A Hollow Cube Is a Lonely Space by S.D. Foster

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book: A Hollow Cube Is a Lonely Space

Author: S.D. Foster

Type of Book: Fiction, bizarro, short story collection, flash fiction

Why Do I Consider This Book Odd: Because it is. Hope that helps.

Availability: Published by Eraserhead Press in 2011, you can get a copy here:

Comments: So my love of short stories and flash fiction should be well known by now, but it bears repeating that one has to really fuck things up for me not to enjoy a short story collection. And I’m happy to tell you that Foster fucked nothing up. This is a very good short story collection, maddeningly good. I say maddeningly because I suspect that much of his writing was amazing to me because his stories so often appealed to my own mental quirks and, frankly, personality issues. I’d like to say there is something for everyone in these 23 stories but people are weird and obnoxious in so many ways there is every chance that some of you might not love this book as much as I did. So, given all of the human perversity I often face as I discuss books, I’m going to share the stories that pinged me as amazing and hope for the best.

Foster begins this collection by appealing to my innate animism. “The Course of Clementine” tells the story of a little piece of fruit, a clementine to be clear, and her voyage from tiny “sour green baby on the branch” to a grown piece of fruit purchased at a supermarket. She knows her history, told to her from Father Tree, and has a modest but deep ambition to be consumed, as to be eaten and enjoyed is her destiny. She worries as she sees other clementines rot, she worries she may not taste good. Almost like a child from a divorced family, she worries endlessly, taking on all sorts of little issues as her fault. She often feels inadequate to other foods and she ends up living her own worst nightmare. This is ultimately a very sad story, and for a woman who apologizes to the floor when she drops a fork (and to the fork, too), I now look at all the food in my refrigerator and wonder about its mental state.

“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Chimp” is the story of an orphaned chimp who was bullied by his peers, who find his higher aspirations laughable. He spends his time with the birds and becomes a singer, leaving the jungle and finding a soft-hearted landlady who will rent him a room until he can get a job. He finds a job singing but he is not treated as an artist – he is treated as a novelty act and paid in fruit. His landlady puts him out and he finds himself forced to live with an uncle at the zoo. He continues to sing but one night loses his shit completely, returning to the zoo to face the life that humans will let him have.

For the first time in my life, I was glad my parents weren’t alive to see me like this. But then again, maybe it’s all they would’ve ever wanted for me.

Such a sad, bleak story.

Whining over (for now)

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

I think I should mention that it is sort of strange to complain about receiving free books. Actually, it’s ridiculous. But sometimes things get the better of me.

I must reiterate, if you have sent me a book before my recent cut-off for review requests, you should not have internalized any of my earlier entry.

I more or less figured out what happened. It was just a confluence of some popular websites discussing IROB and my failure to have long ago implemented a reasonable approach to review requests. It just happened really fast and unexpectedly and I am, at best, unorganized in such matters.

At any rate, back to book discussions as I really am going to power through as many books as I can before the end of the year. I suspect I will not be able to cut back on my verbosity in such discussions but that should come as a surprise to no one.

Reader and fellow odd book lover, Ben A, said, quite astutely, that perhaps this site was becoming a job for me. While initially that seemed horrible, after contemplation, it isn’t that bad. I think I need to rethink my ideas where monetizing this site are concerned. Perhaps if I approached this as a serious endeavor that paid in some manner via advertising that rewarded endeavor and stopped treating IROB as something I just do when I’m not cleaning up cat vomit, it would not be a shock to my system when I get so many requests for reviews. Who knows? If I loathe finding audiences for my own fiction, I wonder if I will be able to make myself figure out how one uses ads sensibly on a website.

But it sort of doesn’t matter at the moment as I am finished lamenting all my many travails. So back in the saddle tomorrow with a bizarro discussion, followed by a long look at a horror writer who has disappointed me for the last time this year, and possibly next year as well if I can sustain my righteous disgust for longer than a couple of weeks. Then on to Goad and then on to writing as many discussions as I can between vacuuming the stairs and cleaning up various cat messes.

When labors of love become labors of meh

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

I’ve neglected this site and I am not entirely sure why. I think it’s partly because I’ve had another project in the wings but that’s not entirely it. And it’s been an uneven year but 2009-2010 were near catastrophic years and I wrote plenty then.

