-liquor experiment that was the third episode) are online, podcast archives lack the energy and immediacy of a show that’s still current and updating. Jeffrey does state that there has been “chatter” about a new show, but nothing confirmed.

Group Hug also nearly spawned a dating site, which, given the usual audience for the site, would certainly have ended up in an inbred three-eyed baby or two. Although Jeffrey states he is happy the dating site was aborted (see what I did there?), it’s hard not to wonder what aspects of that will be added into the secretive upgrade he promises will be “a lot more social.” The site is still strong, with over 130 thousand visitors a month

Be forewarned- the site is addictive. If the internet were the tube Ted Stevens believes it to be, tube traffic would constantly be standing still as passersby stopped to watch the car accident that is the lives of the Group Hug confessors.

Group Hug’s greatest strength is that it moves you. Sometimes to laughter, sometimes to tears, occasionally to pity; at times you know people got what they deserved, or even got off light. But if you’re counting up your demons, this is a good place to go to see that however many you may have, there’s someone, somewhere, with more. Many more.

Judging from his blog, and the book, the more lucid moments of the podcasts, and the interview he gave for this article (which is available on the web site), Gabriel Jeffrey is a hilarious bastard. To tie a nice little bow around things, I asked if, as a hilarious bastard, he had any advice to semi-hilarious bastards on how to become fully-fledged hilarious bastards (yes, the question was, in part, designed to find out how many times my editor would let me repeat the phrase ‘hilarious bastard’ in print [that’s 5 hilarious bastards, so far, not counting that one]). He said, “As far as I can tell, the funniest people are the ones who aren't trying too hard. Smart people are funny. Dumb people are just fun to laugh at.” So there you have it. Gospel truth from the mouth of a hilarious bastard on how you, too, can be a hilarious bastard. So if the people are laughing, you’ve either succeeded, and have joined the selective cadre of international hilarious bastards, or you’re dumb (in which case you won’t know the difference anyway). The important thing, though, is that somebody’s laughing- and laughter is the enema of the soul. Religious Experience with BIGGER ROBOTS and Boobs and Stuff interview with animator Paul Robertson

There is no description using anything short of 60s Batman sound effects as language that will translate the experience to words- and even that might stammer and stumble a bit. So go online, ten-penny nail your eyelids to your forehead, hit play and know that no caffeine-induced hyperactivity and no late night of Wild Turkey and Sailor Moon could prepare you: your mind will be bitch-slapped by your pupils.

Kings of Power 4 Billion % is much more than a video game inspired cartoon romp. It’s an acid bath while an inmate orderly with gorilla hands holds you down and scrubs your nethers with a PCP loofa. It’s unexpected pickle sodomy that leaves a vinegary taste in your medulla oblongata- that is, if the seizure-inducing flashes of light leave you any brain-matter to taste with.

What all of this jibbery word-vomiting means is Paul Robertson, the mad creator of the Pirate Baby, is back, with a one-man animation assault whose scope can only be described as epic. The full 300+ meg avi is available from any number of places, mostly aggregated at http://probertson.livejournal.com/. The animation is a fourteen-ish minute techno-starlight game sprite fight that spans idyllic animated cities and harshly decimated apocalyptic rubble. The action follows oddly morphing child warriors, game-nerd sword-princesses, the most hard-core ketchup assault I’ve ever seen, a bouncing sky-diving pig fighting Buddha, three flying, PowerPuff Girlish kitty-cat-massacring super heroines, a tiny leisure-suit ninja versus a fighter jet, a terrifying clay-chip Pope, a pissed-off two-headed Chihuahua, what I can only assume is an Akira-influenced Beattles monster, the slauhgteriffic turtleshell-backed TV-helmetted Kings of Violence that morph into a flesh-tank and then an exploding bird- fetus monster (and if you watch closely you’ll notice them morphing into a few old favorites, like Pokemon’s Pikachu and Ninja Turtle’s Krang). And that’s only the highlights from the first half.

The second offers still more of this graphical insanity, including the most brutal intestine-based assault ever animated, and the seamless transition I will call butterfly/breastfeeding. If you’ve ever fallen asleep snorting pixie sticks watching Japanese game shows and half-awoken to late-night anime binges, the feeling won’t be entirely foreign, but it’s certain to deliver a few rabbit-punches to your logic-kidney- enough to leave anyone’s mind pissing blood. And throughout, it remains violent in a way that only anime seems to know how to be, with broken fire hydrant-strength arterial spray from every wound.

Now, I’m a complete and utter neophyte when it comes to graphic design, using MSPaint when I have a need to tinker with pixels (which is usually when I’m making things for my own website or designing clothes to take off of virtual women in AG3), so I asked Paul for the layman’s version of the process of bringing something like Kings of Power 4 Billion % to 16-bit life. It started with the rough story, and a wish-list of scenarios, then it got to the technical jiggery-pokery rather quickly. “I use Autodesk Animator Pro. It's a DOS program from around 1991 or something. I've used it ever since I was a kid and I just continued using it. It's really good for sprite based stuff. You can basically build up a library of sprites and just dump them into a scenario any way you like as if it was a video game.”

Paul’s work is clearly influenced by gaming from the Growing up in the 2D generation, I'd have to say my greatest influences come from the amazing pixel works of Treasure, SNK, and Virgin Interactive. Treasure, with its incredible use of pixel characters, scrolling parallax, and transparencies in all their excellent action/platforming works inspired me that pixel art can be pushed farther and farther; SNK for their great attention to detail in their Metal Slug titles set a clear goal of possibilities in the world of pixel animation; and Virgin Interactive for their exemplary use of a licensed character Cool Spot, the 7-up mascot, in their 1993 game Cool Spot, which set a standard for creativity and appeal that always had a (cool) spot in my heart.”

