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By Nick See

Paging through an older copy of Duder P. Tailgate's zine recently reminded me that it's been nearly adecade since those first days of being punks, going to "coldass" basements more than once a week to "fall all over each other."

Vhat I remember at least as clearly*and I'm realizing now that this might seem strange, but what I remember rnosfclearly, is a certain donut shop and what that meant to me. For certain friends and I Buckeye Donuts was a source of comfort,a place /or people with no place to go, weirdos who seemed like us.

In addition to its obvious quality of facilitating sleep-deprivation that I thrived on in those days, the Z-hour donutshop was and has always been special to me because of my faint awareness it before I took to hanging out there. Rumor has itthat Prince once snaked through the kitchen and pasl the racks of donuts to use the bathroom.

More personal for meis that my sister worked there inthe early 8Os when she was inhigh school. Watching her withmy nieces today,l try to imagineher pouring coffee, fieldinginane questions about fritters,fending off obnoxious students,converting change for thehomeless, and turning the otherway when people used the shopas their office for trade in non-taxable goods. I alsowonder if, for her too. the donutshop has always been the venuefor friendship that it has beenfor me.

Duder P. and I spent aZ-hour cycle in the donut shopfor ttre first time inZffif, but theconditions for that marathonwere set years earlier when heand I were in different states.

Duder might remember things differently, but * if I recall correctly - the idea for the Z-hour cycle washatched in 2003, when he was in the Southeast crashing on someone's couch after riding trains. I .saved a letter thal he sent me in those days.

"Last nite I stayed up all nite. From 4-61 was at a diner and let rne tell you whathappened. A man did ballerina dances for us for like 20 minutes. Then another dude did aone handed cartwheel. He was about Z50lbs and short. It all reminded me of the nights ofbuckey-e donuts and how we MUST do the great'Z4hr experiment when I get back""Danuts" contin'ued on page 2'

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Letters tothe editorDown with the clown

There has been a lot of talk about frrggalos lately, but i feelthat most people don't really understand the depth of thefuggalo cancer that plagues the Midwesl and most of thecountry.

The Insane Clown Posse feeds propaganda to their fanson every album, and in almost every song is some "familylove." Songs such as "Down with the clown", "fuggalo family"and "Homies" create a false sense of unity in young kids whomight not fit in with the normal culture. Most of the clowns'lyrical content is focused around building this strongconnection with their fans. They make kids believe they'vebeen there, they understand and care about them, they are"family." There are no requirements to being a fuggalo, all youhave to be is "down with the clown"... and buy merch.

The clowns are marketing geniuses. They've made millionsof dollars off the dumbest shit Shirts,_hats, baby wear,necklaces, action figures, ash trays - almost anything youcan think of has had an ICP logo on it. The pendant necklaceof the "hatchet man" is the icon of fugaloism.

But the real problem with this subculture is that it hasmore characteristics of a cult than a culture. They haverituals, such as spraying Faygo all over each other, wearingface pant and chanting "woot woot" The Insane Clown Posseeven has its own afterlife, the Dark Carnival. The DarkCarnival is sort of like liinbo, you go there to be judged on ifyou'll go to heaven (Shangri-La) or hell. All fuggalos go toShangri-La. ICP put out six concept records called "ioker'scards." The albums were to prophesize the coming of the DarkCarnival, all six have been realized and I'm glad to say hofuggalo apocalypse has happened yet. The lyrics on the lastsong on the last ioker's card album is titled "Thy unveiling"and lyrics are;

"Truth is we follow GOD, we've always been behind him, thecarnival is God and may all fuggalos find him!"

One the hardest songs to listen to comes from an ICP sideproiect tifled "Soopa Villainz" and the song called "Slow yourroll." The chorus literally is:

"Faggots need to slow your rollVe'll fill you full of bullet holes

Black eye for the queer guyIf you come near us you'll die"

Arguably, it's the most homophobic song in existence.Being a |uggalo is intolerable, because being a fuggalo meansyou support ICP, which is a materialistic, male chauvinistic,homophonic, brainwashing cult.

