Cabin Boy (Adam Resnick, 1994)

Profoundly moving, an inspirational triumph, and a fully-realized journey of self-discovery, these words, when arranged in the order I just put them in, believe or not, are actually being used in conjunction with Cabin Boy, the unfairly maligned masterpiece that makes that bloated trilogy look like a walk in the park. Bloated trilogy? Aren't most of them bloated? Oh yeah, you're right. Okay, you know the one where the short guy with big, hairy feet recycles a gaudy-looking piece of costume jewelry in a volcano at the top of Eyeball Mountain? Yeah. Well, this film, directed by Adam Resnick, makes that one look like... yeah, yeah, a walk in the park. You do realize that's quite the bold statement you just made? It is? Don't be coy, you know it's bold. I don't see how, as this film pretty much tells the same story, an arrogant fancy lad learns a valuable lesson about friendship, loyalty and life in general. Don't forget, he gets to clean his pipes all over Ann Magnuson's gorgeous blue gams. It's true, they don't show specifically where this particular fancy lad deposits his fancy wad, but let's get real, they're shapely, they're long, and, most importantly, they're blue! Do I need to repeat that? They're blue! While I could talk about making a mess all over Ann Magnuson's blue stems until the end of time, I think I better finish making that point I was sort of succinctly making about a minute ago. And what was that again? Oh, yeah, the bold statement. Wait a second, you're not just comparing Cabin Boy with the Lord of the Rings Trilogy because "Melora" means "fellowship" in Yoruba? What the fuck? That's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard. Well, am I right? You're absolutely right. It's just I'm shocked that you were able to come that conclusion so easily. We must share the same brain or something.

The best thing about Cabin Boy is that you don't have sit through over eleven hours of boner-destroying nonsense, as it clocks in at an economical eighty minutes. Besides, does the Middle Earth soap opera feature Melora Walters prancing about in a red bathing suit for a good chunk of its legendarily not-so spry running time? Don't bother checking your The Lord of the Rings: The Motion Picture Trilogy Blu-ray Extended Edition, it doesn't.

You know what else is great about Cabin Boy? I have no idea, but I'm sure you're about to tell me. It features a scene where Chris Elliott gets chewing tobacco spat in his face by a giant, floating, talking cupcake. What's so great about that? You got to be kidding me. It's subversively funny. I don't get it. Cupcakes don't talk, they don't float, and they certainly don't chew tobacco, hence, it's subversively funny. If you're not feeling the example I just gave you, even though you totally should be, there are plenty of other instances of subversive humour peppered throughout this, what did you call it earlier? An unfairly maligned masterpiece? No, not that. A fully-realized journey of self-discovery? Yeah, that's the stuff.

What is a fancy lad, and how does one become one? While jaunting up Brunswick Ave. the other night, enjoying the blooming gardens flourishing outside row after row of the overpriced row houses that line this historic street, I noticed a man wearing tight orange pants walking ahead of me. Since it was dark out, and the canopy of one-hundred year-old maple trees was blocking the light emanating from the streetlights,  I used the chromatic splendour that were his tight orange pants as a beacon to help guide me through the darkness.

I know, you're thinking to yourself, what's this got to do with, well, anything for that matter? Well, I think the guy in the tight orange pants was a fancy lad. Sure, he wasn't wearing his christening wig, but only a real fancy lad would wear tight orange pants in public. What's this? I'm being told by my fashion consultant Eva von Phabülous that tight orange pants are the hottest item for men this season. Excuse me, I have to ask Eva a follow up question: Did you say, men? Oh, you did. Just checking.

In my day, before the world became inundated with Johnny come lately fancy lads, you had to go finishing school to become a fancy lad. Or, more specifically, you had to attend the prestigious Stephenwood Finishing School, modeling fancy lads since the early 1780s. And that's exactly what Nathanial Mayweather (Chris Elliott) has been doing. And when we meet Nathanial, he's learning the proper way to tip a  bowler hat. You might not think a skill like that would useful in the real world. But don't forget, Nathanial is on his way to becoming a fancy lad. Meaning, he has no use for the real world, or does he?

