The Chuck Biscuits Death Hoaxer: Chuck Biscuits?

Here’s some food for thought: did Chuck Biscuits himself perpetrate the entire Great Chuck Biscuits Death Hoax of 2009, chuckling under his breath as he hosed me for six months and then laughing heartily as the world mourned his passing two weeks ago?

I have no idea, but that very notion was suggested to me by someone close to Chuck the Monday after the whole mess erupted. This particular person, someone who has known Chuck since long before he was in Danzig, told me that biscuitschuck@hotmail.com is in fact the drummer’s personal e-mail address, that the text of the messages I was sent match Chuck’s writing style, and that it was absolutely him in the picture I posted back in May. Their theory as to why Chuck would do something like this? They figured it was just his super crazy way of reinserting himself into the pop culture landscape.

While this was interesting and somewhat relieving to hear, I took it with a grain of salt. This person could be hoaxing me as well, I thought. So I decided to sit on this strange theory for a little while and see what developed.

It’s been over a week, and guess what? Nothing has happened. No hoaxers have come forward, no one has pointed me in the direction of other possible suspects, Chuck himself has not released any kind of statement – heck, Chuck hasn’t even e-mailed me to complain about my “lousy journalism”/ask where I was getting my info from/figure out who was impersonating him and his wife. If I were in his position, I’d really want to figure out who was using my identity and why they were sending pictures of me around and why they were pretending I was dying of throat cancer. If biscuitschuck@hotmail.com is Chuck’s address, if that picture is him and he didn’t do this, well, that’s pretty worrying RE: personal security.

It also strikes me as rather curious that the person who confirmed Chuck’s non-death to the world was, in the end, his estranged brother Bob and not himself or his wife, Lauren. The fact that I knew Lauren’s name, the fact that she was the person I was supposedly receiving updates on Chuck’s health (and the news of his eventual “death”) from, is what spurned Bob to drive several hours from his home in Canada to Seattle to investigate his brother’s alleged passing. Below is a copy of the e-mail Bob sent me regarding these facts:

Lauren, whose name I was protecting when this story broke because I knew it was the one true and legitimate piece of personal Chuck Biscuits info I had, only mailed me once about all this, from a different address than the one I had previously received messages from. All she asked was why I thought Chuck was dead. I explained my side of things to her and never heard back from her. Below, a copy of that correspondence:

Sure, other noted sources eventually piped up concerning Chuck’s undoubted alivedness, like his former band mates Joe Keithley (publicly) and Eerie Von (via e-mail to me), but doesn’t it seem kind of odd that Chuck’s wife would contact me and, rather than confirm that her husband is alive, ask me why I think he’s dead? This is the guy’s wife – surely she knows if he’s alive or dead. Unless, perhaps, she was in on the hoax?

Now, look – I’m not saying there’s a specific way for people to handle their own death hoax. I’m also not saying Chuck Biscuits and/or his wife definitely did this shit; the only source I have on that is off the record, my personal rock n’ roll Deep Throat, if you will. However, I am saying there’s a lot of stuff here that doesn’t quite add up, and I don’t think it’s completely outrageous to suggest Chuck Biscuits may have somehow been involved in this odd publicity stunt.

For the sake of posterity, below I’ve posted screen caps of three of the original e-mails I received from “Chuck”/”Lauren” before “he” faked his death and then reemerged (apologies for the blurriness and poor cropping; I failed Photoshop 101):

The “inquiries” mentioned in the second e-mail refer to a series of interview questions I had sent “Chuck.” Did Chuck Biscuits fake his death to avoid completing this interview? Let’s remember – this man collects cereal and retained the surname “Biscuits” when he joined Danzig.

Stay tuned for any further developments, folks. Thanks to everyone who has supported me during this utterly bizarre incident. To those who still think this is just another example of some uneducated blogger not getting his facts straight or some wanna-be Internet celebrity fabricating a story for blog hits, I really don’t know what to say. Jon Gosselin is way higher than Chuck Biscuits on Google Trends, and if you can figure out the current address/place of employment/cell phone provider/shoe size of another rogue 1980s rock drummer (say Joey Image or Arthur Googy), I will personally buy you dinner at Arby’s.

