Film: The Wonder Year

Posted on by Team Penthouse

In summer 1999, journalist Brian Raftery was 23 years old and had just made the big move from the cineplex desert of rural Pennsylvania to New York City. He had landed a job interning at Entertainment Weekly, back when the likes of Owen Gleiberman, Mark Harris, and future Gone Girl author Gillian Flynn could be regularly overheard in the hallways arguing passionately about the latest releases.

“It was also the first year I ever went to a screening,” Raftery recalls. “It was like, I get to see these movies for free? In a nice theater? Weeks before anyone else? It was so exciting.”

You could forgive a movie-drunk kid like Raftery for thinking every other movie he saw in 1999 was some kind of cinematic miracle. Except everyone else did, too.

It wasn’t just that a bunch of compelling, distinctive smaller movies like Being John Malkovich, Election, Rushmore, and Boys Don’t Cry came out that year; even a lot of the blockbusters were interesting—1999 was the year of The Sixth Sense, The Matrix, and Toy Story 2. Some movies straddled both worlds, like The Blair Witch Project, which was shot for next to nothing on a camcorder in the Maryland wilderness and became one of the ten highest-grossing films of the year.

Now Raftery has written a book, Best. Movie. Year. Ever., in which he explores the production history of about 30 of 1999’s most notable releases, from large-scale productions like The Phantom Menace, to cult hits like Go and Galaxy Quest, to the kind of mid-budget, auteur-driven studio projects that have increasingly become Hollywood rarities: David O. Russell’s Three Kings, Michael Mann’s The Insider, Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia. And even then, he had to leave out plenty more: South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut, American Movie, The Talented Mr. Ripley, and Ravenous, the bizarre Guy Pearce cannibal movie that remains one of his personal faves.

“I see 1999 as a collision between three generations of filmmakers,” Raftery says. “This is the year you get Spike Jonze’s first movie, Sofia Coppola’s first movie, Brad Bird’s first movie, M. Night Shyamalan’s big breakthrough—all these exciting new voices emerging, all coming from different places. Then you have these major directors coming back after at least a decade away: [Stanley] Kubrick, George Lucas, Terrence Malick. And then there’s Michael Mann and David Fincher and Steven Soderbergh, all being handed the keys to the equivalent of these big muscle cars. It’s like, ‘So you say this movie Fight Club is going to be a nihilistic takedown of consumer culture, and you’re going to blow up our corporate offices at the end of it? Okay, well, we can only give you $65 million to make that.’”

How’d this happen? Raftery gives part of the credit to a generation of movie executives who started their careers during the New Hollywood era of the 1970s and whose decisions were informed as much by a genuine love of movies as by business savvy. Take Lorenzo di Bonaventura, who greenlit Three Kings and The Matrix when he was running Warner Bros., simply because he thought they were…you know, great ideas.

“I don’t mean to deride them,” Raftery says, “but with some of today’s executives, I sometimes wonder, ‘Was this what you really wanted to do when you were in college studying Hal Ashby movies?’ That said, in 1999, the movie industry had a lot of money to waste. These movies did not feel like risks that would end everything. You could get something like The Insider, which had a budget of around $70 million, which is insane for a drama that is never going to have a sequel, and which you’re never going to be able to spin off.”

At the same time, Raftery resists the cliché that you could never get these movies made nowadays. He thinks they’d still survive, albeit in different forms. The Iron Giant would probably have a much easier time in 2019, for instance, now that skillfully told, heartfelt animated films in the Pixar mold have become a hugely profitable genre unto themselves.

Fight Club might not get the glossy treatment it did in 1999, but maybe a gnarlier, shot-on-digital version would still pack the same punch. Magnolia could stretch out its storytelling ambitions even further as a prestige series on HBO or Netflix. And Being John Malkovich? Well, that one always seemed like a fluke, even in 1999—Raftery says half-jokingly that he can imagine that premise in 2019 being boiled down to “a crazy, really well-made Cuervo ad.”

If any cluster of 1999’s movies seems uniquely of its time, Raftery thinks, it’s teen movies. He devotes a chapter to Varsity Blues, She’s All That, American Pie, 10 Things I Hate About You, and the gloriously trashy Cruel Intentions.

“Those were not the movies I grew up on,” Raftery admits, “but I have a lot of respect for them. They’re super-fun, but the fact that Columbine happened this year when teens had this remarkable pop-culture ascent is also very moving to me. Teen movies had to change after that, and this vacuum-sealed, pre-Columbine depiction of high school is very poignant when you watch it now.”

In 2016, Raftery wrote an article for Wired lamenting how movies no longer mattered as much as they had two decades ago. It wasn’t just that the most groundbreaking creative work seemed to be happening on television; even something as frivolous as Pokémon Go was sparking more engagement than whatever experiments Steven Soderbergh was cooking up at the time.

He doesn’t feel that way anymore. “I feel good about movies now,” he says. “In 2018 alone, you had First Reformed, Black Panther, and Minding the Gap, three movies with absolutely nothing in common—different budgets, different filmmaking styles, different audience ambitions—but all amazing. People always complain about franchises, but the thing is, you don’t have to go see all of them. If you just see the good ones, like Black Panther or Mission: Impossible—Fallout, you’re doing pretty good.”

Maybe, just maybe, the true “best movie year ever” is already underway and we just don’t know it yet. As Raftery notes, Hollywood sage William Goldman published an essay in Premiere early in 1999 decrying how movies had lost their way. “How many great movies do you need in a year, anyway?” Raftery asks. “In 1999, we might have had too many of them. In 2019, we might have exactly the right amount.”

Crazy Rich Owners: Game On

Posted on by Team Penthouse

My first exposure to the weirdness of rich people happened when I was kid, leafing through the Guinness Book of World Records paperback I’d requested for Christmas. I came upon an entry for “The World’s Greatest Miser,” Hetty Green. The photo showed an elderly woman dressed all in black, with a big black hat and a cape, striding grim-faced along a New York City street in the 1890s.

And then I learned a few wackadoodle details about the woman nicknamed “The Witch of Wall Street.” Though she’d inherited five million dollars when her whaling empire dad died, she was so cheap she hardly ever washed her hands to save money on soap, bought broken cookies at bargain prices, and cooked her oatmeal over a hot radiator during winter when making breakfast at the bank where she spent her days investing.

She nearly lost her mind once when she thought she’d lost a two-cent stamp.

Hetty Green marked the beginning of my education into monied eccentricity. Crazy rich people grow on trees. There was the Eighth Earl of Bridgewater, Francis Egerton, also in the nineteenth century, a dude who only wore a pair of shoes once, and threw dinner parties for himself and dogs dressed up in fashionable human-style clothes.

There was Sarah Winchester, who married into the Winchester gun company fortune and built an insane, seven-story, 161-room California mansion with doors and stairs that went nowhere and other oddities meant to fool the ghosts of people killed by Winchester firearms she believed haunted her.

Howard Hughes comes to mind. The aviation tycoon had severe OCD, and once spent four months holed up in a Hollywood studio screening room watching movies, often naked, not cutting his hair, surrounded by Kleenex boxes, and consuming only chicken, chocolate, and milk. Even the IKEA founder, Ingvar Kamprad, seemed a bit nuts—or at least cheap enough to give Hetty a run for her money. A Swede who drove a 1993 Volvo as recently as 2013, when he was one of the world’s richest men, Kamprad pocketed restaurant salt and pepper packets and reused tea bags. He furnished his house with IKEA furniture he assembled himself.

“The rich are different from you and me,” F. Scott Fitzgerald was reputed to have said to his drinking buddy Ernest Hemingway, who replied, “Yes, they have more money.”

Given the fact that wealthy people own professional sports teams, basic probability would tell you that a number of team owners are or have been…a little different from you and me. And not only because they have access to boatloads of cash.

Different in the head.

Here are my candidates for the five wackiest owners in sports.

CHARLIE FINLEY

During the seventies, when colorful, bombastic George Steinbrenner commenced his lengthy ownership tenure for the New York Yankees, colorful, bombastic Charlie Finley owned the Oakland A’s, a team that won three straight World Series championships—a feat repeated only one other time, when Steinbrenner’s Yankees did it between 1998 and 2000.

And, like Steinbrenner, Finley was always firing people and feuding with players. But whereas “The Boss,” as Steinbrenner was known in Yankee Stadium, banned beards and shoulder-length hair (he once ordered Don Mattingly benched for not cutting his mullet), Finley encouraged facial hair—even zany facial hair—paying players $300 bonuses to grow mustaches during the postseason.

The practice led to pitcher Rollie Fingers growing his signature handlebar ’stache. Charlie Finley was even nuttier than Steinbrenner. Take it from outfielder-turned-broadcaster Jimmy Piersall, afflicted with bipolar disorder, who once said of Finley’s craziness, “Being around him made me feel well.”

An innovator who advocated for the designated hitter, interleague play, and nighttime World Series games, Finley had a P. T. Barnum-level flair for marketing, which is where he let his freak flag fly. He introduced a new team mascot, “Charlie-O,” a mule, which he paraded through the press room, hotel lobbies, and cocktail parties. He jazzed up team uniforms, going with bright green, gold, and white. He insisted players wear white cleats. He tried orange baseballs during spring training. He hired the future rapper MC Hammer as an eleven-year-old to serve as a dancing batboy. He installed a mechanical rabbit behind home plate that popped up to hand the umpire baseballs. He pioneered ball girls (one of them Debbi Fields, who founded Mrs. Fields’ Original Cookies), and oversaw Hot Pants Night (free admission for women in short shorts), along with promotions for bald and bearded fans.

MARK CUBAN

This motormouthed, T-shirt-wearing, non-graduate of anger management classes has been the loosest of cannons since assuming ownership of the Dallas Mavericks in 2000. His propensity to yell at players and refs, and say stuff he shouldn’t in interviews, has led to a whopping $1.6 million in league fines. Small change for a guy Forbes said had a 2018 net worth of $3.9 billion. A onetime disco dancing instructor, Cuban, who made his money in tech and media, has called Donald Trump a “jagoff” and once offered to pay him a million dollars to shave his head. He allegedly said, “Your son is a punk” to Kenyon Martin’s mom after a game. He’s entered a pro-wrestling ring. He says he might run for president some day.

Is he nuts? Well, maybe not certifiably, but he’s a grade-A eccentric. His superstar player Dirk Nowitzki once said, “He needs to learn how to control himself a little better.” Four years earlier, Cuban claimed an NBA supervising ref “couldn’t manage a Dairy Queen.” Before long, Cuban was managing a small-town Texas DQ for a day, on the company’s invitation.