Upon graduating, Nathanial is given a boarding pass to ride on the Queen Catherine, a luxury liner of some kind. Looking forward to working for his mega-important father in Hawaii, Nathanial's limousine is about to take him to the dock, when all of a sudden, the driver kicks him out of the car. It's implied that Nathanial insults the driver, which shouldn't be a surprise as this fancy boy is a bit of a prick. Forced to embark on his first ever brisk walk, Nathanial comes to a fork in the road. Thinking he picked the right direction, given the helpful nature of the sign leading the way and the confident spring in his step, we actually learn that he went the wrong way; all thanks to a strategically placed cow.

Ending up in a seaside town by the sea, Nathanial consults a grubby street merchant (David Letterman) selling stuffed monkeys for help. Realizing right away that he is in the presence of a clueless half-wit, the grubby street merchant uses emasculating language to belittle the wayward fancy lad. To add insult to injury, the grubby street merchant sends Nathanial in the direction of The Filthy Whore, a rundown fishing vessel.

Even though The Filthy Whore is probably nothing like The Queen Catherine, Nathanial hops aboard nonetheless thinking an elaborate prank is being pulled on him; he declares The Filthy Whore to be "deliciously chic." Greeted by the equally dense Kenny (Andy Richter), the ship's cabin boy, Nathanial makes himself at home in the captain's quarters. When the rest of the crew arrive, they'll be shocked to learn that a fancy lad is accompanying them on their three month long fishing trip.

Shocked? Ya think? Well, let's meet them, shall we? There's Captain Greybar (Ritch Brinkley), who inadvertently spends the night with Nathanial; Big Teddy (Brion James), who intentionally throws Nathanial's christening wig in the ocean; Paps (James Gammon), who, according to Nathanial, is the drunken, abusive grandfather he never had; and Skunk (Brian Doyle-Murray), The Filthy Whore's resident mythology expert.

Whereas the fresh-faced Andy Richter is deadpan perfection as the world's dimmest cabin boy (his harem girl dance is the stuff of dim legend), the rest of the crew ooze an appropriate amount of grizzled boorishness.

Don't forget Ricki Lake as the ship's stoic, weather-beaten figurehead.

Using Kenny's dimness to change The Filthy Whore's course (he wants to go to Hawaii, not spend three months on a fishing boat with a bunch of monstrously insane people), he causes them to head straight toward Hell's Bucket. And judging by its name, it's not somewhere you would want to visit. To punish Nathanial for this act of navigational incompetence, the crew drag him behind the ship on a tiny raft.

Expecting him to die, the crew are surprised when they find out that not only has Nathanial survived nine whole days on a tiny raft, but he managed to befriend Chocki (Russ Tamblyn), a flighty half man-half shark.

You know what this film needs? A little Melora Walters. Coming right up.

As far as cinematic introductions go...

...you can't get any better than Melora Walters' in Cabin Boy.

What about Omar Sharif's introduction  in Lawrence of Arabia? Or Darth Vadar in Star Wars? Fuck that noise. Real cinema buffs know deep down inside that Melora Walters' intro in Cabin Boy has way more going on when it comes to being iconic and junk.

As expected, Nathanial develops a bit of crush on Melora Walters' Trina, who is, or, I should say, was, hoping to swim around the world. You see, by bringing Trina aboard The Filthy Whore, via a fishing net, her attempt to break the world's record is forfeited; something about her not being allowed to touch solid objects, and the last time I checked, The Filthy Whore is a solid object.

After a nasty encounter with an iceberg monster causes severe damage to the ship, the crew of The Filthy Whore are forced to head toward a deserted island to do some repairs.

Deserted? I hope you're joking. I was promised there would be a blue-skinned, six-armed, leggy Ann Magnuson in this film. And since there's only around ten minutes left, she had better show up soon. Don't worry, I don't know why I said the island was deserted, Ann Magnuson is coming soon. Damn straight, I didn't sit through seventy minutes of Chris Elliott acting like an imbecile to not get any Ann Magnuson.

Playing Calli, who, like I said, has blue skin and six-arms, Ann Magnuson teaches inexperienced seaman how to fuck. Don't be crude. Whoops, sorry about that. Well, it's what she does. Yeah, you could have said it in a more genteel manner. Anyway, I liked when Nathanial tells Calli that she must spend a fortune on mittens.

