ELECTION DAY 2024: DOING MY PART TO DEPOSE HAIR FUHRER

It's ELECTION DAY!!! (soundtrack: "American Ruse" by the MC5)

Insomnia once again kept me awake, but at least it was constructive, because I hauled myself out of bed to stand on line outside of the local elementary school that serves as a polling station, and I was the eleventh person in the queue before the doors open. It was the first time I went to vote before the sun had come up, so I felt like some sort of socially-conscious vampire.

When I got inside PS 282, I presented my voter registration information (plus I had my raised seal birth certificate, a recent bill, and my passport, just in case; nothing was going to stop me from voting in this specific election) and was met with confusion. My voter registration card was of the old school paper variety, and the workers could not figure out where my district was, as none of the numbers on the card corresponded with any of the signage for districts. I was bounced to three different sign-in tables before an old Jamaican lady, a veteran poll worker, saw my situation and took the reins. At the three previous tables, they checked and double-checked my registration, each time telling me I was in the wrong location, only for me to tell them I made sure online that I was in the right location, as referenced against my zip code, and each time the final check showed I was in. the right place. I have no idea why there was confusion, as my registration card is valid, but whatever. It finally got sorted. However, before I could receive my ballot and get down to business of saving the nation, I had to wait for fifteen minutes because the guy who had been in front of my had been properly entered into the system by the volunteer, so two poll workers had to be sent out to find the guy. It took them fifteen minutes to find him (they assumed he went out to his car, but he was actually at the privacy booth, taking his sweet damned time), during which time I, still weak from the previous day's dialysis, requested a chair for while I waited. I had my hiking pole with me, but hunching over it while standing for an extended time is not comfortable. The guy, a 20-something Asian immigrant who was voting for the first time, was eventually located, and things proceeded. To prevent further such delays, I will request the modern scannable key fob.

Due to my registration being old, I was handed an affidavit ballot and explicitly told to circle my choices with the provided pen, which I did, but when I went to scan the ballots, the screen stated "Unreadable Document." Two poll workers came over to assist me, and it was determined that I had to darken my circles, which I did, but it once again would not scan. I was sent back to the table where I got my original ballot and was handed a new one, but the original had to be voided before I could proceed. That took another five minutes, as all of my info had to be entered and checked again, and the screen was slow. Upon receiving my replacement ballot, I filled it out again, and again it would not register. Thoroughly annoyed, I was instructed to further darken my circles, which I did, leaning into the pen so hard that I thought I was carving a groove into the privacy partition's writing surface. Whatever the case, that time my circles were dark enough and my choices were scanned. I was given several "I Voted" stickers and, my civic duty done again, I made my way back home. the rest of the day will be about recovery and utter laziness, but I rest secure knowing that I did my meager part to excise the orange cancer that has caused this nation to metastasize. 

Oh, and on the way out, I saw that the school had set up a bake sale. I perused the available goodies and settled on the brown butter Rice Krispie Treats, cleaning out the entire lot. I enjoyed two, but the rest I bagged and will bring home to mom. 

 

A responsible metal-American.

 

 

School bake sale Rice Krispie Treats: better than heroin.

TALES OF FAIRFIELD COUNTY: GOIN' SPOOKIN'

Just another Saturday night in Fairfield County.

The squeal of tires peeling out cut through the silence of the night like a bone saw through a cadaver’s chest. To Duffy it was a trumpet’s blare heralding a night of intoxicant-fueled adventure, and with his pal, Root, at the wheel the evening was pregnant with possibility, dude.

They’d been prowling the privileged back streets of Westport in search of any sort of diversion; slutty girls in three-sizes-too-small Led Zepplin T’s who might sloppily suck their dicks if plied with some peach schnapps, scoring a connection for booger sugar at the local arcade — provided they could get past the rinky-dink security set up by that faggot gangster pedophile who owned the place and had kicked them out two weeks previous for booting beer foam and half-digested light-bulb-warmed pizza all over the Space Invaders console — , spray-painting pejorative graffiti against their high school administrators on the outer wall of the high school's field house, spraying accelerants into mailboxes and sparking them up, ragging on all those fuckin’ homos and dykes coming out of the Brook Café…

Man, any of that shit could happen and be awesome, but the boys needed something special. Really special, but what’d be totally fucking perfect?

The repeating strobe blur of affluent suburbia’s demi-mansions looming, all bright and ostentatious in front of them, swept swiftly past and smeared across the windows as they faded into the rear, only to start over again. The glow-in-the-dark orange of the too-close full moon.

Yeah… The acid’s wrestlin’ with the pot, and with a backseat cooler full of beers and hard liquor, there was a whole world of epic thrills to be conquered. They were fuckin’ heroes, man, scouring the badlands for boredom so they could kick it in the fuckin’ ass! All they needed was a sign from the gods of partyin’, and their task would be made clear.

The car wound its way through the labyrinth of Valley Road, and it took all of Root’s skills as a drunk driver to keep it on the right side of the street. Rounding a sharp corner, the pairs' addled vision spotted a white-lipped nigger in what looked like a foxhunting jacket holding out his arm, offering a rusty metal ring. And wouldn’t you know it? Fucking coon isn’t getting out of our way, and he’s mockin’ us, standin’ like a fuckin’ faggot!

The car swerved into a shrub arrangement in an effort to avoid running over the stupid spook and Root killed the engine with a bitter flick of his wrist, twisting the key free from the dash. He half-leapt, half-fell from the vehicle onto the lawn and hollered, “What’s yer fuckin’ problem, boy?” at the ebony figure. Then the boys realized it was just a cement lawn jockey, but it was oh-so-much more than just that. It was their sign. Tonight they would head out of Westport and go spookin’!

As Witchfinder General’s imaginatively titled “Witchfinder General” bansheed out of the car’s speakers, their Camaro crossed the Saugatuck Bridge, nearing the border of Norwalk, specifically South Norwalk. The place was totally without morals, man, and stuffed with all the spooks they’d need for their little bit of entertainment.

Spookin’ was a game of timing and skill, definitely not for pussies. The object was to find a nigger, drive up right next to him and yell, “Hey, nigger!” as loud as possible, and then haul ass. You had to haul ass because otherwise the spook might haul you out of the car and kill you. Then they’d fuck you, and whatever else they do to lead up to one of their cannibal feasts. And for the really brave, the perfect way to spice up spookin’ was to drive as fast as possible after a likely boogie and chase the fucker, even all over the sidewalk. And who cared if you fucked up one of their lawns, or fences, or even a front porch? Their houses were all fucking rat traps anyway. And if you hit one of the chocolate folks, the local cops couldn’t care less; just one more of them offa the streets so they don’t have to bother with arresting them in the first place. It was a win/win any way you looked at it.

As the last of his twelfth Coors trickled down his gullet, Duffy tossed the beer can over his shoulder, adding to the mountain of discarded aluminum in the back seat, and began rolling a fat joint. He sparked the end and inhaled deeply, eventually passing the illicit smoke to Root. A navigator needed to be sharp, and a good hit was just what the doctor ordered. Root sucked down several lungfulls, washed them down with a slug of peach schnapps, and complemented the thick liquor with a beer chaser. Soon now, very soon…

Duffy slapped Root on the shoulder and pointed to a teen spook on the sidewalk ahead of them. Root smiled like a Jack ‘o lantern and gunned the engine. With a roar, the Camaro accelerated at the kid like a shot, and the wide-eyed smudge ran for his life.