- i m notla ug h i ngw i tlt yo u

"Danuts" continued fram page l.At the time, as now,I was wrapped up in the universityschedule with no end in sight. Vhen myfriend told me that he's going back to school for winterquarter, I couldn't help but beskeptical. I'm glad to say that he did return after squatting inan elementary school seeing New Orleans on Halloween,pushing back against the Miami police and the proposed FretTrade Area of the Americas, and riding a train through ahurricane. Still, I took him seriously when he said, "thesummer will end when I freeze or die." Fortunately, wewelcomed the New Year in the same city, both of us verymuch alive.

Two years later, we both read about SanFrancisco's Crescent Donuts in an issue ofKAM. Here was a donut shop very much like ours. SC4iffurther stimulated our romanticlonging for "the 25th hour," the possibility of seeing - fromthe counter at Buckeye Donuts - thattime of day another friend described as "the golden hour."For lggy Scam, Crescent Donuts was "the epicenter of crime"- crime he celebrated and the Mission's authorities despised,then desirous as they were of the normalized landscape thathas emerged in that neighborhood in the years since. InBuckeye Donuts, loo, criminal abnormality was celebrated anthrived. If the donut shop was a vonex for the abnormal, theencounters of people embodying what generated a veritableeconomy of weirdness that spilled its surplus out the doorand into the street. At the prodding offered by SCAM the ?A-hour cycle became imperative.

Since 2O(I7 the 24-hour cycle became an annualtradition with good friends irining us for the occasion. Overthose years, as the experiment with "Punk Donut Nite" cameand went, stories were written, donuts eaten. ideas andrelationships hatched. This year we saw the golden hour butdidn't make it ihrough an entire day opting to head for Mike'rGrille. A suitable alternative, we thought.ln what is likely tobe the last Z-hour cycle for years to come now that Duderhas left Columbus for the row housds of Baltimore, anappropriate conclusion to the tradition.

Or, as Chad said: "You're writing four hundredwords on the donut shop? I have fourIetters. F-U-C-K."

Besides The Biz MarkieInterpolation Part OneBy: fames Payne

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By fane Rager

'lhere are many things that I'rn terrible at: Seasonirrg food,rollerskatirrg, memorizing information, card games, etc.

Although I have a l ist t lrat could go on much longer,there's one thing that I 'm especially terrible with and that'smy sense of direction. I blame it on l iving in Pittsburgh formost of my life. See, Pittstrurgh is unlike most metropolitancities because it isn't built on a grid system. Make three leftsalrd most of the time you won't end up back where youstarted. It's a confusing mess for visjtors and transplants, trutit's what ['m used to. Pittsburgh gave me a strong stereotypethat all cities were similar with hills, rivers, and nonsensicalstreets. Once I ventured out into the world more, my naivestereotypes were quickJy shattered.

While visiting places like Philadelphia, New York City andChicago I soon realized that home was much difTerent. Theseother cities were planned using this crazy technology called a"grid system." You'd make three lefts and end up back whereyou started, it was so easy! Although it was simple and madesense, I couldn't trust it. I'd question mysell "was that a left ora right? Was that street parallel to where I started or where Iturned?" I made it harder on myself because of curvy streets,dead ends, and the likes at home. I'd get laughed at a lot bynonlocal friends, looking for a challenge that didn't exist.

At the errd of December I decided to sublet a f:riend'sroom in Columbus, giving a new city a try. Pittsburgh wasstagnant and I needed a change. I wanted to be somewhere Ididn't know a lot of people, know where everything was, andhave a generally positive attitude about everything- I couldn'tfind that at home where I knew who people were befoqe wewere introduced, going to a show at a "new" place butalready knowing it's history, getting excited for a potentialromance but realizing that person had dated friends. It wasall so predictable. All i wanted from Columbus was fomethingdifferent and that's exactly what I've found. Of course, I don'ttrust the grid here either and have been lost more than once.

