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Category: Vox Critica (page 2 of 2)

On the Advice of Torgeir, The Black Metal Extremist

Editor’s note\\\ This is the first of a bunch of advice columns I’ve written for Vox Critica in the character of Torgeir The Black Metal Extremist. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them. -TBL

The world can be a tricky place to manage and we all need a little help from time to time. But, all too often, the advice giver is just as messed up as the givee, what with all their pretensions about what’s right and what’s wrong and all the hang ups that come with giving advice for a living.

Today we introduce a new Vox Critica advice columnist: Torgeir, the Black Metal Extremist. We think you’ll find his particular brand of austerity is not out of place amongst the many advice columnists who flitter about the interwebs. Greet him warmly, for surely there are consequences who stand in defiance of his decree.

As always, the questions are real.

Question:

My girlfriend of six months has worn the same bra every day now for two weeks. I really wonder: Is this a normal thing for most women or a psychological issue? I feel it is a matter of hygiene, abnormal behavior, and also really gross.

If something so insignificant as whether or not she regularly changes her underwear bothers you, I suggest you stop analyzing her and start thinking about exactly what is wrong with you. Let me ask you some questions. What is normal? What is hygiene? If your vile lifemate has not changed her filthy undergarments for two weeks, what does it matter to you? Who are you to impose your fascist standards of cleanliness on her? What do you find, and I quote, “gross” about this? Are you some paragon of virtue who has never worn the same socks two days in a row? Who are you to judge this woman? When did you first recognize that you were a vile worm?

Do you look down on me, Torgeir, when you learn that I once wore the same leather armor for months without removing it or cleansing it of blood?

Many years ago, in the grim light of a winter’s dawn, as smoke rose from the embers of a recently burnt church, I raised my knife to the sky and plunged it into the chest of a man I had formed my first band with, a man who brazenly accused me of not truly being committed to the cause of purging this country of Christianity. When I felt his heart pumping blood all over my hands and I saw the light dim in his eyes, I knew that I was the victor. From his floating rib I fashioned a necklace as a grisly totem of my triumph. And what was the point? Nothing. There is no point. We are meat and when I took his life I changed nothing. His wasted existence is just another moment in time so vast and incomprehensible that our pathetic, weak, human brains can never possibly understand it. We are led by nature to believe that we have meaning and purpose, but this is a cold, dead world that will consume you and then forget you even existed.

To put this into words your feeble mind can comprehend, if you do not like that she does not change her bra for two weeks, liberate yourself of her. Stop being such a weak-willed worm and do what you must. In the end nothing matters at all. Do you think future humans will look back and care in the slightest that she did not change her bra? No one will ever even know she existed, just a stain on humanity’s poisoned genetic lineage. Soon she will be in the ground feeding worms and you will be dust.

Stab yourself.

Soundtrack: Emperor’s “Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk”

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Get Drunk Tonight – The Turkey’s Nest

The Turkey’s Nest – Williamsburg, Brooklyn (N 12th St & Bedford Ave)

Have you ever been to North Brooklyn? Do you have a friend there? Have you ever passed through? Have you spent even ten minutes in McCarren Park? Then you’ve probably passed The Turkey’s Nest. You might have even been inside to order a conveniently styrofoam-cupped beer or margarita (get the one with absinth) for quenching your thirst in the nearby park. But have you ever actually hung out there? I mean, like, have you ever actually gone to The Turkey’s Nest to tie one on and remind yourself that while life is fleeting, sometimes it’s best not to remember parts of it for your own longterm psychological well-being? I bet you haven’t.

In stark contrast to newer Williamsburg’s hip bars with their bullshit dim lights and fancy drinks and bartenders who will actually talk to you, The Turkey’s Nest is a grim, unwelcoming reminder of the neighborhood’s past and I love it. I don’t like it at all, but I love it. If you’re looking for a place to sit with the lights on, drinking yourself into oblivion, not talking to anyone, and maybe watching sports, this place is your place. If you want to play pool with an aggressive dude and his weird mute girlfriend on what might be the neighborhood’s shittiest, smallest, most fucked up pool table, this is your place. If you want to get your drink on without the slightest bit of pretense that what you’re doing is anything but slow suicide (come on, we’ve all been there), this is your place.

You’ll never take a date to The Turkey’s Nest. You might go there with a girl—or guy if that’s your thing—and you might have been on a date beforehand, but crossing the threshold into the darkened world that is The Turkey’s Nest is the termination of your date. You might not even talk to each other again. That’s the sort of place The Turkey’s Nest is. It’s a destroyer of dreams, a breaker of homes, a shatterer of lives. You want a Super Big Gulp sized Budweiser? Sure you do. You want 3 shots of Jäger in a plastic cup? You can have that too. You want a fancy drink and a smile? Get the fuck out, asshole. Go to some trendy bitch bar.

