IN REMEMBRANCE OF WENDY O. WILLIAMS

From 2006, a heartfelt piece written during my days anchoring the kitchen at Bar BQ, a humble-but-insane barbecue joint in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Sanctify This Place
Protect Us From Evil
Behold The Power Of The Night
Shine That We May See The Light
Curse The Filthy Hypocrites
Crawl Into Their Beds At Night
Ooze From Slimy Depths Below
Scream Into Their Frozen Brains
Work Thy Wretched Wrath
Remove All Obstacles From Our Path
I Command That These Things
Of Which I Speak
Will Come To Be
Behold The Power Of The Night
Shine That We May See The Light
Curse The Filthy Hypocrites
Crawl Into Their Beds At Night
Ooze From Slimy Depths Below
Scream Into Their Frozen Brains
Behold The Prince Of Darkness Here
You Sealed Your Doom
Your Time Has Come
Yhvh
So It Is Done

-"Doom Song" by the Plasmatics

I went in to work at the barbecue joint very early last Sunday, arriving just before 9AM to prepare fresh racks of ribs for a wedding party that had rented the place out for the tail end of the afternoon and the early portion of the evening, four hours in total. Not fun for me since by virtue of the job I have become more or less nocturnal (but was a night person by nature anyway), but somebody has to do it, so I hauled my beige ass through the door in a semi-somnambulent state (I went to bed as early as possible, but I couldn’t sleep, and stopped trying to at around 7:30AM). I don’t drink coffee, so caffeine wasn’t going to help, but I could always rely on my tried and true drowsiness cure: very loud music. And since the place is very well soundproofed I could rock out with my cock out (metaphorically of course, because otherwise there would be health code violations to deal with).

But what to choose? I have a small library at the ready in the kitchen, initially dragged in to wage a self-defense war against the mostly torturous tastes of one of our bartenders (you know who you are, Joy!), and as I perused my choices, I caught sight of the Plasmatics’ “New Hope For the Wretched,” a classic punk/metal hybrid that I’ve adored for some twenty-six years. Featuring staggeringly idiotic lyrics, balls-out guitar masturbation, and a beat that combines a beehive-like buzz with a poppy bounce, I find it irresistible as an enjoyable alarm clock. But what sends the album into rock ‘n’ roll bedlam Nirvana is the unique vocal stylings of the ultimate hardassed frontwoman, Wendy Orlean Williams, or Wendy O to those of us who loved her. Immediately getting a warm feeling at the mere thought of the record, I put the disc in the stereo and hit “play.”

In no time I felt my vitality surging back to life and I bopped about the kitchen, merrily seasoning ribs, cutting up pork and loading the two smokers while singing along with “Tight Black Pants,” “Monkey Suit” and many others before settling on one of the greatest songs of all time, namely “Doom Song,” an Invocation of protection from and curse upon hypocrites and oppressors, accented with a “Toccotta and Fugue in D Minor”-style pipe organ. Upon the CD reaching that track I reset the stereo to repeat play mode, listening to “Doom Song” over and over until my boss showed up, at which point I opted for conversation. Once the chit-chat was over, I began to think back on the Plasmatics and how they would have most likely been swiftly forgotten had it not been for the presence of Wendy O Williams, a performer who would do just about anything onstage to entertain her audience.

I first heard of the Plasmatics in 1980 when they appeared on New York City's tepid afternoon talk show "Live at Five" and the visual of a scowling Wendy O, foot-high Mohawk proudly defying the staid sensibilities of the usually boring chat show, being interviewed by NYC news mainstay Sue Simmons shocked my young mind. Williams was by no means attractive or pretty in the way that most female rockers had been before her, but she displayed a cold, clinical intelligence that Simmons did not expect her to possess, especially since Wendy O's infamous stage antics included her blowing up Cadillacs with dynamite, chainsawing brand new guitars in half, demolishing television sets with a sledgehammer, regularly going topless save for black electrical tape on her ninnies, and getting totally nekkid and covering herself with shaving cream, a fashion statement that inevitably melted and landed her in the hoosegow on more than one occasion.