Chuck Biscuits Is Alive

And it seems it was all just a cruel, cruel hoax: legendary hard rock drummer Chuck Biscuits, whom this blog eulogized Tuesday after receiving a death notice that allegedly came from his wife, is apparently still among the living.

“I just wanted to let you know that Chuck [Biscuits] is alive and as well as can be expected,” said Bob Montgomery, Chuck’s brother, in an e-mail sent to the author earlier today. “I drove to his home in Seattle [from Canada] to confirm that fact.”

Suspicions rose almost immediately after heavy metal website Blabbermouth.net picked up the news of Chuck’s death from this blog yesterday and made it viral, as Bob and at least one of Chuck’s former band mates had heard nothing of the former Danzig drummer’s passing. After a brief e-mail exchange with JG2Land, Bob Montgomery decided to physically visit his brother to find out the truth once and for all.

“The only reason I put any stock in the Internet rumours was because [James Greene, Jr.] used Chucks wife’s name [in private e-mails],” Bob wrote after his visit to Chuck’s house. “Otherwise, I would have filed it under the African ruler looking for money to enlarge his penis file. I am really curious as to who’s been sending [him] this info.”

In May of 2009, JG2Land received an e-mail that ostensibly came from Chuck Biscuits, who appeared to be using an e-mail address that bore his wife’s real name. The message, which was a response to an article JG2 had authored for Crawdaddy.com entitled “An Open Letter To Chuck Biscuits,” found “Chuck” announcing that he was “awake and rotting twice to the gut in the land of flanneled, tree-huggin’ bunny-fuckers.” The drummer also offered himself up for an interview.

Subsequent communication with this apparently false Chuck Biscuits revealed that he was afflicted with throat cancer and could no longer speak. In July, a message signed with the initials of Chuck’s wife was sent that announced the founding D.O.A. member was in the hospital, his condition deemed “inoperable and terminal according to his care givers” and that “alternative therapies” were being explored. Communication dried up until October 26, when an e-mail was sent announcing that Chuck had passed two days earlier:

“In response to the inquires, thank you for all the support. Chuck did not survive his battle with throat cancer. He passed surrounded by his family on 10/24/09.”

It is currently unknown who exactly is responsible for perpetrating this hoax, nor what their motivations were.

In response to the avalanche of criticism, comments, and questions JG2Land is now currently receiving thanks to this debacle, I wish to state the following: it stings bitterly to know that my communication with Chuck Biscuits, a talent I have long admired, and his wife was all a scam. After all the highs and lows I felt on this six month journey, to have it end like this is just sickening.

I never had any reason to distrust the people in question. No serious flags were raised. Who would pretend to be a dying hard rock drummer for a half a year? There was no monetary gain, and I have no journalistic stature. There seemed to be no angle for this, other than to hurt and embarrass me (mission accomplished). Thus, I took these people at their word.

When I received the e-mail about Chuck’s passing, it hit me in the gut. I was reeling. I decided to write a succinct but heartfelt blog announcing the news Tuesday and that would be the end of it. The news would get around and the world could mourn the loss of the best hard rock drummer of the 1980s. That this could all be some insane prank was the furthest thing from my mind.

I can understand why some people would want to try to ruin my reputation or make me look like a complete asshole lacking journalistic integrity, but I cannot fathom why anyone would want to trick thousands of Chuck’s fans into a false state of grief. That is the real crime here. Reading some of those early comments about fans’ memories of Chuck is especially heart-breaking now. Were these people laughing at those memories? Because I was fighting back tears.

Shame on the party responsible for this. You hurt too many good and innocent people, including Chuck’s close friends/family.

Although I flunked out of the journalism program at the University of Central Florida, I know the rules and I follow them. I fact-check to the best of my ability. I never falsify quotes unless I’m writing an obvious parody or joke. I do thorough research and I try to protect my sources because I don’t entirely believe in this burgeoning “show us everything you got” style of Gen Y reporting. If I had any reason to believe the “Chuck Biscuits” I was talking to was full of shit, I would have put him through the wringer.

