Honeysuckle NOIR

H
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I
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HONEYSUCKLE
NOIR
Publisher: Ronit Pinto
Editor: Royal Young
Managing Editor: James Clark
Comic Narration: Ronit Pinto
Layout & Design: Matt Mellon
Photography:
Sam Long
Ross Miller
Artwork/Illustrations:
Royal Young
Jacq the Stripper
Matt Mellon
[email protected]
(646) 632-7711
www.honeysucklemag.com
NY, NY
Copyright ©2016 Honeysuckle Magazine, LLC.
All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without permission is prohibited.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Pulp, Crime and the Headlines of the New York Post
Dorri Olds
Going Viral
Sharisse Tracey
Summer Noir
Chris Yates
Comic
Jacqueline Frances
Grindhouse Cinema: Now Playing on Your Laptop
Lux Sommers
“The Pit”
Seth Kanor
The Portrait of Maxim Jakubowski
Michael Demyan
My Grandma Was A Serial Killer: The Story of Clomer Jermstead
Christian Benner: The Man Behind the Destruction
Detroit Mystic: Deborah the Psychic
James Clark
Lux Sommers
Shane Cashman
Now and 19
Lauren Mooney
Barcelona, Spain, 2007
NOIR
–
is
it
a
sentiment,
a
film
genre, a color…? To us Noir is
anything underneath the headlights, “beneath the shadows.”
In our third issue, Honeysuckle
takes to the streets of Detroit,
LA, Hong Kong and New York;
from peoples’ darkest secrets to
the pulpiest of headlines. Run the
shadowed streets with us, and explore NOIR in all of its vacillating shades.
Ronit Pinto
Rachel Fritz
The House of All Boogeymen
The Miskatonik Institute of Horror Film Studies
PUBLISHER’S
LETTER
Moxie Mc Murder
Paige McGreevy
Down in town Honeysuckle. Where the dames
are sweet but the nights are bitta.
One night, Little Sweet Marie was on a
payphone dialin in one of her tricks.
Oh Johnny,
where are ya!?
Where did you go!?
He was a sweet one, she thought she
mighta loved him. But there was no answa.
PULP, CRIME AND THE HEADLINES
OF THE NEW YORK POST
BY DORRI OLDS
Honeysuckle Magazine can’t get enough of the New York Post
crime section. We’re lured in by the gallows humor and titillated by
their tasty recipe of bloody, punny headlines and a fascination with
the noir side of life. Our journalist Dorri Olds took a long, strange trip
inside the Post’s scene of scribes who pen the trademark headlines
and those who tell the dark tales of killers, liars and nutsos.
Jamie Schram has worked for the Post for 22 years. He began as
a copy boy fetching coffee for editors but worked his way up. When
the paper was short-staffed he was sent out to cover stories. He was
assigned to the police bureau in lower Manhattan inside police headquarters where he shared space with journos from other outlets including Daily News, New York Times and Associated Press. Schram
was promoted to police bureau chief and spent years at that gig, before
moving to his current position, covering federal law enforcement in
New York and Washington, DC.
Dorri Olds: Do you have direct contact with criminals?
Jamie Schram: Sure. I’ve spent many years interviewing serial
killers—David Berkowitz, Richard Ramirez and I spent two years
talking with Charles Manson over the phone. I’ve spoken to plenty of
high
profile
and
low
profile
serial
killers.
Have you become desensitized to crime or do you have nightmares?
I’ve been doing this for sixteen years, and prior to that I was a crime
reporter on the streets. Over time, you become desensitized, particularly here in New York, because, back in the day, there were a lot more
murders, and crime. I’m originally from Jersey but came to New York
in 1989. From ’89 to ’93, we had so many homicides. We’re not going through a crack epidemic like we did back then. In 1990, we had
2,245 homicides. This past year, we had 350, so you’re talking about
a lot less murders, and overall, crime in general is down. Assaults and
rapes and grand larcenies, everything is down.
Why do you think that is?
There are three factors: better police enforcement these days; a lot
of bad guys from the ’80s and ’90s are dead or in prison; and New
York is so expensive to live in now that lower income people have
been pushed out of the city.
During your time off, do you read true crime books and watch
cop shows?
I do. My favorite book is “Helter Skelter.” I read it as a kid, and
that
put
the
hook
in
me.
I
just
finished
a
true
crime
book
“Monster
of
CONTINUED
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
1
(CONTINUED From Page 1)
Florence.” A very interesting read.
I love Ann Rule books. My favorite is “The Stranger Beside Me.”
Oh right, about Ted Bundy. Rule has a lot of fans and she’s done
very well in her career.
What is your favorite part of the job?
I really enjoy the reporting aspect, especially when there’s a big
story that involves a prominent individual who’s run afoul of the law,
or has overdosed on drugs, in a nice section of Manhattan. I know that
the paper is going to want every little detail about that crime or O.D.
It pushes you to really tap into your sources and report the story better
than your competitors. That has always been the inspiration.
Do you negotiate exclusives with the police department?
No, it’s mainly who you know. If you cover a beat for years, you’re
going to know a lot of people. As you get to know them, they begin to
trust you and give you the stories.
Over time, you become
desensitized, particularly here in
New York...
Deb Pines is an award-winning New York Post headline writer on
the mostly-men’s team called the Copy Desk, where headlines for all
sections are written. She’s also the author of a mystery series beginning with “In the Shadow of Death: A Chautauqua Murder Mystery.”
Post Copy Chief Barry Gross assigns headlines to Pines and her coworkers. Writers are given specs of a story—length, dimensions and
headline width. Then, at breakneck speed, they’re tasked with writing
brilliant
headers,
making
the
stories
fit
and
handing
it
all
in
on
time
to Gross.
posedly the hotel was encouraging people to take off their clothes and
perform sex acts in front of the windows. Tourists were hanging out
under the windows trying to catch pictures so I called it the “Eyeful
Tower.”
Do you enjoy the dark humor?
Yes, being a tabloid we’re different from a more buttoned down
broadsheet newspaper that treats things more soberly. We like to make
light of things and give attitude because that’s who we are. When a
Dorri Olds: Are there parameters for how far you can go with a terrorist was killed we wrote, “Rest in Pieces.” And we’re famous for,
“Headless Body in Topless Bar.”
racy title?
I like the whimsical headlines. The harsher or sexist ones maybe
Deb
Pines:
We
walk
a
fine
line
between
humor
and
bad
taste.
With
the tragic crime stories we try to be respectful but we make light of I’m less involved with because I’m the woman on staff. I did like
stupid criminal stories. You know, the guy who can’t shoot straight, or “Deleter of the Free World” for Hillary’s email controversy and I
leaves
his
credit
card
behind,
or
snaps
a
selfie
on
a
stolen
phone,
steals
loved when Pope Benedict stepped aside and we wrote, “Pope Gives
God Two Weeks’ Notice.”
a car and gets caught.
The Post is briefed when we’ve pushed the envelope. For example,
Can you name some of your favorite headlines?
My best headline was about the Jet Blue pilot who had a mental Chinese groups picketed us when we wrote “Wok This Way.”
Those are hilarious.
breakdown. The concerned copilot locked him out of the cockpit and
This will probably get me in trouble, quoting me on this. But I
the passengers restrained him. A picture of him restrained was sent to
didn’t
think the “Wok This Way” was a major offense. We make light
the Post and I wrote for the front page, “This is Your Captain Freakof
all
kinds
of people, the same as late night television does. All the
ing.”
Anthony
Wiener
stuff we probably overdid, I guess, but people exIn Times Square people are dressed as characters from Sesame
pected
us
to.
If
we
don’t have a crude headline for the New York Post,
street or Disney movies, and some are really just there to aggressively
people
are
disappointed.
Readers expect that. We’ve had some very
panhandle the tourists. When somebody dressed in a Cookie Monster costume menaced tourists and was accused of hitting a woman, funny Wiener stuff and some very, you know, well, we’ve sort of gone
I called him the “Crooky Monster.” In another I called Joan Rivers a little too far. We got some pushback when we ran the cover, “Enjoy a
the “Joan of Snark.” I called supermodel Naomi Campbell “Strik- Foot Long in Jail.” You can look at that as making light of prison rape
ing Beauty” because she hits people. She has a pattern of striking her or think it’s hilarious because Jared Fogle, the Subway spokesperson
who pleaded guilty to paying for sex with minors, is a pedophile, the
staff, throwing cell phones at them, knocking them around.
Then there was a controversy about a hotel on the Highline. Sup- lowest of criminals.
2
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
GOING VIRAL
announced it (although that
would be awesome) but the
news arrived from a person
in my world that mattered to
me. That was a true moment
for me and it truly touched
my heart. Thank you for
sharing in the two-year anniversary of the essay that has
reshaped my life. I appreciBY SHARISSE TRACEY
ate you.
I was only a child when
When my piece, My Father Raped Me…Then Walked Me Down
The Aisle, went viral two years ago I wasn’t aware of it. The awe- my
fixation
of
creating
the
somely talented Lady Gaga hadn’t recorded her powerful song Til It perfect picture began. I
Happens To You that feels like a wrap around hug for all of us sur- would watch as my father,
vivors of sexual assault nor had recording artist Kesha been handed a freelance photographer,
another slap in the face by New York Supreme Court Justice Shirley created works of art out of people through still photos. At thirteen,
Kornreich who ruled against an injunction that would have allowed I’d wanted to have my own portraits taken. One Saturday, while my
the pop star to record new music separate from her alleged rapist pro- mother was at work, my father set up the photo shoot in our dining
ducer. As strange as that may sound I’m not certain I was familiar with room, took a few pictures of me and called it a success. Then he said
the term, viral, yet in the way we hear it every day now although I was extra shots were needed in his bedroom. That’s when he raped me.
A week later, I told my mother what my father had done to me and
quite sure of what it meant to become known by way of the Internet.
I’d written, edited and rewritten the piece so I was thrilled when it she
confronted
him.
He
denied
it
at
first
but
later
confessed.
The
three
was accepted in a major publications online magazine, one that I’d of us went to see a therapist together and she concluded that my father
read in print since my teen years. The publication date couldn’t arrive was sorry, he would not hurt me again and that keeping our household
fast enough, and as soon as it did I instantly shared my essay with “stable” was the best way for us to heal. We continued to live together
as one of the few nuclear African American families in our neighboreveryone in my network.
The
title
of
the
piece
was
difficult
for
my
family.
As
soon
as
I
hood – a “pretty picture”.
I
soon
became
obsessed
with
capturing
beautiful
images
on
film—
shared the name of the piece with my mother she made a face like
she just sipped sour milk. I realize people may think she has no right never scenery, just people. Good times with friends weren’t real unto an opinion and that’s a fair position to have but she’s supported me less I had a photo to prove it. I took rolls and rolls of pictures, develwriting my story from the beginning. I told her to not read this essay oped them, assembled them and put them on permanent display in a
and she didn’t. She still hasn’t and I doubt she will. My husband read photo album by month, year and occasion, with their corresponding
it but we weren’t on the best terms at the time it was published. He’s negatives in plastic sleeves. Things were normal. I had the proof.
I was sixteen when my father tried again. All of my friends were
since said it was hard to read although he’s read the material in my
memoir. My oldest son never mentioned it. He was away at college getting their driver’s licenses and I wanted one too, so when he caught
studying
for
finals.
He
knows
what
my
father
did
to
me
but
avoids
me in my towel on the way to the bathroom, he bargained with me.
talking about that part of my writing and my twenty-one year will “Just leave the door cracked when you shower. I want to watch you
champion
any
publication
I
have
instead
of
commenting
specifically
while you lather up. Then I’ll let you practice driving in my pickup
on the piece. I touch on some deep subjects in my work. I understand truck.”
I charged at him with the intent to kill, but my towel fell down.
it’s not easy to read. It wasn’t easy to live through. My younger chilAfraid of him seeing me, I ran to my room hysterically crying, locked
dren don’t know yet but they will. They have to.
The comments I received were very supportive. I was overwhelmed the door and called a friend to come get me. When my mother reby the outpour of empathy and sympathy. In my excitement, I emailed turned from work and asked me what happened, my friend said, “He
the editor to share the news. “I’m pleased that you’re happy the way tried it again and she’s leaving with me.” I left home for three months,
the piece turned out, Sharisse,” she said. “Have you been on the site only returning for clothes every couple of weeks.
Six years after my father raped me, I asked him to walk me down
recently?” “No,” I said, “not in a little while.” “Well, we decided to
shut down the comment thread,” she said. “Oh,” I said. Of course, the
aisle.
My
twenty-­four
year
old
fiancé
had
proposed
to
me
on
my
that made me wonder what comments had been there. But eventu- nineteenth birthday. Finally, I had a way to escape living in my faally learning more about the Internet and trolls I’m thankful the editor ther’s house. Instead, I’d be a wife. Still, all I could think about was
thought more of my feelings in those moments than she did of clicks. how incomplete my wedding pictures would look without my father
A year later while I attended a weeklong workshop, I found myself in them. I had no brother, no uncle who could stand in. It had to be
seated next to a renowned writer at breakfast. She introduced herself him.
When my father agreed to give me away at the ceremony, my
and that essay came up in the conversation. I was startled that she not
only knew my name but also had read my words. “Sharisse,” she said, mother and soon-to-be husband both looked at me, then each other.
“I think everyone saw that piece,” she said. “It was a great essay.” I For
a
moment,
I’d
hoped
my
fiancé
would
knock
my
father
to
the
was
so
flattered
I
couldn’t
finish
my
Fruit
Loops.
It
was
then
that
going viral made more sense to me. Not because someone on television
CONTINUED
One Side of
The Personal Essay
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
3
(CONTINUED From Page 3)
ground, but he just shook my father’s hand and said, “Thank you.” I
was hurt but not surprised. No man had ever saved me; why should
my
fiancé
be
any
different?
But
this
only
intensified
my
rush
to
escape
and
I
moved
the
wedding up to Las Vegas. I picked a chapel with the best picture deal:
Five-hundred dollars for thirty-six portraits, a special frame, a small
cake, a bridal bouquet and a limo ride.
The day before we said “I do,” my mother, my father and I jammed
into my groom’s compact car. My parents were crushed in the back
seat, forced to listen to me play Janet Jackson’s “Black Cat” on repeat.
Heartbeat, real strong but not for long / Better watch your step, or
you’re gonna die
I loved it.
After a while, I began to fear the song might be unfortunately
prophetic. Though my father had been ill prior to the trip, he looked
sicker than usual. Was he going to have a sickle cell crisis? Die on the
way up or in his sleep the night before my wedding? Then who would
walk me down the aisle? What about my pictures? I’d never asked
him for anything. All I wanted was a few steps and a smile. I thought,
he would have the nerve to die now.
He didn’t.
On my wedding day, my father and I took turns snapping shots of
each other in the limo on the way to the chapel. He took pictures of
me alone in my gown while I took ones of my mother and him. My
mother tried to take a few of me but when the pictures were developed,
my
face
had
been
smudged
out
by
her
fingers
covering
the
lens.
In the chapel, the minister cued up “Here and Now” by Luther Vandross, our wedding song, and I started sobbing.
“Why are you crying?” My mother asked. “Is it because of your
father or because you know you’re making a mistake?”
The minister held my hand and said, “Just nerves.”
My mother had to remind me to take my father’s arm. Did I have
to touch him? He smelled of smoke, that disgustingly familiar, soothing smell. My crying became ugly and uncontrollable. A camera was
Suddenly, a big, black old caddy drives up.
The kind that looks angry, looks mean.
4
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
flashing.
I
was
remembering.
“You’re such a naturally pretty girl, but a lot of girls are pretty,”
my father had told me while he was setting up the photo shoot in his
bedroom. “You will need more than that to make it as a model.” I told
him I was uncomfortable wearing just the bra and panty set he put
me in. “Real models wear much less. You need at least a few shots in
something revealing,” he said between short drags from his cigarette.
I shrugged off the memory, gathered my strength and walked down
the aisle. The day will be only twenty-four hours, I told myself, but the
picture will last forever.