Needless to say, such a crazed spirit greatly appealed to my adolescent misfit nature, so I went out the very next day and bought "New Hope For the Wretched" on vinyl, thereby ensuring my lifelong loyalty to hard rock chaos and occasional cacophony.

Over the years I saw many a Plasmatics video and even attended a Wendy O show when she went solo (as one of the headliners of a legendary all night show at the old Ritz in December of 1985 that featured Stormtroopers of Death, the Cro-Mags, Wendy O Williams, and Motorhead; when the show let out at 7AM I was drunk as hell, and even though I was smack dab in the middle of Manhattan's Lower East Side I could not hear a goddamned thing) and while I did not care for her post-Plasmatics output, I still enjoyed her persona.

Wendy O simultaneously flew in the face of and gloried in the hypersexuality of the woman rock star, her severe features and balls-out (or ovaries-out, if you prefer) ferocious attitude serving as a bizarre counterpoint to her sexy, athletic body that was on display as often as she could get away with it. Prowling about the stage like a werewolf in heat, howling with a growl or moan rather than anything resembling an actual singing voice, Williams' aspect was reminiscent of an utterly fearless, post-apocalyptic super-hero from a hellish, irradiated wasteland like that roamed by the painted and befeathered post-apocalyptic savage biker tribes seen in THE ROAD WARRIOR.

A tougher, scarier antithesis to the cock-rockers of the day, Williams was a fiercely defiant she-demon who not only knew she had a pussy, but knew how to use it (don't get me started on her documented-on-film skills involving her naughty bits and a bunch of ping pong balls), and if she wanted to mate, you’d damned well better be ready for it. Preaching physical carnage and destruction as catharsis, supplemented by a firm belief in going through one's existence with absolutely zero bullshit from oneself or those who sought to fuck over the individual spirit, Wendy O was a rock ‘n’ roll shaman. This metal priestess was a woman warrior bellowing her power at an audience of men too weak to even comprehend just what is assailing them, or exactly what it was they liked about being on the receiving end of such forceful estrogenic aggression.

Then in 1998, Williams died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound in the woods near her home in Storrs, Connecticut at age 48. The reasons for her suicide remain obscure, though there are those who posit that she took her own life rather than compromise her art, while some of her intimates claim that she was "despondent" as she neared the end. Perhaps all that need be said can be found in this excerpt from her suicide note:

"I don't believe that people should take their own lives without deep and thoughtful reflection over a considerable period of time. I do believe strongly, however, that the right to do so is one of the most fundamental rights that anyone in a free society should have. For me much of the world makes no sense, but my feelings about what I am doing ring loud and clear to an inner ear and a place where there is no self, only calm."

I like to think that Wendy O's unquenchable spirit is dominating some inhospitable corner of the underworld, scaring the unholy shit out of whatever demonic forces there may be and showing them a thing or two about how to kick ass. But I also ponder who will step forth to take her place as the Number One, take-no-prisoners female voice in rock. After first hearing the Lunachicks' "Jerk of All Trades" album I thought that distinction might go to their frontwoman, Theo Kogan (now heading Theo and the Skyscrapers), but she has mellowed considerably and her aural approach is far more cerebral (and even poetic) than Wendy O's (bear witness to "Mr. Lady" to see what I mean), so for the moment we faithful must be patient.

THE FINE ART OF "LINCOLN LOGGING"

From 2006.

Westport, Connecticut, circa 1979:

The summer had arrived and the affluent denizens of Connecticut’s answer to Beverly Hills shucked off their winter malaise, bought brand new and cornea-wiltingly hideous beach attire, and readied themselves for a season of fun in the sun at poolside. And not just any community poolside, oh no. These children of privilege possessd huge, elaborate pools of their own, fenced off from the encroaching world outside of the family compound. Yes, Joe Average would never enjoy the luxury of having his own backyard oasis, and who gave a shit about him anyway?

This state of in your face, kiss-my-rich-ass prosperity did not sit well with every resident of the favored burg however, and it was up to the adolescent neighborhood terrorists to make their distaste known.