That said, I think it’s rather telling that Bob Montgomery couldn’t comment on the state of his own brother without driving several hours to see him in the flesh. The real Chuck Biscuits fell off grid a decade ago, and he’s clearly worked a bit to have things stay that way. I’m not knocking that at all. I’m just saying…I couldn’t verify anything about the real Chuck Biscuits a year ago when I began research for a retrospective piece about his career (which eventually morphed into the much shorter and tongue-in-cheek “Open Letter” piece). One person mailed me back. It took a fake death story to get anyone to confirm that he lived in Seattle.

I’m sorry I unknowingly spread this horrible lie. I apologize to the world, Chuck’s family, Chuck’s friends, and especially Chuck.

P.S. – Concerning Chuck’s contributions to Tougher Than Leather – again, researched to best of my ability, and if you’re familiar with the album and Chuck’s playing style, there’s no reason to seriously question it. Of course it could be a lie, but it could also be 100% true.

That’s Like Putting A Bob’s Big Boy In The Kremlin

There’s a Checkers in Brooklyn now. That’s like putting a Hardee’s on the moon! Well, sort of. Anyway, I command you to read the story I wrote about the Checkers Gotham invasion for New York Press. I assure you I take no shots at Klosterman in it.

Relevent YouTube clip – Rap Cat:

I never grow tired of that song.

An Open Letter To Richard Heene

Dear Rapscallion,

So there I was, mere moments away from setting my homemade submarine adrift in the Colorado River. I had my iPhone in hand, with a 9 and a 1 already punched in. The cat was safely stashed away at the home of a fellow Taco Johns employee – I had literally nothing to worry about as I prepared to shove the tiny vessel that had cost me $17,000 (welding lessons included) away from the shore line. My plan to send the media on the wildest of proverbial goose chases while simultanously smearing my delicious yolk all over America’s gullible, swine-like face was almost complete.

Then, for some reason, before I kicked my creation off and dialed in that last 1 to frantically explain that my little Woogums was potentially trapped in an air-tight vessel headed straight for the most dangerous stretch of rapids in Kremmling County, I decided to eat a bran muffin from the glove box of my 1971 Dodge Dart. As I sat in the driver’s seat and scarfed down my less-than-appetizing snack, I scanned CNN.com to see what was going on in the world. What headline should greet me in a matter of seconds?

“SIX YEAR OLD TRAPPED IN RUNAWAY HOT AIR BALLOON.”

I almost choked to death on my incredibly dry muffin. The audacity! For the next twelve hours, I sat in my beloved Dart and watched the whole thing unfold. I couldn’t believe my eyes. When had you been in my house? When had you seen my elaborate blueprints? They boasted a littany of ideas, including some sort of helium-based dirigible, very much like the one Wolf Blitzer was currently drooling over.

I was flabbergasted. Clearly my Brinks home security system had failed me for the last time. And to use a child, Mr. Heene, a real human child, rather than a cat! Well sir, that was unprecedented.

I applaud your ingenuity, sir, but I scorn your face just the same. I am now remarkably in debt with absolutely nothing to show for it. There is no way my wife is coming back to me now. You are a foul trickster and I shall determine how you breached my inner sanctum if it’s the last thing I do. May you rot in the self-imposed prison of reality television you seek to dominate.

Yours in pain and humiliation,

J. Greene II

This Is Serious Horror Business

Hey, you should read this article I wrote in defense of the Misfits’ Famous Monsters. Snippet: “Famous Monsters may never ascend to the lofty heights of the band’s initial Danzig-helmed material, but…it occupies its own acre of provincial awesome in a town where most people fear to tread (read: Post-Reagan horror punk).” Yes, this is a companion piece to the defense of American Psycho I wrote last year.

Thirsty for more Misfits-related scriblings? Click here to read about my unimpressive visit to the band’s original stomping grounds of Lodi, NJ. You could also take a look at a somewhat controversial piece I wrote about the night Danzig got his clock cleaned. Also, who could forget the amazing JG2Land blog post concerning five “classic” Misfits songs I could completely live without? I’m tellin’ ya, you can’t go wrong with any a’ these bastards!

Now remember, all you motherfuckers better speak to the devil, or else Danzig’s gonna make another techno album.

