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#2 MARCH 1994 Anything can happen and it probably just did. TABLE OF CONTENTS Idiotorial I Don't Care for What You're Insynuating Hip Hop Honkies Joey Germ's Save the Planet Budget Movie Critic Tara's Tearsheet Ask Saddhu Celebrity New Year's Resolutions Publishers Editor Contributing Editors Art Direction & Layout Contributing Writers Copy Editor Legal Counsel Public Relations Special Thanks To No Thanks To Reglar Wiglar is published sporadically by Christopher P. Auman & Thomas J. Zielger. Copyright © 1994 Big Little Bucharest Productions Any material printed in this publication may be reproduced if you so chose. All opinions and ideas expressed in this publication are the author's own fucked up opinions and ideas and therefore entirely their own problem. Any similarities to people dead or dying was probably done just to wig you out. All typos in this publication were intentional and were not edited in order to preserve the artistic spirit under which they were created. Send large sums of cash or anything tasteful to: Reglar Wiglar, P.O. Box 578XXX, Chicago, IL 60657. No promises, no guarantees, include an S.A.S.E., please. |
ARCHIVES: REGLAR WIGLAR #2 #1 #3 #4 #5 #6 #7 #8 #9 #10 #11 #12 #13 #14 #15 #16 #17 #18 #19 #20 #21 IDIOTORIAL by TOM ZIEGLER We needed a theme for this issue of Reglar Wiglar because
I took this seminar over at the Discovery Center on how to start your own magazine, and Kevin (that was the instructor) said that a theme-oriented issue is sure to generate reader interest. Kevin said it needed to be something fresh, something now, something that will reflect the worldview of our readers. Mr. Germ and I bantered around several ideas during one of our late night -think tanks over a twelve pack of Old Style King Kans (the official beverage of Reglar Wiglar--an endorsement deal is in the works, look for our upcoming ad with Dennis Farina!) Anyway, we came up with a few ideas. A SWIMSUIT ISSUE That idea was nixed. Mr. Germ and I only own a couple pairs of cut-offs and although photos of our svelte, fishbelly white torsos would certainly generate reader interest, we felt that through objectifiying ourselves, we would only compromise the stringent editorial standards we wrote on the back of a Burger King napkin one night. Besides, we figured we'd probably end up looking like Pauly Shore. Eeeyew! THE CHICAGO SCENE No way. Who wants to look at another picture of Billy Corgan shaking his fat can in a pair of velveteen jeans? And Billboard has already compiled an exhaustive guide to what's hip in the Windy City, unless you disagree with their conclusion that Wicker Park is the cultural nexus of the Midwest. 70s NOSTALGIA Ixnay. Done to death. Besides, we here at Reglar Wiglar are already cultivating the next big trend: 1870s Nostalgia. That's right, relive the days of the Reconstruction. You think those sideburns you got are big? Take a look at these mutton chops, grunge boy. Now if anyone could tell me where I could get my hands on a good carpet bag... SEX Always a sure-fire winner, but not yet. I've signed up for my next seminar at the Discovery Center; The Art of Sensual Massage, so look for it in an upcoming issue. We finally decided that big issue #2 will be just that; Big Issue #2, the theme being that every article is a separate theme unto itself, just like Big Issue #1. Helluva concept. Such a neatsy-poo job on the printing (howsabout a little discount for the plug there, Big Clyde?) Thanks to all the people who expressed a note of friendly condescension when we got the first issue out. Thanks to all the fine merchants who allowed us to drop of copies at their establishments (the women at Booksellers Row on Milwaukee said it would be OK as long as the magazine didn't contain anything "illegal or offensive". I wish).
Interviewed by MUGGSY McMURPHY Your pal Muggsy here with my first interview in a long, long time—too long. I was not born to be chained to a word processor. I was born to run wild, wild and free in the Rock World. I was born to drink large amounts of Pilsner Urquell with ugly, stinky roadies and party into the waning hours of the A.M., raging with Metal Gods and Grunge Gurus, scammin' on overlooked or discarded groupies. I do not go gently into any good night—not sober and not alone, especially when bands like Insynuator are in town. Insynuator, 'cause truly evil people do not accuse openly. Keep that in mind. Fuckin A, right on man! Insynuator weren't actually in town, actually, ah, you see, their Bedrock's gig got snaffled and well, the only place they could play was, well, it was a dance hall in Elgin. But fuck man, it still rocked—rocked hard. They drove from Jersey to give everything they had to a room packed full of sweaty thirteen-year-olds who knew every Insynuator song by heart. There wasn't a dry eye in my head that night. That's what we do here in the fucking Midwest, man, we give respect to bands that deserve it. So, over fifteen pitchers of Bug Light (yeech!) at a local fast food pizza fucking franchise, I commiserated with the bad boys of good rock. WHITE BRED & HONKY MC Interviewed by T. BONE The latest rap sensation to hit the nation in recent months has been two white boys from Rockford, Illinois: White Bred and Honky MC. Their fusion of really annoying, nasally raps and overdone sampling has rocketed their debut record, Chilin' in the Hood, to a number eighty-seven spot on the local radio charts. How this happened we'll never know, but here they are, White Bred and Honky MC. SAVE THE PLANET Unapologetically by TOM ZIEGLER The other night I was watching TV and this ad came on, well, it wasn't really an ad, it was more like one of those public service announcements they put on at three AM, sandwiched between the missing children reports, right after you've killed a twelve-pack of Old Style King Kans and all the stores are closed except for Land of a Thousand Liquors up on Belmont, but they charge $4.75 for a six-pack, and you just don't feel like embarking on a lengthy automobile excursion and facing the possibility of an accident—or worse yet—spending the night in jail. So the only thing left to do is turn out all the lights, search the fridge for something that hasn't molded over yet and turn on the tube to some low-budget UHF station that shows B-Movies all night. I prefer the Lost Amazonians on Mars genre, but at that point in the evening, I'll settle for Dionne Warwick's Psychic Friends Network. Usually, the first station I hit is the one I watch until my eyeballs have crawled back into my head and my tongue has fixed itself to the roof of my mouth with a bond stronger than any adhesive you can get a the checkout counter at Piggly Wiggly. |