Kenny anxiously stared at the clock radio next to his bed, each minute seeming to drag while awaiting the stroke of midnight. Once that magic hour arrived, Kenny would don his Chuck Taylors — the most silent of stealthwear sneakers —steal out of the house into the moonlit night, and make his own personal stab against his wealthier neighbors.

Yes, the nighttime was the right time, and Kenny had prepared for many hours in advance. His meals that day had consisted of copious helpinngs of fiber and assorted health food swiped from his mother’s pantry under the pretense of fixing his questionable diet, and he could feel the inevitable results percolating deep within his innards…

Soon would be the hour for Lincoln Logging.

At last it was midnight and Kenny threw off his covers and silently exited his home, all while his family slept securely. He wheeled his bicycle out onto the street and pedaled away, carefully keeping to the shadows. As he traveled he evaluated each house that he passed, calculating which would make a perfect venue for the night’s artistic/political declaration. After all, presentation was everything, and if he couldn’t do it right it wasn’t worth doing at all.

After an hour of slowly prowling the secluded back streets, Kenny’s eyes were entranced by a driveway entrance with a cement lawn jockey acting as its sentry. But what good is a guard if he can say and do absolutely nothing except perpetually smile his minstrel show grin? “Not much good,” thought Kenny as he stashed his bike in the nearby shrubs, taking care to obscure the vehicle’s reflective surfaces. He then sat in the foliage for ten minutes, observing the premises for any hint of security, even something as simple as a yappy household dog that might betray his presence. Soon, Kenny felt that the coast was clear and crept around the perimeter of the house, making a beeline for where he instinctively knew the pool would be.

And there it was, a furnished lagoon right smack dab in the middle of suburban Babylon, its depths illuminated at night, even when not in use, just to draw the world’s attention to its owner’s Croesus-like assets. The surrounding deck looked ready to handle a party of sixty or more at the drop of a hat. Cushioned lawn chairs and couches littered the space, all angled for a clear shot at the standing bar and the enormous propane grill, behind which was an opulent chef’s prep area large enough to hold untold barbecue fixings.

Yes, this was indeed a ripe setting for the blow that must be struck.

Kenny once more surveyed his surroundings for wary eyes, and when he felt certain that he was unobserved he slipped quietly into the cool, inviting water of the swimming pool. The underwater silence helped to center Kenny, and after a few laps around he was ready to perform the task at hand, the grand statement for Westport’s have-nots, a stiff, upraised middle finger to the greedy bastards who looked down on him and the others like him, namely the ethnic and white trash unworthies who somehow infiltrated their bastion of means and power.

Kenny broke the surface, filled his lungs with the humid air, then swam to the bottom of the pool, coming to rest in its deepest point. Now was the time for relaxation, so he cleared his mind of all thought, turned himself so his head was toward the bottom of the pool, and let his body loosen. As he reached a state of perfect calm, he felt his bowels begin to lurch, and he swiftly doffed his swim trunks with an ease that came from repetition. “Yes,” he thought, “Come on, oat bran!”

The excremental payload began to force its russet way out of Kenny’s distended butthole, a profane anti-birth, a filthy nativity that spoke more eloquently on the topic of class separation than the fourteen-year-old Kenny could hope to verbally articulate. And then the log shot free of its intestinal incarceration, lazily making its way to surface in an image reminiscent of a newborn whale in search of its first breath.

Kenny hauled himself out of the pool and surveyed the fruits of his mission. There, swaying gently in the chlorinated water, lay a spectacular two-foot, corn-packed toilet fish, floating in the opulent pool with an arrogance that would be right at home on a crocodile, secure in the knowledge that it was the baddest motherfucker on the river. And, much like its amphibious brother, the log in question was guaranteed to elicit shrill screams of panic and primal revulsion when encountered.

Satisfied with his contribution to the ambiance, Kenny readied his departure, pausing only to ponder what the manufacturers of the children’s toy Lincoln Logs would think if they knew their product’s name had become locally synonymous with squatting out a huge grunter in some rich bastard’s see-ment pond.

STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION -EPISODES WORTH KEEPING

From 2005.

