Sir Glenn Danzig (no relation) is the writer behind Grip Monthly's "Our Scene" column. We join him now, in progress. . .
Cross over children, step into the light. . . and whassup? Danzig here, talking about some of the spooky-ass horse hockey that's goin' on, especially on the tube. To wit: commercials. . . is the Pillsbury ad campaign sexy or evil? On the one hand, there's the Doughboy's coy chats with housewives. . . the husbands are never home. . . his supple, ivory skin. . . on the other hand, his laugh. It sounds like a cry for help. . . pleading. . . as the gigantic, sharp-nailed finger descends upon him one more time, you can almost hear him screaming that terrified squeal: "Not in the abdomen again oh God not again YAAAAHH!". . .reports say he tastes like banana. . . I'm thinking there's a fair amount of evil there, then. But like every yin has its yang, and every spanky's has its Macado's, the Pillsbury Doughboy has that jaded old nun who talks smack for Christ over on EWTN. . . and here's something interesting: Live are not really "live" at all. . . they're shaved robot monkeys from beyond the Dark Planet. Their mission: to annoy the living piss out of me. . . Youth wants to know: what exactly is between Simon Rex's ears? Recent spectrographic tests have an answer: 18% snips, 16% snails and 14% puppy dog tails. The rest? Hair. . . there's a 7% margin of error on that result, however, as the research team was hypnotized as one when they stared into Rex's eyes, which are vacant, howling orbs of perfect vacuousness. . . Here's a tip: next time someone asks you, "Working hard or hardly working," answer the way I do. Hit them in the teeth and run away, laughing. . . Congrats go out to Patrick O'Rourke (you don't know him) and Jeanine Cassar (many of you know her as Jeanine Garofalo), getting married this month. And, hey, kids, the parents be damned-- if you want "Whirling Hall of Knives" by the Butthole Surfers as your first dance, you go ahead. . . oh, and if you're getting them flatware, they have the "Hungry Man" pattern registered at International House of Pancakes. . . Never let it be said that Grip shirks its responsibility to entertain and educate. So, right now, I'd like to show you how to say, "My ass is on fire" in American Sign Language. Ready? Hands poised? OK, watch:
Oh, sure, you're laughing now, but you just wait until your rear catches aflame next time you try to torch an emission at a Gallaudet frat party, then you'll be sorry. . . boy, were faces red over in France last week, when they suddenly realized that they're French. "Zut," they all, each one of them, cried, at once. "Zut! Zut!" Nobody seemed to care. . . Let's face facts: the French were the butt of over one-half of all the jokes told globally during the '90's, far surpassing the English and the Belgians. Normally, PC, open-minded multicultural types will savage the French in normal conversation, for no reason, even though they've never been to France, never met a French person and never even heard of impressionism. And the French aren't taking it lying down, either: in an attempt to be taken seriously, they're going to invade themselves. . . and one last thing (you might notice how I'm coming full circle here, the true sign of a great column and very stupid criminals returning to the scenes of their crimes): what the honking heck is up with the narrator to commercials on the Discovery Channel? You'll see some crocodile hosing a wildebeest and then this guy comes on, slurping about how it's really wild and so on. . . sounds like "Emmanual Visits the Veldt". . . sex and death never seemed so closely linked, at least not since Anna Nicole Smith's last honeymoon with the really old guy. . . look forward to my next column, where we'll be throwing away our tired old trusses. Until then, Danzig say "peace out."
The Esteemed Glenn Danzig (no relation) is responsible for Grip Monthly's utterly irresponsible "Our Scene" column. Let's listen in. . .
Hold the mustard, Doreen, it's Glenn Danzig back to cast caution to the four winds and talk about what's on my mind. . . and what's wrong with that? Nothing, according to the D.A., so let's go. . . Anybody hear about the Dalai Lama? Yeah, in the living room with the candlestick. . . weird. . . but not as weird as Madonna giving birth to a wolverine. The snarling, vicious beast-- Fifi Lourdes, or something-- weighed 12 pounds, four ounces and was subsequently released back into the wild. Even weirder is the interview that the Material Gal gave to "People," where she claims, "It beats the hell out of me how the damn thing got up my snatch." C'mon Maddy, give us some credit. . . sometimes, I'll be just at the edge of sleep, trembling, you know?-- all of the night's dreams barely hushed on the other side of Morpheus' veil-- such a magical moment. . . and every time, just ten, I get a call from local acting legend Sissy Spacek! How she got my number I'll never know, but she just wants to talk about hockey, and when you're talking to a star, you just let 'em ramble. . . hot music buzz has Trent Reznor back in his creepy-crawly studio again. Word is, it's a song cycle about five septuagenarian male pimps with bipolar mental disorders and defective penile implants, and they just can't take it anymore. The working title is "Limp". . . look. . . over there. . . something you don't see that often. . . it's beautiful and it's haunting, but sad. . . a butterfly with wings the exact size, shape and color as Ross Perot's ears. . . Forget I told you this, but "Seinfeld" just isn't all that funny. . . it's just hateful. . . I think it's time we all got together and pitched in to stop the real scourge of our nation's children: Train-Kissing! A moment of thrills, a lifetime of looking for you lips, that's the harsh