Knocking over trash cans, Root and Duffy whooped and hollered as the car bore them on their hunt, every nerve alive, every sense sharp; so sharp that the boy they pursued looked like three people, and when all three lined up the target would be had.

The kid dove over a flimsy picket fence and landed face first into a soggy bag of raked leaves, narrowly missing being clipped by the speeding Camaro. The car halted, and the boys stuck out their heads to yell, “Hey, nigger!” Laughing, they peeled out into the street at eighty miles per hour, looking over their shoulders through the rear window at the spooked spook.

The boys were thrown forward by the sledgehammer impact as the front end of the Camaro wrapped itself around the street lamp they swerved into. Duffy’s football-thug bulk torpedoed through the windshield, crushing his skull and shredding the flesh from his face, his corpse rolling to an eventual stop in the garbage-strewn street. Root’s teeth were savagely wrenched from his mouth and dispersed into his esophagus upon making contact with the unyielding steering wheel. His neck snapped back and he began to choke on the blood and dental fragments.

Soon the Camaro ignited, and the unconscious Root's flesh fused with the now-molten pleather seat cushions.

Just another Saturday night in Fairfield County.

TRUE LIFE ADVENTURES: FUN, FROLIC AND FLATULENCE AT THE NUDIE BAR (1995)

Let's set the Wayback Machine for 1995 and the bachelor party of my brother from the Marvel Comics Bullpen, Darren Auck.

Darren lived in the New Jersey 'burb known as Manville — which he affectionately referred to as "Squirrelville" — the kind of not-quite-hillbilly area in the north where flicks like MOTHER'S DAY and LET'S SCARE JESSICA TO DEATH take place, remote in location and secluded enough for really bad things to happen to wayward passers-through and have no one be any the wiser. And there I was, a six-foot black Manhattanite, stepping off the train into an area where I was likely to find myself as the main ingredient in an award-winning batch of homemade chili.

I waited at the train station for Darren's pal Gary to pick me up and reflected upon the vast green fields and decaying, abandoned farm houses I observed through the train's window while on my way in from the Rotten Apple, and noticed how little traffic there was on the main road. I half expected to see a horse-drawn carriage pull up and its driver attempt to trade me some hand-crafted bee-garters, possum-flensers, Chippewah trout marmalade or some other such rustic gewgaws, but the place was too devoid of life for even that.

Eventually Gary arrived and we began our drive to Darren's abode, a domicile located yet further into the backwoods of Squirrelville, past drooping overhangs of dying ivy and the rotting facades of barns and long-deserted homes that had finally succumbed to the rigors of age and disrepair, giving up the ghost and collapsing in upon themselves. As we journeyed on I noticed the locals all seemed to walk the streets in a state of dazed stupefaction, sort of like Mayberry by way of George Romero, some equipped for a day's fly fishing and stopping off at the lone, aged gas station to purchase live bait from a rusting, refrigerator-sized monolith that looked like one of those old, barely-functioning coffee and hot soup dispensers once so common at roadside rest stops as found during hellish family road trips.

Taking in the Twilight Zone-ish ambiance I looked at Gary and asked, "Are there any black people in this place?" to which he responded, "There are now."

When we got to Darren's place we waited for the rest of the bachelor party brigade to arrive, passing the time with a few beers and a couple of hits off of some questionable hand-rolled "party favors." After about an hour we were ready to depart, so the motley crew of Darren's old friends, assorted drunks and comics-biz compatriots piled into a van captained by Michael Kraiger, our designated driver and tall, handsome type known around the Marvel Bullpen by the horny staffer females who'd drop by to check him out as "the Lumberjack." (And for the record, Darren was "the Cowboy," thanks to his lanky build, laid-back manner, and southern accent. Plus, he kinda looked like the guy from the Village People.)

The van took off and headed down the highway toward our final destination of Allentown, PA and a nudie bar called "Erv's," but before we got there we had to stop off and stock up on enough liquor to make a longship full of Vikings hesitate to join us; Erv's was one of those places that only served really crappy beer, Heineken being the best you could hope for, so you had to bring your own hard stuff. (Liquor, that is.) The guys in the crew were all hardcore party juggernauts after my own heart, so the inevitable gallons of tequila were acquired, along with a goodly helping of assorted vodkas, bourbons, and a couple of bottles of Jaegermeister for good (bad?) measure. Only one errand then remained and that was to wisely fortify our gullets with food before the ancient-Rome-style imbibing commenced.

Our merry little vehicle drove into a Burger King parking lot in some nameless no-man's land, and we scarfed down the flame-broiled goodness with gusto, our cannibis-activated appetites thankful for surcease of the hunger that inflamed our hive-consciousness. The two bacon double-cheeseburgers sat in my belly like cement, but I was glad of their presence in anticipation of them helping to offset the imminent effects of the debauchery to come.

Once finished with my meal, I went outside for some fresh air and ended up standing not far from the van, right next to the entrance to the drive-through window. A car pulled up to the speaker and as soon as the father finished ordering food for the slavering pack of children that filled the station wagon, all of their eyes turned toward me and they stared like I'd just grown an extra head. Puzzled, I tried to figure out what I had done to cause them such interest; did I have a foot-long booger trailing from my nostril? In my stoned state had I taken the pickles from my burgers and affixed them to my nipples like sour, vegetable matter pasties? Did I have on a t-shirt emblazoned with "Never Trust Anything That Bleeds for Seven Days and Doesn't Die?" Was my cock hanging out of my jeans?

And then it hit me.

I wandered up to car, smiled, and amiably and said, "Hi! I'm a Negro!" at which point the family drew back as if I'd thrown an open bag full of rattlesnakes through the driver's side window, swiftly rolled up their own windows and hauled ass out of sight to grab their sack of food. I laughed my ass off, and so did Gary who had seen the whole incident. As Daffy Duck so wisely said, "What the hey? I gotta have some fun!" And after that the van took off once more, Man...Or Astro-Man's "Reverb 10,000" blasting out of the speakers and lending just the perfect skewed soundtrack to our odyssey.

It was nighttime when we finally made it to Erv's and its sleazy vibe reminded me of the title strip joint in the teen sex-comedy "classic" PORKY'S, what with the garish exterior lighting and loud, greasy bump-and-grind tunes issuing from within. After hauling our coffin-sized cache of booze into the place, we situated ourselves about the bar and began drinking in earnest, all the while ogling the pretty sorry herd of wobbly, gyrating go-go gals. Several of these chicks looked exhausted, wasted on horse, or both, and I kicked down shots of Jose Quervo in rapid succession to adjust my mood to a place where I wouldn't care how fucked up the performers were. But, to be fair, this wasn't exactly the farm team for the Bolshoi, so I pretty much had no choice but to let it go.

After about forty-five minutes I began to feel a part of the drunken, fleshly excesses happening all around me, the Cuervo and multiple beers finally working their magic. I was actually rather bored by the whole thing, but I was there to represent on what would supposedly be Darren's last night out with the boys — little did I realise that his blushing bride, Danielle, was just as much of a reprobate as Darren, so future nights like this were in no way out of the question — so I soldiered on, trying to garner some kind of titillation from the girls, an effort that utterly failed thanks to me not finding heroin addicts attractive, even if they did take the stage in huge, nerdy glasses and a Catholic schoolgirl's uniform which were both soon to be gone like a ball gown on prom night.

As previously stated, Irv's was not a titty bar, but a full-frontal, "you can see her kidneys" sort of establishment, and the well-marinaded crowd of crusty, senior citizen regulars were happier about it than pigs in shit, their eyes filled with visions of not-so-tastefully-splayed pink "luncheon meat," a humid tableau of what would have been otherwise mouth-watering labial bits pulled open in what looked to be a painful display of gynecological odds and ends, bringing to my mind the results of a med school autopsy where you see the organs in close, explicit detail and don't connect them at all with the individual whom they were attached to. Just glistening, steamy, disassociated parts.