Another primary influence was, of course, animation, and the animators Paul names as inspirational includes popular anime impresarios “Hiroyuki Imaishi (Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann), Masaaki Yuasa (Samurai Champloo), Hideaki Anno (Neon Genesis Evangelion).” Akira, perhaps the most famous of all anime films, seems to get a nod in KoP4B%: “Haha! Yeah, the ending of Akira where Tetsuo is morphing into a huge pulsating mass of flesh is one of my favourite animated scenes ever. It's a definite influence.” To those who like the wetness Robertson’s opus brings to their beaks, he proffers a suggestion for further viewing: “If I had to suggest one anime series, I'd say Gurren Lagann. The series continues the Gainax line of quality shows [note: including Neon Genesis Evangelion and Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water], delivering a well animated adventure that builds upon the conventions of old giant robot anime without relying on them to create a series that's instantly appealing but also deep with growing complexity as the show goes on. Also, it contains giant robots that connect to bigger robots that connect to bigger robots to BIGGER ROBOTS and there's boobs and stuff too, so it's good for the whole family.”

Paul describes the biggest challenge coming from “Getting the animation to synch nicely to the music.” That music comes from his previous collaborator, the talented Cornel Wilczek (who operates probably the most painful to look at MySpace page on the internet). He described their working method: “I gave him a rough outline of the sequence of events in the film and told him the style of music I imagined, and then he just went from there.” He also received assistance from Persona (called Jonathan Kim in the world) and Kinuko (known as Mariel Cartwright to crime syndicates and organ smugglers everywhere), two of his co-contributors to the MechaFetus group visublog (itself proof that too much Japanese culture can warp even the strongest of minds, Australian or otherwise).

The most frustrating part of KoP4B%? It’s the world’s most insane video game that you don’t actually get to play. But Robertson’s thinking about changing that. When asked what his next project would be, he said cryptically, “Not sure, maybe an original game.” Waldo’s Hawaiian Revue review of the graphic novel sequel to Repo Man

I had never seen the movie Repo Man, so, to be fair to its graphic novel sequel, Waldo’s Hawaiian Holiday, I watched that first. Right before that I’d been watching an episode of The Sopranos- which is really setting the bar fairly high.

The main character of writer-director Alex Cox’s Repo Man was Otto (played by Emilio Estevez), but it wasn’t Otto (or his feigned machismo) that captivated, it was his colorful coworkers. There was Bud, who ranted about personal credit and the Repo Man code, and Lite, with blaxploitation delivery of lines like, “I’ll kill anybody who crosses me” and jabs at L. Ron Hubbard with his evangelism of Dioretix, and who can forget the eclectic philosophical mutterings of Miller over a clothing-fueled barrel fire. It was the quiet, quirky, borderline insanity of the side characters that gave the movie its campy charm.

The characters in Waldo’s Hawaiian Holiday, while probably every bit as colorful, aren’t given as much time to shine- let alone monologue- and their inexplicable entrances and exits add fuel to the fires of chaos Cox encourages to burn throughout. This is slightly mitigated by our protagonist, a slightly softer, gentler Otto- I mean Waldo- without the obnoxious arrogance of his filmic counterpart, and with a little more compassion for his environment and fellow man, even if he’s still the same short-sighted, constantly failing dumbass.

And while the story seems to be set in the 90s, its central theme of economic decay echoes well in our modern era of monetary turmoil. There’s something in the contrast between Waldo’s revolving door employment and the constancy of Waldo’s employer (whose names continue to change along with his inevitably failing new business ventures, but whose appearance remains that of a young Commissioner Gordon) that temporarily dry humps the concrete goddess of genius, even if it never quite leaves us satisfied (then again, does dry humping ever?).

The idea behind the story is interesting as silly sci-fi goes, although it feels like perhaps it was taken out of the oven a few minutes before the toothpick stuck- which actually nicely echoes the “what the hell just happened?” conclusion of the 1984 movie. What I’m basically getting at is, if you were at all a fan of the frantic, pauseless, stream of consciousness, plot-be-damned! pacing and style of the original movie, then Waldo will not disappoint. Even if you weren’t, you should check it out, because Wolf and his crew at Gestalt are good people, and we should encourage the last-ditch effort of the direct to graphic novel sequel for our guilty pleasures (come on, I can’t be the only one out there holding my breath for Profit: Season 2 in a funny book). Rocky and Horrible interview with Richard O’Brien

NOTE: Due to a myriad of factors, including my schedule, the publishing schedule, Tom's realization that he liked the interview as-was and likely many others, the full-text of Tom's interview with Richard O'Brien was run in the stead of this. At the time I was thankful for the decision, as I was having trouble putting it all together. I'm including this here as much for historical purposes as any other. The title is in reference to this turmoil, and Richard’s most famous work, not a reflection of the man, himself.

