Monday, June 30, 2003
Like an axe splitting a skull in half, Burnside Street runs all the way through Portland, bisecting the city neatly into northern and southern parts. All street addresses north of Burnside start with an "N" prefix, and all addresses south of it begin with an "S". Burnside is the Equator of Portland.
According to one source, in the 1860s, "The street’s reputation for saloons and sailors made it almost impossible for respectable businesses to be located on Burnside." In some ways this debauched tradition continues, at least in the blighted blocks which hang tight to either side of the Burnside Bridge which straddles the river and separates Portland's east side from Downtown.
This area is where the Bitches of Burnside graze. Women who are to'-up-from-the-flo'-up. Sallow skin hanging from their bones, open scabs, meth-pipe burns, and shiners from the last bitch-slapping administered from their coal-black pimp daddies. They peddle their rotted flesh at all hours of the day to the desperate suburbanites who cruise Burnside looking for a sickness their wives can't give them.
I see no need to feel sorry for the johns. I'd like to feel compassion for the Bitches of Burnside, but it's hard ... really hard. Sometimes, even Superman needs to take a nap.
Posted by jg @ 10:36 PM PST []
Sunday, June 29, 2003
There is never an excuse—aesthetically, medically, or morally—for grown men to wear shorts. And yet the summer weather brings them out like cockroaches from behind the plywood.
In prison, we were issued a pair of red, Richard Simmons-length shorts in addition to a couple pairs of jeans. I never wore the shorts. In hot weather, many cons would sport them while walking the yard, and even the most musclebound, throat-tattooed, mullet-headed meth cooks would look like six-year-old pedo-bait in them.
The phenomenon of knobby-kneed men in shorts is a significant contributing factor in the wholesale emasculation of the American male. It is the infantilizing equivalent of beaver-shaving among women. I favor the complete eradication of men wearing shorts—not only socially, but even in sporting events.
Boys will be boys, but men shouldn't be.
Posted by jg @ 09:32 PM PST []
Saturday, June 28, 2003
The digital clock on the red-brick savings-bank wall read 99° at almost 7PM tonight, which was about the time I dared go outside and expose my wallpaper-paste-colored skin to the vengeance-minded sun. The solar rays beat down like laser beams, and I could almost hear my skin starting to bubble. My brain started to swell like popcorn inside a Jiffy Pop bag.
99º might not be so unusual where you live, but this is grey, misty, cloud-encased Portland, where I don't ever remember it being this hot. My puny electric fans blew hot air around all day as if I were a Lilliputian being blasted by Gulliver-sized hair dryers.
Because their crushed faces suck hot air straight down into their lungs, pugs don't fare well in blazing summer weather. Cookie's body has been as slack as boiled pasta, lying motionless on the hardwood floor like a corpse on a morgue slab. Even the fleas which roll through Portland pets in summertime like Vandals sacking Rome don't have the energy to hop around on her. Instead, they're taking a siesta in her soft fawn fur.
Posted by jg @ 10:45 PM PST []
Friday, June 27, 2003
ST. LOUIS—In a legal battle which may set precedents for divine intervention in sporting events for years to come, two boxers are suing one another over the right to claim that God endorses them in their upcoming fight.
Bantamweight pugilists Raheem "The Rapist" Rogers (left) and Diego "La Cucaracha" Sanchez (right) will appear in a St. Louis circuit court on Monday to plead their case before Judge Norman Shmermelstein. Rogers, a Muslim, claims that Allah wants him to beat Sanchez, a Catholic. Sanchez's lawyers say they have proof that the Virgin Mary appeared before their client a few weeks ago, predicting a TKO of Rogers in the fourth round.
Legal teams for both sides have subpoenaed God, whose lawyers have so far successfully fought against His extradition.
Posted by jg @ 10:55 PM PST []
Thursday, June 26, 2003
From Portland, OR, World Capital of Appalling Billboards, comes this gem to the right, discovered on Goddess-friendly Hawthorne Boulevard. It's an ad for an indoor Go-Kart track, but the message is clear. Beat your boyfriend. Just like the cute, empowering "Girls Kick Ass" and "Throw Rocks at Boys" stickers urge you to do. Just like this girl wants to do in righteous retribution for the fact that her BF's dad won't let him use the car to hang out with her.
