Like A Phoenix From The Flames Of A Hash Pipe

VICE Records was born three and a half years ago when Suroosh Alvi discovered Grime sensation Mike Skinner, aka the Streets. There is debate about which of these lovelies actually discovered which but we will have to save that for a more in-depth probe. Let's just say that some spiffy microphone work beneath the sheets proved key to the fruits of their labor.

This wicked Skinner/Alvi amalgam allowed VICE to enter into a joint venture with Atlantic Records and the rest, as they say, is history. Soon the little record label that could evolved into a leviathan marching to the west Indian drumbeat of the shrewd Dr. Alvi. With his six loyal minions, he has created a power house of independent music including The Streets, The Stills, Bloc Party, Chromeo, Death From Above 1979, Panthers, The Boredoms, Justice, The Favourite Sons, and the Run the Road compilations.

The story is even more amazing when you look back to the wild west days that spawned it. The Montreal melieu of VICE Records forerunner, SSG Records, was so outlandish and decadent that its mere mention has been excised from the history books of most decent school children. Yet prevaling winds did blow and while the predicted Tahitian home base never materialized, nudity is still guaranteed at most VICE Records' events.

P.S. In truth, there still are a few kinks in the armour but perfection, I reckon, is the sign of a deviant mind and let it be known Farkas really wants that corner desk.

Sometimes Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction

There is a lot of love here at VICE and sometimes things get heated around the holiday intern table. But the rivalry engulfing Mr. C’s current and prospective gals has become a driver for VICE melodrama. Alexis, in particular, resents Krystle's supplication of her position as mistress of the C household and, at every opportunity, tries to undermine her. In the past, Alexis stole Krystle's converse high tops and tried repeatedly to ruin her relationship, most notably by finding Krystle's former husband William, Mr. C's son, and proving that their divorce was never finalized (and that, consequently, Krystle and Mr. C were adultereers). Numerous verbal confrontations have been witnessed by staff and peon alike on the 'past-its-prime' hipster highway, Bedford Avenue. On one occasion, Krystle overheard Alexis gossiping about her skinny white ass at a Greenpoint beauty parlour. Krystle appeared and announced that she too could "throw mud", and tossed a bowl of face mud all over Alexis' Misfits pullover. But their rivalry is hallmarked by a handful of catfights, beginning with one in Mr C's DUMBO loft, another in the lily pond at Galapagos, one in a mud pool in McCarren Park and the latest spat in Fast Ashleys’ studio.

Does anyone remember how to solve for C?

New Issue Online

Sign up and each month we will share the Good News with you. Oh, and I guess I should say Allahu Akbar and Yahweh Rule, as well. Welcome to The Big Three!

Powdered Wigs & Back Porch Tents

This top-secret email plea for the return of a certain someone's keys and the attendant response inadvertently crossed my electronic path. Bummer, but veils of secrecy be damned here. It makes for a good read and some funny imagery but what I want to know is what happened to that shingle? Fuck those keys.

From: Lips
Date: Mon, 19 Dec 2005 10:47:50 -0800 (EST)
Subject: Re: MISSING KEYS

Hello all,

I hope Jack Frost's bite wasn’t too painful the next morning.
I awoke in a bit of a post blizzard blur upon leaving the
fandango and realized I had lost my keys. The last
time I remember using them wasn’t for driving but was
around 3:30am on the back porch under the tent.
I believe that I handed them to Stockbauer along with a
little a package of dazzle dust he poached in the handoff
return. This leads me to believe that someone, more than
likely looking like James, may have picked them up on
accident. I NEED THEM. They have a Korean swastika
and a beer opener attached. Please inform.

> From: Longbranch Chin
> Date: Mon, 19 Dec 2005 12:47:23 -0800 (EST)
> Subject: Re: MISSING KEYS

> Robin Williams stopped doing sha nay nay when
> he found himself on top of his car naked with his keys
> stuck up his ass.... your case does not seem that extreme.
> Keep looking, Lips. Could be in the most obvious place.
> Hmm?

addVice-a-roni

So in NYC, the MTA struck at midnight and the drudge to work become instantaneously more so. Without the subway this place is a winter monster without charm. Most of us found our way to the VICE office unhindered but the queen bees of addVice, Nadine and Elhaam, apparently thought extorting their co-workers into assisting was worth a shot.

