Growing up hurts. A lot. Memoirs from TV writers sound just as painful, but thankfully Paul Feig’s Kick Me – Adventures in Adolescence pays tribute to the maxim that brevity is the soul of wit. If keeping to the point weren’t enough, he also includes enough pratfalls, empathetic flashbacks and good old schadenfreude to make sure things stays interesting.

A collection of anecdotes that span from his first days at school to his high school graduation, Feig’s remembrances are qualified and partly lifted up by the fact he was the creator of Freaks and Geeks, which is the only US TV series aimed at teens to have a soul in the past 20 years. With its ensemble cast, Freaks… was routinely gut-twistingly brilliant, timeless (it was set in 1980 but made in 1999) and oddly moving in places, too. In Kick Me, Feig’s too busy sending himself up to cram all that in: laughs are delivered in place of thoughts on the strains put on a family unit, as he’s keen to paint himself as a mollycoddled wuss. He’s nothing of the sort, of course, otherwise neither Freaks and Geeks or Kick Me would exist.

There’s no room for sentimentality here, just a brilliant rendering of a young man’s folly through adult eyes. The book starts with a story of how his parents are called upon to make an elf costume for him, for the school’s Christmas play. With best intentions, they cobble together something from the stock at his father’s army surplus store. As a result, he’s “the only combat-ready elf” in the production and the first of several fist-chewing denouements unfolds. That he manages to work in run-ins with cross-dressing, playing across stumbled upon genuine Nazi regalia and recounts his first gym class of junior high in two harrowing instalments, it’s enough to wish you weren’t there but that you probably were, or at least somewhere equivalent. We’re left in no doubt that the suspicion we all have about people who are popular in school being some form of unacknowledged pure evil is abundantly true.

Girl trouble, needless to say, also makes an appearance. The fact that this book’s sequel is subtitled How I Became a 24-year-old Virgin tells you where its going, but not before he’s blown his first kiss, managed a disastrous first date with a girl who somehow stops being pretty the moment she dolls herself up and accidentally pursued a prom date to whom he’s not sexually attracted, with the feeling being mutual.

Feig’s wit and perspective is notable in a broader context for the fact that the one series he had total control over was, as elitist as it might be to say it, too smart for TV audiences. The ones who tune in en masse to maintain ad revenue with their viewing figures and make shows viable in the US, anyway. His Freaks… collaborator, Judd Apatow, continued with a natural successor, college-based Undeclared, that too was unceremoniously shitcanned. It wasn’t as good, but is now the obvious missing link between the smart, intelligent and funny storytelling and the formula that Apatow found to eventually work: broader, crasser comedies like Superbad, The 40-year-old Virgin and Knocked Up. Feig directed some episodes of Undeclared and has hardly disappeared since, working on a variety of programs. What his sole TV creation and first book both lack is the pragmatism of someone like Apatow recruiting Seth Rogan’s youth and ideas and turning both into commercial hits. Also, it’s true that Kick Me is a less accomplished novel than the similar The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson. In fairness, though, it doesn’t set the same literary goals. Instead it sets out to do one thing: make the reader laugh. In that respect, it’s faultless.

If you want to hear a story told two different ways, read the book and watch the movie. When Let The Right One In was made into a bleak, neatly told vampire movie set in a run-down suburb of 1980s Stockholm last year, it cleaned up on the festival circuit and had its DVD screener bolt across the torrentsphere. Ironically, the latter probably robbed it of part of the box office it deserves in the wake of the feeble-minded allegories offered by summer blockbuster Twilight.

So, if you want to watch the movie, it’s now easy enough to find. The book is equally accessible to agoraphobics, provided they have a fully-functioning Amazon account, and comes similarly recommended.

The book treads the same themes and plot points as the film and even has an identical denouement, but the story is handed back to the voice that first imagined it: former stand-up and street magician John Ajvide Lindqvist. He’s also a Morrissey enthusiast (the title is derived from a Smiths lyric) who doesn’t shy away from topics like homosexuality, child abuse and the loneliness of growing up. Whether he’s condoning or condemning all of the above is a debate best left for people who like shouting at a wall: both on screen and in print, his text is allowed breathe its own life, which is slightly ironic given his predilection for the undead.

Lindqvist’s novel is pacier than its adaptation but also longer than the film version. In the movie, some characters have their stories clipped before reaching an identical fate, while others disappear entirely. Knowing how it ends initially makes these culled details seem like extraneous information when you read about them for the first time, which is a credit to the world Lindqvist has created, its strong cast of characters and the story he tells.

Luckily he’s Swedish, so the film didn’t have to clear an assault course of nervy, delusional mavens worrying about its visceral and at times unnerving subject matter to get made, but the most notable omission from the film is still an attempted rape of a child by the tale’s one paedophile character. This event and the ditched subplot it’s from briefly transports the book into zombie territory: perhaps Lindqvist didn’t realise that the world he’d created was unreal and disconcerting enough. If anything, the film benefits from its absence, becoming less a genre piece and more a meditative study of the warring agendas and contingent goals of its characters.