I think part of it is that I have always loathed reading what I must read as opposed to what I want to read. It’s childish, but there you are. The sheer bulk of review requests I receive is shocking. When I began this site, a writer I know from teh LiveJournal who also writes reviews, told me he had only ever received a couple of review requests and advanced reader copies throughout his tenure as a reviewer. I get three to four a week.

And that is all the more problematic because I myself am a failed fiction writer (failed as in I no longer write because I loathe finding an audience for my writing) and have in me an enthusiastic desire to read new writers and support their attempts to build a writing career. So I never say no, but failing to say no has put me in a position of reading books I must read as opposed to reading what I want. Not to say the books aren’t great -most are. But October is coming up and I want to read ghost stories and books about demons but feel all the review requests breathing down my neck, making it impossible to wallow in the season. I don’t like it when it reading becomes an obligation, so I procrastinate. Again, this is all very childish but I am who I am, you know.

(And for the love of your sanity and mine, if you have sent me a copy of something to read, do not have any mixed or odd feelings about this entry. People asking me to read their works is no the problem. My innate softness is, and my gooey nature is not your problem.)

I feel like the only way out of this mess I have gotten myself into is to hunker down, read like a demon and discuss as much as I can before the end of the year. Which sucks beyond the obvious because I like to go on at length about books I read. I give authors the discussions I wanted to read about my own works back when I still wrote fiction, and a full-onslaught to get my review copies read and discussed will mean a shorter word count.

But if I don’t just crap out content until I am caught up, I fear I will just stop writing all together and this site will die off.

So I am putting a moratorium on taking new review requests that I will likely lift at the beginning of 2013. Those I have accepted already will be read and if you have contacted me before today, yes, I will be reading your books, even if I have not responded to your e-mail yet. The only exception are those from the New Bizarro Authors Series. I will always accept books from those writers and that series.

I have a couple of regular reviews to finish, then in October I will finally get the Jim Goad, “Rape” zine discussion online. And from then it will be a full-bore writing assault to get caught up so I can begin January with an empty or near empty slate and hopefully this will put an end to my avoidance.

Placenta of Love by Spike Marlowe

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book: Placenta of Love

Author: Spike Marlowe

Type of Book: Fiction, bizarro, novella

Why Do I Consider This Book Odd: Many reasons. Many. The best one I can offer here is that this book features an artificial intelligence with borderline personality disorder who exists in a large placenta.

Availability: Published by Eraserhead Press in 2011, you can get a copy here:

Comments: Placenta of Love is a very strange, unsettling but interesting and hilarious book. It’s quite insane, with a disturbing concept executed in a well-developed alternate world.  Punctuated with descriptions of a theme park on Venus, Placenta of Love tells the story of an automaton pirate called Captain Carl, who is created by a robot maintenance worker called Zampanò (a nice reference to House of Leaves, so yay to that) to have superior intelligence. Zampanò treated his pirate automaton as a student, teaching him philosophy and other subjects. Then one day Zampanò’s cat, Jiji, an intrusive but seductive beast who likes frequent “spankies” shows up to tell Captain Carl that Zampanò has died.

“Why don’t you turn him back on?” Captain Carl asked.
“Zampanò was human. His body is real. You can’t just turn him back on,” Jiji said.
“Well then. We’ll cobble together a new one. We’ll insert his back up, and…”
“Human bodies don’t work like that,” Jiji said. “He’s gone. For always.”
“Oh,” Captain Carl said. “He should have backed himself up.”
“An important lesson for us all,” Jiji said.

Jiji then gives Captain Carl a large, orange vibrating finger that is essentially a dildo with three settings because she likes being rubbed with it. Jiji is indeed a perverse little cat, but I really preferred her to the mate Captain Carl ends up with. Better to have a demanding cat than an enormous, destructive, needy placenta as a wife. But I am getting ahead of myself.