The Scene:

addVice / Vice Records office - 10:20 AM, Tuesday, December 20th...the day of the TWU transit strike.
Cold outside, cold inside.

The Cast:

Nadine - addVice fox, leader of the pack
Elhaam - addVice second fiddle, DJ extraordinaire
Will - tall, dark, brooding addVice staffer
Gina - addVice punk rock socialite
LaWow - fashionable frog
Chris - addVice man with the plan
Pat - Vice Records king of sting
Rory - addVice good guy, genial sort

and the action:

Will: Can you guys believe Nadine and Elhaam
yelled at Gina to pick them up in the city?

Office: What?!?! Ahahahaha!

Gina: They expect me to come in and get them. As if
I have nothing better to do.

Office: Tell them to walk.

Will: Tell Nadine to ride Elhaam on her handle bars
like that scene from the Wizard Of Oz where the wicked
witch grabs Toto and rides off.

LaWow: Tell them to get a cab.

Chris: I told them that I would come and get them to
prove a point that I wouldn't get back to the office until
it was time to go home. I bet they could walk here in the
time it would take for me to drive there.

Gina: I just got a text from Elhaam saying that if I was
stranded that they would come and get me.

Pat: Elhaam would be the first person to kick you off the
life boat of the Titanic to make room for her DJ equipment
to get to her set opening up for Nick Zinner's scarf.

(loud cheers and applause heard from all corners of office)

Gina: I just got a text from Elhaam saying Nadine fired me.

(Enter Rory holding a finger up)

Rory: I just walked the bridge.

(loud cheering all around)

End

Subways Are Boring

Kids love junk food. And sadly here at VICE some have fallen victim to the insipid marketing of America's unbiquitous chem-lab cuisine craze. I see them wolfing down their Taco Bell Greasy Chochas and Burger King Double Crappers and wonder in amazement. What did their parents feed them that made this garbage seem an upgrade? So when the crafty people at Motherless Brooklyn starting postering the neighborhood with this hilarious SUBWAY indictment, I was thrilled.

Just the other day two Jared S. Fogle wannabees in marketing (clue#1) were extolling the virtues of SUBWAY sandwiches. I am still dumbfounded by their perspective. You can't find a more boring sandwich in all of Brooklyn. They taste like water. The long and the short of it is: Eating SUBWAY is as idiotic as drinking SNAPPLE. Print out a copy for your idiot's cubicle. I did.

Conspiracy A-Go-Go

This bit of Illuminati-styled fact gathering regarding Dave Chappelle's stunning fall from grace is the perfect work day indulgence. Its sinister plot line is just zany enough to keep you from being bored in your cubicle while liberaly dusted with sufficient paranoia to leave you nervously imagining your own office GM monitoring your every web footprint. Bosses we all know are out to get you but this is some real et tu, Brute? shit. Whoever created it is probably having a great laugh, but then again may have already been stabbed in the back for exposing the truth. In his/her own words:

I have written this account without the need for embellishments or exaggerations for the truth is appalling enough. Let this site serve as a drawn curtain to the entertainment industry which is blindly adored by the entire world.

Huh? Remember, the only definitive revelation is that the truth is hidden elsewhere. But if you are wondering about Dave Chappelle...

Like Canadian Gossip? Gossip Is Here

With all the Americana being bandied about in these increasingly observed pages, we have treated our slightly less important neighbor to the North with unintentional neglect! Forgive us our sins, but the New York office produces just so much fodder that it can't be ignored. That said, Montreal is a doozy of a place in its own right, a prohibition nightmare town where people drink, do drugs, fuck and work menial hours because living costs are less than a flash addiction.

Racist Asians and rollerblading pot deliverymen aside, Ryan Archibald is easily the most notorious member of VICE Montreal. This Quebecois hunk will do anything to close a deal. Just ask about his misadventures on the night of Shane's 99 beer escapade! Fact or fiction? You be the judge.

RyGuy Arch is never one to kiss and tell. But sometimes his exploits are observed - such as the wild night out in The Plateau when he ducked into Miami's with his fellow vacuum salesmen The Murse and Swamp Thing. Our fine fellow bought one lovely lady a beer while inadvertently purchasing her services as well. Being the gentleman that he is, he politely reclined, of course.

Interns Gone Mild!

