By Christina Whipsnade & Max Dropout

With a cartoon-colored image out of a Saturday morning acetate flip book, a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge, and a bubbling fountain of effervescent enthusiasm that can induce waves of disorientation when entertained by his subjects, Nardwuar has that one of a kind ability to put even Crispin Glover’s charming eccentricities into perspective. While the aforementioned strange boy cult hero might seem odd to begin with, when you add the Nardo ingredient, the most potent natural oddity can seem enhanced to a sublimely absurd level, if not entirely outdone. So frenzied and peculiar, Nardwuar’s celebrity encounters can even reach harrowing tensions, specifically when he gets one the overgrown egos in his crosshair and assails him with a most unique assault style – a caustic tirade spat through something akin to a silly straw, a shape so absurd that it embodies innocence. Continue reading

Average Rating: 5 out of 5 based on 167 user reviews.

By Max Dropout


Two boys may begin as good as one another, so how is it that one might end up a solid citizen while the other could end up lingering on the bottom of a compost heap, diminished by the label “trash?” Where does an otherwise good boy go bad? What makes him that way? Every soul I personally know is inside of a life shell made up from a minutia of black wax, sweetened booze, and cold sweat — an amnion within which we are suspended amid a stormy serous of garbage and violence. Every man and woman begins construction of this apparatus themselves from the time they are born, the shape and composition of which are dictated by what the individual is provided with throughout their earliest years. The configuration of this strange cradle is only partially dictated by the individual in question. Some the materials used during its engineering are chosen by a free will while others are simply fated. Within this mechanized husk we have assembled is where our characters are formed. It defines and shapes us into the people we become. Of course, the heavier fate’s hand is, the earlier you may find yourself sequestered inside of this weathering womb. Fate can be cruel, and, more often than not, the elements it assigns us can be of an utmost brutal nature. This is how we are made. Some folks end up surrounded by a slightly more inspiriting atmosphere than others, while some end up stewing in a stormy mire, and for longer than necessary. Continue reading

Average Rating: 4.8 out of 5 based on 166 user reviews.

By Anne Frank 2000 & Max Dropout


Photo by Photo Bill!

The year was 1980, and while Richard Pryor was setting his dick on fire, sixty-three Muslims were being decapitated in honor of a certain charisma Chernobyl’s presidential nomination, and everyone else was whining over the death of John Lennon, the punk rock scene in Dallas was lurching toward its apex, producing some of the most volatile and strangely underrated bands to end up at the bottom of the compost heap known as underground rock n’ roll. The whole mess was something of an anomaly, too, since Dallas doesn’t exactly seem like the sort of place that would cultivate any worthwhile culture… let alone a sub culture. Imagine a colony of bacteria gestating in a bucket of bleach. The odds are certainly against the scum getting anywhere in that bucket, or in Dallas for that matter. The city has such disinfecting properties that even riding the city bus can give one a cool, shower-fresh sensation. While Dallas put forth many influential early punk bands, such as NCM, the Telefones, Superman’s Girlfriend, the Deprogrammers, the Bombsquad, the Assassins, the Dot Vaeth Group, the Vomit pigs, and Stickmen with Rayguns, it all died out in the strangest way. Continue reading

Average Rating: 4.9 out of 5 based on 150 user reviews.