I love The Turkey’s Nest and I hate The Turkey’s Nest. It is varsity level drinking at its worst and it serves a valuable role in an increasingly safe and boring neighborhood. When you are looking for a place where you will receive absolutely no bullshit, this is your place. Welcome, but you aren’t my friend. Get a drink and shut the fuck up.

If you are moved by this post to visit The Turkey’s Nest, please call 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Thanks.

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Get Drunk Tonight – The Cubbyhole

The Cubby Hole – West Village, NYC (West 4th St & West 12th St)

A few weeks ago I was talking to a recently-out-of-the-closet friend of mine who told me that she felt intimidated by The Cubby Hole. She felt like she was bad at talking to women. She worried that she’d clam up when faced with a woman she was interested in. Immediately I said that I would be her wingman to The Cubby Hole for some good old fashioned lesbian hunting. I mean, why not? I’m good at talking to strangers, strangers who happen to be women, and I am certainly not off-put by the idea of going to the gay bar. Never have been. Why would I be? That’s crazy talk. Never mind that The Cubby Hole has to be one of the most fun, most ridiculous, most friendly bars in all five boroughs.

I have never had anything but an awesome time here and I’ve made friends every single time. It’s consistently a fun, lively crowd who are there to get their drank on, get their sang on, and get fucking Rowdy Roddy Piper. The bar is decorated with a maddening array of colored tchotchkes and baubles hanging from the ceiling which coupled with the inevitable crowds lends the bar a particularly claustrophobic, womb-like atmosphere. So, yeah, sure, it can get crowded and they’re cash only (ATM’s around the corner, homie), but if you go on a week night or early on the weekend and can secure a spot at the bar, you’ll be in for a wild, wooly night that will reinvigorate your faith in mankind’s ability to have a good, silly time, particularly after spending weeks surrounded by a bunch of tired, old, depressing drunks at your local dive. And seriously, who cares if it’s crowded? Stop being such a softie and man-up to the best lesbian bar in town. Check the Cubby Hole out with your favorite lesbians, listen to some Gaga on the jukebox or Guns N’ Roses or whatever the hell they’ll be playing, and make a friend. Your life will be better for it. Just don’t be an asshole and pull anything off the ceiling. They don’t like that.

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Get Drunk Tonight – Saint Vitus

Saint Vitus – Greenpoint, Brooklyn (Manhattan Ave @ Clay St.)

I have often said about Duff’s in Williamsburg that if someone had come along and offered 13 year old metalhead Joe money to decorate a bar, that Duff’s is exactly what I would have designed: dark, red lights, tits, horror movies on the television, metal blaring through the jukebox. Unfortunately I am no longer 13 and as much as I enjoy the ridiculous stereotypical metalheadness of Duff’s, sometimes I want a place I won’t be embarrassed to take a date but where I can still listen to heavy metal. Enter Saint Vitus.

A recent addition to Greenpoint’s myriad watering holes, Saint Vitus is a collaborative effort behind some dudes from Anella and Matchless who had the brilliant idea of creating a bar that is exactly what a 28 year old metalhead me would have designed if given the cash. Saint Vitus is a metal bar for grown ups and I love it. Whether you’re there to enjoy their line-up of local draught beer (Kelso, Sixpoint, Brooklyn) or to get shit faced on one of the many drink specials such as The Pope (Coors Banquet tallboy + a shot of Evan Williams + a pickleback), this place does not disappoint.

A seasoned drinker such as myself doesn’t feel odd sitting alone at the bar enjoying a solitary drink, even when surrounded by groups of folks there with the clear intention of making a night of it. Since this place is basically at the end of the world on Clay and Manhattan, I’ve never seen it so crowded that I find it obnoxious. Yet, the neighborhood seems to be genuinely excited about its opening and you’ll find a lively crowd there even on weeknights. And they play fucking Slayer and Iron Maiden all the time?! Holy shit, I love this place. I even heard Gojira the first time I went, which, if you are a fan of metal, you will know is some heavy shit. And I mean heavy as in HEAVY and heavy as in DEEP. Go alone. Go with friends. I don’t care. Just go. And eat a pork bun while you’re at it. Just look for the unadorned black store front with no sign.

In other good news, The Black Laser is now syndicated! Go read Vox Critica or perish!

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