Purportedly the most successful television series produced for syndication during its day, STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION ran for seven seasons and an impressive total of one hundred and seventy-eight episodes (of which only one was a “clips” show). It aired daily on the SPIKE TV network for years and is available on DVD in exorbitantly priced full-season boxed sets, and with such constant exposure it’s easy to see that much of its run was mediocre at best and downright fucking terrible at its worst.

The disastrous first season was easily the most dire in the show’s entire run, a creative train wreck across the board, complete with cheap looking sets, howlingly bad scripts, ridiculous costumes — remember the unisex skirt outfits for male crewmembers? — and the embarrassing agony of seeing the actors slowly figure out their characters. Captain Picard comes off as a bit of a martinet, Riker is a smirking frat boy in space, Counselor Troi begins a seven-season career of virtually nonstop irritation (though that Marina Sirtis is very easy on the eyes), Dr. Crusher is a bore, Worf is little more than a stoic baritone with a turtle glued to his forehead, Tasha Yar is the stereotypical tough gal, and Data is little more than a dull Spock wannabe. And DO NOT get me started on Wesley Crusher, perhaps the single most off-putting character in the history of sci-fi television…

Having watched this season again a few years back, I have one question about it: How the fuck did a show this bad get renewed for another season? Simple answer: STAR TREK fans will put up anything just to get a dose. How else does one explain STAR TREK: VOYAGER and the majority of ENTERPRISE?

I watched NEXT GENERATION during its original run on New York City’s Channel 11 and missed perhaps three episodes, but when it started running twice daily on SPIKE I can finally say that I have seen the entire series from start to finish as recently as six years ago, so what follows is my rather fresh-in-my-memory list of the relatively few episodes that I would watch over and over again. Not all of them are good, but all entertain me for different reasons and if I could assemble my own DVD collection of choice episodes without having to deal with the blatant extortion that is the list price of any given season boxed set, these are the ones that would make the cut:

SEASON ONE

# 3 "The Naked Now"

A disease first seen in the original 1960’s STAR TREK series removes the crew's inhibitions and Data gets some pussy. A bad, derivative show that’s worth it just for the look on Data’s face when Tasha Yar jumps his artificial bones.

# 4 "Code of Honor"

It's "Where the white wimmen at?" time on the planet of the Negroes when their leader gets a look at Tasha Yar and loses his fucking mind. Unimaginably terrible and so un-PC that it’s an unintentional comedy classic. To all you white NEXT GEN fans out there: I defy you to watch this with black friends present and not cringe.

# 20 "Heart of Glory"

The first taste of the Klingon fun to come as two of Worf’s people show up and we get our first look at the finer points of Klingon culture.

# 22 "Skin of Evil"

Tasha Yar gets killed while battling the evil pudding man (and I did not give a shit). Reminiscent of a bad classic DOCTOR WHO installment, this makes the cut because of Armus, a total asshole of a monster who I swear to God looks like ambulatory molasses or something.

# 25 "Conspiracy"

Worth it solely for the goriest scene in the show's history.

SEASON TWO

# 34 "A Matter of Honor"

Riker serves on a Klingon ship thanks to an exchange program and experiences deep space warrior society firsthand. The crew of brusque and violent soldiers are surprisingly endearing, and this is the episode where we finally see that Riker’s not just a douchebag. I just wish the Klingon officer Riker bonds with were given a name and seen in more than just this story.

# 35 "The Measure of a Man"

Data's sentience is put on trial, and his character is truly put on the map.

# 36 "The Dauphin"

Wesley finds first love with a very unusual girl... Perhaps the only tolerable Wesley Crusher story, this one really belongs to his love interest.

# 42 "Q Who?"

Meet the Borg. And what's up with Q's comments about Guinan? Hmmmm...

# 44 "Up the Long Ladder"

The ultimate in Irish stereotyping, only with the added perk of being set in deep space. It's a piece of outright shit, but it has to be seen for it's sheer hilarious offensiveness and should be aired annually on St. Patrick's Day.