Imagine if Ann Magnuson's character had six legs instead of six arms? Ahh, I can't think about it. You better not think about it, or else Calli's husband (Mike Starr) might decide to cut off your head with a pair of nail clippers.

The future we lay out for ourselves is never what we expect, and Cabin Boy solidifies that unpredictableness in a manner that is both enlightening and masterful. Whether we be fancy lads or humour-challenged cybergoths, we all have choices to make, and this film's underlying message makes a pretty good argument that one should try to exist in a realm that isn't necessarily situated in the vicinity of your comfort zone. A funny, breezy film that temporarily infused my spirit with mirth, whimsy and shitload of roasted pumpkin seeds, Cabin Boy is the Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World of seafaring movies about moronic fancy lads in christening wigs.

Vortex (Scott B and Beth B, 1982)

Whether I'm doing my laundry or dangling helplessly on a precipice overlooking a deep chasm, you can pretty much guarantee that one of the thoughts floating around inside my brain while I'm doing either of those things will be related to the worship and appreciation of Lydia Lunch's substantive thighs. However, since I've already explained my love for Lydia Lunch's meaty stems many times in the past, I'll just state that her... Oh, how should I put this? Okay, how 'bout this? Her curves were a huge influence on me as a teenager. Yeah, I like that; vaguely specific. Find a copy of the Stinkfist EP, take a look at the pictures that adorn the cover and the back cover (study them long and hard if you have to), and you'll know exactly where my head was at as a sex-starved fifteen year-old. Along with Boy George, Markie Post, and Winona Ryder, Lydia helped nurture my wayward hormones during a critical period. Yet, unlike the people I just mentioned, Lydia Lunch's physical structure was always seemed allusive to me. You see, whereas Boy George could be seen cavorting about in Culture Club music videos on television channels that were originally designed to show music videos around the clock, Night Court reruns gave me my daily allotment of Markie Post goodness, and Winona Ryder's movies were as an ubiquitous as a head cold, Lydia Lunch and her world class thighs were nowhere to be found in the realm of visual media. All I had was the sound of her snarky voice on the records I owned, and that was it. Well, I'm hoping to change all that by seeking out and finding as much Lydia Lunch material as I possibly can. My first step in this process was to watch a recent documentary called Blank City (Celine Danhier, 2010), a detailed account of the movies that made up the No Wave and Cinema of Transgression movements during the late 1970s/early '80s. If any film is going to give some ideas on where to start my cinematic journey, vis-à-vis, the films of Lydia Lunch, this is going to be it.
 

 
In the film, as expected, there's a lengthy segment on Lydia Lunch and the important role she played in both scenes. Showing clips from a wide range of No Wave and Cinema of Transgression movies, I was somewhat alarmed when I discovered that the majority of the films looked like unwatchable, non-titillating trash. Which, I'll admit, are exactly the type of films I seem to be gravitating towards as of late. But I'm not just gonna watch something because Lydia Lunch is in it. I mean, did I buy Waking Up with the House on Fire? (Culture Club's third album.) I don't think so. Did I watch Hearts Afire? (The sitcom Markie Post starred in after Night Court.) Nope. And did I go see The House of the Spirits? (The movie where Winona Ryder plays a Chilean woman.) Are you high? No, I need the film to have a certain quality about it that transcends its trashiness.
   

 
All of a sudden, the documentary started to focus on a film written and directed by Scott B and Beth B called Vortex, a futuristic film noir starring Lydia Lunch as a private investigator named Angel Powers. Now this is what I've been waiting for. A film full of artistic flourishes and big ideas, yet providing me with me shots of a leggy Lydia Lunch behaving in a leggy manner in the presence of a peckish boa constrictor, the film, not to be confused the awesome used record store of the same name (still going strong at Yonge and Eglinton, baby!), depicts a world where corporations have taken over the government.
 

Opening with a U.S. congressmen (David Kennedy) making incriminating statements to an unseen individual on a grainy security camera feed. Watching this grainy feed with an eerie sense of malevolence is Frederick Fields (the reliably gaunt Bill Rice), the Howard Hughes-esque CEO of Fieldco., a company that manufactures state-of-the-art weaponry. Visibly annoyed by what the politician is saying, Fields sends Peter (Brent Collins), the height-challenged bartender who works at a nearby pub, an encoded e-mail instructing him to eliminate the congressman. And the reason for this? Well, apparently, he was talking to Navco, a rival weapons manufacturer, so, goodbye.
   

