Molotow Hamburg Germany

The Cave of Forgotten Dicks
by Werner Herzog

Another night in paradise. In Germany, the penises rain down like little canned sausages from heaven. Germany's sense of shame and propriety seems to me akin to trying to hide a water balloon in your backpack by quietly and forcefully squishing it away with your hands, only to have it explode all over you from the pressure, getting on the walls and everything else around you. The thing you tried to hide away got all over everything you have and now you just have to pretend that you like it there.

We pulled up to Molotow club in Hamburg just close to the Reeperbahn and I could tell just from the facade that this would be a gold mine of imagination and creativity. In my film "The Cave of Forgotten Dreams" there is a scene where a French master of perfume walks through the forest sniffing at gaps in the bedrock trying to snuff out difference in odour that would indicate the existence of a cave hidden on the other side. As I crept down the Reeperbahn towards the club, past the "Sex Kino", past the "Erotisqksh Shop", past "Sister Act 2", even if I was just a humble amateur dick-seeker, my nose would have led me straight down the throbbing red entrance way of Molotow. Behold the Burgess-Shale of dicks.


Here we have the evidence of a culture with a relationship to the dick much different from our own. In this drawing we see a little man, perhaps in reverence, or in fear, gazing up into the face of a massive dick man. Like a penguin looking into the eyes or a killer whale, our tiny friend does not know what to make of this monstrocity, the creation of 3 dicks in one being. Perhaps this picture tells of a long forgotten dream, when the giant 3 dicked monster roamed through the night like a poem.


We see here three souls crying out in the night for dicks. We see that the power of art, even in prehistoric times, has the power to put a dick where before there was just a barren wasteland.



Here we see a humble dick from a bygone age obscured behind the trappings of a modern era. From carbon dating we can see that the newest image, some kind of a happy Dick Man, is from the 2011 period. In the foot area is a notice standing at attention, like a missile from the consciousness of the past.


The language of the past is like a play unfolding before us. The prehistoric brutality of this "cock" impregnated on the naked ballsack of this romantic dick tells us perhaps of a past violence that stirred within the human heart. The dick shudders, almost in a violent threnody to its surroundings, lashing out at a world it cannot understand.

This is a dick man in traditional garb - the illustrious contortions of the hairy ball sack. This be-mustached specimen seems to be using some sort of technological artifact, perhaps to spear a helpless animal, or to shove a dick-shaped weapon of malefice into a throbbing crag in the ground, a reminder that only a dick can fit into a hole. He seems as dazed as he is happy, which may be evidence that he was under the precious kiss of some sort of prehistoric yet elicit and miasmic drug.



This is the clearest evidence of a prehistoric belief system that we have found in the Molotow Cave. It is hard to read because of it's sheer age, yet we can still see the traces of the system of "bumfinity". Did our dick-forefathers believe in an ouroborous style giant dick that filled the sky at night with his majestic semen? Or were they worshiping a terrible dick snake that fed on their children before destroying itself? Or perhaps they understood then what we only try to understand now, that where once was a dick, will always be a dick.



As we walked along the cave floor, beside shards of skeletons and boners erased by the cruel hand of times arrow, we looked up to see this amazing site - a full reproduction of the ancient dick (with hairy anus). This is the largest work in the entire site, taking up the entire ceiling of the west wing. With such a crystal clear production, it is almost as if we are gazing into the loins of a living dick man who is perched above us, godlike in the heavens.


It has been noted that these ancient dickmen shared similar languistic structure to our own. If we were to magically re-arrange the letters from this inscription, perhaps it could mean something. All we have now is to dream, perchance that a translation to this poem will come to us like a reverse-nightmare cascading through the night like a giant penis-shaped phantom.



This shows us that while the dick we know is a peaceful creature, when stirred the dick can be a frightening monolith. Was this an alter at which our ancestors would worship, or maybe make ugly sacrifices to? The hairs on the hairy ballsack, as well as our necks (and hearts) only bristle at the thought. Yet nothing is certain, and nothing is real. What we know as toadlike indolence here is replaced with a fearsome albino boa constrictor, which its aching body perhaps wrapped around the heart of the heart of our planet.


Yet more evidence of some kind of horrible or life-giving deity from the skies. A giant five-fingered dick shooting it's holy smegma into the earth where seeds can grow into the dick men we all became. But yet also it could be a cosmic stop sign, some indication that the world of the dick men would come crashing down all around them. All we have are the clues, and the songs.

It has been an established fact that this once strong community of schlong would meet a terrible fate. It is all the more heartbreaking to see an image like this, from a time when these people cared only for peace and love.

More evidence of the horrific bloodshed that we now believe must have enveloped this culture like the bun of a giant hamburger. We have seen some evidence from the fossil record that perhaps their communities were made of dicks themselves, giant dick buildings that housed and fed them. Yet we have no idea that their planes were made from penises as well. But could also these perhaps have been avenging angels from the sky? Holy dicks, or even alien dicks? It would not have mattered to those with hateful bullets raining down upon them.


Now a few representations of the creatures that inhabited this ancient land:

The squiggely necked dick snake.


A terrifying dick-burgler.

The final cast off, as we see the holy and important mystical figures from the community ejaculated into the cosmos to spread the message of bumfinity to the far reaches of outer space.

