IT WAS TWENTY YEARS AGO TODAY...

The "Quiet Storm" croons for the bobbysoxers.

Today marks the twentieth anniversary of when celebrated poet laureate and modern day troubadour GG Allin went gentle into that good night and passed away at the too-young age of thirty-six. This socially-concerned, responsible, and deeply-sensitive individual's flame of self-expression and creativity burned bright as a thousand suns going super-nova as he carved out a visceral niche in rock 'n' roll history that flash-in-the-pan wannabes such as the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, and Janice Joplin strove toward and utterly failed to achieve.

Still creating mere hours before his death: Allin's interpretive dance to summer in the middle of the street on Manhattan's Lower East Side, clearly inspired by Elizabeth Swados's groundbreaking 1978 Broadway musical RUNAWAYS.

When this singular talent was forever silenced by death's inexorable scythe, oh, how we wept on that dire day, for we knew that one such as he was unlikely ever to pass this way again. We wept for our own sense of deep, tragic loss, while also shedding anguished tears for the youth of the future who would never know the firsthand influence of such a humble and caring exemplar of be-yourself, down-home Americanism. It would be fair to say that the nation had not been so united by an outpouring of shock and grief since that grim day in 1963 when John F. Kennedy met his fate and the entire world seemed to stand still.

While looking back on the illustrious career of this musical wunderkind, it was indeed difficult to choose one song that would best sum up his indelible contribution to the arts and society, so I opted for this lesser-known piece which allows the deceased to sum himself up in his own poignant words. Rest well, Jesus Christ "GG" Allin, and take some comfort in knowing that in your wake came the likes of Kelly Clarkson, One Direction, and Justin Bieber, all of whom owe you an unrepayable debt of influence.

SEVENTEEN YEARS GONE

The grave of GG Allin: more pilgrimage-worthy than Mecca?

Today is the seventeenth anniversary of the loss of one of our fair nation's great troubadours and social commentators. Yes, it seems like only yesterday when GG Allin — born Jesus Christ Allin, later changed to Kevin by his mother — was unceremoniously plucked from this mortal coil to lend his singular musical stylings to the Choir Invisible, although I doubt he was granted admission through the Pearly Gates thanks to certain aspects of his general philosophy and behavior. Nonetheless, we are without his dulcet tones and lyrics that would have made Harold Arlen tear out hunks of his hair in a fit of raw jealousy. Never again shall we experience such rich and deeply moving works of the musical arts as "Expose Yourself to Kids," "I Wanna Piss on You" and of course the timeless and beatific song to Ethiopia, "Kill the Children, Save the Food." Such odes as "Fucking the Dog," "Abuse Myself I Wanna Die," "Bloody Mary's Bloody Cunt" and the cautionary "Needle Up My Cock" are now left as fodder for cover artists and would-be suburban iconoclasts, never more to be shouted to the heavens by the man who exposed his soul (and other things) through his body of work.

So rest well, o contentious GG. Your loss is mourned and may you have found a place in Valhalla where your philosophy of "drink, fight and fuck" would most certainly be embraced.

The corpse of Jesus Christ "GG" Allin, thoughtfully defaced by family, friends and fans.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WONG FEI HUNG

Sifu Wong Fei Hung (1847-1924).

Today is the birthday of the supremely awesome Wong Fei Hung. If you don't know who he is, there's way too much for me to even begin telling you about, so I suggest you look him up. Those of you who do know his deal, represent. And make sure to thank him for existing, if for no other reason than being the inspiration for countless kung fu flicks that bear little or no relation to reality, the best of which (IMHO) are probably DRUNKEN MASTER (1978) and DRUNKEN MASTER II (1994).

MOST INEVITABLE COLLECTOR'S FIGURE EVER?

My buddy Mark is on top of all developments in the collector's toy market and he alerted me to this, what may be perhaps the most inevitable collector's figure of all time.

Yes, it's the Michael Jackson THRILLER M-Icon figure from Hot Toys, and while the timing of its release may seem like a ghoulish cash-in, the level of detail and quality evident leads me to think this has been in the works for quite a while.