From USA Today comes this recent article which partially dispels the absurdly lopsided cultural prejudices about domestic violence, but even here, we're reminded at every turn that men are stronger, so when women strike them, it's really not the same thing.
It's easy to prove the inherent fallacy of the "women are weaker" alibi for female violence. Once more, for those who didn't grasp it the first thousand times around: WEAKER MEN CAN'T GET AWAY WITH HITTING STRONGER MEN. Case closed. It has nothing to do with physical strength and everything to do with spiritual superstitions. Our pussy-whipped culture sees females' bodies as more sacred than those of males. Men are disposable. Who gives a fuck if they get banged-up or even killed? Just another doofus on the scrap heap.
If he slaps your face lightly and doesn't cause damage, that'll still cause more societal outrage than if you clobber him and leave a black eye. So beat your boyfriend. Make him hurt. You can get away with it.
Posted by jg @ 07:26 PM PST []
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
"Asshole in NJ" (who isn't an asshole in NJ?) sends me this McCarthyite question:
"The Redneck Manifesto" is listed on the Church of Satan's website, under books by it's [sic] members. Are you currently, or have you ever been a member of this organization?
Not of my own doing, Asshole. I interviewed Anton LaVey in 1992. He was a sharp, funny guy. I admired him until I realized he plagiarized—word for word—the first ten pages or so of The Satanic Bible from a far superior book called Might is Right. Not long after I interviewed him, I was mailed a special red membership card in the COS indicating that I was a Satanic priest. If I could have traded in the card for free McDonald's French fries, I would have done it.
The Church of Satan, Asshole, is quick to tell you that they don't eat babies or listen to heavy-metal music, and that's where they lose me. I'd like them better if they did things a bit more threatening than sitting in their dens polishing off another snifter of absinthe. Most of them are intellectual nerds who, if they didn't have Satan, would have Star Trek.
Satan has gone mainstream, Asshole. He has lost his cachet, his power to offend. He's safe. You don't risk much walking down the street wearing a T-shirt with a picture of Ol' Scratch on it. If you want to be attuned to what's demonic these days, express an affinity for Hitler or Osama bin Laden. Or tell people you like Jim Goad.
Posted by jg @ 09:42 PM PST []
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
If you're observant (and why the fuck would I expect you to be?), you'll notice that there's a new button on the toolbar to the left. This button is titled board. Erection-prone, I've erected a new forum whereby a handpicked few can share of themselves with our billions of daily readers.
Note that this forum is for MEMBERS ONLY. You can look at us frolicking beneath your computer-screen glass, but you can't touch. There are many reasons for making it so snobbily exclusive, not the least of which is this shopworn equation:
the more they post = the less they have to say
It's that way all over the Net. I don't want some talentless, attention-starved crotch pimple taking up all the space here. So far, I've carefully chosen eleven apostles who I think have the verbal chops to make the Netjerk Lounge interesting. There are only a dozen of us now, and I'd like to keep it that way for a while. I can already anticipate the whiny, why-don't-you-let-me-in e-mails, and my response is, as always, "Keep a-knockin', but you can't come in." I will consider new applicants on a case-by-case basis. There are two requirements:
1) You have to dazzle me with your transcendent prose (which should eliminate most applicants)
2) You can't be someone I've had or am having sex with (which should eliminate everyone else).
Posted by jg @ 05:19 PM PST []
Monday, June 23, 2003
Has there ever been an uglier man or a shittier writer than Charles Bukowski? If there is, I don't want to see him, and I wouldn't be able to read more than five words of his verbal asswipe ... which is about my limit with the dead soused ogre Buk. LOOK at that man's face. Hideously ravaged and mottled from years of alky-pickling to the point where his mug and his liver probably looked identical.
And yet, despite his savage deficiency of character (he beat women, too, but at least I DON'T DRINK), he's a god to legions of hipster fuckups who find delusional romantic comfort in the pathetic dwarfish lush's dead-end lifestyle. Slam down a few more boilermakers, losers, and blame The Man for your complete lack of drive and direction in life. And then put your arm around me, rubbing your pasty armpit on my shoulder, and tell me how much you love me. And then when I pull away, take a swing at me and wind up swallowing your teeth.