This Is Not an Odd Book Discussion: The Bunny Game

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

I’ve wanted to talk about the movie, The Bunny Game, for a while now but I needed time to come to an understanding with myself as to why I find this film worthy of discussion. It’s a hard movie to watch, an even harder movie to digest and, if one gets derailed by accusations of this film being no more than stylish torture porn, it’s dirty and unsettling. And note that this discussion is full of spoilers, though it’s hard to spoil a film that can be summed up as “trucker tortures prostitute in the desert for several days.”

The Bunny Game struck me as a transgressive piece of cinema that showed a frightening and non-consensual ordeal path/purification ritual more troubling than anything Eli Roth ever brought to the table.  You may think this is going to be a typical torture porn horror movie because some of the marketing leans in this direction.  However this is not torture for the sake of torture, it’s torture with a demented purpose behind it that transcends just the thrill that comes for many when they see a beautiful woman abducted, raped and harmed. I felt this way before I looked up Rodleen Getsic, the protagonist of the film, and found out that she co-wrote this film and based it on an actual abduction she endured. I also read that making this film killed part of her soul, which makes it hard to know if she accomplished what she set out to do when she decided to make this film. She fasted for 40 days beforehand to make herself weak, and she consented to everything that happened to her in this film, from a graphic blowjob (actually more of a face-fuck) to the physical abuse that she endured during the abduction.

The hardest part of this movie for me to stomach was that it was largely script-less, because the implication is that Getsic often had no idea what was going to happen to her next. It was, in a sense, one long, horrible ad lib, which makes it more interesting and infinitely more sickening. The man who plays the trucker is not a professional actor (I believe I read that the director cast him because the actor tried to fight him after claiming he looked at him too long in a parking lot). But the lack of a script meant that Rodleen, a victim of a previous abduction and assault, was potentially being re-victimized even as she consented to all of it beforehand. It also makes one wonder how much anyone can be said to consent to something when they don’t know the details of what is going to happen.

The film, shot in black and white, is visually quite pretty, or maybe arresting, but the cinema quality also made it all the worse, turning all that abuse into visually appealing art. Everything that worked about this film made it all the worse because I did not want to be entertained as I watched this movie.

The film begins with a graphic, unsimulated blow job that is anti-pornographic. Rodleen, the protagonist, is not enjoying herself. She is not moaning with feigned pleasure. Forced to deep throat her john, she pulls back three times to catch her breath, gasping for air and the third time she does this, a wave of misery washes over her face. One gets the feeling she was not acting.  Her reaction shows how nasty her character’s life is and there is no way to see this with a sex positive filter.  She is not empowering herself via sex work.

From that opening scene we are taken through a few days in the prostitute’s life. Bunny lives a life of degrading sexual acts in exchange for enough money to keep her in a nondescript motel room in a nondescript Every City. She spends her time hustling johns, having horrible sex, doing drugs and recovering from it all. Before we are ten minutes in we see her raped when she passes out during a trick and wakes up to find she has been robbed of all her money and her drugs. There is a scene where Bunny sniffs a line of some drug and talks to herself in the mirror, muttering “Yeah, yeah, yeah…” as she psychs herself up to go back out and do more of the same. That, in its way, was the worst scene in the film.

Bunny, wearing platform shoes that had to be a foot tall, wanders a city scape that harbors nothing good or natural. She eats fast food sprawled in front of a wall covered in graffiti, she urinates in an alley in front of a metal fence, right on the concrete. As she wanders the streets, her bleached, straw-like hair in pig-tails, the film flashes to other images, several of her in a natural place, mountains behind her, her brown hair falling in curls, her face, young again as she laughs. Blink and you’ll miss it, but those brief scenes where we see the prostitute in better times, in fresh air in the natural world, are a clue as to what this film’s intent is.

The prostitute, Bunny, finally meets her destiny in the form of a truck driver, called Hog (each are named for the masks they wear during one of the torture scenes). He renders her unconscious, drives her to the desert and spends several days torturing her. She’s unconscious for a while, allowing him time to pull her into his empty trailer, rape her, investigate her body thoroughly, at times snuffling her hair and body like a dog. He then chains her inside the trailer and focuses a camera on her. He forces her to watch her torment, making her relive it as she is actually living it, a particularly cruel bit of meta when one remembers this movie is drawn from Rodleen Getsic’s own experiences.

