Search PW's archives for "Steven Wells" and you'll turn up nearly 400 articles, videos and other items bearing his name -- a few about him, most by him, for he was stunningly prolific. He taunted rightwingers and indie rockers -- sometimes in the same breath -- with his online column "In Extremis." But he was also a keen reporter and commenter -- often outrageously so -- on the odder corners of Philadelphia's many subcultures. A few selections, then, from his greatest hits.
Today--the day the oppressed proletariat of Pennsylvania are forced by a despotic and corrupt electoral system to choose between the grinning plutocratic stooges Obama and Clinton--I am spending 13 hours with my head rammed as far down the toilet of quasi-fascist bigotry as I can manage.
From 7 a.m., when the polls open, until 8 p.m., when they close, I will have the TV turned to Fox News, and my radios tuned to Philly's top two Obama- and Clinton-hating rightwing talk-radio stations--the Big Talker 1210 AM and WNTP 990 AM--while simultaneously googling my way through the festering sludge of dominant-ideology-supporting right-wing bloggery thatconstitutes the 90 percent of the Web not taken up by conspiracy theories, MySpace and porn.
We're talking total immersion in the world of "Hitlery" hate and Obama bashing with the punk pundits of the insane right as they continue their gibbering jihad against the forces of liberalism to make sure the greatest country in the world remains safe for old white male heterosexuals to golf and marry poor-but-big-titted Filipino chicks.
Hi, my name's Roderick Quaderly. No, it's not. But that how Americans pronounce "erotic quarterly," which is so cute. I know this because the phrase echoed around the office after we received a copy of Boink: College Sex by the People Having It, a book written by the editors of Boink magazine. Which is apparently a roderick quaderly put out by posh students.
I love that title. It's so wonderfully arrogant. We're younger, more beautiful and better educated than you, and guess what? We shag each other. Bastards.
Inside are tasteful pictures of buff poshos with trimmed pubes doing it. Plus lots of roderick wriding about buff poshos with trimmed pubes doing it. A few years ago these entitled twerps would be putting out thinly disguised Onion clones, hoping it'd get them a job on The Daily Show. But I can't think of an obvious career path that would be assisted by a softcore spread in a book that's most likely to be read one-handed by fat middle-aged sad bastards.
Barely a day has gone by since Bush declared his candidacy without some crime being committed against democracy, humanity, decency, truth, the reputations of genuine war heroes (Kerry, Murtha and McCain), the image of America abroad, or the integrity of the Constitution. After a certain point the intellect collapses under the sheer weight of detail. All you're left with is "Bush sucks."
Can you--to choose one small instance--remember what actually went down at Abu Ghraib? Try "forced group masturbation, electric shock, rape committed with a phosphorescent stick, the burning of cigarettes in a prisoners' ears, involuntary enemas, and beatings that ended with death." Among other things, some of them involving dogs. It's great to have that kind of detail all in one place, and with an index.
Meet Patrick the vampire-fanged goth entrepreneur; Joshua the humanitarian war-robot designer; Bash the dreadlocked metal guitarist with the scarred-over bullet hole in his left hand; Joel the Mt. Airy surfer dude; Diego the Argentinean 3-D artist; Kenyatta the cigar aficionado; and Chris and Cecilia--ass-kicking, trash-picking, guitar-and-sewing-machine-thrashing West Philly punk rockers.
All Philadelphia gun owners. Most of them featured in the recently published book Armed America: Portraits of Gun Owners in Their Homes by Philadelphia photographer Kyle Cassidy.
And not a single Bible-thumping, bigoted, duck-fucking white supremacist militia son of a bitch among them.
Christ but they look mad.
He was a mentor, a storyteller, a fire-breather. He was more passionate than anyone we’ll likely come across again. Of course, you know this already. Because if you read his stuff, you know the man. Everything in his writing is everything he was in real flesh-and-blood life.
It’s the winter of ’08 and heat-seeking music scribe Steven Wells is thrilled to learn that a band he loves (in theory) is coming to Philly. His glee is short-lived as he learns they’ll be changing their name to the much less shit-stirring “the Soft Pack.” “The Soft Pack? Why not just call your band ‘Beige.’ Jesus Christ, how FUCKING BORING,” Steven yells to no one in particular.
Tributes to Steven Wells
More Tributes to Steven Wells
Even More Tributes to Steven Wells
The Quietus Tribute to Steven Wells