Spooky JG2Land Reruns

Well, here it is October 13th, and I can barely muster up the thinnest sliver of enthusiasm for Halloween. Is it that I’m getting older? Is that Halloween has been totally co-opted by the “any excuse to get as drunk as possible” crowd? Is it this diarrhea economy, stressing me out to the point I can’t even enjoy America’s greatest candy-related tradition? Probably a combination of all three. Plus, how could I possibly top last year’s costume?

I was DMC, the all-time great! I bust(ed) the most rhymes in New York state (not to mention most of New Jersey and Connecticut!).

To try and get myself (and you) in the mood for that most ghoulish of days, here’s a handful of extra-spooky JG2Land reruns. Can your eyes, hearts, and spleens withstand the terror of…

…the wretched Grim Reaper costume I assembled as a grumpy adolescent?

…my equally half-assed pumpkin carving skills?

…the field trip I took to bewitching Salem, Mass?

…pictures of the world’s largest garden gnome dressed as a witch?

…an interview with a former Murder Junkie?

…an interview with a former Samhain drummer?

…a review of a horror movie that came out eighty years ago?

Are you scared yet? Bleh, bleh, BLEH! That’s the noise that Dracula makes (when he’s climaxing).

At Least It Wasn’t A Candygram

I have read countless books about Richard Nixon – the man, his presidency, and the effect of both on modern history. This is partly because Richard Nixon was an utterly fascinating protrusion on the American landscape, a bundle of psychosis and insanity that somehow rose to lead the free world during its most turbulent years. The other reason I have pored over so many Nixon tomes is to try and figure out what this man did to spurn the ire of my father. You see, before Watergate, before the Saturday Night Massacre, before the nightmarish hellscape of the secret tapes, before it was apparent Richard Nixon was the worst possible thing for America, Tricky Dick did something so unconscionable in my father’s eyes that Dad fired off a telegram to the President containing the line, “You should be shot.”

Now, every president regardless of popularity has done something to piss someone off, especially Richard Nixon. It’s actually kind of amazing Nixon managed to avoid getting shot and lived to the ripe old age of 81 (especially when he was prone to unguarded midnight trips to the Lincoln Memorial in his crazier moments). What’s even more amazing, I feel, is the fact my father cannot remember what RN event inspired his damning missive. You’d think threatening the president via telegram would rank right up there in the memory banks with child’s birth or wedding day. Alas, Pop has no clue today why he trotted on down to Western Union and scribbled out his diatribe. I want to blame early onset Alzheimer’s, but that can’t be the case. My old man remembers lots of other stuff, like his parents’ names and his wife’s name and the last movie he saw in the theater (Kramer vs. Kramer, in 1979; Pop is a bit of a homebody).

My mother doesn’t remember either, so the task of figuring it all out falls to me. What could a pre-Watergate Nixon have done that would have been unfavorable to a hard line Republican garbage can salesman from the western side of Connecticut? The only thing I can narrow it down to is Nixon’s early 1970s wage freeze; according to Wikipedia, this freeze lasted only 90 days and was only mandatory for corporations. As far as I know, my father did not own a corporation in the early 1970s. Still, this was the largest price control in America since World War II, and my father is borderline obsessed with how much shit costs. Every time we discuss travel via car, he insists on mentioning the exact amount of gas involved. Nearly every distance is deemed a waste (unless beer or sex is involved). I suppose this is why Dad hasn’t been to the movies since the year I was born.

Nearly as perplexing is why my father chose to communicate his anger through telegram and not, oh, I don’t know, a regular letter. As an unwavering member of Generation Y, I have never sent, received, or even seen a telegram anywhere in my life. Historical documents and texts (Wikipedia again) lead me to believe telegrams were a faster means of communication than quill and paper. I’m guessing it was probably also cheaper than a phone call, which back then would have counted as long distance (verboten for penny-pinching Father). Plus, you can’t put a telegram on hold or hang up on it. There was a greater chance Nixon would have to deal with it himself. So that makes sense (although a handwritten letter wouldn’t include all those jarring, tone-wrecking “STOPS”). Of course, the image of any post-Garfield president going out to check his own mail or answer his own door seems absolutely ludicrous. I’m sure Carter didn’t even open letters from people he knew while in office.

