Come With Me My Love (Doris Wishman, 1976)

I didn't know guys with hairy taints performed cunnilingus in 1925. But according to Come With Me My Love (a.k.a. The Haunted Pussy), it was being dolled out like copious amounts of cotton candy. Which reminds me, it's not everyday that you see an erotic horror film that includes a prologue that takes place in the 1920s. But then again, Doris Wishman isn't your everyday kind of filmmaker. She sees things from a decidedly cockeyed point-of-view, and this film is proof of that. A supernatural thriller interspersed with scenes involving sexual intercourse with ghosts, the film is an epic tale about lust, jealously, desire, and revenge. And just like her previous masterpiece (and I use the word "masterpiece" sheepishly with a dash of sincerity), Satan Was a Lady, this film, featuring the groundbreaking cinematography of C. Davis Smith, takes place entirely inside a modest apartment building located near the park. However, its premise is bold and daring. Covering the topic of life after death in a thoughtful and intelligent manner, the film begs the question: Do the curtains match the drapes? If you have ever had the pleasure of watching a Doris Wishman film, then you know that's a loaded question. The chances the curtains would match anything, let alone the drapes, is highly unlikely. You see, Miss Wishman likes play around with our perception of what constitutes tasteful interior design. Pushing the limits of home decor to the outer reaches of gaudiness, this film will test the integrity of your eyeballs. But don't worry erection/wetness fans, the film is also filled with the kind of mid-70s-style fucking and sucking that will keep the contents of your respective crotches on their crotchety toes. Just thought I'd throw that out there just in case anyone was worrying that the film was exclusively an exercise in tawdry feng shui.
 

 

There are three separate events that occur before the ghost of a spurned husband from the 1920s can begin to have sex with a drugged woman that looks exactly like his dead wife. First, the curtains begin to ripple as  the result of an eerie breeze. Second, we can't help but notice that the sky looks like it's on fire. And last but not least, the blurry shape of mustached man suddenly appears in front of a wall covered with garish red and white wallpaper. And judging by the number of times the dead guy from the twenties has sexual relations with the 1970s version of dead wife's doppelgänger, we're going to see a whole lot of that wallpaper.
 

 

Welcome to Kenmare City. Where? You know, Kenmare City. Actually, to be honest, I've never heard of Kenmare City. It says here that there's Kenmare in North Dakota. But nothing about a Kenmare City. Here's an idea, maybe Doris Wishman simply made it up. Anyway, it's 1925, and Randolph (Jeffery Hurst) is creeping up the stairs; the black and white picture quality is grainy to give the film a 1920s feel. Opening the door to his apartment, he stumbles upon his wife (Ursula Austin) canoodling in the buff with a guy (Terry Austin) who is supposedly Randolph's best friend. They don't see him standing there, so they continue to canoodle. After awhile their canoodling morphs into the realm of oral sex. Oral sex?!? In the 1920s?!? Blow jobs I can see, as men have always liked to have their cocks orally serviced. But cunnilingus?!? I'm telling you, I just can't picture it happening back then. Really? You can't picture men going down on women during the so-called roaring twenties? Okay, maybe you're right. Forget everything I just said about oral sex and 1920s.
 

 

Visibly annoyed, okay, more like, enraged, Randolph interrupts them, pulls out a gun (maybe he didn't "stumble upon" them, after all), announces his displeasure, and proceeds to shoot his best friend in the chest. You would think that this would be the moment when Randolph's wife would start to scream (she just watched the guy whose face was just all up in her pussy shot to death). But no, she throws her wedding ring off in disgust and basically tells Randolph to go fuck himself. As she did that, I thought to myself, yeah, you go, girl. After shooting her in the head, Randolph turns the gun on himself.
 

 

Welcome to Kenmare City... Hey, man, didn't you already say that? Can't a brother finish a sentence? I'm sorry, go ahead. Welcome to Kenmare City, it's 1976, and Abby (Ursula Austin) is walking up the stairs to her new apartment. Dressed like Little Edie from Grey Gardens and carrying the world's reddest suitcase, Abby enters her new digs, which we get a brief tour of thanks to a spinning camera shot.
 