I've never been very comfortable in titty/nudie bar or bachelor party situations for a few reasons:

1. I find such places to be degrading for the most part, their audience of leering men fueling an industry predicated upon despair and an easy way for the girls to make fast wads of cash since they don't really need any sort of training — we men are not necessarily all that discerning when presented with cute nekkid chicks — and they're (usually) born with all the equipment they'll ever need to do the job.

2. I enjoy seeing real dancers really dance, and while there are certainly women in the bump & grind biz who have that ability, they are few and far between thanks to an audience that doesn't give a fuck whether a "peeler" can actually move, just so long as they can stare at her juddering boobies.

3. Many of the men who frequent such establishment come from the most depressing level of the mating game's food chain and are not comfortable with interacting with women outside of a titty/nudie bar setting, an effort that requires cleaning up their acts a bit — both in terms of appearance and personal hygiene — and having the confidence to take the risk of being rejected. In the strip joint environment they get what they want, no questions asked, and delude themselves into thinking that they have the power. Try talking to one of those girls when you've run out of fivers to stuff into their G-strings, and lets see how far you get...

4. And speaking of money, I find it a flagrant waste of moolah to hand dancers untold amounts of cash and not even get any pussy out of the deal. I have taken women out for dinner, a show, and after-show drinks for less than half of what I've seen some guys shell out at go-go joints on a nightly basis, and the women I took out were not only great conversationalists and lots of fun to go out with, they also quite willingly shared their bodies with me and, in some cases, stuck around for a few days for more tender bedtime fun (and my famous morning-after breakfast skills). I'll take that over blowing cash for no results any day!

5. The thing that bothers me most about go-go joints in general and the ones in NYC in particular is an atmosphere that sometimes sets off my most primal of danger signals; I was at one bachelor shindig where the entertainment rather graphically performed a catalog of non-simulated sex acts upon each other and then proceeded to take on any guys who were willing to pay for play, all of which was presided over by their graying, fifty-something "manager" from the most marinara-steeped depths of Bensonhurst. I knew several of the attendees, but those I didn't know had the vibe of wolves that had survived a very hard winter and were in need of prey. Any prey. And some of them even took up the entertainment on their offer, undeterred by the girls' obvious state of heroin-induced euphoria. That sordid display was the last time I attended a bachelor party, and I have scrupulously avoided them ever since.

So taking all of that into mind, you can imagine that I was not exactly having a good time.

Just as I was about to regret not having brought a book to read, my eye was caught by an athletic blonde who hit the bar's central runway looking far more alive and full of vigour than her co-workers, her every movement commanding the dance floor with a cheerful and ballsy exuberance. She strutted down the catwalk with the attitude of one who was in on the joke, channeling the spirit of Tex Avery's Red Hot Riding Hood cartoon character — no easy feat considering that the sound system blared out Foreigner's "Cold As Ice," a tune not exactly conducive to sexy dancing — and flashing dazzling smiles accentuated by her crystal blue eyes.

Tex Avery's indelible Red Hot Riding Hood.

She paraded around the bar for a couple of circuits, slowing only to allow the coffin-dodgers access for bills to be stuffed into her garter belt, and when her appointed rounds were done she lay down upon the bar, legs spread at nine and three in an impressive display of limberness, touched the tips of her thumbs together and pointed her index fingers toward the ceiling, framing her dolphin-smooth pubic mound with her hands in a gesture that simulated a sports arena goal. Responding to what must have been a familiar signal at Irv's, the grody old patrons fumbled with their foldable currency, shaping their bills into paper footballs of the type seen while waiting for time to pass during after-school detention, and in no time the pretty blonde's cooter was showered with the most impressive display of raining artillery since the bombing of Dresden. None of the grubby green missiles arrived with enough force to penetrate her most private of regions, but she did get to keep every bit of cash that accumulated, and she kept the oldsters smiling and entertained. During all of this she laughed her ass off and smiled at the codgers, each of whom looked so loyal to her that I'd bet they would have shoved their canes and walkers straight through the sternum of anyone foolhardy enough to try to do her harm.

That thought did much to relax me — along with the steady stream of tequila and Piel's — and as I was kicking back my latest beer, the sweaty performer stepped down from the bartop, pulled up a stool right next to me and began to towel off without a trace of modesty. She turned toward me and asked, "Could you hold on to this for me?" as she thrust her damp towel toward me and began to comb out the sweaty tangles in her hay-hued tresses (don't ask me where she got the comb from).

By this point I was drunk enough to find nothing odd about some random, blonde naked woman talking to me as if I'd known her bare-assed self my whole life, so I politely draped her towel over my leg and asked if she could use a beer. "Oh, God, Yeah!" she enthusiastically responded. "I'm fucking parched! Thanks a lot!" I paid for her beer and handed it to her, at which point I introduced myself, and when she shook my hand she almost identified herself by her real name but caught herself in time, instead saying, "Pleastameetcha! My name's Arizona. 'S where I'm from." I nodded, and we resumed drinking.

Arizona then regaled me with tales of her misadventures while working at Erv's to fund her college education — "Screw student loan payments!" she cried — and if she was to be taken at her word the scurvy assortment of geriatrics that drooled all over her (and themselves) were a harmless lot, described by her as "kind of like your dirty old grandpa," and they really didn't bother her in the least. She admitted that the nudie gig was nothing more than a means to an end, something that she would move past once she was done with school, and then on to bigger and better things. The conversation then got truly animated as she started rattling off books she'd enjoyed between her sets, and she revealed herself to be quite well-read. After that we chatted about art, movies, music, and a whole bunch of other shit, and I finally began to enjoy myself. I didn't even notice that Arizona was naked after about three more beers, so that either says a lot about how wrecked I was, or how much I should start investing in boxed sets of the complete recordings of Liza Minelli and Barbara Streisand.

Arizona kept her shit together, but the effects of the beers began to creep up on her, as became apparent when she began loudly heckling her fellow dancers. One dancer in particular staggered out onto the runway in an obvious state of narcotic submission, barely able to stand on her stiletto heels, and attempted to boogie down to the highly inappropriate strains of Tavares' "More Than A Woman." This pathetic sight struck both myself and Arizona as hysterical and we soon had our arms about one another, singing along with the falsetto voices in the most irreverent of tones, earning us nasty looks from the dancer and a hurled tinfoil ashtray from one of the old coots.

Suddenly I heard a loud, burbly rumble, audible over the general din and emanating from my stomach. Yes, my bacon double-cheeseburgers had decided to fight back in protest against the other abuses I'd put into my body over the course of the last few hours, so I excused myself and headed for the men's room, leaving Arizona to continue the mockery by her lonesome. Squeezing my asscheeks together with Herculean strength, I pigeon-toed it to the can and launched myself toward the nearest stall.

Upon entering the bathroom — a stenching, dilapidated pestilence factory that could easily have been transported from the Black Hole of Calcutta — I noted a six-foot long trough filled with ice, a measure that in no way cut the harsh, ammonia stench of old man piss. I turned away from that reeking trench and spotted the lone stall, which was, to my abject horror, missing a door — presumably to deter any Onanistic fun — meaning I would have to drop trou and let my ass do its Vesuvius impression with no hope of privacy as I hung onto the well-worn seat for dear life while the tremors had their way with me. Nonetheless, the bomb had to drop.

