: Febuary 2002:The Industry
I'm downstairs at Dante's during deadline doing my Dice
Clay fake-doorman routine as one of those events peculiar
to THE INDUSTRY transpires before my cynical, world-weary
eyes. Some emaciated male with a hot-pink mohawk is
swinging around onstage, suspended by meathooks plunged
into his shoulder muscles as an appreciative crowd whoops,
hollers, and enjoys whatever sense of "community" such
a spectacle engenders. An ocean of "modified" people
mills about with sewing thimbles plunged through their
earlobes and "tribal"
tattoo work denoting tribes to which they have absolutely
no ancestral connection. An arrow through the head--now,
THAT's hardcore. But a bottlecap in your earlobe? Why
don't they just go the whole nine yards and put dinner
plates in their lips? If they were to set foot on soil
where this sort of "self-expression" originated, they'd
be instantly cannibalized.
this is a fundraiser for some "troupe" of body-modification
rapscallions. I was unaware they were strapped for cash.
I was under the impression that, no matter how they
try to emulate their oppressed brethren in Zaire, this
was a "scene" populated by ultra-rich, ultra-bored,
ultra-uninspired trendy snotrags. Don't they already,
like, charge millions of dollars to punch holes
in other people's bodies? Are staple guns getting that
EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH Let's face it--Exotic
the only interesting publication in Portland, and perhaps
the country. For years, if I may be so bold to state
this, the five or so percent of the magazine devoted
to editorial content flailed about like a dying fish
on a wooden deck, choking to death on a dreadful, sour-tasting
"sex-positivity" which postured itself as intellectual
but was actually the rankest sort of infantilistic self-absorption.
will state my case for the record--there is NO NEED
to be positive about sex, just as there's no need to
be positive about defecation or nose-picking. People
are hard-wired to enjoy sex, and writing about how a
base animal function is spiritually empowering merely
RUINS the experience for those of us who have sex in
the flesh rather than in front of a keyboard.
took one man's bold efforts to remedy the mag's editorial
crisis. Because of this man's tireless dedication, people
now realize that Exotic actually contains articles
you can read. There's a buzz about town regarding
the "new" Exotic, a buzz engendered and nursed
to fruition by one man with a messiah complex and an
indomitable drive to prevail.
man is me. My name is Jimbles Lee Deuteronomy Goad.
And it's high time I selected myself Employee of the
Month. Unlike those who've come before
I've been to prison. But also unlike my predecessors,
I've had a book (The Redneck Manifesto) published
by one of the world's top book companies, a book now
in its sixth printing. Unlike my predecessors, I have
a new book (Shit Magnet) due to be published
in April. Unlike my predecessors, whose only brush
with fame might be when they've interviewed a famous
person, I've actually been interviewed and
featured in just about every mainstream publication
you'd care to mention, both locally and nationally.
no matter how much they moan about me being a talentless
schlockmeister, the truth is that I've got them all--combined--beat
in terms of both underground cred and mainstream success.
And I could whup all their asses in a Spelling Bee.
Fuck all o' y'all. Seriously. I hate other
EX-EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH
Speaking of despicable writers, it has come to my
attention that my immediate predecessor, regarding
whom I've tried to be quietly gracious for lo, these
many months, recently made an appearance at Dante's
to pick up an installment check of the blood money
he so undeservedly drained from our esteemed publisher
as severance pay. No matter that while in our publisher's
employ, said predecessor made it a habit to talk shit
about our publisher to whomever willingly endured
his whiny milk-cow voice, or that the consensus opinion
among other employees is that said publisher just
may be the Coolest Boss in World History. No matter
that my immediate predecessor was still receiving
blood money AFTER he LIED to our esteemed publisher
about not trying to snitch him out to governmental
authorities about (falsely) alleged illegal employment
bitter little unsung hunched-over, fingerless-glove-wearing,
made it a point during a conversation with an Exotic
staffer that he couldn't even bring himself to
read the new Exotic, so horribly juvenile and
anti-literary was the mag's new direction. He's threatening
to take his bad self and his stable of newly unemployed,
scarily talented, world-renowned ex-Exotic
writers and start his OWN magazine, an announcement
which understandably had me trembling.
