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Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine Volume V, Issue 7, AD MM Thursday, June 8, 2000 ISSN 1482-0471 ------------------------------------------- Germans: "Bitte! Bitte!" American (after shooting them dead): "I wonder what bitter bitter means." ------------------------------------------- "I like goats, cause if you draw something stupid, they don't yell at you. They eat it". ------------------------------------------- 1. Editorial 2. Domesticated 3. Searching for Rikki Rockett 4. Romance 5. This, That, Your Momma's Fat ------------------------------------------- This week's Golden Testicle award: http://www.club13.com/stealth.htm Stealth drug paraphernalia ------------------------------------------- 1. Editorial By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro I know, this issue has been delayed. It's my entire fault. Mea culpa, mea grandissima culpa. Everyone else submitted their material, and even provided stuff for the next issue. But I've been busy, my computer was in the process of being upgraded, I had to go through all the fun and games that Windows enjoys putting me through (yes, I know there is Linux, and I use it, but for some things, I need Windows, don't bug me now) making me realize at each step why I hadn't upgraded for so long... if it works, don't fix it. My girlfriend finally returned from her vacation after five weeks, freeing me from deprivation and cold showers. So things are relatively back to normal, except for the occasional message via ICQ or e-mail that goes something along the lines of "Where's CoN?" with of course a few more colourful metaphors thrown in (message for you people: shut the fuck up). Add to that some random insanity that seems to plague my life: my phone number belonged to a Michael DeSilva. Michael gets a lot of calls from giggly, under-aged girls. Michael gets a lot of calls from Royal Bank as well. While the giggly, under-aged girls clearly know that I am not Michael, Royal Bank doesn't. Royal Bank's clerks are starting to dislike Michael DeSilva. I'm starting to dislike giggly, under-aged girls calling at four in the morning. Clearnet, a local cell company, is very unhappy. They are unhappy and they keep reminding me by sending long letters to me. I can tell they are unhappy because I open these letters with my address and Linda Deveau's name on it, because after four months of calling Clearnet and sending their letters back, Clearnet still sends letters. Clearnet also keeps calling my number looking for her. It's my fault, really, for giving it to them; I fucked myself with my own hands. "Can I speak to Linda Deveau?" they go "She doesn't live here anymore" goes I. "Well, if you see her, can you please tell her to call us?" -- which part of "I don't even know who the fuck she is?" did they not understand? On the bright side, after three calls for Michael, I can rest assured the fourth is from Clearnet. I don't have cable. For that, I don't have a telly either, as I entertain myself more sitting on the washing machine. Some call it vibrations; I call it entertainment for my loins with the added bonus of no advertising (unless I close my eyes and then open them again staring at the bottle of detergent in my hands). So my girlfriend expressed the desire of having a television, and I enquired about cable. Well, thanks to the previous owner, a certain Monica Gillis, who did not pay for her cable bill, it seems that the Cable Company doesn't want to service me until I pay. It doesn't matter how little I sound like a woman or explaining that 8 months ago I didn't even live here or that this is the first time I intend to apply for cable. They don't care. They just want their money. And it doesn't fail, once a week, I'll find a notice hanging from my door, looking very much so like those "do not disturb" signs, asking Monica to pay $380 worth of cable. Monica, if you happen to read this, please pay your fucking bill. I used to like banks. Everyone would bitch and complain about their bank, but not I. I had been with the same bank, a Toronto Dominion (TD) branch since I was 14. To give you an example of how good this bank was, I could just show up with no book or card, and they knew already who I was. When I applied for Visa, the manager of the bank wrote a letter to go along with my application to state that I wasn't a criminal, and yes, the boy did work (I still did not get my Visa, but that's another story). Then one fine day, because having more than two banks within the radius of 20 miles is bad, my bank was closed, and my account moved to a far, far away branch. I could've moved my account to a closer alternate bank, but I had been doing all my banking with TD for years and a lot of