Fans of rock arcana will be delighted to learn that my buddy Rusty once assembled an exhibit of bizarre relics from punk rock luminaries that includes one of Roger "Buzz" Osbourne's pubic hairs!

How or why, mostly how did shitstanka get a hold of one of Buzzo's pube's?

Whoa, where'd that come from?

At any rate, Andy was building what he called his "Museum of Rock Arcana" or something similar-- just a bunch of bizarre curios from various rock figures. Like he had some chewed-up gum from the guy who used to be in the Didjits (Rick Sims?). I think he would just approach these minor punk rock celebrities and ask them for something random. It was really funny to see what people came up with or whether they even had any sense of humor left.

Turns out Buzzo was a good sport. I think Andy recruited a girl (maybe Milli Sasshole?) to approach Buzz and ask for a souvenir, whereupon he reached down his pants and yanked a good handful of pubic hair out. I think that's how it went down, anyway...

I'm pretty sure he kept the specimen in a baggie.

Thanks for correcting me i tag, like totally forgot the slash eh.

Whoa, where'd that come from?

Ms. Copley: man-hating history teacher who inadvertantly hipped me to a number of racial stereotypes (Learn how! ).

your archive link thats where it came from.

This is neither here nor there (must comments pertain to the current subject at hand?), but I just got an email from Feral House and ran across this nugget concerning Jim Goad's tour:

"Mid-December in Montana (Missoula, Bozeman, and maybe Butte, which is one of my favorite American cities) along with the Fireballs of Freedom."

Butte? his favorite city? Fuck.

I recently drove from LA to Butte and back in four days to attend a cousin's wedding. The rehearsal dinner was in the old Miner's Bank building, which I learned was designed by the same cat who drew up the plans for the Woolworth building in NYC and the Supreme Court Building in Sniper Country. It houses a restaurant now, and you can actually get a table inside the vault, and the safety deposit boxes and all are still there, full of extra dishes. The renovation job in the 7th floor "banquet room" was half-assed, but it is a neat old building. Unfortunately, it reminded me a LOT of the Palace Hotel in Missoula before the fix-up. Anyone else remember going through the rooms in that place? Dead pigeons and faux Satanic grafitti, mostly.

Killing time before the ceremony on the big day, we swung by the Pit for my first time in years. Friends, a more pathetic tourist-aimed recording you will never hear. Talk about trying to make lemonade out of lemons. It's two miles wide, over a mile deep, and filling up with arsenic water. I had to think that it made a really good reason to not live 120 miles downstream.

Take the really cool late-1800s architecture Uptown, the Pit, Our Lady of the Rockies, and a shrinking population so wrapped up in their history and in such deep in denial about their prospects that they seem almost mentally disabled, and you've got the makings of a town that is just too freaky NOT to be Jim Goad's favorite American city.

To finally tie this in with the original piece, I remember my cousins talking about this biker who taught at Butte High and kept a blow-up doll in the passenger seat of his car, even when his wife was with him. She had to ride in the back.

A brother could fill a book with anecdotes about goofy teachers. Yale, let's get a grant. We'll soliticit goofy teacher stories on the internet, then drive around the country verifying the truth of these tales, and use the environs the given teachers reside in as humorous little backstories to make it interesting. You know that mofo would sell too. Score a hefty advance and write off all the travel expenses to boot. Let's do it -- I'll drive. . . .

I'll have to agree with whoever said Butte is the nazzz. It is. Good town filled with rotting junk and decay. It may sit atop one of the worst fucking environmental nightmares anywhere, but they've got Pork Chop Johns, the pasty, and so much readily available history. I love a place as full of weeds and bricks. Good city. I hope to fuck the Balls get a show there. In fact it's worth seeing if I can help.

That would be so Santanic.

And high school teachers: We had, at my HS a dude named Art Belch, who I never took a class from. It was said, however that he lined up the pretty girls in the front row with his own seating chart. He would apparently look them over pretty thoroughly, or so the talk went then.

Art Belch?! Sweet gaseous merde, that is funny. Seems like every high school's gotta have the token creepy pervo/molester guy. Also Mhaze- that blow-up doll toting teacher... what a total Frank Booth scene that is. Fuck, that gives me shivers.