Richard O’Brien has always kind of scared me. He’s just got a look, particularly when tarted up as Riff Raff, that’s unnerving in a naturally unnatural sort of way. Even across the telephone, there’s an eerie edge to his voice- at least, until the conversation gets going, and he reveals himself to be timid, thoughtful, and disarming. Richard’s most famous role is strangely enough as the second banana Riff Raff in Rocky Horror Picture Show, “Yes Master”ing to Tim Curry’s transvestite extraterrestrial Dr. Frank-N-Furter (from Transexual, Transylvania), but aficionados of the cult classic know he’s also the mad scientist who brought the songs and original script to life while working as a stage actor in “The Unseen Hand” at London’s Royal Court’s Theatre Upstairs. By the very nature of film, his relatively few screen roles have garnered more attention than his long and storied stage career, sometimes leaving fans salivating for years between his celluloid appearances. And a lot of his roles have been dark ones, with Richard bounding gleefully around inside a moon bounce of madness playing monsters and men with mercenary morality, culminating in his playing perhaps the penultimate prick in the Devil himself (his version being the more amiable owner of Club Inferno, Mephistopheles Smith). But he says it’s never been a conscious decision: “It's not that I go for darker roles- I kind of take on what I want to do, and it's a byproduct of that.” He says he prefers the theatricality often demanded of the nefarious, “I mean, the child- catcher [in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang] really was a part that really suited my physicality, and my area of entertainment in more of a grotesque kind of manner.” He also had another theory: “Well, I think it's down to looks, isn't it, really- we can't pretend otherwise. That's just another stupid reality. You know, a good looking actor gets to play James Bond.” He lamented, “I'm never going to be cast as James Bond, which I think is a tragedy,” which he seemed to take in stride, and joked that, “In an ideal world I would have been a pole dancer.” Despite the fact that he'll never be chartered to order his martinis “Shaken, not stirred,” Richard’s particular look has been immortalized in bronze (as Riff Raff) by none other than Weta’s Greg Broadmore. I interviewed Broadmore for Dangerous Ink’s fourth bastard issue from our first litter (and boy was our publisher’s vagina tired)2. Which actually makes the whole thing feel a little incestuous- though I suppose we’re all mature men, and there’s nothing wrong with a little worm fighting amongst consenting adults- besides which, incest is one of Richard’s favorite concepts, one he’s returned to more than once, so it feels appropriate.

2 I don’t honestly expect this joke to make the final cut- just trying to make it amusing for you the second run through. The slightly larger than life statue resides in Hamilton, New Zealand, where the Embassy Theatre initiated his fascination with late night double features, congealing into the pop-culture love-letter of Rocky Horror. Richard described attending his statue’s unveiling: “I was there, so I’d have had to be smiling, even if they hadn’t quite caught it, and it was a bit kind of like ‘How’s your father?’ I’d have had to be kind of enthusiastic. It was such a pleasure that I could honestly say that it was so wonderfully rendered.” Hamilton’s about 100 km from Tauranga, where he grew up from the age of 10 after his family relocated from England, and where elements of his “devious character” formed. He said the move didn’t take much of a toll on him because “I was always living in my head anyway, I look back at my life, and I wasn’t really all there.” He said of Tauranga that the freedom there was “kind of wonderful, we could run down the road and run into the sea, that was pretty damn good. It was sleepy, we’re talking about a town of 16,000 people when we got there. It was very parochial- a bit like the American Midwest, in many ways, generally every church denomination known to mankind was represented there.” The decision to immortalize Richard in the same metal as Lady Justice’s bare b-cup3 was no accident- which is not to say he’s a boob, but that he’s easily deserving of the tribute. Richard’s donated much time and effort to charitable causes. His stint as host on the Crystal Maze was in part designed to raise his profile to increase the size of the spotlight he could then turn to a rehab service he was working with. Of course, it’s his famous creation that allowed him to time warp his way into our hearts. “The Rocky Horror Show” began in 1973 and quickly became a phenomenon, and its filmic counterpart, with “Picture” slipping into a corset to slide seductively between horror and show in the title, was released a scant 2 years later. The movie had a sluggish start, but eventually achieved cult status, and today is the highest grossing movie never put into wide release. But the Rocky Horror we’re familiar with almost didn’t come to pass. The film rights were nearly sold as a vehicle for Mick Jagger. But that would have meant that Jim Sharman wouldn’t have been able to direct, and the cast would likely have been replaced, and, “There didn’t seem to be any point in going down that road. We were very lucky to be able to keep the whole cast together for the movie; I think that was really one of the great things about that- I think that’s why it worked so well, we were all seasoned in the roles. We didn’t approach it on the first day of principle photography, kind of guessing at what we were going to do. We knew what we were going to do.” When writing Rocky Horror, Richard initially thought, “I’d like to play Eddie. Cause I just thought if it’s not going to end very well, all I’ve gotta do is jump out of a fridge, sing a rock n’ roll song, and disappear again- that I won’t be picking up the slack.” Instead, Richard famously took on the part of Riff Raff, a match since proven to be made in one of the creepier parts of Heaven (the neighborhood where undiscovered pedophile priests live)4. But the change was easy for him to make, as he said, “I think all the parts are kind of a piece of me, in a way. They’re all variations of me.” Richard describes Rocky Horror’s central character, the infamous and scandalous Frank as “basically just a hedonist- a shallow, empty hedonist, but because he's so willful