automated things were taking place with my account and I did not feel like telling a billion people, sending out a million cheques, and doing all that crap again. Sadly, whenever I need to go to this bank, I have to take the morning off from work just to get there. You can imagine I try to go there as little as possible. So I needed some money, and I needed more than my card allows me to take out. I inform work that I'll be late and I head to the bank. Having these people never seen me, fresh off college, tight-assed, follow-the-book, tie-and-jacket clerks start checking on me. These guys' concept of getting laid is to lie between two slabs of cement to mortify the flesh and better perform the next day. These are the kind of people that cry their hearts out on their deathbed because they just realized running the rat-race, well, sucks, and they accomplished very little in their maximum allowed span other than to fuck up my life. My old bank had never updated my signature nor the photo they had requested of me since I was 14. Was there a need? No, of course not, they even knew me by name, where I worked and I'm sure their terminal screen told them things I never cared to share with them. So Anal- Retentive clerk checks out my photo and signature and by-golly, the two don't match. You don't say? Could it be perhaps because I took that fucking photo almost 10 years ago? My signature doesn't match either? No way! I suppose handwriting can improve even for people like me after 10 years. Fortunately after running through every possible test, having me recite things by heart (where do you live? what's your mother's maiden name? where do you work?), and after only making me wait for about an hour that they talked to head office, I finally existed. If you call me, and you hear someone scream "if you are calling for Michael, I ripped his fucking nuts out!" that's me. So, how was your week? Luke de Sade responds to Tess Toth: > chunky and chewy Oh, my God! Can't stop laughing! Maomi writes in regards to Samantha Cragg's "The Artistes vs. The Nice Guys" article: This about artist is very true.....too true it's scary. But have you considered how it is for a girl artiste like myself? It's far less glamorous. I think that the guy's in bands are far more popular than the artists, and if your a girl artist I think people expect you to paint flowers. Or have a boyfriend who is an artiste, but since all guy artistes are jerks, it doesn't happen. And artists ( male or female) who send 8 hours on a canvas, ruin thier hands with turpintine, spill some paint on every piece of clothing they own get no recognition compared to the wasted " punk rockers" who spend 5 minutes on a Korn rip off song, and thier " band practice" is come wasted, get wasted, leave wasted. Pigs!!!! ------------------------------------------- 2. Domesticated By Jason MacIsaac I want to be a house-husband. Or homemaker. Whatever you want to call them. You heard me. The more I run the rat-race, the more this rodent wants to stay home and be a baby factory and scrub toilets, while the Mrs. goes out and becomes the breadwinner. Some people might mistake this for an advanced form of what's known as "Being Pussy Whipped," defined as when the male is so enamoured by his female partner that he prefers Diane Keaton movies over Sergio Leone and John Woo, doesn't mind making trips to the drugstore for feminine hygiene products, won't laugh at blonde jokes anymore, and worst of all, doesn't mind the woman taking initiative in the relationship. What I'm talking about is not that at all, although for the record let me state that being Pussy Whipped is a highly under-rated condition. No seriously, try it some time. But to return to the topic at hand, I want to be a house-husband. I want to make breakfast for my wife in the morning, kiss her goodbye while she goes off to work, do laundry and clean the house, and have dinner waiting for her when she comes home. If there's any time left in the day, I'll spend it writing or watching soaps. Why, you might ask? Well, I don't think a career is particularly rewarding. I am tired of working my soul out just to raise the price of somebody else's stock. I have no desire to wear a suit. I don't want to live in a cubicle and be accused of being unprofessional because I have more than two pieces of paper and a coffee mug visible on my desk, I mean, plywood counter. I don't want to go to meetings and talk about paradigms and synergies and other meaningless bits of babble that make as much sense as when they talk about reversing the polarity of quantum anaphasic warp bubble on Star Trek. Women on the other hand have spent quite a long time breaking into the business world after decades of being locked out, and now that they're in it, many of