 

Meanwhile, at another apartment building, a guyed named Patrick (Robert Kerman) and a blonde woman, oh, let's call her, Beatrice (Nancy Dare), are engaged in the 69 position, when Lola (Vanessa Del Rio) shows up. Asking if them if she can join them, Robert Kerman pulls his face out of Beatrice's ass and replies, "Sure, come on over." I don't know what these people have to do with the plot. Nevertheless, they provide the bulk of the non-ghost sex in this movie. Oh, I remember, Abby knows Lola somehow, and she calls her every now and then. It doesn't quite justify they're presence, but at least they're loosely connected to the story.
 

 

Since Abby can't call Lola on her phone (the one in her apartment isn't hooked up yet), she uses her neigbour's phone instead. And you know what that means? That's right, it's time for Annie Sprinkle to make her shapely presence felt. Yay! I love Annie Sprinkle! Oozing a naive exuberance, Annie plays Tess Albertino, Abby's helpful next-door neighbour, like her life depended on it. She does what? Yeah, she has urgency about her that practically screamed quiet desperation. If you say so.
 

 

Maybe it's the new apartment (the carpet is blood red) or maybe it's the eerie creaking noises, but either way, Abby is having trouble sleeping. Suddenly, a bottle of sleeping pills magically appear on her nightstand. Doing what any normal person would do, Abby takes one of the mysterious pills, removes her sea green nightie and goes to bed. What occurs next is a sight we're going to be quite familiar with by the time this film is over, and that is: Curtains, sky, wind, wallpaper, and ghost. When you see these five things show up in this order (the "wind" is usually represented by the sight of Abby's hair being jostled by a stiff breeze), you know you're about to see something truly out of this world. Or more specifically, tiny droplets of ghost jizz sloshing around on Abby's naturally flat stomach with nowhere to go.
 

Emerging from the red wallpaper, Randolph's ghost walks up to Abby's bed and begins to grope her flesh. Besides the fact that he came out of the wallpaper, how do you know he's a ghost? Well, for starters, Doris Wishman shows us what's being in reflected in Abby's mirror. And what do we don't see? We don't see two people engaging in a raucous bought of mid-1970s-style sexual intercourse, we only see Abby, who, according to her mirror, appears to be hugging/humping no-one. The sight of Abby having sex with the air is hands down the film's most haunting image.
 

 

Wandering in the dark with only a candle guide her way (the lights in her apartment stopped working for some strange reason), Abby is trying to find the fusebox. What she finds instead is Tess' Movie Date (Levi Richards), who startles her by grabbing her arm. Taking him back to her apartment, Abby offers to get Tess' Movie Date a drink. She makes it all but four feet, when Tess' Movie Date grabs her again (this Tess' Movie Date guy, he's one grabby motherfucker), and steers Abby the direction of  her bedroom where they engage in, you guessed it, a raucous bought of mid-1970s-style sexual intercourse.
 

 

If you're wondering what Tess doing during all this. Wonder no more, because I'm totally about to tell you...for some inexplicable reason. Waiting in her apartment for Tess' Movie Date to show up, Tess, who looks sexy in a slinky black dress, taps her fingers on her hips and paces back and forth like a caged animal. Call me someone who is one gourd sort of a six pack, but I'd rather watch Annie Sprinkle act frustrated in a gaudily furnished apartment, than watch Levi Richard's unkempt ball sack bounce around inside Ursula Austin's mouth.
 

 

She might not kill with her cunt, but terrible things seem to happen to all those who enter its gaping expanse. Case in point, Tess' Movie Date leaves Abby's apartment the following morning, and goes home. While Abby did a pretty good job washing his genitals, you should really take a bath, you know, just to be on the safe side. Only problem is, your radio is sitting on the edge of your bath tub. Meaning, you're practically inviting a jealous ghost, one who is none too pleased that you just had sex with a woman who looks exactly like his dead wife from 1920s, to push the radio in the water. Oh, Tess' Movie Date, when will you ever learn?
 

 

Am I crazy, or does the 69 position really bring out the luster in Ursula Austin's thighs? What's that? You're saying I am crazy?!? Interesting. And here I thought I was being perfectly sane. At any rate, the curtains, the wind, the sky, the wallpaper, and the ghost return, as Abby is visited yet again by Randolph's phantom cock.
 