The film itself is so artfully, minimally shot that it both works on a budget but also emphasise the stoicism of everyone involved. If anything, that quality is reinforced by the book: here, the characters’ thoughts are described to us through internal monologue as it’s written in the third person. However, like the film, they let their actions speak louder than their words. It’s an existentialist dream, portrayed as a nightmare.

Watching the film before reading the book is a good idea. If you become infatuated by what you see on screen and want to spend more time there beyond a second viewing, the book is an invitation to be guided round by the author rather than the director, see some new sights and have what you already know described to you by a different voice, one that feels empathy for every character on the page. The back story missing from the film is kept to a minimum, serving as a case in point: it’s not essential, so you’re only ever told enough to feel compelled, but also slightly disorientated by it. In either format, Let The Right One In works as a slow-acting poison, delivered like a killer vampiric lovebite on anyone who takes the time to fully soak it up.

“The covers of this book are too far apart.”

A. Bierce

I resented Guns and Roses when they came on the scene. I imagine that, as a dipshit 7th grader, it had something to do with my musically challenged philosophy that they were ripping off equal parts Metallica and my beloved Crue. If you remember, it was only after “Sweet Child O’ Mine” that they rocketed into the stratosphere and at that time I was fully unfamiliar with the rest of the album except for a vague recollection of seeing the “Welcome To The Jungle” video. Since we were Iowan trash without cable I wasn’t exposed to the rest of the album . Thus, given the balladry of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and the amount of people I didn’t like showing up to school wearing G N’R tees, I figured them for another hair-farmer, girl-bait band. And yet, Motley Crue were somehow paragons of integrity.

Sometime in 1988 my older brother plucked my head from my asshole and I experienced a few full listens of the greatest rock album of the past 30 years, Appetite For Destruction. For me, like many other kids, it changed my world. It was antagonistic, mean-spirited, looking for a fight with liberal usage of the word “fuck,” and god damn melodic in the face of salty old detractors and critics clinging to their Beatles records denying what was apparent. Out of the cellar of zebra spandex and Z2 double neck guitars with, well, zebra patterns, came a rabid, snarling bunch of psychotics with a record that blew doors off those dusty, near-mint record collections.

What makes Slash’s autobiography interesting is that one is constantly reminded that five dysfunctional, drug-saturated, chemically imbalanced young men were able to lay down those 12 tracks and inarguably change the face of rock and roll. For like, a couple years. Until Nirvana did it all over again, but that’s another biography.

Reading this mashup – while learning that Slash’s real name is Saul for Christ sakes – you find yourself perplexed at how it was to all come together. Seems that all these guys were bouncing around other bands on the Sunset Strip, seemingly directionless and going nowhere fast. Slash actually auditioned for Poison at one time, for the love of God (which turned out to be one of the funniest stories in the book). Mostly there was this incestuous swapping of musicians between bands like London, Hollywood Rose, whatever else Tracii Guns had going on, Slash’s dropout band, which didn’t even have a singer, and like, Jetboy.

Slash was already dabbling in H and Axl, even then, was already a moody prick that couldn’t be counted on and told Slash’s grandma to “fuck off”. You almost have to respect that money didn’t really change Axl. Apparently, he was always fucked. Izzy Stradlin had focus but was picking up his own drug habit and Steven Adler was a gigolo since he was 12 and was without trustworthy skills in the eyes of the other soon-to-be band members. It turns out some of Duff McKagen’s connections came through at the right time and place more than once to keep this shifty bunch of undesirables from unraveling and going their separate ways before any songs were even written .

I’m always fascinated with rapid rises to fame and the rise of this group of already extremely dysfunctional men could be considered one of the most meteoric in music history. It did take a year before Appetite caught on with the public after its release and the band started headlining, but shortly after that – if you can even remember the fall of ‘88 – they pretty much ruled the planet. However, what’s most interesting is reading about the events right before they broke big. The band was opening for Queensryche, Ratt (Slash labels Stephen Pearcy a “moron”), Motley Crue (respected by Guns and Roses as incredible partiers), until they finally got a headlining slot with bands they hated, like Faster Pussycat, opening for them. Slash and Izzy were full blown heroin addicts with Slash downing a bottle of Jack or vodka per day. Those posters we all saw were not faked. You know, the ones with Slash crumpled on the ground, top hat and hair hiding his closed eyes with the neck of his guitar holding his head up? He was passed out at the shoots. And Steve Adler with a gigantic clenched teeth grin on his face? He was the band’s resident cokehead.