After the quick “I dos,” our song came to an abrupt stop. A chapel
staff member escorted us to the photo room.
“Father and daughter look so much alike,” the photographer said.
“Daddy’s little girl, right?”
“Cheese!”
After our honeymoon in Hawaii, I spent hours arranging all of our
photos perfectly in a wedding album. Finding no satisfaction in it, I
never looked at it again. Six months later, just before my father died,
I gave him the pretty picture he wanted, my forgiveness, but I didn’t
mean it and I still don’t. I cheated on my husband within months of
our marriage and divorced him by our second anniversary. But years
afterward, my mother still refused to take the wedding photos down
off of her mantle. “They’re such beautiful pictures,” she would say.
Beautiful, perfect and utterly meaningless.
Sharisse Tracey’s work has appeared in The Los Angeles Review
and online at The New York Times, The Washington Post, ELLE, Ebony, Salon, Essence, Yahoo, Babble, DAME and online publications. An
off-Broadway play NOT SOMEONE LIKE ME directed by Christopher Sarandon that features 5 rape monologues-- one about Sharisse’s
life was last shown at The New York Theatre Workshop with her role
read by actress Adrienne C. Moore—Black Cindy from Orange Is The
New Black. While living in the Seattle area Sharisse caught the acting
bug
after
landing
a
small
role
in
an
independent
film,
a
few
commercials
and
modeling
jobs
but
her
first
love
is
writing.
Sharisse
Tracey
lives in New York with her family where she is working on her memoir.
Follow her @SharisseTracey.
SUMMER NOIR
BY CHRIS YATES
erything
finally
clicked.
And I ran.
n six days I would turn thirteen and don’t know what an ideal
I ran, not looking back until I heard the sound it made pushing its
childhood is but I know that until that Wednesday, one hot yel- knuckled length through the air, turning just in time to glimpse the
low day of 1982, I believed I was living it. Believed my parents spear before it sunk its nose into my calf. And when it dug in, it dug
were happy, that I was growing up in the best place on earth, in far enough that it stayed there for seven or eight paces as I started
probably still believed in ghosts, UFOs, tarot cards and the purity of to slow, its tail rattling on the stony ground.
major league baseball.
Here comes the hardest part of the story for me to relate to in adultI remember our time in those mountains all bleached like old pho- hood but I really did do this—I turned and picked up the spear, which
tos, the sky more bright than blue, rocks with a hazy glare and our had disengaged from my leg a few yards behind me, and I took the
bicycles two different shades of baked orange. We would ride them thing back to him. Like some kind of bird dog.
up there, three panting miles, the whole summer long.
He looked immensely proud, reaching out for our weapon with
There were pitch pines and blueberry bushes and turkey vultures both
hands,
palms
facing
skyward.
Closing
his
fists
around
its
shaft,
overhead. And sometimes you might get a hiker come by, but mostly he
flexed
the
spear,
gave
it
a
slight
and
single
shake.
It
was
a
good
you wouldn’t see anyone, not on weekdays at least. Those were the spear,
it
had
flown
true,
twenty,
thirty
yards.
dog days of summer vacation, heat stippling the air, incessant shrill
Leaning our weapon against a tree, he gripped me by the shoulders
of insects. That Wednesday had brought the harshest of the seasonal and turned me around. Whistled. Cool wound, he said.
heat and I kept to the shadows the best I could.
I looked over at the spear. The nail at its tip was pretty rusty. And
By the time I got back from reconnaissance, he had her tied up I don’t even remember if I knew about tetanus back then but I knew
pretty well with all sorts of knots. I think he must have been inspired I should probably tell someone what happened. But instead I wore
to use so much rope, more than was necessary, by one of those silent long pants for a week and fretted over how I would answer the quesblack-and-white movies, the victim mouthing screams as she lays on tion if somebody asked me why. Although why anyone would have
the railroad tracks already cocooned by the caped villain.
asked me why I was wearing long pants, I have no idea.
But she wasn’t tied to railway tracks, she was tied to a tree. ProbAnother
time
he
fired
a
rock
from
a
slingshot
that
hit
me
right
beably one of those pitch pines I mentioned, although the precise genus tween the eyes. An inch or two to the left, to the right… Oh God.
of tree he had used was not top of my list of things to be taking note
But maybe this doesn’t say anything meaningful about what hapof right then.
pened that Wednesday. Because honestly, I don’t think he had any
He shot her just once to begin with, wincing as he pulled the trig- idea it was even possible to hit me. I was in our secret fort and it
ger.
We
had
never
fired
the
gun
at
real
flesh.
Mostly
at
soda
cans,
was his turn to bombard and we’d made one side of the fort from an
garter snakes, chipmunks, secret forts, wild turkey and white-tailed old fence scavenged from the abandoned blueberry pickers huts and
deer. Which is not to say we had no experience at all in the conjunc- the rock came straight through this really narrow space between two
tions
of
human
flesh
and
certain
other
projectiles.
pickets.
One time we crafted a spear from a piece of bamboo we took from
I told Mom I ran into a low branch turning a corner too fast.
Mrs Granger’s yard, the tomato plant collapsing under the weight of
Anyway,
after
he
shot
her
the
first
time
it
was
a
good
amount
of
green fruit. We used rubber bands and a big nail we foraged from the time before he shot her again. And what with his initial wincing, the
derelict house near the airport. We took everything up into the moun- scrunched eyes, the turned head, maybe he wasn’t even sure if he’d
tains to put it together, then spent a lot of time making small adjust- hit her. Probably she would have been screaming just as much either
ments to the thing, weighting it with stones inside for the right sort of way. And he didn’t want to go near her while she was making so
balance, ensuring that the nail held tight enough to the bamboo that it much noise, so he waited until she was just crying, which was maybe
wouldn’t
deflect
when
it
met
its
target.
We
wanted
to
be
sure
that
the
as long as two or three minutes.
point of the spear would embed. It took us an hour or more and then
It was her arm, almost up at her shoulder, where she had in fact
the conclusion of the whole episode was over in just a few seconds.
been hit. He walked forward and stopped a few paces back, peering
He had hold of the spear when we agreed it was ready and he told in at her like she was darkness in a cave. Shut up, it’s only a dumb BB
me to run. Just that single word barked out like I’d made him angry gun, he said, cracking the lever, which didn’t exactly help matters.
for no particular reason.
She screamed some more.
What?
He must’ve told her we were going up into the mountains to shoot
Run! he repeated, higher-pitched this time.
deer with a real gun. Or maybe he hadn’t used the exact words real
He had started to get a sense of the spear’s weight, holding it lightly gun but I’m guessing that’s what she must have assumed. I mean,
at
his
shoulder
and
feeling
for
the
right
sort
of
grip,
fingers
fluttering
it’s not like she was the kind of twelve year old girl who would have
as
if
playing
the
flute.
known
a
BB
gun
from
an
assault
rifle.
And
none
of
this
is
to
say
that
I
find
it
hard
now
to
believe
his
intention
took
me
so
long
to
dis- he wouldn’t have used a real gun if we could’ve gotten our hands on
cern. I stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do. He closed one eye one. But the BB gun was all we had, a Red Ryder, named after that
and started to line me up along the shaft of the spear, this spear we
had made together. I really do think it took me that long before evCONTINUED
I
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
5
(CONTINUED From Page 5)
tually become familiar to me. And I probably resented that if I’m
honest about the whole thing.
comic
strip
cowboy,
looks
just
like
a
Winchester
rifle.
Same
kind
of
Anyway, when she stopped crying, or the crying had died down
gun Ralphie dreams about in A Christmas Story (You’ll shoot your to a whimper, he pointed at the mark the pellet had left near the pink
eye out, kid), only mine didn’t have a compass in the stock or a thing strap of her tank. She might not have known about guns but she had
to tell the time.
to
know
the
difference
between
a
gaping
flesh
wound
and
the
little
Let me say for the record that I thought we’d probably just show cherrystone mark the BB had left on her skin. It was like a bullseye,
her the normal spots and we wouldn’t even see any deer, so we’d only the other way round, white in the center with a red ring around
plunk some soda cans instead and then he’d try to make out with her. it.
Like
the
flesh
that
was
hit
was
in
shock
and
only
the
gathering
(I
believed
the
last
thought
had
been
confirmed
when
we
got
to
our
crowd was in uproar.
secret spot and he sent me immediately away on reconnaissance.)
Look, he said, it doesn’t even break skin.
And although we were almost the same age, he was a country mile
I bet you could’ve loaded up that old Red Ryder of mine with mayfurther along that snaky path toward manhood than me. I suppose be
five
or
six
hundred
little
BBs.
He
cracked
the
lever
on
the
gun.
I
we’d never really spoken about girls in any sort of making out sense. promise I’ll stay away from your face, he said.
But even so, I’d seen him looking at them in a way that would evenAnd I honestly believe he intended to stick to that promise.
6
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
GRINDHOUSE
CINEMA
Now Playing on Your Laptop
BY LUX SOMMERS
This year, Playboy Magazine ceased featuring women in the buff. It’s
a shocking move for a publication that built its empire on unclothed
damsels
flashing
pink.
But
due
to
the
growing
prevalence
of
free
internet
lasciviousness, nakedness is no longer drawing subscriptions. This following news of Penthouse Magazine’s parent company going bankrupt,
it seems the smut industry is at a critical crossroads. With cuckolds and
triple-penetration scenes available gratis, it seems people won’t even
pay to see kinky sex, let alone boring nudity.
As a young single lady living in New York, most pornography isn’t for
me, though I consider myself open-minded. So I was fascinated when I
stumbled across Something Weird Video. It’s a truly magical corner of
the inter-webs, where consumers are still willing to shell out for salacity. The site offers the kind of enjoyment the oversexed modern market
doesn’t. With its vintage spin on the taboo, these celluloid treasures harken back to a more innocent time, when “gore galore” still had shock
value, and “nude but not lewd” was a draw instead of a drawback.
For
$9.99
a
flick,
patrons
seem
willing
to
pay
to
see
less.
These
days,
“Peepshow”
isn’t
the
first
fantasy
I
would
Google.
But
Something
Weird’s Nudie Cutie section is both laugh-out-loud funny and surprisingly
sensual,
especially
the
flick
Nude
On
The
Moon,
where
topless
ladies in beehive hairdos and sprouted alien antenna frolic in outer-space.
In a culture jaded by overexposure, viewers now seem willing to pony
up for a coyer take on the adult motion picture.
This wide-eyed earnestness is not to be confused with today’s rotating
roster of girl-next-door stars—webcam scouted, early twenties— getting fucked senseless by seasoned male actors in LA studios. Rather,
CONTINUED
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
7
(CONTINUED From Page 7)
banned booze in the 1920’s. They feel authentic, like grainy glimpses
into the gloriously twisted imaginations of our jello-fed forebears.
There
are
no
Hollywood
storylines
or
flashy
productions
here,
but
these retro reels reveal a shared innocence on the part of the whole
crew and American culture. Historically, these movies were ground- that’s part of the appeal. “Seemingly written by a group of Swedish
breaking for their time. The excitement over making or viewing school kids just learning English and edited by a bread slicer,” is how
something so shockingly transgressive is palpable. It’s got that oh- Something Weird Video introduces one feature. “Unintentionally
yes-we-did wink. Something Weird’s offerings may be sick, but campy, this amateur production will leave you shaking your head
and asking yourself, “Why, oh why?!” reads another. Hit play on that
they’re never, ever jaded.
The
films
available
on
the
site
belong
to
the
“exploitation
genre,”
one
and
you’ll
find
a
young
boy
in
gold
lamé
short-­shorts
performa category of movie popular from 1930-1970, when the US govern- ing
dance
routines
with
massive
helium-­filled
creatures.
This
abment banned all lurid content from Hollywood. In these pre-internet surdist, self aware wink is refreshing. Something Weird wants your
decades, consumers had to journey to seedy establishments called money, sure, but the proprietors aren’t trying to oversell these works.
grindhouses in order to glimpse the depravity they craved. The pro- They’re just inviting you to join in the cooky fun.
With tens of thousands of hours of footage, it’s hard to know
prietors of the site have preserved the old-timey feel in the digital
experience, with garish poster-art and overly-theatrical trailers hint- where to direct your bulging eyeballs. As a young feminist, I was
ing at the sordid melodrama. Lurid titles like, “All Men Are Apes” particularly
interested
in
the
films
of
Doris
Wishman,
a
prolific
sexand “The Bushwhacker” boom, step off Main Street USA and into ploitation
filmmaker,
whose
mostly
soft-­core
films
are
prominently
the grindhouse! It’s a dank theater, in desperate need of a vacuum- featured on the site. Wishman began her career in moviemaking as
ing, projector lights illuminating dust and humankind’s darkest fan- an unusual way of coping with the death of her Advertising Executive
husband.
She
famously
declared
filmmaking
“better
than
sex,
tasies.
Today the adult video industry is worth 13 million dollars, run pre- though
few
of
her
flicks
contain
the
explicit
act,
favoring
nudity,
girl-­
dominantly by rich men feeding off disposable young women. For on-girl romance, and outlandishly steamy storylines. According to
most adult actresses, the average stint lasts three years. Consumers Wishman’s biographer, “She was actually rather sexually naïve…
like to see fresh faces, a new cast of teens, MILFs, cheerleaders, and She personally thought someone’s hand caressing your face was
nurses to whack off to. Other than being well hung, it doesn’t really more erotic than sex itself.”
What
intrigued
me
about
Wishman’s
films
is
that
they
represent
a
matter what the men look like. For this reason, guys in the business
different sensibility within the male-dominated genre of sexploitaenjoy
significantly
longer
careers.
tion.
Film
expert
Fred
Beldin
writes
that
Wishman’s
films
depicting
rape,
stalking
and
degradation,
“had
a
different
flavor
than
the
“roughies” made by her male counterparts,” and calls these movies,
“her most interesting work.”
Despite
the
anti-­female
content,
Wishman’s
films
are
feminist,
because her wild and elaborate tales cater to her unique sexuality and
kinks common among women. One such plot unspools in Indecent
Desires (1967) wherein “creepy weirdo-nerd” Zed molests a plastic
doll that is linked voodoo style to Anne, a buxom blonde secretary
As
enjoyable
as
the
output
may
be
to
some,
the
field
is
undeni- who feels Zed’s hands all over her from across town. When Zed
ably
scummy.
Conversely,
I
found
that
renting
a
flick
from
Some- spots Anne with her boyfriend, the nightly feel ups turn violent. Zed
thing Weird was like buying into the anti-establishment. Something singes the doll with a lit cigarette leaving Anne with a massive burn
Weird Video was started by Seattle scenester and comic book collec- mark she struggles to explain at work the next day.
While most XXX plots are a thinly veiled tool to get from A to
tor Mike Vrany. As a teen, Vraney worked in a drive in theater and
later managed famous bands including The Dead Kennedy’s, TSOL, banging, the doll serves as a stand in for actual human contact. Perand The Accused. Vraney incorporated this punk-rock DIY aesthetic haps the “sexual nativity” that Wishman’s male biographer notes, is
into his collections, personally cutting together 370 two-hour install- not a hang-up or lack of experience as the word implies, but rather
ments of Nudie Cuties and frequenting the swap meet to search for a preference. Wishman delights in leaving more carnal aspects to
vintage ephemera. When Vraney died tragically young of lung can- the imagination. For women like me, the unseen is most erotic. The
cer in 2014, his wife— the artist and archivist Lisa Petrucci— took mind’s eye is a pulsing organ, suggestion is sexy.
Today two thirds of pornography viewers today are men, and an
over operations.
With its associations to punk-rock and the arts, Something Weird even larger majority of that content seems geared towards the mainVideo is refreshingly anti-coorporate, though Comcast’s On demand stream male fantasy. The focus is on the heavily-made-up woman,
now offers several titles, including “Campy Classroom Classics.” approximately age 22, performing “slutty” acts like deep throating or
Vraney
wasn’t
only
seeking
profits,
when
he
endeavored
to
save
getting fucked by multiple men at once. The men are unseen, except
“sinema”
from
dusty
film
vaults
and
defunct
theaters.
