ø - Razorcake

I
t’s strange the things you learn about yourself when you travel,
and the last two trips I took taught me a lot about why I spend so
much time working on this toilet topper that you’re reading right
now.
The first trip was the Perpetual Motion Roadshow, an
independent writers touring circuit that took me through seven
cities in eight days. One of those cities was Cleveland. While I was
there, I scammed my way into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. See,
they let touring bands in for free, and I knew this, so I masqueraded
as the drummer for the all-girl Canadian punk band Sophomore
Level Psychology. My facial hair didn’t give me away. Nor did my
obvious lack of national health care. I got in for free.
I saw some cool things, like the bass Mick Jones smashed on
the cover of London Calling, and I saw some lame things, like all
the teen idols’ outfits. I wandered upstairs to the exhibit on
rock’n’roll magazines and stared at a huge glass case full of Rolling
Stone, Spin, 16, and other equally weak stuff. One of my friends
saw me staring at the display and said, “Where’s Razorcake?”
I laughed because it was absurd. Why would Razorcake ever be
somewhere like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and why would I
want it to be there, anyway? I hope nothing I write ever ends up
behind a glass case, where people can’t touch it and read it. The
truth is, the place where I tend to see Razorcake the most is on the
top of people’s toilet tanks. And that’s where I want to see it.
Besides, I kept reminding myself, it’s the Hall of Fame, not the Hall
of Talent. What kind of thing is fame to aspire for? Why would you
want to be so famous that you’d have to spend your life in a glass
case? And what could be more fleeting and vacuous than fame? I
don’t know. The top of a toilet tank?
This made me ask myself what all this work is all about. What
do I aspire to?
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ISSUE #18
December 1st, 2003
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February 1st, 2004
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Razorcake and razorcake.com are untangled and wrangled by Sean Carswell, Todd Taylor,
Megan Pants, Skinny Dan, ktspin and Felizon Vidad
Razorcake is distributed by Big Top Newstand Services,
2729 Mission St., Ste.201, SF, CA 94110, info@bigtoppubs.com
Cover designed by Jason Willis, ; photo by Todd Taylor
Thank you list: “Are you crock potting ribs?” thanks to Julia Smut for her ever-diligent
masseusing of our cover; Jason “Part of the Problem” Willis for his cannonball of a front cover;
Grass stains that’ll never come out thanks to Petite Paquet for her Red Onions interview; “Hello,
I’m Wesley Willis and I’m a rock star” thanks to Scott Cox-Stanton for his remembrance and
PO Box 42129,
Los Angeles, CA 90042
www.razorcake.com
I took my second trip to go to the wedding of an old friend,
Tommy. Tommy and I have been hanging out together since we
were about four years old, and we’ve been listening to punk rock
together since before a lot of Razorcake readers were born. Tommy
came to pick me up from jail when I got arrested for being a smart
ass. I dragged the best man out of Tommy’s wedding after the best
man dropped his pants at the bar. Friendships like this don’t come
along every day.
Before the wedding, we had the obligatory bachelor party,
which led to the obligatory visit to the strip bar, which led to the
obligatory bachelor on stage, drunk and dancing with strippers. We
don’t make these rules. We just live by them. So Tommy was up
there, with a topless woman ripping the buttons off of his fancy
shirt, only to expose that underneath, Tommy was wearing a
Razorcake t-shirt. It made me proud to see Razorcake representing
up there on that stage. Seriously. Think of it metaphorically: when
the societally acceptable costume gets torn off and life’s suddenly
just about the down and dirty good time, there’s Razorcake, close to
the heart.
Okay, so I was pretty drunk.
Later that night, a barely standing Tommy introduced me to his
uncle. Tommy pointed at me and said to his uncle, “This is the guy
who took all the crazy shit we did and put it in writing.” Even
through the haze of a dozen beers, and beyond silly strip club
metaphors, I realized that this is what I aspire to: the stories
themselves. The idea of taking this wild life and this mad
subculture we’re all a part of and putting it in writing. Spreading it
around. Helping everyone know that we’re not completely alone.
There’s no glass case separating us from life. It’s all right here.
Nothing’s keeping us from reaching out and touching it.
-Sean
Davey and Mark Tiltwheel bid you fine hellos.
Photo by Seth Swaaley
the Willis family and Eyeosaur Productions for the pictures; Pabst fuck-yeahs to our new contributor Ben Snakepit; fake blood thanks to Randy
Iwata for helping out with Nardwuar; burning dumpster thanks to Tito for his first column; “Wow, you’re self-taught” thanks to Rob Ruelas for the
Rich Mackin illustration; high-kicking thanks to Bradley Williams for the ILCK II interview and Jeff Johnson for the pics; barbed wire, blood, and
libertarian thanks to Art Ettinger for the AntiSeen interview and Jason Griscom, Allana Sleeth, Greg Bailey for the photos; creeps plus vanity equals
real icky thanks to Patricia Geary for her column; Harry and Nancy Carswell for watching the birth of rock’n’roll and then birthing Sean, so he
could write about it; it’s an addiction with few rewards thanks to Jimmy Alvarado, Cuss Baxter, Donofthedead, Aphid Peewit, Mike Beer, Puckett,
and Wanda Spragg for their reviews; newsprint on the light switch thanks to Greg Barbara and Speedway Randy for their book and zine reviews;
fuck this job, 52-hour Greyhound bus ride thanks to Not Josh for all of his reviews and coming out to visit us.