As I sat and agonized, discovering religion that I didn't know I had as I prayed to any and all benevolent deities for mercy, the main door burst open and a wobbly old geezer meandered in, staring straight into the stall and directly at my tortured mug. "Vzzzasgcvkxdrblmnd!" he said while fumbling with his belt and fly. Then it dawned on me: Grandpa was getting ready to whip out his gnarled old piss-pipe and relieve himself.

All. Over. Me.

In blind panic I began to scream and howl, "NOOOOO!! NOOOOO, YOU DRUNK OLD FUCK!!! THE TROUGH IS BEHIND YOU! JESUS CHRIST, IT'S BEHIND YOOOOOU!!!" all while impotently kicking at him with my black jeans and boxers down around my ankles, and a huge turd hanging out of my ass like I was a goddamned angel fish. Grandpa cocked his head, stopped whipping out his tadger and exclaimed, "Whuffukkayadooninair?!!? Fuggnjergoff..." before turning around and melting patches of ice with his foamy, golden bounty.

My body then went limp and my upper half fell to one side, supported by a rickety, graffiti-festooned wall.

I soon finished my bombing mission, tidied up, and rejoined Arizona at the bar, flattered that she was concerned when I took off like a shot. We then drank away the rest of the night while Darren and the rest of the party began to wind things down, but before we left, Arizona treated me to a freebie photo of the two of us so I would have a souvenir of our weird-assed evening.

Looking back at it now, I wish I'd thought to get Grandpa to pose with us.

The ride back to Squirrelville went by in a blur, the tequila and beer having long erased my understanding of linear time progression, and I forget how it happened but I ended up actually getting a lift back to my apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side, safe and sound and able to collapse in my own bed, soon to face a monster hangover the next afternoon.

Every once in a while I wonder whatever happened to Arizona. I hope she's doing okay and has left the flesh palace behind in her memory, discarded with other jobs from youth such as Burger King hostess, veterinary cage-mucker, and paper route deliverer of GRIT.

THE SECRET WORLD OF WOMEN

Ladies, I love you all for a million reasons and am forever grateful for my ability to be able to hang out with you and have you feel completely comfortable, so much at ease that you let loose and just be yourselves, shedding the veneer of ladylike comportment and revealing your secret, vulgar wench. For you guys out there who don’t realize it, women may at times chastise us dudes for our tasteless and/or “gross” behavior and project outrage over such mannish ways offending their tender sensibilities, but lemme tell ya that chicks are far, far worse in their bluntness and take-you-there discussions of their bodily functions, secretions, excretions, and hairiness. I've complained about being on the receiving end of this over the years, but as of the other night I officially give up and accept my fate.

Since I was in my tweens, for better or worse I’ve been given access to the secret world of women thanks to being a pretty good listener who can offer a decent piece of advice once in a while, and because my presence gives some of them a guinea pig to see just how much estrogenic candor even a supposedly enlightened male can take and at times that free pass into the earthier realm of feminine discourse has given me both pause and great amusement. For instance, when it comes to talking about their monthly, moon-related woes, some women use such charming euphemisms as “the drip,” “chumming” — as in “Yeah, I’m chumming and the Great White’s on it’s way,” with Great White being a brilliant nickname for a tampon or sanitary napkin — and “flushing out the pink sink,” but I particularly love a blanket term for women coined by a waitress I know. She refers to herself and other females as “bleedies,” and the first time I heard her say that I nearly snarfed the beer I was drinking out of my nose and onto the waitress’ mouth-watering rack.

The mention of their own equipment in terms that de-eroticizes the female form is quite sobering and it makes me remember that a woman’s body is not just some strokeable, fuckable rec room of smooth skin and jubbly bits, but also a biological machine heir to malfunctions and aesthetic/olfactory unpleasantness and mundanity just as annoying and repulsive as those experienced by guys, only women deal with such matters in a more realistic and function-oriented way. My friend Nina, a terrific lady I met during my notorious collegiate years, was needlessly critical of her physical attributes and once referred to her breasts as “udders,” thinking that they were in aspect more like the mammalian appendages found on common farm animals in general and goats in particular. I stopped short at that statement, bewildered by her harsh self-deprecation — I’d sneaked a peek at her goods more than once when she’d leaned over in my face, and I thought her girls were quite enchanting — but then her words clicked in the more analytical hemisphere of my brain and I said to myself, “Ya know, she’s right. Technically speaking, they are udders.” All horny thoughts that I could have had died instantly on the vine and I flashed on an image of Nina, all bespectacled, stoned, and smiling, her visage fused with the form of a she-goat in some barnyard or children's petting zoo, a Dr. Moreau-style chimera/humanimal whose udders wobbled to and fro like a rubber glove filled with ball bearings.

Absolutely no boner for that one, folks. But the ultimate boner killer goes to a discussion I witnessed the other night, a boozy exchange that gave me an all-new and all-horrifying term that I just have to share with you.

I was out with two women, a blonde and a brunette (who shall both remain nameless), who had both been imbibing quite heavily over the course of the evening, and when we piled into a cab bound for Brooklyn the brunette of the pair began to question whether or not she should go to visit her boyfriend, her concerns stemming from the fact that she was having her period and suffering from a virulent urinary tract infection; this had been briefly discussed earlier in the evening and the blonde, who didn’t like the boyfriend, suggested that the brunette should give it a miss. I volunteered that such issues could be worked around, a point that put the brunette at ease, and we left it at that while we pursued the night’s other distractions.

So we’re on our way back to Brooklyn and I’m in the back of a cab with these two bombed chicks, when the brunette begins to whine about her need for a proper seeing-to and how it conflicted with the current sorry state of her Good Place. She moaned on and on about “but I’ve got my period,” or “I’ve got a UTI,” all while her head kept flopping over onto my shoulder and chest. That wouldn’t necessarily have been so bad if the two of them hadn’t then decided to regale me with tales of the many times they’d been kicked out of taxis before arriving at their destinations thanks to them puking all over the cab’s back seat. They drunkenly guffawed at the time the brunette had to copiously vomit into the blonde’s handbag and how they both had to scoop up the puke and chuck it out the window as the car sped across the Manhattan Bridge, the brunette vomiting endlessly all the while.

As visions of myself getting covered in half-digested hot dogs, gin, and single-malt whiskey flashed in my mind, the gynecological debate resumed, this time with the blonde taking command and offering that no guy would want to see the brunette in the condition she was in; “Look at yourself! You’re fuckin’ wasted, you’re slurring your words and you look like a fuckin’ retard. And now you wanna go see this guy and you’re all fucked up down there, and you’ve got your period, plus a UTI, and you’re gonna put your boy through that? You know what you’ve done? You’ve fuckin’ tripe-bagged him, dude. You’ve fuckin’ tripe-bagged him! No guy wants to be face-to-face with that shit! Jesus!”

Yes, “tripe-bagged.” In other words, getting nailed in the face with gory butcher’s waste.

I have to say that at the same time as it’s completely stomach-turning, as a wordsmith I had to admire the term for its one-hundred percent effectiveness in conveying both the blonde’s point, and for its ability to conjure up an image of how H.P. Lovecraft may have perceived an issue of HUSTLER (I know HUSTLER doesn’t depict pussies that look like they’d been hit full-throttle by the Superchief, but you get my point).

So we eventually dropped off the brunette (she of the slaughterhouse vadge) and relegated her boyfriend to an evening of being “tripe-bagged.”

Tripe and onions. Uh, I'll pass...