A new friend and I went on a bike ride and I explainedmy grid theory. Our conversation eventually led to talkingahrout relationships and romance and that's when I had anepiphany. Here I was riding bicycles with this sweet personwho was doing everything right: Patient, honest, andsupportive. I was frustrated at myself for not lalling headover heels. Why couldn't I iust be happy and commit tosomething that made sense? Make three lefts and you end upback where you started. I didn't trust it. AII I could think aboutwas the past and a relationship that didn't make as muchsense, one with lots of questions, different directions andunpredictabil ity. It was ius( l ike a nongrid city, iust l ike home.You make those lefts and you could end up anywhere. II 'swhere my comfort l ies and what I know. I iust wonder if i t 'spossible to unlearn or if I shorrld just embrace it. Maybe thef irst step is trusting the grid.

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CSBYS is alwayslooking to run

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Ridiculous horror moviereviews by Matt-Tard

FRANKENHOOKERLink to watch streaming online: veoh.com,'collection/docs cheese/watch/v7A32876aIG-vG{tDW

*x*$peilsps inqludgclt<**.

I was looking threw rny DVD collection and fbund this l i tt le gem, a friend ol mine (Dave Layshock) had burned it forme a f 'ew years ago, By the way, no, it is not a porno, I wish i l were because this movie kind of sttcks... There are funny partsand ridiculous mornents, but it is just horribly slow, bad acting, bad New fersey accents and bad looking naked actresses.' lhereis a strrprising lack of blood and guts,.especially for some of the stuff that happens in this movie, but ftrck it, there are funnyparts, but it 's pretty weird a room full o[ people explode and there's no blood.

The movie starts with a BIIQ and a bunch of really annoying New |ersey accents.-fhe main characler gives his fatherin law a remote controlled lawnmower, t l i ings go wrong when his strrpid girlfr iend tries to drive it and she gets ran over andher bodies are in variorrs pieces around the yard.'Tlt is is when we get to the crappy slow build up that seems like it neverends.....Anyway, we go on. The movie takes a Llig chunk of t ime showing the main characters descent into madne5s. He savesher head in a freezer full of goo and takes it on nice romantic dates. l"le then decides to rebuild her, but most of her body partswere destroyed in the accident. How can you get a bunch of body parts 10 rebuild a girlfr iend? You guessed it: CRACKWHORES!

'l 'he problem is that they are all pretty gross looking. Anyway, he goes looking in a shady bar, full of bikers, hookers,and drugs. he finds z-arro there.zarro is a dnrg dealer/pimp. tle then talks buisness a bit and goes home. He goes home andgoes to his lab, to do what? Yep, he goes home to make supercrack! After a l itt le experimenting, and a bunch of explodinghampsters, he's got it l Time to put on your doctor cqat and go hang out with some whores. He gets a big room of crar:kwhoresin their skimpy underwear, gross. There is then like l0-t5 mitrutes of him measuring boobs, rubbing legs, and tottching butts.After deciding kil l ing a bunch of crackwhores is a bit immoral (psh. dtrmbass) they tie him down ancl f ind his big bag ofsuperclack. PARTY TIMElllt Yell ing. crack smoking, dancing, and dumb shit insues.

The supercrack did exac{ly what he wanted it to, leading to the best part of t lre novie; A room full of naked,exploding crack ho's!

iNow we get to him makirrg his girlfr iend again, and it works, excep{ the fact that it was all random New' Jersey

crackwhore parts he nade her with. gross. If someone really did that it would probably look something l ike this: rrr

His rrewlold girl lr iend is ready for love! Another pl 'oblem is she has super strellgth and the thoughts of l. lexploded/horny/crackwlrores. As soon as she wakes up shers ready to hit the strects and make daddy some fuckin' money!