Hog keeps her in chains, puts a collar around her neck and takes her on walks in the junkyard-like landscape of the desert, at one point forcing her to walk while wearing those insane platforms. He force-feeds her whiskey when she desperately needs water. He completely depersonalizes her by shaving her head, but later brands her as well, taking away one form of identity while giving her another form, one that is more permanent. The brands Hog puts on Bunny’s back resemble infinity signs with tails, but they also look like a bow tied from thin ribbon. Both are apt symbols for this film’s purpose. The torture seems like it lasts forever (this movie is a merciful 76 minutes long – any longer and I think it would have been unwatchable), and the torture is interchangeable with other women we see Hog torture in his own flashbacks. It is interminable and unceasing. But this film also shows that Bunny is being a given a perverse gift.

Bald and slowly divested of her clothing, the end of the movie shows a woman who looks like a slightly better nourished concentration camp victim. She is crouched in the back of the trailer when the door opens and light shines in on her. Naked and near insanity, Bunny runs for it. She runs toward the light. She is a gibbering mess, but the ecstasy is unmistakeable on her face. She desperately wants to live.

The film cuts away and we next see her on a cross. She did not make it to freedom. Hog has caught up to her. She is not restrained. She is not nailed to the cross. She is simply lying atop it with her arms spread, in a Christ-like position. Hog sits near her, not touching her. She hallucinates and sees herself with her healthy face, her brown curly hair, sitting nearby. Her old self burns a book. Her old self puts on a veil. Her old self is watching her self-sacrifice. She is her own Mary Magdalene in this painful vision.

Hog tells her to draw a straw from his fist – if she gets the long straw, she wins. A jittery wraith, she selects a straw. Hog mumbles something in her ear and the ecstasy again shows on her face. She laughs with hysterical delight as he carries her over his shoulder. A man in a white uniform in a white van arrives and Hog carries her to him. They put her in the back of the van and the film ends.

Does Bunny live? Who is the man in the van? I think she lives and but even if she doesn’t, in terms of the purpose of this film, it is unimportant. Taken away from the city into the desert, broken down and depersonalized, she wants to live. She has gone through an extraordinary ordeal, very nearly a vision quest and wants to live. I also thought about this in terms of an extreme purification ritual, with the head-shaving, the starvation, the food and water deprivation.

And if this is a purification ritual, then Bunny lived because there was no sense purifying her if there was only death waiting for her. Purification rituals are to cleanse a person of that which is unclean before a specific life event. I left this film thinking the specific event was life itself. Bunny was cleansed of the drugs in her system, the endless flow of semen into her body, the dirt of the city, the implications of her fried hair and her provocative clothing. Naked, starved and bald she is now ready for life after her ordeal. But even if that white van is representative of death, for the first time Bunny wanted to live. Wanting life is a redemption from the walking death she was experiencing before she was kidnapped. She may never return to being that full-faced, curly-haired, laughing brunette, but just wanting to be her again means she is saved.

I know it’s tempting for many to dismiss this as torture porn wherein the sole purpose is to revel in Bunny’s debasement. But those seeking a disgusting gore-fest will be disappointed. There is no blood. There are no saws or pliers. The blow torch is for use with the brand. No one loses a limb, no toes are cut off, no one is hung upside down with a cut throat and bleeding into a bath. This is not a cartoon of extreme violence like so many other movies that depict torture. This is psychological torture and while equally as horrible as physical torture, it has a different purpose than to titillate, which is why I think so many people were put off by this film. It wasn’t what they expected, and in many ways it was far, far worse.

I do my best to interpret the media I consume in a vacuum. I don’t like to read reviews about books or films until I see them and before I write about them, I prefer not to know too much detail about what others think. But after watching this film I wanted to know more about Rodleen Getsic. Her site is a lot to take in at once and I recommend spending ten minute increments there in the beginning. Evidently after filming The Bunny Game, Getsic slipped on a doormat at a grocery story and landed on her head, causing a catastrophic brain injury, and her site shows her struggle as she recovers and copes. She hasn’t updated her “phonetography” section in a while. I hope she’s okay. And I hope the part of her soul that died when she made The Bunny Game was a part she needed to shed. It’s an uncomfortable feeling realizing that the woman who made this film, a film based on her own experiences, has gone on to experience another ordeal.