notable that when I started working here over a year
ago, I had
never heard of our former editor, although he knew
who I was. And this disparity, I fear, is what caused
all of his animosity toward me. For months, he'd systematically
shoot down my article ideas in favor of TERRIBLE,
themeless, ill-conceived, rock-band Q&As and aimless
cuntly navel-gazing by female scribes on whom he apparently
had crushes. On the odd occasion I actually had something
published, he'd bury it in the back and made sure
it wasn't printed in color.
The suggestions he gave for "improving" my articles
were always dreadfully misguided, especially since
he let verbal atrocities fly from other writers which
never should have seen ink set to paper. I'm sure
it irked him that the only articles in the magazine
people were talking about were those I'd written.
own writing smelled like bad feet. This is a man who
could pen things such as "my zipper whispered of things
to come" and "I was never the hunter, always the hunted"
without a hint of the comical irony such phrases beg.
was curt and graceless in all his dealings with me,
despite the fact that I covered his ass by finding
hundreds of typos--both in articles and ads--which
he was being paid to catch.
was the sort of person who sucks all the charm out
of a room when he enters it. He was a rude little
dismissive cunt to friends and girlfriends who'd call
or stop by the office looking for me. His repellent
personality would have possibly been warranted had
the man possessed the merest shred of talent, yet
it quickly became apparent that his behavior was engineered
precisely to compensate for a lack of talent.
No one I know ever had a positive thing to say about
guy was paid a living wage for coming in three hours
a month, handing over e-mailed text articles to me
from his stable of crappy, unknown writers, then going
home. That was his job as "editor," and he should
have been grateful that he was getting away with it.
Instead, he bleated like an old goat about how horrible
it was to work here and what a dick Frank supposedly
is. He once told me, with a straight face, that he
was the only Exotic staffer who had any vision
or integrity, and it was an effort to keep from laughing
heartily and spraying saliva all over his shaggy goatee.
truly felt bad for him because he's old, bitter,
and headed for nothing. I appreciated this fact.
But I kept my feelings about him to myself.
all changed back in August when he commanded me
to shut my "fucking dog" up because it was barking
and apparently interrupting his concentration on
a canon of work that he probably feels will one
day--not in our lifetime, of course--be appreciated
for the genius that it is. I then, somewhat angrily
but certainly not threateningly, told him I'd bitten
my lip for months and endured his pissiness, but
that he'd better be respectful regarding that slobbering
little pug I love so much.
"You lay one hand on me," Mr. Bohemian Radical stated,
"and I'll send you back to the jail where you came
from." I sort of half-laughed and said, "You really
are an old Jewish woman, aren't you?" Fucking
little snitch faggot. Yeah, fuck authority, dude,
until you get a little scared, and then you go dropping
a dime and begging for police protection.
a better writer than you are. I'm more well-known
than you are. I'm fucking far better-LOOKING than
you are. I'm a better dancer than you are. And I
could beat you at arm-wrestling. So just shut up,
go away, and try to repair your mess of a life.
tried to sabotage me as best you could while you
were editor, but my kung fu is too strong. What
are you gonna do now? You CAN'T beat me with words--we
both know who'll win every verbal altercation. Are
you gonna pull another bitch move and call my parole
officer with some made-up story? Guess what? I'm
not on parole anymore, bee-yatch! Now what?
can at least take comfort in the fact that you never
sold out. Not that anyone ever offered you the opportunity.
should at least be grateful I'm giving him the attention
no one else in the publishing industry seems willing
to give him. But since he says he doesn't read the
magazine anymore, he shouldn't be bothered by any
of this, right?
2002 X Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. copyright | trademark | legal notices