The Monthly Rag

Getting back on track with things…a few months after my 18th year celebration, an ex-love came stumbling home into my arms. Out of literally nowhere at almost the same exact time, my biological father appeared–a man I had only met once when I was far too young to remember the resulting experience. I had already adopted his name and had been using it for a bit of time as it was, but meeting him and starting a relationship personalized the self-knighting. The paternal rendezvous also changed some of my more persisting demons at that time, which was very good because I was on the verge of having a complete breakdown against a losing struggle with identity crisis.

At the end of November, just over two years of existing in the pages of a cult newspaper, I vacated my dreaded grandparents home and hung my hat up in a new location. Try to imagine it as the old cabin in The Evil Dead films; all that was missing from the run down and in the middle of the woods shack that I got for rent free (it had no hot water) was a fruit cellar with sweet possessed Henrietta and her sagging varicose legs. Liberated again from under authoritative madness, the fun began as it had been left, only this time in far more decadent droves. The christening of the cabin was a night I’ll always remember. We had a host of jolly good folks out for a Rag bash of high order. Andrew and I were patching up our indifferences and liquor had made a sudden emergence during a previous late night 3-DO session. Appointing ourselves “Doctor G” And “Doctor H”, our trademark became distribution of Jagermeister at our social gatherings, and between a few other mixed indulgences and some local beer the damage surmounted to devastating proportions.

That first one in particular was a smash. A small army of guests were crammed into my B-flick imagined dwelling, and we had a marathon of 80’s slasher’s rolling on the vcr and much Metallica and Leppard blasting for the mountain bears. The almighty Jager-bottle was kept in my 1950’s era refrigerator, which had a little built in freezer that was colder than any freezer I’d ever seen. It was strangely set up–just a small corner in the actual fridge part, in a little tin cabinet, but it was so low in temperature it iced over and grew fantastic snowy beards. Most of the time we had to actually chisel the damn bottle out of there, but it made the Ny-Quil tasting nectar of the Gods so chilled it ran like mercury down the gullet. Perhaps it was a time to spend celebrating and enjoying life, or more likely it was that we still had shit for advertising and I was living off food stamps, but whatever the reason The Rag slowed down and during the course of my six months at the Knowby cabin only two issues were produced. My born-again girlfriend was recruited as second-in-command to help with ads and even some of the writing, and we worked it in around the rest of our relationship. We had started reviewing adult films a few editions back, which began as a joke in a column called Xxx-Tra! Our beloved review duo Cyst & Eater (Summer and I, initially) would check out a flick and then pan or praise it in short paragraphs. After the apartment was lost and we had headed in different living directions, there was never time to gather to watch our assignments, so I’d just review one and he’d review something else at random (usually the mainstream counterpart–which became a running gag). Renting porno tapes is almost impossible for a germ-fanatic, and in the end I just started picking titles and making things up since the plotlines all ended up the same anyway. Occasionally, when NEW clean smut was bought at our favorite Redwood liquor store, the crotch flicks would reemerge for a surprise appearance.

As I said, early 1995 was rather slow from a production angle. An ugly blow was also dealt when I got a ring one morning after the notorious storms of ‘95 that left most of the the northwest coast without power for days on end. It appeared that the Racine’s art and supply store building in downtown Fort Bragg (one of our advertisers, I’ll add, and Summer’s most recent daytime employer) had been burned to the ground in the early hours of the morning. Summer and his still just barely underage girlfriend had been arrested on suspicion charges, and things would soon take a turn for the far worse. With my artist incarcerated and our City Slyme and Dateline with Ash scriber’s both out of the area, The Rag crew was reduced to myself and my significant other. This held in place until the early portion of the following June, when my girl decided to jump into bed with her ex behind my back–bringing a miserable 19th birthday around full circle.