MIKHAIL PROKHOROV

Nicknamed a “Mutant Russian Mark Cuban” by Bill Simmons, six-foot-eight Prokhorov, who made his fortune in precious metals, has owned or co-owned the Nets since 2010. Last year he had a net worth of $9.2 billion, according to Forbes. Owner of two private jets, a 200-foot yacht, an island in the Maldives, a $140,000 watch, and a Kalashnikov rifle designed for Russian special forces, this womanizing bachelor, now 53, enjoys the hell out of life. He works out for two hours a day and likes doing backflips while waterskiing. Freakishly coordinated, he can balance on a volleyball. When the New York Times visited him in Moscow, he showed the reporter how he could snap his leg with a kick. “I come in peace,” he deadpanned at his first Nets press conference, his Russian accent thick.

“Mikhail is right up there with the most flamboyant owners the league has ever had,” said then-NBA commissioner David Stern when Prokhorov took over the Nets.

JIM IRSAY

A Bill Walton-ish child of the sixties, with a love for the Beatles, The Who, Neil Young, and Bob Dylan, Irsay, owner of the Indianapolis Colts, is a billionaire with slicked-back hair who for years wore a silver Van Dyke beard. In 2014, he was arrested for drunk driving and possession of controlled substances (a bunch of tranquilizers). Nothing if not colorful, Irsay owns the original Jack Kerouac manuscript for On the Road (a 120-foot-long scroll of taped-together paper), as well as a Ringo Starr drum set and guitars once owned by John Lennon and Elvis. He runs the best team-owner Twitter account in sports. Here he is in 2012, jabbing at Cowboys owner Jerry Jones after a TV camera caught Jones’s son-in-law cleaning the owner’s glasses: “I hired ‘The Gimp’ from Pulp Fiction 2 clean my reading glasses; he lives in a trap door in my Owners Suite, but also does my grocery shopping.” Long may you run, Mr. Irsay.

SILVIO BERLUSCONI

The longest-serving postwar Italian prime minister, a media mogul worth more than $8 billion, and a kind of Italian Trump when it comes to braggadocio and love of beautiful women, the 82-year-old Berlusconi owned the world-class AC Milan professional soccer club for 31 years, all the way into 2017.

This endlessly corrupt Teflon politician has endured multiple court cases, been arrested for sex with an underage Moroccan belly dancer, participated in orgies, bragged of getting it on with eight women in one night, and once was caught on camera simulating the humping of a policewoman from behind. The number of sexist things Berlusconi has said could fill Jack Kerouac’s “scroll” and more. The man’s a piece of work.

2019 Pet of the Year Gianna Dior

Posted on by Team Penthouse

Give a  big round of applause for our 2019 Pet of the Year, Gianna Dior.

This Alabama-bred firecracker burst onto the scene in May 2018 and hasn’t slowed down since. She’s taken the industry by storm, quickly rising to become one of Twitter’s favorite adult starlets with a no-holds-barred attitude to match her stunning looks. Though she may appear to be all glam and glitz, Gianna is a down-to-earth, rough-and-tumble kind of girl who claims the weirdest place she’s had sex is in a tree fort while on a hunting trip down South. Atta girl.

Age: 22 • Height: 5’4″ • Measurements: 32B-26-33
Hometown: ANDALUSIA, ALABAMA

See more of Gianna on PenthouseGold.com

Weird History: Lord John Bentinck

Posted on by Team Penthouse

Let’s start with a simple but important point: All was not right in the mind of William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, an introvert and eccentric par excellence who built an elaborate tunnel system under his sprawling Victorian estate all so he didn’t have to talk to other people.

The fifth Duke of Portland, aka the Marquess of Titchfield, aka Lord John Bentinck, was a man of prestige. He was a captain in the British Army, as well as a politician who served in multiple houses of government. This was not the result of a particularly strong intellect or work ethic, but, rather, rarified socioeconomic stock: His grandfather, William Henry, served two terms as British prime minister, and Bentinck’s entry to the House of Lords was literally automatic when he inherited the dukedom at age 24, upon his older brother’s premature death.

From a young age, Bentinck suffered from the Victorian catchall known as “delicate health.” He quit the army on account of lethargy, and gave up his seat as MP (to his uncle, naturally) after just a couple of years on the job. Years later, in 1854, when he became the Duke of Portland, it took Bentinck a full three years just to take his oath and officially join the House of Lords.

Bentinck’s ill health appears to have gone hand in hand with his crippling social anxiety. While he was known for his private skills as a hunter and judge of horses, in public Bentinck struggled to get along with others. As the years went on, he turned more and more of his attention to Welbeck Abbey, his grand country house in North Nottinghamshire. The estate itself dated back to the twelfth century, but when Bentinck lived there, little of the original abbey remained—and by the time he was done with it, the estate would be a completely different animal.

On the grounds themselves, Bentinck oversaw the construction of an immense riding house that could hold a hundred horses, as well as a vast kitchen garden that included a thousand-foot-long wall just for growing and ripening peaches; when roller skating became a trendy leisure activity, he built an entire rink for his staff to use.

But the real story at Welbeck Abbey happened underground, as Bentinck commissioned a vast network of subterranean tunnels and corridors, the largest of which was wide enough for two carriages to pass side by side and led toward the closest town, which was several miles away. He also built a series of specialty rooms underground, including a library, a billiards room, and a 10,000-square-foot ballroom. In all, the work took nearly two decades to complete, and required a significant workforce not just to build it, but also to maintain it for the years to come.

Why did he do this? We don’t really know, but it sure wasn’t for the benefit of his guests—because he didn’t have any. Bentinck lived on his own and did not make a habit of inviting people over. He did, however, enjoy the quiet life in the countryside, and personally attended routine chores like emptying the lake and feeding the deer that roamed the estate. As he got older, Bentinck retreated even further from public life, occupying just a few of the many rooms in Welbeck Abbey and avoiding speaking directly even to his staff. According to some accounts, Bentinck carried around an umbrella to hide behind just in case someone tried to address him directly.

Bentinck was an odd guy—likely with some undiagnosed or at least untreated mental-health issues—and his biography comes with an equally odd coda. In 1896, nearly 20 years after his death at age 79, a woman came forward to claim that Bentinck had led a double life and was, in fact, her father-in-law. The woman petitioned the government for years to exhume her father-in-law’s coffin, which she believed would be empty. By the time the coffin was eventually dug up, where it was found to indeed contain the correct body, the woman had been committed to a mental institution.

The moral of Bentinck’s story is the same as it ever was: No matter your social defects, when you’re obscenely wealthy, you can do pretty much whatever you want.

Although truth be told, most of us would do something very different.

Super Cuts: The Nastiest Film Self-Surgery Scenes

Posted on by Team Penthouse

Ranking of the rank, in one view…

  1. Total Recall

In Paul Verhoeven’s 1990 sci-fi blockbuster, Douglas Quaid (Arnold Schwarzenegger) finds himself on the run from the governor of Mars. As part of his evasive maneuvers, he must extract a tracking device that’s been implanted in his sinus cavity. A hilarious sequence follows in which Quaid sticks a sort of futuristic caulking gun up his nose and pulls out a red orb the size of a golf ball. Arnie’s face goes through a lot of agonized contortions in this scene, but it doesn’t seem like too tricky a feat, comparatively speaking. After all, since the device was designed to be extractable, the process seems more uncomfortable than painful. And what a relief you must feel once you’re done!

  1. Game Night

At a certain point in this entertaining, one-crazy-night comedy from last year, suburban husband Max (Jason Bateman) gets shot in the arm, forcing his wife Annie (Rachel McAdams) to figure out how to extract the bullet using only items she’s scavenged from a dollar store, while guided by an instructional video from an alt-right website. I strongly identify with Max in this scene, from the gag reflex that kicks in as soon as the blood begins to flow to his annoyance at the way his wife has arranged the display settings on her smartphone. Not fainting when the penknife accidentally makes contact with bone would be a challenge, but I think I could soldier through.

  1. Prometheus

In Ridley Scott’s 2012 Alien prequel, an astronaut (played by Noomi Rapace) who believed she was sterile suddenly appears to be pregnant. Since she is in an Alien movie, she knows that’s no human embryo inside her, but a killer baby xenomorph. And so she seals herself into an automated surgery pod and tells the computer to give her an emergency cesarean. As grueling as this experience may look, it’s not as sustained a test of one’s pain threshold as other scenes on this list. Once Rapace’s character hits the button that sets the operation in motion, she’s a passive patient in the care of a supercomputer. She even gets local anesthesia!

  1. Evil Dead 2: Dead by Dawn

At first blush, the showstopping moment when a crazed Ash (Bruce Campbell) chain-saws off his own hand might seem to be way too low on this list. But here’s my logic: At this point in Sam Raimi’s 1987 splatter comedy, Ash’s hand is possessed by a demonic entity and won’t stop smashing plates and bottles over his head. It seems like a kill-or-be-killed scenario to me, and moreover, the heat of battle would mute the pain of the amputation process. In fact, the hardest aspect of this scene for me to replicate might be revving up a chain saw with my teeth.

  1. Cast Away

Chuck Noland (Tom Hanks) extracting a rotten tooth using nothing but a mirror and the blade of an ice skate is easily the most excruciating scene in Hanks’s entire filmography (okay, with the possible exception of his pidgin-English monologues from Cloud Atlas). Noland’s intense whimpering, the horrifying sound of the tooth coming loose, and the crudity of his tools all combine to elevate this moment in Robert Zemeckis’s survival drama, released in 2000, to the pantheon of cinematic dental trauma, right alongside John Schlesinger’s Marathon Man, Park Chan-wook’s Oldboy, and Frank Oz’s Little Shop of Horrors.

  1. Saw

While later films in James Wan’s horror franchise played up the elaborate backstory of the serial killer Jigsaw, this 2004 original was juiced by the same elemental appeal as those questions 12-year-olds concoct for each other during sleepovers: Would you rather freeze or burn to death? Swim through a mile of shit or a mile of dead bodies? Saw through your own leg or let your wife and child die? Before Cary Elwes’s character takes a hacksaw to a limb, he has to muster the willpower by channeling the insanity of his situation. Could I work myself into the same leg-lopping froth? I’m doubtful.

