PARAPHILIA V 1 2 CONTENTS Cover art by Chikuma Ashida ―The Ape That Exploded‖ by Ron Garmon Front and back images by Sid Graves p243 Editorial p4 ―Sounds Abound‖ edited by Kate MacDonald ―Brendan Mullen‖ by Johnny Stingray, image with Mary Leary and Craig Woods, art by by Carol Torres p5 Dolorosa de la Cruz p248 ―Elevenses‖ p8 Contributors‘ Links p269 ―A Maudlin Ballad‖ by Jim Lopez p13 Two paintings by Michael Cano p26, p216 Editors ―A Clean Getaway‖ by Charles Platt p27 ―Your Time‖ images by Brian Blur p38, p54, Díre McCain p71, p161, p202, p230, p247 DM Mitchell ―When Graverobbing Goes Wrong‖ by Audree Flynn, image by Brian Blur p39 Kate MacDonald – Musical Editor ―Interesting Times‖ by Andrew Maben p42 Jim Lopez – Columnist & Pistolero ―Mugshots‖ by Guttersaint p51, p125, p224 ―The Whole Goddamn Story‖ by Thomas Hastings p52 Contact Paraphilia ―Assassinations pt1‖ by D M Mitchell, image [email protected] by Chris Brandrick p55 ―On The Fifth Day – Lazarus‖ by Jana, image Website by Chris Brandrick p61 www.paraphiliamagazine.com ―In The Alley‖ by Claire Godden-Rowland, images by Malcolm Alcala p64 www.myspace.com/paraphiliamagazine ―Her Fire Chills Me‖ by Craig Woods, images by Max Reeves p72 Many thanks to; Evita Corby, Derek See, ―Cunt‖ by Sue Fox p86 Richard Meade, David Britton, Michael ―Playing With The Lightning‖ by D M Butterworth, Charles Platt, Chris Mitchell p96 Brandrick, Johnny Stingray, John ―Highway 59‖ – James Williamson Barrymore, Malcolm Alcala, Simon Bell, interviewed by Díre McCain p99 Orb Sinpatrabordee, and Willis O‘Brien. ―Raw Power‖ by David Britton p123 ―Felis Silvestrus Summa Cum Opprobrium‖ by Díre McCain p126 * This issue is dedicated with much love ―Deathwish Chameleon V‖ by Cricket and admiration to Brendan Mullen, who Corleone, images by Richard A. Meade p153 should have been gracing our pages with ―Fuck Tea.Fuck Toast‖ by Salena Godden p162 his words rather than as an eidolon, and ―My Secret Museum‖ by Guttersaint p165 James Williamson, who was born sixty ―The Costa Rica Eight Mile‖ by Gene years ago today. * Gregorits, image by Chris Brandrick p170 ―Automata Exhibition‖ by Pablo Vision, Submissions Siolo Thompson images by p190 ―No Time To Spare‖ by Brian Routh and This a free magazine distributed in the Patricia Wells p194 ―Postatomic‖ by Michael Butterworth p196 interests of giving culture back to the ―The Bromomaniaks‖ by Rick Grimes p203 people instead of the industry. We cannot ―Bridgette In India‖ by Hank Kirton, images pay for contributions to this publication. by Brian Blur p205 However, please see our website for ―Pimp Of The Perverse‖ by Rich Follett p214 details of our other publishing ventures. ―Un Aperativo Col Diavolo‖ by Darius James, images by Destiny McKeever p217 Any opinions or beliefs (religious, political ―Morning‖ by Nick Tosches p223 or moral) expressed anywhere in this ―Invasion Of The Body Snatchers‖ by John publication are not necessarily those of the Barrymore, image by Malcolm Alcala p225 ―A Part Apart‖ by Chris Madoch p231 editors. We take no responsibility for ―Excavated‖ by Claudia Bellocq, image by anything we have published in the interest Malcolm Alcala p239 of the freedom of speech and expression. ―Them‖ by Angela Suzanne p242 3 EDITORIAL Staring at the sun. the prolonged death-by-installments that seems to be our lot? Do we ever find How often we find ourselves doing what it is we are looking for, and do we things – quite deliberately and with full even know what that is? Does it matter? knowledge – that defy what we have Is the search itself, sufficient? been taught to believe is ‘common sense’, things that are really not in our All we know is there is a fire in us that ‘best interests’. burns brightly or dimly yet always burns, and in the end leaves only ashes. Our parents bring us into the world from love or indifference – or often a Let’s start being honest and open about mixture of the two. We then spend the it, stop looking for excuses. Let’s see an next decade and a half being instructed end to the attempt to cover over our true by them, our teachers, the guardians of natures, to pass our vices off as virtues. society, in how to look after and educate Life is hard enough, without having to ourselves, being careful not to bring keep up the pretence of being ‘civilised’ shame on ourselves, our families, or as well. society. In fact, the worst excesses of human Get adequate sleep and nutrition, get a history seem to be at least partially the proper education, or at least a decent job result of denying our true natures, which that will pay for a home and put meals on are quite honestly more complex than the table. Be careful crossing the