 
Given that Fields is a recluse who is confined to a wheelchair, that means he has to depend on others to carry out the physical aspects of his bidding. While it's obvious that Pete the bartender is his go-to man when it comes to taking out his enemies (he uses what would now be construed as a taser to kill his victims), Tony Demmer (James Russo) is the man who handles his everyday affairs. Whether he needs milk and donuts delivered to his door or requires his office drones to be sufficiently scolded, Tony is the man for the job. Now, the reason his other employees, like, Pamela Flemming (Ann Magnuson), look at Tony with suspicion is because he used to be Fields' chauffeur. Which begs the question: How did a lowly chauffeur end up being the confidant to a man who designs satellite weapons and unmanned aircraft for a living? I don't know, but Fields seems to trust him.
 

Just as I was starting to wonder where Lydia Lunch fits in in this murky world of corporate espionage, legislative corruption, and congressional cronyism, we finally see her soaking seductively in an analogue bubblebath of her own creation. (Keen observers will notice that her thighs are poking through the bubbles ever so slightly). Smoking while reading notes attached to a clipboard–one that she held aloft over her no-nonsense nipples–Lydia plays Angel Powers, a private investigator who, it would seem, does her best sleuthing while submerged in soapy water.
   

After checking herself in the mirror (gorgeousness oozes from every pore), she answers the door to a man who wants her to investigate the murder of the recently tasered congressman. Standing amidst her collection of stuffed animals (the gal seems to have a thing for taxidermy) in a gunmetal outfit that looked amazing paired with her jet black hair (her bangs mean business), Angel listens to the man prattle on and on about Navco and Fieldco, and something called the "BFW," a super secret space weapon the two companies are trying to manufacture.
 

In order to create a film noir vibe, Scott B and Beth B shoot the scene in Angel's apartment through set of blinds. In fact, almost every scene in Vortex is shot in an irregular manner. In some cases, the only thing on-screen at any given moment is Lydia Lunch's beautiful face floating within an all-consuming field of impenetrable darkness (her profile is coarse yet angelic at the same time). Giving her the skinny on the eccentric millionaire and his chauffeur, the squirrely man tells Angel that he wants her to nail Fieldco, and nail them hard (he probably works for Navco). Meanwhile, back at Pete's bar, Tony is giving a group of Fieldco execs, including the lovely Ann Magnuson, a refresher course on how to act while in the presence of Mr. Fields; the idea is for the execs to watch a demonstration of the BFW in action.
 

As with most private investigators, Angel uses her so-called "connections" to help her with the tougher cases. Only problem is, a junkie and a paranoid shut-in are she's got. Sure, the former is constantly asking her for money, and the latter seems to enjoy watching swing helplessly in a net (a crude security system he uses to trap intruders), but unreliable connections aren't going to prevent Angel Powers from creating an aura that reeks of noirish cool. Sifting through a weapons catalogue supplied by the shut-in (using today's lingo, he'd be considered a "hacker"), while, of course, soaking in the tub, Angel learns more about the case.
 

Heading down to the "company bar," Angel, after telling her junkie "friend" to leave her alone, finally meets Tony Demmer, the world's most powerful former chauffeur. I won't lie, I've been waiting patiently for these two volatile characters to hook up ever since they were introduced. Asking Tony, "Do you want to fuck or not?" Angel is clearly a woman who prefers not to mess around. The film's jazzy electronic score ("Black Box Disco") and dark cinematography accentuate their off-kilter courtship, as the two make their way to his apartment. Unlike her apartment, there are no stuffed animals. But he does have a pet python, which Tony shows to Angel as she lounges leggily on his bed (he feeds it a dead rodent).
 

It would seem that Tony, much like the audience, has developed moderate to strong feelings for Angel (he showed her his snake, I bet he doesn't do that for all the ladies). And, as a result, he has lost interest in taking orders from Fields. Tired of catering to his every whim, Tony has started to ignore his master. This, of course, upsets Fields, who accuses Tony of being a sex maniac bent on destroying his work.
 