To be an intern at VICE you have to send us your resume and sit down with Duffy, our expert on college kids who like padding skills. They sit on leather coaches demure and smart and discuss their hopes and dreams. But when pictures of them from their previous lives surface with quotes like, "These are the first bitches I ever smoked pot with...ever," we laugh. A lot. Because laughter is the best (Intern L.) medicine.

Armies of the Frozen Night!

If the MTA goes on strike at 12:01 AM Friday, it could make for a long day to and fro the office. Rumor has it taxi drivers may even fold up shop in solidarity. Yikes! If a situation ever shouted out for the popular VICE office version of Call and Response - “Like Walking?” “Walk here!” - this would be it. And, if you don’t like walking, well tough shit monkey.

And while a transit strike will stress every subway and bus commuter in this Godforsaken city, perhaps the trusty two-wheeler needs to make a mid-winter appearance. Armies of Two Wheelers in the Frozen Night! Since most commutes are no further than about five miles, biking is a cinch in NYC. Well except for the potholes, bad drivers, rock throwing street urchins and other wildly uncoordinated cyclists. Hint: Beware of LaWow!

The city reportedly has a contingency plan, including special traffic lanes for bicycles and bike parking at city-owned buildings. I can hardly wait to witness that civil servant-inspired mediocrity in action. Hehe

And if you think riding a bicycle across the world’s most dangerous parking lot in artic conditions wearing nothing but a trucker hat and vans my prove too daunting and you like clicking, then I suggest you click here. Goodnight and good luck!

Coffee Is Out

Nifty design is something I grease on and this cute little swine is one of the best ideas since the kegging of beer. New York-based Matty Sallin fathered the Wake n' Bacon to appeal to those sluggish brutes among us for whom coffee is not enough to jump start a day. He wired an old alarm clock/oven to begin cooking bacon within inches of your slumbering olfactories. Talk about good mornings!

The Wake n' Bacon, along with even more eccentric backwoods design and fabrication endeavors, can be tracked in the new book Makers: All Kinds Of People Making Amazing Things in Garages, Basements, and Backyards, by Bob Parks. It would make a nifty Christmas gift for the Watsonian in your family who spends all his time putzing in the woodshop out back, although he would probably prefer the bacon-cooking alarm clock itself. And it should not go without saying that the BLT is the way to win mens' hearts and minds the world over.

P.S. Comments on other techie blogs worry about the bacon spoiling while you sleep even if you put it in frozen at bedtime. People are vexed about the stupidest things. Relax Park Slope Food Coop junkies. We all know hipsters who squawk about balderdash like potato salad out in the sun while snorting gaggers as if they were Roy Orbison on New Year's Eve. Oh, and can you imagine the innate temptation luring your favorite vegetarian unmercifully to this bedside treat at first light. Haha, they would be powerless against such a Trojan Hog. Along the same lines I suppose Jews and Muslims would toss and turn fitfully through breakfast as well, oh well, can't make everybody happy. Sorry, Phelan---Soooieee!!!

Mix Master Flash In The Pan?

After eight years of the 'wicka wicka wicka' lifestyle, Dirty Dirty Dietz, VICE's wunderkind Director of Business Development, is throwing in his two technic 1200s and microphone this coming Friday at APT. Known for his needle precision and the famous Deitznutz "hamster scratch," Ben’s antics will be missed by the citywide denizens of NY’s Disco U.



We decided to survey people around the office about Dietz's impending retirement and the effect it might have on VICE's office culture in the future.

Thobey asked, “Now that Ben is done with his 'rad re-edits of obscure classics', spinning stuff that is 'really killer', serving 'fluid to get you lit', 'bringing the craziness', 'turning the drunk up', 'packing in joints from all over the spectrum', being 'so party' and what not, will he have more time to 'direct business'?”

Bryce said, “Now maybe he'll stop 'mixing the wax' in the office on the 1s and 2s. Now maybe he can start selling some tracks!”

Elhaam said, “If Ben really does quit, that means we'll never get to hear Barry Manilow's 'Copacabana' again. Unless we're all out doing karaoke somewhere with him. There's no stopping Dirty Dietz!”

Lawow said, “Ben's DJing is as soothing as the sounds of a baby orca.”

