HEY, GUESS WHAT?

I aint on your fucking "team." Never have been, never will be. So don't use that fucking word in my presence unless you want me to tear your goddamn throat out and eat it in front of your family. The only "team" I support are individuals who are willing and capable of thinking for themselves. And trust me, if that word is a regular part of your vocabulary, you are not one of those people. Now go die.

THROAT CANCER IS FOR WIMPS!

I have no reason for using that title other than to titillate. Well, also, I think it would have been really cool if Michael Douglas had snarled that line in the new Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. It's too bad he didn't, because that would have been one of the most entertaining things that happened in this colossal mess of a film.

If you're like me (or even if you're not like me, but you still have good taste in movies), you loved the original Wall Street. You loved the tight plot, the fast pace, the genuine white collar suspense, the brilliant performances (especially by Michael Douglas as the incomparable Gordon Gekko), Stewart Copeland's feverish yet haunting score, and the no holds barred portrayal of 1980s Wall Street as a decadent high-tech playground where few rules applied. There was nothing NOT to love about it, really. It was made during a time when captivating an audience with a healthy plot and interesting dialogue was still held in somewhat high regard.

Fast forward to 2010. Films, as most of the more discerning of you already know, have pretty much lost their humanity. Oh, I know there are still exceptions here and there, but for the most part, going to the movies has become a more expensive way of watching a fireworks display. Sadly, Oliver Stone's return to his former glory days is no exception to this unfortunate rule.

The film stars Shia LaBeouf as young Master of the Universe Jake Moore. Moore is meant to be the Bud Fox of this tale, except that unlike Fox, Moore appears to have already hit it big in the finance world, thus lacking the nervous desperation Charlie Sheen brought to his role. LaBeouf is also an uninspiring douche, and trust me when I tell you that quality comes shining through like the fucking Second Coming. Carrie Mulligan plays his love interest, Winnie Gekko, who is also, you guessed it, Gordon Gekko's estranged daughter. The chemistry between LaBeouf and Mulligan is lackluster enough to be the stuff of legend. At not one point in the film did I give two shits about their relationship or what became of it.

But what of the plot, you might ask? Well, that's one of the problems here. The movie can't decide what it's about. Is it an intricate financial cloak and dagger story? Maybe. Is it a story of familial redemption and/or betrayal? Maybe that, too. Is it a love story? Blech, but yeah, maybe so. The financial machinations here are so much gibberish I will not bother to go into them. What is important that you know is that nothing is adequately explained in any of the sub-plots simply because there are too damn many of them. What parts are adequately explained you don't care about because the film never bothers to assign anything resembling humanity to these characters. But then, why should this movie be any different than 95% of the rest of the shit coming out of Hollywood these days. Oh, that's right, it shouldn't. Live with mediocrity. Embrace it, even. This is our America.

EAT SOME KARMA, BITCH

I don't even believe in what westerners typically call "karma," but this shit right here is just too beautiful to deny. Every bullfight should end just like this.

DO YOU REALLY HAVE TO BE AFRAID OF HEIGHTS FOR THIS TO FUCK WITH YOU?

I would almost rather practice law than do this for a living. Almost.

DEAR R&B MUSIC:

Marvin Gaye was killed in 1984. With a few shining exceptions here and there, you have pretty much sucked donkey ass since then. Please give up the ghost and fucking wither away.

tia

LT

PETER SOTOS ON CREATION AND COMPULSION

Transgressive author and pornographic madman Peter Sotos has written some of the greatest....well, I don't really know what the fuck to call it, in decades. His work is truly challenging using every conceivable definition of the word. Although his recent work is, I feel, better than his earlier writings, I would suggest you start with his old fanzine Pure if you want to get a genuine taste of what this man is about.

He also has some very interesting ideas about the nature of creativity, specifically as it applies to him. I suspect, however, that his quote could apply to a great many artists whose work is the product of obsession, dark or otherwise:

"I don't write just to have a book with my name on it. I write because I'm compelled by the intensity, as well as the lack, in the material at hand. I think there's a huge difference in the way I write now and what I'm better known for writing, but I see absolutely no reason to look for a subject to write about or find something I can somehow turn into a book or whatnot. I don't look for new projects or ways to impress or surprise others. I'm not interested in craft. If I'm told I write well, I know that it comes from a passion with the subject. The subject propels the writing and the constant thought. I don't have a need to create something. I have a need to create this."

REIGN IN BLOOD

The year was 1986. Glam metal was taking off, and an aura of vaginal submissiveness ruled metal-land far and wide. Sure, there were fox-holes of hope here and there, offered by the likes of Metallica and Megadeth, but for the most part, a gaping hole existed in metal with little more than a bunch of coke-fueled cross-dressers willing to fill it.

And then came this. Slayer had had a couple previous studio albums; their subject matter was definitely satanic and anti-christian and heavily influenced by their British counterparts, Venom. But production on their early efforts was shoddy, and neither album made a huge mark in the thrash metal scene. But then the boys were introduced to rap producer Rick Rubin and it was all over from there. With Rubin's masterful help, Slayer unleashed 29 minutes of pure, unforgettable sonic hell that sounds as relevant today as it did 24 years ago. The tempo is unbelievably fast, and the sound is tight and oh so to the fucking point.

Never ones to simply dip their toes into the shallow end of the pool, Slayer lets you know right away that you will not be listening to songs about finger-banging sweet Sally in the back of your convertible. "Angel of Death," the album's opening track, is a tour de force into the mind of Nazi sawbones Josef Mengele. The lyrics are bloody and explicit, and, best of all, offer no comforting moral perspective from which to view the atrocities they describe. There is no fucking "message" here. And don't even get me started on vocalist Tom Araya's bloodcurdling scream that gets the track started. Priceless shit.

The closing track, "Raining Blood," starts off with drummer Dave Lombardo's steady pounding, a sound that seems to announce and, yes, welcome the apocalypse. In the background, a rain that can be called anything but gentle can be heard. The lyrics are a true end-of-the-earth nightmare, but also ambiguous enough for Tori Amos to include it in her album of cover songs.

What Slayer achieved with this masterpiece is to create the most intense metal album released up until that time, and to do so with relative commercial success. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the album was released in the mid-80s, which was the height of the PMRC record labeling controversy. I'm sure the boys take great pride in being one of the bands that were seen as so dangerous that a warning sticker had to be put on their albums. This album pretty much guaranteed it, in fact.