Fame didn’t really seem to change our boy’s habits much either. Slash had two main interests outside of playing guitar; dope and booze. As a matter of fact, and I’ve read about a lot of other junkie musicians, Slash so far is the biggest fiender I’ve ever come across. Not necessarily a junkie I suppose, but Slash was the kind of scrounger who would throw rocks at his dealer’s window at 4 in the morning, ask everyone in a public place if they could score, get his stash, and like a squirrel running off with a nut, scramble to a bathroom to fix immediately without a care that everyone knew what he was doing. At one point he says even his dealers started avoiding him.

One of his best heroin stories comes from a time he was supposed to be detoxing at an Arizona resort but instead was speedballing. He became so paranoid that the once friendly hallucinatory little corner-of-his-eye army men chased him right through the glass of his shower and eventually fully nekkid into the lobby of the hotel where he dodged between some businessman to shield him from the spazz warriors. Oh, and Slash recalls that the little bastards looked like Predator. I suspect this horde of mini-soldiers were cousins of the tiny robots that chased our head groundskeeper Erich around his pad and the little figures that repeatedly did kama sutra positions I used to see in my darkest hours.

We all know we don’t like Axl, right? I mean, for a decade it’s been common headbanger knowledge that he was the monkey in the wrench, the ointment on the cock, and that somehow – though we never really understood – it was his fault that G n’ R disbanded. Well, according to Slash, if only half of what’s written here is true, Axl Rose is the biggest piece of shit in music. If I could unsee his band of fools (your brother must be spinning in his grave, Tommy) I paid $65 to see in 2002 I absolutely would. It would’ve been more appropriate if Roseanne Barr and Margot Kidder were in the band and they called themselves The Bi-polar Bitches because Axl is the poster child of that pathetic disease.

Slash to his credit refuses to blame Rose entirely. He recounts the Use Your Illusion tours in which the singer, with perpetually hurt feelings, would keep the band waiting and go onstage three hours after they were supposed to, causing more than a couple riots, and embarrass the other guys in front of Metallica with lavish theme parties such as, seriously, Roman bathhouses and Mexican fiestas complete with big sombreros. Not to mention the biker shorts. Those fucking biker shorts. My dilemma is that I wonder if I can ever hear a G n’ R song the same way again. I just keep thinking of the little bitch that the screeching singer was all those formative years. Slash is nice enough to blame many of their problems on the addictions that overwhelmed certain band members, even though he contends that at show time, they were all, except for the lobotomized Adler who was no longer with the band, ready to go on. But not Axl Rose, no, because the lead singer of the most dangerous band in the world was as womanly as your fruitcake mother-in-law.

Sarah Vowell is my kind of chick. Not that I find her overly attractive mind you, but she’s got that appealing combination of sassy atheism, skepticism, and liberal disgust that is usually enough to bring the brain and loins together for a conversation. Additionally, she’s a passionate nerd, which means that she spends her time reading, traveling to unpopular destinations, and annoying the hell out of everyone in her vicinity with her quirky interests. I have no doubt that I’d bond with such a woman, and I suppose I’d accept a blowjob now and again just in case her dry lectures on James Garfield became overly familiar. But after three of her books, I am devoted to the cause of Miss Vowell; a sly wit who won’t get you rolling with hyena-inspired lunacy, but will help you find your humanity right at the moment you thought you might have lost it forever. That’s not to say that she’s gooey or sentimental, but she does explore the American landscape with a love for what makes us uniquely insane. And this time, she’s investigating our commemorative tendencies, which usually amount to little more than an obsession with markers and plaques, as if they alone could tell our national story. That said, she is vehemently pro-plaque.

The strongest element to the book lies in its undying affection for the unknown and the ignored. At this point, most Americans have severed any ties with the past that don’t involve their own yawn-inducing family tree, and this is especially true of the minor figures, regardless of how large they may have loomed in days gone by. She violates this love for the obscure by devoting a significant block to the Lincoln assassination, but more than makes up for it with sections on Garfield and McKinley. Fortunately, she avoids Kennedy altogether, I’m assuming because his death is still too fresh in our collective memory. What’s more, one need not be a history buff to find JFK fascinating, which is a testament to our preoccupation with celebrity and glamour.

I was deeply involved as she went from Springfield, Illinois to Washington, D.C. in her quest to rediscover Lincoln’s murder, but more so when she tailed John Wilkes Booth and his flight from justice. Few care about these historical hotspots any longer, as Ford’s Theater pretty much sums up what people continue to digest (and even that is a tourist trap for tubby Midwesterners). But Vowell treks from Booth’s unmarked grave in Baltimore to the Key West site of a conspirator’s prison cell. She manages to find a few fellow travelers along the way, but mostly uniformed guides who are paid to care. Of her few interactions with average citizens, she spends most of the time correcting misunderstandings and historical error. Take the D.C. stop where an oblivious parent fails to correct her dippy child on the identity of a statue. Despite an obvious marker, parent and child seem content to believe that it is Paul Revere, even though Vowell angrily submits that it is in fact General Sherman. Vowell also deals with the glassy-eyed stares of fellow guests at a bed and breakfast where she recounts the thrill of watching the Broadway musical Assassins (which I have seen — yes, it’s utterly brilliant). Because I could share her sense of isolation at that moment, I wanted to hug her with reassurance. No dear, you are not alone.