Trace said, "Dietz's skilz are mad, in fact, he is the Radmaster. As for the office, I can forsesee him busting out his wheels of steel on a Friday afternoon. But that will be kind of nice, like the oldies radio station or a Greek diner blind date. Stay alive bro!"

Jamie Farkas said, “It's not fair that John gets this as a birthday day present. It's like the best present ever. John, you have to share with the rest of us!”

John Martin said, ""Can we get a company to sponsor the retirement in perpetuity? It could be branded as a nice iteration of DJ culture for an appropriate client,vis-à-vis the status quo of turntablist parties. Maybe have the Disco D involved?"

For me, I realize that never again will I have to use any of the following lingo in a professional way with Ben: Transformer or Awesome 12" Tosser or Power Wheels or Wax Master or Selector or 1200 King or Mix Master or Blends or Fades or Beats per Minute or, most thankfully, Diggin' in da Crates.

Welcome back from the dark side buddy!

Honestly you should roll by APT late Friday night (419 w. 13th St) when Ben's drunk and playing music you might actually like. Plus it’s The Murse's BD! Come out and see if you can spot the pear-shaped shirtless guy with the dance moves of Elaine from Seinfeld.

Holiday Forgiveness For Lucien Bahaj?

Vice Magazine Hosts Pink Pony Holiday Party

As rehashed by The Murse

Nobody seems to have told VICE Magazine's editorial side that the magazine ad department has a feud with Lucien Bahaj. After the magazine’s prodigy ad salesman, Thobey Campion, felt he had been mistreated at the restaurateur's namesake French-for-beginners LES eatery, Lucien, VICE sent acid-tongued office manager Melissa Burgos to review it. Whereupon Burgos found that, among other things, the remarkably unimpressive salmon tasted like “fishy, liver-filled condoms.” But now, strangely, VICE’s editorial side is holding its holiday party at Bahaj’s original bastion of mediocrity, The Pink Pony. Chosen by the VICE top brasser Eddy Moretti, The Pink Pony is well known as the go-to joint for last minute holiday parties on a shoestring budget. A spokesperson for the magazine was unsure if Campion would attend. Maybe they should trot out VICE’s prickly star photographer, Patrick O'Stale, to snap some shots of the reunion. Fat Chance.

Third Time's The Harm

While watching The Third Man and daydreaming about being a war zone opportunist at the merciful Sunday finale to a two-day hangover, I began thinking about the number 3. So with my brain bruised and Orson Welles sprinting through sewers, I wandered in the world of Thirds: The great book, The Third Policeman; The Residents' classic record, Third Reich ‘N' Roll; the ubiquitous Third Way; plus the Big Third of VICE. Not a bad party mix, if I say so myself.

It is helpful to think of VICE as a Third Way. Not merely good guys or bad guys, but clandestine operators forging a new middle ground; a worldwide entity operating between the restrictors--not unlike the antihero of The Third Man, Harry Lime. This revolutionary bent can be painful however to friends and the competition and yes, even heads. Harry's epiphany at the end of the film points out the advantageous spoils of operating in the shadowy underworld:

In Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed — they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

Ha. So today as we roll out another VICE Christmas celebration amongst ourselves, we will be thanking the good Lord for all the mayhem, all the high jinks and all the zany characters we have left ‘ass over teakettle’ in our own wake. Merry Christmas fools!

FYI: ‘ass over teakettle’ is the technical term used to describe what happens to honkys jacked to the gills on tequila and mechanical bull rides. In the UK, we say ‘ass over tit.’ This happens when your gyroscope turns into a collide-a-scope!

Sleepy LaBoeuf

Erik Lavoie (pronounced LaWOW for the obvious reason) is perhaps the most storied VICE Magazine employee after the Big Three. Erik Lavoie is a frog, or more specifically a pepper, which really only means that he is a French-Canadian poutine-loving descendant of pirates and prostitutes. Not so complicated, eh? His devotion to VICE, in league with a preternatural knack for the most devilishly-constructed tactics, has taken him to the top of this here heap. He is worldwide, and that's no lie. On occasion, however, even Erik Lavoie has a bad showing. These bouts are marked by blurred vision and a hyper-vagueness. In concert with acute drowsiness and a propensity to lose money and phone, you have the making of a 'Coconuts moment.' Recently he became discombobulated after a couple shots of swish and a handful of tranks mistaken for bennies. He was teetering around the dance floor like a geriatric carnival barker on a DDR and for much of the night all he could say was, "J'ai-tu l'air fatigué?" No one had any idea what he was asking but everyone agreed he certainly looked tired.