3 A substitute might be the Thinker’s tinkler. 4 Or this one- though removing a reference to the name of the neighborhood as Buggery Alley probably increases its chances. and gorgeous, you want to forgive him.” Of the many Franks over the years, Richard called out David Bedella’s as “reserved and sexy and charming and dangerous,” but for his favorite Frank he said, “I think we have to start with Tim, don’t we? It was a definitive performance.” While Curry breathed life into Frank, the character’s physicality and fashion sense owed to an American rock star, and Richard said, “Alice Cooper was obviously somewhere in my mind at the time.” Cooper’s breakthrough album “Love it to Death” came a couple of years before, in 1971- though it was some time before Richard noticed in his notes that he’d initially described Frank as “a kind of Alice Cooper type person.” In the 90’s, Richard wrapped his fishnetted legs around Frank himself, and found he “did enjoy playing Frank, actually, and I had a lot of fun.” He decided if he was going to return to Rocky Horror, he’d “have some fun and play Frank, in that case. If I’m going to go do it, then I may as well get the best songs and strut around in a pair of high heels.” His fascination with gender reversals doesn’t seem to have dissipated through the years, as his most recent role was a turn with Danny Glover in Night Train as Mrs. Froy. Richard’s part isn’t meant to be in drag, but was an attempt at pulling a noncomedic Eddie Murphy, though he was less enthusiastic about his results in the film, and explained, “I wasn’t very good. I was trying to pass as a woman without the question ever arising in anybody’s minds. And I think we both- me and the director- were asking for the impossible.” Yet, he still finds a break with his deity too drastic a step, and says he’s, “I'm not really mature enough to dispense with the concept of God.” Perhaps Richard’s gender-bending is simply an indication that he’s in touch with his feminist side, “The oddest thing about the human being is that we are a sentient species who kind of decides that strange societal agreements are better to us, church certainly comes into play, to think that men are superior to women are odd. Debasing 50 percent of the species doesn't seem to make much sense to me. I think that we're fucking mad- because we don't open up enough, we're not free enough and open enough with our reality. We're so used to duplicity, and deception and lying bastards in society. We've lost our way, I'm afraid, if indeed we ever had it.” Even when playing male characters, there’s an angular androgyny to him, like Richard is the forebear of a monosexual future humanity. No place else is this better displayed than in Dark City, where he plays the borderline date-rapist creepy Mr. Hand. In an effort to track down a telepathic human, Hand injects the memories of a manufactured serial murderer, and embraces the macabre hobby for himself. Richard said of the role, “It was interesting acting without emotion. It's what [Bertolt] Brecht always wanted his actors to do... You've got to have depth, and playing Mr. Hand with a blank face, blank eyes, empty, vacuous, and still look as if you were acting or give a performance- that was the trick, really, whether or I pulled it off or not I don't know.” When asked about MTV’s remake of Rocky Horror, which has irritated the Rocky Horror fan base worse than an ill-fitting set of stilettos, he replied rather diplomatically, “I know nothing about that, and I prefer to keep it that way. That’s all I can say, I’m not going to involve myself in the machinations or whatever, so not for me.” But then, he couldn’t help himself: “Anyway, unless of course what they did was, I don’t know what you can do, new girlfriend and a new story, modernize it, perhaps, I don’t know, anyway. I’m talking about it- stop it- go away.” The fabled Rocky Horror 2 (and various other genuine sequels- and no, Shock Treatment doesn’t count) has been under development for more than a decade, and many feared that it was never going to happen, that like da Vinci’s risqué “Mona Lisa 2: Her Lower Smile” or Michelangelo’s “David less flaccid,” it was doomed to alternate histories or secret Vatican archives. Richard assured this was not the case, that “As we’re speaking here I’m supposed to be writing a song at the moment and I’m afraid that I’ve gone into a black hole with this fucking song so I’m doing everything to avoid confronting the problem, really. I don’t know what I expect, it’s going to come out of some hole, out of left field and hit me. I don’t know what’s going to happen really; it’s a bit boring.” At the suggestion of perhaps using songs that he had crafted for other plays or performances, he said, “Maybe I should revisit some old songs, fit them in, whether they like it or not, shoehorn them in.” Richard’s career showcased a long list of talents, and an even longer list of appreciations. He’s almost certainly too modest (and almost channeling Groucho Marx) when he says, “I appreciate musicians- real musicians- very much, and I would never call myself a musician, but I’m musically inclined. I’m musical, if you like. But I have too much respect for musicians to label myself a musician.” “I’m very fond of draftsmanship and drawing, I’m very fond of the craft and the artisan at work. I like illustrators very much. I can push a pencil round a bit, and sometimes I get lucky,” but when it comes to fine art, “I just don’t get it.” He elaborated, “Art is, I guess, a craft that transcends mundane craft…” For the fruits of his myriad talents he admits there’s always a parachute. “If it’s going to be bad, it’ll never see the light of day… Always the waste paper bin- never forget the waste paper bin.” Then he added, with admirable humility (and humanity), “If you go through this and you decide there’s nothing for an article, don’t worry, you’re not going to hurt my feelings.” But when it comes to Richard O’Brien, I think it’s safe to say we can forget the damned waste paper bin. Green Thumb