  1. 127 Hours

In this 2010 drama, the act of self-surgery is far more than one vivid element of an overall story. Every viewer who bought a ticket knew they were going to see James Franco’s character remove his own arm with a pocketknife. And the rest of the movie—the flashbacks, Franco’s rambling monologues to his video camera—serves only to delay the inevitable moment. What really sells the agony of this sequence is the way director Danny Boyle reminds you that Franco’s doomed hiker doesn’t just have to cut through bone and muscle; he’s got to slice through his own nervous system as well. And that’s why my corpse would still be pinned at the bottom of a Utah crevice to this day.

  1. Gerald’s Game

Mike Flanagan’s 2017 Stephen King adaptation is built upon an elegantly simple scenario: After Gerald (Bruce Greenwood) and Jessie (Carla Gugino) begin a romantic getaway in a remote cabin, he manacles her to a bed for kinky fun, then dies of a heart attack with the handcuff keys beyond her reach. How will she free herself? I won’t spoil the ending, except to say that she commits an act I’ve never seen another movie character do. It traumatized me for days. And it introduced me to an unwelcome word: degloving. Carla Gugino, you are cinema’s ultimate self-surgery badass, and I hope you’ll understand if I’d rather not shake your hand.

Film Self-Surgery Art

Art by Heather Benjamin

Is Conservatism the New Punk?

Posted on by Team Penthouse

After the last presidential election, some music commentators believed they had discovered the possibility of a silver lining: “Punk will be better under Trump.”

We figured that would be the most inane subculture-concerned assertion this decade—at least among those takes that gained a modicum of currency. Nope. Something else had surfaced a little earlier, but seemed destined to shrivel of its own inanity. That didn’t happen. “Conservatism is the new punk” emerged, gained a bit of traction in select right-wing quarters, and now floats like a U-boat moored in a fetid bay of discourse as we approach the next election.

Now, knowing how much those in these aforementioned quarters value the “vigorous exchange of ideas,” or whatever it is they call misgendering trans people and mocking school-shooting survivors, I won’t simply counter this absurd claim by telling these ahistorical nerds to go fuck a jackboot. I will instead try to counter their attempts to appropriate God’s greatest one-chord wonder, punk, with the intellectual dark web’s own cuddly toy—logic.

First, a concession. Punk, as both fashion and music, has always had a huge reactionary strain. As was pointed out by right-winger Kurt Schlichter in his 2014 column, “Conservatism Is the New Punk Rock” (which, by the way, predated English vlogger Paul Joseph Watson’s now-infamous use of the phrase), the Ramones—arguably the first punk band, if you, incorrectly, ignore Peru’s Los Saicos—had a right-leaning member. Johnny Ramone was a Reagan-loving Republican.

And while much of early punk’s use of fascistic imagery was driven largely by a petulant need to shock, there was barely any time between punk’s popular inception and the rising of entirely fash movements like Rock Against Communism. If anything, punk arguably would have happily remained a debauched art-school exercise in pissing off the libs if the right’s rise within it hadn’t forced a response. After all, hating the hippies back then was de rigueur.

Conservatives could use punk’s failure to always live up to its self-mythology if they weren’t more invested in rhetorical points than the music. Though I suppose the admission, “Actually, I don’t just listen to the first Skrewdriver” would be saying the quiet part loud.

Of course, men like Paul Joseph Watson are more interested in the cultural cachet of being truth-bomb-dropping Henry Rollinses of the right than in engaging with punk as art. Like Gavin McInnes, Dave Rubin, and all the others who have staked their intellectual reputations on pure reactionarism, Watson is interested in the idea of “PUNK RAWK”—an almost baby boomer-ish fairy tale of absolute freedom combined with a baby’s inclination to paint the walls with its own shit. Punk reduced to the Sex Pistols and GG Allin thrusting out their middle fingers like beads thrown at Mardi Gras. Watson latches onto John Lydon—onetime Johnny Rotten of the Pistols—big-upping Brexit as though the Clash hadn’t already presciently addressed this with “He who fucks nuns will later join the church.”

The Paul Watsons of the infosphere so badly want the rickety equation “conservatism = the new punk rock” to

be dictum that they’re, by necessity,    happy to wipe away any rational history   of the genre—good and bad.

The fact that punk has always been an amorphous mess of ideas, with ideological and anti-ideological strains shooting off willy-nilly across any and all spectrums, is not a useful concept if your entire argument is predicated upon taking away something you suppose the opposition values. This isn’t a coherent position—it’s just hoping to hurt the feelings of some random girl with a bunch of piercings.

Watson and his ilk’s central thesis is that “The Left” (and, within that vague designation, socialism, PC culture, the mainstream media, etc.) is the monolith culture, so anything that offends this oppressive mass is, by some mathematical property I’m not familiar with, punk.

The obvious retort to this is that cops aren’t on the left, and the police are not punk. And, brother, Watson and his ilk sure as shit love cops. The alt-right is joined in this affection by the mainstream media and the vast majority of Democrats in national office. I won’t use this limited space to debate the merits of the prison industrial complex and a fully militarized police force, but I think we can/should all agree that, with the exception of Joe from The Queers—and while conceding that some leftist punks sure seem to have the souls of cops—there’s nothing punk about loving actual, uniformed, backed-by-state-and-truncheon cops. At the risk of complicating the argument with unasked-for nuance, even any skinhead worth his boots and braces hates cops. (Please note the 1982 British punk song “A.C.A.B.” by notorious PC police, The 4-Skins.)

One thing the right does share with punk is a sense of being picked on. But, while punks felt harassed by forces ranging from the existential (religion, the past, Texas hicks in pickup trucks) to the political (first the Labour Party, then Thatcher; and in the U.S., Jerry Brown and Reagan both), the new right feels put upon by a loosely defined cultural “mob.”

But the “mob” is what it always was—a fickle, largely split-down-the-middle, politically unknowable, and unpredictable wave. Bari Weiss gets yelled at and Marc Lamont gets fired. The Covington Catholic case didn’t exactly cover anyone on the left with glory, but Gamergate and Comicsgate are ongoing shitshows with little underpinning beyond constantly shifting grievance. If the left are the new Puritans, so are the right, and so is the center, at least when it comes to things like, say, Israel. All puritans, no witches. Anyway, people always complain about the pitchfork-wielding mob, but fail to mention that in the original Mary Shelley novel, Frankenstein’s Monster did, after all, kill that kid….

Whether or not white cis men are a marginalized group is not something the left and the right will ever see eye to eye on, but it all goes back to if you want your entire existence to be defined by pure reaction. The punk rockers behind both “White Minority” (Black Flag) and “Guilty of Being White” (Minor Threat) were coming from the perspective of young white men who were occasionally hassled by (also young) minorities in the urban centers they shared. But these punks left that whining behind once they realized that they were essentially voicing the GOP national platform.

Look, mainstream culture is neither left nor right. It’s the same mix of nihilism, amoral statecraft masked by religiosity, and market-driven distraction that led our country to invade the Philippines, establish Hollywood as an exploitative world monopoly, delay our joining World War II, maintain Jim Crow (in various forms) to this day, support the 1953 Iran coup, invade Iraq, assassinate Patrice Lumumba, and occupy Afghanistan for almost two decades with minimal public attention.

Mainstream culture—beyond occasionally inconveniencing the career of some star for their use of the N-word or briefly delaying a preordained seat on the Supreme Court—gives not a damn about the left. And if it appears to hold the right in disdain, it’s only because people, for whatever reason, prefer their war propaganda with “Fortunate Son” playing over the credits.

Punk rock is, was, and always will be a profoundly dumb genre of music with a wildly rancid undercurrent. I hold no illusions about it. But it’s also the genre of music I most love, and the punk-rock “lifestyle”—partial leftist politics, drugs, cool boots, and all—is the one I am most comfortable existing on the periphery of. But, to quote England’s finest melodic hardcore band, Leatherface, I have my place in the scheme of things. And that place lies outside punk. Still, in my calcified and impotent bones, I need to defend it from this recent calumny.

It would be pretty neat to end this with a “When it all comes down to it, punk is really about…” moral. But the truth is that punk is not about anything. It was started by malcontents whose grievances spanned from the trivial to the profound. And those grievances were as disparate and slippery in 1977 as they are now. The new clarion callers of the white minority see themselves as victimized arbiters of some larger, unpopular “Truth.” That’s fine, but that’s hardly a novel self-perception.

L.A.’s Minutemen had a song called “Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Truth?” It asks “Should words serve the truth?…. I shout for history.” And it ends, “I am a cesspool for all the shit to run down in.”

The song doesn’t sound “punk” at all, but of course it is. It is lovely and vulgar and wildly strange. Music for the uncertain; music for those trying to get by but not just trying to get by. And certainly not at the cost of fucking over those around them. In the gutter but looking at the stars, and all that romantic pining for a greater purpose, while never denying the earthly shit of existence—that’s what this Minutemen song communicates to me.

I don’t think Paul Joseph Watson, or Kurt Schlichter, or even their intellectual dark web overlords, are worthy inheritors of such a legacy. Frankly, they’re just not complicated enough.

Art by Tara Jacoby 

An Oral History of Sex Survivor

Posted on by Team Penthouse

Sex Survivor sounded too crazy to be true: 30 porn stars in a Hollywood mansion, competing in ridiculous sex contests with names like “Blind Man’s Muff” and “Musical Blowjobs” to be the last person lying on their back.

The house was rigged with cameras that live-streamed all the filthy action to an online audience who’d paid $70 for the ability to tune in whenever they wanted, and vote out the actors one by one. The show’s tagline: “Screw the most, suck the most, lick the most, to survive.”

This was the year 2000, and people were still using Nokia phones and Internet Explorer; the idea of a 24/7 live-stream porn reality show was so outlandish that it instantly became a media phenomenon, covered feverishly in mainstream magazines like Wired. At the time, reality TV was just starting to take off with the first season of Survivor—and everyone knows that nothing is truly successful until there’s a porn knockoff.

Then, just as dramatically as it had come together, it all fell apart. The cameras stopped working, checks started bouncing, and the cast was caught fucking the crew. After the director ran off with the prize money, most of the footage disappeared, too. Although some of it later resurfaced on Playboy TV, it is now almost impossible to watch any scenes from the show.

Nearly two decades after Sex Survivor’s catastrophic demise, we tracked down its stars to find out what really went down, both in front of and behind the cameras.