She trolls the cit,v lookin gnarly for a rvhile, bangs sorne old drrde, who ends up erploding (in nrort- ' th:tn otre way').After that she goes to the bar, where he Tinds it and fixes her. Directly after zarro comes around looking for his ho's and cutshis head ofl zarro needs his bitches. Oh shit, jefTrev, you forgot to throw out all the leftover t:rackrvhoresl Dtrrnbassl , ' tfterl ightning strikes all of t lre randont crackwhole pat'ts in a fr-eezel iull of goo metge together in a moutttl of bellv bttttons tlttdbootries tt'"t';r:i:r";,

ff;l]' rari*g: 5i10, tloe sn t roragy strck, ir jusr sucks ;r rirtre, but if you ar.en'r down fbr t;r;rckwhores ald Ner|er set d( ( cnts than i r is pr r tbalr lv i r r l t f i l r ; t r t t ' { r

"Fellowship" cantinued from page 8.vibrating in the background, everyone still at the front of thebar became conscious of a gradual lamentation rising fromthe rear of the room. As I went back to use the resfoom Isaw my favorite Rainbow Trout, now leaning against thewall-mounted "iukebox," his hand pawing the LED glow of thevideo screen like a cat trying to get inside. And he continuedto bellow the same five words over and over and over againin full-throated, deep sobs.

:l purrormedthe ultimate .cruelty... taking a renewedinterest in the mirroredimages of the l iquor labels,which were now... whisperingsomething about a paradox."

When I arrived back at my seat, Lisa asked me,'Thefuck is that guy moaning about?"

"Love Me Like a Reptile," I answered."Vhat," Shad asked, half chuckling."He keeps saying'Love Me Like A Reptile', over and

over."A general silence ensued amongst us. There was

really no way to respond to this scene. Ve watched himfor three or four minutes, his lunging sorrow continuingto lung and be sorrowful. Then Shad made a face andasked me what I thought of Lisa and I paid, "She'sstanding right here," even though she wasn'tanymore.

I encountered him one last time as I left the bar. Shadopted to hang around for another couple of hours. I wasgoing to head home while I was sti[ sober enough not towalk into traffic. |ust outside the door he sat with hisback against the front wall, his legs splayed out on thesidewalk before his denim girth. He appeared comatose,staring wide-eyed into the darkness.

"Are you OK man?" I asked him.Eyes still agog, he turned his head and looked at

me."lt's here," he said clearly, matter*of-factly, almost_

prophetically."Vhat's here," I asked curiouslv."springtime. Springtime is here. tt's here...lt's

springtime..."And with that I left him there, gazing into the

darkness, waiting for his own day to dawn--a day whichno doubt, would be lovingly crewed by a cold-bloodedpopulace: Snakes, iguanas and crocodilias of all sorts.I thoroughly enioyed the journey home feeling the warmweather in my shirt sleeves for the first time that year.Springtime is here, I said to myself. 0h buddy, springtime ishere.

Besides The Biz MafkieInterpolation Part Two

By fames Payne

Vhen you were rapping

while standing in the subway

you rapped

over a Fleetwood Mac sample

that looped

You rapped

over a Fleewood Mac sample

that looped

You rappd

over a Reetwood Mac sample

that looped

you rapped

over a Fleetwood Mac sample

that looped

You rapped

over a Fleetrvood Mac sample

that looped

I You rapped

over a Fteetwood Mac sample

that looped

you rapped

over a Fleetwood Mac sample

- that looped

Fellowship depends on '*F IO I T T OIeetrngs nelo rn common

.By Pai Hauser

It was one of those things the weather forces you to agree to. My good friend Shad proposed we go to a new bar, one where anacquaintance of his tended drinks.

"C'mon, man, it'll be a new place and besides, Lisa can get us free bmze. She's like one of the assistant managers or someshit."

Polluted by the giddiness that comes with the first genuinely warm day of the year, I assented. I had spent the day airingout the must and grievance from the past four months of winter decay. This seemed like another good bit of fresh atmosphere.Besides, new place, new people, free drinks, could be a time.