# 46 "The Emissary"

Introducing K'Ehleyr, Worf's mate. Yet more Klingon stuff, and the episode that made Worf a major player.

SEASON THREE

# 63 "Yesterday's Enterprise"

Worth it for setting up a major continuity point that would unexpectedly return to haunt the rest of the series, but otherwise highly overrated.

# 65 "Sins of the Father"

The ongoing Klingon saga begins as Worf's family is stripped of honor.

# 68 "Tin Man"

Worth it for the most interesting non-humanoid alien life form in the entire series.

# 69 "Hollow Pursuits"

Introducing Lt. Barclay and his holodeck addiction.

# 74 "The Best of Both Worlds, Part 1"

The Borg abduct Picard and a lot of really heavy shit ensues. One of the best season cliffhangers in TV history, yet part 2 sadly falls as flat as a housecat squashed by a semi.

SEASON FOUR

# 81 "Reunion"

The Klingon saga continues; K'Ehleyr is murdered and Worf meets his son.

# 87 "Devil's Due"

Worth it for the evil “goddess” Ardra.

# 95 "The Drumhead"

A tense look at a conspiracy witchhunt.

# 100 "Redemption, Part 1"

The Klingon saga continues; Worf embraces his heritage, fucks off out of the Federation and gets involved in a Klingon civil war. Plus, we meet Sela...

SEASON FIVE

# 101 "Redemption, Part 2"

The Klingon saga concludes. Worf regains the family honor and we get the scoop on what's up with Sela.

# 102 "Darmok"

A fascinating study of inter-species communication, this gets my vote as the second-best episode of the entire series.

# 103 "Ensign Ro"

Introducing the coolest recurring crew member.

# 121 "The Perfect Mate"

Romantic tragedy in the face of arranged marriage for peace. You’ll really feel for Picard as he endures one of the ultimate male fantasies brought to life and comes up with bubkes.

# 125 "The Inner Light"

Picard relives the life of a long-dead man. To say any more would give it away, but this is hands-down the best episode of the series.

SEASON SIX

# 134 "A Fistful of Datas"

Yet another bad holodeck malfunction yarn, saved by an ultra-hot Troi in gun-slingin’ leather and the only truly fun episode that focuses on the strained relationship between Worf and young Alexander.

# 135 "Chain of Command, Part 1"

Picard is captured and tortured by the Cardassians while Captain Jellico (Ronny Cox) whips the Enterprise crew into much needed shape. Special points for getting Troi out of those stupid mauve PJ's and into a fetching uniform, and the hard-assed Captain Jellico should have been spun off into his own series.

# 136 "Chain of Command, Part 2"

Picard endures torture at the hands of Gul Madred (David Warner) and proves his complete and utter indomitability. A tour de force performance by Patrick Stewart.

# 142 "Birthright, Part 1"

Worf discovers a remote Romulan POW camp populated by Klingons, with more going on than is obvious at first. Features a short crossover with STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE.

# 143 "Birthright, Part 2"

See above. And it’s a shame that they never brought back Ba’el…

# 144 "Starship Mine"

As the Enterprise sits stationary in drydock, a group of thieves attempt to steal it while the crew is planetside, unaware that Captain Picard has returned to the ship to retrieve his horseback riding saddle. Lesson to be learned: Do not fuck with Captain Picard's ship.

#146 "The Chase"

It's the Enterprise against the raiders of archaeological sites. A so-so installment that is worth seeing since it finally explains why nearly all STAR TREK races are humanoid.

# 149 "Rightful Heir"

More Klingon fun as Kahless, the legendary founder of the Klingon ideal, apparently returns from the grave.

SEASON SEVEN

# 163 "Parallels"

Worf is caught in multiple alternate realities, some of which reveal intriguing possibilities he'd never considered...

# 167 "Lower Decks"

A look at four junior officers, including the adorable Ensign Sito Jaxa (Shannon Fill).

# 176 "Preemptive Strike"

Ensign Ro infiltrates the Maquis with unexpected results.

So out of a total one hundred and seventy-eight individual episodes I would keep only thirty-six. That ain’t a good average, kiddies.