Butte is hit-and-miss with me. The colorful historical aspects of it are mind-blowing. Having a town in the middle of MT with pockets of Finnish, Hungarian and Serbian immigrants and their descendants is pretty trippy, I think. And walking around on the hill in Butte is total time travel. And let's not overlook Evel Kneivel. But my irrational fear of seediness and white trash America kinda sullies the whole experience for me. All the pawn shops and doorless Pintos and so forth. And the toothlessness! The rampant fucking toothlessness! And yeah, that phosphorescent Mary statue watching you everywhere... yikes. So my policy on Butte is: "very interesting place- I'm glad it's there. But I hope I don't have to spend much time there."

But like MHaze put it in that very cogent third paragraph, it's just the kind of thing that Jim Goad would dig the hell out of. So like, is he doing a speaking tour with the FOF? Or did they just get him to be their roadie to tap into his enviable ex-con cachet?

I had an English teacher named Mrs. Turnbull, who everyone called "Turbo Tits" behind her back. We thought she was kind of a hippie (she didn't shave her pits and or wear makeup) and she was much too earnest for her own good. The year was 1989, and Metallica, Megadeth, Danzig and Slayer ruled my 15-year-old earholes. For a poetry assignment, I knowingly, laughingly crafted what I thought was a hilarious piece of pseudo-Satanic bullshit, complete with references to matricide and fading into the abyss. She didn't take it too well, and I ended up in an interrogation the damn school counselor's office. They were going to show it to my parents! Thank God this was the pre-Columbine era ...

That ELHS Turbo Tits story is totally rad, and I'll have you know that I was getting a haircut at Supercuts about a year ago, and the "stylist" confided in me that in high school, her nickname was Turbo Tits.

Also, you are to be commended for taunting a hippie teacher with your santanic stories. That 80s satanism scare- what a load of manure that was. I think we have Geraldo to thank for that.

The one that stands out in my memory is about how all the Asian students drive really nice cars. They do?

After days of pondering I still cannot figure out why a hippie high school teacher in missoula would think all asian students drive nice cars.

I know, I didn't get it either. That stereotype had never even crossed my mind, and I don't know where the hell she got that. And as you know, there's a ton of Hmongs in Missoula, and I don't think any of them drive what would be considered nice cars, if they drive at all.

Now, if she'd gone off on how Chinese women are bad drivers, maybe she'd be on to something.

I had a history teacher who's class I had right after lunch. He'd always walk in late reaking of liquor and smokes. He had grey skin from years of a pack-a-day habit. He was a smart guy though and I actually learned a lot in his class. He used to rcut down the hot slutty girl Tiffany daily. Had her all welled up with tears multiple times. The crazy thing about this guy is that he retired to Oaxca, Mexico where the booze ran freely and the prostitues were dirt cheap... he actually told us that was why he was heading there! All the fast living caught up with him though. Sadly, I heard a few years ago that Mr. Hall had been murdered at the hands of a knife to the gut. Good man... bad ending.

Having attended a year of college in L.A before my beloved time in Msla, I can say that atleast at the school I attended, the asian students had the nicest cars by far, hands down. This segways into another story about death. (Come on... it's Halloween! Let's get morbid!) My roommate down there was from Japan and had two good buddies in LA with him studying film. Great guys... we'd sit around drinking Sapporo and laughing at the communication breakdown. Tak and Go were up at the Lucky supermarket one Friday evening at about 5pm, getting out of thier 5 Series BMW, when some hispanic kids walked up, shot them both and stole the car. It was later found abandoned w/ the stereo ripped out. I guess they found the kids and they admitted doing it as a gang initiation... they were told to steal a car stereo. I don't know what happened to those kids, but I sure hope it was slow and painfull. Helping Tei grieve after that is what drove me from LA to polar opposite MT.

My mom FLathead High class of '56 went to Butte for the state B-ball tourney. Butte beat Kalispell in the finals, the Butte kids after the game tipped over the bus with all the Kalispell kids still in it.

Late 80's B-ball tourney in Butte, Sentinel beat Butte. Later that night the hotel with all the Sentinel kids was raided by Butte kids who beat 5 people into the hospital, with baseball bats, including the owner of the hotel. Traitor !

