Notes on Contributors
Hayden Childs is well-known and repected throughout the writing, music and publishing communities. No, just kidding. He's a fucking blowhard. Somehow, he's managed to convince himself that this entire project was his idea and that all of us beneath him (as he says, "As on the masthead, so in life," which we had to have explained to us because of the curious syntax and the fact that his speech was slightly slurred after consuming approximately a gallon of some sort of homemade concoction consisting mostly of everclear and Bactine) should be grateful to walk in his odd-shaped shadow. Most of us just smile and nod until he skulks away in search of Taiwanese goat porn ("the only real artform left"). That seems to work.
Lee Caulfield is British. While that's not technically a crime (yet), certain of us find it a little curious that someone with so many drug offenses, disturbing the peace violations and restraining orders brought against him by the Grenadine Guards could find work in this country so easily. Well, it would be untoward to speculate that he is one of those pressed into service by Tony Blair to slowly, subtly demoralize the collective American psyche (you don't really think he thought attacking Iraq was a good idea, do you?) until we are too weak to resist the onslaught of the neo-redcoats who will forcibly return us to our "rightful" place as a British colony. So we won't. But you'd best develop a taste for toad-in-the-hole and Robbie Williams albums, just in case.
Herb Robinson is looking this way, I think. No, I'm sure of it. Don't turn around! Just pretend we're talking about something. Ummm... okay. No, I disagree. Mark my words, in twenty years, Gigli will wind up between Citizen Kane and Grand Illusion on the Sight & Sound Greatest Films of All Time list. I guarantee it. Crazy? Well, they said Manson was crazy, too. And look what happened to... Okay, he's gone now. That was a close one.
Austin Swinburn is a figment of the imagination of an autistic fourteen-year-old currently locked up at the Minnesota State Hospital for the Chronically Unwell. Which would explain his fashion sense.
Leonard Pierce owes much of his prolifigacy as a writer to a unique combination of plagiarism and cold-blooded violence. When not writing, he is working to make "obeseploitation films" the latest cinematic cult craze - his first film, Fat Fatback's Laaaardasssss Song, is presently in pre-production. So far into pre-production, in fact, nothing has been finished yet other than the title.
Gary Mairs is one of the leading authorities on popular music in North America, despite having only one record in his collection, the radio edit of "Disco Duck." All other opinions and facts coming from him on the subject are the result of lucky guesses and looking over the shoulders of the rest of us while we write. In his spare time, he's been working on his disapproving scowl.
Mark Williamson is currently serving a sixteen year sentence for aggravated lisping at Lemon-Flavored Diet Coke Correctional Facility in Valdosta, Georgia. His hobbies include a) not finishing his thoughts and b).
Brent Bozman's piece in this issue is his first published work, other than the 65 threatening letters he wrote John Ritter which have been entered into the appropriate court records. His favorite color is tan.
Matt Baab is only in this issue because of the Federal Palindromic Surname Act of 1998.
George Wu is a registered trademark of GrandiloCorp, LLC, and its US subsidiary, Misspelled Abbreviations, Imc. Merely reading his name subjects you to a $100 penalty. You will be receiving your invoice in 3-5 business days.
Scott Von Doviak has been known to call us at odd hours of the night, drunkenly insisting that Hal Needham is a greater auteur than Welles, Scorsese and Lynch combined and multiplied by four, following it up with an intensive frame-by-frame analysis of Cannonball Run II and a lachrymose sniffling fit. (To be fair, he does the exact same thing on the rare occasions that he's sober.) He is currently hard at work writing his first book - we're sorry, we mean reading his first book. We wish him luck. That Curious George is a hoot.
Chris Lanier will poke your eyes out if you mispronounce "noblesse oblige," "Dvorak," or "thermonuclear." Didn't we learn that the hard way.
Phil Nugent is a hard man to dislike - witty, articulate and pithy, he has enlivened many a cocktail party with his banter and his generosity towards his fellow man. And, by all accounts, he is every bit as good a listener as he is a speaker, unfailingly and sincerely interested in what you have to say. Also, he still wets the bed.
Greg T. Hough. Next.
Andy Wilson's craft and skill at composition has been honed over several years of being too embarrassed to leave the house because of being covered from head to toe with a galaxy of cysts and boils that would make Charles Bukowski blanch. His award-coveting monograph, Voltaire: One Hot Bitch, is available for purchase if you make the mistake of mentioning it in his presence.
Milo Miles has over three decades of professional criticism under his belt, the same belt, it should be noted, upon which is attached the severed ear (a trophy from his bloody safaari through the offices of Fusion magazine in 1971), which he consults daily for opinions and recommendations.
Wolfgang von Verkleidung (not his real pseudonym) leaves all who know him in awe at his persistence. He literally will not take "no" for an answer. He also won't take "maybe," "okay, okay!," "you're hurting me" and "put down that gunny sack full of puppies" for an answer, either, but that's neither here nor there.
John James is so ornery, he once shot a man just for snoring too loud.
William Ham has just been advised in no uncertain terms to let the contributors write their own blurbs next time. Which he will begrudgingly do, if only to get the smell of everclear and Bactine the hell away from him.