At one point he nodded off on top the of dynamic Yoshimi. She plays drums for the Boredoms and is a huge underground rock star in Japan. When Erik Lavoie's sweaty mane dropped to her shoulder mid-sentence she must have felt as if she had bored her first person half dead. For goodness sake, even the perpetually-dusted Flaming Lips could stay awake long enough to put something together with this chick. Can you spell intervention, or even Maxwell House? The rest of the night's cat naps in bathrooms and long swims in shallow pools aren't worth mentioning because Erik Lavoie is our man and VICE will follow him anywhere. Plus, he cuddles well. Let's just make sure there is some coffee handy next time.

Soit pas fourrē par cet demonstration embarassant. Erik est la meme mec de VICE Publishing. Nous on produit seulement des reveus qui portes sur les passions D’Erik Lavoie.

You've Got A Pretty Good Point But No One Is Going To See It As Long As You Keep Wearing That Hat

I spotted the following editorial while pumping Ironworks BBQ ribs 'tween plate and mouth and because Thursday is pretty much the week's end, I thought you should see.

A while back, I heard a story that will affect you: The average person lives out 75 years. Now, if you multiply 75 years times 52 weeks, you come up with 3,900 weeks of life. That’s it. That’s all the average person has. Then I thought, hell, I’m 58. Which means I have roughly 884 weekends left. Eight hundred and eighty four weeks? Damn! Talk about a wake up call.

Brothers and sisters, it seems it’s all over in the blink of an eye. So let’s be more selfish with who, or where, we spend our precious time. With 884 weekends left, I now only do things that make my heart and soul feel satisfied. I take that trip, buy that car, call that friend, tell that special someone I love them when they least expect it.

Pay attention to the really important things in life. Be the guy who tells the joke, not the recipient of the punch line. Be the predator, not the food source. Gorge yourself at that banquet of life until the only thing left on the table are crumbs. In other words, you’re an army of one. So, it’s up to you to either lead the charge with conquest on your mind... or sound the trumpets of retreat. If you’re reading this magazine, you’re already hitting the ground running. Enjoy the first issue.

Sylvester Stallone wrote this for the premier issue of his mag, Sly. Unfortunately, somebody else was already using the name and despite his weekender savvy it now looks as if his publishing honeymoon is over. Who could possibly deter the powerful and pointless Rambo Balboa you ask? Well, it seems the already existent Sly Magazine. Their enterprise is aimed at style-conscious young women with money to spend while Sylvester's brainchild focuses on fashion and lifestyle for men who believe that life begins at 40. Nice mid-life crisis, meatheads.

All that aside it still doesn't change the math! With x as your age, determine your own your life weekend remainder and then get out there and gorge while the gorging is good.

(75 - x) x 52 = # of parties you will ultimately be able to attend

Oh, and you might lay off the BBQ ribs if you'd prefer some extra parties. All joking aside, I admit I'm partial to, "Be the guy who tells the joke, not the recipient of the punch line." Thanks for the advice, Sylvester. I hear your pain.

All That Is Anger Melts Into Anguish

Last Friday night, as the NY Office day was winding down, a few of the fellas started hitting a bottle of absinthe and telling tall tales. At some point -- between the stories about being rusty hooked and a case of Sparks -- they decided to head down to Webster Hall for Against Me!

Once at the show, the drinking and boasting continued unfettered and some slam dancing broke out before the band even started playing. This here is hardcore, kids. Well, once the winsome, former folk-punk act took the stage, some mishmash of the green faerie elixir and a testosterone speedball took two of my boys down. Let's call them Trevor and Duffy. They were so enraptured by the emo-core band straight out of Gainesville, FLA that they decided then and there to get tattooed. And not just any tattoo kids, but the band's name, scribbled on their bodies, forever and a day.

I can't corroborate the reputed skipping and giggling on the way to the parlour and I have no idea about the holding hands during the painful session but who cares about that. My concern is that some day, 15 years from now one of them will be in a Jersey Shore bar with that tattoo peeking out just like the guy with the Dark Side of the Moon prism all bled out on his arm, upside down cause he was fucked up on acid and could "taste the colors, man" and now 20 years later it looks like a pro-lesbo tattoo. That might even be funny, but the tragedy of this affair was perhaps even simpler to predict than that.