Vowell also visits assorted organs, locks of hair, pistols, and spines, which reveals a charming (and affectionate) level of morbidity. Again, her words on Garfield and McKinley warrant the most attention, as throughout we get the sense that if she didn’t make this journey, no one would. And why is it that most of the sites concerning Garfield’s and McKinley’s deaths no longer stand? True, these buildings were long ago reduced to rubble, but what have we done to resurrect their memory? Or maybe I’m thinking only of myself, for I too am the sort of American who believes a vacation is valueless unless something is being learned. Few are the eyeballs that didn’t roll with disgust upon learning that I would be spending my honeymoon wandering through presidential homes and blood-soaked Civil War battlefields. Or that I intentionally went to Buffalo, New York so that I could have a chat with Millard Fillmore’s obelisk and walk through the Wilcox Mansion, the site of Theodore Roosevelt’s impromptu inauguration. You might summer in the Bahamas, I’ll take Mentor, Ohio.

She also peppers her travelogue with interesting facts only a nerd could love, such as the strange case of Robert Todd Lincoln, who was within earshot of all three pre-JFK assassinations. It’s also worth noting that within a year of sitting with Warren Harding at the Lincoln Memorial dedication, the 29th President also dropped dead. There’s also a quietly moving visit to Long Branch, New Jersey, a popular summer destination for the elites of the Victorian era, and the current neglect (physical and otherwise) that haunts the ground that once witnessed so much history (including the dying days of Garfield). Still, Vowell never fails to probe the mind of the assassin himself, wondering how an ego careens so far out of control that it believes it has the duty to overturn the will of the electorate. Maybe she should just ask Antonin Scalia.

For her, no assassin is more entertaining than Charles Guiteau, Garfield’s killer. Guiteau was so unfailingly optimistic and deluded that he literally sang the 19th century equivalent of show tunes right up until the moment he was hanged. He was so charming in his loony worldview that he even suggested that Garfield’s doctors actually killed him, for he “only” fired the bullet. Vowell prefers the sunny savagery of Guiteau to the more somber Leon Czolgosz, the man who murdered McKinley. Czolgosz was motivated by the politics of anarchism and class warfare, which makes him a tragic figure rather than a source of entertainment. Guiteau–in contrast–even pulls at the heartstrings when he recalls that while stalking the President, he refrained from firing because his wife looked too tender and just might fall apart after witnessing the deed. Only someone of Guiteau’s madness would believe he’s being gracious by waiting until Mrs. Garfield was out of the room before proceeding with murder. Even Booth is too calculating for Vowell’s taste, even though his plot was more widespread and intricate. Still, ego carried the day as Booth genuinely thought that he’d be embraced as a national hero rather than hunted down like a villainous dog.

In the end, Vowell keeps history alive for those who’d rather focus on death, decay, and division than the so-called “unifying” elements that are largely illusory. We are a nation borne of bloodshed; conceived in the notion that we are much too sinful to take care of ourselves. Even worse, we are a nation that forgets, presumably because our “can-do” spirit is looking ever forward, but most likely because we are impatient with anything at which we could not be present. And if we choose to scour the historical landscape at all, it is only to justify and rationalize, as our prejudices and biases are far better served if accompanied by the approval of a revered (yet misunderstood) figure from the past. But Vowell sees all too well that if we are going back at all, it’s only worthwhile if we remember the numerous bodies–even those of the powerful–that line the path to understanding.

If you don’t know Tucker Max, he’s basically a cross between Bukowski and the “my dad owns a dealership” guy from Aqua Teens. Tucker tells heroic tails of boozing (although the guy strikes me as something of a lightweight), fucking and being an asshole. Some of this is among the funniest things I’ve ever read. I read it in Borders and had to stop at a couple points because I don’t like braying like a donkey thespian in Tijuana in public places. During one story about how Tucker was banned for life from a major hotel chain, I laughed so hard that a fart escaped without me noticing until I heard it. That’s about a once-a-year occurrence.

Did I want to smack Tucker across the face at times? Yes. Not because he considers the residual brain matter that is probably drifting around as he pounds a fuck buddy fresh off a late-term abortion. And not because he leaves one girl an upper decker and makes another give him a lazy Carl. But because he not only orders but repeatedly insists on referring explicitly to a “Red Bull and Goose.” Now that you’ve got a best-selling book, maybe you can move up to Louis XIII and Mr. Pibb, you cunt. And the name, ‘Tucker Max’ makes you sound like a well endowed transvestite.