them are determined to succeed at it. I know some very accomplished women. One runs her own landscaping business. Another is a scientist. If women want to make a career the focus of their lives, I say go for it. But it is hard to have a career and keep up on other aspects of your life, like getting the laundry done. That's where I come in, ladies! Let me stay at home, give me the budget to run the house, and I'll do the cooking and cleaning, massage your shoulders when you come home, and mix you a martini or whatever you like. I'd even be barefoot and pregnant if I could. But you ask, what about my ambitions? What about my job satisfaction? Well, there's no reason why I can't take satisfaction in running a good house. To tell you the truth, that impresses me far more than the brain embolisms I've seen companies produce lately. No, I will not be able to design an operating system while I am busy clipping coupons and watching Martha Stewart for cooking tips. On the other hand, the US Justice department is unlikely to slap me with a lawsuit charging me with cleaning toilets unfairly and driving everyone else who needs to clean a toilet out of business. Different strokes for different folks kiddies. Some people get a sexual thrill from feet. Some people jump off bridges with a thin cord around their ankles for kicks. I could never be happy as the CEO of Pepsi, no matter how disgustingly rich I was. But I think I could be happy as the stay-at- home half of a couple. You might think that nobody can be happy in a career not directly related to their interests. In my experience the opposite is true. As soon as you get paid to do something you like, watch the joy drain out of it like patrons in a movie theater drain out of a Tom Arnold movie. My personal writing output dropped through the floor once I actually landed a job as a pro writer. Author George Orwell loved books and bookshops. Many people do. He was cured of his love for books by working in a bookshop and then by reviewing books. So trust me, if you love to cook, preserve your love it by becoming a road construction manager. Ten minutes of restaurant work will have your ordering pizza for dinner for the rest of your life. If I were a clueless moron who couldn't teach a real subject, I mean, a guidance counselor, I would not try to interest high school kids in an education or career path relating to their interests. It's for their own sanity, because few things are sadder than the death of a much loved hobby. If a kid told me that he liked being outside, liked physical work and was good with his hands, I wouldn't tell him he might consider something in the forestry industry, I'd tell him to become an accountant. Sound cruel? Nope. It will only make his desire for his interests stronger. Being cruel is getting a painter a job painting. Whatever he or she is required to paint will just be a watered down version of their real love. Can a creative painter be happy with a job where they paint office walls with Institutional White, Hospital Green or Soul-Crushing Beige? It would be like curing a bird of its flying habit. You see, I have no desire to clean toilets or do laundry. Not many people do. But it is so far removed from what I like doing that it will only make me appreciate it more. And since what I like to do is write, I spend more time observing things, so I can write about them. Instead of just writing on one narrow focus all the time. Unfortunately, this dream scenario is pretty unlikely. While gender roles have changed quite a bit, there are still lots of old conventions governing the way we interact with each other. Women by and large still do not ask men out for example. If a woman is interested in a man, she can only hint aggressively and hope the dope is smart enough to pick up on it. Very few women feel comfortable enough directly saying "let's date." It does happen though. It happened to me once, and although things sadly did not work out, having the woman ask me out was extremely flattering. My head was so swollen I had difficulty getting into the cab. The other reason that it's unlikely to happen is that it's very hard to run a home on a single income. Especially if you want to have children. Unless one partner makes a lot of money, and I do mean a lot, then it's impossible for either man or woman to stay at home, never mind who wants what. In fact, I did know of one woman who didn't mind the idea of being a housewife, and didn't particularly care to pursue an education or a career. Not a popular view these days, but that's what she said she wanted. And really, if that's what honestly makes her happy (I have no idea if she still holds these views today) shouldn't she have her way? Unfortunately, it's not likely to work that way. When a