Tattooers have notoriously bad hearing from the winding motor of the tattoo gun. They are like dentists in this regard but without the laughing gas which is what this story needs. In the hubub, the Hispanic tattooer mistook the boys' delirious jabberwocky for a band named "Againts Me!" Balloon please! So now the boys have matching Againts Me! tats conjoined elbow to ribcage. (if your browser can't track this link don't blame me) Like spellchecking?

Ich Bin Ein Berliner

The story is that when JFK said, "Ich bin ein Berliner" in 1963, he was actually saying, "I am a jelly donut." True. And in a strange coicidence, when I think about myself in comparison to Berliners, that is exactly how I feel, just like JFK, just like a pathetic little glazed donut hole. You see the legendary Weimar Republic's run of icy decadence, so enjoyed by my forefathers, couldn't be more tailor-made, from debauched massage parlors to sex clubs to cabarets to private torture dungeons. A world on the brink of disaster? Don't ask -- I'm in. But this 21st century German shit is sending some prophetic shivers up my neck bone. The boys from the VICE office in Berlin recently invited a big wig from NYC over for a visit. Here was the pitch, as I understand it. Feel like catching?

When you're in Berlin, I’ll take you to one of the hundreds of illegal pit-bull fights organized by these Turkish dudes every weekend. They also organize bare knuckle fights and ninja fights (they dress like real ninjas but they're all Turkish) In a good night, you can find dog fight, bare knuckle and ninja fight and thousands of euros in between. Also there is the Gaystapo, the Nazi homo skinheads that organize bareback parties where they beat the shit out of each other. And burqas to boot!

Ho Chi Minh! Berlin makes New York City look like Colorado Springs. If this night on the town scenario seems your cup of tea, forgo the London office of Capper & Creighton and head straight to Berlin. And tell Hector and Benjamin, Mephistopheles sent you.

Oriental Club Swingers

Word on the Lorimer subway platform - infamous iPod wars zone - is that a bunch of New York University wisenheimers are trying to organize an intern union. Freeloaders' union is more like it. Their goal is to offer mediation services for intern-interner issues, as well as a forum for griping about the more confounding aspects of internship. Dear God. Their misguided albeit fervent conviction is to push through an agenda compelling university associated intern employers (see VICE) to take on only union members, and provide them with written agreements detailing responsibilities. (Get coffee, make some copies. Are they really so stupid that they need it written down?) This planned union would draw subsidies from each school and stipends - adjusted for arduousness of responsibilities - would be paid. If you want money, dear underlings, get a job. No wonder America is headed down the tubes!

So the obvious step for the Old Guard at VICE was the retainment of some vintage Molly Maguiresque union busters to counter the coming intern(al) strife. However, due to the high cost of labor in America (driven up, in part, by the ridiculous clamorings of those who should stay firmly rooted at the bottom of the feeding chain), the Big Three are looking overseas to outsource a no-nonsense gang of Taipei Club Wielding Maniacs. And, if you think about it, Asian henchmen are a natural choice for VICE after years of wielding gangs of Slinky Oriental Clubettes on arms and laps the world over.

Our Glossy Creation Myth

In an effort to fulfill his dream of bringing VICE Magazine to the world, Gavin McInnes set out once upon a Christmastime to discover new and profitable routes to a Central American jungle’s paper tree plants. The naturally shiny paper reputed to exist in this detached corner of the globe, he alone believed the key to VICE’s worldwide glossiness. And with international success, he foresaw the attendant wine, women, and, well, you get the picture. The 21st century hipsters he invited to join him on this exploration, under the guise of a Christmas celebration in paradise, had little interest in his scheme once revealed. They themselves were only in it for the wine, the women, and well, perhaps a country ton of honk or two.