Alcohol shoots straight for the brain's Asshole Gland. I've known a few brave souls who can handle the shit, but only a few. With everyone else, it unleashes things better left leashed. It is the beverage of choice for the weak and retarded. And I may be wrong, but along with speed, it's the only intoxicant which has been proven to cause brain damage. So chug 'em down, retards.
A group of youthful revelers were skunk-ass drunk on my apartment building's roof last night. One of them, empowered by the Fruit of the Grape to the point of self-deluded invincibility, thought he'd be able to jump across a five-foot chasm which separates two sections of the building. Instead, he fell four stories and broke his femur, an arm, and some ribs. At least he didn't kill anyone in a car accident.
Cheers!
Posted by jg @ 11:06 PM PST []
Sunday, June 22, 2003
I should have known it would take less than 24 hours for someone to ask about my dick. A man named David, who describes himself as "one of your fag fans," e-mails me this all-too-obvious question:
"You have bragged about your 'beautiful cock.' So tell us, how big is the fucker?"
Correction, David: I've never called it beautiful, nor do I recall ever bragging about it. True, I was going to call my next book "My Lovely Cock," but only in reference to a then-girlfriend's description of it.
Everyone's nose grows until they die. I think I'm the only person whose dick gets bigger with age. Either my schvanzstücker is getting larger, or the young'uns' peters are shrinking. Almost all the broads who've encountered the Goad Dong since prison (dozens) have given it unsolicited compliments, with words such as "huge" and "big" featuring prominently, along with the aforementioned "lovely."
Today's picture is, to my knowledge, the only extant photo of my Manly Thing. It was taken circa 1998 and depicts me urinating in a state of limplitude, but it gives you a pretty good idea of what I'm packin'. Although it will render me unable to ever make fun of sex workers again, I might just whore myself and e-mail the uncensored version of this picture to those willing plunk down some semolians for it via PayPal. Tell me how much you'd pay to see Jim Goad Jr., and I just might show it to you.
Posted by jg @ 10:56 PM PST []
Saturday, June 21, 2003
I got$ta get paid. I mean paid IN FULL, all you homies, homos, and chocolate-dipped bananas out there. I'm tired of niggaz flakin' and perpetratin' and prevaricatin' and bitin' my shit. I'm the originator, the terminator, the elucidator, the king of the turntables AND the cross-fader. You ain't my poppy—you a sloppy carbon copy, so the shit has gotta stop, G. My skillz is so mad, they sent 'em to Anger Management. I can crack walnuts with my mind, even if those walnuts is sittin' in a bowl all the way across the room. I'll snatch yo eyeballs out of yo head and hide 'em from ya.
Word to your momma's dentures, my inarticulate woodchimps.
+++++++++
Our first question comes from Cynthia in Maryland:
Q: How do YOU get over a bad breakup?
A: I go to prison.
+++++++++
I've added a weird, super-short story from 1979 to the new page. I did too much acid in high school.
Posted by jg @ 03:45 PM PST []
Friday, June 20, 2003
The Lord A'mighty, bless his giant, sofa-sized cock, knows how much I love interacting with the great, dirt-under-their-toenails masses. As I scan this site, it's incomprehensible to me ... yea, my brethren, even to ME ME ME ... how much of it consists of my words, written by me and all about me.
I don't want that to change anytime soon. I'm happy being me, and if I could be more of me, I'd do it in a second.
But in a once-in-a-Halley's-Comet turn of arrogant generosity, I have decided to field your questions regarding my favorite topic—me. Is there something you've been just itchin' to know about me ... physically, philosophically, spiritually, or financially? Something you'd only be bold enough to ask from behind the safety of your gay little keyboard?
I will, naturally, only answer questions that intrigue and/or amuse me. I may answer them one at a time as part of this diary and then one day, after I've had my fill, compile them into a FAQsheet for the site. Let the interrogation begin...
Posted by jg @ 07:57 PM PST []
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Annual Fatalities, U.S.*
| Second-Hand Smoke | 35,000 |
| Drunk Driving | 16,000 |
| Domestic Violence | 1,600 |
*Statistics averaged from several online sources.
Posted by jg @ 09:00 PM PST []
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
I need a car. I need one bad. I need to hop in, slam the door, and drive all night until the early morning finds me in Montana or Nevada or Wyoming. I want to roll down the windows and let the late-night summer air blow through my tightly pomaded and sprayed hair. Then, after I sit by a waterfall, have a milkshake at a roadside diner, and shake hands with an honest-to-goodness Injun, I can drive back home, and everything will be all right.