The Players:

Alana Evans, participant with her boyfriend (now husband), Chris Evans 

Sam Phillips, host 

Steve Nelson, participant and reporter for the website Adult Industry News 

Lianne Young, aka Billie Britt, participant and “porn queen” from England 

Sharon Mitchell, counselor and founder of Adult Industry Medical Health Care Foundation, which provided STD testing to porn stars 

Alana Evans: My agent, Robert Lumbard, got a big casting call. They told us that we would be secluded in a house doing mini-contests and having sex with other people in the house. My boyfriend Chris and I went in—they teased us a little and said we looked like brother and sister. We didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. The paycheck sounded incredible.

Sam Phillips: I was the reporter on the Playboy TV series called Sexcetera, and my cohost Kira Reed and I did a lot of Skinemax movies and softcore TV. A director-producer named Pat Siciliano hired me and Kira to host Sex Survivor. It’s funny, because now you can’t find an article on it to save your life, but at the time it was all anyone in the industry was talking about. It came out right on the heels of the first-ever Survivor.

Lianne Young: It got really good buzz. It was like the first Big Brother of sex. And it was in Drew Barrymore’s old house! It made CNN, CBS, everything.

Sharon Mitchell: I was running the clinic that does all the testing for porn talent, and I got asked by the company, Metro Distribution, to do all the testing for Sex Survivor. We screened for hepatitis, and medicated everyone for chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes. And of course, we used a standard early-detection test for HIV.

Alana Evans: Once we’d done our STD tests and such, we were not allowed to have sex with anyone else, because they wanted to keep their performer pool clean, and not worry about contamination of STDs from outside. For a bunch of people going into a house, that’s pretty important.

Steve Nelson: [Producer] Michael Caruso was recruiting for Sex Survivor, and I was interested in reporting on it for Adult Industry News. Michael said, “You can come in, but you have to come in as talent.” So I got tested with everyone else. My ex-wife and I were swingers, so we were used to doing it in front of people, but I wasn’t officially “talent” until then. I was able to bring a computer since I was reporting, but I had to leave it in the computer room. No one was allowed cell phones or laptops in the house.

Alana Evans: Michael Caruso was an older gentleman with mostly white hair. He was the one calling the shots, so he was telling us how this was going to go. There were multiple webcams in every room that were supposedly feeding live footage to the website that people were subscribing to. At that point, other than it being live on the internet, we didn’t know what the final distribution was going to be. That was not explained to us.

Steve Nelson: Before we went up to the house, we were sequestered in a motel off Hollywood Boulevard. We were all in a room, getting some kind of briefing. One of the girls had to pee really bad, so she grabbed a plastic cup and peed in it. [Performer] Danny Martell ran up, grabbed the cup, and drank her pee. That totally blew my mind. I think he was just into it!

Alana Evans: After the first couple of days in the motel, we were taken up to the house—a massive, beautiful mansion that sat on top of the Hollywood Hills. You could go underneath the patio and see into this big pool from belowground. There were even windows in the pool and a walkway over it. There were also so many people; it felt kind of like a big adult camp.

Lianne Young: Everything was really well-organized and professional. The food was fantastic, and the health adviser was there, giving us tests. So if we needed B-12 shots, we got those.

Alana Evans: There was always craft services in the kitchen. They had a ton of makeup artists, and they would take care of us. It seemed like it was [catering] to all of us. We had no idea of the meltdown that was happening on the other side.

Sam Phillips: They outfitted the house with 31 cameras and every room had night vision. You could see everything that happened in that house. The viewer would buy a pass for $70, and could just log on whenever. It was basically a 24/7 fuck-a-thon. Every day we would show up and they would tell us the contests they were planning on filming that day. The idea was they’d have the challenges during the day, but if you really wanted to stay, you had to fuck at night. You’d have to be a fuck machine and fuck as long and as crazy as you could. Because if you were boring, you would be voted out.

Lianne Young: You’re working from early morning to late night. When you make a normal movie, the [director] says cut, and you go home and get your check. In Sex Survivor, there was no cutoff point. Even when the cameras stopped rolling, the in-house internet cameras were working. The only break or escape time you had was going to the toilet.

Sam Phillips: One day, I was wearing a raincoat because there was a squirting contest, and it was so we would not get wet with people’s piss. I was just like, “Oooh, everyone’s squirting, watch out, guys!” But we weren’t wearing raincoats every day. We were looking glamorous—we were hosts.

Lianne Young: The “Roman Orgy” was the messiest contest ever. Twenty-four of us in togas, trying to have sex with as many people as possible. A room full of white sheets and naked bodies—it was like walking into a comedy porno. I had to stop performing because I was laughing too much. Once I started laughing, everyone started laughing.

Alana Evans: We were having so much sex, it was crazy! And not just straight penetration, it was all kinds of things. It was complete nonstop sexual activity. We weren’t sleeping full nights because we were always on camera.

Lianne Young: When you’re doing a regular porn shoot, it’s more intimate. That’s what makes a good porno; there’s got to be some kind of connection. When you went into the Sex Survivor house, you didn’t have to have that. You were free to move from one performer to another. There was no direction, and there’s no editing when it goes on the internet. You can’t do retakes if there’s an accident.

Alana Evans: My boyfriend Chris and I were always with each other, and that’s kind of how most of the couples did it. We were also only together maybe a year at this point, so it was all really new and intimidating. There’s beautiful, naked women all around. This is the testing point for any relationship in the adult industry.

Sharon Mitchell: Group counseling took place in the living room. When you put that many porn stars in a house, there’s a lot of drama. The producers were setting up situations and feeding [the performers] alcohol for them to have sexual liaisons. There was one young man who was very concerning. He was very new, and he just didn’t seem ready to do this. I asked producers to have him excused from the show, but they weren’t in a hurry to let him out of his contract.

Lianne Young: I became a mother hen to the rookies who didn’t live their lives as adult stars. I used to protect them and say, “Do what’s right for you, not for the camera.” In my 20-year career, this was one of the worst scenarios because you’re trapped in a house, and you’re not in control of what you’re filming or what the viewers are seeing. You had to be very careful what you were willing to do, and not get carried away, because what you did, you couldn’t take back. There were scared 19-year-olds in the house not knowing what the fuck was going on.

Alana Evans: The first contest was called “The Vibe Off.” All the women were lying next to the pool on different layers of mattresses and pillows. We were using sex toys and masturbating as a group. I was the only one who said, “You know what? I’m gonna do anal.” Porn was different back then. Anal was taboo. And it worked, I won a television! I’m thinking, I won the first big contest! This is great! Whoop! I’ll make it here. But the morning comes, and I get my name called to be sent home. I was crushed. I didn’t understand how I’d won a contest, but now the viewers are sending me home? As a 24-year-old girl, that’s a huge hit to your ego. I actually cried. I was really upset, because I had to leave my boyfriend there.

Then I go home and find out that no one had voted. None of the websites are working—they’re not streaming, no one’s watching anything. Yet they’re still making people in the house perform under the premise of being watched. No one chose me to go home, except for the producers. They thought that if they sent me home, it would make my boyfriend go crazy and fuck all the girls in the house. He was six-four, blond, ripped. They were hoping that they were going to get some really hot stuff. It did the exact opposite. It made him go to every webcam with signs telling me that he missed me and he loved me. He made it so he was going to be the next one sent home, because he wasn’t giving them what they wanted.

Sam Phillips: Within the first four days, it all started falling apart. The next thing that went down was one girl beat up another girl, and [the producers] threw her out and said, “Well, you went against the contract, so we’re not paying you.” She started making a big deal and people started grumbling like, “Are we gonna get paid?” It became apparent that the executive producer was bouncing checks. We heard that the house was going to be shut down and they were gonna throw us out because a check bounced for the location.

Alana Evans: People were worried about what was going on. Who is this man, Michael Caruso? Who is this company? When [porn star and participant] Teri Weigel and Michael were caught having sex in the confessional booth, that’s when all hell broke loose. Michael wasn’t a part of any testing pool, and now he’d just had sex with Teri.

Steve Nelson: Teri’s a good kid. There’s no one with a better heart than Teri. The Teri Weigel scandal was initiated by the producer, Michael. Michael was in the confession booth playing the part of a priest and he was hot for Teri. That polluted the talent pool, because he was going home every night. Really, he did the wrong thing by breaking the rule.

This problem wasn’t exclusive to Sex Survivor. It happens on all sets because you can’t keep porn stars’ clothes on! They love sex, and I don’t blame them. Today, I hear more that girls are like, “The camera is not rolling, don’t touch me.” Back in the day, if there was chemistry, there would be nonstop sex.

Sex Survivor - Full Page Spread

Alana Evans: Teri was crazy the whole time we were in the house. Teri didn’t stop—she was trying to get her hands on everything. But Teri wasn’t there by herself; she had her creepy little husband with her. We didn’t want to have anything to do with them, because he made us uncomfortable, and Teri was a full-on sex freak. We all like sex, don’t get me wrong, but she was just a different kind of animal. So when she was caught having sex with the main producer, that’s when everybody was like, “Okay! Nope!” Chris comes home and fills me in on the complete meltdown. There’s nothing real about what’s happening in the house now. It’s no longer a competition. It’s, “We can fuck the boss and stay as long as we choose.”

Sharon Mitchell: Teri Weigel was the shining star. She wasn’t really a porn star—she was a unique gal, very bright and beautiful. She came from Playboy, and had never been in an arena like this. She was a swinger, and she was genuinely happy to be in a group of people like this and just have sex with everybody. She was getting a lot more airtime, and there was a lot of jealousy amongst the girls because they felt they should all be featured, not just Teri.

Lianne Young: Teri had to be removed from the house, and her husband at the time did a protest on top of the roof. He was going mental, so he had to be removed as well. He was shouting, “We’re not being moved!” It was hilarious.

Sam Phillips: So the contest was no longer live and online. Nobody could see it. Once it went offline, the whole shit hit the fan. The people that were kicked out saw that it wasn’t online and told the people that were still inside. So they revolted and threatened to leave. And the executive producer begged them, if they would just stay and do the contest as if it were actually still being voted on, they’d split the pie between the people that remained.

Lianne Young: We had a proper business meeting to go over the legal terms with the camera people, producer, and stand-in director. I remember sitting in that room and thinking that this show is fucked up and we can’t trust each other, because obviously that happens when someone breaks the ring of trust. Some people were crying, some were stressed.

The director had been fired. There were about ten people left, and we all said, “Look, we have to work together to save the show. Let’s do this game, and excuse Teri going out this way.” Otherwise, millions of dollars were going down the drain. Since we were working together, it was only fair that whoever won, we were gonna split the money equally. We didn’t tell the public. What we chose to do with our winnings was up to us.