The hipsters’ offhanded and arrogant dismissal of Gavin and his scheme surprisingly elicited empathy from the natives who worked his family Finca in the Highlands. The natives saw in his otherwise off-puttingly obsessive and arrogant character the mark of a true leader. With a heretofore-unknown understanding of native culture and possessed of a physique unrecognized by primitive man, Gavin was able to enlist their aid. Of course, he had to step up his game. In return, the loyal natives led him to the money trees in question and VICE plunged headfirst into the world domination game. Today - from the mosquito-infested coasts of Nicaragua to the horseshit-stained beaches of Panama - Gavin is known as El Queso Grande; perhaps not sea to shining to sea, but not bad for a punk from Ottawa. During the period in question, and to the benefit of all mankind, Gavin acquired a dedicated and beautiful native lover, Emily Ho-Chunk. (The couple can be seen here together in an undated photo with Gavin's right hand man, Stepped-Up Game.)

The John Martin Experience: A Class Act Waiting to Happen

John Martin is the Emily Post of VICE. And despite being from Maine, John is a Young Republican. His genteel manner belies a penchant for furtively pointing out obvious shortcomings--like when LaWow had his pants down and John Martin told him, "it looks like a penis only smaller." It is this ability to go negative with extreme prejudice at the drop of a hat that has made him a Rumor Mule icon. And his inbred desire to ejaculate even your smallest troubles with hypercritical evaluations is unmatched by anyone save Gavin. Anyway, here is a primer on class he put together for his little brother before sending him off to Northern Maine Community College.

That's about as classy as magazines on top of the toilet.
That's about as classy as matches in the bathroom.
That's about as classy as wearing white socks in church.
That's about as classy as a t-shirt with a button down.
That's about as classy as ketchup on eggs.
That's about as classy as a baseball hat on backwards.
That's about as classy as Italian food.
That's about as classy as being Italian.
That's about as classy as ten cent chicken wings.
That's about as classy as a Quebecois soap opera.
That's about as classy as a Texan wedding.
That's about as classy as sleeping naked.
That's about as classy as skidmarks in the toilet bowl.
That's about as classy as eating dinner in front of the television.
That's about as classy as leaving dishes in the sink.
That's about as classy as Chinese takeout more than once a week.
That's about as classy as tattooed females.
That's about as classy as a salad at a steakhouse.
That's about as classy as light beer at lunch.
That's about as classy as an attitude and a widow's peak.
That's about as classy as a fork in a Chinese restaurant.
That's about as classy as wearing green on Thursday.
That's about as classy as a ripped condom.
That's about as classy as long fingernails.
That's about as classy as bloody nostrils.
That's about as classy as a 14 year old on the birth control pill.
That's about as classy as a mustache on a woman.

So next time you see him out on the town slumped into a turkey dinner or shirtless in some yacht club, say hey to VICE's King of Class, err, the KOC. Oh, and leering? That's class!

Up, Up & Away

Sexy Aviva has carried the VICE retail freak-flag high for the past several seasons here on the island of Manhattan. Now with the final sailing of the retail flagship into that inky cold night, we bid Aviva adieu. Rumor has it she is planning to open a t-shirt shop next to the nudist colony her 58 year old boyfriend manages.

This flower of fashion always exhibited a strong zeal for a sale, a lust for the good life, and like any good Director of Retail/hip hopper, knew the difference between POP and OPP. That winning smile and charming conversation will surely be sorely missed here at VICE. Never one to name drop her famous friends or relatives, we all wish her and her nude fiancée the best of luck in their new home and retail operation. Let us remember Aviva Einhorn (nee Yael) as a woman always up for a drink, a laugh, a dirty joke, and above all, as a woman with a great faith in G-d.

This Just In

Word of the Day:
quidnunc \KWID-nuhngk\, noun:
One who is curious to know everything that passes; one who knows or pretends to know all that is going on; a gossip; a busybody; a rumor mule.

Hair Don'ts

This club kid gone Vegas look cracks me up. God bless women, but what goes on between their ears is almost as bizarre as what they will pile on top. The lengths they will go to reel in some wooly cheeked bozo know no bounds. Don't get me wrong, I think women are the superior sex. They are braver and more emotionally stable than boys, certainly more so than the pricks staffing this place. And riddle me this blahgees, how did the word pussy come to be synonomous with weak or timid? On the contrary, I reckon pussy is just about the most powerful dad gum thing in the world. So here is to pussy power! Even with the scaredoos. You know the old joke- Why don't women have brains? (if you are gonna tell this to a woman you gotta be quick with the punchline or you will be the punchline. just trust me.) Answer: Because they don't have a dick to put them in. Hehe. Lay that on a special lady some night and you'll be in like Flynn. Like Errol Flynn, if you're lucky,