“Something
their their oversized pulsating members, a stand in for the viewer’s
Weird was his heart and soul, he was obsessive in his pursuit of own.
As I mentioned, most onscreen carnality doesn’t do it for me, in
tracking down the weirdest, wildest movies out there,” a close friend
wrote after his death. Even the most offensive material has an under- fact, it grosses me out. This feeling is separate from my feminist
ground
allure,
a
joyful
irreverence.
Remember,
these
were
the
filmed
banned from Hollywood by the same puritanical government that
CONTINUED
It’s this tension between purity
of heart and sick fantasies that
makes the content at once utterly
offensive and weirdly endearing.
8
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
(CONTINUED From Page 8)
stance on the x-rated; it’s an immediate, visceral reaction to watching
random
actors
getting
it
on.
I
find
the
clips
too
graphic,
too
much,
too
fast. I’m culturally conditioned and biologically wired to like things
slowed down. At a recent sleepover, my female friend and I viewed
Deep Throat, fast forwarding through all the graphic sex scenes. We
didn’t question whether the content was morally offensive, just had
no interest in watching a woman having her windpipe screwed.
I get more pleasure from racy network shows like True Blood and
Game of Thrones, where I can watch soft-core trysts between characters I have developed attractions to. I’m excited by the dynamics
and the tension that builds gradually over time. Scruffy faced Game
of Thrones star Jon Snow (RIP) actually turns me on, as opposed to
creep-­o
middle-­aged
porn
actors.
To
me,
Wishman’s
films
feel
more
prototypical to this salacious TV entertainment as opposed to the
modern
adult
film.
Both
Wishman
and
the
current
shows
mentioned
do suspense expertly. Both also depict rape and other offensive acts
in ways that are sure to rile many feminists. Yet placed within the
construct of a storyline and characters and shown in a soft-core sensibility, I actually enjoy these scenes.
Statistically, modern viewers visit porn sites for ten minutes. This
ready, set, orgasm model doesn’t work for many women. By contrast,
Doris
Wishman’s
film
The
Amazing
Transplant
(about
a
male
genital surgery gone awry) runs 77 minutes. Game of Thrones has
been running for 50 episodes and counting—True Blood ended after 80—, long enough that these characters can begin to feel like
long lost friends and lovers. This isn’t just about it taking longer for
women to orgasm, but more aptly, the inextricable need for foreplay
and intimacy in order for sex acts to be satisfying.
“I want to pass a newsstand and see erotica, real erotica, which has
to do with love and free choice, not pornography,” feminist and antiporn advocate Gloria Steinem recently said in in interview. I don’t
agree with Steinem’s insistence that equity needs to be eroticized,
because I don’t agree with applying moral standards to smut. The inconvenient fact is that politically correct doesn’t always equate with
sexy. Pornography isn’t supposed to be a public service announcement for moral behavior, it’s made to get the viewer off.
What
I
find
problematic
is
the
pervasive
lack
of
consideration
for
a woman’s pleasure in the modern industry. Power dynamics can
be erotic for men and women alike, however not if the scenes are
shot
in
a
way
that
only
guys
find
titillating.
The
attitude
that
a
man’s
enjoyment
comes
first
makes
spectacle
less
enjoyable
for
women
and carries over into bedrooms across America. When lady-kind is
endlessly degraded for man’s enjoyment, the industry becomes despicable.
Something Weird embraces camp as its main sensibility, which is
to say, the site has a perspective. The celluloid wonders delight in the
artifice
of
fake
blood,
the
joy
of
self-­parody.
The
content
is
way
too
much, so outlandish it’s funny. According to camp expert Susan Sontag, the style “discloses innocence, but also, when it can, corrupts it.”
It’s this tension between purity of heart and sick fantasies that makes
the content at once utterly offensive and weirdly endearing.
The plot of Wishman’s The Amazing Transplant is a prime example of camp. In it, formerly dorky Arthur blackmails a doctor into
hacking off Arthur’s “little-used cocktail weenie” and replacing it
with “the virile, babe-magnet member of dead Felix.” Somehow the
transplant
turns
Arthur
into
a
sex-­crazed
rapist,
compelled
to
defile
any young woman who happens to be wearing gold earrings. The
concept
is
overwrought
and
ambitious;;
it
flops
beautifully.
With
their
definitive
aesthetic,
Something
Weird’s
flicks
are
artistic
as
well
as
vulgar.
Most
modern
adult
film,
by
contrast,
is
just
bad.
The
flicks
aren’t
artfully
shot
or
acted
but
they
also
don’t
go
far
enough to be camp. It doesn’t take much imagination to capture the
maximum cum drip in the creampuff shot.
So often in our culture, sex sells art. A prime example is singers
who get publicity because they look like models. Look at the women
who grace the covers of Rolling Stone Magazine, their talent always
placed second to their sexuality. But rarely in modern pornography
does art sell sex. Wishman did it so badly, she did it expertly.
Wishman
died
a
cult
hero
in
2012.
Her
films
are
revered
for
a
narrative techniques of ridiculous plots, sick twists and random jumps
of logic. This approach is complimented with goofy visual style of
non-sequitur closeups (feet, household objects, etc.) and a handheld
camera feel. In other words, Wishman is ultra-camp.
But
her
films
aren’t
for
everyone.
They’re
not
even
for
most
women.
That’s
exactly
why
we
need
more
filmmakers
catering
to
a
diversity of tastes. So there can again be “something weird for everyone.”
I would be willing to pay to see that.
www.somethingweird.com
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
9
THE PIT
(An excerpt from Seth Kanor’s next novel, Everyone Knows This is Nowhere)
I
t was called the Pit. To get to it you had to push past the double
doors of the boy’s locker room and wind your way through a catacomb of green, rusted lockers. Then, at the end of the last row,
there
was
a
linoleum-­floored
room
lit
by
rusted
tracks
of
fluorescent lighting, and in the far corner, under a pocked sheet of square
metal
stamped
like
a
sewer
cover,
there
was
a
hole
five
feet
wide,
five
feet
long,
and
five
feet
deep.
One
of
the
janitors
said
it
was
a
crawl
space, but it led nowhere, offered no access to pipes or electric, and had
never been used for storage. Like an appendix, its function had long
been forgotten. Until the wrestlers decided that they would use it to cut
weight before their matches.
Jude had seen them. In winter, they would walk en masse into the
shower room—each wearing a heavy, hooded sweat suit; each carrying a small chair, or stool—and they would turn the taps until the
hottest
possible
water
was
flowing
from
each
of
the
twelve
showerheads. There they would sit, meditating like monks in their tiled monastery, emerging only at long intervals from the great clouds of steam
to make their pilgrimage to the mechanical scale. And if the water
weight wasn’t coming off fast enough they resorted to other methods.
They pissed, they spit, and they shat. They consumed diuretics, they
took
large
quantities
of
laxatives,
they
forced
their
fingers
down
their
they’d all taken Martin Waisburd to the weight room. He’d done the
bench press, pull-ups, curls and dips. Afterwards, they’d fed him a
pound of roast beef and two raw eggs. They’d said he needed to the
protein to get bigger and stronger. Then they’d brought him back to
the locker room so they could weigh him. “ Take off the T-shirt, Farty,”
Wolf demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. “ C’mon, Farty, you
fucking
rebo,”
said
Krolikowski.
Defino
was
smiling,
but
didn’t
look
happy. Waisburd took of the t-shirt. “ And the sneakers,” said Wolf.
“ So we get an accurate read.” Waisburd bent his long frame down to
the
floor
and
untied
the
shoelaces.
Jude
watched
from
his
locker
as
the
shoes were sullenly kicked off. “ And the pants,” said Wolf. “ Not the
pants. Okay, Karl?” Waisburd pleaded. “ Farty. Take off the fucking
pants.” From the shadows, Jude found himself examining the boy’s
body.
Waisburd’s
skin
was
olive,
almost
green,
under
the
fluorescent
lights, and his chest and belly were covered in thick, black, matted
hair. He looked like a sweating, hairy animal. And then there was the
Semitic prominence of the nose and lips. Was Waisburd Jewish? Jude
wasn’t sure. The knees were comically knobby. The white underwear
was stained front and back.
Krolikowski made a gagging motion. Wolf spoke. “ Farty Gayturd,” he said. “ We take you to the gym; we show you how to use the
universal; we spend time on you showing you how to bulk up, how to
be a better ballplayer; and you show up with shit and fucking piss on
your underwear?” “ Sorry, Karl.” “ Take that grubby shit off, you fucking dingleberry.” Waisburd’s hands went instinctively to his genitals.
“ Please Karl...” Wolf—arms still crossed, biceps bulging—stood like
Wotan and deliberated. “ Okay, Farty, if you won’t take that shit off,
we’ll fucking hang you by it.” And then with a nod from Wolf, the kids
from the wall—Kraus and Kluczynsky—moved towards Waisburd
and lifted him in the air. And Jude watched silently while they took him
to a hook on the wall and hung him by his underwear. It seemed impossible
that
it
would
hold,
but
it
did.
Waisburd
was
flipping
around
like
a
throats. And at some point, nobody knows when, these teenage ascet- fish
on
the
bottom
of
a
boat.
Jude
could
see
the
outline
of
the
crushed
ics
began
by
silent
consensus
to
spit,
piss,
and
shit
into
that
five-­by-­ testicles and penis. The boy’s contorted face was turning blue, his
five-­by-­five
hole
in
the
corner
of
the
locker
room.
If
they
were
cut,
hands were outstretched, like some idiot-Christ, and he was crying out
they would bleed into it; if they had phlegm in their throats, they would to Wolf to take him down, crying for mercy. And Wolf was telling him
spit into it; if their immune systems had broken down from the rapid to be a man. To stop being a fucking baby. And Waisburd said he was
weight loss and they’d developed abscesses, they’d squeeze their puss trying. And Jude stepped from the shadows toward Wolf. “ Take him
into it; if they were horny they would masturbate into it, sometimes down,” he said. “ Jewd,” said Wolf, turning. “ How are Jew, Jewd?”
while the rest of the team cheered them on. In short: the Pit contained He walked calmly toward Jude’s locker. He smelled of Right Guard.
every
imaginable
fluid
that
a
teenage
boy
could
produce.
While Jude stood frozen, he opened the locker and sniffed. “ When
The jocks—especially the basketball team—knew about it. So was the last time you washed these, stinky?” “ I don’t remember,” said
did the freaks. So did the bookworms. Everyone had heard about Jude.
“
Because
you
fucking
stink,
Jewd.
Krolikowski!
Defino!
Come
it, everyone feared it. It was a place you didn’t want to end up. No, over
and
smell
this
stinky-­fucking
Jew.”
Defino
was
smiling
even
thought
Jude.
You
definitely
didn’t
want
to
be
trapped
down
there
with
wider, all teeth now. Then Krolikowski pushed Jude against the metal
a bunch of kids standing on that cover and depriving you of air and locker. “ Fucking Slinky,” he said, echoing Wolf.
light, drowning you in a fetid quagmire of creeping mold, and rotting
And just at that moment, Bobby the janitor walked in with his cigar
food, and human waste. It was surprising nobody had died there; and stuck in his mouth and his bucket and his mop in hand and the jocks
it seemed possible you could. The Pit was the center of underworld of and the greasers sauntered out, leaving Jude to take Martin Waisburd
the jocks. It was their Hades, and Karl Wolf was its ruler. In the locker down from his hook.
room, Jude saw. It was late in the afternoon. The coaches had gone
home.
So
had
most
of
the
kids.
Wolf,
Krolikowski,
Defino
and
some
Seth Kanor’s debut novel Indian Leap was published by Helioother guys who weren’t on the team were there. Earlier that afternoon trope Books in March, 2015.
They pissed, they spit, and they
shat. They consumed diuretics,
they took large quantities of
laxatives, they forced their fingers
down their throats.
10
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
POETRY
EXCERPT &
ILLUSTRATIONS
BY ROYAL YOUNG
“…She was blonde
She was young
She was Hitchcock in the sun
Grace Kelly and Vertigo rolled into one
Now I cover my walls with posters
Of dead movie stars in
Black and white
Their signatures still hold star power
Scrawled across my dreams...”
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
11
THE PORTRAIT OF
MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI:
An Odyssey
BY MICHAEL DEMYAN
It should be noted that while the quotes accredited to MJ are
accurate,
there
is
an
obvious
element
of
fiction
at
work
here.
Liberties have been taken.
The bus rolled along from the airport to where it left me. Somewhere on the East Bank. It was a bleak November day. The rain
was sporadic from the moment I landed until the moment he vanished. I thumbed through my notes and mulled over the questions I had planned. I was interested to speak with the man who
has taken on the name as “The King of Erotic Thriller”. An author known for his unparalleled work in the genre. As well as in
crime/noir. He’s a disturbing and controversial voice in contemporary
fiction.
Writer,
editor,
publisher,
with
a
resume
a
mile
long,
though still so mysterious to me.
The rain was steady at this sky was dark. It was early afternoon
but it could have been midnight. I cut onto Charing Cross Road in
a hurry. I was set to meet him at his bookshop; Murder One. Only
it didn’t exist. It was coffee shop with a young blonde dame working the counter. I told her I was confused. That I was supposed to
be meeting someone in a bookstore. A bookstore that isn’t where
Sex and death…they are the only
two things worth writing about.
he said it was. She smiled like she possessed some secret knowledge, her name was Cornelia. As I dried my hair and she led me
to
a
staircase
behind
a
door
in
the
back
of
the
café.
At
the
top
of
the
staircase
was
a
room.
That’s
when
I
first
laid
eyes
on
him.
Clad
in
black
with
his
hands
firing
rapidly
into
his
keyboard. A man that never misses a deadline. The girl made eyes
at him. He stayed focused. Silent. He needs a modicum of silence
when working on a piece of journalism. One of his articles for
The Guardian perhaps. The place was minimally dressed. It was
clear that this wasn’t his usual meeting place. The girl cleared her
throat. Her eyes burned into him. Love or lust, I thought to myself. He gave nothing. She girl tore off, her skirt sweeping across
the
floor.
It
was
the
slamming
of
the
door
that
finally
broke
him
from his work. He looked up at me. Outwardly misanthropic. Internally, a cauldron of emotion. I was convinced he hadn’t been
aware of my existence in the room until that very moment. Rising
from his desk he suggested we get a drink. He pulled on a long
black topcoat and removed what I took to be a small notebook
from
his
desk
drawer.
Stuffing
it
quickly
into
his
pocket.
By
the
time
we
walked
back
down
into
the
café,
it
was
completely dark. I thought 3pm was an odd time to close up shop but
12
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
so it goes. Maxim was
unnerved and so I was
unnerved. We used
the back door which
led to a cab parked
outside,
ostensibly
waiting for us. I took
us into Whitechapel
where we sat in the
back booth of some
wreck of a dive bar.
The Artful Dodger. It
was drab, stark; full
of regulars and if you
weren’t one they let
you know it quick.
The
first
drink
went
down easy, too easy.
He doesn’t drink. He
says it’s a matter of
taste. I took it slow on
the second beer and
felt ready to dig into a conversation with him. He sits rather still
with
the
occasional
hand
gesture
when
figuring
out
his
way
to
the
point. And when he speaks, it is in short crisp sentences reminiscent of his writing.
“Writing
fiction
is
something
I
find
terribly
painful.”
He said he has cried while writing. When the reality that inspired the story is too much to bear. It was eerily similar so I had
to ask. Many characters resemble him but they are never autobiographical, he swears. He uses the writer as a source. Him being
my source, I began to feel like I was inside one of his novels.
That’s when I realized we were being watched.
Being watched by a beautiful blonde woman at the opposite
end of the bar. She was pulling olives off of a martini toothpick
with her teeth. She wore a long black dress and a leather jacket to
match. She was too familiar, or seemed to be. Was she eyeing me?
Maxim?
A
rush
of
sex
and
loneliness
filled
the
room.