Sam Phillips: We all felt terrible. But we all continued, because everyone was told that they were all going to get paid. We all just wanted this to work out for everyone. And if I quit and Kira quit, then who would host? In the end, me and Kira got ten grand, and our checks cleared. But I heard a lot of people’s checks at the end did not clear. They had different production companies all working on this thing, and I heard a lot of crew people didn’t get paid, either.

Lianne Young: I came in second; my check was supposed to be $250,000. I got the original $7,000 [when] I signed to go in for seven days, but as far as I know, nobody ever got the winnings. I dealt with a lawyer after the show, but there was no money to be had. Michael Caruso ran off with the money and moved to Florida or something.

One lesson you’ve got to learn is, if something sounds so good, it can’t always be true. There are a lot of snakes in pornography, and they can wear many disguises. Another lesson is that working in a big group like that can be very hard. It was a mass production, and if you’re not experienced you shouldn’t go anywhere near it.

Because it was new, everyone was on adrenaline. We were doing stuff we wouldn’t normally do in our porn careers. Were the producers taking advantage? I’m not sure. But people are competitive and will do whatever they can to win. I think some of the younger performers could have been easily coerced. In fact, I wouldn’t advise anyone to go into porn these days. It’s one of the only industries where the wages have gone down, not up.

Sam Phillips: It was a groundbreaking event that ended up, y’know, fucking everyone over. It was like the Fyre Fest. Yeah, that’s literally what it was. It was the Fyre Fest of fucking.

Michelle Lhooq is an L.A.-based music and weed journalist, and the author of the new book “Weed: Everything You Want to Know But Are Always Too Stoned to Ask” (Random House/Prestel).

Art by Allison Conway.

Gabby Bianco is our Muse

Posted on by Team Penthouse

LOS Angeles-based power duo Smoke Season was gearing up for SXSW, the annual Austin, Texas, music fest, when we caught up with frontwoman Gabby Bianco.

As the 30-year-old musician-producer sits in our makeup chair, she recounts her favorite festival shows — Noise Pop in San Francisco and Echo Park Rising in Los Angeles — and explains the importance of checking the stage mechanics.

“Soundcheck usually consists of me making sure the pipes in the ceiling or the scaffolding onstage can handle my body,” she says. “I will climb or jump off anything. I have a good time onstage, much to my body’s dismay.”

Since forming their band in 2013, Bianco and multitalented musician Jason Rosen have manifested a strong following with their eccentric blend of indie-electronica. “We’re one half Portugal. The Man and one half No Doubt,” Bianco explains, shaking her long auburn hair. “We like to play with brightness—colors, textures, and music. We are heavy on the sunshine. We’re sunny punk.”

In addition to her work in Smoke Season, Bianco recently embarked on a solo project, a six-song EP titled BIIANCO. She wrote, produced, and played everything herself, and enlisted Grammy-winning engineer Matt Wiggins (known for his work with pop icon Adele) to add some magic to the final mix. Bianco says she just wanted to make the music she listens to when she’s “crying, driving, or having sex,” but what resulted is a spectacular collection of chill-wave electronica. We sat down to talk with the up-and-coming producer about her latest project, and what it means to pose for Penthouse.

Why did you decide to go solo with BIANCO?

In the past year or so, I’ve been writing different types of music which didn’t fit with Smoke Season’s vibe. I needed another outlet for these songs.

Smoke Season has always worked with different producers, [but] as I started working on my own songs, I realized they were getting more and more diluted as I involved other people. I took a step back and realized I am a producer! I make all my synthesizer patches, I know how I want my vocals to sound, and I have the vision for my songs. I just needed to brush up on the technical aspects. So, I spent a few months learning how to compress, engineer, and side-chain myself, and what resulted was my six-song EP I completed practically on my own.

That’s an amazing accomplishment.

There aren’t a lot of female producers in the electronic genre. I’m hoping they’re all out there, like me, just waiting to make a name for themselves. Women bring a different perspective behind the scenes. We have a different voice and story.

How do you interact with your fans?

I will sit in [Smoke Season’s] DM’s and talk with any fan who asks a question, especially when it comes to making their own music. I went on this retreat a few months ago where a bunch of musicians were teaching Ableton-based [music software] programs. It was amazing. I’m always trying to teach other people and learn from my musician friends. Music is  a symbiotic relationship.

Who are some of your muses? 

I’m a classically trained pianist, so Tori Amos has always been an inspiration for me. We had similar upbringings. She taught me how to dive into the dark emotions of my songwriting, especially when I was younger and just getting my start. As a producer, I really look up to Moby and the way he plays with sound and percussion. As far as style goes, I love Alexa Chung and Cara Delevingne. Cara plays with femininity and masculinity in such an appealing way. I try to embrace androgyny.

Is androgyny a political statement or a fashion statement?

For a long time, femininity and masculinity existed on a hierarchy, with masculinity on the top. I feel like we’re moving toward a more horizontal plane, which means anyone can slide all over the gender scale and no one is any more valued than the other. I try to lead by example. Plus, this is just the style I like.

Did you ever think you would be posing for Penthouse? 

It means something different to my mother than it does for me, judging by the phone call I got a few days ago when she found out I was doing this. [Laughs] She was like, “Do NOT show your pussy!” But things have changed—the times have changed. This has been a really empowering experience. I’m bringing the bush back, whether you see it today or not.

Photography by Lindsey Byrnes, Video by JT Photography and Gerald Acuna.

Highlife: Dream Big

Posted on by Team Penthouse

Here are some luxury getaways, events, and retreats we are dreaming of this summer.

DREAM GETAWAY: MIGALOO PRIVATE SUBMERSIBLE YACHT 

While some designers live in reality, others, like the CEO of Austrian marine-design dreamers Migaloo, focus on the future and dream big. Very big. And why the fuck not?

Starting with the M2, a 240-foot-long sub that has bar and restaurant facilities for up to 36 guests, anyone willing to fork out the cool billion-plus for one of these can choose from a variety of options and layouts. There’s also the 440-foot M5 for up to 65 guests, the 525-foot M6 for added luxury, or, the big kahuna, the nearly 38,000-square-foot, 930-foot-long M7.

Oh, and the company is also putting out feelers to see if anyone wants a private, custom-built floating island. Their Kokomo island concept (pictured) features a private owner’s penthouse raised 260 feet above sea level, a jungle deck with vertical gardens and palm trees, a shark-feeding station (yeah!), and an outdoor movie theater.

Named after the famous white whale that visits the east coast of Australia every season, Migaloo has detailed everything one could imagine in their designs, and it looks like they mean business.

Now, who has a spare couple billion?

DREAM EVENT: YACHT WEEK

Ever lusted for the ocean spray on your face as you glide across the Aegean on a fully-equipped sailboat, but don’t have a million bucks handy for your own vessel? Same here. Luckily, the good people at The Yacht Week make this a reality for schmucks like us every year.

With beers, beaches, and babes aplenty, The Yacht Week is your ticket to seven days on your own luxury sailboat, which cuts a path through some of the most visually kick-ass routes Europe has to offer (Greece, Croatia, Italy, and Montenegro are the current options).

Excursions are held during the summer months, and you can book an entire yacht for up to 12 people, or a two-person cabin on a shared boat. You can also choose how much you want to shell out, with economy to premium options available, depending on how crazy you want to get.

Each yacht comes with its own skipper, and dozens of yachts make this excursion together, so you’ll meet plenty of like-minded folks—and ladies. The yachts make stops along the way so you can stock up on whatever you might need and/or party at the local nightclubs, and then there’s the “raft,” which is when up to 50 boats are tied together in a giant circle (see photo) and everybody jumps in and swims in the middle.

Between $2,100 and $15,000 

theyachtweek.com

DREAM ESCAPE: RETREAT SEMIYAK

An escape to Bali is a bucket-list getaway for people all over the world (there’s more than a few reasons it’s known as the “Island of the Gods”). This gorgeous Indonesian island is a dream for surfers and beachgoers, and offers an endless supply of temples, waterfalls, museums, and marketplaces. It’s also got some of the most luxurious resorts you’ll ever find.

W Hotels are Marriott’s luxury brand, geared toward a younger age group, and are a hell of a lot of fun (the “W” literally stands for “Whatever, Whenever,” a motto that’s part of the staff DNA–they’re  always on hand to make sure you’re never without a cocktail or spa treatment.) And in Seminyak, on the west coast of Bali, the W is a good place to consider if you want to escape the masses on other parts of the island.

Prices start around $260 per night.

marriott.com

Yacht Week Photo by Famian Wester

Dream Baby, Dream — Love You Some Weird Music

Posted on by Team Penthouse

As we hit the half-way point in 2019, let’s entertain the notion that things can only get better.

Fanciful, I know. I won’t bore you with a laundry list of everything I believe is wrong these days. And of course we might not see eye to eye on all the items I’d put on that list. But hopefully we can agree on this general wish: I’d like to see a year filled with music that does more than simply provide solace and distraction. Not that I look down my nose at these things. But in the end, shouldn’t art, in terms of ultimate goals, aim higher than to soothe and distract? Call me an Anne of Green Gables dreamer, but I’m choosing to indulge in visions of big, bold music for 2019. A bumper crop of great songs, made by people I won’t be embarrassed to call “daddy” or “queen” on Instagram.

Here are my five wishes for music—wishes backed by prayer, and, if need be, payola.

1) A funk-metal revival.

Why do you laugh? Look, I won’t pretend this brief, pre-grunge genre was the best musical thing that’s happened in our lifetimes. I mean, I don’t break out my Psychefunkapus cassettes all that often. Like with ska, bands that added slap bass to thrash riffs had an unfortunate habit of shoehorning the word “funk” into their names. It was abundantly silly music that often lacked the lyrical heft of, uh, Red Hot Chili Peppers.

But there was also an appealing genre schizophrenia—a winning duality—that, when thumping in the sure hands of musicians like the dudes in Primus and Fishbone, felt brash and free. Or maybe I’m just bristling at the current nu-metal revival. (For those not following this stuff, nu-metal began with nineties rap-rock bands like Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit, and now…it’s back.) If I’m going to have to live through white people with dreadlocks again, I’d like it to be accompanied by a horn section, not a backward baseball cap.

Incidentally, if funk-metal can’t come back, how about electroclash? Adults in crotchless rompers mixing new wave, techno, synth-pop, and performance art—who’s with me?

2) Ex-wife country music.