This was a hard movie but if you ever watch it, I’d love to hear your take on it. I suspect there are a lot of different opinions, and given the nature of this film, aside from the ones that dismiss this as pointless torture porn, they may all be correct.

Trashland a Go-Go by Constance Ann Fitzgerald

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book:  Trashland a Go-Go

Author: Constance Ann Fitzgerald

Type of Book: Fiction, bizarro, novella

Why Do I Consider This Book Odd: It is the tale of an undead stripper, or maybe a formerly dead stripper, in an endless waste dump.

Availability:  Published by Eraserhead Press in 2011 as a part of the New Bizarro Author Series, you can get a copy here:

Comments:  Discussing this book is troublesome to me because as a first effort, I can see just how it is Constance Fitzgerald is going to be an excellent writer once she has more experience under her belt. I really like her writing style and see a lot of talent, but ultimately this story did not appeal to me.

A short synopsis:  A stripper named Coco takes the pole on stage only to find a jealous rival has greased it down. She goes flying off the pole into the sound equipment and dies.  Her craven boss and his rapey/necrophilic assistant cram her into a dumpster so they won’t have any trouble with the law and she wakes/comes back to life in an endless dump.  Many disgusting things happen. Many. She is befriended by a fly, she meets the queen of the trash world and has to engage in a battle of wits and will to survive.

The hell of this discussion is this:  what I don’t like about this book may really appeal to some of my readers.  Seriously, I know there are several of you who are all, “Dead stripper in an endless wasteland of trash – where do I sign up?”  So I’ll include some quotes so you guys can get a really good taste and smell of what this book is about.

So here’s what I don’t like about this book.  First, Coco, the main character and heroine, is largely irritating, and while annoying women can be fun, I need to care whether or not Coco lives or dies.  I need to care that she is miserable and I need to like her enough for the humorous parts to be worth reading.  I don’t.  Coco is tiresome, bitchy, and so unpleasant that I am totally on the side of the stripper who greased down the pole.  Who could blame her?  

Necrophilia Variations as read by Stoya

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

I am way late to the party on this one but being out of commission is no excuse to let it go without comment.

I noticed that out of nowhere my most popular search string was “necrophilia variations,” which is awesome, though unexpected. Supervert is one of my favorite writers. In a just world, he should always lead my search strings, but alas, we do not live in a just world. But this piqued my curiosity and I checked my referrer links and found a couple of places wherein people were posting links to my discussion of Necrophilia Variations. With the assistance of Google Translate (for both sites were in Russian – dirty.ru, indeed) I was able to piece together why Russians were talking about this short story collection.

This is why. Porn actress Stoya reads from the story, “Confessions of a Skull Mask.” It is a titillating read, for reasons you will discover if you watch the video. I must warn you, however, that this video has such low volume you will need headphones and that it is not safe for work.

But warnings aside, it is wonderful and you should watch it and listen to it. And when you are finished, go buy a copy of Necrophilia Variations, if you don’t have one already. It is a wonderful book.

Join hands and sing out loud, “We all die.”

This Is Not an Oddbook Discussion: Update and thanks!

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

I am doing much better and should have some content up here soon. I am SOOOO lucky that the situation with my back was not a permanent situation. Back yoga is gonna happen here at Chez Oddbooks and I feel pretty confident that I’m back to normal.

A week after our beloved Tabby died, two little cats with injuries showed up in our lives. Of course they did. The cosmos let them know there were openings. A mother and daughter – mom’s a tuxedo and her kitten is solid black, both semi-longhair with fuzzy tails. We weren’t going to keep them but we made the rookie mistake of naming them and now we’re screwed. Once you name a cat, it’s pretty much yours. But they came along at a fortuitous time. No cat can replace Tabby or Miss Baby but the two new girls provided a distraction from overly involved grief.

So we’re back up to 8 cats, same as it ever was.

I have a movie discussion coming, as well as the long-promised Jim Goad/ANSWER Me!/Rape edition discussion. That will likely happen in September because I want to get a copy of a couple of books that are topical to this discussion and make sure I have all my ducks in a row.