I
was
in
the
haze of the alcohol coming on faster than it should have. I reset
myself and was able to brush it all off long enough to continue
our conversation. I laid out all the questions. Was he really the
“King of Erotic Thriller” was he responsible for over 125 books
did he close Murder One due to a lack of challenge why do his
characters lack true happiness did he really identify more with his
female than his male characters and was that due to him being
raised in France?
“My whole life and the purpose of my writing, I think, is to
understand women, their beauty, their soul.”
It was if he said it for her. She came from the far end of the
CONTINUED
(CONTINUED From Page 12)
bar. She made her way towards us stoically intense. Maybe just a
crazed fan I thought. I couldn’t drink anymore and pushed away
the last glass Maxim brought me. I saw a look in his eye as she
was close enough to touch. A look of knowing, a lost love. She
said nothing but crossed into the restroom. It was time to go.
Maxim was abrupt and rushed us to the door. Opening it, waved
me out with his pocketed hand as the wind rushed in.
Had I been sober, I would have gotten myself out of this situation. It was too much now. Something was off. I tried to hail a
cab to my hotel but Maxim pulled me off the street and around a
corner.
“One feels a strong sense of loneliness being alone in a hotel
room when night begins to fall and memories come racing back
through one’s mind” he said, convincing me to follow him on
what
became
a
Jack
the
Ripper
tour.
He
took
us
along
all
five
canonical ripper locations. Spouting out answers to questions I was
not asking. He said BDSM was more than whips and chains. A
complex set of emotions and actions. I said nothing. He went on.
“I believe orgasm is the closest we can get to death.” “Sex and
death…they are the only two things worth writing about.”
A clicking of heels approached. I had a rush of clarity and made
an all too-late realization. Out of the fog there she stood, gun in
hand.
The
blonde
from
the
café.
The
blonde
from
the
bar.
They
were the same. She was a hit-woman and she loved him. Maxim
knew exactly what was happening. His hands were deep in his
pockets.
I
was
frozen.
She
gave
him
the
clichéd
opportunity
for
last words.
“Killing and death are a narrative requirement.”
With the sound of a gunshot, she was sprawled across the sidewalk. Maxim pulled his hand from his coat and brandished a
small
pistol.
He
had
fired
it
from
his
pocket.
It
was
a
classic
lose-­
lose noir moment. All of the usual tropes of his writing were here;
lust, madness, a writer down on his luck, and with placing the
still warm pistol in my hand he said, “Please tread carefully and
keep away from the shadows; you are about to enter the abyss.”
When I looked up from the gun, all that could be seen was Maxim
Jakubowski disappearing into the foggy night. I guess you could
say
I
got
my
interview:
A
first-­hand
experience
even.
Sirens
were
in
the
air.
I
hurried
away,
oddly
satisfied.
Maxim Jakubowski is a best-selling author; an editor and publisher who has been associated with for over 125 books. Born in
We stopped outside of a row home. We were so twisted around England, raised in France, he began writing at the age of fourin the tiny Whitechapel roads. The rain brought a fog with it. A teen. He is known for his erotic thriller, crime and noir, as well
notorious
London
fog
circled
us.
There
was
no
way
I
could
find
as
science
fiction.
He
formerly
owned
and
operated
Murder
One
my way back to the bar. He pointed towards the building and re- bookshop in London for over 20 years and has a publishing imcited in graphic detail the history of the prostitute who was found print called MaxCrime. He lives and works full time in London.
mutilated inside in November 1888.
She gasps, drops the phone.
Headlights
flash
in
her
dialated
eyes.
In
her
high
heels
and
fishnets
she
tears
through
the streets. She passes Peaches, Dawn and
Little Old Anne. They stop what they’re doin,
reach
out
to
her,
but
Sweet
Marie
just
flies
by.
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
13
MY GRANDMA WAS A
SERIAL KILLER
The Story of Clomer Jermstead
BY JAMES CLARK
everyday for 20 years, and one night I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“What did you do,” asked Clomer.
Clomer Jermstead laid next to her lover. The two had blossomed
“When he went to bed drunk as usual, I took the pillow and held
a 2-yearlong love affair, and he would do anything to make Clomer it over his face until I couldn’t hear him breath anymore,” Maude
his own.
replied. “That’s when I knew…”
“I want my husband dead,” she said.
“Knew what?”
“You got it,” he replied.
“I just saved myself from my own death,”
Clomer though beautiful, had started to age. Her marriage wasn’t
Clomer was a thoughtful woman, and wouldn’t dare think about
easy; her husband was an abusive man. Out of rage he would hit leaving someone as passionate as Maude out of her killing.
Clomer and her eldest daughter. The worry of safety started to send
“Listen, Ross and I were talking about it this morning, and I think
Clomer into a downward spiral.
I am going to do it. I can’t live another year with him.”
She
had
met
Ross,
her
lover,
at
the
café
where
she
waitressed.
He
“Self defense isn’t talked about the same way it was when I killed
was the stereo typical southern gentleman. He was tall, tan, and had my
husband,”
said
Maude.
“If
the
court
finds
out
you
had
an
affair
light brown hair that was combed out of his face. He was certainly before his murder, they will sentence you to death.”
more attractive than Clomer’s husband. More importantly, Clomer
“Guess that means I have to be discreet,” Clomer replied. “Where’s
confided
in
him
a
sense
of
safety
and
security.
He
listened
to
her,
and
my girls?”
during her destructive marriage she needed him more than anything.
Maude opened the door to a small room where the girls laid taking
I happen to be Clomer Jermstead’s step-great-grandson, and her a nap. Clomer picked the two of them up in her arms, and thanked
story
has
intrigued
me
since
my
grandma
first
told
me
a
few
years
Maude for watching them again.
ago. I’ve since had the dying urge to turn her story into a novel, and
“Ross McKellen?” asked Maude.
by researching and sorting through old documents I am starting to
“Yes.”
piece together a story that was left untold for 70+ years.
“Watch out, he spent some time in the county jail for hitting his
“How should we do it,” she asked.
own wife,” warned Maude.
“Discreetly,” whispered Ross. “If we do this we have to make it
Clomer looked shocked, and told Maude thank you again. She
come across as self defense.”
started back towards her house, and thought to herself if she did murClomer rose from the bed and lit a cigarette. She slowly put on her der her husband would she be obligated to marry Ross? If she did
slip. She was tiny framed woman, no more than 5 feet tall, she had marry
Ross
would
he
abuse
her
the
way
he
did
his
first
wife?
Is
the
dark brown curly hair pinned back to keep it out of her large brown allegation true? She opened the door, and found her husband waiting
eyes. She only wore makeup on special occasions, and Ross was one for her, drunk, and as usual out of his right mind. He walked toward
of them. She started to put on her dress, and then her shoes.
her, and slapped her across the face.
“I’m assuming this means you love me,” she said to Ross.
“I told you to be home before dark,” he said.
“I’m assuming this means you trust me,” Ross said back.
Clomer laid her daughters in bed, and sat next to them. She silently
The two chuckled, and Clomer headed out the door.
whispered, “How does mommy kill daddy?”
The walk home was the hardest thing for Clomer to do. She was
The next day Clomer woke up next to her daughters’ beds. She had
trapped in the thought of her abusive marriage, the pain of being in to rush to get ready for work.
love with another man, and feared the thought of God punishing her
After working a few hours a woman with short blonde hair and a
for having an affair.
wide
frame
walked
into
the
café.
Her
name
was
Ollie.
She left her daughters at Maude’s house across the street. She
“Are you Clomer?”
knocked on the door and was greeted by Maude’s kind and wrinkly
Clomer stood there with a bit of confusion.
face; she was a widowed woman in her late sixties, and would watch
“Yes, that’s me.”
Clomer’s children for whatever price Clomer could afford which was
“Maude saw me walking downtown this morning, she sent me in
normally just a couple of cents. Clomer lifted up her sleeve to reach here,” said Ollie. “I used to be married to Ross.”
in her purse revealing a bruise.
The two sat down and had a talk. Ollie explained to Clomer that
“Did your husband give that to you,” asked Maude.
3-years ago she was married to Ross. He used to hit her after he’d
Clomer stayed silent.
been drinking.
“Come in and lets have a talk,”
“One night he completely knocked me out,” said Ollie. “A friend
She quickly escorted Clomer inside, and had her sit down on the found me and called the cops, he spent a few months in jail, and I
chair in the living room.
“My husband was abusive,” said Maude. “Oh yes, he hit me almost
CONTINUED
14
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
(CONTINUED From Page 14)
divorced him.”
This revelation shocked Clomer, she was in love with a man just as
abusive as her own husband.
“Maude said you were going to murder your husband. I wish I
would’ve been that brave,” said Ollie. “Here, I brought you something to help.
She handed Clomer a sack, inside was rat poison.
“Mix that in with his coffee, then the murder will be discreet.”
Clomer smiled at Ollie. “Come over tomorrow morning for the
results,” she said.
On her way home from work Clomer stopped by to see Ross.
“I’m killing him tomorrow morning,” she explained. “Come over
before noon for the results.”
“You got it,” he said.
It was a breezy Saturday morning. Clomer woke up early to make
breakfast for her husband. She reached in the counter and pulled out
the sugar canister, the one her husband would use to sweeten his coffee and grits. Inside she mixed the rat poison. She closed the lid and
sat it on the table.
Her husband sat down still drowsy from waking up. Within perfect
rhythm of his daily routine put a spoonful of sugar in his coffee and
two in his grits.
She stood behind him rubbing his shoulders.
Her husband leaned back in his chair to enjoy the affection. “Something seems strange,” he said.
“Nothing is out of the ordinary, just wanted to show my husband I
love him,” Clomer said with a smile.
He got up, and left the dishes on the table for Clomer to clean.
He laid on the couch, to take a Saturday morning nap.
“I’m not feeling well,” he whimpered.
She waited for him to fall asleep, and then sat their until the poison
kicked in. She lit cigarette after cigarette, and all that seemed to hap-
pen was a small cough.
An hour past, and there was a knock on the door. Outside stood
Maude and Ollie anxiously waiting for the results.
“Has it happened,” asked Maude.
“All it has done is caused him to sleep,” Clomer answered.
“Just be patient,” said Ollie. “This could take a while.”
The three waited on the couch for another 30-minutes when all of
the sudden a loud cough burst out of the husband’s lungs followed by
vomiting,
then
a
crash
to
the
floor.
Maude ran over to him to check and see the results.
“Dead,” she said.
The three started to clean up the crime scene before the ambulance
and coroner arrived. There was another knock on the door.
“Who is that,” asked Olllie.
“Ross, I invited him over,” Clomer answered. “I’ll be there in a
second,” she yelled towards the door.
She reached her hand to her waist, and pulled a pistol out of skirt.
She walked over to the door and aimed the gun to where it would
meet Ross at eye level.
“What are you doing,” yelled Maude.
“Teaching men a lesson,” Clomer yelled.
She opened the door, and before Ross could even speak a word she
shot him 3 times.
Clomer lowered the gun, and looked at Ollie and Maude, “He
should’ve known better.”
I
was
fortunate
enough
to
get
find
these
documents
that
helped
me piece together Clomer’s story. Of course because of the lost time
I fabricated the quotes, based off the information I received. The
story has always intrigued me. You see I was molested when I was
13-years-old, and developed a burning hate toward my attacker. A
type of hate that somewhere deep inside me wants to see him die.
I can only wonder: If Clomer was alive today what would she have
encouraged me to do?
She reaches the end of her line at a chain link
fence. She’s trapped. The driver gets out, he
pulls out his pistol. Sweet Marie knows it’s
over, one tear drips down her face.
But wait, I told ya
I told ya,
he would come!
The man walks closer to
her, pistol in hand.
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
15
B&W Photography
16
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
Ross Miller
For more on
Death Wish Coffee
visit
www.honeysucklemag.com
Suddenly, like a bat in the night Johnny
swoops down, picks her up. In his long black
trenchcoat, he’s easily recognizable.
“Oh Johnny!?
Johnny, is it you?
Johnny!!”
Johnny lifts her up onto the rooftops.
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
17
CHRISTIAN
BENNER:
The Man Behind
the Destruction
BY LUX SOMMERS
S
crolling through Christian Benner’s site the night before my
interview with the designer, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to
afford one of the designer’s exquisitely torn t-shirts, emblazoned in faded stencil lettering with the phrase, “Rock And
Roll Saved My Soul,” $125. Right now I can’t even afford to replace
my canvass chucks, which the New York City pavements have ripped
into totally gratis. It occurs to me that if they didn’t also reek, I might be
able to sell them on Esty.
This disparity between the average creative type’s budget and the cost
of Benner’s couture is why you’re more likely to see his designs on celebrities like Carrie Underwood, Lady Gaga, and Demi Lovato, and
Kate Moss as opposed to creative types toiling in obscurity. But
as I covet a bleach spattered Rolling Stones T, it’s also apparent
why Benner’s designs are in such demand. Christian Benner’s
designs don’t so much resemble clothing as rebel yells Jackson
Pollucked onto cotton and leather-jacket-canvasses. In a culture
where
canned,
prepackaged
styles
flood
the
racks
of
H&M
and
Urban
Outfitters,
Benner’s
creations
howl
with
rare,
raw
emotion.
******
I meet Benner at his Front Street shop, located way downtown by the waterfront. Disembarking the subway at Fulton, I surface on an
office-­lined
street.
This
corporate
vibe
melts
away upon entering Benner’s shop. Vintage
guitars and custom shredded, paint spattered
masterpieces hang. The exposed brick walls
look like they’ve been deluged in peroxide
rain. Benner greets me, mancessoried out
in rose colored shades and a braided cap.
Black tattoos peak out from his shirt,
covering
his
fingers
and
chest.
“I’m glad you came here,” he tells me.
“Like actually came here to talk face to
face. People never do that anymore.” We
chat for several minutes about the plight
of modern communication. “What’s Lux
short for? Like Luxury,” he asks. We discuss my name. Then he asks me where I
live. He praises my neighborhood.
CONTINUED
18
III • HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM
• III
(CONTINUED From Page 18)
I’m getting the sense that Benner is more into conversations than interviews. Later he tells me he prefers watching
movies at home to going to red carpet events and announces
proudly
that
he’s
a
“celebrity”
at
his
local
flee
market.
In
other words, Benner acts like a regular guy, despite also being a designer to the stars. Together, we commiserate about
looking for apartments in New York City.
“I told the realtor my budget was $1500 and he laughed
at me,” Benner says. “Do you know any good realtors?” As
I answer, he gets up to change the record.
“You like Pink Floyd?” he asks. I do. I have a long list
of
questions
for
him,
but
Q&A
doesn’t
really
seem
like
Benner’s pace so I set my notebook aside and we hang out.
******
As we talk, I notice Benner describes many things as
“bullshit”: trends, fame, conformity. Corporations get
sloshed
into
this
bucket.
His
first
jobs
out
of
fashion
school
were at Abercrombie and Fitch and later Victoria’s Secret.
Benner hated working for the man. To distract himself from
his shitty 9-5’s, he went out at night, partying with bands
like the Strokes, Interpol, and The Ramones. Cocaine became another escape.
“It got to the point where I couldn’t go out without an 8 ball in my
pocket,” he says. “I’d wake up crying the next day…tears.” Eventu-
“I started to fall in love with who I
am as a person, ... I started to see
who I was. And I knew it wasn’t
working for a corporation.”
ally Benner had to get sober from drugs and booze. Victoria’s Secret
gave him a three week leave of absence, during which he laid on a
couch in his Jersey hometown and detoxed.
“I started to fall in love with who I am as a person,” he tells me. “I
started to see who I was. And I knew it wasn’t working for a corporation.”
He quit his job at the underwear store and went to work for What
Goes Around Comes Around, a local chain of consignment shops.
Awakened, he had the idea to bury a Kinks shirt in the backyard and
leave
it
there
for
a
month.
Benner
dug
it
up
to
find
the
cotton
full
of
holes. He threw some bleach on it, cut the sleeves off and wore it
to work. His superiors were impressed and asked if he’d make some
shirts to sell. The store paid Benner $20 per article and sold them to
customers for $200 a piece. One day, Donatella Versace came in and
bought his entire collection for $4,000. Several months later, the thrift
store
fired
Benner.