As you would expect, my father didn’t exactly get away with telling the president he should be shot. The Secret Service and/or CIA Spooks tapped my parents’ phone for a while after the telegram was sent. Mom said you could hear a weird clicking on the line, a clicking that is apparently synonymous with government agents listening to your every conversation. Sadly, my father was not a crazy and depressed Samuel Byck type. He had no grand scheme to obliterate Richard Nixon from the face of the Earth. Dad was just a garbage can salesman from Connecticut who felt like registering his dissatisfaction with our country’s top banana. Rather than go to a bar to complain with the boys, he sent a violent telegram. America takes all kinds.

Again I will stress the insanity of Tricky Dick not getting capped at any point during his presidency; around this same time as Pop’s telegram, the aforementioned Sam Byck had shown up at the White House in a Santa Claus suit to protest his denial of a small business loan. Byck also sent various strange tape recordings to public figures like Jonas Salk and Leonard Bernstein. Strangely, the Feds decided this guy wasn’t a threat and they stopped following him (ostensibly to spy on my father and unlock the secrets of my mother’s meatloaf casserole). In February of 1974, Samuel Byck attempted to hijack a plane at Baltimore/Washington International Airport with the intention of flying it into the White House to incinerate Richard Nixon. The only thing that stopped this would-be air terrorist was his own impatience – he shot both the pilot and the copilot of Delta Flight 523 after they informed him the plane could not take off before the removal of the wheel blocks. His plan foiled, Byck shot himself minutes later, securing his legacy as a complete (albeit troubled) idiot.

Naturally I’m glad Richard Nixon did not inspire that kind of furor in my father, yet I’m also sort of disappointed there was never any real climax to this story. At no point did the Men in Black drive my father off the road or confront him in a hardware store or toilet paper his house. It was just phone tapping, if that (I remember using those landlines when I was a kid; sometimes it sounded like there were grasshoppers in the damn receiver). The only interesting twist to this tale is the identity of one of my father’s potential garbage can clients in the spring of 1972: the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. The organization decided to pass on the unique brand of receptacle my father was pimping, and any link between G. Gordon Liddy and the man who birthed me was forever severed.

That’s a good thing, I guess, but it doesn’t do much for crescendo when I’m recounting this entire strange tale at cocktail parties. From now on, I should tell people my dad was G. Gordon Liddy in disguise and Watergate was an elaborate plot to take Nixon down after the wage freeze. That’s about as believable as threatening to kill the president via telegram, right?

Casting The Kanye West MTV Freak-Out Movie I Just Wrote The Script For

This hastily-assembled shit is going to be amazing. Let’s go back in time a month and make it happen.

CONFUSED AMBITION: THE TRUE STORY OF THE 2009 MTV MUSIC VIDEO AWARDS

Starring

CUBA GOODING, JR. as Kanye West

“I’m real happy for you, Rain Man, and I’m-a let you finish, but Radio was one of the best mentally challenged hero movies of all-time!”

Who else could bring Kanye’s potent mix of earnest and crazy alive on the silver screen? Godfrey Cambridge? I’m pretty sure that guy is dead, so we’re going with Cuba.

RENÉE ZELLWEGER as Taylor Swift

“You had me at meaningless award for useless, outmoded media.”

Computer technology will make her thinner, younger, and more pucker-faced.

TARAJI P. HENSON as Beyoncé Knowles

“All the single ladies – please, don’t get high on crack and leave your baby in an oven.”

I was gonna say Beyoncé as herself, but that wouldn’t have been very creative. Taraji’s good, I’m sure she can pull off that astonished-but-still-kind-of-tickled-pink look Beyoncé had on her face after Kanye hijacked the mic.

BRIGITTE NIELSEN as Kanye’s bald girlfriend

This is an old photo. A VERY old photo.

Again, computer technology would have to be employed to bring Brigitte back from the brink of, uh, whatever you call the place where she is now.

SWEETUMS as Joe Jackson

“My son is dead. Buy some of his records already!”