 

Oh, and don't feel sorry for Tess. Sure, she was stood up by Tess' Movie Date, but she has plenty of suitors who want to rake her proverbial cornfield. Inviting a slab of brainless man-candy (Roger Caine) over to fuck her on a drawer, Tess gets the ripe dicking she deserves. Even though the wallpaper nearly steals the scene, nothing beats the sight of Annie Sprinkle in black stockings, chunky black shoes, and a black garter belt. Nothing, I tell you. Nothing!
 

 

In the film's most bizarre sequence, Abby wanders the park during a blizzard. If the weather wasn't bad enough, some ponce starts throwing snowballs at her. What? Yeah, snowballs. Three to be exact. You're being inundated with paranormal penis on a nightly basis, so you go to the park to clear your head. When you get there, this asshole decides use you as target practice. That's some fucked up shit, if you don't mind my saying so. To make matters worse, when she gets home, a wedding ring suddenly appears on her finger. And, of course, she can't seem to remove it.
 

 

The curtains, the wind, the sky, the wallpaper, and the ghost appear four more times before all is said and done, as more hairy balls are gargled and more people end up dead. With Ernie Hudson nowhere in sight, will Abby be able to resist the horny ghost who lives inside her wallpaper? Who's to say, but Come With Me My Love is Doris Wishman at her most sinister. An erotic horror classic for the ages, the film is a must-see for fans of hairy taints, hairy balls, hairy vaginas, let's just say, hairy everything. Though, Annie Sprinkle's pussy is surprisingly hairless, and... Let me start over. If you like a pinch of horror with your porn, then you will want to go see Come With Me My Love. If this film is not currently playing at your local erotic theatre, make sure you tell the manager that you want them to screen Come With Me My Love.

Satan Was a Lady (Doris Wishman, 1975)

If you don't think the sight of an exceedingly voluptuous Annie Sprinkle getting a glass of water for her sister's fiance is the height of drama, then you might want to think twice about watching Satan Was a Lady, the Doris Wishman-directed psycho-sexual thrill ride/ugly couch showcase that begs the question: Actually, the question it begs is currently not available. We ask that you please bear with us. However, if the sight of a, yeah, yeah, an exceedingly voluptuous Annie Sprinkle getting a glass of water for some guy–let's keep this thing moving–does appeal to you, then you my friend are in for a real treat. You mean to tell me there's a film out there that features an exceedingly voluptuous Annie Sprinkle getting a glass a water for a man who's about to marry her sister? I don't know. All this talk of retrieving water while being exceedingly voluptuous sounds a little too good to be true, if you know what I mean. I don't, know what you mean, that is. But I can tell you this, an exceedingly voluptuous Annie Sprinkle does in fact do exactly what I says she does in this quiet meditation on greed, sex and gaudy furniture. And not only that, but Bobby Astyr mock consumes Annie Sprinkle's pulsating pussy for five whole minutes. While I like the idea of a man sopping up the consecrated wetness congealing in the vicinity of a clean-shaven cooter, especially in 1975, a time when vaginal baldness was a bit an an anomaly, I wanna hear more about this glass of water. Are you fucking with me? The only reason I mentioned any of that business involving Annie Sprinkle (whose voluptuousness is never in doubt in this film) and the glass of water she fetches for her sister's fiance is because I'm an idiot. Or, to put it another way, I like the idea of someone taking the time to write words about a seemingly innocuous scene in a film filled with hirsute ball sacks and damp hatchet wounds.  

 

Now, the act of you, who is really me, telling me, who is really you, that you wanna hear more about the infamous glass of water scene in Satan Was a Lady is the definition of enabling. It's true, I am messing with you to a certain degree. But then again, that's what I...Hey, wait a minute. I just noticed that you put the word "infamous" before the words "glass of water scene." How come? Well, thanks to my incessant blathering about the glass of water scene, the glass of water scene has now become, you guessed it, infamous. Truth be told, anyone can do it. Just watch a movie, preferably one that no one has heard of. Then after it's over, just type a bunch of words–you can arrange them in a manner you wish–about any scene that tickles your fancy, and, boom, you have laid the groundwork for making a movie scene infamous.      
 