“They thought I only cared about my shirts,” he explains. Benner’s
been
fired
from
a
lot
of
jobs.
The
way
he
tells
it,
most
of
his
artistic
development took place while collecting unemployment from various
retailers who gave him the boot. These checks acted as a sort of artist’s
stipend, while he crafted his signature style.
“Have you ever collected unemployment?” he asks me. “It’s great!
I got like 500 bucks a week.” Admiring the vintage leather jackets
in a tony St Mark’s shop, Benner decided to try making his own. He
painted
a
Misfits
skull
onto
a
coat
purchased
on
the
cheap
from
a
thrift
shop. He learned to stud it from a Youtube video.
“All the pain and depression went away when I was working,” he
tells me. “It became like therapy.” He posted his designs on Instagram,
and people expressed interest in buying them.
“I
was
so
mind-­baffled
that
people
were
into
it,”
Benner
says.
In
order to seem somewhat “legit,” he created a fake email, answered in
the third person. Flash forward to today, Universal Records has bought
into 35-year-old Benner’s company and he has a real life personal assistant answering his emails for him.
“I forgot my phone password, and she knew it,” he tells me
stunned.
******
A papazzi photo shows pop-sensation Lady Gaga in shades and a
periwinkle
jumpsuit,
one
of
Benner’s
iconic
jackets
flung
casually
over her shoulder.
“A lot of jackets are mistakes,” he tells me. “A lot of the jackets
have things under them. It’s either me fucking up, not liking it after a
while or just didn’t have money to buy another jacket.”
That’s exactly what happened when Benner made the Gaga piece.
He bought a stencil of a perfect circle and began painting white polka
dots onto the black leather canvass.
“I’d done like twenty of them and then I accidentally went like this,”
he said. Benner shows me with a jerk of his hand how a single rogue
stroke ruined the entire concept. After trying to will the mistake away
CONTINUED
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
19
(CONTINUED From Page 19)
Some artists wear Benner’s designs too, though it’s less common for
someone
in
that
field
to
be
able
to
afford
them.
Lenny
Kravitz
shops
at
with voodoo, Benner went outside and painted the entire jacket white, Benner’s store, and recently played an impromptu acoustic set there.
Brandon from Incubus is another fan.
let it dry, and painted the fresh surface with black dots.
Benner’s designs are wistful, evoking a bygone era of safty-pins, feBenner shows me several jackets in the shop, including yellow
tishware
and great music. CBGB is closed. The taboo is mainstream.
painted jacket, scrawled with unreadable black squiggles.
“I was listening to Dark Side of the Moon and I just started writ- “No one talks to each other anymore,” Benner himself observed more
ing the lyrics on the jacket,” he explains. Another is stroked with the than once during our conversation. The show is over. The band has
broken up, our ears have long ceased ringing.
words from Dante’s Inferno.
And yet faded, torn, and bleach spattered, the concert lives on, a
memory emblazoned into Benner’s designs. You didn’t have to be at
******
the gig to remember it. Benner renders it for you. In truth, the concert
Buying clothing that comes pre-distressed is an interesting concept never occurred save for in the designer’s imagination. But he’s telling
and a hotly debated one too. Sonic Youth front-woman Kim Gordon’s you about it with ever rip. He’s describing it in such visceral detail it’s
writes, “the radical is most interesting when it looks benign and ordi- like you were there. Somehow the whole thing is more potent, because
nary on the outside,” explaining why she didn’t choose to dress in a you never were there, because it is all just a fantasy.
Memory renders the great legendary, it rivets our eyes with the
way that was subversive, even though the fashion was happening all
around her in 1970’s New York City. Even rockers who adopted the magical
hues
that
Instagram
filters
are
designed
to
emulate.
With
each
style of that era like Lydia Lunch studded their own jackets and cut incision, Benner is replicating that nostalgia. Throwing paint, he’s
their own clothing. Spending $1,200 on a custom work of countercul- imbuing an inanimate object with the suggestion of good times past.
ture art won’t make the wearer punk, but does give a vicarious thrill of He’s speeding up the clock, heightening our collective yearning to a
the rebellious. It can make the owner of the piece feel closer to iconic feverish intensity.
The night after our interview, I fall asleep wearing the shirt Benner
iconoclasts like David Gilmour and Lou Reed and even modern day
gave to me when I left his store. In cracked lettering it reads, “Rock
punks like Christian Benner.
Benner
tells
me
he
has
some
big
clients
in
finance.
I
imagine
how
it
and Roll Saved my Soul.” The fabric is soft and worn, like a thousand
must feel, after a long day at Goldman Sachs, to slip off suit and tie and thousand memories of rock concerts. I’m transported, if only in my
slip on one of Benner’s a custom creations. Perhaps the wearer once dreams.
dreamed he’d have a thrasher band of his own, but traded that vision
www.christianbennercustom.com
for private school educated children and a house in the Hampton’s.
20
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
DETROIT MYSTIC
BY RACHEL FRITZ
At 3 years old, Deborah knew something about her was different.
She slept with her eyes open and could see shadow people when she
was awake.When she was 11, she saw her brother standing behind
the door of her mother’s house, but after she went to wash her hands,
he’s
disappeared.
She’d
seen
her
first
dead
body.
Deborah J. Smith, a result of the streets of Detroit, Michigan, discovered her psychic-medium gift when she was young, but wouldn’t
really embrace it until after she left her legal career. “I grew up strictly Catholic on my mother’s side, and on my father’s side, they owned
one of the large churches in Detroit,” Smith said. “So for me it’s
always been a kind of hush-hush thing; it was either you’re a prophet
or you work for the Devil.”
Later, she went through what she thought was a meditation class
which turned out to be an intuitive development class where she met
her mentor, and then she studied the Shamanic way to hone her gift
and intuitions. “I went through the process, and my gift just hit the
roof,” Smith said.
At 36, Smith perused her gift as a psychic medium full time, reading people’s souls along with the occasional animal. “I’ve read cats,”
she mentions casually. “But in order for me to read animals, they
have to be reincarnated. Sometimes they’ll tell me what their owner
does, and I’ve had a pet help me with autistic children before.”
Smith started her business in 2010 and said not even she could
have guessed she’d be as successful as she is. “I tell people that I
want my money back from college,” she said. “If I knew I was going
to
do
this,
I
would
have
been
fine.
When
I
started
reading,
my
clientele went through the roof.”
As a psychic, Smith can predict and read souls and has a diverse
clientele
she
built
in
as
little
as
five
years.
She’s
read
people
in
Russia, China, India, Guam and Australia and reads for businessmen
and people all over the U.S. “I’m a nitty gritty reader, but I’m very
gentle.”
What makes Smith special, though, is that she is a medium and can
communicate with the dead, too. “I’ve dealt with a lot of death; I’ve
lost three brothers,” she said. “Everyone died really young. Technically, I should have been dead before 25, because on my father’s
side, our money was through the streets in trying to deal drugs. My
grandfather was a pimp back then.”
After her grandmother got heavily involved in the Catholic church,
everything changed. Smith stopped hanging out in the streets, but
some of her family still deals in drugs and violence. “As far as the
street life, my nephews still do that, and I’ve had a couple of nephews
killed,” she said. “It’s really ironic how I’m a medium and I’ve had
so much death growing up. Now I know why I was able to get out of
so many different situations and see so much horrible stuff, because
now I’m on this path.”
Now, she uses past experiences to humble herself and help people
find
faith
and
realign
souls,
despite
how
scary
it
can
be
at
times.
“To me it’s a double-edged sword, because if you asked me what I
wanted to do, I’d say go back to being a paralegal,” she said. “For
me to have someone’s life in the middle of my hands, it gets scary
sometimes. My mother would tell me ‘You’re like the scariest person
“Technically, I should have
been dead before 25,
because on my father’s side,
our money was through
the streets in trying to deal
drugs. My grandfather was a
pimp back then.”
in the world, I can’t believe you do this,’ and I’m like I know.”
But
she
loves
what
she
does
and
said
she
is
fulfilling
her
life’s
purpose. “I watched my family and me do a lot of bad sh*t in the past,
and I think I’m paying it back,” Smith said. “I have such a diverse
look and people can’t tell whether I’m black or Indian or whatever,
so I’m able to reach the world basically. I was supposed to be dead
before 25, and I think I went into a second life.”
Smith still lives in Detroit and works with a slew of lovely Jewish
women
in
her
West
Bloomfield
office.
www.deborahpsychicmedium.com
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
21
THE HOUSE OF ALL BOOGEYMEN
BY SHANE CASHMAN
I
I fell in with a crowd trying to solve the Long Island serial killer case.
They are not the cops or the FBI. They are stay-at-home moms, taxi
drivers, part-time psychics, people on bed rest, bankers, and haunted house
employees who’ve spent years turning the Internet inside out, looking for
anything
the
authorities
have
yet
to
find,
anything
that
could
lead
to
the
capture of a killer who’s been operating for twenty years undetected.
I told myself I wouldn’t become a desktop detective – an amateur
investigating murders with a computer – I just wanted to know who these
people were attaching themselves to a cold case – but here I am, early
January, walking up the shoulder of Ocean Parkway, this desolate barrier
island on the south shore, following a map I found on Youtube, tracing
the steps of a supposed serial killer. The map shows where the killer is
believed to have carried his victims’ bodies from the car and dumped them
only feet beyond the side of the road. Where he placed them on top of the
sand, wrapped in burlap, by a beach some surfers call the Surf Capitol of
the East.
No one knew there was a killer leaving bodies on the south shore until
Shannan Gilbert went missing on the night of May 1, 2010. Shannan, a
24-year-old escort, advertised her services on Craigslist. She was last seen
at her client Joseph Brewer’s house in Oak Beach, a small residential
community off Ocean Parkway. Something inside Brewer’s house freaked
her out. She called 911. Although police have not released her 911 tape,
her mother, Mari Gilbert, has heard portions. She says her daughter was
screaming, “they’re trying to kill me.” The they could refer to Joseph Brewer
or her driver Michael Pak – but the Suffolk County Police Department has
cleared both men in any wrongdoing. The police say she sounded psychotic
– what they believe could be the result of a drug-induced episode. She ran
from the house, away from Brewer and Pak, banged on neighbors’ doors,
and then vanished.
After months of nothing the search parties slowed. Shannan’s family
called out the police for not trying hard enough because she was just a
hooker.
Half
a
year
later,
on
December
11,
2010,
officer
John
Mallia
and
his
cadaver dog, Blue were training on Ocean Parkway, near Gilgo Beach, just
minutes from where Shannan was last seen, when Blue found the skeletal
remains of a woman. What they thought were the remains of Shannan,
turned out to be that of Melissa Barthelemy, another escort who advertised
on
Craigslist,
who
had
gone
missing
a
year
earlier.
Officer
Mallia
and
Blue
would
return
to
Gilgo
Beach
to
find
the
bodies
of
three
more
young
women
placed hundreds of feet apart. Each of the women were strangled and
decomposed at another location, something some serial killers are known
to do when they engage in necrophilia. Like Melissa, they were each found
wrapped in burlap. None were Shannan. They were Amber Lynn Costello,
27, Maureen Brainard-Barnes, 25, and Megan Waterman, 22.
With a party of cadaver dogs, divers and helicopters, the Suffolk County
Police
would
find
at
least
six
more
bodies
or
body
parts
scattered
along
Ocean Parkway. Some of the remains discovered at Gilgo Beach would
match body parts found twenty years earlier on other parts of Long
Island. There was a pair of hands and a skull at the beach that matched a
mutilated torso in Manorville. There was a skull that matched a pair of legs
that washed ashore on Fire Island in 1996. There was an Asian male, still
unidentified,
found
in
woman’s
clothes.
There
was
the
corpse
of
a
toddler
wrapped in a blanket whose DNA matched that of another corpse, possibly
the mother, found a mile from one another. Currently, there are more
unidentified
victims
than
there
are
identified.
After
the
latest
discoveries,
22
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
the Suffolk County PD struggled internally with this being the work of one
killer or multiple killers. A single killer theory was easy to back when all
the victims seemed like a similar type – petite escorts.
They found Shannan a year later, in the nearby wetlands, further back
from the road and badly decomposed. Her death was ruled an accidental
drowning – overexposure to the elements. Still convinced she was in a druginduced episode, police believe she ran through the swamps, disoriented,
collapsed, and drowned. The Suffolk County PD does not include her as
one of the victims of the serial killer – something that her family struggles
with – on one hand they hope she wasn’t strangled to death – on the other
hand
how
could
it
be
a
coincidence
that
a
fifth
woman,
also
a
sex
worker
who advertised online, would wind up dead in the same swamps off
Ocean Parkway that in the year since her disappearance had turned into
a graveyard?
When asked if the police were taking the case seriously enough
because most of the victims were escorts, former Suffolk County Police
Commissioner Richard Dormer, who worked the case until he retired,
made a point of saying he hung the photos of the young women in his
office.
“They
look
like
your
neighbors.
Nobody
deserves
to
have
their
life
snuffed out. Police departments everywhere take murder very seriously.
Doesn’t matter the occupation of the victim – if you were murdered we’re
obligated to represent that person.” Then he gives his most honest answer,
“What
police
officer,
or
detective,
or
police
commissioner
would
not
like
to bring in a serial killer during their career?”
Lorraine Ela, mother of Megan Waterman, tells me she’s convinced the
cops have put her daughter’s case on the back burner. “This is too big a case
for Suffolk County to handle.” She rarely hears from police anymore. Even
with a new Commissioner and the FBI now assisting, she hasn’t received
any phone calls. Eventually, Lorraine and many of the other family
members
turned
to
websites
dedicated
to
the
case
to
find
support.
The
first
place
I
found
well-­researched
information
regarding
the
case
was the Youtube channel of Gray Hughes. He made the video-map that
I used on Ocean Parkway. When Gray reads about a crime scene he
logs into Google Earth and drops a pin. He replicates crime scenes with
programs like 3D Studio Max and posts them to Youtube. He lets you
know at the beginning of his videos that he’s not a medical examiner or
a blood splatter expert. It started with the Jodi Arias case, when he got
into
a
war
on
Facebook
over
his
theory
that
Arias
shot
her
boyfriend
first
then stabbed him thirty times then slit his throat. So he made a video to
prove his point using actual crime scene photos that were made public.
The video simulates Jodi standing over her boyfriend in the shower and
shooting – the bullet enters the victim’s right brow, moves left through
the lobe then downwards, where it lodged into the left cheek. You see the
bullet move through the skull from all angles – the victim’s face removed
to see the exact trajectory of the bullet. Gray studied the incident report, the
autopsy report, and photos of the corpse to get it right. He’s since replicated
other crime scenes at the request of prosecutors and private investigators.
Most recently, he simulated a scene where a woman’s leg was caught in an
elevator
as
it
went
up
seven
flights
shattering
her
bones.
Gray’s not so much trying to solve the Long Island case, but perhaps his
video will help people visualize the scene. For all he knows, it could trigger
a memory in someone who knows the area, or visits the beaches, someone
who might’ve seen anything suspicious.
“I feel like it really gives the viewer a better feel of the area,” he says.
It does. His Google Earth video’s point-of-view is that of someone
standing in the shoulder. Same view the killer could’ve had when he pulled
over with a body in the car. The video pans slowly left to right, scanning
CONTINUED
(CONTINUED From Page 22)
the empty, alien land. The shadow of the Google Street View car with its
camera
fixed
to
the
roof
reaches
out
past
the
road
giving
his
video
the
same extraterrestrial lifelessness as the videos sent back to Earth from the
Mars Curiosity Rover. In the winter, when the beaches are deserted, Ocean
Parkway is so isolated that it’s not unbelievable for a killer to dispose of a
body there even in the daylight.
II
Zero was suspicious of me from the start.
“I’m a little curious about you,” he told me. “Your questions are so
specific.
I’m
wondering
if
there
is
more
to
why
you
are
looking
into
all
this.”
I tell him he can Google me. Or check my Facebook. I swear I’m a real
person.