As you can imagine, when we got there that thing happened where you show up at the bar, and the drinks are, of course,not free. Because really, however peripherally your friend may or may not know the person behind the bar, it still isn't enoughfar them to get free drinks, let alone you, the friend of a friend.

And so it went. Shad and Lisa hovered around each other with that imploring narrowness of attention familiar to those ofus who have been left sitting there, trying to read the backwards lettering of liquor labels in the mirror, realizing this nightwould become another wasted part of our already questionably spent lives. I am not a social person. Although I always enjoymeeting people,l'm not what you'd call an initiator. So,left there with my awkwardness in a bar halfway filled with people--most of whom had apparently pulled through the same hostage situation together--l sought to alleviate my social anxiety in thebasest and most expedient way possible By closing with and destroying those twitchy nerves with cheap, shit-inducing beer.Like Stanley McChrystal using his remote control airplanes to do quietly terrible things in some obscure, starlit valley, my effortswere successful in an obiectively motivated kind of way.

I listened to Shad and Lisa. each taking an exorbitant interest in the banter of the other, and occasisnally took the liberty ofparticipating in their conversation despite not being actively admitted. So here and there I contributed a comment, which wasmore or less ignored (and rightly so) in the pleasant atmosphere of their mutual absorption. It was like bouncing a tennis balloff a concrete wall and catching it again--pointless, yet relieving.

"Yeah, so Sheila came in here yesterday and walked out the fucking door without paylng.""Are you serious? That's shitty. She's so fucking lame.""Hey Lisa, how long have you been working here?'"l know, that fucking bitch already owes me twenty from when I lent her gas money.""Yeah, she got into some weird shit with Kyle from Cincy a couple months ago.l'm still not sure what that was about.""l heard she stole a'bunch of DVDs from his apartment.""Kyle? From Cincy? Yeah,I don't know what that was about either.""Like I fucking wanl to know anyway, right?" (mutual laughter.)"l wonder how People From Outer Space felt about the Battle of Antietam?'"Yeah, that bitch is crazy... Hey Pat, did you say yo-u wanted another beer?""Can I have two please?""Sure, that's $4.00.""Yup." *

Eventually I gave up and drank quietly, until I became aware of the sizable mass sitting alone two stools down from me, orshould I say, he made himself aware lo me. He was a large mammal, approximately six-feet, two-inches tall, Iong hair, beardand the obligatory denim vest wrapped around more pounds than I care to guesstimate. A three-quar{er full stein sat squarelyin front of him, the contents of which danced as his fist pcunded the bar.

"Hel HEY," he shouted gruffly."Vhat," I answered him, skeptical and not wanting to get drawn into his obviousiy twisted mental state."Play some FUCKing Mot6rhead,* he commanded me, his face eagerly blank, "FuckIN'MMMomt0rHEADf'Now in actuality, I wouldn't have minded a little Motdrhead, especially in lieu of the Montrose which was then emanating s

from the "virtual" fukebox" on the back wall. However, I figured it would be better to let this one drop. No use throwing gasolineon the fire. Once you make contact with a woefully drunken loner it's like becoming the surprise guardian of someone'sslrategically misplaced stepchild. So I performed the ultimate cruelty and fixed my gaze forward, taking a renewed interest inthe mirrored images of the liquor labels, which were now infinitely more legible and whispering something about a paradox.Unfortunately, their full meaning lost itself in the Montrose and the noise of my new friend flopping, as a dying trout does oncrisp, limey gravel.

'This is SHIT! Fuckin'... ehhh... play some FUckin'MOT0RRheeeead!... This fuckin'... buncha faggots. SAMMY HAGAR!....zaICANTDRIVE zeHEcan't drriiive, FIFty five FAmCII scooter, heesa FAGGOT!scooter,"

ln my own haze, I lost track of him until about an hour later when the bar had cleared out a bit. Suddenly, and faintly"Fellowship" continued on page 7.