political movement succeeds in changing laws or viewpoints, there's often a side effect that makes things worse in another way. I'm not saying feminism should be blamed for the fact that most families must be two income. That's a lot like saying that black poverty wouldn't exist if the institution of slavery had never been abolished, because they at least would have been fed or sheltered. My point is that when one group can no longer be exploited, a new form of exploitation takes its place. The sad truth is that women were finally given the vote and a better position in the work place not because the powers that be realized that it really was unfair. It was done because they were tired of the negative publicity. Then somebody noticed that if women had a steady career, they could be taxed more and double income families could suddenly cough up more money for rent... On the plus side, if a woman could support a house-husband, she's probably really well off. Maybe I could be a kept man. Now that would be cool. Single women of the world, how about it? I'm a decent cook and I know to separate lights and darks when I do the wash. Oh yeah, and I don't like football. My mother says that guarantees me a successful marriage. Now taking applications at jason@scriba.org. --- Jason MacIsaac even does windows (not Microsoft). ------------------------------------------- 3. Searching for Rikki Rockett By Samantha Craggs Despite the title of this piece and its resemblance to what I hear is an intriguing movie about a child prodigy, this is not about chess. This is about a quest to meet an aging glam rocker. I am a member of a secret society of twentysomethings who are lurking everywhere, afraid to show themselves for fear of being mocked publicly. I am a former metalhead. When I was a teenager, I had a black leather purse with tassels. I had a leather jacket covered with pins of my favorite bands. I had a metal slut outfit. I called a guitar an "axe." I listened to Winger. I know all the words to Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again" and Lee Aaron's "Metal Queen." But the obsession with Poison was particularly strong. I got turned on to Poison when I was 12 and my friend Debbie and I used to fantasize about losing our virginities to Bret Michaels and C.C. DeVille, respectively. I went to six Poison concerts. I sent Bret Michaels fan letters in envelopes decorated with his favorite colors, purple and black. The last Poison concert I attended was when I was 17 and got busted for climbing the bridge behind the Kingswood Theatre at Canada's Wonderland, scaling the fence and running across the dark lawn so I could sneak into the tour bus. Time may heal a lot of wounds, but it doesn't heal that one. To use another cliche', old habits die hard. I continued buying Metal Edge until about a year ago. The great thing about it was that many of the people who I used to idolize now had web sites, and even better, they answered their e-mail. Rikki Rockett, the fluffy-haired drummer of Poison, is now a web designer. He is also still the drummer of Poison. I went to his web site and sent him a long e-mail about how much his band had meant to me when I was younger, and to my surprise, he e-mailed me back. I was not above phoning Debbie and squealing. She squealed with me. Flash forward a few months and we decided to take a trip to Los Angeles. Rikki Rockett was not the sole purpose of this trip, but I went clutching the address that he had included on the bottom of his e-mail. He's left an address! He really WASN'T famous anymore, was he? We were equal parts fascinated, disgusted and enthused to find that in Los Angeles, the heavy metal thing is still very big. We went to a Liberators show, which featured Phil Lewis, ex lead singer of L.A. Guns, and Brent Muscat, ex guitarist of Faster Pussycat. Japanese fans were there with Camcorders. According to Jena, our friend and tour guide, Brent had a brief stint working at Starbucks. She echoed my sentiments when she deadpanned "Oh, how the mighty have fallen!" We went to The Rainbow Room. We passed The Tropicana. It was like being in a real live Motley Crue song. The address was a road called "Topanga Canyon Boulevard," and when we looked on the map we realized that it was not really a boulevard but more like the Trans-Canada Highway. It started in Malibu, stretched all the way through some Rocky Mountains and ended in Woodland Hills, a little suburb of Los Angeles. Well, this was Rikki Rockett we were talking about. He used to be a rock star. Taking into account the stark white rock-starish houses located on scenic mountains near the coast, we started in Malibu. For an hour and a half we went down a twisting road with hairpin curves, teetering on cliffs, that I thought only existed