And on that note, do any of you have more such charming turns of phrase that I can add to my lexicon? What other horrible shit have you been holding out on me? Please feel free to write in and contribute!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The blonde genius behind "tripe bagging," and pals.

A FORMATIVE INFLUENCE

I've been fascinated by the history of witchcraft since I was eight years old, at which point I acquired a copy of Peter Haining's superb WITCHCRAFT AND BLACK MAGIC (1972), part of the Knowledge Through Color series, via (believe it or not) the Scholastic Books program. 

Remember, kids: Knowledge is power!

It was a serious book on the history of witchcraft, mostly as seen in Europe and early America, and it pulled zero punches in describing all of the nastiness  that anti-witch crusaders wanted the general public to believe, and it even included reproductions of ultra-graphic woodcuts and pamphlets outlining assorted tortures administered by "professional" witch-hunters and agents of the Spanish Inquisition, so you can imagine what an education it was for this eight-year-old. From that formative influence I developed a taste for horror stories about witchcraft, especially those that hewed close to what was historically believed to have been practiced by real witches, and being awakened to the fact that the anti-witch hysteria and persecution was perpetrated by misogynistic criminals who feared wise women did nothing to diminish my taste for the sub-genre. 

"YOU WA SHOCK!!" FIST OF THE NORTH STAR: THE TV SERIES Overview-Part 1

 From 2010.

NOTE: this is a long one, folks, so if you have no interest in FIST OF THE NORTH STAR, bail out now.

The first boxed set of the complete unedited and subtitled run of FIST OF THE NORTH STAR is finally out in legal, licensed form in the U.S. (as opposed to the previously available and horrendously subtitled “gray market” version from Hong Kong), with the second (of a total of four) just recently out as well, so now is as good a time as any to give you my overview of the whole shebang. The first boxed set contains episodes 1-36, but first a wee bit of history for the uninitiated. (NOTE: though I've seen the entire series all the way through in various states of translation ranging from the totally untranslated — when I was first watching it on tapes culled from the original Japanese airings in the mid-1980's — to the passable and the downright awful, this viewing of these fully-authorized and professionally subtitled episodes is the first time I'll be making my way through all of it with a quality, unified vision of the story told in English, so this is as almost as much of a journey of discovery for me as it is for you, dear Vaultie.)



A strong contender for the title of "Best Cartoon Theme Song Ever."

Much has been written on this blog about my undying love of HOKUTO NO KEN, aka FIST OF THE NORTH STAR, in all its many iterations, but the one that started me on all of this is the animated TV series that ran from 1984-1987 and it's immediate sequel series, HOKUTO NO KEN 2 (1987-1988). Based on the landmark manga series by artist Tetsuo Hara and co-writer Buronson that ran in weekly installments in Japan's SHONEN JUMP weekly comics anthology from 1983-1988 (and as of 2007 was the 7th best-selling collected manga series of all time), the TV adaptation followed its source's template of over-the-top martial arts super-heroic ultra-violence and manliness, and even went it one better by exaggerating its already considerable excesses from the ridiculous to the sublime. While definitely possessed of skills and abilities that would meet anyone's definition of the term "powerful," the characters became kuh-razy super-powerful in the TV version, and it is from that launching point that all other versions of the series' signature mega-martial arts stem. It was the element of a very Japanese take on superheroes combined with an equally Nippon-tastic spin on what one could get away with in what was originally considered a kids' series that guaranteed HOKUTO NO KEN classic status, and it is in many ways even more popular today than it ever was in the first place.

A typical day in FIST OF THE NORTH STAR's post-apocalyptic shithole of a world.

The show's basic premise is the same as the manga's: in the year 199X, World War III breaks out and after the nuclear holocaust's smoke and fire clears (to say nothing of the attendant fallout), the earth has been rendered a scorched and barren wasteland where lawlessness and savagery rule and the weak are the pathetic prey of the strong and cartoonishly sadistic. Out of the blistering, Sergio Leone-esque wastes strides Kenshiro, a tall, stoic and impossibly-muscled warrior who is a completely flagrant fusion of the ENTER THE DRAGON-era Bruce Lee's martial prowess (taken of course to an insane next level) and Mel Gibson as Mad Max, for both the Aussie hero's post-apocalyptic setting and basic visual. (NOTE: Kenshiro can't be considered a total visual ripoff of Mad Max because Ken's leather jacket does not have any trace of sleeves!)

Mel "Sugartits" Gibson: the sartorial template for Kenshiro.

It is at this point that I’ll break down the episodes contained in this first boxed set by which installments the viewer really should not miss, with notes on the various important characters encountered along the way. There will be spoilers, but they don’t really spoil anything because, if truth be told, about two-thirds of FIST OF THE NORTH STAR’s early run is simply not very good, and I say that as a hardcore fan.

The series' first twenty-three episodes comprise "Chapter One" and what's contained therein is rather a mixed bag, as we shall see.

Our protagonist: Kenshiro, the 64th successor of Hokuto Shin Ken, the deadliest martial art known to man.

Episode 1: In which Kenshiro wanders out of the wasteland and begins has ass-kicking career in bloody earnest. This implacable and initially-unexplained warrior arrives in a small town that's been attacked by a gang of Mohawked and feathered biker thugs, hulking human vermin who don't hesitate to kill any who offer them the slightest resistance when they come to raid the place for food and water. Before the awed and horrified eyes of the townspeople, Kenshiro (Ken for short) single-handedly, fatally and quite literally explosively sorts out the gang in a spectacular and jaw-dropping display of the secret martial art of Hokuto Shin Ken — literally "North Star God Fist" or "the Holy Fist of the North Star" — a discipline that grants its adepts a vast array of superhuman powers and abilities, and causes those struck by it to blow apart from within.

Kenshiro powers up: when the aura's sparking and the leather jacket burns away, that's your ass.

The typically shirtless Ken. Where does he get replacements for all the sleeveless leather jackets he burns through?

Fit to burst: Hokuto Shin Ken in action.

When the gory and decidedly one-sided melee is over, Kenshiro departs and makes his way once more into the desert, single-mindedly continuing upon a quest in which his every step is galvanized by visions of a mysterious beauty named Yuria. What follows is a harrowing odyssey of escalating violence and literalized "martial" law through a savage new world, and we, the viewers, are taken along for one hell of a ride.

One of the show's many awesome/amusing tropes: a killing move is executed, the action is freeze-framed, and the move is identified, often with a lengthy narrated explanation of its particulars. In this example, Ken's move causes the bad guy's eyeballs and brain to spew out of his face.

It should be noted that the first episode introduces the only three characters who are there for the entirety of both the original and sequel series. Characters in FIST OF THE NORTH STAR in any version tend not to survive any given story arc, not even the favorites of the fans, or they get completely written out, so the trio of mainstays includes Kenshiro (obviously), Bat (or "Bart," depending on the translation) and Lin, a pair of orphaned survivor kids.

Lin and Bat: the show's only other full-time cast members.