It would replace bro-country. Yes, I’m listening to the excellent new Pistol Annies album, Interstate Gospel, as I write this. I don’t have any skin in the “real country” versus “fake country” debate game. But I must say, the fact that the songs on this album don’t sound like Bon Jovi B-sides is a real plus. Also, it occurs to me that since there might be two or three ex-husbands reading this, I should probably amend my term and express a wish for…ex-spouse country music. Songs made by grown-ups that put a premium on living lives where love is believed in, at least fleetingly, and the stakes have real weight. People falling in love, proclaiming that love in front of God and family, and then, when it all falls apart, writing songs about something other than a pickup truck and the Daisy Dukes moldering in the cargo bed.

3) Adult-alienating hip-hop.

I’m 43. I don’t want to relate to what the kids like, because that would mean these kids are fucking boring. I want their music culture to baffle me. More face tattoos! More repetition of catchphrases over synth lines written on Texas Instruments calculators! Hell, more nihilism, if that’s what the kids are feeling. Who am I to tell them there’s a whole world of emotions to explore when the benzos run out? I hope that by December 31, 2019, I feel like Frank Sinatra at a Black Flag concert. Bing Crosby at GWAR. I want to be beaten to death by their skateboards as I sputter, “In my day, we listened to real music—like Tone Loc’s ‘Funky Cold Medina.’” Maybe that’s not how you would choose to check out, but I’d be fine getting ushered into the sweet hereafter by Lil’ Transient A$AP Pillduck or whomever.

4) The Chainsmokers get extinguished.

Remember, this is just a wish list. I’m sorry for this negative puff. I’m sure they’re nice guys (not really), this electronic dance music duo from the East Coast, Alex and Andrew, brown-haired young Americans. Unfortunately, their songs make me think of residual STDs scraped off the sides of a communal hotel hot tub during cleaning. And also, I don’t like them very much.

5) Resurgent music gets its due.

I’m hoping that listeners and critics alike realize that “new” is not the most important thing about music. (If it’s even important at all.) Of course, blatantly ripping people off is bullshit, but I wish for the adoption of a folk-music model. Meaning, if an artist today sounds like an older artist, it doesn’t mean they automatically suck. I’m not interested in getting bogged down in, say, the great Greta Van Fleet debate. True, they are most assuredly a Led Zeppelin facsimile, and just as assuredly are not my bag of frost giants. But if this band did exactly what they do with Zep for, say, Roxy Music or Lords of Acid, I’d be delighted.

People should be able to like what they like, and to see and hear that music in places beyond their phones. I just hope for the palette of influential old bands to be expanded beyond what it is today. There’s a bunch of great, overlooked outfits from the past. I hope new musicians buy their records and copy these bands instead. During this process, as a host of young bands inevitably do it wrong, one in a thousand will come up with something truly original. (By the way, if you do enjoy Greta Van Fleet, I highly recommend you seek out the first album by seventies German rockers Lucifer’s Friend.)

While being cool with familiar, comfort-food music, my ears open to the aural equivalent of Waffle House fare, I also hope, finally, that young musicians—safe in the knowledge that the future is grim—consequently get weirder and weirder. And I hope old musicians use their proximity to the grave as an excuse to do the same. The fact that Nick Cave is now a stadium act, to cite one example, gives permission to other aging musicians to do as Cave does and indulge their love of cabaret and ghost stories. Or consider Lorde, the electropop hit-maker from New Zealand, playing arenas on her 2018 Melodrama tour with opening acts Mitski, a New York indie songwriter, and hip-hop supergroup Run the Jewels. Such things tell young musicians that no industry insider knows anything, and that “pop” being short for “popular” can mean anything, now that the industry itself is dead.

The days of Beatles- or Michael Jackson-level communal experiences are over. The kids are making wild noise on computers, powered by dreams and Narcan. Rap doesn’t even have to rhyme anymore, baby. People say algorithms are the future, and they might be right, or maybe that’s just a thing to tell your Uber driver so you seem smart. Predicting the future is like telling God’s doorman that you’re on the guest list, plus one. It’s all pointless probably, but who’s complaining. There’s nothing — least of all money — to lose, so let’s get weird.

The Rise of the Rubber Tramps

Posted on by Team Penthouse

There’s a fireball sunset blazing on the western horizon of Arizona’s Sonoran Desert. As a cool January dusk settles over this ashy plain outside the town of Quartzsite, two hours west of Phoenix on Interstate 10, I’m sitting before a campfire in this infinite land, being initiated into a tribe I only recently discovered but which has welcomed me.

All around us in the fading light, between the saguaro cactuses and creosote bushes, are a few thousand vehicles—our homes. We’re nomads. We’re people from all walks of life, from all over the country, who have chosen to remain in motion and live out of our campers and vans, our converted box trucks and school buses, our road-warrior RVs, and even our cars, the smallest of these mobile dwellings.

We’ve gathered for the tenth installment of the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous, a convocation of highway roamers—“rubber tramps”—that began in 2010 with just 45 attendees, but now nearly doubles the 3,500-resident population of Quartzsite during its two-week run.

Pre-Rendezvous, Quartzsite, the “Rock Capital of the World,” had been known for its winter gem and mineral shows, a desert mecca for rock hobbyists. But for those seated around this campfire, as well as for our neighbors inside or outside their vehicles, it’s this annual encampment that put the town, not far from the California border, on the map.

It’s time for campfire introductions. “Elle, wandering writer, gray Toyota Sienna,” I say on a rapidly cooling evening. More brief bios pour forth from trampers accustomed to meeting others on the road and sketching their lives in a few words.

Julia is a freelance social worker and lifestyle “minimalist.” Easy is an itinerant agriculture worker, father to a pit bull. Brad is an unemployed van dweller. Polly Rose—whom I immediately decide is fabulous—is a full-time trailer tramp. Tabi? A former B-movie actress and free spirit. Jon is a grieving father. Hollywood is a rock hound, an amateur geologist. Footloose and house-free, J.J. and her partner Kevin are classic twenty-first-century rubber tramps.

With the country in the midst of the longest shutdown in government history, we’ve been left to our own devices on this tract of federal land. Not that it matters—America shut down for most of us a long time ago. The coming together, here, of road-hardened misfits shows the increasingly imaginative, and dedicated, lengths to which people will go to be free, in the land where freedom is supposed to be a given.

More and more Americans are living in their cars. I am one of them.

In early 2018, I was trying to scratch together a living as a writer when a friend (who too often sheltered me) passed along YouTube videos of people converting old vans into something resembling tiny homes. Over the past ten years, a new breed of hobos and dreamers emerged from the Great Recession that hit in 2008. Like our freight-hopping forebears, rubber tramps have taken to roaming America on wheels, looking for work, kinship, or simply trying to outrun despair.

My sometime partner, Joseph S. Furey—a writer and veteran freight hopper himself—was similarly crisscrossing the country on his own steam. He offered me a simple, conceptual sleight of hand to help me on my way: You can’t be homeless if you consider the road your home.

For two weeks, this nowhere land outside of Quartzsite is the closest thing we have to a settled living situation. And my next-door tramper, Polly Rose, 63, is intent on creating a temporary neighborhood. Our nightly campfire circle takes place in front of her battered trailer, which she’d unwittingly driven the last 50 miles on two blown rear tires. Polly had taken to the country’s interstate system as a way of cleansing her life, and escaping the elements of herself that she fears she has passed onto her children.

“I just had enough,” she says, rolling a prodigious joint laced with peppermint oil for an uncertain health benefit. “I did as much as I could, and I left.”

Polly Rose ditched her husband’s last name—her wasband, she calls him—bought some new teeth, and rented out her house on the proviso that her alcoholic son could move into the basement. The small trailer that’s now her home is papered in aphorisms and love notes. Beneath her bed, which occupies much of the vehicle, she keeps bags of wigs, tutus, and tiaras, and as the winter sun sets, she pulls out these bags for our benefit.

Every night we gather for the same ritual. We play dress-up, I suspect, so that Polly Rose can learn to be herself again. Around midnight, we stumble from the dying fire across the desert washes to the white tents of Party-R, a disco encampment that to Polly Rose represents a Shangri-la she knows is out there waiting for her.

For others in our lot, the very existence of Quartzsite is oasis enough. Along with its rock reputation, the town calls itself the world’s boondocking capital. (“Boondocking” is a word for camping out in your RV.) Some two million road warriors pass through in non-summer months.

For everything we lack, we trampers are rich in beliefs—and perhaps more importantly, we have a faith in beliefs.

Our nightly campfire smokes out everyone’s life philosophies, wisdom sources, rituals, and theories. People share encouraging epigrams, and speak of credence in the ability to manifest small riches (such as a cheap camper) into being, and the inherent goodness of the universe. Some cite the golden rule. The power of positive thinking. Tarot cards. Mushroom hallucinations to take you into a past life. Constellation therapy. Chemtrails. Gong therapy. People share their views of God, too, if they believe in God. It’s a grab bag of perspectives. When you live on the road, an openness to belief helps keep you going, especially when it enables self-belief. And when you’re living in your car, self-belief is key.

THERE are three types of rubber tramps at this gathering: those who are here by necessity, those who had enough life stability to make the choice to come, and those who tramp as an ongoing lifestyle. The latter are the snowbirds—well-off Northerners escaping the winter cold in RVs the size of tour buses. They populate the local motor home parks, equipped with electric and water hookups, scattered around town. The rest of us “dry camp”—meaning we set up shop without hookups—for free in the rocky outskirts governed by the Bureau of Land Management. Jon and Hollywood have already been out here for months, hoping to find themselves a Polly Rose to ward off loneliness.

The dry campers in our group have nomadism in common, but there’s some variety in our “homes.” If Polly Rose’s trailer is basically a steel shell for her bed, my minivan offers even tighter quarters. The cargo area is exactly seven-and-a-half feet with the back seats taken out. Still, it’s big enough to hold a full-size mattress topper, my belongings, and a portable bucket toilet.

I call my van Dapple after Sancho Panza’s donkey, deciding it’s the companion to Rocinante, John Steinbeck’s name—inspired by Don Quixote’s horse—for his overloaded camper truck in his 1960 bestseller, Travels With Charley. The aging novelist and his dog, a standard poodle, set off in search of the “real” America, if there was ever such a thing.

My Dapple is a faithful beast, which I equipped for the road as best as I could. I studied YouTube videos detailing this kind of vehicle makeover created by Bob Wells, the 63-year-old spiritual leader of trampers and founder of the Rendezvous. Per his instruction, I shaped sheets of silver Reflectix to my windows for insulation and privacy, painting one side black so as to not draw attention to my van wherever I stopped at night.