Dagney Morgan nursed her third coffee of the morning, though her first still hadn't kicked in. She didn’t like being up this early, let alone at work, but her upstairs neighbor’s cat had been hunting a rat in the wall all night. She figured if she was going to be miserable, she had more practice at that in the office. That didn't mean she disliked her job. She actually had a knack for doing paperwork, and her inner anal retentive got a thrill from filing reports away in the office cabinet. And she loved her boss, even though sometimes his voice set her on edge, particularly on mornings like this one. “Dagney?” he asked from behind her, and her shoulder tightened. Her parents named her for Dagny Lind, a Swedish actress her father said looked exactly like her mother in Ingmar Bergman’s Crisis. She hated it, because people always assumed she was named after Dabney Coleman- or worse, started to imagine a physical resemblance. “Dag?” Her boss, Martin Sharpe, asked again. He was older, and had a dour nature, as though he'd just stepped out of an Edgar Allen Poe story. He reminded her of Vincent Price- though maybe that was just the pencil mustache. “Sir,” she said, her mind still on the reports she’d been trying to read. “I keep getting pissy messages from McLoughlin’s superintendent. Have you and Nelson checked into that?” “Uh,” she stalled, but even with the necessary caffeinated fuel, her brain engine was having trouble turning over, “refresh my memory.” “Merek’s farm. Sits on land adjacent to the aquifer that services the district where the middle school is. If he’s abiding by the regulations, nothing should be getting past the aquitard.” “I think he prefers to be called Aquaman, or maybe King of Atlantis- I mean, either would be more politically correct than 'aquitard'- even if we suspect he’s falling down on the job.” He had a dry, almost British sense of humor, but he didn’t even give her a smile; maybe his coffee hadn’t kicked in, either. “Nelson swung by there last Thursday, but Merek wasn’t in,” She said, and pretended to look at the calendar on her desk, to confirm what she’d just made up. Nelson had been face down in her sofa cushions last Thursday- sleeping off a night of binge drinking that made him reek of goat cheese- which at least meant she knew she wasn’t likely to be called out on the lie. “I need the both of you to head out there today. We can’t have that idiot spilling captan into the drinking water again- or heaven forbid something worse.” Dagney stood up and wrapped her coat around her shoulders, while she watched him walk back to his office. She grabbed her keys and the bagel she still hadn’t started eating, then lingered a moment to look at Nelson’s empty desk, and sighed. She called him from her car, but didn’t have the energy to feign surprise when she got no response. She put in a call to Merek, too; her father always told her showing up unannounced out past the suburbs was just asking to get shot at. It was almost another hour before her partner finally called back, and by then she was nearly to Merek’s. “What the fuck, man?” she asked. “I fell asleep on the couch- passed out. Muriel wouldn’t let me into bed.” “Can’t say I blame her- I can smell the booze-sweat through the phone. You never made it out to Merek’s, did you?” “Shit.” “Yeah. I’ve been on this dirt-ass road to his farm for forty-five minutes now- and Sharpe thinks you’re in the seat next to me.” He didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did it was a little wounded puppy whimper: “… sorry.” Her grip tightened around the steering wheel, since he wasn’t in throttling distance. “Is there anything I should know here?” she asked, straining not to raise her voice. “Merek’s been dodging inspections, but he’s not a bad guy. Going back ten years, nothing worse than a couple fines for improper chem disposal.” “And the captan incident last year.” “Shit, yeah, that, too.” “How did you forget it? They traced fungicide from the toilets in the VA hospital to his farm.” “So? The EPA downgraded captan to ‘not likely’ a carcinogen. The sweetener in my coffee’s worse. Our veterans might be a little worse for wear, but I don’t think any of them drink from the toilets. Though I guess maybe one of their dogs… okay now I feel sad.” “Even so, the most recent complaint comes from some kids at the middle school who were hospitalized.” “God.” “Yeah. And while he might have cleaned up his captan storage, his permits say he’s also got a metric shit-tonne of fertilizers,” she paused. “Heh.” Then she ramped back up, “But if any kids come down with organophosphate poisoning, no amount of me covering your ass will help.” “Dag- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you in this position.” “No, you shouldn’t have. And you should dwell on that while I’m cleaning up your mess.” She was being cruel, but it wasn’t anywhere near the first time he’d left her in the lurch; in fact, she had a hard time remembering the last time he hadn’t. His continuous fuck-ups were easily the most consistent thing in her life. Rob Merek’s land was one of the few family owned farms left in the county. It wasn’t well kept; Merek’s father was a decent businessman but a lousy farmer, and managed to pass only the latter skill set to his son. The younger Merek had learned how to avoid scrutiny, and he made sure his pesticide license was up to date, since that was an obvious way to call attention to himself, but Dagney saw a half-dozen potential violations just driving by his grain warehouse. She pulled up to his modest house, at least half of which looked like it was patched with old fence boards. There was no ringer, so she knocked with the flat of her palm. No response. She knocked again, louder this time. “Department of Agriculture. You’ve got an inspection.” She heard the heavy thudding of bare feet on hardwood floors, then the door swung wide. Merek wasn’t wearing anything, unless Dagney counted children's tube socks with blown out elastic or a pair of too-small boxer shorts clinging for life to one ankle- which, on a moment's reflection, she did not. More disturbing, he seemed to be covered in a sticky, green semi-transparent fluid from the middle of his chest to his knees. “I’m with the Department of Agriculture, here for an inspection.” “Got all my permits,” he said, and started scratching himself. Vigorously. “That’s correct, but this is a surprise inspection.” He eyed her suspiciously, then looked down at his own nudity. “I like to be naked,” he said, matter of factly. “I need to see where you store your FIFRA applicable chemicals,” she said firmly. He squinted hard at her, and his entire face scrunched up. He took a big, deep breath, and his eyes closed; Dagney began to wonder if she was going to have to resuscitate him. His