So this is a column for drunkards.
But not a column about drinking. No, there will be no bar reccomendations or drink recipes here. This is about the other times, about those magical, yet sadly non-alcoholic hours between two and six in the morning, when the booze stops flowing and the club trash crawl back to the suburbs, when the doors are shuttered and the lights go out.
This is life Beyond Last Call.

So it seems only appropriate that I would start our journey with one of the most recognizable and universally revered palaces of late night consumption, that tiny beacon of hope on the long deserted shores of the Mission…

EL FAROLITO
Oh yes… And let me just say, if you haven’t ever been there, or worse, never heard of it, well… I’m afraid I cannot, in good conscience, continue to speak to you until you do. It’s at 2777 Mission Street in SF. Corner of 24th. You can’t miss it. Go ahead. I’ll wait…

Editors Note: After a conspicuous absence of more than two months (during which time he was presumed dead and taken off the employee roster), Mr. Beedon was found unconscious, dressed only in a kimono and a pair of argyle socks, on the doorstep of our offices. Upon regaining consciousness, Mr. Beedon spent fifteen minutes pacing the hallway and muttering about “the FUCKING MONKEYS”, then pulled off his socks and took out a wadded piece of Hello Kitty stationery, on which was written the bulk of this article. While we cannot speculate upon Mr. Beedon’s whereabouts during the past two months (nor would we care to), we can safely ascertain that he will be fully rehabilitated and back to something resembling normal by next week. Thank you for your patience.

There was a strange sort of reversal that went on in the world of exploitation during the late sixties. With the repeal of the Hays Code, the grindhouse suddenly became the last refuge of the square.

Perhaps some explanation is in order…

Up to this point, the exploiteers had been near revolutionary in their attempts to put taboo subjects on screen, albeit mostly for completely selfish, money motivated reasons. But now, with the Code gone, and pop culture exploding in a million different directions, the studio system went into a freefall, and the money men started hiring hippies to revamp their image. No you could go to any mainstream movie theater and see revolutionary, boundary breaking, original cinematic visions (plus plenty of tits and ass to boot).

What was a sleaze merchant to do? The answer was simple. Pander to the prurient interests of the conservatives, while delivering a big, shiny fuck you to the hippies in the process.

If you had tuned in to the San Francisco installment of gogoray.net you might remember a little band called The Brockly Tacos. Though now defunct, the Tacos are remain one of my favorite cartoon metal bands, as well as an awesome bunch of guys. Tommy “P-dubs” Meehan, Luis, and Gaelon have run off to LA in pursuit of music and girls in bikinis, leaving Seany-poo and Kool-aid all alone in the North Bay. Now Tommy has drawn three new characters into his musical comic strip in the form of LA’s Razzle Blaster.

Razzle Blaster can only be described as new. They blend death metal screams and grunts, energetic driving drums, melodic bass, and adventurous, intricate guitar with techno beats and sampling. The music can loosely be described as metal, but that genre robs Razzle Blaster of their uniqueness in style and fundamental execution. I can honestly say that I’ve never heard anything like this.

Now, I’d like to qualify that by saying that I don’t really listen to metal at all. It’s just not my style of music, sorry dudes! But I will say that it takes an enormous amount of talent to play any style of metal well. Any asshole with an acoustic guitar and a set of bongos can start a band. But to really play drums, guitar, and bass in a metal band takes artistry. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Tommy is an artist. He’s a buddy, I used to boss him around at work, but I’m still in awe of that kid when he has a guitar in his hands.

Sugar Hill (1974)
AKA The Zombies of Sugar Hill, Voodoo Girl

The news about the Blackwater company and their $1000 a day subcontractors in Baghdad, beholden neither to American nor Iraqi law, is such classic conspiracy theory fodder that I bet even the 9/11 nuts are feeling some residual smugness right now. I would hate to see anyone’s paranoid fantasy confirmed, especially my own, but I’ve got to say it (with apologies to Patton Oswalt): shadowy conspiracies are so common now, they’re amusing. It could come out next week that the government has a zombie hit-squad and I’d double over laughing. It would be the unhinged laughter of a lunatic, however, since that schtick was already taken by Sugar Hill, the first blaxploitation horror movie. It’s a fantastic movie where racist pigs get fed to the pigs and the Grim Reaper wears a spangled jumpsuit. It’s a wild story, but 100% fantasy- how reassuring in these troubled times.