 
Sex maniac?!? No, actually, what Tony is doing is what any man with eyes would do, and that is fall hopelessly in love with Lydia Lunch. Granted her personality can be a tad grating at times, but you don't squander the opportunity to be ensconced in Lunch-based loveliness when given the chance, and that's exactly what Tony does; he ensconces the fuck out of her.
 

Except, Tony gets greedy. He wants to run Fieldco and be in love with Lydia...I mean, Angel Powers, at the same time. And we know that's impossible. The truth comes out during a confrontation between Tony and Angel on a shadowy rooftop. The scene is noteworthy for many different reasons, but it's mainly known, at least in my mind it is, for the brief shots of Lydia Lunch's legs encased in black silk stockings. To the surprise of virtually no-one, the sensation that came with watching the moonlight penetrate Lydia Lunch's garter belt, its black suspenders tearing across her ashen thighs with an air of sweaty desperation, was as close to heaven as I'm ever going to get.
 

The budget may have been limited–though, I hear it was quite high as far as No Wave movies go ($80,000)–but the ideas it tries to convey were anything but. Oh, and the fact Ann Magnuson (Making Mr. Right) is in it, even though it's only a small part, increases the film's coolness quota by at least ten points.

Mondo New York (Harvey Keith, 1988)

Following the seductive line of enviable filth that snaked along her sturdy thighs with my finger as the muck made its way down the pale nooks and ashen crannies of her pronounced calve muscles was one of my favourite past times as a withdrawn, easily entertained youth. Held aloft in order that the guy from Foetus could pretend to probe her pulsating pussy with a certain degree of comfort, the sight of Lydia Lunch with her brawny legs in the air was a huge influence on me. Looking directly into the camera as she braced for the pelvic onslaught that was about to be unleashed onto her genital flight deck, it was almost as if Lydia's eyes were speaking directly to me as I stared at her lying spread-eagle on the back of the Stinkfist EP ("The push, the panic, the pain, the poison!"). I like to think that her eyes were trying to tell me something. Perhaps something like, stay true to yourself, and maybe, one day, you'll get to penetrate someone like me. People often never ask me, "What's the deal with your obsession with vulgar words and phrases?" Of course, I wouldn't classify my vocabulary that way at all; it's unrefined language expressed without fear. Anyway, hearing this half-crazed woman one night ranting about wanting to destroy the pathetic cock currently seeking shelter and warmth inside her dangerous vagina, I remember my ears perking up in a manner similar to the way they percolated when I first heard the menacing throb of a Skinny Puppy song on the radio. Well, I soon found out that the half-crazed woman spewing verbal diarrhea all over my tinny speakers was Karen Finley, and just like that, my linguistic outlook was changed forever. Oh, and the reason I used the word "dangerous" to describe Karen's second most popular opening had nothing to do with its appearance or reputation as an unstable structure, but because of the sheer conviction of the voice attached to the vagina led everyone who listened to it to respect its raw power.

What, may I ask, happened when you discovered that not all women are like Lydia Lunch and Karen Finley? Did you, like, freak out and stuff? Since my intense shyness has prevented me from meeting an insane amount of people over the years, it's entirely possible that I haven't met this profane angel yet. However, in a universe replete with delusional pop stars who ripoff Madonna for a living and highly paid morons who paint themselves orange for the amusement of smug mouth-breathers with low self-esteem, I'll admit, my chances of meeting an unhinged performance artist, one who is just waiting to slit my throat with human kindness, are pretty slim. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to settle for watching Mondo New York, the only cinematic travelogue to feature lanky drag queens, BDSM, angry poets, human trafficking, and, of course, Lydia Lunch, who looked absolutely gorgeous laying the groundwork for the weirdness about to unfold for the next eighty or so minutes, and Karen Finley, who spends most of her time doing what she does best: railing against yuppies while covered with animal by-products.

Wait a minute, back up the truck (a truck that is hopefully crammed super-tight with defective dildos), you mean to tell me that there's an actual movie out there that features both Lydia Lunch and Karen Finley?!? You better believe it. Sure, so one of the loquacious lovelies is only in the film for forty-five seconds, but forty-five seconds is still better than nothing. Okay, as far as justifications go for the lack of a person's screentime, that shit is pretty weak. But you have to understand, just because you wanna live in a world where the sight of Lydia Lunch slowing asphyxiating a bound Kate Hudson with the mouth-watering circumference of her unclothed derriere, while Karen Finley tries on irregular pantyhose in the background are daily occurrences, does not mean that world will ever exist. Take the scraps of Lydia and Karen you given and be grateful, you pompous prat.