“I say that to everyone,” he tells me. “Let them know that if they are
playing games it’s best to just be up front with me. And if you are a troll…
I don’t care. I’ll talk to ya anyway. But your Facebook seems real…”
To Zero, the odds of me being a troll were pretty great. Ever since he
started blogging about the Long Island serial killer, he’s become a target of
Internet trolls. His blog, liskdotcom.wordpress.com, is as much a museum
of evidence as it is a zoo for the paranoid.
Liskdotcom is not the easiest site to navigate. Zero says it mimics the
way the conspiracies have splintered across the web. From police cover-ups
to demon worshippers to death orgies on the south shore. It’s all there, in an
almost stream-of-conscious narrative. His emails to me are the same. Giant,
paragraph-less blocks of information. He unpacks this chaos of truth and
conspiracy on me. His collection of everything LISK ranges from hundreds
of emails between him and persons of interest, possible witnesses, other
desktop detectives, the families of the victims, to screenshots of almost
everywhere on the Internet that mentions LISK.
His blog is based on another website… LongIslandSerialKiller.com, a
now
defunct
website
that
went
live
in
the
days
after
the
first
bodies
were
found at Gilgo Beach. The website became popular amongst people
worried about the case. Its chat room, however, became a place of slander.
There was no moderation. People started accusing other people of being the
killer. Everyone I’ve spoke to about LongIslandSerialKiller.com believes
the serial killer not only observed the website, but might’ve actively posted.
Of course, no one knows for sure. The fear grew as certain commenters
banded together and started to think the killer was stalking them – even if
they lived in different states across the country.
The creator of LongIslandSerialKiller.com was overwhelmed and
eventually had to shut the site down. New blogs popped up to replace it.
Like the blog, Catching LISK, created by MysteryMom7, where her saga
of paranoia is on full display. At some point she thought the killer had sent
a drone to spy on her. She claims it crash-landed in her backyard.
Before LongIslandSerialKiller.com shut down for good, Zero took
screen shots of entire sections of the website. He thought the information
shouldn’t go to waste. Even with all the name-calling that became a staple
of the site – there seemed to be some solid theories discussed by people
who genuinely wanted to help solve the case.
Two camps frequent liskdotcom. There are those concerned with solving
the case – people like Linda, who after a bad accident spent a year holed-up
in
a
cast,
surfing
the
Internet
for
the
first
time
in
her
adult
life.
She
became
engrossed with the complexities of the case. Then there are those who visit
the blog who come wielding conspiracies. Zero and Linda have made it their
goal to keep the latter group from spreading misinformation to the victims’
families – something that started early on at LongIslandSerialKiller.com.
Zero has spoken with Mari Gilbert and offered her his time to make sure
certain people aren’t “in her ear.” He’s the keeper of the trolls – trying to vet
and debunk them before their theories give anyone hope.
Zero
has
picked
through
five
years’
worth
of
comments
on
multiple
websites trying to make sense of the case. “Comments are the most
important things to read,” he says.
According to comments across the Internet the Long Island Serial Killer
is
a
clean-­cut
scumbag,
first-­class
shoe
freak
with
a
nice
car,
family
and
kids. He is local, religious, bi-sexual, and well spoken. A doctor and a
periodic drunk. He is a bald narcissist. Corporate and charming. A utilitarian
monster.
A
sociopathic
fisherman
with
a
truck.
A
cop
who
keeps
corpses
for
sex.
A
transient,
blue
collar,
fifty-­year-­old
white
male.
A
psychosexual,
sadomasochist who summers on the south shore.
The Internet has various persons of interest. There’s Joseph Brewer, the
john who solicited Shannan Gilbert. There’s Michael Pak, Shannan’s driver
the night she disappeared. There’s someone known as “the drifter” – who
claims
to
have
partied
with
Brewer
and
even
self-­published
a
“fictionalized
auto-biography” about the supposed drug and hooker parties at Brewer’s
house.
A possible police cover-up is a theory rooted deep in the blogs. This
theory started with the fact that the killer used Melissa Barthelemy’s cell
phone to call and taunt her little sister. Her sister received phone calls from
a calm-sounding man telling her that her sister was a whore and that he was
watching her rot. He called several times. Police tried to trace the number.
People believe he is somehow connected with law enforcement because
he’d hang up in less than three minutes each time, just before the calls
could be traced. When police were able to ping the general location of the
phone, it turned out the killer had made the calls from crowded places like
Times Square or Madison Square Garden. Former Commissioner Dormer
dismisses this theory. He says anyone who’s seen any cop show knows
that protocol.
Another reason people subscribe to the police cover-up theory is that
the former Suffolk County Chief of Police, James Burke, is now in jail
for beating up a young man who stole pornography and sex toys from his
SUV. Burke’s past doesn’t help the conspiracy theorists that want to pin
him for mishandling the case – or for even being the killer. When Burke
was a sergeant, he was caught having sex with a known drug dealer and
prostitute. Even still, he rose to become Chief. What also makes the families
and
Internet
suspicious
is
the
fact
that
when
Burke
was
a
boy
he
testified
in court against his friends, whom he watched beat a boy to death in the
woods and stuff rocks down the corpse’s mouth.
The theory that took hold the most on the blogs is that of Dr. Charles
Peter Hackett being the serial killer. He was an Oak Beach resident. He is a
middle aged, overweight man with a prosthetic leg. The loudest groups of
commenters have worked hard to prove that Hackett is at least responsible
for the death of Shannan Gilbert.
Hackett became the Internet’s #1 person of interest because Mari Gilbert
said he called her after Shannan went missing. She said that he told her he
ran a “home for wayward girls.” He had given Shannan shelter. However,
he denied that he ever called Mari or hosted Shannan. But when phone
records
were
released,
it
was
confirmed
that
Hackett
did
in
fact
call.
Mari
Gilbert
has
since
filed
a
wrongful
death
suit
against
Hackett.
Zero believes the suit is the result of the slander that started on
LongIslandSerialKiller.com. “They made him pay for sticking his nose
in,” he says.
With the help of MysteryMom, Mari created her own website,
OfficialShannanGilbert.wordpress.com.
The
homepage
features
a
quiz,
asking Who Killed Shannan? Suspects listed are Michael Pak, The Drifter,
Joseph Brewer, and Dr. Hackett and unknown. 44% of visitors believe it’s
Hackett.
Although Zero disagrees with the Hackett theory, he doesn’t blame Mari
for grabbing at any theory that seems rooted in even a little truth.
CONTINUED
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
23
(CONTINUED From Page 23)
I ask Zero why he started looking into this case.
He tells me about another unsolved serial killer case in Atlantic City –
referred to as the Atlantic City 4 or AC4. Four escorts were found dead
behind The Golden Key Motel in 2006. The Atlantic City victims would
later be connected to the Gilgo Beach murders by way of mysterious
Facebook pages. Someone, authorities still don’t know who, made fake
profiles
of
the
AC4.
Each
fake
profile
had
“friended”
one
another.
The
fake
profiles
started
commenting
on
memorial
pages
of
other
murder
victims.
Authorities later realized that one of the victims from Gilgo Beach also had
a
fake
Facebook
profile
and
was
“friends”
with
the
bogus
AC4
profiles.
But what drove him to obsessively investigate the case and start a blog?
When he was sixteen, living in California, his best friend’s mom was
killed by William Suff, a serial killer, known as the Riverside Prostitute
Killer. Suff killed anywhere between a dozen and twenty women between
1974
and
1992.
When
the
cops
finally
caught
him,
Zero
said
his
friend
recognized Suff immediately.
Zero loves his day job but is reluctant to talk about it on his blog. He
doesn’t want people to get the wrong idea about him. He works at Fright
Dome, a popular haunted house in Las Vegas. His character has long,
craggily hair, wears white face paint with fake blood smeared over the
mouth, and the Manson family X on his forehead. I understand why some
people might see him blog about serial murder and think he’s into this case
because of the gore factor – like it’s a thrill for him – and maybe there is
some truth to it – but from what I’ve gathered, he wants justice for the
Gilgo
Beach
women.
He
knows
first-­hand
the
trauma
that
comes
in
the
aftermath of a serial killer.
I think he’s some sort of cyber-masochist because he entertains every
shred of information that comes through his website. He’s been accused
of devil-worship and had his name posted all over various websites and
Facebook memorial pages claiming that even he is the killer. This mostly
stems from someone I’ll call $. $ mostly believes the Long Island serial
killer is her ex-husband.
She claims to be working with the FBI. Zero didn’t think she could be
real
at
first
–
just
another
troll.
But
he
Googled
her
name
and
found
the
bank she worked at. She uses her real name. He called the bank to see if
she is who she says she is. He even got her on the phone once. What really
pissed him off was how normal she sounded. He says that she thinks she’s
sincerely helping the case.
Zero says $ and MysteryMom eventually joined forces. “I contacted
Long Island Homicide once, because they insisted I was endangering
them,” he said. $’s theories connect everyone from Chief Burke to Zero to
Hackett to the actor Michael Fassbender.
She has commented extensively on Zero’s blog and the Facebook
memorial pages. She writes about a group known as the Carney
Construction Corp. She alleges that this group of men from Long Island
kills women for sport. She believes her ex-husband and Dr. Hackett are
members of Carney Construction Corp (or CCC). It sounded like more
of her devil-worshipping theories until people claiming to be part of CCC
began leaving vague threats on Zero’s and MysteryMom’s blogs.
Zero looked at the IP addresses. He says they could actually be from
people in Long Island. Not the usual IP addresses of $ or MysteryMom.
He showed me some of the comments the supposed Carney Construction
Corp guys left on his blog and the Catching LISK blog.
Teps:
Disregard
everything
said
about
the
CCC.
All
falsification
and
wishful thinking. Go about your regular business and leave the CCC out
of this.
Lightweight: CCC got no beef with you. Why you dragging CCC through
the mud?
24
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
452inLondon: Carney Construction Crew after you? Do not take any
chances. Shut down this website & the Facebook & Twitter. Take it to the
pavement where it is more private.
The comments read like exaggerated versions of cartoon villains. They
could be anybody. It reminds me of the popular New York Times cartoon of
a dog sitting at a computer talking to another dog: On the Internet, nobody
knows you’re a dog.
Zero thinks there might be something to the CCC. He says the site
Websleuths might know more about the authenticity of them. He also
says Websleuths might’ve had a hand in shutting down the original
LongIslandSerialKiller.com. Supposedly, MysteryMom stole some of
their work and posted it on her blog as her own. When that happened they
started messing with her – and possibly were even the ones who pretended
to be the killer “stalking her.”
When I leave Zero another troll has got a hold of him. He says he saw
someone dumping bodies off Ocean Parkway in June 2010. “It was 2am
and
pitch
dark.
A
70’s
club
wagon
with
safety
flares
on
desolate
roadway…”
He saw a person vanish off the side of the road. He claims to have called
the tips hotline. And that he met Chief Burke on Ocean Parkway to show
him what and where he saw. He thinks Burke didn’t take him seriously
because he dresses like a metal head. Now that Burke’s in jail, he’s certain
his information was never passed along. He says he wants to call the FBI,
but for now only feels safe leaving comments on Zero’s blog.
“It’s my fault for engaging these people,” Zero says.
I ask him if he ever thinks that he’s just talking to the same person the
whole time.
“My wife told me that at the very beginning. That’s probably why I hit it
so
hard
at
first,
to
see
if
these
people
were
real.”
III
When Tricia became a mother she spent more time at home than she
had in years. It was the late nineties. The JonBenet Ramsey case gripped
the news: the still unsolved case of the six-year-old beauty queen who had
been found murdered in her own basement on Christmas Day, 1996. Tricia
turned to the Internet. She wondered what people were saying online about
the case… craving more than just the short clips she saw in the papers and
TV.
She joined Websleuths in 1997. Back then it was a small website created
to discuss the JonBenet Ramsey case. By the end 2003, the creator of
Websleuths called her and said he couldn’t run the site anymore. He was
sick of it. “You can have it,” he told her.
Websleuths was a snake pit. Every other post was, “I’m gonna kill
you.” But there were pockets of people on Websleuths that were actually
having meaningful discussions. When she purchased the site she banned a
majority of the people who did nothing but threaten each another. After the
ban, naturally, she got plenty of death threats.
“The only reason why we’re heavily moderated is we want people to
stay on topic and not be a jerk,” she says. She has gone through a few major
cycles of banning users. The Websleuths who might’ve started any drama
with MysteryMom on LongIslandSerialKiller.com were possibly a part of
that ban – but Tricia says she doesn’t remember names.
I ask her what Websleuths’ main purpose is when it comes to the Long
Island serial killer case.
“It’s everything… if we can help identify the bodies that would be
wonderful. Those victims didn’t want to end up in some swamp. They are
real people and deserve to be treated like the real victims they are. So many
people these days just go ‘oh well, it’s a hooker.’”
CONTINUED
(CONTINUED From Page 24)
Websleuths
use
sites
like
NamUs,
the
National
Missing
and
Unidentified
Persons System, where anyone can view evidence to try and help authorities
identify
bodies.
Identifying
the
unidentified
bodies
from
Gilgo
Beach
could
be a major break in the case. It could help authorities begin to trace back the
last moments of that person’s life and possibly lead to the killer.
Does she think Dr. Hackett is as guilty as the rest of the Internet would
like him to be?
“That’s a tough one. Because he’s a real person who is probably reading
these things online. But damn if there aren’t a lot of big questions around it.
Here is the dilemma… you have a person like this doctor who is involved,
some people think he’s the killer, some don’t. Either way his whole life has
been turned upside down. If he’s not involved that’s a horrible tragedy. But
if
he
is
involved,
it
was
the
people
on
the
Internet
who
figured
it
out.”
Websleuths helped solve a murder case in 2009. Abraham Shakespeare,
a homeless man in Florida, won $32 million in the lottery. Then he
disappeared. Up pops this woman, Dee Dee More, who claimed to be
Shakespeare’s power of attorney. She told his friends, ‘he just needed to get
away.’ Dee Dee moved into his house and took all his money. Automatically
she became a suspect.
“So we started discussing her on Websleuths,” Tricia says. Websleuths
discovered
that
prior
to
Shakespeare’s
disappearance,
Dee
Dee
More
filed
for bankruptcy.
All of a sudden Dee Dee More showed up on Websleuths and started
defending herself. “The more she talked she just dug herself a huge hole…
the police contacted me and said, ‘just let her talk – please don’t edit
anything she says’ – so we let her run wild. Then she tried to deny that it
was her when she realized what she had done.”
Abraham Shakespeare’s body was found underneath Dee Dee More’s
boyfriend’s garage. She was convicted of murder.
“That was the one time that we did have a killer on the forum posting.”
Even still, some authorities have this idea in their heads, she says, “that
we’re like Jessica Fletcher, this little old lady trying to interfere. Our goal is
to one day be respected by law enforcement. We’re dragging some police
departments into the 21st century kicking and screaming.”
She understands the hesitation some police might have when it comes to
amateurs trying to solve any case though.
“The problem is when the Internet started people were calling the police
all the time and bugging them and giving them weird tips, driving them
crazy. So I can’t blame them for looking at it and being a little weary. But
things have changed. We’ve established ourselves as being credible.”
I ask her if she’s ever felt threatened by anyone on her site.
“There was a stalker. He got angry because I didn’t believe his JonBenet
Ramsey bologna. I found out he once robbed an armored car to get money
to make a bomb to blow up an abortion clinic. He started saying stuff to me
like, ‘hey, I’ll be seeing ya soon…’ I reported him to the police. I was really
scared about him. The people that make threats… I have an electronic trail.
Here’s the people I worry about... it’s the people I don’t hear from.”
IV
I
jump
deeper
into
Websleuths
to
find
a
member
who
has
remained
active
on
the
LISK
case.
I
find
LindsayLohan6.
She
joined
Websleuths
when she saw the news of bodies found on Gilgo Beach. She’s determined
to catch the killer.
She
keeps
a
list
of
multiple
unidentified
bodies
found
throughout
Long
Island. Many of them have been mutilated, dismembered, stuffed in
suitcases, found in Tupperware, or discarded on the side of the road. These
bodies
have
never
been
officially
connected
to
LISK,
but
she
thinks
they’re
all victims of the same killer.