The most interesting character in the book might be Tuck’s BFF, Slingblade, who is named after their mutual love of a film that barely manages to Fosbury its way into the middlebrow. Slingblade and Tucker represent the yin and yang of aggressive game. Tucker gets laid for being an asshole, while Slingblade gets shut down for being an asshole. For those of us who are assholes, it’s an invaluable case study. Most of us are in the middle. One day you spiritually de-pants some innocent fool at a party, and suddenly you’ve got more tail hanging on you than Davy Crockett. Another day, your vicious drunken ramblings so deeply alienate every woman in the room that it wouldn’t matter if you had a 10-inch, gold-plated cock. After reading this book, I feel l like I have a clearer handle on which kind of asshole behavior moistens and which kind chills. Without going very far into it, Tucker’s recipe for success seems to be to take her along for the ride, rather than leave her in the wake or, like Slingblade, run her straight over. Offer her the chance to be Bonny to your Clyde. Take care to emasculate other men at every opportunity.

It also has to be mentioned that the editing job on this book is just embarrassing. It seems as though the stories are just taken straight from the site. Jokes and descriptions are repeated. On the site, with the articles spread out over years, that’s not a problem. But, for example, when Tucker repeatedly asserts that his stories are true in one reading, it seems like he is desperate to convince. In reality, Tucker is a credible writer. The reason that his stories are enjoyable is that they are about storytelling, rather than chest thumping. This book is a failure of editing, although it remains extraordinarily entertaining. And I say that as the worst editor who has ever lived.

If the universe is ever going to start making sense, Paul Talbot, author of Bronson’s Loose! – The Making of the Death Wish Films, will not only receive the Pulitzer that is his due, but also the undying adoration of thousands of fans, all of whom have worshipped at Chuck’s blood-soaked altar for decades. Released in 2006, this book is long overdue, coming a full twelve years after the final installment of the series, and well over three years since Bronson himself succumbed to pneumonia while being cradled in the tender bosom of a woman — his wife — a full half century his junior. But it made sense after all, for how else would Paul Kersey check out than with the only type of woman he dared sleep with on screen, knowing full well the release of his member spelled doom for anything with a vagina? Still, despite the outrageous delay in celebrating the five-part masterwork, this is the sort of book fans have been dreaming about: funny, knowing, and full of delightful trivia, it respects the movies while also understanding that with the slight exception of the first, these were cynically crafted exploitation pictures designed solely to titillate, entertain, and rub our noses in appalling violence. And if they were also dripping with misogyny and racial stereotypes, so much the better. At bottom, Talbot never lets us forget why these films remain as popular as ever: the charisma and allure of Charles Bronson.

The maiden voyage of the series — the only one to receive mostly (or any) positive reviews in the press — is given the most extensive treatment, though it remains, in some ways, the least interesting of the bunch. It’s a solid right-wing fantasy, full of glorious sadism and political ax-grinding, but it takes itself too seriously and asks us to believe that its immersion in filth is some kind of moral statement. Some may take it as a “message picture” that spoke to the powerlessness of the times, but for my money, I’ll always remember Jeff Goldblum, the spray paint on the ass, and the cruel delivery of, “I rape rich cunts like you.” Talbot faithfully presents the history, the adaptation of Brian Garfield’s source novel, the financing, and all the industry gossip surrounding what at the time was a controversial release, but I always came back to the snippets of Bronson himself: tough, quiet, and always in fantastic physical condition. Hell, the man could still do over a hundred push-ups on the set of Part V, despite being 72-years-old. Bronson comes across as an ass in many ways (his undeniable greed, first of all, with the temerity to bitch about the movies once they were in the can), but nearly everyone interviewed for the book spoke to Chuck’s warm, humorous nature. For most, he was a dream on the set, despite the talk that he often clashed with his directors.

Parts II & III swim through my mind like a fevered orgasm, and the familiar will be utterly delighted by gossip, dialogue, and well-deserved attacks on the poor quality of filmmaking. As the book demonstrates, the second installment was essentially without a script, as change after change left a gaping hole where a story should have been. But who’s complaining? The final result, while atrocious and unforgivably incompetent, is a wild ride of silly performances and memorable lines. Who can forget Bronson’s, “I see you believe in Jesus….Well, you’re gonna meet him”? The best story from Part II, however, is Kevyn Major Howard’s discussion of his character “Stomper,” the very man who is plugged after Bronson’s brilliant mockery. To hear Howard’s assessment, one would think he was preparing for Shakespeare in the Park, or the tortured hero of a Tennessee Williams’ drama. Method acting might produce more authentic performances, but is it necessary to “live the character” for two months when your only job is to rape a traumatized young woman and take a bullet to the chest? Still, Howard’s conviction made me smile, as his passion for the work — even dreck — represents a dying age when so many want to break into acting simply to secure a payday.