in movies. For an hour and a half we checked the number of every building, even the countless trailers we passed with what I could only assume had hillbillies living in them. Surprise! The address was in Woodland Hills. The fact that we'd started at the wrong end did not deter us. But when we reached the correct address, it was a Mail Boxes International. I looked around for a dog to kick. Debbie wept openly. Then we got our pictures taken in front of the Mail Boxes International and went across the road under the guise of getting pizza. We were actually staking out the place. The sun went down. We ate our pizza slowly. I went to the liquor store in the same plaza to buy some cheap booze to take back to Canada with me. Walking through the store, selecting my rye whisky, I could feel him. I knew he shopped there. I was getting Rikki Rockett vibes. It was about 9 p.m. when we decided to give up. We flew back to Canada dejected, trying to tell ourselves that at least we saw where he got his mail. We are going to see Poison in Toronto on June 28, when they are playing with - get this - Cinderella, Slaughter and Dokken. I plan to find my black leather purse with tassels. Any contributions of bail money would be appreciated. ---- Samantha Craggs has never pluralized the word "virginity" until now. Visit the homepage: http://www.velvet.net/~samantha. Send a self addressed, stamped e-mail for more ramblings. ------------------------------------------- 4. Romance By IMPROV So I'm on the subway the other day and I see the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.so I follow her.sure she's not going to my stop, but what do I care? This is the most beautiful person I've ever seen, this is my destiny.I can feel it. I'm way to shy to just go up to her, I have to learn something about her before I approach her, if I blow this I'll never forgive myself. She lives in a basement apartment, the windows are small but I'm pretty sure with the right binoculars I can see in from the bushes across the street. God she is beautiful. This is just like the movies, I think to myself. Or that video for that pop song, you know the one where the guy thinks he knows he loves her, even though they've never met. Yeah, that'll be our song. And we'll listen to it all the time, maybe even when we make love.no wait I'm getting ahead of myself.I have to be realistic.she may not like me at all..no that's not possible, this is like a movie, yeah a movie script or something. It's perfect. All I have to do is get to know things about her, you know so we have a few things in common. Yeah maybe it's a little weird to take the same aquafit class as her, but when she finds out that I did it just to get to know her we'll laugh about it with our grandchildren, like a sitcom from the seventies. It'll be just like a misunderstood situation on Three's Company.yeah.I'm like Jack Tripper, except I'm not pretending to be gay, but that's besides the point. She's gonna love it. On our.uh I mean her way home from aquafit she likes to stop at this cute little coffee shop, she orders a low fat no foam latte, and takes it to go. Of course I'm never close enough to hear it, but surprisingly that Whisper 2000 I picked up at the pawnshop works pretty good. I'm not weird or anything, it's not like I use it all the time, I mean that'd be weird. Actually I also have a cassette player with me, most of the time I listen to "our song". Like a movie soundtrack, it sets the tone real nice. I only listen to her when she's interacting with someone..or something, you know like a dog, did I mention she loves dogs? Which could be a problem, I'm allergic, but I don't think her landlord allows pets, at least that's what he said when I asked. I bet she smells nice too. So I'm sitting in the bushes across the road from her apartment, the other day.well I had to.it was Wednesday.Party of Five was on. I think that's her favorite show, she never misses it. I was surprised the pawnshop had such a nice pair of binoculars for so cheap. Anyway, I was sitting there and I thought the most romantic thought ever thought by man.I am going to change my name for her. Well yeah, she doesn't know my name now, but after we fall in love and I tell her that my real name isn't Bailey.it'll be a hoot. I guess I'll pick Bailey, I don't really know any other character names from the show, the Whisper 2000 isn't that good. Maybe she won't like the name.nah.who am I kidding? She'll love it I mean after all she loves me. I've always been a romantic, right from the start, in grade three I followed Julie Strombowski all the way home on the wrong bus, my mom had to pick me up 45 minutes away from home. I got grounded. Maybe I should've learned then. I guess that's why I'm, writing this from here. But