+++++++++
The MP3s on the sound page were inoperable for a few weeks. They've been fixed. Savor them.
+++++++++
I'll be in LA in August to act as a Greaser Stud in some non-pornographic filmic re-creations of pulp-novel vignettes. It's all for a DVD to accompany a new Feral House book about raunchy sex novels from the '50s and '60s.
+++++++++
On August 31 at 2:30 PM, I will command the Bookfair stage for a half-hour at the Bumbershoot hootenanny up in Seattle. Why couldn't they have called their festival something else? It's almost as embarrassing for me to say the word "Bumbershoot" as it is to order the "Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n' Fruity" special at IHOP.
+++++++++
Thanks for all your earnest inquiries regarding my high colonic. Alas, the Goddess-worshiping, bowel-blasting "alternative health" practitioner screwed up the time of my appointment, and my Inner Pathways remain unpurged. Soon, though ... soon ...
+++++++++
Congratulations—I think—to The Jews for their seemingly insurmountable lead in my "WHO'S TO BLAME?" poll. Which reminds me of a joke:
German scientists are able to resurrect Hitler from the dead, and the newly reborn Führer holds a press conference where he announces his plans to kill 40 million Jews and one clown.
"Why one clown?" asks a reporter.
"See?" Hitler says. "I told you nobody cares about the Jews."
Posted by jg @ 10:47 PM PST []
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Mere minutes ago, I received e-mail from the Netherlands, that magickal paradise of Space Cake, hookers in windows, and a government so unashamedly socialistic, it'll BUY your paintings if your art sucks so bad that no one wants it.
The photo to the left was attached, along with a stern "Ohja, je kunt hier een leuk emailadres aanmaken (heb ik ook gedaan)!" I'm guessing that "Ohja" means "Oh, yeah," and a "kunt" is a kunt everywhere, and I'm going to go out on a limb and presume that "emailadres" means "e-mail address," but the rest is Dutch to me.
Despite the "Rape Issue" of ANSWER Me!, I've never done ... nor even pondered doing ... anything sexually coercive in my life. I've never even made the first move. I'm such a full-blown narcissist, I need the chick to be REALLY ... PATHOLOGICALLY ... into me before I'll even be able to sport wood for her. I've never understood how other guys can just plow ahead and lay pipe while a disgusted woman cries and protests. It's far more important to me that SHE cums even if I don't. While that may sound selfless, it's actually the highest form of egotism ... making her cum shows my power over her.
But here's what appears to be a trio of US soldiers having their way with a swarthy Middle Eastern woman taking the Infidel into her mouth. I'm hoping that my Mysterious Dutch Friend wasn't trying to impugn Americans, because these Johnny Boys are just doing what every conquerer does. All pieties about fighting terrorism and no-blood-for-oil aside, this photo proves that war has always been about getting free blow jobs.
+++++++++
Coming this summer: Flash versions of the "Murder" and "Suicide" sections of ANSWER Me!
Posted by jg @ 03:02 PM PST []
Monday, June 16, 2003
I was a cocky Catholic boychik of only a dozen years, obsessed with pornography, the Rolling Stones, and fat neckties. But despite my transgressive, hookey-playing ways, I was also my grade school's spelling-bee champion. For months I had prepared for the County Finals, boning up on such insurmountable verbal Godzillas as "antidisestablishmentarianism" and "syzygy." I knew I had the mad skills ... and the moxie ... to take it all the way to the Nationals, where, if I won, maybe someone would arrange a private audience for me with Linda Blair.
Standing onstage in a cavernous theater on a cool Saturday morning, I easily dispatched the first word the judges tossed at me. Then, after grilling my mostly Hindic competitors, the judges asked me to spell "armadillo."
I laughed inwardly. Piece o' cake. In my arrogant haste, I spelled it quickly. Too quickly ... I slurred the two 'L's together, and the judges thought I had only said one 'L.' I saw them shaking their heads "no," and to my horror, I was asked to leave the stage.
This unjust defeat, kind jimgoad.netsters, marked the grandest tragedy of my burgeoning adolescence. And it placed a chip on my shoulder which I carry to this day. Quite a chip, that chip.