“I think the killer’s graveyard extends from Queens to the Hamptons
with bodies and bones turning up all along the barrier islands over the last
twenty years. I think he’s got way more victims than the police want you to
believe… (Gary) Ridgeway numbers probably all over the metro area.”
This brand of grisly murder is nothing new to Long Island. There
was Joel Rifkin, a Long Island resident, who killed and dismembered as
many as 17 prostitutes between 1989 and 1993. In 2014, John Bittrolff
was arrested for the deaths of two prostitutes and is suspected of killing a
third. Most recently, Leah Cuevas, of Brooklyn, killed and dismembered
another woman, dumping her limbs and head in different towns across
Long Island.
What’s the deal with Long Island? I ask her.
“It’s cursed there.” She blames it on the Native American massacres
that happened in the 1600s on Massapequa. According to legend, John
Underhill massacred all the natives at Fort Massapeag. “It left a bad blood
in the land,” she says.
She’s certain the killer visits the websites regarding the case. She’s been
eyeing one site in particular: UtopiaGuide.com. It’s an escort review site.
She says there’s a group of guys on the site that go by the name: Carney
Construction Corp.
For a moment, I wonder if I’m talking to $. If she’s using a different
screen name. I ask her if she knows $.
“Of course I know $.” Then she berates $ and calls everyone that
entertains $ sock puppets – people more concerned about causing drama
than solving the case. For whatever reason, I believe her enough to follow
her deeper down the rabbit hole to Utopia Guide.
She sends me a link to an old thread where CCC is in the midst of kicking
out one of their members. The Carney Construction Corp. is viscously
attacking, via comments, one of their own, another member of CCC –
magicfingers. By the end of the thread he’s banned both from CCC and
Utopia Guide. And he can no longer join the CCC at Shady Al’s – a now
defunct biker bar/strip joint in Long Island where the group used to hang.
I see familiar screennames in the thread – Teps and Lightweight, two
people who supposedly told Zero to back off. And also a member who
goes by Wolff – Zero did tell me that $ claims Wolff is her ex-husband.
Popular discussions on Utopia Guide vary from how to buy a burner phone
to how to lie to police if you’re pulled over with an escort to baseball and
Obamacare – but most important is Looks/Attitude/Service or L/A/S. They
critique each escort based on three standards. Each standard is separately
ranked, 1-10. If a woman is 3/8/10, that means she is “unattractive, but
friendly with good sex.” A 10/5/4 means, “model material with a poor
attitude and mediocre sex.”
They call themselves mongers. Short for whoremonger. They aren’t
johns they’re hobbyists – as in purchasing sex is their hobby. Their reviews
detail
whether
it’s
just
a
mattress
on
the
floor
of
an
empty
room
or
a
5-­star
hotel; they appraise the taste and smell of women; if they have all their teeth
or track marks; how much English they know; if the photos in a woman’s
online ad match the real product; if the woman offers DFK or PSE or GFE
or HME. Deep French kiss or the porn star experience or the girlfriend
experience or the honeymoon experience – totems of any review. I’d say
it’s a Yelp for escorts, but Utopia Guide started in 2000, four years before
Yelp was founded.
There’s
a
thread
years
later
that
acts
as
a
eulogy
for
magicfingers
–
he
died while in exile from Utopia Guide. They share stories about showing
up to orgies with him and watching him, 70-something, get naked.
I search the site for any reference to the Long Island serial killer case to
see if the mongers have said anything. It doesn’t seem unlikely for a group
of men from Long Island who review escorts to talk about dead escorts
turning up in the area.
There’s a thread titled 4 Bodies Found In LI... Created shortly after the
first
bodies
were
found.
It’s
a
discussion
on
whether
or
not
they’d
come
CONTINUED
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
25
(CONTINUED From Page 25)
forward if they recognized any of the victims. Some of the men think they
recognize one of the girls. Others don’t. Some would come forward. Others
would never. The last thing they want is their real name in the papers. The
conversation turns into them talking about how the killer could get away
with it and if he’s maybe a monger himself.
muffdvr: This guy is a cold calculating serial killer. I doubt he socializes
here. He is probably a loner/loser just like Rifkin…
genius: LI is really a small place and has a very good highway system.
At
2
am
there
isn’t
any
traffic.
A
30
minute
car
ride,
even
if
doing
the
speed
limit can put the point where they were killed anywhere from Queens to
well into Suffolk County.
Ocean Pkwy is very straight and you can see cars coming from very far
away – would be easy to dump a body w/o being seen.
As
early
as
2011,
when
the
police
were
finding
body
parts
scattered
across
the south shore, Genius wrote: IMHO– the girls were killed elsewhere and
the bodies dumped there. It is easy to drive 20 miles in a half hour doing the
speed limit late at night to that spot. That puts the murder scene just about
anywhere – even Queens.
I
click
on
his
profile.
He’s
been
a
member
since
August
2002.
Active
daily.
Genius
scares
me
more
than
the
CCC.
CCC
is
just
a
glorified
circle
jerk of white-collar men on Long Island. I dig around for every comment
genius has made on the site, thinking about what Zero told me: comments
are the most important thing to read...
I
find
a
negative
review
written
by
Genius.
It’s
about
a
woman
he
picked
up at a gas station. It was 5pm on a weekday. She gets in his car, pulls her
tube-top down and tells him to park at the local cemetery. They argue over
the price of a blowjob. She wants $80. He tells her he only pays $25 for
blowjobs:
She starts punching on the side of my head with one hand and tries to
grab my car key from the ignition… So I deliver a punch to the side of her
head and as she is kicking my door and screaming I put her in a chokehold
and squeeze. I tell her to calm down or I’m going to kill her. She can’t
answer as I have her windpipe cut off, but she calms down and I let go.
The site moderator replies: This story should be required reading for
any of us who frequent the SW (street walker) strolls as you always gotta be
careful with these whackjob crackwhores.
Another comments: I would have beaten the piss out of her, threw her
out of the car and drove away.
And another: With that choke hold you had on her she almost passed out
and died… now that would have been a great story how you got rid of the
body and had to explain to cops, friends, and family…
genius replies: I could have easily killed her if I wanted. w/o her being
able to do much about it and she knew it – knife or no knife, rush hour or
not – just break her neck – she was about 90 lbs. and I am 180. She looked
liked she hadn’t eaten in a while and I work out in the gym and eat right.
His daily routine, according to Utopia Guide, starts when he leaves
home
by
3am,
wife
still
in
bed,
to
find
a
streetwalker
before
work.
He
buys
sex on the way home or stops at the massage parlors he can trust. He enjoys
sitting in parking lots with escorts, especially with rush hour all around
him, enjoying the public nature of the act as much as the act itself. He hides
26
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
the burner phone he uses to call escorts in the utility box in the trunk of his
car.
He
replaces
it
every
three
months.
This
way
his
wife
won’t
find
it.
He
gives every escort his mongering name. Everything is cash. Everything is
anonymous. The other mongers call his reviews “epistles.”
I message LindsayLohan6: I think I found the Long Island Serial Killer.
I send her links to posts by genius.
She messages back: He could def be the killer. It’s gotta be him or
someone who posts as much as him in my opinion. It’s someone who
visits prozzies as much as he does. I don’t think someone who is that into
mongering wouldn’t post about it.
My attempts to reach the owner and moderators of Utopia Guide go
unanswered or are deleted.
Why would a killer post on a public forum about anything that could
lead to his capture? Probably because he’s not the killer. Just a bad human
proud of his cruelty. But I also wouldn’t doubt that a killer who has gotten
a
way
with
murder
for
so
long
wouldn’t
have
a
confidence
that
keeps
growing the longer he remains free. Getting off on the thrill of alluding to
his crimes on a public site.
Tricia from Websleuths says she’s never heard of Utopia Guide. But the
idea of it sickens her. She talks to me on the phone while we look at the
site together.
“Isn’t it weird that we have access to this? That we might be reading the
actual killer’s words? It is creepy,” she says. I’m not sure if she is really
buying into my thought that the killer is on Utopia Guide or if she’s just
really good at consoling people who think they’ve found some dark truth
on the Web.
She tells me that by law you have to list if you own a domain. “I wouldn’t
be surprised if this person’s server is also overseas. Like listed on the Rock
of Gibraltar.” She looks into it.
“It’s like I thought,” she says. “UtopiaGuide.com is registered with a
registrant company to protect the owner’s privacy.” She sends me the name
of the “company:” IB4 Media. There’s an address and a phone number
listed. “It’s scary to venture out there on the Internet,” she says.
When I put IB4’s address into Google Earth the satellite image just
hovers over New Jersey. Finds no real address.
I reach out to Gray Hughes, see if he can make anything of the address.
He’s
managed
to
find
that
it’s
just
a
firehouse
in
Freehold,
New
Jersey.
In the morning, I call IB4 from a pay phone. The number’s fake. Why
am
I
even
doing
this?
What
am
I
expecting
to
find?
I
wonder
if
the
Utopia
Guide moderators have pinned my IP address. I’ve taken screenshots of all
the violence in the reviews on their site. Have authorities vetted this? Was
$ right all along? I reach out to Zero and tell him that I’ve been talking to
LindsayLohan6. He points out something I didn’t notice. LindsayLohan6,
LL6, is one letter and one number below MM7 – MysteryMom7. He’s not
sure who she is, if it is even a she, or what that all means, but he agrees
that she’s done some major research. He’s seen her work before. Her name
could just be a way of mocking MysteryMom, he says.
I start to get emails from people I’ve run into in the comment sections
of these serial killer blogs. I get one from Michael Winger, a psychic in
Norway. In 2011, he won the Psychic Challenge on TV Norge. He gets
visions
of
dead
people
who
are
still
missing.
He
takes
credit
for
finding
three missing persons in Norway. He also claims to remove ghosts from
haunted houses. “I have solved many missing people cases in Norway.
A scientist has documented my work with video, photo, email, police,
witnesses, etc.,” he writes me. He sends me a video he made about the
Long Island case: I believe that this is more than just one man. I believe it is
a group of men that knows each other. They’re starting to get old, perhaps
somewhere between 55 and 65. I believe there are more victims that will be
found in the future. I don’t think that the serial killers have stopped. I believe
they grew up in Long Island. I believe they are Caucasian. I believe one is
a doctor. Another is a lawyer. I believe they have a room someplace in a
CONTINUED
(CONTINUED From Page 26)
basement or one of the garages that they can keep the victims in captivity
because I don’t think they always kill their victims at the same time they
kidnap them. I think they play with the victims before they kill them. I can
feel two men clearly. But I believe there are perhaps three or four of them.
No one will think that their grandfather is the actual killer. They are friends
with police. The police have no idea their friends are the killers. He has
nice clothes. Nice car. I believe the killers protect each other. They give
each other alibi. If someday a man gets caught, I think it will be a younger
man and he is not the real killer. Perhaps he had killed one or two victims,
but he is not responsible for all the killings. I believe the serial killers will
be very hard to get.
I told myself I wouldn’t become a desktop detective, spending too much
time lurking around the underbelly of the Internet – in the house of all
boogeymen, buying into conspiracy and hearsay and psychic visions – but
here I am calling the FBI. They patch me through to an agent on the case.
It goes to voicemail. I leave an out-of-breath message on his phone. “I’ve
found this website... I’d like to talk to you about it…”
The FBI calls me back. The operator sounds like she’s used to hearing
from people like me. She patches me through to another agent. It goes
to voicemail again. They’ve probably got a machine set up to collect all
messages regarding the case – ridiculous or not. When the FBI asked
for tips about the Unabomber, they received thousands of phone calls a
day. I imagine my voice getting stored on a zip drive next to Zero and
MysteryMom and $.
V
I ask a former NYPD detective squad commander, who prefers to remain
anonymous, if he thinks the Internet has made us more dangerous. He’s
been investigating Internet crime since 1995. He’s tracked down digital
footprints to solve missing person cases, suicides, and hacker intrusions.
“It’s a different kind of dangerous,” he says. It has the power to save lives
and spread information. But it also allows for people to become targets –
hunted by killers, stalked, become victims of identity theft.
I ask him what he thinks the odds are that people on sites like Websleuths
could help solve a case like the Long Island serial killer.
“You don’t have the manpower. I only have so many detectives and so
many cases – this is an important case. Serial killer cases go to the top of the
list. But that doesn’t mean that I have a taskforce of sixty detectives whose
sole purpose in life is to eat, shit, breathe this case.”
Why not tap this community for any help then? Especially when it comes
to
trying
to
identify
the
unidentified?
It
seems
impossible
for
anyone
these
days to not leave behind any trace of a digital footprint. How can so many
bodies remain unknown – when there’s a good chance some of them might
have even advertised online?
“Here’s the problem with prostitutes – many times they are not missing
persons. To become a missing person you need to be under eighteen or over
eighteen and suffer from mental or physical illness. Most of these prostitutes
are runaways. You have these guys who pick you up on the street and take
you home. There’s nobody that’s going to declare you missing. So if you
die and wind up in the swamp, nobody’s looking for you.”
According to Robert Kolker’s book, Lost Girls, which details the lives
of the victims of the Long Island serial killer, some of these young women
were not runaways. They spoke with their families often. Some of their
families knew they were escorts.
Unlike Craigslist, escorts can advertise openly on Backpage.com, where
they purchase their ads with bitcoin. Women try to outdo one another with
emoji-­filled
subject
lines
to
pull
potential
johns
away
from
the
long
list
of
escorts
advertising
above
and
below.
Among
the
emoji
hearts,
flowers,
bikinis,
diamonds,
snowflakes,
lipstick,
princesses,
and
cakes
are
all-­caps
teases, baiting the fantasies of the lonely: Busty! 24/7! Discreet! Miami
blonde! Total bombshell! Angelic! Juicy Lips! Soft skin! All natural!
34GG! Credit Card Accepted! Get treated like a king! Leave nothing to
the imagination!
I answer one ad that says simply: Elite Vixen seeks Arts Benefactor.
What name would you like me to use? I ask.
“I
am
known
as
Agent
Provocateur:
Confidante
of
Politicians
and
Billionaires,” she says.
In the teaser video on her ad she has on an oversized, white furry hat. Her
white bra is pulled down to expose her breasts. She dances behind a glass
door, presses her body against the glass, licks the glass, and kisses it.
Are you ever afraid of what’s on the other side of the computer screen?
I ask.
“I am a very security conscious business woman. I only reply to emails
where there is proper spelling, courtesy, and grammar.” She tells me she
prefers conservative, Caucasian men over the age of 45. But then she says,
“Ted Bundy was that too though…”
She’s been doing escort work for twenty years and has seen the way
the industry has shifted from the street to the Internet. Basically, she says,
Craigslist killed the pimp.
“I have my regulars and the only time I post an ad is to replace them
when they die of old age or their wives have caught them.”
I ask her what she thinks about the review sites.
“The
review
sites
were
good
for
my
business
at
first,
but
then
I
got
very
turned off by how misogynist men can be under the blanket of anonymity.
They tend to talk like teenage boys in a locker room. A mere 1-5 star rating
would
be
sufficient.”
What does she think can be done to prevent the sex worker population
from constantly being preyed upon by serial killers?
“I feel very bad for the women of the USA who are also persecuted by
the police, hence are afraid to call the police. Only a very desperate woman
would go meet strange men for sex or money without precaution. There
is a lot of prostitution since the market crash. This economic climate will
only lead to more desperation and death and a sad end to the myth of the
American Way. We need full legalization and taxation of sex and marijuana
just like my home country of Germany… Prostitution can pay for solar
energy. Sex is the key to world peace and the orgasm is the fountain of
youth.”
If the government became the pimp – having women pay taxes, it will
not only boost the economy, she says, but it would mean that escorts would
be registered and if they go missing they’d be easier to report. In the end
though there’s nothing that will stop a monster that is compelled to kill
women who for now have to operate on the fringes.