think about it, what if she hadda liked me.what if she hadda thought me being the only fat guy in aquafit was cute. I mean it's happened before. In books, movies, t.v., and songs I mean Christ it happens all the time in songs. And what about that commercial where the girl is wearing such nice perfume the guys chases after her and gives her flowers. I tried that once, and let me tell you daisy's taste like shit! So here I am writing it all down.I got a lot of time to do that.oh well maybe they'll make a movie out if it. --- "(Shameless self plug) If you're in Toronto see IMPROV at the Phoenix Concert Theatres Monday's...he'll be the one DJing...any other day, he'll be the one puking on the homeless guy out front." ------------------------------------------- 5. This, That, Your Momma's Fat: Pseudo Movie Reviews by Jeff Wright Whuddup G's? Gonna try and be quick this issue. Don't feel like writing. Go see Titus!!!!!!!!! Read the listings for repertory cinemas around you, and go see it. It's one of the funniest movies, that I've seen in a long time. It's a comedy about evil, and I don't think there are enough around. I don't really know what to compare this to, since it's so original. I guess all I can say is that it's Shakespeare done properly. It's not stuffy in the least, and understands the base emotions and violence that are contained in Big Willie's plays. The film stars Anthony Hopkins, Jessica Lange, Harry Lennix (I really hope to see him in a lot more movies from now on. The guy's brilliant), and Alan Cumming. Everyone in the film delivers a great performance. I'd place this right behind Fight Club, Magnolia, and The Talented Mr. Ripley in the scheme of my favourite films of last year. It's a flat out great film. I've never seen a two hour, forty minute movie that goes buy this quickly. Next on the menu is Mission Impossible 2. What can I say? It's got John Woo action in it. That's about all I can say about it. I'm sure everyone's heard that the first half and a bit is less then enthralling. That's true, but it's entertaining enough, and the last 45 minutes or so makes up for it. It's crammed with fantastic action that kicks all kinds of ass. It's real John Woo. Be sure of that. Don't worry about having your intelligence insulted during the film, by its unnecessary flashbacks. Just turn your brain off, and be happy that there's a new John Woo movie out. I'll recommend one last flic, then that's it for me (Don't get excited. I'll be back next issue. Sorry). Have I recommended Boogie Nights before? If I have, or if I haven't, it really doesn't matter. Boogie Nights is one of my favourite films, and one of the movies I can watch anytime. It doesn't matter if I watched it the day before; I can watch it over again and not be bored for a second. If you haven't seen Boogie Nights, or haven't seen it in a while, go rent or buy it. And as always if you can, please get a widescreen copy. As added incentive, all widescreen versions of the film (save the movie only Dolby Digital and DTS Laserdiscs) have deleted scenes on them. So go get the widescreen VHS tape, DVD, or Criterion Collection LD. In related news, there's a new Special Edition DVD coming out round August or September. Woohoo!!! I've bought the movie three times already in different formats, but I'll buy it again. I love Boogie Nights, and so should the rest of the world. --- Jeff was Chuck Palanchuk's model, in the creation of Tyler Durden. ------------------------------------------- CoN would not be possible without the great help of Scriba Org. CoN: Ya, but where's his pseudocode? -- Gino DiPede Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine "media you can abuse" In memory of Father Ross "Padre" Legere Published every second Monday (or when we get around it) Disclaimer: unintentionally offensive Comments, queries and submissions are welcome http://www.capnasty.org ISSN 1482-0471 A bi-weekly electronic journal. Subscriptions available at no cost electronically. Available on Usenet newsgroups alt.zines and alt.ezines. This mailing is sent exclusively to those poor souls who chose to subscribe to the Capital of Nasty mailing list. Spread the word! If you have friends who would like to receive CoN, ask them to send email to join@capnasty.org. If you'd like to unsubscribe because such email aggravates your Rikki Rockett intolerance, simply send an empty message to leave@capnasty.org. Brought to you by C.C.C.P. (Collective Communist Computing Proletariat) Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro Colin Barrett <leandro@capnasty.org> <tyrannis@capnasty.org> Text issues of CoN are available exclusively at Disobey at: http://www.disobey.com/text/capital_of_nasty ZimID 708EC8D1 1994/09/14 EC B0 97 59 1D FE 7C 32 7E 04 2C 66 47 41 FB 7D