Conceived by filmmaker Harvey Keith and Night Flight creator Stuart S. Shapiro, the film, a veritable hodgepodge of New York cool, focuses on a wide array of artists, poets, musicians, comedians, perverts, criminals, and drug users at a time when being any one of those things actually meant something. Our guide on this tour, a nameless blonde woman in denim (Shannah Laumeister), quietly walks from one unorthodox venue to another, soaking up the city's unique culture over the course of a single day. Yeah, that's right, she walks quietly. On top of having no name, our guide seems to go unnoticed wherever she ends up, despite the fact she also turns heads (her physical appearance meets many of the rigid standards held by those whose populate the male branch of the heterosexual realm of existence). This anonymous temperament, including the overtones that seem to contradict her anonymity at every turn, gave her presence a decidedly non-judgmental air. Of course, I don't mean to imply that she's some kind of mindless observer, on the contrary, our guide does express her feelings every now and then. But for the most part, she simply absorbs what's put in front of her like she were a sponge or a moldy piece of bread.

You'll notice that I mentioned "New York cool" as supposed to just plain "cool." Well, the reason I did that was to keep to the two distinct types of cool separate from another. My coolness, let's get one thing straight, has never been in doubt, yet the cool that existed in New York City circa, oh, let's say, the ten year period between 1978-1988, will intimidate even the most ardent of cool people. Let me put it this way, there's a reason no one has bothered to make a movie called Mondo Etobicoke.

We open on New York City's world famous skyline, it's around 4 or 5 A.M. in the morning, when, all of a sudden, Lydia Lunch enters the frame, which, by the way, is bathed in mist. She doesn't identify herself as a "Lydia Lunch," but we know who she is. Clutching her jean jacket with a feistier than usual brand of determination, Lydia proceeds to tell us all about the hopes and dreams of the residents of the fair city she stands before. You see, apparently there's this giant garbage pile, and the outcasts, misfits, rejects, loser pervert lunatics, gangsters, pranksters, and outlaws all want to claw their way to the top of it. Standing in their way, however, are bunch of neurotics, psychotics, maniacs, brainiacs, hippies, yippies, yuppies, flunkies, and even monkeys. In other words, it's a war zone out there. The very soul of Mondo New York is up for grabs, and only the most self-absorbed of citizens will be able to claim it.

After Lydia is finished with her prologue, we quickly hook up with our red sneaker-wearing guide. Making her way through a crowd of punks and freaks, our guide enters what looks like a concert venue, positions herself amidst the jaded audience, and watches Phoebe Legere writhe about in an erotic stupor while performing "Marilyn Monroe." Even though the lyrics of the song mostly involve singing the deceased movie star's name over and over again, Phoebe's ebullient stage presence more than makes up for the song's lack of lyrical diversity. Sporting one pink opera glove (dig the black frays, girlfriend), fishnet stockings (which were held up by narrow bands of dark fabric), a gold chain belt, and strumming a guitar with a leopard print strap (yeah, I noticed her guitar strap), Phoebe thrusts and heaves her body across the stage like a raving banshee with rag doll ambitions.

Leaving the concert (I guess she'd seen enough of Phoebe's protruding pubic hair for one day), our guide enters a church-like structure, takes a seat in one of the pews, and watches Joel Coleman, performance artist, Richard Speck fan and all round weird guy, bite the heads off two rodents, utter the phrase "syphilic cunt fossils," and lights the firecracker that was sewn into his poncho. Question: If our guide leaves during a performance (she got up and left just as the rodents were about to lose their heads) does that mean we should go as well? Obviously she wasn't that offended by Joel's mouse abuse, because we see her at his apartment moments later, but it does give the audience something to think about.