Early in her career she worked at an exclusive brothel in Atlanta. Six
girls in a townhouse. Some of her clients were Coca Cola execs and Atlanta
Braves. One of the girls went missing. The prime suspect was the owner
of the brothel – a soft-spoken Vietnam vet who had fallen in love with the
missing girl. As far as Agent Provocateur knows, nothing ever came of it.
The girl was never found.
As of February 2016, a second autopsy of Shannan Gilbert has been
performed by medical examiner, Michael Baden. Baden was New York
City’s chief medical examiner in the late seventies. His new report
concludes that Shannan was strangled to death. He agreed to perform the
new autopsy after Mari Gilbert and her attorney made enough noise about
the Suffolk County police mishandling the case. A belief rooted deep in
the Internet.
Maybe
it
isn’t
so
hard
to
believe
five
years
into
this
unsolved
case
that
justice could be outsourced, or at least accelerated, to people sitting at their
computers trying to bring the killer out of the shadows of the Internet.
What upsets Agent Provocateur the most about so many of the victims
of serial killers is how these women can just vanish and go unreported for
years.
But
she
finds
revenge
in
her
belief
of
a
life
after
death.
With
great
confidence
she
tells
me,
“The
killer
will
be
reincarnated
as
the
victims.”
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
27
28
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
www.samclong.com
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
29
BY LAUREN MOONEY
Today there are still palm trees erect in my parent’s backyard
where my dad heats the pool to lure my mom in naked
there are shadows because it’s night
we don’t have the time or energy anymore for double lives
//
But thirteen years ago I
called my mom from a gas station and told her I was about to get a tattoo
she yelled and said they’d take my credit card away so I pretended I didn’t get it
//
Dressed as a burlesque performer halfway through her set
intoxicated on raspberry vodka on the Hollywood walk of fame
the charming sound guy from the Echo said I was babyfaced
but my eyes looked wise and when I grew up I’d be a “fox”
I made him a mix tape called “don’t let it bring you down, it’s only castles burning”
//
A stripper crouched down at Showgirls
while Marilyn Manson sang “The Beautiful People” and said:
“You look like you want to be touched.”
thrilling
titillating
twirling
into Goldschläger fueled fairy tales
tempting the darkness to reach out and touch me
like an electric shock
a thrill not found in church or my parents backyard in Orange County, California
NOW
AND 19
//
Waking up on shag carpeting with the Clockwork Orange soundtrack playing
peering down at the milky silver color of my toe nail polish while I stood in the doorway of the bathroom
I found down a shadowy hallway while he was sleeping
morning
brought
coffee
on
the
floor
in
the
kitchen
with
his
black
cat
while
he
talked
about
the
“piles
of
heroin”
he’d
seen
in
the
recording studio with Elliott Smith.
these are the times you think you love someone
but
it’s
really
just
the
sliver
of
your
heart
you
see
reflected
in
their
faces
and
on
their
bodies
and it’s lonely but it’s real and you’re obsessed with the feeling of obsession
//
A few weeks later we found out Elliott had stabbed himself in the heart
I called my dad and felt silly crying since I didn’t know him
and my dad said “it’s ok. it’s sad.”
and it was
because he seemed innocent even though he was really a mess of contradictions
like me, like all of us
I drove to the memorial wall and wrote him back his own words “everybody knows you only live a day but its brilliant anyway”
30
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
INTERVIEW WITH KIER-LA ABOUT
THE MISKATONIC INSTITUTE
OF HORROR FILM STUDIES
BY MOXIE MC MURDER
was
missing
out
on
a
very
interested
demographic
of
genre
film
fans.
Kier-­La
Janisse
is
a
woman
of
many
talents.
A
film
writer
and
programmer for the Alamo Drafthouse Cinema and Fantastic Fest in
Austin, Texas.
Kier-La is also the founder of The Miskatonic Institute of Horror
Film Studies and Owner/Editor-in-Chief of Spectacular Optical Publications.
Her book Satanic Panic: Pop-Cultural Paranoia in the 1980s is a
fascinating read that will have you laughing as much as rolling your
eyes at the sheer madness of the satanic panic that took hold of the
decade.
I was lucky enough to attend a lecture by Kier-La where she spoke
at length about the book.
I caught up with her recently to talk about her history in horror
and
to
find
out
more
about
The
Miskatonic
Institute
of
Horror
Film
Studies.
KLJ: I started Miskatonic in spring of 2010 – I was doing a writerin-residency at a bookstore in Winnipeg Canada called Aqua Books
(which doesn’t exist anymore) and since spring break was coming
up
I
decided
to
do
a
week-­long
horror
film
criticism
workshop
for
teens, and so I called it the Miskatonic Institute of Horror Studies.
The class went really well, and then I got asked to do another one
for at-risk youth elsewhere in town. From there I started pursuing the
idea
of
keeping
it
going
with
other
instructors
involved,
so
the
first
class not taught by me was by Caelum Vatnsdal, who had written a
well-­known
book
about
Canadian
horror
films
called
THEY
CAME
FROM WITHIN, and this got the attention of Rue Morgue Magazine,
who
did
the
first
story
on
the
school.
But
everyone
who
came
to
Caelum’s class was over 30 years old, so clearly marketing it just to teens
I moved to Montreal in June 2010 to open a little microcinema,
and Miskatonic was set to become a weekly curriculum that fall. The
first
class
in
Montreal
was
taught
by
Stuart
Gordon
and
Dennis
Paoli
- who had given us Re-Animator– and their class was about Adapting
Lovecraft for the Screen. It was sold out and we were off to a good
start.
I
planned
out
the
first
year’s
curriculum
including
classes
by
some local academics I’d just met – Kristopher Woofter and Mario
DeGiglio-Bellemare – who would become very important in the
Miskatonic story. Mario and Kris soon convinced me that we should
probably drop the “teen” tag, since we weren’t really getting many
teenagers coming and it was potentially turning off older customers
who felt like they’d be invading a teen workshop. Mario also was the
first
to
suggest
we
have
wine
at
the
classes,
and
so
between
Kris
and
Mario the school really “grew up” so to speak. Without their help I
probably wouldn’t have been able to sustain it, as I personally didn’t
know enough Montreal academics to get on board as instructors, and
so they were really my line into that community. By fall of 2011 we
considered ourselves partners, and ran the school together for another
two years until I went overseas for an extended period and control of
the Montreal school was bequeathed to them entirely. Since its inception, the Montreal school has been weekly, with a few months off
for summer, and has hosted classes on everything from giallo raperevenge and haunted houses to TV horror hosts, horror comics and
apocalypse movies, and is still going strong.
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HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
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Which takes us to Miskatonic London! With Montreal in capable
hands I looked to London as a possible location for a second Miskatonic. While in the UK I’d met Virginie Selavy of Electric Sheep, we
got along really well, and I was impressed by how much stuff she
accomplishes on a daily basis! She’s incredibly brilliant and a good
organizer so I knew she’d be the perfect person to run a school in
London. And London made sense because honestly the UK is so rife
with
horror
and
cult
film
academics
that
I
knew
we’d
have
an
embarrassment of riches when it came to instructors. And the response has
shown that it was indeed a niche people would be willing to support
-­
we
were
shocked
when
the
first
class
opened
its
doors
and
the
event
promptly sold out!
So now there are two schools, Montreal and London, each run independently and according to the needs and interests of their respective
communities, and who knows, maybe there might be more down the
line…?
What’s your own horror history? have you always been a fan
of horror?
This is extensively outlined in my book House of Psychotic Women, which is an autobiographical book about my relationship to neurotic
women
in
horror
films.
But
the
short
version
is,
I
was
a
horror
fan from the age of three and two of my three parents were horror fans
too
–
my
step
dad
liked
Hammer
and
AIP
films,
my
mom
liked
made-­
for-TV and horror melodrama - so they really encouraged me when
I showed an interest in horror. My dad would let me stay up late to
without the kind of expertise that our instructors have , and for other
watch
old
horror
films,
and
would
cut
articles
out
of
the
paper
for
me.
more niche topics, I just want to nurture an appreciation for them
With my allowance I would always buy records and monster books.
and get them some legitimacy that maybe they haven’t had to this
So it’s always been a part of my life.
point. Overall I want the classes to have the kind of rigorous research
or
first-­hand
knowledge
that
you’d
get
in
University-­level
courses,
What made you choose the HP Lovecraft Miskatonic?
but without having to be part of that very closed and very expensive
I was a big fan of HP Lovecraft as a teenager. I was always dropacademic world. The classes also give career academics a chance to
ping out of school and the one thing that made me go back was readinteract with non-academic horror audiences, which is important for
ing Lovecraft and the way he idealized academia. I really wanted to
their own research. We try to take the best of the academic world and
be an academic working in some dusty old library or teaching memake it a bit more social, colloquial and enthusiastic. And yes, when
dieval studies or something, and so his books literally made me go
it
first
started
i
wanted
it
to
be
for
teenagers
but
it
just
ended
up
being
back to school and graduate. And of course at the time there was no
open to adults of all ages.
internet so I always thought the Miskatonic University in his books
was real, and that’s where I planned to go to school after I graduated.
It’s great that you have an enthusiastic audience, did you ever
I was heartbroken when I called directory assistance in Massachusetts
expect the Institute to take off the way it has?
(from a payphone because I didn’t have a phone), and they told me
the
very
first
class
in
Canada
in
2010,
I
knew
it
had
potential
to
that there was no Arkham Massachusetts and there was no Miskatonic
grow, and it is still growing. I strongly believe that with proper reUniversity. So naming my school after Miskatonic was my way of
sources it could be a real bricks-and-mortar school and actually be
making that dream come true, even if in a small way.
sustainable. Most of my ideas are not things that are commercially
viable but I think Miskatonic is.
It’s interesting that you noticed an older crowd than you expected
when you set up the institute, I think there’s such a big interest in horSo far the Miskatonic is in Canada and UK, where else would
ror and particularly the backstories and behind the scenes aspects that
you like to see an institute pop up?
you’ve tapped into something really great.
We
have
just
locked
in
a
location
for
our
first
U.S.
school
–
alWhat would you like people to take away from the Miskatonic
though it’s not announced yet and won’t be for a month or so. I would
experience?
like to see one anywhere there is a strong enough base of instructors
Well there are a few things – for the more well-known topics I’d
like to be able to offer some insight or history that you can’t get
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32
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
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to support it – and that means instructors who are experts, who have taught in an academic environment or
have written books on their areas of interest, and who
are able to devote the time to it – because they really
do a lot to prepare their classes. The Montreal school
has a much more full-on curriculum than the London
school – they have weekly classes whereas London
has monthly – and that’s the goal for me – to be able to
support weekly classes so that we can do full in-depth
courses and to eventually have a physical location that
is running full time and has accredited courses.
What would be the ultimate lecture you could
dream of having at the institute?
I would love to have Laura Mulvey teach a Miskatonic class. To have someone participate who basically created a language that many genre critics are
so informed and inspired by, that to me would be the
ultimate.
Was
it
difficult
to
set
up?
Did
you
need
permission
to
screen
the
films
etc?
The original school just grew out of a week-long
workshop for teens I did in Winnipeg, Canada, and
when it went well I decided to actually formalize it
into
something.
It
wasn’t
that
difficult
to
set
up
–
it’s
just negotiating with a venue and then making sure you have the base
of instructors you would need to keep it going – and in London there
are so many genre scholars and critics that I don’t think we’ll run out
anytime soon. That was a big part of the reason I wanted a location in
London.
As
for
the
films,
we
don’t
really
screen
films
–
the
instructors
just use clips in their classes. The Montreal school is run independently
so
I
am
not
sure
if
they
use
full
films
in
their
classes
but
I
find
the
structure of clips works better for us in London, especially as we have
a lot of hardcore horror fans who attend and I don’t want them to look
at
these
events
as
‘screenings’
of
films
they
may
already
have
seen.
It really is about the way the instructor interacts with the material. Of
course if the school grew to the point where it was a large institution,
then we would probably need an academic license just to show the
clips. But right now it’s pretty grassroots community affair.
What advice would you give to someone who wanted to start
their
own
film
themed
events?
Just do it and don’t look back. Call a venue, set a date and then
worry how you will pay for it later. Most people will say this is the
worst
advice
ever,
but
if
I
didn’t
jump
headfirst
into
things
I
probably
would
never
have
accomplished
anything.
You’ll
either
find
out
you
are no good at it, and never do it again, or you’ll get the bug and just
keep getting better and more pro every time you do an event. And
that’s how most people start. Just start small and keep your overheads
low – ask experienced people how much things should cost so you
don’t
get
ripped
off.
When
I
started
my
first
film
festival
I
had
no
idea
what I was doing and I just bluffed my way through it – but every opportunity I’ve ever been given was because I took that initial chance,
did something, and luckily people noticed. Of course if you are going
to
actually
play
films
then
you
need
contacts
because
you
do
have
to get permission, although the fees themselves are often negotiable.
You
can
make
those
contacts
by
going
to
other
film
events
and
festivals, doing internships and volunteering, lots of ways.
What does the Miskatonic have planned for 2016?
Our fall lineup is on the website - www.miskatonic-london.com
and I believe Montreal has theirs up too – www.miskatonic-montreal.
com Although it’s too early to say about the second half of 2016. We
have four more classes in this semester – Director John Hough does
a live on stage interview with FilmBar70’s Justin Harries on Feb 11th
Frances Morgan (former Deputy Editor of The Wire) has a class on
electronic music in horror cinema in March, Miskatonic London codirector and Electric Sheep editor Virginie Selavy has a class on religious sadomasochism In April, and David Kerekes who co-wrote the
seminal book Killing for Culture and runs the publishing company
Headpress
finishes
the
semester
with
a
class
on
custom-­made
sex
and
horror
films
in
May.
And
we’ll
end
with
a
graduation
after
the
last
class in May, which is where all the people who signed up for the full
semester get their diplomas.
Your book Satanic Panic is now out and it’s a really great
read. What’s the reaction to the book been like and do you have
plans for any other books?
The
book
sold
out
in
four
months
so
that’s
definitely
a
great
reaction! And I’ve just signed a deal to sublicense it to a bigger publisher
with wider distribution, so a second printing will be coming out as
well as e-book versions. Spectacular Optical’s next book is called
Yuletide Terror and it’s another anthology about Christmas Horror in
film
and
television.
It
will
contain
15-­20
essays
followed
by
a
compendium section at the back with capsule reviews of everything. The
aim is to have it out by Christmas this year.
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
33
BY PAIGE MCGREEVY
I hadn’t noticed the tiny speck on the ceiling
the
first
time
I
had
been
there
when we lay in bed for hours.
My
novice
Spanish
made
it
difficult
to converse with
your native tongue.
But kissing is the same in any language.
The second time I found myself in your bed,
the laughter was no longer there.
That little speck became my tesseract
transporting me to the happiest places I had ever been.
BARCELONA,
In an instant, I was away from that room on Calle Balmes.
Instead, I was sailing on my tiny boat on Bernard Lake,
SPAIN,
the sun burned my innocent body as I laughed,
2007
I was brought back to the room when I realized
the wind ripping through my hair.
that burning sensation
I so enjoyed in my childhood
had now taken the form of a cigarette
being pressed against my breast.
I knew that if I tried to hold you off
you
would
make
the
blood
flow
from
my
face,
my
body.
Instead I exhaled your vodka laden breath,
and stared at the gold belt buckle that hung
from
your
strewn
denim
on
the
back
of
the
office
chair.
Seven hours later, I stumbled to the street
no longer able to disconnect.
The birds were chirping as
the morning in Barcelona
had well begun.
Singing songs too sweet.
“¿Pero
señorita?
Qué
te
ha
pasado?”
Two green taxicabs passed me by.
They didn’t want the blood from
my stained body
to seep into their
newly lathered seats.
34
HONEYSUCKLEMAG.COM • III
Sweet Marie winks down at the hitmen.
“Thanks guys, I knew we’d get him.”
She holds onto Johnny tight.
“I knew he’d come.”
Sometimes a girl’s
gotta play dirty.
She waves at the old men. Johnny whisks her
up and over the rooftops they go.
Down in town Honeysuckle. Where the dames are
sweet, but the nights ... are bitta.