If I ever see an armadillo scuttling across the highway, be assured that I'll press the accelerator and get myself some Instant Justice.
+++++++++
My four-page article about sexually abusive nuns is in the current (September?!?) issue of Hustler.
Posted by jg @ 08:11 PM PST []
Sunday, June 15, 2003
Every pet I've ever owned has been an incurable racist. This applies to both cats and dogs, and I've owned quite a few of both. They simply don't like nonwhites. The dogs bark at them, and the cats hiss at them.
I did some Googling regarding the topic of pets and racism. I found a thread where a dog owner claimed that Spot didn't like blacks, and he was shot down by the shrill voices of self-hating whites who suggested that the man's dog could tell that HE hated nonwhites and was only reacting to his owner's hatred and fear.
I wish this were true (that pets were innately tolerant, not that the dog owner in question hated nonwhites), but even at the apex of my Malibu's Most Wanted wiggerishness in the late 1980s, my cats' hair would stand on end whenever a black friend would visit my apartment. The blacks would try to ignore my felines' palpable distaste for them, and I'd try to apologize, but there was no hiding it.
Then I ran across one story where a Pennsylvania police dog was charged with (and cleared of) racism, and this one, where a Brooklyn dog owner laments the fact that her pit bull shows extreme prejudice toward blacks and Hispanics.
Remember that famous photo from down South in the early sixties where a policeman's dog is biting an innocent-looking Negro lad? I will never again blame the policeman. It's worth noting that the dog in that picture was a German Shepherd.
Posted by jg @ 08:23 PM PST []
Saturday, June 14, 2003
Click here to make your voice heard.
Posted by jg @ 03:08 AM PST []
Friday, June 13, 2003
To round out Poop Week, I'm getting a high colonic today. Forty gallons of water will be blasted through my intestines, releasing the equivalent of thirty bowel movements. According to the literature, this will all be accomplished "without offensive odor and without comprising the dignity of the individual."
Wish me luck.
A friend has promised to come along and videotape it. Tell me precisely how much you'd be willing to pay to see this online.
Posted by jg @ 06:12 AM PST []
Thursday, June 12, 2003
Mega-shoutouts to everyone's favorite Adam Parfrey lookalike, comedian Patton Oswalt, for dropping my name last night on Conan O'Brien's NBC show. He was on the program plugging a new comic book whose protagonist is based on ME. He also informed the nation that today, June 12, is my birthday.
"Gee, what a nice gesture," you're thinking. "I wish that I, too, could do something nice to let Jim know how much I appreciate him."
Well, you can. Send me money. Click on the PayPal logo below and shlep me some ducats so I can celebrate my B-Day in style.
Posted by jg @ 01:55 AM PST []
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
Ex-girlfriend, "a former victim of domestic abuse," names website after herself.
Posted by jg @ 08:39 PM PST []
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
I can't recall the last time I saw a hickey on someone, and I feel like weeping. I'm not even sure if the young whippersnappers, with their carbonated beverages, violent video games, and portable antisemitic MP3 players, know what a "hickey" is.
Back in high school, when me, Richie, Potsie, Ralph, and Fonzie would sit around Mrs. Cunningham's Formica table obsessing over girls, a hickey was a badge of honor. It showed that you had gotten past first base with a young lassie—you'd almost reached shortstop. Few things this side of a blow job felt as tingly as some stank-ass JD girl sucking on your neck like some support-bra-wearing Draculina. And few sights are as erotic to me as the specter of some "bad" girl who looks like she's just removed leeches from her throat.
We got rid of segregated drinking fountains and attractively designed automobiles—FINE—but did the hickey have to be crushed under the stampeding hoof of "progress," too?
Posted by jg @ 07:18 PM PST []
Monday, June 9, 2003
It's been a slow news day, so I'm reaching deep into the memory banks to bring you the story of a girl I used to be, er, "intimate" with who had an involuntary habit of shitting whenever she had a particularly intense orgasm.
About a half-dozen times over the course of our "friendship," she'd emit vienna-sausage-sized pooplets after oohing and aahing and screaming my name. The first time it happened, she barked at me to leave the room, and when I tried to ask what was wrong, she barked even louder. After removing the sheets and wiping herself clean, she allowed me back into the bedroom and explained what had happened. She was, of course, mortified. I was, of course, flattered that my thrusting had led to such a total loss of her muscular control ... even the gasket around her poop chute.