Again, Death Wish 3 stands, with Commando, as the greatest action film of the 1980s, primarily for its willingness to throw logic, sense, and decency out the window in favor of a high body count without the burden of deep thought. It all but celebrates murder, which is perfectly reasonable given that the neighborhood we see on display was the North American Beirut of its day. It was interesting to learn that director Michael Winner and the producers were accused of exploiting the Bernard Goetz subway shootings for box office dollars, but such a charge seems to forget that it was the first film, made a decade before, that legitimized the very act committed by the white folk hero of the Reagan era. If anything, Goetz exploited Death Wish and its unique cure for assorted social ills. Along with the recap, the author pulls quotes from reliably harsh reviews, including one from the New York Times: “It’s a surrealistic neighborhood Mr. Winner creates … You can hardly go to the grocery store without being raped.” Hence the appeal, o paper of record. It’s also enjoyable to hear about how Bronson, aging quickly and badly, initially refused much physical exertion, which prompted Winner to insist that he simply set up a hot dog stand, whereby Kersey would kill the creeps with poison. Bronson took note, and geared up for his own stunts like a professional. And remember the big-titted black whore (who, the author gleefully reminds us, was the series’ first and only rape victim to be a person of color) during the final, chaotic scenes? Yep, Winner fucked her, though he later sued a British tabloid when it was suggested that he whipped her and locked her up as a sex slave.

From Part 3 on, the fascistic team of Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus provide many a humorous tale, and the author, along with mining the Death Wish series, gives us a mini-history of the Israeli brotherhood’s shoestring movie company, Cannon Group. Just about every film released by the pair defined the era’s homoeroticism, anti-Communist hysteria, and cultlike worship of death, but it is the Bronson oeuvre that we’ll best remember. Consider this gushing comment from Golan, when asked about Death Wish 3: “It has a rape in it like you’ve never seen! It’s very strong — like Michael Winner said, it’s World War III! It’s the most violent movie I’ve ever seen, but don’t misunderstand me, it’s an anti-violence film!” So much love in every word, yet such calculated delusion as to be laughable. But Winner knew better; he stated at every turn that the movie was a deliberate push away from the more somber beginning to the series. This was about fun, and all involved knew they had to take it up a notch to match high-energy cartoons like Rambo: First Blood Part II, which came out the same year. When it finally hit screens in November of 1985, I was shocked to learn that it was #1 at the box office for its opening week. The claim seems dubious to me, but I’ll take Talbot at his word. At the very least, I want to believe that the movie I’ve seen more than any other once captured the hearts and minds of the American public I now hold in such low regard.

By the time Parts IV and V roll around (and Michael Winner is dispatched), Bronson is tired, but still willing to extend his powerful hands for an easy paycheck. Certainly, these films were the worst of the series — more autopilot than genuine pleasure — but Talbot loves them just the same. Throughout, but especially as Bronson ages, the author remarks on Chuck’s physical appearance, often commenting on his hairstyle, muscle tone, and wardrobe. It’s clear Talbot is in awe, if not in love, though his worship seems less sexual than a recognition of what real manhood can be if allowed to age, develop crags, and indulge in tawdry affairs with much younger women. Sure, the book could have contained more flattering images of Bronson (stills and movie posters are in faded black and white, and look to have been reproduced on a cheap copier in need of toner), but he’s never an object of scorn, or even light judgment. Bronson’s occasional bad attitude or laziness is always excused, and because he always refuses to watch his own movies, we see him as humble, rather than hopelessly vain. It seemed odd that Bronson enjoyed shooting the fifth movie most of all, given that it’s the most worthless of the bunch, but that’s the sort of unpredictability we’d expect from such a mysterious man.

But it’s all here — the Death Wish 3 video game (“Strap on your Wildey Magnum and turn yourself into a one man fighting force armed with pump action shotgun, machine gun, and rocket launcher”), why Marina Sirtis really didn’t have any dialogue, how the cast reacted to the brutal rape scenes, why Jill Ireland’s cancer forced a drastic script change for Part IV, the benefits of filming in Toronto, and the truth behind the proposed sixth film, sans Bronson. It’s a short book to be sure (only 117 pages, plus an Appendix or two), but it’s a few hours well spent. It’s the best excuse yet to crack out the DVDs once again. For Charlie.

I’m writing from a position of some prejudice, since Maddox has a site that has some similarities to Ruthless but is about 100 times more popular.  That doesn’t bother me, though.  I like his site.  So while I am jealous of his success, that is not why I say that this book is ultimately disappointing — an ankle-breaking crossover leading to to a sagging finger roll destined for rejection.  This is more an alphabet of being a 17-year-old boy than an alphabet of manliness.  I found it to be very funny, partially because I maintain a 17-year-old’s sense of humor.  I’ll say up front that in terms of actual laughter, this is an elite of the “humor” section of the book store, and I recommend it strongly. The account of manliness, however, is just plain weak and holds this book back from greatness.  Of course, I will focus on these shortcomings.