She had to sit in the back? Man, that is too much.

Oh man, these stories are grrrreat. I have to chime in with some lesser contributions of my own. There was this creepy counseler at CMR in Great Falls whose wife died. A few weeks later he shows up at school driving a new sports car with the license plate MYU4IA. "My euphoria". I shit you not. A real class act there. And he's the guy you go and talk to if you're having problems at home.

Maybe it's the booze talkin' but what's up with the Treasure State and all the personalized plates?

Question two: What IS the Jim Goad / FOF connection? Aside from Portland.

I made the mistake of going to Butte for the frickin' St. Patrick's day BS. I couldn't haul my ass back to Missoula fast enough. What a bunch of trashy testicle festival nonsense. But what did I expect?

My old man once recounted a story from his high school sports days for me. He was from Livingston and the basketball team was in Butte for a game. I forget the details but let's just say the Butte hooligans would push stripped cars down hills to get their "teenage kicks."

I love the '80s McCarthism over Santanists. I once had a sweet "talking to" from my parents because I once played with a Ouiji board. Like it's just a short step from that to drinking blood from a goat's head.

Ahh, recalling the ol' high school days of yore. Back at my high school you were allowed to smoke at lunch and other breaks if you were eighteen. However the rules were not enforced at all. When I was sixteen I would chortle Newports or an occasional Vantage all the livelong day outside of our school. Well all good things come to an end, and they finally cracked down. And no one was supposed to smoke outside.

If "Mary Jane" was on deck for the afternoon then a trip to the "BakeBoard" would be in order. Many lunch periods some heavy reefing would be going down and the lesbian vice principal would try and ambush us out there. Fat firking chance. A chase would always ensue with her yelling out our names while trying to run through the woods in her high heels. Nice try, but unless she caught one of us redhanded, she had no real evidence. And her furrbuger chomping ass could never do that to me and my boyz, who had all gone through the typical ninja, army phase just a tad too long. Many of us sported wrestling shoes, not because we wrestled for god's sake, but because they were a thinking mans "tabi boot" and were quite fashionable as well. Top it it off with a Girbaud pant tightly cuffed and rolled at the bottom and a black sweatshirt up top, we could blend in to our surroundings quite easily.

Anyways, like most high schools my gym teachers were out of shape, twinkie popping fucko's. One of them who smoked himself was quite successful in his ambush attempts at bringing down a smoker or two. During the winter months we would huddle next to the gym doors for protection and try and grab a few hauls off a butt before being spotted. This worked great for a while until this fat bastard gym teacher who smoked himself, would kick the doors open and in front of his whole class snatch you faster than a starving hooker on a skillet fried Slim Jim(Thanks , Yule). Grab you by the scruff of your neck and lead you through his class while everyone laughed there asses off. Humiliating. This amounted to a few detentions too. That fucking bastard took such delight in busting you for something he did as well.

I love it when people are shocked to hear I am not all jazzed up to go to any of my high school reunions. If I ever do, my main objective is to beat the shit out of a few people, extinguish a "Backwoods" cigar on that gym teachers neck and maybe see if one of my old girlfriend wants to play "Hide the Keilbasa" for old times sake. Wait a minute make that a Camel, no sense wasting a good Backwoods.

Dude, reunion tail is almost a given for anyone with even a shred of game. Trust me. At my 10-year, I snagged a friend of mine who I'd been trying to hook up with since 8th grade. The amount of sleep I used to lose over this guy! Another segment of people ended up in a hotel semi-orgy. My friend Laura, who woke up naked from the waist down in bed with a guy she HATED in high school, had to tell her fiance that someone slipped her a roofie to explain why she didn't stagger in until noon the next day. She even went to the hospital for a "rape" exam! I'm telling you, high school reunions are the most pathetic game of drunken grab-ass you'll ever witness.

slipped her a roofie

Beg pardon?

What is this new jargon I've apparently missed out on?

HA! Slang for Rohypnol, "the date rape drug."