 

Since the sight of Annie Sprinkle's curvaceous frame stomping oh-so erotically from the living room to the kitchen to get a glass of water occurs later the film, I suppose, in the meantime, I'm going to have to talk about the events that lead up to its infamous retrieval.
 

 

Opening your film with a scene that features a man removing a woman's stockings is, from my perspective, the best and worst way you can begin your movie. On the one hand, you've got legs sheathed in tan stockings in your face right from the get-go. Unfortunately, the guy pawing at the woman in the tan stockings decides to remove them. If you imagine real hard, you can almost hear the perverts in the audience groaning with displeasure by this act of untoward unsheathing. What perverts? You know, the guys and gals who went to see this film when it played on 42nd Street throughout the mid-to-late 1970s.
 

 

Oh, how I would have loved to have attended the premiere of Satan Was a Lady back when it opened in New York City in 1975; the atmosphere must have been electric.
 

 

Anyway, getting to back to the tan stockings. After they're removed, Victor (Tony Richards) lifts Claudia (Bree Anthony), the woman who was wearing tan stockings, off the sleazy rug she's currently resting on, and proceeds to put her body in a position that will be more conducive for sexual congress. Telling him, "This is wrong, Victor," Claudia is somewhat reluctant to allow him to penetrate her with his penis (she thinks they should wait until they're married). It's obvious that Claudia has had a change of heart regarding the whole penetration situation, as Victor's penis is clearly plowing into her birth canal utilizing a series of sharply implemented jabbing motions. 
 

 

Just as I was beginning to tire of being immersed in the untamed undergrowth that is Victor's palustrine scrotal no-man's land, Claudia's sister Terry (Annie Sprinkle) appears in the doorway. How did you know she Claudia's sister? Excellent question. As Terry stares at her fornicating sister, employing a facial expression that can best be described as exasperated contempt, she thinks to herself, "My little sister Claudia. My sick little sister."
 

 

Call me perceptive, but I think the reason Terry didn't wait until Victor ejaculated sperm all over Claudia's stomach (she left during the cowgirl stage of their sex act) was because she has the hots for Victor as well.
 

 

Quirky fun-fact: The voice used to verbally express Terry and Claudia's thoughts is provided by none other than Doris Wishman herself.
 

 

Frustrated by what she just witnessed, Terry sits on a putrid-looking couch, crosses her legs, and begins to admire to floral patterns that pepper her bluish skirt. Only problem with that is, her mother, Ada (Sandy Foxx), is crouching by the television, which is located between two equally putrid-looking chairs. Why is that a problem, exactly? Well, you see, Terry's mother is constantly nagging her about her unladylike behaviour. And, as you might expect, this annoys Terry like you wouldn't believe. Leaving the room in a bit of a huff, Terry decides to make a phone call.
 

 

If you thought the sight of Annie Sprinkle fetching a glass of water was compelling, you should see her dial a touch-tone telephone. Hubba-hubba.
 

 

Calling up Bobby (Bobby Astyr) on said touch-tone telephone, Terry arranges a meeting. If you thought Terry wanted to meet Bobby in order to discuss macrame, you would be wrong. Noticing that she is admiring the bondage gear hanging above his bed, Bobby suggests that she strap herself in.
 

 

Willing, to use her words, "to try anything once," Terry is suddenly naked on his bed with her wrists and ankles bound with leather restraints.
 

 

Spread eagle, Terry finds the smoothness of her shaved pussy at the mercy of Bobby's inquisitive tongue. Gaining in ripeness with every lick, Terry quivers with delight as Bobby dines on her pinkish maw. It's only a matter of time before Bobby's penis is saying hello to Terry's throbbing box, and, to no one's surprise, it enters its slippery housing with an eel-like ease.    
 

 

Meanwhile, Claudia is wandering around in the park. The sex scenes are great and all. But there's something wonderfully off-kilter about the film's non-sex-related ones. The phone call scene, the brief exchange between Terry and Ada, and Claudia's stroll in the park are all marked by an idiosyncratic awkwardness that I can't help but lap up with a spoon.