“B is for …”  I forget, but it isn’t for booze, the best chest hair fertilizer of all.  Yes, the book contains a few mentions of exotic people such as pirates drinking, as though guzzling down rum were in the same ball park as killing a man with your peg, but that is hardly sufficient.  Liquor is a key component of cartoonish, swashbuckling masculinity.  Drinking someone under the table and drawing labia and pussy hair around his mouth is no less noble a victory than kicking his ass with your fists.  And discovering that The Terminator malfunctions after four shots would be no less an indictment of his mecha-manhood than discovering a she-male folder on his internal hard drive.  The minimal hooch talk is part of a faint odor of lapsed Mormonism that permeates the book.  There are ridicule-free mentions of church attendance, as though this were a normal part of life for the hairy-knuckled berserker.  Maddox is also from Utah and brings up things like Adam and Eve.  Each thing is innocuous in itself, but I got kind of an overall feeling that it was tolerable for a uber-duper-mensch to believe in religion, which is completely for pussies.  “Will I get to see my dog and grandma again in heaven?”=pussy.

“B”is for …”  I still can’t remember, but it isn’t bitches, either.  The book  has a boyish attitude about sex and women.  Again, I have to mention that the this is a funny book, and particularly so when it is being misogynistic.  However, there’s far too much stuff about sneaking a peak or copping a feel.  My sexual history is not Wiltesque, or probably even the-guy-who-played-Boner-on-”Growing Pains”-esque, but the days when I could derive a massive thrill from having the back of my hand graze a woman’s hip are long gone, and I think that that happens for most guys fairly early in life.  I hear it’s big in Japan, though.  Ditto sneaking a peek.  Do I check out women all day long?  Of course.  Do I feel as though I’ve achieved some grand transgression?  Not unless I happen to be sitting with infinite patience at a red light in front of a middle school.  Sneaking a peek is a trivial feat unless you’ve sneaked it not only past your target but past everyone around you, because they would probably form a lynch mob if they saw what you were ogling.  What about convincing a girl to do anal or let you have a threesome?  How about cajoling her into an abortion?  These are subjects of manliness.  The shyest of LARPers knows how to glance at passing booty with minimal chance of being caught and persecuted with dirty looks.  Nobody needs instructions.

Also,  video games are mentioned too much.  I used to like video games, before I stumbled into poker, and I realize that many men enjoy them.  But once every mention of escaping the female for some recreation involves a game console, we’ve fallen into the realm of nerddom.  What about watching sports, or TV and movies that disinterest women by being good?  Maybe you want to get some take out without having to share it with her or read a book without her interrupting by proclaiming, “I’m bored!”  Maybe you just want to go out for drinks with your boys.  But if half your leisure time is invested in any activity including the word “craft,” you are not very manly.

Part of the appeal of the book is that Maddox’s truculence has an underpinning of self-deprecation, and that allows it to be funny.  If Maddox really thought that he were a modern-day pirate, he would be a moron.  Nobody wants to read some anonymous schmuck thump his chest about how he could beat up Floyd Mayweather and sleeps with any woman he chooses. Instead, Maddox weaves in jokes about being an office drone who picks on children to make himself feel big and packs “three inches of dynamite.”   But the fact that the book has a tongue-in-cheek approach shouldn’t have prevented it from delving into manlier territory.

From Guns N’ Roses to Nirvana, a Backstage Journey through Rock’s Most Debauched Decade

We salute Matt Cale

Between frantic, quick-before-mom-gets-home rubs on the bathroom rug, visits to the nearest adult bookstore for love doll bargain shopping (note to all curious shoppers: do not spend less than $50 for anything you plan on fucking), and late-night, Peeping Tom stakeouts of the one semi-hot chick who might have allowed a smile to escape her lips while accidentally looking in my direction, I read Rip magazine. Hit Parader was for greasy chicks, Circus a glam rag at best, and Kerrang! too damned expensive as an import. As such, I stuck by Rip for several years, one as a subscriber. I looked forward to every issue, largely because they balanced their Skid Row, Guns N’ Roses, and Great White coverage with a little Sanctuary or King Diamond now and then. The mag worshipped Metallica, of course, and was the exclusive source for the lead-up to the breakthrough Black Album. It was all there – hyperbolic, overly positive reviews (to this day, I can’t remember anything they hated), inside scoops of tour information, upcoming albums, industry gossip, and unnaturally lengthy feature articles that described every thrust, every load, and every deservedly objectified groupie on every tour bus you could imagine. As they said, if Jack Russell slammed his meat axe into a stoned slut, Rip was there. And they did it better than anyone before or since.