The resemblance is spooky. Just throw a fedora on his head, toss a bottle of Hennessey in his paw, and BOOM – you got the guy who smacked the black off-a Michael AND helped get Kanye schnockered before the show started.

CISCO ADLER as Russell Brand

Some kinda joke about his huge balls.

I just want to give this idiot a job.

NICOLE KIDMAN as Madonna

“I was married to Tom Cruise, so I understand crazy people.”

This is a pivotal role; Madonna’s self-serving Michael Jackson “tribute” speech is probably what subconsciously set Kanye off. No one could believe all that shit she was saying. Madonna has eight brothers? Where the fuck are they? Anyway, only Nicole Kidman could handle the rigors of this film’s second most psychologically complex role.

DELTA BURKE as Katy Perry

“I kissed a girl, and then I ate her for lunch.”

Someone has to be shown Twittering their rage at the after party.

JONAH HILL as the Internet

“What the fuck, Kanye? Watch my response video and subscribe!”

If any one actor could accurately represent the rage, desperation, and utter loneliness of the world wide web’s countless armchair pundits, it’s Jonah Hill. He would be filmed entirely with a low quality webcam, in his underwear, with absolutely no edits, complaining about what “asshole Kanye” did to his “fake girlfriend Tay Tay.”

Naturally, I will direct this fabulous slab of cinema myself and sell it to the highest bidder.

Is it too soon to whisper Emmy Oscar Nobel Peace Prize?

Randy Quaid Is In Deep Shit (And I Don’t Care)

You may have noticed no news has developed on the Chuck Biscuits interview front. There’s an explanation for this, but I don’t really know if it’s cool for me to talk about it here. Suffice to say exterior forces have reared their ugly head and all I can do is wait. Patiently. Hopefully fortunes shall reverse and the interview will take place as planned. If not, I’ll eventually unravel the entire sordid affair (which surprisingly does not involve as many clowns or stolen ice cream trucks as you’d imagine).

Things I learned watching Nerdcore Rising (a.k.a. See, White Guys Rap About D&D & Calculus Like This): MC Frontalot is way more likable than previously imagined; “Weird Al” apparently likes to prop up a bunch of his old CDs when pressed for set decoration; Jello Biafra NEVER has time to SIT DOWN to be interviewed for ANYTHING because he’s SO BUSY SPREADING THE TRUTH and having nasty herpes-looking scars on his lip; MC Frontalot has a full band and not just a guy and a laptop like MC Chris; MC Frontalot is Pat Boone to MC Chris’s Carl Perkins.

Putting Masters Of The Universe and Flash Gordon at the top of my Netflix queue seemed like a good idea Monday night; now that arrival of these discs is pending, I regret not falling down a well Tuesday morning.

While we’re on the subject of talkies, the trailer for the Nightmare On Elm Street remake looks promising:

Sadly, this probably means they aren’t making Freddy vs. Jason vs. Bruce Campbell vs. Predator or whatever the hell the Freddy vs. Jason sequel was supposed to be. Oh well. We’ll always have our dreams, won’t we, fan boys? By the way, this Nightmare remake is being helmed by “Smells Like Teen Spirit” video director Sam Bayer, who totally looks like a cross between Mickey Rourke and that guy from Nickelback:

This is how you remind me.

No wonder Kurt Cobain gave him such a hard time.

Okay, so we’re all in agreement that the best episode of “Saturday Night Live” ever was the one Sinbad hosted, right? I just wanted to make sure. That “Black Lightening” shit is more hilarious than Seth Meyers’s entire career.

Someone please buy me the t-shirt pictured below as soon as possible:

What’s funny is that kid is probably in fuckin’ Cleveland.

So, I have a YouTube account, and I have a video camera, but I can never think of any good video ideas. If you don’t believe me, look for yourself. That’s the best I could come up with in two weeks. I don’t think I was made to vlog.

It’s Fran Drescher’s birthday today. Make up your own “OMG, she sounds like a bleating sheep!” joke.

Let’s Honor Swayze By Resurrecting His Film Debut

or “Never Mind Johnny Castle, Rest In Peace Ace Johnson!”