Further touches for my foil-lined crib are equally practical. I bought bedsheets the color of red wine, boxed red wine itself, cans of mac and cheese, Mace, a knife, and a bottle of extra strong sleeping tablets. An Australia native, I rolled out for a life touring a realm inside my adopted country—a land of interstate highways, strip mall parking lots, and overlit truck stops, and one requiring no permit for entry, just a homey steel vehicle.

Though I’d become a tramp out of economic necessity, I’d come to believe I was earning my living, such as it was, writing about a country I wasn’t sure I fully understood, and I wanted to learn more. John Steinbeck set out to discover what Americans were like at the start of the sixties, his instincts telling him that the country he’d been chronicling for decades was on the cusp of great change. My project was a little less grand: I wanted to explore some of the things about America we weren’t being told.

ON my second day in Quartzsite, a new neighbor joins the fold. Joni, 61, is a refugee from Paradise, California. Back in November, as her hometown fell prey to one of America’s worst wildfires in a century, Joni’s uninsured home turned to ashes.

“When [the fires] came, there were four exit points, and we were supposed to be evacuating zone by zone,” she remembers. “But one of the zones was immediately engulfed in flames. There were embers everywhere, and then Paradise was all on fire at once. People couldn’t get out of their neighborhoods for the traffic jams. They were running out of gas in the gridlock on the roads. People were dying in their cars.”

Joni’s hair is tied back with a repaired elastic; her face carries enough exhaustion for two. A longtime pet rescuer, she was not at all sure, when the inferno came to Paradise, that she’d be able to rescue herself. She did get out, but lost almost everything, and keeps remembering what it was like to feel so helpless, gripped by such fear and horror.

To make matters worse, not only did the federal government give little early help to the survivors of Paradise, but it compounded their grief in the weeks afterward. Residents who had been living in RVs, tents, and cars among the ashes of their former houses were evicted, as FEMA ruled from Washington, D.C., that it would stop funding the cleanup, on the logic that if people were living there, it couldn’t be an emergency.

“I couldn’t bring myself to stay in Paradise, anyway,” Joni says, trying to calm her anxious dog, Angel. “When things didn’t work out at my sister’s, I was camping out in the Cali desert. A friend told me about the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous, and it felt like serendipity.”

Few would say that life on the road arrives by good fortune, but for someone like Joni, it offers something important—choice. Forced to start over, needing to make a new set of life decisions, Joni reevaluated things she’d always been told she should want.

“Consumerism as a way of life—as a way of entertaining ourselves—is something I’ve been very uncomfortable with for a long time,” she says. “On top of that, one of the factors keeping me mobile is that I don’t want to ever have to uproot and leave again if things get nuts. I’m not escaping civilization per se, but I can’t trust a place will be there anymore.”

Joni adds, “The idea of being fluid, being able to move with the climate and the weather, is now the most important thing to me. And I want to see places before I’m gone and before they’re gone. I want to be dwelling on the positive rather than the negative grind of keeping a roof over my head. The fire crystalized the challenge of our time.”

After a pause, Joni shares a final thought:

“I’ve always looked rather askance at the American Dream—I saw it as a trap. Even though I tried to get there, I knew it wasn’t something that was terribly attainable for me. I was around the edges of its trappings. And now I know that isn’t anywhere at all.”

THE  term “American Dream” was coined in 1931, by the author of a book called The Epic of America—ironic timing, since the Great Depression was starting to destroy this dream for so many. But the idea behind the term is one as old as the founding of America itself—this seductive notion that there is equality of opportunity for all in this country, and that those who pull themselves up by the bootstraps can make anything of their lives.

What’s not mentioned is what underpins the Dream—a toxic culture of competition. As I watched the future American president repeating phrases about winning over and over during his election campaign—We’re going to win. We’re going to win so much. We’re going to win at trade, we’re going to win at the border. We’re going to win so much, you’re going to be so sick and tired of winning—I sensed this was something unique, this relentless focus on winning, and uniquely destructive, to the country that was my new home.

The chasms that exist in America—between the races, genders, rich and poor, urban and rural—are broadened by a culture that is obsessed with competition. The great disturbance in American society rests on this fault line between winners and losers—a divide that’s becoming increasingly pronounced.

The World Values Survey, a global research project studying the beliefs of people in different countries, shows that Americans esteem competition like no other industrialized nation on Earth. Americans believe more strongly in the fairness of unequal outcomes. Author and social commentator Fran Lebowitz says there’s an idea running throughout American society: “All people who succeed, succeed on their own, and all people who fail, fail on their own.”

This viewpoint has become a shared fiction on an epic scale. The values anchoring it are as engrained as a verse from the Good Book—a verse anyone can preach, because everyone knows it. But competition, and the importance of winning, create more than just a belief system. These intertwining strands form the double helix of modern America’s DNA.

Historian Scott Sandage views this American way of life as a “eulogy to capitalist identity.” The conviction that there must be winners and losers dates back to the nineteenth century, when entrepreneurial spirit and the ideal of the self-made man spawned a society dominated to a great extent by the values of business and finance. These values have just grown, gotten more inveterate, more layered, leading to society today, where the discourse of finance is everywhere, and we’re judged as people by our credit ratings. Sandage calls this a situation where “the language of business [is] applied to the soul.”

Americans are unhappily locked into a culture of inequality—yet are optimistic about their personal chances of climbing up the ladder. A scholar once summarized Steinbeck’s take on this by saying the writer viewed America as a country of “temporarily embarrassed millionaires.” In other words, the average citizen might not be proud of his or her circumstance, but believes that by pursuing the Dream, he or she will eventually access millions, and financial embarrassment will vanish. Steinbeck, who spends much of Travels With Charley driving around lost, came to conclude that America itself was lost, its culture off-track—but this was an America simply being true to its animating values.

The hope of equality for all has taken a big hit since Steinbeck’s journey. Loserdom is rife in a land where everyone is taught to be a winner. But out in the Sonoran Desert, a community is trying to do things differently. Whether by consciously abandoning the American Dream—or by having slipped into a financial situation where the Dream abandoned the American—we are setting out to define success on our own terms.

J.J., 43, and Kevin, 47, saw both of J.J.’s parents die shortly after they retired. “I remember a week or so before she passed,” Kevin says, “J.J.’s mom was crying, saying it’s not fair she didn’t get to do those things she had worked her whole life for.”

“We thought about what was important to us,” J.J. adds. “What do we want to do in this life? We wound up asking why we are working so much, when it’s just to buy more stuff.” They ended up selling that stuff in Denver, where Kevin worked as a mechanic and J.J. managed apartment buildings, and bought a van they named “Shirley B,” after J.J.’s mother.

“The Dream in the generic sense is this spoon-fed idea we all know, but I still think this country is big enough to dream different kinds of dreams and go after them,” J.J. says. “People express a lot of fear when they ask us what we are doing. Leaving security is a real fear—but it’s a fear that people are feeding themselves.”

Like the rest of our campfire gang, J.J. and Kevin have survived to this point on what small financial security they had cobbled together. But most rubber tramps can only live for so long on savings, other money scraps, and disability pensions. Eventually, they’ll join the tens of thousands of fellow van dwellers on the itinerant work circuit.

There’s now a whole unsung economy dependent on the labor of rubber tramps: the sugar beet harvest in North Dakota, where two weeks of hard work can generate up to $4,000 per person; Amazon’s Camper Force warehouses across the South and Midwest that only employ van dwellers; and the myriad RV parks around the country that give free hookups and small living allowances to tramps who look after park administration and maintenance.

At a Rendezvous seminar on working as a rubber tramp, one speaker notes the critical distinction it gave his life, elevating him from homeless to houseless. The disadvantages of this kind of work are familiar even to some people who work regular jobs in 2019, depending on their positions—the lack of real job security, long hours, and no health insurance. Despite these challenges, it’s hard to find anyone on the road with a bad word to say about the mechanics of the roaming labor market—in part because it is exploitation on their own terms, and that kind of small psychological victory is important.

FOR all of the false promises folded into the idea of the American Dream, however, running toward the alternative provides nothing greater in terms of assurance.

Jess arrives at our camp one night, her eyes large under the vast desert sky, with a physical beauty often rewarded by the conventional world. A dental nurse in D.C., the 28-year-old, stuck in traffic one day, said “Fuck it,” packed her things, and left for the Appalachian Trail. More wanderer than hiker, she later hitched south for the winter.

“I can’t go back there if I drink,” she says, gesturing over the wash with one of Polly Rose’s joints in her hand. “I was rained out of my tent, and this guy took me into his trailer.”

Jess has no money, no phone, and her already precarious mental health is being stretched thin by living on her looks. She can’t even afford to be a regular rubber tramp, and was taken in by a Scottish reiki master twice her age. Our quiet conversations about how to help Jess degenerate with the booze and the desert air. She disappears in a fury.

I can’t shake the feeling that Jess had wanted to join me on the road, if only because I could offer a degree of safety as a woman of similar age, and would ask for nothing in return. I’ll end up spending my last Rendezvous day searching for her, while feeling troubled by the thought that I might not to be able to handle the responsibility of sharing the road with her, and might not be able to trust her. Adding to my fret is the recognition that I was in this desert to celebrate failure at playing the conventional American Dream game, yet here I was falling into the trap of judging this failure in Jess.

IF Jess is unlike most of the Rendezvous millennials here mainly to party, she is no less representative of America’s young people. This event skews to plus-65 boomers, but there is a growing number of millennials—those born between 1981 and 1997—who have taken to the road.

So-called “losers” are not only getting younger, but their beliefs are moving further away from core national ideals. It’s little wonder that in a 2015 survey by Harvard’s Institute of Politics, half of millennials said that the American Dream is dead.

Millennials represent the first generation to be poorer than the one that came before them. The rise in freelancing means lower job security across the board, and reduced access to health care. Those with more stable prospects are still suffering from skyrocketing student-loan debt and housing costs. Add to this the fact that millennials have to worry about the damage of climate change looming in their lifetimes.

Content to “fail” by conventional measures in order to “succeed” on our own terms, millennials are redrawing the definition of a good life. That’s easy enough for someone like me, whose race and background give me an advantage in terms of cultural acceptance. But there are a lot of people living in a situation contained by America’s geographic borders who might as well exist in some kind of nightmare alternate dimension.