Before that happens, there will be some bizarro reviews and a discussion of why one of my favorite horror writers is a complete disappointment to me. Seriously. I feel like I’m his mom and he came home drunk with a hooker, barfed in the houseplants, and missed the toilet entirely when he peed, soaking the family dog.

I really appreciate the kindness shown to me at the end of July.

I also need to mention that I got a flurry of e-mails around the anniversary of the Breivik mass murders. I tried to answer a couple of them and they quickly turned into a diatribe wherein we were no longer discussing 2083 and what it showed about Fjordman and Breivik. The messages became a mess of kitchen sink accusations against Islam and Muslims that were so disjointed that the only thing uniting them was hatred and a weird way of processing information. I apologize if you sent me an e-mail in good faith hoping to discuss specifics of the Breivik case or 2083, but once again, the True Believers have made it hard to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Conspiracy theory is a badge of tribalism in an age where there are no tribes and is important to the identity of many people. I get that. And I don’t want to mock people who engage in this sort of thinking, though I know it happens from time to time. I do mostly try to be kind and patient. But I only have so many hours in a day. I have a husband, 8 cats, a house to neurotically clean, meals to cook, books to read, discussions to write. As much as I appreciate that people may want to talk to me, I don’t have the time to reply to 10,000 word messages. If you sent me such a message and feel slighted, again, I apologize. If you simply want people to read what you have to say, please leave your messages as comments on the entries themselves. Unless you advocate something illegal or so immoral I cannot stomach it, I won’t censor you.

So things are back to what passed for normal for me and I appreciate my readers here. Next entries will have actual content, yay!

This Is Not an Odd Book Discussion: I’m fucked!

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Since Wednesday of last week, I have herniated a disc as I was dressing (putting on underpants to be specific), lost our beautiful cat Tabby-mama to kidney failure, and lost our cranky but beloved cat Miss Baby to a stroke likely caused from kidney failure, which we had been managing but all kidney failure, no matter how well managed, always ends in death at some point.

The first trial was bad but losing two cats in two days (and three cats in less than three months, because our beloved land walrus Wooster died back in May) is so devastating I am unsure how devastating it is because I have entered that numb stage wherein I am certain this is a pain- and hydrocodone-induced waking nightmare and that none of it is really happening. My cats aren’t children or babies or cute distractions. They’re incredibly important members of a small but functional bioculture and the loss of each tilts this entire house askew for a long time.

I haven’t really slept in days. I hope this entry makes sense. I think it does. Mr. Oddbooks will edit it later if I’m babbling.

Between the pain from my back and a complete inability to sit comfortably or write comfortably and the mental fog caused from losing two important members of Chez Oddbooks, I am really fucked in terms of positive online work. Just typing this caused some interesting spasms. Whether or not I descend into a depression fog remains to be seen but it would not be surprising if I do.

So the ANSWER Me! discussion will be pushed back until I am in possession of a mens sana in corpore sano and I am cancelling Bizarro Week. Two of the books I wanted to discuss are not books I would feel good about sharing with others as gifts. I’m going to have a generic giveaway of Amazon gift certificates some time in September and another in December. I was surprised that half of the bizarro books I had slated to discuss turned out to be such disappointments, but it happens. It’s actually quite a testament to the generally high quality of the imprint in question that I selected books to discuss before I had read them, but perhaps it is time to reevaluate my processes a bit.

Just giving y’all a heads-up as to why it is I am going to be delayed yet again, all the more infuriating since I had sort of gotten on a roll recently.

There is a cosmic lesson in here, along the lines of “shit happens.” Or, as Fay Weldon said, “Nothing happens, and nothing happens, and then everything happens.”

But then again, I would be careful taking any lesson, cosmic or otherwise, from a woman who was able to wreck her back putting on underwear.

Leave me comments about what you are reading. A movie you liked that I could stream as I lie flat on the couch. Or just share anything, really. People always worry their comments are inane or trivial but that is never the case.

Also, to the Anon who was wondering about someone translating that Peter Sotos interview from French into English, I’m still working on it. A friend of a friend of a friend may be able to look at it once he has finished a large project. Fingers crossed.