Animal lovers will want to avoid the aforementioned rodent decapitation scene, the cockfighting sequence (one rooster is killed by another rooster), and the voodoo ritual (a live chicken has its head bitten off). There's a scene that features the always beguiling Ann Magnuson beating a dead horse with a mattenklopper, but the horse she was pummeling was clearly fake. Fans human cruelty, on the other hand, will want to make sure they catch the scenes that show our intrepid guide peeking through a crack in a wall to catch a glimpse of nipples being clamped and asses being spanked and another where she spies on an illicit gathering where women are being sold at an auction. The former was just your average early morning S&M party (lots of leather and some mild heel sucking), it was the latter scene that threw me for a bit of a loop. At first I thought they selling cheongsams. But then it dawned on me, the body-hugging garments weren't for sale, it was the shapely women poured into them that were being sold.

Tired of whips and chains, our guide heads down some stairs to watch a mentally challenged individual, one who took blithering and twitching in a wheelchair took a whole new level of spasticity, get his special needs penis serviced by Veronica Vera (her womanly epicentre eventually wrapped in cellophane) and Annie Sprinkle (her lumpy, bumpy frame covered in body paint), as Sabine Reithmayer (or it could it been Linda Mac) recites poetry.

It's around noon, and our guide is about to get an earful from a random collection of the Lower East Side's most civic-minded residents. Some yell out the standard "I love New York," while others, like one angry-sounding woman, declare, "I will fight for the Lower East Side." A former East Londoner, who now lives in Alphabet City, thinks the fact that you can now get rap music on compact disc is a sign of the apocalypse. Which, of course, will manifest itself when the yuppies inevitably takeover. Walking into a junkyard, I mean, an outdoor art installation (it's hard to tell the difference sometimes), our guide runs into Joey Arias, who, while as dressed like a flamenco-inspired devil, serenades her with a song called "Fish Out Of Water."

Heading over to the fountain in Washington Square Park, our guide finds a seat on the steps and prepares herself for the ethnic comedy of Charlie Barnett (Miami Vice) and Rick Aviles (Ghost). Announcing that he loves a New York audience, Charlie's routine revolves around jokes based on racial stereotypes (white guys walk this, black guys walk like this), while Rick's schtick was...pretty much the same (black gay guys talk like this, white gay guys talk like this).

Since I've already alluded to the Ann Magnuson scene, which takes place in a pastoral field and has her reciting a poem about prime interest rates to a giant turkey (which, surprisingly, isn't brutally murdered), I'll just mention that I regret not including Ann in my opening bit about Lydia Lunch and Karen Finely. If anyone deserves to be drowned in lavish praise, it's Ann Magnuson, especially a pigtail-sporting Ann Magnuson. Quirky fun-fact: The only audible sound our guide makes in Mondo New York are the screams she lets out as a result of being chased by a carpet beater-wielding Ann Magnuson.

Sandwiched between Joey Arias' elegant, jazzy interpretation of "A Hard Days Night" (I loved the mid-song costume change) and an abridged version of "Hustle With My Muscle" by John Sex ("I'll cram your box 'til it's good and smelly"), is the enchanting Karen Finley, whose scathing spoken word piece was, in my opinion, the moment when the film's overall mission statement (the soulless chunks of yuppie scum who desperately want to corrupt the cultural integrity of our beloved neighbourhood must be stopped) was expressed in a succinct manner. In a work called "I Hate Yellow," Karen strips down to her panties (all good performance art involves nudity), covers her body with egg yolk and glitter, and begins to attack the yuppie mindset ("I'm not gonna let you gang rape me, yuppie!"). The gist of her diatribe is that yuppies and their pastel clothing are the bane of human existence. It's not exactly the most groundbreaking concept, but it's done in a such an entertaining manner, that you're willing look past its apparent banality. I liked the part where she scolds the yuppie's children who are, according to her, a bunch of "nine year-olds who only talk through their computers."

Fully enlightened, and probably hankering a pair of chocolate-covered yuppie balls, our guide observes a crowd slam dancing to "New York New York" by Manitoba's Wild Kingdom ("Everyone's an asshole, everyone's a creep!"), and, like most nights in New York City, ends her evening standing before a bald, long-legged drag queen. Unafraid to drink in every square inch of his fabulous frame, Harvey Keith's camera immortalizes Dean Johnson as he performs "Fuck You" with the Weenies. I can't think of a better way to end Mondo New York than to have a rawboned dandy in shades say "fuck you" to Union Carbide and Mary Tyler Moore, as it sums up the film's anarchistic attitude perfectly.

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