[The content of this post is particularly graphic in ways somewhat more vulgar than usual. So, if you are a) a gentle soul, b) eating, or c) easily excitable, you may do best to click elsewhere. If not, read on.]Last weekend, I watched "Hated: GG Allin and the Murder Junkies," which Pitchfork is playing because the director, Todd Phillips, directed "The Hangover," which is, like, the hit movie of the summer or whatever.
Years ago, I saw either this documentary or another one like it, if there is another one, which I doubt. I can no longer remember. If you're unfamiliar with GG, he was born Jesus Christ Allin and went on to become a notorious punk rock, eh, artist, who was perhaps best known--ok, for sure best known--for crapping on stage during his live performances, and various other acts, including slashing himself up with razor blades and punching himself in the head. You know, the usual.
Because I'd seen the movie, I think, before, I wasn't really surprised by what I saw, although it had been a few years. Here's GG wacked out of his head on smack. Here's GG smacking himself in the head. Here's a bunch of people talking about what a fucked up motherfucker GG was. All in reverential tones, of course.
My favorite anecdote in the movie is told by GG's brother, Merle Jr., as I recall, who recollects how their father, Merle Sr., expressed an interest in killing the boys' mother, and himself, and taking out the kids, too. At some later point, the father reappears after having spent some time in the basement. What was he doing down there? Digging four graves.
In any case, GG grows up to scream punk rock lyrics, and poop on stage, and score press attention for his bloody, shitty antics. They even do "Geraldo," which is kind of awesome. The drummer, who is always naked and spectacularly out of his mind, rivals GG for most interesting character.
But one scene in particular captured my attention.
[This is the part where I'll remind you that you may not want to continue reading if you are, say, eating a bagel.]
There's this scene where GG's on stage, and I think he leaps off it, and then he squats down, and he takes a giant dump in front of everyone. The crowd is surrounding him in this semi-circle-jerk of fucked up adoration. Then, GG gets on all fours, and the camera work gets a little funky, but I think he sticks some of the shit in his mouth, and then he spits it out. Then, he throws some of it at the crowd. Everybody pretty much backs off. No doubt, it smelled like a beast in there.
So, GG goes on to just, like, completely smear his own feces all over himself. I mean, if you've seen it, you know what I mean. But this isn't like when Ozzy accidentally-on-purpose bit the head off a bat, and then spit it out, or whatever. This is full-on. This is full-tilt. This is Texas No Limit Hold 'Em Living.
And, watching this scene, I was kind of transfixed. I used to be more into this kind of well, shit. You know--we've all had our "Faces of Death" phases, haven't we? But there was something definitively, inarguably, authentically real about what GG was doing. Something more than wallowing. Something beyond what he appeared to be doing. Something deeply primal. Something more complicated than can be written off with a wave of the hand and a reference to nostalgie de la boue. Something, well, true.
Occasionally, I get these letters in which people say I'm, like, a horrible person, right? Which is fine. We are all entitled to our own opinions. Although, why people email me their opinions of me or what I do, I do not know. I could live without them. [NB: Please stop sending them.]
Sometimes, though, I feel like that, too. Like I'm wallowing in a pit of shit. Only the pit of shit I'm in is called "porn."
Of course, I am not alone in this opinion. This April, on the set of "Fuck Machines 5," director Jim Powers told me--well, here's an excerpt from the story that I wrote about it.
"Now, the market is saturated with porn, the Internet is pirating porn left and right, and the economy is in the shitter," Powers laments, looking like a spurned lover: heartbroken. "Porn destroyed itself," he moans. He gazes through the sliding glass doors at a fountain trickling pleasantly in the backyard. "2005 was the peak of shit." He shakes his head. "Now, we’re just living in piles of shit." He sighs, crestfallen over what has become of his profession. "It completely destroyed everything." He stares at the floor.I hear you, brother.
Anyway, it occurred to me, while I watched GG dance around in a mask of his feces, that what separates porn from shit is the length of a perineum. More or less. If you know what I mean. In other words: Not much.
I have no idea what type of point I'm trying to make here other than perhaps finding kinship in GG Allin is better than finding no kinship at all.
Isn't it?
[My lengthy feature story on the adult movie industry and its currently decidedly shitty state is at this time in temporary editor limbo and will, I'm sure, be online in the, I hope, not too distant future. I'll let you know when it is. This just in: Looks like Zombie Radar Online removed my interview with indicted coprophagy and bestiality pornographer Ira Isaacs: "But Is It Obscene?" Bummer.]
Update: Tomorrow, I'm going to post a vintage interview with "Hated"/"The Hangover" director Todd Phillips on what it was like shooting with GG and other fun stuff that a kind reader sent to me.