Drukija, Contessa of Blood and Hidden Lyrics of the Left Hand by Glenn Danzig

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Books: Drujika, Contessa of Blood and Hidden Lyrics of the Left Hand

Author/Artist: Glenn Danzig and Simon Bisley

Type of Book: Graphic novels, adult comics, horror, music

Why Do I Consider These Books Odd: I don’t know. They just are.

Availability: I have no idea if these are in print or not. I couldn’t find them on the Verotik website. I purchased mine from the Verotik store on eBay. I found the Verotik website to be marginally less helpful than a Geocities site, circa 1997, so if this discussion causes you to want to look into Danzig’s comics, the Verotik store on eBay is probably your best bet.

Comments: When George Tierney of Greenville, South Carolina, showed his extraordinary misogyny, his complete misunderstanding of how the Internet works, and his ass, I checked to see what the Twitter response was to his delightful antics. Lots of moral outrage, but the best Twitter response came from an account ostensibly belonging to Glenn Danzig. Danzig’s response was the perfect: “I’d like to get @geotie2323 alone in a room.”

Of course I had to retweet that, as I am only human. Later I came to find that Glenn Danzig doesn’t even have an e-mail address (BOO!), so it was unlikely he had a Twitter account. Still, it was a nice moment in time.

Later I had a bizarre dream wherein a shirtless Glenn Danzig, as he looked in 1992, beat the hell out of the current model of Bill Maher. I have no idea what such a dream means because I like Bill Maher and have no desire to see him beaten up. So as I pondered what the hell that dream meant, I searched on Glenn Danzig. Goodness. He’s a polarizing dude. And he has cats, and a book collection and a cabinet of curiosities that I totally want to rummage through, though in a wholly respectful way.


I have all the books he spoke of in that video (are his books next to a pool? what the hell?) and I understand what he meant when he said “all documented, all true” in reference to Montague Summers’ book on werewolves. I feel like Glenn Danzig and I would find a lot of duplicates if we compared book collections.

I have to explain, however, that I am not that familiar with Glenn Danzig’s body of music. I was a bit too young for the Misfits, I sort of liked Samhain but they got zero radio play in Dallas, and by the time Danzig, the band, was on the rise I had sunk into a weird place of radio alterna-pop and black metal. (In spite of my ignorance of Danzig’s music, I can say this: the current, Danzig-less incarnation of The Misfits released one of the worst songs I have ever heard. “Helena” is both an homage to one of the crappiest and most unintentionally hilarious movies ever and also seems to be a rip-off of a much better song by Acid Bath. Seriously, don’t test me on how much I loathe that song.) I say this because I need y’all to know I can’t speak intelligently about Danzig’s music beyond just dying a little inside when I watch the video “Wicked Pussycat” because those clawed gloves Danzig wears reminds me of when Dwayne on the cartoon Home Movies played Mr. Pants, the fearsomely violent but easily flattered kitty cat.

Here they are for your comparison. Note that the above is NSFW in a major way.


The relevant part starts around at the one minute mark. Brendan Small imbued Nathan Explosion with a bit of Glenn Danzig, so who knows – maybe there is a bit of Danzig in Mr. Pants.

What I guess I’m saying is that for me Glenn Danzig’s music career, while definitely impressive, takes a back seat to the fact that he clearly has the same taste in books as I do and that he is also fond of cats. It was hard for me to see the humor in the macros generated from a grocery store trip wherein Danzig was buying cat litter. Honestly, we buy Mr. Oddbooks’ body weight in cat litter every month. What’s the interest in a man with a cat making sure it can crap someplace other than the floor?

The problem, of course, is that he is Glenn Fucking Danzig. I guess people would feel the same sense of shocked mockery were Lemmy Kilmister found carefully cultivating a butterfly garden. Men like Danzig, who at times seems like a Frank Frazetta character come to life, are not supposed to be caregivers or nurturers. But being who I am, knowing he has a couple of cats he takes care of made me like him so much I was willing to pay a substantial price for two of his comics, a price that Mr. Oddbooks, the real comic aficionado in this house, found shocking for something with a cover that to him was essentially an extended van mural as imagined by a 15-year-old dirtbag as he sketched on his Trapper Keeper in biology.