My ten year reunion was weird. I was back with the folks as I finished grad school, so my class gave me a bib and pacifier as the guy still living with his parents. Technically, though, it was AGAIN, not STILL. The poor gal who got stuck organizing the whole thing later apologized to me profusely and drunkenly, admitting that there were at least eight from the Sentinel Class of '89 housing with the 'rents, but I was the only one they didn't think would kill them for causing the humiliation. Scott Whaley, the dipshit history teacher/f-ball coach turned assoc. principal that they booked to emcee, made sure to very seriously thank me for being such a good sport. What a dick.

I hooked up with a pal from school days, then chased her to NYC, moved to LA with her, and three years after the reunion, I even married her.

The weekend finished with a group of high school stoners, jocks, nerds, and skaters playing a rousing game of Ultimate Frisbee. The fact that that particular mixed group could have so much fun together for a few hours actually boosted my faith in mankind.

I don't really know if that is going to make anyone want to go to their reunion. Get in shape first and don't plan on much sleep. I got six hours in three days. No shit.

Shit, I forgot the best part!

UM catering let the party run out of beer, so some guys passed the hat and made a keg run to Warden's. When they got back to the Copper Commons, where the event was being held, the catering people went apeshit over outside booze being brought in. Words ensued and the campus cops were summoned. The responding officer was Lisa Blazevich's cousin, so he listened to the caterers bitch for about 15 seconds, said, "Have a good time, cuz," and split. The party went on till 12 or so, then the keg was taken in a caravan to the running track behind Sentinel where the drinking continued for another short period. Real cops showed up and broke up the party there.

Man, my high school must have sucked. I didn't have many memorable teachers.

Mr. Harkins: English Lit. teacher. Not a bad fellow, the golf coach. He slurred his words occasionally, and had the reddest cheeks I've ever seen on a human. I think his coffee was "spiced" with Dr. Daniels. I remember we read "The Ox-Bow Incident"(Is that what it's called?) and a book called "Ceremony" that had the first somewhat detailed sex scene I'd ever read in school.

Mr. Mathews: One of my favorite teachers, had him for Vocabulary. The class basically entailed a small quiz at the beginning of class on the material from the previous day, and then he would say, "Alright, everybody read the next chapter." We promptly shut our books and began dicking around. He promptly opened his current read on Civil War history and never looked up. A hilarious guy, I always ended up talking to him about what he was reading. I still see him around town. I'm also told that during this class I began flirting with my future wife.

Mrs. Grutowski: Total bitch of a P.E. teacher. I didn't think she was so bad until one of my closest friends was absent for the day. She asked where he was, and immediatly followed the question with a lengthly mindless attack featuring detailed stories about what kind of immature, drug/alcohol induced things he could be doing. She finished up and looked at me for an explanation. I then told her that his mom died the day before. She then replied, "Well, he should be in school!"

I gave her the look of death, and she shut the fuck up.

Mr. Kimball: My freshman English teacher who would launch into crazy stories about his two tours in Viet Nam, and then would fall into a strange trance. That was pretty weird.

Mr. Koneman: English "Expository Writing". The only thing I remember about this guy is that he looked just like that dude on PBS who paints the "happy clouds", and all that shit. Complete with the afro and everything. He also wore a turtleneck and two polo shirts on top, all of varying colors, almost every day. Closest thing I had to a college prof, and that's not saying much.

Mr. Benson: Spanish II. Well, he was missing his little finger on his left hand.

The Sheridan Kid- you had a Vocabulary class? That sounds like something every high school should have.

well, hell yes we had one. Basically the breakdown of the word back to its latin roots? Or something like that. It's all a little hazy.

went to Hellgate High myself, Steve Albini was a year or two older, no one had a clue what musical greatness and media contribution he would make, he was just a geek stoner that used his ability to write to keep his ass from getting totally kicked ... I remember most of those teachers and it's a wonder one of them hasn't sued your ass for defamation or slander ... course probably cause more than one on that list sat down at a table at Lukes or the Oxford and had an ill advised drink with a student or two, and more than a few had a taste for the young stuff in their classes as well as for the delight of home grown weed ... but as a whole, they were good teachers who took a sincere interest in the welfare as well as the intellect of their students. Compared to what I know hear of and see in the metro schools of our nations cities, we should be damn grateful to have gone to Hellgate in the '70s