They meet Ken when he staggers out of the desert demanding water and is immediately imprisoned, pending a determination of whether he's kosher or just another biker thug; Bat's in the same jail cell, also held on suspicion, and Lin is tasked with bringing them food and water. Once the biker gang shows up and Ken gorily reduces them to splattered chutney, saving Lin from getting her head torn from her body in the process, Bat follows Ken on his quest, declaring himself Ken's "manager" and intending to trade Ken's lethal skills for food. Lin soon joins them, and it's at that point that the viewer's patience begins a serious endurance test; both Bat and Lin embody two of the worst and most common aspects of manga and Japanese animation, specifically the unnecessary "cute" and comic relief characters in a series that would almost definitely be better off without them. A series as grim as this definitely requires some kind of levity and tender human feeling to alleviate some of its unrelenting tragic tone and there is certainly plenty of that to be had in Kenshiro's snide interaction with his opponents/Hokuto Shin Ken fodder and some of the other later supporting characters, but Bat and Lin are damned near insufferable from the moment when they show up, especially Lin. Almost universally reviled by even the most diehard fans, Lin's endless and shrill screams of Ken's name ("Keeeeeeeeeeeeen!!!") will make you want to shove the nearest pointy object through your eardrums, and that agony goes on unabated until the sequel series, at which point the plot skips ahead by several years and Lin is a grown woman.

Bat, while certainly annoying and abrasive in his own right, is at least around sixteen when we meet him, so he's not in any way "cute," but his self-serving shtick wears out its welcome pretty swiftly. Both kids follow Ken with full awareness of the incredible violence and danger that marks his journey, which at times makes them both look like self-destructive idiots while simultaneously painting Ken as huge douche for doing little or nothing to prevent them from barreling headlong into peril (not that his warnings or orders ever stop them). In their defense, the pair do kinda/sorta grow to have their place in the story as Kenshiro's surrogate children (which evolves in a couple of weird directions in the sequel series, but more on that when we get to it), with Lin frequently displaying great (if possibly suicidal) courage while Bat slowly learns from Kenshiro's selfless example and reveals himself to be less of an opportunistic turd than he wants the world to believe he is.

Anyway, as the series progresses, we discover that Kenshiro is on a mission to rescue Yuria, his fiancee, from the clutches of Shin, a master of Nanto Sei Ken ("Southern Cross fist"), the martial art that is the yang to Hokuto Shin Ken's yin, and affords its masters the ability to carve through even the most dense of matter, but mostly people.

The deadly hands of Shin, master of Nanto Sei Ken, the "Southern Cross fist."

Shin visually resembles nothing so much as the "Fragile"-era Rick Wakeman decked out in an assortment of flamboyant outfits that look like castoffs from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, thus rendering him the first in a long line of opponents — and sometimes allies — whose perceived borderline-flaming "fagginess" stands in direct contrast to Kenshiro's stoic, bikery butchness. Also going by the honorific of "King" and fronting a conquering army of ragingly sadistic assholes, the chiefs of which each bear ridiculous playing card-based names, Shin brutally ravages his way across the wasteland while making his base at the city of Southern Cross. (As Hokuto denotes the northern art, Nanto represents the southern flipside.)
Episode 5: After witnessing Ken in action for four episodes and noting the seven scars on his frequently-exposed chest, the viewers are granted the first look into his past and shown the shattering event that set him on his path of rescue and revenge. At an unspecified time in the past but likely about a year before the events seen in the first episode, Kenshiro and Yuria, his fiancee, pay their respects at the grave of Ken's father and prepare to venture into the hostile wilderness, ready to start a new life flush with young love.
The romance of Kenshiro and Yuria: the catalyst for a cornucopia of tragedy and death.

That plan is immediately derailed when Shin arrives and declares his intent to take Yuria for himself, citing that she needs a real man to protect her in the harsh post-nuke world and challenging Ken for her hand. At this point in his life, just after being declared the successor to his family's sacred martial art, Kenshiro was in no way the kung fu powerhouse that he would evolve into, and his resolve in the fight against Shin is hampered by two crucial points: the two-thousand year law that Hokuto and Nanto must never come into conflict because that battle of united opposites would potentially destroy the world (exactly how or why is never really made clear), and the fact that Ken and Shin grew up as friends. The fight goes quite badly and Kenshiro suffers severed tendons in his arms and legs. Then, adding enormous insult to equally dire injury, Shin forces Yuria to declare her love for him by using his stone-penetrating fingers to slowly poke deep holes into Ken's chest, holes that form (and mock) the Hokuto symbol, the constellation known in the West as the Big Dipper.

Shin disrespectfully marks Kenshiro's body with what would become the Japanese answer to Superman's "S" crest.

Not wanting Ken to perish, Yuria proclaims her love for Shin and tearfully goes off with him. Galvanized by the trifecta of crushing defeat, grievous injury and having his fiancee taken away against her will (an act he knows she allowed to save his ass), Kenshiro somehow survives and doggedly begins killing his way through Shin's forces, a battle that continues over the next seventeen episodes.

As a bad guy, Shin is admittedly somewhat nuanced, but he's barely more than a post-apocalyptic mustache twirling "boss" villain. His love for Yuria is genuine but he is so deluded that he cannot accept that she will have room in her heart only for Kenshiro, so one would feel quite sorry for Shin if not for the fact that he clearly enjoys killing innocent people, all in the name of conquest that he is somehow convinced will be understood by Yuria as love offerings from him. The only truly interesting thing about him is that although he kidnapped Yuria with the clearly-stated intention of taking her as his woman, he is clearly shown not to be a rapist. He never once attempts to take Yuria sexually without her consent and would never raise a hand against her; instead, he seeks to win her heart by lavishing gifts upon her and ruthlessly conquering villages in her name, something that only drives her deeper into melancholy.

Yuria: the face that launched uncountable deaths.

For her part, Yuria is a bland and virtually undefined character, which comes as little surprise since this was originally very much a "boys only" manga, but that's rather beside the point. In fact, calling her a character at all is almost a stretch, since she only serves the narrative as an objective for Kenshiro's quest and the unrequited focus of Shin's demented ardor. She's passive in the extreme and has no real personality to speak of, yet she ends up as the over-used catalyst to many other as-yet-unseen characters' motivations and agendas (as we shall see as the series progresses) but her near-total lack of personality other than being "the girl" makes one wonder just what the big deal about her is. As previously stated, I've been a big fan of FIST OF THE NORTH STAR for twenty-five years, and I have yet to understand her appeal to any of the characters whose lives she is later revealed to have so drastically affected (with one major exception, but he doesn't show up for quite a while yet).

Episodes 6-8: the "God's Army" arc.

As his pursuit of Shin continues, Kenshiro runs into a highly-skilled paramilitary force known as God's Army, a vicious lot who prey upon the weak for provisions, kidnap women for breeding purposes, and mercilessly kill all who oppose their reign of terror.

Kenshiro tells the finest paramilitary force the world has ever known to "suck it."

Kenshiro would not have put up with their bullshit for long anyway, but when they make the drastically bad move of kidnapping Lin as an underage broodmare (she's maybe ten), God's Army signs its own death warrant. Kenshiro fights his way into their citadel and hands out the most righteous ass-whuppings of his career to date, but after he kills the rat bastards he still has to contend with The Colonel, their one-eyed leader, whose psychic powers allow him to read and counter Kenshiro's moves before he even makes them.

The Colonel orders his men to find and kill "the man with the seven scars." Yeah, good luck with that.

This arc marks the point where the show re-arranges the manga's storyline and juggles several elements that came after the conclusion of the Shin story, apparently in an effort to keep the thrills coming where the manga kind of floundered once Shin was out of the picture. Any fan who's read the manga can tell you flat-out that perhaps the greatest flaw in the early run was that the creators seemed to meander with the narrative until the series finally figured out what its real point was, but more on that later. The God's Army arc was hands down my favorite portion of FIST OF THE NORTH STAR's early period and I loved it for its non-stop action and genuine testing of Kenshiro's early-period skills (I've gone into detail on the manga version elsewhere), all of which is to be had in the TV version, even if the evil soldiers are now written to be underlings of Shin. That aspect is total bullshit because, even as formidable as he and his forces were, I very much doubt that Shin could have taken God's Army's elite warriors. Oh, and this arc is also of note because The Colonel explains to Ken (and, by association, us) exactly how and why World War III happened, a bit of exposition that one would think would be very interesting and important, but it's given pretty short shrift and is never mentioned again (until somewhat retconned in one of the recent theatrical film retellings).