Currently there is a poll on CNN.com asking, “What’s your favorite Patrick Swayze movie?” (in honor of the recently deceased goofball hunk). There are only four choices; unsurprisingly, most votes are split between Dirty Dancing (36%) and Ghost (34%). What struck me as odd is the fact Point Break, the greatest and most x-treme surfer bank robbery film ever made, is dead last in the poll (13%), trumped by Red Dawn (17%).

Really, America? Red Dawn? Would anyone even remember that movie if it weren’t for VH-1’s “I Still Love The Friggin’ 80s (No Matter What You Say)!” or obscure references here and there on “Family Guy?” I was alive and very aware of movies in 1984 and I don’t remember Red Dawn at all. On the other hand, there was a lot of crazy crap going on in 1984. Ghostbusters, Temple of Doom. the Olympics, Cabbage Patch Kids…perhaps my attention was focused elsewhere the week Swayze and his corn-fed crew lead the charge against Soviet Russia.

Anywho, I was looking at Patrick’s filmography earlier to see if he was in anything else I consider better or more important than Red Dawn. Lo and behold, I completely forgot Swayze first hit the screen in 1979’s Skatetown, U.S.A., a film I took up a small crusade for a few years ago. Skatetown, U.S.A. is the roller disco explosion that not only boasted a fresh and graceful Swayze, it also threw Scott Baio, Ron Palillo, Flip Wilson, Maureen McCormick, and Billy Barty in our unsuspecting faces! All on roller skates! Check out the trailer:

The plot of Skatetown, U.S.A. is as follows: Scott Baio goes to the roller rink one afternoon and ends up tangling with Swayze’s Ace Johnson, who, if I remember correctly, sets things off by flirting with Scott’s little sister. This, naturally, leads to a no-holds-barred homo-erotic skate-off between the two men, but not before we can meet tons of wacky ancillary characters. There’s the overwhelmed snack bar attendants, the Christ-like DJ character, the bumbling rink doctor, and an incredibly swarthy/bearded/coked-out Horseshack from “Welcome Back, Kotter.” This was actually Ron Palillo’s first post-”Kotter” role, and he really took a risk by playing an annoying creep.

Skatetown, U.S.A. is s huge steaming pile of cheese-tastic disco camp, one of the last great feel-good Carter-era musical epics notable for doing absolutely nothing for the careers of anyone involved. That’s probably why the film hasn’t been available in any format for decades. I tried to change that back in, oh, I don’t know, 2005? I launched an online campaign to bring Skatetown, U.S.A. back to the American people, hoping at least for a bare bones DVD or one-week midnight run in theaters. Crazier things, I feel, have happened (Dirty Dancing re-release, Dirty Dancing sequel, Lambada movie, etc).

Frustratingly, the world turned a deaf ear to a potential Skatetown renaissance, and the film remained buried in the grave of kitschy crap time forgot. This country just didn’t want to remember Scott Baio’s cut-rate Xanadu. As legendary film critic Joe Bob Briggs put it when I e-mailed him about “the cause” (and I think he was speaking on behalf of every movie fan from Boston to Sacremento), Skatetown, U.S.A. was so bad they probably couldn’t get it to stick to video tape. It just slid off like a hot turd.

Of course, now that Patrick Swayze is gone, the tables have turned. We have to cherish every performance he gave us. Certain films, like Road House and Donnie Darko, will forever remain on the public’s hot, greasy lips. Others, like Skatetown, we must fight for. I can’t pretend to understand why the Hollywood elite would suppress the only film that paired Swayze with Murray Langston and Ruth Buzzi, but it’s happening. Please, if you care about classic cinema at all, I urge you to write Sony Pictures and demand they do the right thing. Demand the DVD/Blu-Ray release of Skatetown, U.S.A., or it might be lost to history forever. Their address is below.

Sony Pictures
10202 W. Washington Blvd.
Culver City, CA 90232-3195

If you aren’t that skilled a writer, don’t worry. You can always just show up there and plead our case in person. Companies love it when crazy people show up to scream at them about some stuff they did a million years ago! Or hell, just call them: 310-244-4000. Tell ‘em a crazy buns-hole in Brooklyn sent ya!