Standing by a chain link fence, Claudia suspects that "something strange is going on," and wonders if she should tell her mother that she and Victor are getting married. While Claudia's commitment to her fiance is unwavering, Victor clearly isn't, as committed, that is. What do you think Victor's doing while she's ruminating in the park? That's right, he's placing his boy thing between Terry's ample breasts.

 

 

If I had to point out a single flaw in Satan Was a Lady, it would have to be the fact that no-one has sex with Sandy Foxx. You mean the actress who played Ada, Terry and Claudia's mother? Yeah, her. She's got a tight little body on her and she knows exactly how to drive men crazy. Don't believe me? Check out the way the she crosses her black pantyhose-adorned legs. Her sitting technique will reduce your pathetic genitals to a mound of shapeless goo. Anyway, I guess I'll just have to take solace in the scenes that feature Sandy stirring the contents of a cooking pot, crouching in a grey skirt, and the one where she tells Terry to put some clothes and to "act like a lady," as there all we get as far as Sandy Foxx-based titillation goes.
 

 

The sisterly bound between Terry and Claudia is obviously a fractured one.  All you need to do is take one look at them sitting on that  war crime of a couch together and you will fully understand the tenuous nature of their relationship. In all honesty, I was somewhat surprised I was able to pick up on the tension. I mean, the fact that Annie Sprinkle is wearing a pink, frilly, Little Bo Peep-style prom dress was kind of distracting, as my mind was inundated with thoughts such as: Why is she wearing that? And: Who dresses like that around the house? To which Terry would probably reply, "Leave me alone."
 

 

With two slabs of hearty vaginal cornmeal already on his plate, you wouldn't think that Victor would be able to handle three vaginas at once. Think again, Skippy. Not only does he juggle three women simultaneously, one of them is played by the sophisticated C.J. Laing, a woman who literally oozes a Sharon Mitchell-approved brand of spunk appeal. As Terry and Claudia are not chatting with one another on that guacamole stain masquerading as a couch, Victor is busy inserting his cock inside C.J. Laing's warm, wet and inviting pussy. Despite their obvious drunkenness, Victor and C.J. manage to execute a series of well-timed thrusts. Though, it should be noted that when it came time to for C.J. to carry out her thrusting end of the bargain, I couldn't help but notice that the close up shots of her pussy were replaced with what looked like Bree Anthony's pussy. How do I know this? It's simple, really. While Bree's pussy is shaved, C.J. is rocking a full bush, and the pussy in the scene between Victor and C.J. is clearly shaved.
 

 

When the film's jaw-dropping climax is about to get underway, Victor, Claudia, Ada and Terry all gather together in the living room. And, yes, that putrid couch and those ghastly chairs are front and centre to witness the greatest twist ending in cinematic history. Appearance-wise, you wouldn't think something "jaw-dropping" was about to happen. But trust me, some weird shit is about to go down. It all starts when Victor asks Terry to get him a glass of cold water. I won't say anything else, as I don't want to ruin the surprise. Which is a shame, because I was looking forward to heaping a fair amount of misguided praise on Alex Mann, who shows up during the finale as a doctor, a doctor who wears a red blazer (he's constantly adjusting the sleeves) and sounds like a mobster. 

 

 

It just dawned me, by bringing up the fact that Sandy Foxx doesn't appear in a sex scene, and, not to mention, letting the cat out of the bag in regard to the C.J./Bree pussy switcheroo, I'm in danger of making this film sound like a piece of crap filled with nothing but errors and goofs. When, in reality, the exact opposite is true. A genuine camp classic if I ever saw one, Satan Was a Lady, with its odd shifts in tone, its dedication to long, protracted shots of  inanimate objects, and, of course, its tawdry approach to interior design, this film will satisfy the hunger that lies within all those who love their pornography to include elements of horror and melodrama. If watching Annie Sprinkle lounge around in nothing but black stockings and a matching corset is more your thing, then you'll love the film, too. I'm just saying, there's something peculiar about this film, and that's the main reason to seek it out.

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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.

video uploaded by solidspace a.k.a. soviet

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