Fuck news. Fuck politics. Fuck opinions. Fuck sports and features and every other boring section you’ve been meandering through this past year. Do they get their own newspaper all to themselves? Hell no! And why? “Cause they’re not as interesting as Review! Bow down to Review, you mindless peons! You love it. You worship it. It is your new God. Without the Arts, you’d be a babbling mass of mindless mush. Well, more so than on any other occasion, at least.
Welcome to the Winter 2001 edition of the All Review! In the hopes of saving some semblance of sanity, we present a full-on attack from every artistic angle. Books? Got ’em! Music? You betcha! Film, dead people and way more for your amusement.
In all reality, we here in the Review section know that no one is going to read this shoddy excuse for an issue. You’re either too busy with exams, are at home stuffing your faces with ma’s cabbage rolls or just don’t give a rat’s ass. But we’ll ignore that and treat it like the vanity project it is.
One time when I was touring the US with my old band the Tirekickers, we were in New Orleans staying at a friend’s house. They lived in a suburb that makes South Central Los Angeles (I hear it’s pretty kooky there) look like Rosedale. We pull up in our Vanny, and right there on the front porch sit five members of the Latin Kings, the biggest gang of thugs in America. They’re wicked pissed, ’cause a rival gang beat up their buddy on his birthday.
Preparing for vengeance, they have about 10 guns splayed out all over their low-riders. Click, click, click go the cartridges into the automatic weapons. We were scared.
Later that night, after they’ve made a few rounds and emptied a couple 40-pounders with said cartridges, we all pass out. One problem, though: the Tirekickers get the front room. Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but being in a gang house after a vicious battle doesn’t bode well for anyone without an abundant supply of kevlar undies. Thankfully, our gracious host has shown us where the knives and extra clips are stored (conveniently amongst the baby toys) in case of emergency. He also tells us that if they decide on a drive-by as opposed to a B&E (that’s Break and Enter for those of you not down with the lingo), we’re royally fuct. I sleep for about five minutes.
The next morning, we shake off the cockroaches, grab some KD to go and are out the door sans-shower. As we pull away, we pass a car going REALLY slowly along the block.
Turning the corner, it sounds like a thousand explosions across the sky. I haven’t heard from my friend since.
Read the All Review. It’s good ’cause I said so.