road. we feel comfortable with. When we try Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t have sex too hard to be civilised, when we deny with just anyone, but if you do, make our destructive sides, we ‘overwind the sure you use protection. Take regular watchspring’ – eventually something has exercise. Don’t drink too much. Don’t to snap, and all too often does. take drugs. Instead, let’s explore openly and Don’t stare directly at the sun. honestly, and share it with others who are in no position to pass judgement Yet time and again we find ourselves themselves. In fact, it may even ease perched at the edge of the abyss, gazing some of the pain of those wounds we down, stomach cramped with nausea yet voluntarily inflict on ourselves from time half-longing, waiting for the abyss to to time. look back into us. Looking and looking for something... There is no need to feel lonely on top of everything else. What is it that modern life has taken from us that’s so precious we would rather throw ourselves in the face of danger, and even destruction rather than accept 4 BRENDAN MULLEN (1949-2009) By Johnny Stingray Photo © Carol Torres First time I laid eyes on Brendan on Brendan‘s crude but spacious Mullen was August of 1977. Kidd basement. Spike, DOA Dan, and I were loading our equipment into a building on The building, aptly called the Cherokee Ave in Hollywood, just off Hollywood Center Building, has a Hollywood Blvd, looking for the door on the Cherokee side – across practice space Kidd Spike had found from Boardner‘s Bar – that enters in The Recycler. We were a fledgling into a narrow vestibule with an band, and practicing in our living elevator. As we climbed into the room had inflamed our already elevator, a skinny and somewhat tenuous relationship with our Santa disheveled young guy quickly Monica neighbors. walked up and slid into the elevator next to us. We had no idea who he Our neighbors insisted we find was. ‗other‘ arrangements for playing loud music, and having no clue He muttered, almost inaudibly, where to turn, we literally stumbled ‖What‘s going on? Where are you 5 headed...?‖ Something like that...in echoing with the sound of drums an undefinable accent... and bass from the other rooms. The occasional laughter from someone in One of us replied that we were going the main room (where the stage to band practice. would soon be built)...the bathrooms still worked and the famous spray ―Oh, really? Who said you could paint graffiti was just beginning to come down here?‖ appear. We thought for a moment we had Brendan was always there in those the wrong place. days. He once took offense that I described him as ‗permanently ―We are supposed to meet some guy disheveled‘, but I remember him named Brendan.‖ wearing the same pair of green polished cotton pants with a broken He gave a quick grin, ―Oh...that‘s zipper for days on end. None of us me.‖ had any money in those days and the ever frugal Scotsman spent his He was very gracious from that money on 2x4‘s and drywall rather point on, showing us the room we than clothing. could use, talking about his plans for the space, and apologizing for the Brendan will certainly be described crude appearance. We didn‘t care. I in the coming decades as the ‗Father paid him in advance for 6 hours at of L.A. Punk‘, whatever the hell that $3.00 an hour or so, as I recall. He means, and while he might not have disappeared until the wee hours of been our Dad as much as an the morning when we were loading indulgent uncle, he certainly out, and I asked him if we could provided the Petri dish that most book the same hours for the next punk rock bands of that era in Los weekend. Angeles were cultured from. Without Brendan and his dedication We didn‘t know until weeks later to keeping the place alive, there that he was actually living there. would have been no melting pot, no The Masque hadn‘t been dreamed crucible, no non-commercial for-the- up yet. This was a dark, low rent fucking-fun-of-it gigs... It would practice space inhabited by the likes have been Whiskey/ Starwood / of The Berlin Brats and their noir Troubadour ad inifinitum. Most of junkie crew, Martha Davis (The would have given up and gone back Motels), various members of an early to our day jobs, eking out a dreary version of the Skulls – and Brendan. existence, and leaving our rock and roll dreams behind us. It was mostly deserted during the Bands that thrived in the fetid hours we were there, the darkness atmosphere of the Masque, the 6 quirky geniuses, oddballs, and art either didn‘t think we were much of damaged misfits would not have a band, or we just didn‘t pique his had a home where they could interest.