This was the beginning of what would be dubbed “Rag Luck” by all involved–an annual pitstop of random misfortune that would rear up its ugly head like clockwork. You could almost set your watch by it in the following years. Matt Pfeil finally returned from Saudi Arabia and I appointed him the new co-editor, so he wrote his usual article, began a joint fiction story with me (which we sadly never completed), picked up the ads and drove my ass around for errands. A friend named Eli Bingham also took up a full time column, having been a prior contributor, and this tripod became the new line-up in the ever changing mass of performers. To celebrate our current fusion, another legendary (this time for far different reasons) party was assembled. Mr. Pfeil, Mr. Bingham, an anonymous then writer named Jelis Jelis X and myself gathered with Mickey’s forties, German cigars, and a gaggle of underage girls that weren’t at all invited. Mr. X was the only one of us that was over 21 at the time, and was therefore required to buy the beverages, but his presence came with a hefty price. Tagging along as his entourage were four illustriously immature starlets, adorned with caked on make-up and all the latest in GAP fashion. Photographs of our current team were taken by our dear Matthew to commemorate the experience. The drinks dwindled, the smoke hazed, and much hugging was had among friends. Then it all went very, very wrong. Over my beautiful selections of classic rock, a disruptive noise could be heard simultaneously from the backyard. Getting up to see what was ruining my airspace, I found the teenage peanut gallery bopping about to a smuggled boom box in our veranda. To counter their Dr. Dre-fest, I cranked the big boss Sony stereo a notch. As long as they remained outside, all was good. A dueling of volume’s played out after this, with both ends “going to 11”–where I had to finally step outside again and say “what the fuck–Snoop’s going to wake up my neighbor–turn that SHIT DOWN!” Reluctantly they complied, asking oddly “can we use the hot-tub?” as some sort of alternative package deal. I informed them that the spa wasn’t heated and therefore wouldn’t be much fun. They didn’t seem to care. Figuring they would get cold in a hurry, I said “fine–just don’t make a mess” and left the area to return to my comrades.

It couldn’t have been too long, perhaps within the span of about a half hour, but during a grinning moment of drink-induced stupor a clamor was heard from the back entry door. Groggily, I got to my feet to see what new horror had befallen. As I cleared the bend in the kitchen, a flashing streak of wet, illegal flesh crashed through the door to the garden and lost footing on the tile floor. Down teenage girl went, smacking her head hard, flopping about like a giant bass. Mr. X heard my sudden distress signal, came running in, and tried to collect his out-of-control vixen. She was drunker than I was, and that upset me greatly since I had banned them from partaking in the liquor (yes, I was underage too, but dammit, I had seniority). The mallrats had brought their own cocktails in their little glittery purses, by God, and this one was now bleeding on my kitchen floor.

X finally got her on her wobbling feet, and fled to my bathroom before I could really stop anyone and throw them out. I walked down the adjoining hall to knock on the door and see what was wrong. I figured it was a minor cut, knowing how scalp injuries make a mess, and got half completed cries and “she’s ok–I’ve got it” coming from beyond. My quickly sobering gaze wandered to the floor, where my bare feet were, and found that one of my greatest nightmares was about to have me naked and bent over.

I was standing in teenage girl life-syrup.

Things go kind of blurry after that mental snapshot. I think I hopped to the kitchen, calling Mr. Pfeil to the scene, going all Howard Hughes. My mind flashed to all the possible sexual encounters or blood transfusions the girl had had, and into the sink my piggies went, hot water scalding. Thankfully my loyal general was quick to his wits, assuring me that the chlorinated hot tub water had sanitized the area as he grabbed for bleach and paper towels. In an obsessive panic, nothing is rational, and this poor girl who had (I think) only been with one person and had about a .1 chance of carrying perhaps tetanus at best was put in contamination lockdown. After scrubbing several layers of skin off my feet and slipping on fresh socks and shoes, I went back to the bathroom to find Mr. X and his now patched up ward. He rounded up the three remaining female “guests” and got them out to the car for a quick retreat.

The bathroom had to be seen to believed. It looked like the opening murder sequence in the original A Nightmare on Elm Street–blood had somehow gotten on the walls, all the way up in some cases. It was on the washing machine. It was on the toilet. It was on the sink. It was fucking everywhere. I’ll never wrap my mind around how they managed to decorate so splendidly in that small window of time. Mr. Pfeil showed his military training and was on the situation like Sgt. Slaughter–mop and disinfectants in hand. I stayed in the living room, worrying about whether or not I’d be able to use my bathroom ever again. He finished in the wee hours of the morning and excused himself home, where I thanked him heartily and saw him on his way. Eli and I hung around and watched television until the sun was up, trying to make light of all that had happened.

A week or two later, work resumed. During the same month as the blockbuster release of 1995’s Batman Forever (a tepid entry with severe continuity errors and hilarious homo-erotic subtext, if you went by our reviews), The Rag appeared, bat-logo adorned and ribbed for everyone’s pleasure. Emblazoned on the lower corner of the front page was a picture of all the staff from the night of the soiree of the damned, and we felt it summed up everything about our present condition perfectly (see the ABOUT US section for a gander).

CONTINUE TO PART 12