Episodes 9 & 10: These are the first of several disposable and awful "filler" episodes that were thrown into the series in order to pad out the season, and they can be skipped over without missing anything. Anything, that is, excepting a great moment in Episode 10 where a member of a biker gang recognizes and identifies Kenshiro, prompting the whole lot to take off in the opposite direction at very high speed, a tactical decision that saves their worthless lives. That rare moment of intelligence in the series' villains would not be repeated, and as such it's pretty damned funny.

Epsiodes 11-13: the Jackal arc.

One of my least favorite sequences in both the manga and the TV series, this is of note for an interesting look at Bat's pre-Kenshiro existence and what spurred him to become a scavenger. The sequence's Big Bad is Jackal, a large but rather cowardly biker gang leader and pragmatist whose advises his men not to fight anyone who is stronger than they are, and he should know because he's no kind of match for Kenshiro and doesn't even try to prove otherwise. Instead he resorts to every bit of underhanded chicanery that he can muster, which makes him a very disappointing villain for a series that relies on the hero fighting worthy martial foes. Once Ken finally kills Jackal's gang and goes after the head man himself, Jackal runs to a conveniently-located prison that holds "Devil Rebirth" (often mis-translated as "Devil Reverse," as it is here) a towering giant of a man whose mastery of the ancient and unspeakably deadly "Arhat Deva fist" has turned him into a mass-murdering martial arts demon. Jackal unleashes this living horror against Kenshiro, giving our hero his first bout against a straight-up monster. Each week, FIST OF THE NORTH STAR's opening sequence famously depicted Ken launching himself into the gaping maw of some unexplained creature roughly the scale of King Kong, but that scene never occurred in the manga or anywhere in the TV version.

The end of the show's weekly opening sequence: a battle that never came to pass, but considering where Kenshiro's skills ended up going, I totally believe he would have kicked that monster's ass.

But Ken's encounter with Devil Rebirth is the closest we get to him fighting an actual giant monster, so I'll take what I can get.

Jackal unleashing Devil Rebirth.

I'm guessing the confusion over the translation of "Devil Rebirth" comes from the fact that his name in the original manga was in English and written phonetically with Japanese kanji, so its sound could easly be taken as "Devil Reverse." I go with "Rebirth" because the character is very much a an ogre-like horror straight out of Japanese yokai mythology, whereas a "devil reverse" would seem to be something of innate goodness, which this bad guy sure as hell ain't.

Episodes 14-21: Nothing but filler here, all of which can be skipped over, with Episode 17 holding the dubious distinction of being the first of many, many full episodes that recap the entire series up to that particular installment. There is a stunningly ludicrous scene where Ken fights a WWII-style tank with his bare hands and wins, but even that is not worth sitting through the entire episode.

Episode 22: The end of Chapter One, in which the well-tested and fully-motivated Kenshiro finally confronts Shin.

Kenshiro delivers a killing bow to his rival.

Driven to a berserker rage by the sight of Shin seemingly killing Yuria, Kenshiro puts an end to his rival once and for all, but all is not as it seems. Upon examining the body, Ken discovers that Shin had actually attacked a lifelike manikin, knowing Ken would think it was Yuria and thus put Shin out of his misery. When asked why he did this, Shin tearfully explains that upon hearing of his latest plan for violent conquest in her name, Yuria threw herself to her death from the tower of Southern Cross rather than bear the guilt for one more innocent life that would be lost. Despite his own demise by Hokuto Shin Ken being imminent, Shin makes like Yuria and takes a tower dive rather than suffer the indignity of exploding from his enemy's polar opposite fighting art.

With the long haul of the Shin storyline finally over and done with, the second chapter begins, and it is there that the first inklings of what made FIST OF THE NORTH STAR a classic are seen.

Episodes 23-29: This arc finds Ken and his young companions encountering a village led by Mamiya, a fierce warrior-woman armed with much moxie and razor-edged yo-yos that she wields like a champ. She also bears a strong resemblance to Yuria, which freaks Kenshiro out to no small degree.

Mamiya deploys her lethal yo-yo acumen.

Very tough and capable (though her skills are only within the boundary of normal human abilities), Mamiya is a worthy addition to the cast and becomes the series' lone regular female badass. (We learn a good deal more about her in the stories found in the next boxed set.)

When Ken and the kids arrive, Mamiya and her people are waging a decidedly one-sided battle against the wolf-like Fang Clan, an apparently limitless legion of waaaaaaay vicious and sadistic wolf-themed killers who are all the sons of a hulking leader who can literally turn his skin to impenetrable steel. Being the BMF that he is, Ken makes quite an impression when he kills scores of the Fangs, so Mamiya offers him the job of her town's protector, complete with housing, food and water, along with certain other "benefits" being hinted at. She digs Ken bigtime, but his heart only belongs to Yuria, and that's that.

Rei: the bishonen badass and the other true star of the early portion of the series.

The most significant element of this arc is the introduction of Rei, one of the top masters of the Nanto disciplines, in this case the spectacular Nanto Suicho Ken ("Southern Cross Water Fowl Fist"). Not dissimilar to Shin's style, Nanto Suicho Ken is also a martial discipline that principally concentrates on hand attacks, but as it is based upon the movements of a swan, it grants those who master it a superhuman grace that is seen to great effect when the style's moves are executed

Rei's very memorable first appearance. 

Along with enabling its user to slice through virtually anything with surgical accuracy (accented by psychedelic laser-like trails streaming from the fingers), the art also grants its user the ability to "take flight" for impressive aerial attacks, lending the user the aspect of some great and beautiful bird.

Rei, seen in mid-air assault against the dastardly Fang Clan. They didn't stand a chance.

Nanto Suicho Ken's effect on the human head.

A classic '80's example of the manga/anime trope of the bishonen ("beautiful male") and pretty enough to believably pass himself off as a girl (which at one point he does, with hilarious results), Rei arrives from out of the desert in search of his sister, Airi, who has been sold into what is heavily implied to be multi-owner sexual slavery, and her abductor has been described by an eyewitness as a man with seven scars on his chest... Rei intends to visit some major and fatal hurt onto his sister's abductor and during the course of his quest for vengeance he has lost a good deal of his humanity, callously killing anyone who gets in his way and being willing to whore out his considerable skills to whichever side seems to have the upper hand. Playing the Enkidu to Kenshiro's Gilgamesh, Rei eventually succumbs to Kenshiro's example of decency and selfless protection of others, and in no time the two recognize kindred spirits in one another, forming one of the great bromances of manga/anime (to say nothing of introducing an intriguing somewhat-homoerotic subtext that has been the subject of much debate and conjecture among fans for twenty-five years). Though initially siding with the Fangs, Rei soon joins Kenshiro and Mamiya to form a heroic trio that lasts well into the next boxed set, with some very interesting results (which will be discussed in the review of the second boxed set), and the damage they inflict upon the Fang Clan leads the head of the clan to pull some seriously nasty business that cannot go unpunished.

Rei, Kenshiro and Mamiya: my vote for the defining superhero trio of '80's manga/anime.