Poverty and homelessness are affecting minorities in greater numbers, yet the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous is decidedly white. Julia, the freelance social worker who’d become something of a spiritual guide to our group, is mixed race, but says she’s “white-passing enough” to live on the road. With that said, she adds, “I wouldn’t let my sons do it, though.”

Despite the predominantly white rubber tramp culture, one of its rising YouTube stars is the African-American Ms. J. Ms. J left her job in marketing in Los Angeles three years ago, and now spends her days being paid to drive RVs to dealerships across the country.

“I’m one of those people who doesn’t conform to the norm,” Ms. J tells me. “I tend to try to break down barriers, and not all black people think that way. I think a lot of people know the historical risk of violence from being with white people—those things are still in the minds of people who lived it, or passed that history down to the next generation.”

Not long after Ms. J discussed breaking down barriers and encouraging Americans of different races and ethnicities to embrace life on the road, six California police officers shot 20-year-old African-American Willie McCoy to death in a Taco Bell drive-thru. An employee had seen him slumped over in his car and called the cops. McCoy had fallen asleep.

The Great Recession might have ended for Wall Street, but it has barely slowed for Main Street. Homelessness in America has grown exponentially since President Reagan halved the federal budget for housing in the 1980s, and the economic tsunami of 2008 and its aftereffects only accelerated the crisis in affordable housing.

Just as the Great Depression led to people taking to the rails to hop freights, the Great Recession saw people moving into their cars. Unfortunately, the law also moved with them.

The National Law Center on Homelessness and Poverty has monitored 187 of the largest cities, and seen an alarming increase in the criminalization of houseless living. Some 39 percent of cities now prohibit residing in vehicles—an increase of 143 percent since 2006.

“Ninety percent of the nation’s housing is affordable to ten percent of population,” says Tristia Bauman, senior attorney at the NLCHP. “The majority of the country is just one emergency away from a slide into homelessness.”

Bauman recently won a major victory, overturning laws in San Diego that made it illegal to live in cars, in a case she hopes will set a precedent for other cities.

“Laws criminalizing living in cars and RVs,” she tells me, “are usually passed as a reaction to visible homelessness and poverty. These laws disproportionately target the most vulnerable in society, such as the disabled, people of color, and immigrants with families—because, quite simply, they are most likely to find themselves on the streets.”

Cracking down on the homeless usually begins as local community pressure. A home is seen to embody the values of hard work and self-sufficiency, while homelessness is a billboard for failure. But when so many people in homes have it little better than us on the road, when the middle class is evaporating and the working class has become the working poor, I wonder how much of this community pressure is driven by resentment of our perceived freedom.

That, of course, is little comfort to our brothers and sisters who can’t afford the gasoline, or won’t risk the road to go to Quartzsite. As those of us sitting around the campfire raise glasses to our freedom, rubber tramps are being pushed further and further into the margins.

IN ways Henry Ford couldn’t have imagined, the car remains fundamental to the American way of life. This gathering in the desert makes it clear that becoming a rubber tramp means more than piecing together a living. It’s a tiny act of defiance against the stagnation of economic life for those participating in the mainstream home-and-job existence.

Drifting in the trampers’ undercurrent, I traveled some 22,000 road miles in ten months. During this long period of sleeping in Walmart parking lots, grabbing stealth “showers” in gas station bathroom sinks, and exploring backwater towns, I had been slowly losing my attachment to the comforts I thought were necessary to a good life. And even here in Quartzsite, surrounded by a ring of jagged mountains, my eye remains trained on the horizon. To know there is always somewhere else to go is a hell of a tonic.

For waifs and strays, taking to the road is an instinctive reaction to everything that is lacking in one’s life, including opportunities for social mobility, as well as to the rigidity of a normal working existence, and the stifling anxiety of never quite being able to make ends meet. When everything is fucked, you might as well bet it all on Jack Kerouac, throw caution (and comfort) to the wind, and become a part of the mythos of the road.

ON the last night of Rubber Tramp Rendezvous 2019, we try to enhance that mythos, gathering at a central bonfire where we ritually ignite a small cardboard van, an RTR tradition, and sing our theme song to the tune of Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again.”

The crackle, flames, and music couldn’t soothe my troubled mood, as Jess was still on my mind, so I did a final round of searching for her. Our campfire group outside Polly Rose’s trailer appears to have been the last people to have seen her. Someone did suggest, though, that she was hitching west to Slab City, a California anarcho-encampment on an abandoned Navy base.

Back at our own campfire, what’s left of the group convinces Polly Rose to stay on with them for her sanity—and theirs. J.J. and Kevin are preparing to cross the border to Mexico for affordable dental work, as other trampers have done. Hollywood seems ready to resume his days of digging for gems, and his nights posting on Facebook about being lonely.

Just before I roll out the next morning, we get word from Joni, who left days earlier. Her disaster check from FEMA arrived at her brother’s place, and she is about to use the money to buy a secondhand RV. A few weeks later she calls me, ready to begin her new life on the road, with only the hot springs of New Mexico in her sights, and music by Janis Joplin in her head.

“I have the freedom she sang about now,” Joni says during a phone connection that can’t quite keep up with our conversation. She’s referencing a song from 1970, “Me and Bobby McGee,” where Joplin sings, ”Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose./ Nothin’ don’t mean nothin’, hon, if it ain’t free, no no.” And Joni, former resident of Paradise, California, adds, “I’m not going to say that I’m grateful. But I’ll take it.”

Elle Hardy is a writer wandering the South of the United States. She hails from Australia and has reported from countries including North Korea and Turkmenistan, but lately America has her affection and attention. 

Stop “Phubbing”

Posted on by Team Penthouse

We’ve all been snubbed before, but you may be phubbed — or phubbing someone else — on a daily basis and have no idea.

“Phubbing” is the act of ignoring the person physically with you so you can look at your phone, and apparently this is a major downer when it comes to intimate relationships. A 2017 study of married couples found that phubbing a spouse was linked to astronomical rates of depression, and dissatisfaction with the relationship as a whole.

So the answer is simple. Whether you’re cooking dinner, out for lunch, watching your favorite show, or just lying in bed, when it comes to spending quality time with your partner, phones should be silenced and tucked away. (If you’ve got an iPhone, be sure to use the Screen Time feature so you can track the minutes spent flicking through Instagram and other social media sites. Then you’ll really see all your wasted time — time that could be spent IRL with the person you love. So turn off your goddamn phone!)

Further Thoughts on PHUBBING

  1. We cannot believe those two paragraphs and a tag line represented and entire article in Penthouse.
  2. We find even more unbelievable that some editorial staff included it for republication on the web site there.
  3. The Pet of the Month when this article published here was Emily Willis. We found each of the following pictures vastly more interesting than anything in that original article.

We once read that the Government spent $600,000 on a study to determine whether or not dogs feel jealousy. They could have simply asked anyone who has ever owned two dogs at once and saved themselves a lot of money. Same philosophy would seem to apply here. If your significant other spends all her/his time looking at a cell phone instead of you, it could we be that you have lost some significance along the way.

We should probably stop talking now, but feel free to run away, run away to more Emily Willis.

Every Essential App You Need on Your Phone Now

Posted on by Team Penthouse

You’re not apt to get props without a few of these from the Penthouse Essential App list.

Barstool Sports One Bite

onebite.com<

No matter where you are in the world, this app will get the best slice of pizza into your hand as fast as you can get your ass to the restaurant. One Bite was spawned from a video series hosted by Barstool Sports’ Dave “El Presidente” Portnoy, a guy who developed a cult following for his live pizza-review videos. This hot app not only offers a pizza maven’s map to the best slice in town, but all 430-plus of Dave’s review videos.

SAS Survival Guide

sassurvivalguide.com

This survival guide app grew out of a popular book written by a special-forces trainer preparing you for everything you need to know when confronted with real-life holy shit! situations. The app is your friend when you need primers on stuff from hunting to first aid to wild plants you can eat. It’s kind of like Tom Brown for the twenty-first century. (And if you don’t know who Tom Brown is, then you definitely need to get this app.)

Urban Daddy

urbandaddy.com

The Urban Daddy app is your own personal pocket concierge. Just plunk in what day you’ll be in search of entertainment, dining, or a killer bar, what time, what city, what kind of beverage or food, and who you’ll be going with. Urban Daddy does the rest.

Sleep Cycle

sleepcycle.com

Sometimes it can feel like we’re running on steam and a shoestring. Good sleep is crucial, and we need to prioritize it. Sleep Cycle tracks your sleeping heart rate as well as the quality of your sleep, and even has an alarm designed to wake you up only during the lightest part of your morning slumber.

VSCO

vsco.com

This critically acclaimed photography app lets you edit your images into masterpieces that belong on some thot’s latest Instagram shoot. VSCO is like your other editing apps, but the quality is off the chain. Plus, they have their own social media community to share your work with.

Elevate

elevateapp.com

A brain-training app, Elevate is designed to help improve your overall processing speed, memory, attention span, and more. It’s got a database of over 40 mind-melting games created by experts. Get your cognitive skills back in shape instead of checking your Twitter feed for the eighteenth time today.

My Fitness Pal

myfitnesspal.com 

Are you looking to shape up and slim down? Here’s the best app going for both encouraging you during workouts and tracking what you eat. The vast database of foods makes logging your daily intake simple, and the app also keeps track of recent meals and recipes you’ve enjoyed for speedy retrieval. Upgrade to premium and MyFitnessPal helps you set daily nutrition goals and stay on track.

RAFT

raft.com 

Coordinating your own work schedule can be taxing enough, let alone trying to make that schedule swing with your partner’s crazy life. The most brutal thing you can do to your girl is blow it when it comes to date night, or any other special occasion she’s been reminding you about. Avoid the pain and suffering with Raft, a scheduling app that links up your time tables so the two of you are sure to never miss a beat. Raft color-coordinates everyone’s plans and ensures a fight-free evening. We know it sounds like a big “duh,” but this app is a savior for those of us who are busy as hell and occasionally forgetful.

Strava

strava.com

Runners, cyclists, and triathletes—this app is screaming your name. Strava has branded itself as the social network for outdoor athletes, and for good reason. This app (which is compatible with most GPS watches and fitness trackers) analyzes your heart rate and power output, giving you the max amount of information to analyze your performance. Go premium and you also get coaching programs, live feedback on your activity, as well as a function called Beacon that allows you to share your location and workouts in real time with other users, creating a strong community of fitness fanatics ready to pump one another up all the way to the next run.