I by no means intend to cause her further humiliation by revealing this. I'm pretty sure she doesn't read my website, at least not daily. I have provided no details about her besides the fact that she had a bedroom and an anus. Despite the female handicap, she was one of the better human beings I've known.
But it's still funny as fuck.
Posted by jg @ 09:45 PM PST []
Sunday, June 8, 2003
Since, shame on me, I prefer honesty and directness when dealing with my wormy humanoid brethren, the passive-aggressive among us are my least favorite type of people. Still, I've found a way to make
When someone's annoying me and I don't think it prudent to smash through their grille with my legendary left hook, it's easy to drive them bonkers by accenting the wrong syllable while speaking ... ac-CENT-ing the wrong syl-LA-ble, youknowhamsayin'? If the waitress is giving me attitude, I won't order a cup of cocoa—I'll ask for a cup of co-COA. If someone named Jeremy is wasting my time, I'll say, "Hey, Jer-UH-my, some wea-THER we're having, huh?"
It confuses them to the point of cerebral hemorrhaging, and they're usually too timid to ask whether I'm doing it on purpose. And if they do, I just deny it.
Try it on someone you despise. You'll have so much fun, you'll never want to pronounce things correctly again.
Posted by jg @ 10:07 PM PST []
Saturday, June 7, 2003
I, the Man Who Knoweth No Shame, am embarrassed to the point of a skin rash to map out the convoluted path which led me to my first-ever rave last evening in Portland. There I stood, awash in a high-tech liquid light show which seemed designed to trigger my long-dormant epilepsy, amid a crowd of beatific teen Caucasians and the odd socialized-as-Caucasian or two. I must say I enjoyed the beat, although I wished that there would have been more than one.
A social archetype I've come to label as "Dr. Buzz"...you know the type...a nerd in high school until they learned EVERYTHING there is to be known about illegal drugs, right down to their molecular structure, politely explained to me the difference between MDA, MDMA, DMT, and, I think, DMX, or maybe it was Run-DMC.
Seeing as the temperature has been in the mid-90s here for a couple days, slowly broiling my brains into ivory-colored scrambled eggs, I was shocked at the utter lack of violence at this event, so naturally I fled.
+++++++++
I've uploaded six new articles to the new page, all of them old.
Posted by jg @ 10:58 AM PST []
Friday, June 6, 2003
Am I the only one disgusted by the gleeful, cowardly cruelty of the nation's protracted tarring-and-feathering of billionaire homemaker Martha Stewart? When it was revealed this week that she might face CRIMINAL charges for some shady stock deals, I felt the need to speak up.
I have no desire to further investigate the allegations against her, but I'm sure she did nothing that the government which possibly plans to prosecute her doesn't do on an hourly basis. More on-target, I'm positive she did nothing that the current hordes of rock-throwers wouldn't do if they were savvy enough to become billionaires, too.
Why the joy in tearing this woman down? I'm no fan of dowdy, nonorgasmic hausfraus, nor of those who project faux-wholesome images, but I'm even more suspicious of torch mobs. When you rip all the idols to pieces and are left standing amid smoke and ashes, what then? Does it make you feel better about yourself when you've smeared all your shit on someone else?
I, for one, would like to entertain the fantasy that there's someone...somewhere...who isn't as fucked-up as the rest of us.
Posted by jg @ 03:56 PM PST []
Thursday, June 5, 2003
I've been listening to a lot of music by alleged British pedophiles such as Gary Glitter (pictured) and Pete Townsend. The latter, who was a genius up until about 1968, was popped a few months ago by Limey authorities for paying to view online pix of nude kids. The former is a huge star in England but is unknown in America even though his "Rock 'n' Roll (Part 2)," colloquially known as "The 'Hey' Song," competes with Queen's "We Will Rock You" as the most overplayed tune at sporting events from coast to coast.
Glitter was publicly disgraced in Miserable Olde England after the intensely fruity proto-Elvis impersonator brought his computer in for repairs, only for the technician to find thousands of photos of naked boys. He then moved to pedo-friendly Cambodia, only to be deported from there, too. His legacy has mainly been relegated to online jokes ("Q: How do you stop Gary Glitter from drowning? A: Throw him a boy.")