Righteous punishment does indeed come, but not until our heroes engage in several memorable and definitive battles in the process. Among other highlights can be counted Ken's utter decimation of Madara, a Fang Clan member who is apparently some kind of horrifying human/lupine mutant hybrid,

Madara meets Ken's fist. Note the depth of impact.

and Ken's dispatching of the formerly steel-skinned clan leader with a move called the "mountain- splitting wave."

The devastating power of...

...the "mountain-splitting wave."

Episodes 30-32: the Jagi arc.

Once the Fang Clan is wiped out and Rei's poor, abused sister is rescued, Kenshiro susses out that the mysterious villain with scars that match those on his chest is none other than Jagi, Kenshiro's presumed-dead adoptive older brother and rejected contender for successorship to Hokuto Shin Ken.

Jagi: shattering proof of what can happen when you teach superhuman killing skills to a sociopath.

Sometime before the first episode of the series took place, Jagi, angered at being passed over for the successorship, confronts Kenshiro and demands that he renounce his new position and cede it to him. Ken ain't havin' it, so he thrashes Jagi to within an inch of his life, hideously disfiguring him in the process (thus necessitating Jagi's subsequent wearing of a face-obscuring helmet), yet allowing him to live because of their familial connection. That was in the days before Ken grew himself a real pair, and the mistake of not putting Jagi down when he had the chance has now come back to bite a huge chunk out of his ass; following his beatdown and banishment, Jagi scars himself and wanders the wastes, committing acts of wanton murder, rape (strongly implied but not explicitly stated) and other evil, all while identifying himself as Kenshiro in an attempt to besmirch his younger brother's name. When Ken finally faces Jagi, a number of interesting revalations roll out, allowing us our first real glimpse into Kenshiro's family and the Hokuto Shin Ken training process/culture, along with the fact that Jagi was the catalyst that spurred Shin to kidnap Yuria. But the biggest bombshell of all is that Ken's two eldest brothers, Toki and Raoh, also survived, and the two of them in many ways make Ken look like a weak younger sister. That leaves Kenshiro no choice but to find them and settle the matter of successorship once and for all.

Episodes 33-36: the Amiba arc.

This one's a bit of a throwaway, but it does serve to fill us in on even more about Kenshiro's family, specifically his much-admired elder brother, Toki. A sweet-natured pacifist who wanted to use his art to heal rather than kill, Toki would have been chosen as the successor to Hokuto Shin Ken if not for him being exposed to severe radiation when the bombs fell, which turned his hair white and left him only a limited amount of time to live. Toki apparently settles into a town that comes to be known as "the village of miracles" once he moves in and starts healing all and sundry, but then Toki's personality abruptly changes from kind to sadistic as he has a private gang of thugs kidnap innocent people for his twisted and painful medical experiments.

Kenshiro's older brother, Toki...or is it?

This change in temperment is questionable to say the least, so Ken sets out to prove whether it's an impostor or if his beloved brother has inexplicably snapped and turned completely evil. It spoils nothing to state that the evil healer is indeed not Toki, but a jealous impostor named Amiba, a self-proclaimed martial and medical genius who can mimic most of the particulars of any fighting style he sees. Incorrectly thinking he's mastered a form of Hokuto Shin Ken — exactly how and where he would have seen it is never made clear, and it makes no sense since none but the chosen ever witness its training secrets — Amiba sees Toki's successful healing of the sick and tries to duplicate it. When Toki sees Amiba injuring someone Toki had just healed, Toki slaps him aside and comes to the victim's rescue, warning Amiba not to use skills he has not mastered. Outraged at being hit by Toki, Amiba somehow manages to get rid of the healer (how is never made clear), alters his features in order to pass as Toki, and sets about attempting to reinvent Hokuto Shin Ken in his own image. Needless to say, Amiba needs killing, and Kenshiro's the guy for the job... END OF BOXED SET.

Once Amiba's splattered hither and yon, we move on to the next chunk of the story and the real point of the entire epic: Kenshiro's brothers — the gentle Toki, and Raoh (about whom we know nothing yet) — are still alive, so now Ken must settle the whole succession issue and reluctantly face his destiny as the potential savior of the post-apocalyptic world. The big stumbling block to that goal is...well, that would be telling, and all of that is found in the next boxed set.

Two more Hokuto brothers remain, and with that fact the glory days of FIST OF THE NORTH STAR kick into high gear (in the next boxed set).

If all of that seems rather convoluted and potentially confusing, it certainly is, but that's the unfortunate flaw of the early FIST OF THE NORTH STAR, in both manga and animated form. The Shin arc meanders quite a bit and once that's done things continue to ramble on seemingly without a point until Rei enters the narrative. I honestly think the creators didn't really have much of an idea for the manga at first, other than "badass kung fu superhero guy wanders a post-nuke wasteland and kills shitloads of evil scum in creative and gory ways," but with Rei and Ken's brothers added to the mix, an avalanche of excellence and unbridled badassery gets properly underway (with the next boxed set) and propels the series to classic iconic, landmark status. Nonetheless, considering how deeply flawed — no, make that downright bad — the show was for much of its first year, it's a miracle the series survived long enough to get good. Though this was perhaps the most action-packed anime series ever made up to that time, it had several aspects that turned off all but the most diehard of fans (who learned to ignore those aspects, for the most part), including frequent re-usage of footage and recaps up the ass (which really become egregious after the episodes covered here), plus to say nothing of the fact that when one really looks at the story's setting, it does not bear close examination and makes little sense in any kind of science-fictional context. I mean, think about this:

• If the nuclear apocalypse happened in "199x" as is stated at the start of the story, the level to which what remains of society has sunk would have to have required maybe a minimum of two decades for such outright and fetishized tribalism to have taken root and become a part of actual cultures.
• What would have been unquestionably high levels of radiation are apparently not an issue.
• Considering the aforementioned radiation, the lack of outright mutants is surprising. Creatures like Devil Rebirth and Madara are given no plausible explanation at all and are not declared to be mutants, but maybe we are supposed to infer that that's indeed what they are. Who knows?
• Plant life is practically nil, so crops are extremely unlikely and there would not necessarily be enough plants around to generate breathable air.
• Cannibalism would be a viable and likely nutritional option, yet it is not addressed.
• The world seen in the sequences depicting the days before the war seems to be somewhat multi-culturally futuristic even by early-1980's standards, so the stated start date of 199X seems seems a tad early.
• Where is everybody getting all that fuel for cars, trucks, dune buggies, and motorcycles (not to mention the aforementioned WWII-style tank)? Considering that THE ROAD WARRIOR was an obvious cribbing source for all of this, I'm guessing the creators may have assumed everyone had seen that and would apply what was seen there to the world of FIST OF THE NORTH STAR.

"I object to your pointing out of my story's logical inconsistencies. NOW YOU DIE!!!"

There are many, many more such questions raised, so I'll answer all of them with this simple explanation: the series has nothing to do with realism (well, duh) and the creators used WWIII as an excuse to rewrite the human landscape into one of pure (if horrible) fantasy. FIST OF THE NORTH STAR has always struck me as kind of an heroic campfire story or epic poem told by tribal storytellers in its dire future, a tale about destiny, loyalty, family drama and romance (though that element is given admittedly-short shrift), and as such it works just fine. Just sit back and let it take you on its crazy ride. It obviously worked for a good number of people because it's still here after over a quarter of a century, and it's popularity shows no sign of slowing down. And if you've made it through the first thirty-six episodes, trust me when I say that what follows is brilliant (up to a point), as we shall see when I do a writeup on the next volume.

STAY TUNED!!!

Packaging art for the boxed set.