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".

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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.

-------------------------------------------

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