I'm a huge fan of almost all early British glam except for T. Rex. It's my favorite rock genre by far. I rate Gary Glitter almost as high as Slade and The Sweet, and he's miles above overrated hooknosed titmouse Marc Bolan. Ol' Gary could have sucked a million boycocks, and his stomping, overblown, fascist-rally music would still be great.
Which gets me to wondering about the cognitively dissonant ability of most people to discount someone's entire canon based on personal peccadilloes. OJ Simpson is still one of the greatest football players ever, Ike Turner still had a massive influence on popular music, and I can still write better than you can.
Fuck, Joan Jett has built a career on trying to capture Gary Glitter's sound ("Do You Wanna Touch Me" was his song first), and she EATS PUSSY, and yet people can forgive her!
From what I hear, Gary Glitter is looking for a home. If you have a spare bedroom, could you please put him up?
Posted by jg @ 02:24 PM PST []
Overheard on the bus today from some gangly pockmarked stringy-haired tweaker freak who just wouldn't shut up:
"If someone says they're your friend, tell them to write the word 'friend' down on a piece of paper. If they leave the letter 'r' out, you know they're scandalous."
Posted by jg @ 01:11 AM PST []
Wednesday, June 4, 2003
The owner of a downtown Portland "alternative" bookstore has informed our news desk that some months back, professional succubus Courtney Love, accompanied by an entourage, breezed through his store, snapping up all the Goadiana he had to offer...Shit Magnet, The Redneck Manifesto, and the fourth issue of ANSWER Me! La Love is alleged to have told the owner that she's been a longtime fan of mine.
I await your e-mailed condolences and advice for how to handle this latest crisis.
Posted by jg @ 05:20 PM PST []
I got into a shouting match with a short, stocky, inebriated gent in downtown Portland earlier this evening.
"You can't do anything to me!" he slurred, threatening to assault me and sue me afterward. "I'm gonna be a lawyer! I'm Pre-Law!"
"Yeah?" I countered. "And I'll pre-cum on your face!"
I love how my mind works under duress.
Posted by jg @ 03:08 AM PST []
Tuesday, June 3, 2003
Equality is one of the most ludicrous notions ever concoted. Despite its patent falsehood, it is the closest our secular society has to a shared religious belief. It exists mostly as a tranquilizer for the less-than-equal.
Here's a simple way to disprove the idea of equality to someone who preaches it:
Tell them you don't believe in equality.
They will immediately feel superior to you.
Posted by jg @ 03:12 PM PST []
Monday, June 2, 2003
My server went down for about six hours today, and for a dark, frightening burp of time, we lost our connection to one another.
Didja miss me? Did you miss my delicious, salty-honey smell? Did you miss being pressed up against me? Did you miss my monstrous literary schlong rubbing up against you?
I'll bet you did.
The measure of your worth as a human being is how you reacted to that.
Don't be one of the bad people. Use me in moderation. I can see your IP addresses. You in particular, Ms. 24.163.211.43, have visited my diary 69 times in the ten days since it went up. And a handful of you have been here more than 30 times.
Don't get hooked on me, because you'll only learn to hate me when we lose our connection.
+++++++++
The new Trucker Fags is in, as well as a nice article about ice cream.
Posted by jg @ 08:17 PM PST []
Sunday, June 1, 2003
The Most Tasteless Ad Campaign EVER Award goes to our well-meaning-but-tragically-misguided friends over at preventchildabuse.org, who were able to convince their benefactors to assault Portland with billboards such as the one you see here. I've seen two in this series—the other one features a shadowy, half-open closet and says something to the effect of, A CLOSET SHOULD ONLY BE A PLACE TO HANG CLOTHES. I don't know if there are any others...A CURLING IRON SHOULD ONLY BE FOR CURLING HAIR?...A FIST SHOULD ONLY BE FOR MAKING THE BLACK-POWER SALUTE? What were they thinking?
OK...a board meeting somewhere featuring soccer moms with too much time and funding..."Why don't we show a red-hot stove top and remind all those child abusers that it's WRONG to burn kids' hands on the glowing coils?"..."Hmmm, Madge—that's a GREAT idea!!!"
A child abuser is driving home and sees the billboard. He decides not to burn his kids' hands on a stove top, at least not tonight.
Whoever gave the green light to this one should have their hands burnt on a stove top.