The figure comes with a regular head and a zombie version, plus several sets of interchangeable hands and the iconic red outfit that would not have looked out of place on the equally late Klaus Nomi.

Usually items like this are issued in limited runs, but considering the demand for all things Michael I'll be curious to see if this gets produced indefinitely. I'm also curious to see how well it seels with a retail price of $258.90...

NOW IS THE TIME FOR...JACKSPLOITATION!!!

In case you somehow missed it, Michael Jackson died a little over a week ago and one of the first things to pop into my mind after his death was announced was just how long it would be until we started seeing cheap posters of him, poor-quality DVDs hastily cobbled together featuring his many TV appearances (or bootlegging his already extant catalogue), and of course what was certain to be a deluge of books laying out his life story and purporting to explain just what went wrong in his quite obviously effed-up psyche. The first evidence I saw of the post mortem capitalism was at the music and DVD store within the Times Square/42nd Street subway station the day after Jackson's death announced, and that was when a twenty-something woman asked the cashier if he had any DVDs of THE WIZ (the horrendous movie adaptation of the 1975 Broadway hit featuring Jackson as the Scarecrow in an all-black re-telling of THE WIZARD OF OZ). The cashier assured her he had it, but only three copies remained so it would be wise of her to buy one now. That amused me because I'd been in the store for an hour, checking out their general selection, and had run across at least forty copies of THE WIZ on the lower shelves, just below notice of the just in off the street newbie customer. At least the guy didn't totally rip the woman off by jacking the price up from ten bucks (although, if you ask me, that's still ten bucks too much for that piece of shit).

The bald-faced cash-ins in the wake of Michael Jackson's death were inevitable and it was only a matter of nano-seconds between the time his corpse was cold and he moment when shoddy merch would flood the streets, especially in neighborhoods populated and/or frequented by my fellow "highly-rhythmic individuals." With that tawdry spectacle in mind, I headed over to Brooklyn's Fulton Mall district for a firsthand walk on the wild side of Jacksploitation.

The Jacksploitation was fully evident from the moment I made my way above ground at the DeKalb Avenue R train stop. Seriously, this window display was about six feet to the observer's right once out of the subway, and the quality level of spur-of-the-moment manufacture was about what I'd expected.

This shirt looked like one of those scratchboard pictures crafted by the more "disturbed" kids in my junior high school art class, missing only the poorly-drawn bloody knives, Led Zeppelin "ZOSO" sigils, and misspellings of "Satan" common to the form. Amusingly, this could serve as a viable photo negative of Jackson from just before his "Bad" period.

While still kinda tacky, these two examples were nowhere near as ghastly as what I would find on Fulton Street proper.

The outstretched arms on this image of Jackson made me wonder if I would see a shirt bearing a crucified Michael. I didn't find one of those that day, but give it a week or so.

Upon rounding the corner onto Fulton Street I saw by far the most low-rent and creepy of the "tribute" storefronts. Looking like something out of a post-apocalyptic minstrel show, this homage to Jackson's breath mask days is twelve flavors of "ghetto" in one feeble package.

The first of several setups that served all your Michael Jackson needs. Mini-posters, pictures, belt buckles and t-shirts were all available here.

Interestingly, this vendor chose to stock mostly material featuring Michael during his pre-"white woman" look.

A customer peruses the fine wares.

I'm sorry, but lime green never struck me as a Jacksonesque hue.

Two for ten bucks. What a bargain (?)!

That glove looks more like the gear worn by an abattoir-worker rather than something that would have adorned the King of Pop's dainty mitt.

Having nothing to do with Michael, I was intrigued by this novel due to the uber-masculine-oriented black community's generally negative stance on all things homo-licious, unless they're on the down-low. And according to the copy on the book's back jacket, this is a sequel!

And I'm nearly embarrassed to admit that I could not resist picking up a piece of Jacksploitation couture to go along with my even tackier James Brown memorial/cash-in t-shirt. At least this one featured the sleaziest of all NYC daily newspapers, the New York Post, bearing one of its customary tasteful headlines and an eerie image of the white woman Michael, all for a mere five bucks. And no, I won't be shocked to discover that the shirt, paint and all, is water-soluble.