Rorschach and Prozac and everything is groovy

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times or 

“Angus Magazine has the shelf life of a Brimley-Carmelita beer fart.”

Preface to the Preface December 2010

Hey. In 2006 I published an anthology of the worst shit imaginable – a true labour of love. The coffee table book, bound in virgin baby seal skin stitched with unicorn hair was made up from random Angus Magazine back issues (2004 to 2006). I flipped through it recently, looking back fondly at my time as media tyrant.

Originally published in 2006 – Preface to Worst of Angus Magazine

“Everyone knows the boat is leaking” - Leonard Cohen

Ahhhh, that kooky Leonard is always good for a laugh or two. But now he’s broke. That’s not very funny. At least not for him. For me, it's mildly amusing. And here we are, you and I and whomever else may be poking around. When it comes to poking around I always say the more the merrier, or something of the sort. Typically, mind you, reading is a personal experience, like taking a bath, unless you’re into them swinging bath parties like in the seventies. Additionally, reading is not much of a spectacle unless you’re a guy with a big gut reading on the beach wearing a thong or maybe you’re a down-home gal reading while whipping a cow or perhaps a pony. Outstanding!

Okay, so I’m going to make this brief. What you are currently holding in your hands is a book. It’s not a great book. It’s just a book. There’s nothing dangerous or provocative within these covers. Hell, it sure ain’t no Old Testament. No, it’s just a book stuffed full of horrendous grammar. I never cared much for the semi-colon. It’s a smug bastard of a punctuation, and I tend to just throw them in haphazardly. I have no regard for the comma either. Commas killed my father’s uncle. Exclamation points? Screw ‘em! Spell check? Nah. I don’t give a shit. It’s all disposable.

Now, in this book you’ll find nothing specific on the true relationship between Jesus of Nazareth and Mary Magdalene as I’ve met neither of them but continue to hear only good things about both. Nor will you discover any significant insights into the true meaning of Christmas. This is not a “feel good book” or an obscenely priced “how-to book”. No, this book is essentially a published manifestation of my daily struggle to deal with things that bother the hell out of me. I’m a shitty

public speaker - inarticulate and bumbling. Truth be told, I’m just a terrible mess in the broadest of terms, but I do have some sort of knack for churning out massive amounts of bullshit through the written word. This is why I founded Angus

Magazine back in 2004.

2004 was a strange year. Guitarist Darrell Lance “Dimebag Darell” Abbott, of Pantera fame, was gunned down during a performance in Columbus, Ohio. Shot in the face. Uh, there was some other stuff that went down but I can’t really remember. I do remember resigning from my full time job, giving up all the security that goes with a steady paying gig for something as ridiculous as starting a magazine. And not just any kind of useful, credible type of magazine - no, I had to truly throw caution to the wind and forge ahead with a magazine based on contrived nonsense - stuff that could be real but really not. Yes? It's that netherworld between fact and bizarro that I thrive. I blossom like a beautiful flower, with big bright flowery thingies drooping all over me. Yes?

This anthology comes at a crossroads for Angus. I have no idea whether I’ll be publishing it in the future. I was thinking of a new career in selling used wieners (yes, they are in fact made from lips and assholes). Angus Magazine has kicked my ass financially, but has kept me from doing bad things, and for that I am grateful. Man, I hate that Family Circus cartoon. By picking up the mag, by subscribing, by providing me with feedback and by purchasing this tome, you’ve helped me and I thank you. I know that the money you’ve graciously shelled out towards The Worst of Angus could have probably been better spent on a better book written by a better author or at the very least, something more life-affirming like a fancy corn cob pipe or a tin of zinc oxide for that rash. Man, I hate that Family Circus cartoon. But since your hard-earned money is already safely tucked away in that customized little pocket I had a seamstress install in my tight, frayed denim shorts, it’s much too late for refunds. Sorry. And while we’re on the vulgar topic of money I’d like to just briefly mention that if I had my druthers, all books and magazines and newspapers would be free. Words and ideas should be free. But I don’t have my druthers. I sold them for firewood and tobacco. So this book is not free just like gasoline isn’t free nor bear gall bladders or Bobby's big bag. Bad advice is, however, still free and plentiful.

Anywhoo, ideally what I’d like to see happen goes down something like this: this anthology finds its way into the well-manicured hands of some powerful publishing executive and it all turns into a Cinderella story with me being showered with gobs and gobs of money, paparazzi, liquor, pills, loose women, lost weekends, seizures, limousines, fame, mind-snapping pressure, countless lawsuits and eighteen minute organ solos, free lawn- mowers from The Home Depot, endless paternity suits, vintage leisure suits and free tattoos to boot, and wicked tractor pull accidents. I want to be the new literary media darling de jour - the new golden boy with Maclean’s sending some hip cat with a severely sloping forehead to write a biting piece on this new author. And then I would suffer some type of extreme backlash from the over-hype and pestering accusations of plagiarism with a touch of paganism and my free tattoos to boot. Well, it’s not going to go down this way at all which I guess is just as well. I’ll be happy to hear that maybe something in this book made you laugh or smirk or snicker or maybe just smile a little like that demonic little bastard in the Omen. Remember him? Damien? If anything contained herein really rattles you, fret not since Angus Magazine has the shelf life of a Brimley Carmelita beer fart.

This book is comprised of six or seven acts. There are news stories, advice columns from people who are in no position to give advice, book reviews and some other stuff. I haven’t looked through it all so I’m not sure. A special thanks to Eric Sparling and Debbie Marson for their unique contributions. Sadly, they will not be paid. Take it all for what it’s worth. Thanks to Ob Bob, José Cramps and the delicious Chris Reese as well. The book begins with the first Greetings from the Editor, published in June of 2004. All typos remain. Cheers and have a relatively decent remainder of the day.

KJP 2006

“Rorschach and Prozac and everything is groovy” - Nick Cave