reality. . . What I want to know is, what the hell was up Cruella de Ville's ass anyway? They were just a bunch of dogs, for crying out loud! Maybe she's allergic. . . that makes sense. . . don't eat the chicken salad, it's not fresh. Do what I do: ask for it, and before they bring it to you--- run!. . . .here's what I think happens: every night, Jeff Foxworthy gets in front of the mirror to think about the day. But when he looks at himself, all he can see is the drowned and bloated visage of Yakov Smirnov. . . and he screams and screams and screams. . . Hey, did I ever tell you how I've got Will Oldham in my basement? Pretty crazy. See, he moved into town to do a concept album with top UVa a cappela songsters the New Dominions. . . and anyway, some homies of mine beat the stuffing out him and now we keep him chained up in the basement. Future plans include his eventual brainwashing (if he doesn't chew his tongue off first, ala "Seven," or didn't you notice how much Willie Boy looks like "Sloth" in that two-thumbs-up, gag-reflex-a-minute extravaganza?) so that he will hunt down Dave Matthews in a beat-up pickup truck, yodeling "Work Hard Play Hard" and swilling tequila. In a perfect world, you could soon be seeing Big Dave chained to the back of a Ram traveling at 50 miles per hour. . . if you catch him at a stoplight, maybe you'll get any autograph. Anyway. . . be sure to read next issue, where I'll be asking the question: "What the #$@*%#% does Greil Marcus know anyway???!!! Ditto Jon Spencer, the Make-Up and all the rest of those 'holes who went to good colleges. Why do they get away with that? Every time that your Danzig tries to wear flares, we get assaulted by Young Democrats. And others.
Some things just don’t seem fair. Y’know? There’s the whole world famine thing, and the wanton rape of the the environment and the fact that we all become the thing we most despise, just like the poet said. But what really isn’t fair... what makes me just want to pee... well, I’ll tell you. The other day, I’m walking along, wondering when it was exactly that all the birds in my neighborhood organized into armed gangs, and this bint drives by in a Saab. And the license plate says... wait for it... "MY SAAB". Well, no shit. What the hell you trying to say? It ain’t my Saab? Up yers, missy... so I danced and I prayed and I waved my John-the-conqueroot with stereo-surround action. And you know what? The wrath of God was still not visited upon the unrighteous heathen... and, you know, that, that’s something that’s not fair. But here’s something that is... me... yeah, me, saying, "Wassup!" Big Glenn Danzig here, all rights reserved, all wrongs served up, take a left at the 7-11 and go about a mile, you can’t miss it. And I’m thinking about local music this time, because there’s this thing down in Richmond, full of industry and cool bands and nicely-scented hairspray, like the kind Charo uses, but I wasn’t invited because I don’t exist. And, so, of course, I find myself thinking first about Tokyo Rose, the little club that never brought my dream ticket of Harry Pussy, Anal Cunt and True Love Always together. It seems that club impressario Darius Van Arman is ending his two-year long love affair with losing obscene amounts of money, and the basement club is returning to its roots. Come August, look for a long procession of acoustic raves. First on the books: "A Rave Called Killdozer", which will involve Wendy Repass, Gretchen Casler of Baja Bean open-mic night, 360 bpm, and a variety of high-powered, flesh-slicing lasers which will maim or kill everyone in attendance. And many of those lasers will have me on the trigger, laughing and screaming and drooling an unholy mixture of Crazy Horse and Rohypnol down my natty Prodigy t-shirt... One thing I’ve noticed about the local music scene: Richmond has all the cool band names, and Charlottesville has all the cool band hair. Harrisonburg has all the cool kids. I don’t know what Blacksburg has. Lynchburg doesn’t have anything except complete and utter dingleberries (excepting you, of course). But let’s break it down on the first two... Richmond has band names like Hell Mach 4, More Fire for Burning People, Mao Tse Helen... these are names that only a large professional arts school like VCU could give us (Unfortunately, none of them are the coolest band name ever. The coolest band name ever is Electric Light Orchestra. No "The Electric Light" et cetera. Just... ELO. I am the only person to have ever noticed this). Wheras C-ville just has... Charming. Big whoop. Oh, yeah, and the Curious Digit, which either sounds like an autopsy film or a finger-fuck fetish mag, but not quite as fun as either. On the other hand, we do have the hair. In Richmond, nobody in any band has any hair. That includes the women. What hair there is lacks bounce and volume. But who could overlook hair-giants such as Silver Jew and aluminum-record winner David "Giggles" Berman, whose facial foliage graced a Rip Magazine spread on the resurgence of beards in rock (note: I am not making this up. It’s the issue with Rob Zombie on the cover... what do you mean, "Which issue with Rob Zombie on the cover"? There’s only twelve, look it up)? And don’t forget all the people in the funk bands, of which C-ville has one million at last count...Running out of room here, so I’ll just throw something at you... just a thought, something to ponder while you’re picking the salami out of your teeth... the concepts of "cyberspace" and "web-zines" are as trustworthy as "junk bonds" were for the 80’s, and roughly as profitable... trust me, I sleep with stockbrokers... hey, my Mom turns fifty in a couple of hours so I gotta go hose off the Lincoln convertible with the suicide doors and take her for a spin... Danzig say, "We out,"ª "Peace"ª