The editor-in-chief of the world’s greatest rock n’ roll fanzine for nerdy teenage boys who couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse giveaway was one Lonn M. Friend – a bearded crazy man who spent more time with the stars than anyone else of the period. He partied, flew around the country, took his lumps in mosh pits, and never failed to give us the only story that really mattered – whether or not Slash actually did rape the L7 bassist with a bottle of Jack at the Whiskey a Go Go. He gave us splashy covers, mini posters, scoops, and even homoerotic attachments against our better judgment. His memoir, Life on Planet Rock, captures those events with flair and charm, and while it’s not the sort of book for the unbelievers or uninitiated, it’s sufficiently sleazy and silly to appeal to the general fan. That said, this is Lonn’s journey from beginning to end, as – by necessity – he becomes the most obnoxious name-dropper in the history of the written word, managing to pack in what seems like every celebrity encounter in his many years on this earth. And, like Harry Knowles, he’s too enthusiastic by half, proving to have an infectious love of music, but lacking all critical depth. This is proven in spades when he becomes an A&R man for Arista after his Rip gig has concluded and somehow believes that some worthless sack of skin called The Bogmen are the second coming of the Stones. Friend rightfully calls out head cheese Clive Davis on his conservatism, lack of vision, and greedy idiocy, but Friend proved himself no real judge of talent.

We get a bit of Friend’s life outside the magazine, but it all pales in comparison to the days when he sat with legends and one hit wonders alike, all in the pursuit of the next big thing. It’s clear that musicians loved Friend because he worked like a motherfucker promoting, elevating, and pushing bands, regardless of their worth. He hit a gem now and again (I owe the discovery of King’s X to Rip, and no, I didn’t realize they were religious – or maybe I didn’t care), but by and large, he was a carnival barker – he could celebrate rebellion, individuality, and kick-ass mindlessness, while at the same time believing that a corporate whore like Gene Simmons spoke for anyone other than himself. Funny I should say that, though, as Friend discusses an interview with the God of Thunder where he was appalled at Gene’s commercial enterprises (this was about the time the Kiss coffin hit the shelves). And despite Gene’s worship of the almighty dollar, can you blame the man for exploiting the obvious need in America’s youth to watch painted idiots on high heels spit blood and breathe fire while power chords wailed? And as Gene says to Friend at one point, what’s wrong with whores, anyway? They’re the most honest people in the world, as you always know how much each and every thing you do is going to cost. Not so with marriage, says the unwed Simmons.

Friend’s world began to crumble once grunge hit the scene, although Rip did their best to stay hip and relevant. Alas, they were a magazine for the hair-and-hedonism 80s, not the allegedly introspective 90s (I say “allegedly” because as with all musical movements, indie rock was just as much of a pose as anything else), and it was a matter of time before Rip died with little mourning. Friend tried the music biz, radio gigs, and assorted writing jobs, but nothing ever seemed to match the days of fire and leather. He continued to touch base with Metallica, Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, and the like, while finally meeting old heroes like Pete Townsend. Through it all, he keeps a sense of humor and a determination not found in many doughy, pasty metal heads, regardless of age. He’s not the kind of guy I’d like to hang around (at times, I wanted to smack him and force him to confess that he really, really hated everything ever put out by Motley Crue), but he never failed to reinforce why I stayed hard throughout Reagan’s second term while growing out my hair and pseudo-moustache.

I also could have done without the spiritual bullshit that, while never pushed, popped up from time to time as if to dispel right-wing rumors that all rock nerds shunned religion like showers, calls to “turn it down” or, say, the dating scene. He shares lengthy conversations with Alice Cooper, a professed Christian who manages to make faith sound even more ridiculous than usual. But Friend’s too kind to tell him to get fucked, and he even explores a bit on his own, though more to assuage mid-life doubts than anything approaching real devotion. It makes sense that friend would try to find “meaning”, though, as his entire life seems like one big effort to get along and avoid conflict. Given this deep, abiding love for everything, one wonders how the magazine avoided topping 500+ pages every month. If this is what made it, what on earth was cut? That said, I read every word like sacred text, seeing its delivery to my mailbox as the one thing every month that didn’t make me look twice at that straight razor in the medicine cabinet.

So if the book lacks a broader context, or even avoids trying to speak wisely about a genre of music that seemed to spring to life and die without much sense at all, it made me smile throughout. Especially illuminating was Friend’s porno past, as he worked for several years with Larry Flynt’s empire. His (and my) favorite anecdote involved Chuck Berry, who apparently made an underground film wherein he pisses on a broad and gladly takes a deposit from some dame’s poop chute into his waiting gullet. Yes, that Chuck Berry. I’d pay top dollar to see it, but apparently it was too hot even for Flynt to touch it. His job reviewing and writing about assorted porn products and films was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and a reminder that some guys get paid to watch the performer of “Johnny B. Goode” literally eat shit, while others are doomed to remove far less famous excrement from bathroom walls in fast food establishments. Friend’s led a charmed life, even if he was never allowed to share in the flesh parade that defined the world of rock. But he was there – and he was loved.