eyes burst open with the speed of a frightened rabbit, and they had that kind of panic in them, too. His mouth hung open and his tongue moved spastically around, until he asked, too loud: “Why can’t you people let me be naked?” “Sir, I’m not the police. But I do need to inspect your fertilizers and pesticides. You certainly have the option to put on pants- I’d consider it a personal kindness if you did - but the decency of your exposure is kind of beyond my purview.” “You’re purty,” he said, and put his hands in a grabby motion and started pushing them towards her chest; she seized his wrist, and twisted it up and back, forcing him down to one knee. “Now that I won't tolerate,” she said. She'd carried cuffs ever since that potfarmer nearly broke her wrist the year before, and she retrieved them from her belt. “For my safety, I’m going to cuff you.” She clipped the cuff around the wrist she had hostage. “You’re not under arrest, but given the state of things I think we’ll both be safer this way. Would you like to at least pull up your underpants before I put on the other cuff?” “Yes ma’am,” he said, chastened. He stood up into a squat, and with his free hand wriggled the boxer shorts around his tube-socked foot, then around his bowed legs. She tried to focus away from the sausage stuffing that was him pulling on those boxer shorts- they must have belonged to the same child as his socks- and asked, “You still storing your pesticides in the little red barn on the south side of the property?” “Yes,” he said, but realized too late maybe he shouldn’t have, and followed it with “ma’am,” as calmly as he could. “Are you on anything right now?” “No ma’am,” he said. But his eyes flicked quickly from the extreme left to the right, and his pupils were so wide they reminded her of a mosquito overfeeding until it burst. “I’m not DEA- I don’t give a crap,” she said. “But unless you’re on something, then that miosis- the dilation of your pupils- might mean organophosphate exposure. And you’ve been salivating. Maybe you’re hungry, maybe you’re just a drooler- I don’t know you well enough to judge- but that also hints at organophosphates. When we’re done here, you should get yourself to a doctor, just to be sure. Now if you'd be so kind as to lead the way.” He hobbled past her. “How much do you know about the history of organophosphates?” she asked, and he shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt. “They come from World War 2 Germany. They were being researched as pesticides, but the Nazis diverted them into nerve agents instead. VX has a similar pedigree, actually.” Dagney stopped as they got closer to the barn. “See, I already have a problem here. There’s 350 feet from this barn to the aquitard- see that marker there? And it’s supposed to be down slope, which clearly it is not. That's how captan flowed into it last time.” Merek fell in behind her as she berated him. “But what really irritates me, is that these are all things noted in the assessment after your spill last year. It really is like you’re looking for reasons for me to kick your ass- with paperwork, obviously, and not my dainty little girl feet.” She stopped when they got to the barn. The door was already open a sliver, and Dagney reached for the handle to pull it open enough for them to enter. Suddenly Merek kicked at her, only managing to throw himself off balance; he fell hard into the mud, soiling his off white underpants. “Don’t touch her! You can’t touch her! She’s mine!” Dagney noticed several leafy vines trailing out of the open door; they had kept it from closing all the way. They ended at the corner of the barn in a dome of leaves, propped up with chicken wire and sticks. She could make out several different varieties of plants by the leaves: pumpkin, cucumber, squash. Dagney opened the barn door, and felt for a switch in the dark. The lights were on a dimmer, which had apparently last been set to mood lighting, and as she turned around she understood why, and gave up on wanting to see better. Strewn about the floor were a woman’s clothes: red stiletto pumps, a red miniskirt and an even mini-er top. There was a “woman” lying on a pink flannel blanket, mostly stained the same deep green as Merek's groin. A pair of red silk stockings were stuffed with vines, torn under vinyl, crotchless panties; a matching bra was filled with hefty green winter squashes. Between them a still-growing pumpkin torso made her almost look pregnant. Her arms were cucumbers tied together by their vines. Her head was a turban squash turned on its side. Its lumpy top almost resembled a face, and there was a heavy lathering of eye shadow and smeared lipstick painted over it. Green tendrils mixed with an auburn wig, giving it the appearance of dreadlocked hair. The vegetable doll lay peacefully back with its legs splayed; there were dents from a pair of big knees in the flannel between them. Dagney put the doll out of her mind, but focused on the green sludge it was soaked in. The oily gel was pooling in various places on the ground inside the shed. It seemed to be leaking from a variety of different canisters: poisons, pesticides and chemicals. At that moment, Merek burst into the room. In stumbling to his feet, he’d managed to drag his boxers back around his right ankle. “I love her!” he bellowed, and the words seemed to jiggle with his bare belly and engorged member as he ran towards Dagney. She moved to the side and Merek smacked straight into a post and collapsed to the ground. “Those pesticides are leaking into the groundwater. We think they’ve made some kids at McLoughlin Middle School sick,” she said. She was angry, as much about him possibly poisoning kids, as him charging at her like a pissed off green unicorn. His tears formed a river with the blood flowing from his lip. “You don’t have to tell me about my land. I worked this land my whole life. I know my land. Biblically.” Dagney sighed. “No person shall transport, store, dispose of, display, or distribute any pesticide or pesticide container in such a manner as to have unreasonable adverse effects on the environment. I’m pretty sure that was an attempted assault, too. Now you are going to be arrested- or fined, at least.” Dagney put a hand under his sweaty arm and pulled him up. He stumbled groggily, and she led him outside. “Sit,” she said, and set him flat against the side of the barn. With his hands cuffed behind him, unless the big man was a contortionist, he wasn’t getting up without help. She called hazmat and the sheriff’s office, and was about to dial Nelson when she heard a cracking sound from inside the barn. She thought it might be one of the aging pesticide containers rupturing. “Crap,” she said, “exactly what I need.” She hurried inside and scanned the chemical drums that lined the barn. While several were in disrepair, and a couple were even leaking from pinholes, none had broken open. Her eyes scanned the room for movement, and she listened for the sound of fluid running. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the vegetable doll shaking. She winced, at the thought that Merek had shoved a vibrating sex toy into it, and couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than just burrowing out a little hole. But there wasn't that telltale rumble coming from it. As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she could make out a wide fracture split down the center of the pumpkin belly, like tangerine lightning. A hunk of the orange skin surrounding the crack swelled outward rhythmically, then receded, each pulse distending the fruit further. It broke open. An infant tumbled out of the pumpkin womb. It was entirely human save for a green complexion and soft tufts of clover on its head instead of hair. It gurgled at her, spitting out seeds and stringy pumpkin flesh. It propped itself up on chubby arms to take in the world, and crawled out of the pumpkin shrapnel to get a better view. Then its hands slipped out from under it, and the baby fell onto the dirt. It regarded her curiously a moment, and began to wail. Instinct grabbed hold of Dagney, and she rushed over to the infant, and took it up in her arms. The child stopped crying as soon as she started to bounce it against her shoulder. She could feel pumpkin juices soaking through her clothes- at least, she hoped it was just pumpkin juices. It didn't feel warm, anyway. She made a scrunched up face, and the child scrunched its face, too. Dagney didn’t know much about babies, but she knew that that kind of mimicry usually took months to develop. The child was heavy, too- too big, really- and slowly Dagney assembled the ideas together. Babies weren’t supposed to crawl for months- they even had to be held a certain way because their necks wouldn’t support their gargantuan heads. That meant the child wasn’t a newborn- not in the usual human sense, anyway. Dagney continued to bounce the child and turned and stared at the cracked open pumpkin. She sympathized with its emptiness. She'd been told from a very early age that she could never have children, and so she'd expended much effort convincing herself that she didn't want any. But now, holding one so alone, she couldn't lie to herself anymore. She stroked her fingers through its clover hair, and the baby blew pumpkin pulp spit bubbles at her. She smiled. Her happiness dove suddenly into an icy bath of dread as her mind jumped between a dozen schlocky horror movie scenes of questionably credentialed 'scientists' hovering over a table with bone saws, smiling maniacally as lettuce and green juices flew into their faces. Her heart broke at the sound of the infant's shrieks. Dagney realized the noise wasn't only in her mind; the child in her arms was crying, too, because she was clutching it too tightly. She slackened her grip, and looked at the baby's pudgy face. She pursed her lips, and furrowed her brow, and the child’s eyes got wide. Dagney knew how long responders took, and that she wouldn’t have long to conceal the child. She wrapped it in her coat and walked out of the barn. Merek was still lying where she’d left him, and snot poured out of his nose. “You can’t have her… you can’t take her away…” he blubbered. Dagney paused for a moment, thinking he meant the baby, and horror shivered through her. She unconsciously clutching the child closer to her chest. “I’ve never loved any woman like I love her. Those legs. That nasty little mouth, and those tits,” he strained, trying to pantomime breasts, but he couldn't with his hands cuffed behind himself, so he stuck out his own chest, instead, and swung his own man-breasts from side to side. Dagney sighed, relaxing. He didn't know about the baby, and given his current state, probably shouldn't. She carried the child to her car, and built a little nest in the floorboard for it, using paperwork and her coat. “Babies like nests, right?” she asked. The child cooed at her. “I'll take that as a maybe,” she said. She covered the baby with a manila folder, and stood up as the hazmat crew arrived in a county fire truck. “Morning, Dag,” Annie, the firewoman in charge of the hazmat crew said with a wave. “Yeah, not so much,” Dag replied, gesturing to the stains on her shirt. Annie was a big woman with blond hair and a hard face. Dagney could have pictured her in a Victorian dress, and had no doubt she would have been considered very pretty in that era. At least until she stuck out her tongue and said, “Yuck. You want us to break out the decon shower?” “Naw,” Dagney said. “I don't think I got hit with the worst of it. I can probably strip out of my shirt for the drive home. Plus, you know, I'm not crazy about the idea of being naked around this many men.” She gestured at the rest of the crew filing out of the truck. “And speaking of men to be naked around…” Annie said, nodding in the direction of an arriving sheriff’s department patrol car, “looks like Officer Man-Candy just arrived on the scene.” Dagney gave her a confused look. “He's a sweetheart. And I'm sure he'll need your statement. And maybe your number.” Dagney walked over to the squad car as a deputy with a warm tan exited. He smiled awkwardly at her. “Dagney?” he asked. She nodded. He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “I'm Deputy Marco. Um, dispatch couldn't stop laughing long enough to tell me what's going on.” “Probably best I just showed you, then,” she said. She walked him past hazmat in their yellow suits. “Um, do we need to be taking extra precautions?” he asked. “Not much in the way of fumes,” she said, “so unless you're planning on rolling around in the spills, or helping with the cleanup, you're good.” Hazmat had already turned the lights all the way up, so the deputy could immediately see the doll laid out on the floor. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked. “If you think it's a vegetable sex toy, then yes.” “And just so I'm 100% crystal, because I'm sure there are going to be questions at the office, that's not an unconscious person, it's literally vegetables, as opposed to animals or minerals?” “Veggies, of the major food group variety,” she said. “Is that a crime? I’ve got a pretty good handle on the penal code-” “Handling the penal code…” she snickered. “Given the circumstance, I probably could have phrased that better. But so far as I know what happened between a person and their cucumbers in the privacy of their own, uh, barn…” “Not a crime as far as I'm aware. And, you know, normally, I wouldn't have called at all, but he kind of attacked me. Ran at me, actually. Which I might normally shrug off, but he's pretty out of his gourd, right now.” “Nice.” “Probably from exposure to the chemicals he's storing, which might be ironic, since I'm here investigating those chemicals maybe getting into other people's drinking water. But I figured we could use your help, cause in this state he's kind of likely to hurt himself or maybe some of the responders.” “Serve and protect, right there on the back of my squad car,” he said with a smile. “So where's my perp?” “Just outside.” She walked him back to where Merek was sitting. “See, I'd noticed the chubby naked man on my way in, but you were playing it up mysteriously, and I thought there'd be some grand reveal as to the importance of this character. Something grander than just telling me, 'Oh, he's outside.'” She grinned, and shrugged. “I had fanfare planned, a musical number, fireworks. But then we went over-budget, and the union started complaining about working conditions, and I figured maybe this time less was more.” Marco hunched over to talk to Merek. “The lady tells me you tried to hurt her. That true?” he asked. “She's my property!” Merek said loudly. “I assume you don't mean the woman standing next to me, but the tart in the red lingerie.” “She's a lady!” he yelled. “Guy only seems to have the one volume, and a moist volume at that,” Marco said with a grin. He stood back up and turned his attention to Dagney. “I assume you're filing a report with your home office. Can I get a copy?” “Sure.” “That'll probably suffice for a statement. If I need anything else, I can always get in touch. Lean forward,” he said to Merek, inspecting Dag's cuffs. “Good, you've got the double-sided locks. Makes my job easier.” He slid his own cuffs onto Merek's wrists, just below Dagney's. She handed him her cuff key, and he unlocked hers. He gave her back her key and cuffs. He put a hand under Merek's arm and pulled him up to his feet. “Come on, big guy. Now you're under arrest. You shouldn't say anything incriminating. You also shouldn't try to get any of your green ooze on me- because that probably counts as assaulting an officer- and my report’s already weird enough as it is.” “I love her,” Merek bellowed. “Right,” Marco said, “no chitchat.” “Aren't you going to,” Dagney gestured to the underpants stuck to his left ankle, “you know, give the man back his dignity?” Marco sighed, and retrieved a pair of latex gloves from his belt and slipped them on. Then he kneeled next to Merek. He winced as he stretched the boxers wide, to give Madsen a hole. “Step through,” he said, and started to thread Merek's legs into his underpants, “and you better think unsexy thoughts, sailor.” Marco got the underpants up around Merek's haunches, and pulled his fingers free quickly enough that the elastic snapped. “Sorry.” He walked Merek towards his squad car. He squinted. “Crap.” He let go of Merek. “You stay here a second,” Marco said, and walked back around to his trunk. “He kicks,” Dagney warned. “And no kicking,” Marco said, pointing his finger at Merek to drive home the point. He retrieved a plastic sheet from the trunk and laid it across his back seat. “There. Now slide in, and try not to get your juices on anything.” While Merek wobbled inside the car, Marco asked, “You wouldn't think I'd need to ask people not to spread their juices around in my car, would you? But even asking politely doesn't stop some people.” “I'm sorry,” Merek blubbered. “Please don't take her away from me. I'll, I'll clean up my chemicals, and fix the drainage, and whatever the EPA lady wants, just please, please don't make me be alone anymore.” The rest of his pleading was lost as Merek started to bawl. Marco winced at the thought of even asking it on the deranged man's behalf, but took one more look at the sobbing man, pressing his eye juices against his window, and knew he had to. “Is there anything in that… thing we might need for evidence?” Most of her instincts told Dagney they should burn it- the plants would be better off as ash than as Merek's slutted up screwcrow, but something in his quivering face made her relent. “I can’t think of a reason, no. Besides, I like you too much to ask you to scoop it up and put it in little evidence baggies.” Merek’s eyes welled up with joyful tears that spilled over his face, and cascaded down the windows in green waterfalls. “So many juices,” Marco muttered. “Thank you,” Merek said. Dagney bent down to look him in the face. “I’m pretty sure that’s the organophosphates talking, and that once you’ve got your brain unfried, you’re going to go back to eating your vegetables in a nonsexual way.” Merek blinked at her, and she worried she may have talked him out of getting treatment, as she turned towards her car. “I’ll send you a copy of my report, Deputy…” she stared down at the card he'd given her. “Just call me Marco, and pretend the long string of consonants after that doesn't exist. And I'll look forward to it.” He smiled. She blushed, and then Annie walked past, winking at her through her hazmat helmet and Dagney felt self-conscious. She slunk to her car and started it up. Marco watched as she pulled off Merek’s property and pointed her car back towards town. When Dagney got on the main road, she called Sharpe. “Dagney?” he asked. “I was about to call you. Lab results came back from the McLoughlin drinking fountains; it was crypto, so Merek’s off the hook. But you square things there?” “Yeah. He had a pile of violations, and things went a little sideways. I had to bring in the sheriff- a deputy, anyway; Merek tried to jab me with his green thumb. I’m pretty sure my clothes are soaked in poisons and I’d like to go throw them in the wash. You mind if I email my preliminary report from home?” “Sounds fine,” he said. “But what were you saying about his green thumb?” “He was covered in pesticides and plant juices- dyed green. And he had a rage-on,” she winced, “an anger erection. He charged at me with it, like the unholy offspring of a rhinoceros and the Jolly Green Giant.” “Oh,” he said flatly. “And where was your partner during all of this?” “He got called away en route, farmer had some livestock acting funny; at the time the inspection seemed pretty routine, so I told him I’d handle it. And from what he told me it ended up being a calf with some indigestion- probably not even worth writing up.” Sharpe paused, as if measuring how much of it he was going to believe. “Hmm. Well, good work, anyway.” “Thanks. Bye,” Dagney said, then hung up, and dropped the phone into her passenger seat. It bounced once, then landed on the floor. The baby cooed at her, and wiggled out from under the folder. For the first time since she’d plopped the child down in her car she looked at it, peering at her from behind her gearshift, and asked “What the hell are we going to do with you?”