At JUICEBOX HQ, we’ve never really had a case of the Mondays because we don’t have real-people jobs. But for those feeling a bit garfield this A.M., feel free to wallow in other people’s most hated things. Every Monday!
It’s always a pleasure to interact with dudes like Todd Taylor, the people who prove that punk rock, with its “ethics” and “ideals,” doesn’t end when you leave high school. Todd Taylor is the proof that you can operate completely outside of mainstream media culture and live. Happily. And contribute to a valuable, viable culture that you actually believe in. For Taylor, that’s punk rock. We’re in.
Taylor is kind of the punk rock journalist guy. He was the managing editor of Flipside, the Los Angeles-based punk fanzine/bible, until it shuttered in 2001. Looking to keep the dream alive, he and Sean Carswell founded Razorcake that same year (for some reason not going with the way-awesomer name Barbed Wire Asshole). Since then, Razorcake has become an institution all its own — a bi-monthly fanzine, a record label, and a partnership with Gorsky Press all keep Taylor and Carwell pretty busy.
Somehow, Taylor has also managed to find time to publish a collection of some his best interviews in Born to Rock and edit a collection of fiction called Shirley Wins, his first novel. He does what he does well, and he does it all through completely independent means and channels. Which rules. We salute you, Mr. Taylor. Now, your turn.
When I first moved to L.A., I worked for a temp agency. Got a gig at Bank of America Business Credit. Went to work before the sun came up, got off after it came down as the main desk secretary because I’m a fast typist. On the up side, I got to see some yuppie holiday freakouts. A guy broke his hand by karate chopping an elevator door because it didn’t open quickly enough. Ties look like nooses on me and people can tell.
I’ve only had two non-family-member-doing-it haircuts in my life. Pretty basic shit. Of the two non-family ones, I came out of the hair salon like one of the Thompson Twins. The lady.
Pretty much any one where I’m greeted by, “What the fuck you looking at, faggot?” which is quite a few of them.
I forget if it was prom or homecoming, but the nice lady I lost my virginity to that night said she was sleepy afterwards, so I went home at about 10 p.m. She got back in her car, went to the casino we visited for dinner, then had sex with the comedian we’d seen earlier.
Capitalism appropriated through Social Darwinism into becoming the meanest fucking way to take money from people ever conceived. Or nuclear power/warfare. That turned out to be a real pickle. Third choice would be the for-home combination hot dog bun warmer, hot dog heater. Boil the hot dogs in a pan, put the bun on the lid.
I thought it was a great purchase at the time. 1972 Ford Courier pickup, mustard, roof rack with tennis balls at the end, so I wouldn’t puncture my skull when I got in. Loved it until it developed a phantom electrical problem. I had a gun pulled on me in Inglewood because the backfire was mistaken as gunfire. Months later, I was driving down the freeway, it backfired the rear of the muffler clean off, the back pressure started an engine fire, and I just sat there for a couple of minutes on the side of the freeway, defeated. I put out the flames right before they’d burned through the fuel line, seconds away from a CHiPs moment.
Worst way to die
When I was a kid, my brother and I would hide from each other and scare and hit one another. One of my best shots was picking the lock on the bathroom door and waiting to see his elbows go up when he was shampooing his hair. That way, I knew he’d have his eyes closed and hands out of the way. I punched him full force through the shower curtain. Probably the best shot I ever got on him. The worst was when I decided to hide in a cedar hope chest. I got in and it locked. Perfect coffin for a kid. About three hours later, my brother, who was making a model plane in the garage, came looking for me and I’d almost asphyxiated. Still have a hard time with cedar and watching baseball on TV. There was a Cardinals game on that I could see through the keyhole. I really thought I was going to die.