The New Palace Halifax Nova Scotia

Ok, this place is a veritable Pantheon to the godly dick. Of all the stereotypes you can make about male rock musicians, The New Palace is a testament to the most sound of them all, that we are obsessed with our dicks. Walking into this place was like reading The 11th Hour as a child, scouring the pages for days looking for backwards numbers in the margins, or secret letter spelled out of bananas - everywhere I looked I found a new dick crammed into some nook or cranny all over the dressing room. There is a concept that astronomers talked about called the Omega Point, which is when every molecule in the universe is part of a conscious whole. If there is a concept of god, or nature that fits, its just that - that life will multiply until there is no more room. I can't think of a better representation of this concept than this dressing room, festooned with dicks.

Not only was it the bounty of sharpied appendages,however that made this room special - it was that almost every one carried with it a message of such harshness or needless provocation that the room took on a swirling tone of offense that was almost whimsical as it was surreal. It was like walking into some dadaesque Disney movie like Fantasia, except instead of multiplying cartoon hammers (or axes or whatever that was - I'm an adult that writes a blog about penis drawings, not a child that watches cartoons) it was these dicks - gloriously multiplying all around me.


This isn't really a dick, more of a reference, or a frustrated/artistic attempt to mold something essentially non-dick into the realm of dickness. Creative people will note the frustration of living in a world full what psychologists call the "other", where all around you are the codes and signifiers of a power beyond your reach. Well, not everyone can feel contentment from teacups and shiny saucers. Some of us have to forge into the other and make it a small piece of ourselves.


I don't know who David Wilcox (get it) is, but I can tell from this image that he gave a performance at some point at The New Palace, and was grateful enough to leave behind a signed poster. Well, whoever the next guy was must have enjoyed his night here even more, because what he left was so much more lively and descriptive - a drawing of a giant dick heading towards David Wilcox. We like it!


It's hard to see, but there is a tiny dick drawing on this Pepsi fixture for no reason. This goes back to what I was talking about before - the will of the artist to express by any means necessary and with no regard to jurisdiction or boundary. Who's to say that Pepsi-Cola isn't just one giant dick, and we're just blind to it because until now we've never really been able to see?


This is a common theme in the genre - the pioneer, that brave one who takes the courage to mold something fresh and new out of something so stale and old. To you or I, this might have just stayed a crack on the dry-wall ceiling until the end of time. But to a visionary, it was something more, there was possibility, energy, even elan. This is the essence of the dressing room dick - to draw a dick somewhere where before, there could have been no dick possible.



Suspend for a minute your values and your own conception of right or wrong. Sure, what we see here is immediately offensive. Was Big Sugar a terrible band? Who are we to judge. Are they all "Fags", as this poster would suggest to us? Probably not. These questions are both well beyond the point. Even the latent racism espoused by this expression cannot take our eyes off of what is really at stake here - 4 cartoon dicks ejaculating in four guys faces on a poster. Almost breathtaking in its resolve.

This piece carries the theme of the last but adds an element we see time and time again - the Trompe Dick, with it's own twist. Who this guy is is not important, or that he's smoking a cartoon dick (pedestrian). It's the artists passion for his own mother, his personal Madonna, emblazed with the ultimate expression of the movement - the heart shaped dick (with hairy ball-sack).


A minor variation on the style, one that is often disregarded, but important and poignant nonetheless. Here Ben is looked down upon by a piece that almost lives and breathes. It is for us to wonder what the inspiration was behind this jocular and ribald work. Here is man considering his own hairy ball-sack. But who will consider the man?


Another classic Trompe-Dick (with hairy ball-sack) with an added flourish at the finale. The heart shape of the sputum and the bi-colouring of the man suggest that racial harmony perhaps may be possible in our new millennium (of dicks).



Here we see harmony within a contrast of styles. This one piece attempts to unite centuries of debate between the baroque hairy dick (with hairy ball-sack) to the more modern and, as some would say arrogant and sterile smooth dick (with shaved ball-sack). The unity at work within this one piece, as the two schools of thought unite in a common creamy conclusion is as startling as it is beautiful.


Again art reveals to us what we may not have been able to see. Who is to say Alanis doesn't just have a giant dick for a nose?


True art has always existed on the margins (with hairy ball-sack).

A classic example of "dick within a dick" (within a Moslem terrorist). In our post 9/11 world, images like this are more important to consider than ever. This kind of art can teach us that there really are no sides, and that it is our unity that makes us strong. Our dicks have dicks, their dicks have dicks. Powerful.



The last piece in the room but one of the strongest. We can only wonder who King Benny was and what his influence could have been. Luckily there are many things portrayed in this piece that we do not have to wonder about - his veiny dick (with hairy ball-sack and hairy anus).

SO36 Berlin Germany

The first time I came to SO36 I was a fresh faced 19 year old on my first trip to Europe. My band at the time had abandoned me at the Polish border because no one had bother to sort out a visa for the only Canadian onboard. I was on my first trip over an ocean ever, and just off my 2nd flight ever, and packed myself into a train from Frankfurt (the other Frankfurt) to Berlin to meet up with some strangers who were going to put me up for 3 or 4 days while the band made their way through Poland and maybe like Lithuania on their way back to Germany. I walked around by myself through Kruezberg with no money eating bread and oranges from the supermarket, afraid to leave Orianenstrause because I thought i would become perilously lost (this was before I knew anything about cell phones or laptops or GPS machines). One fun thing I was able to do was see the Buzzcocks at SO36, which at the time I thought maybe was the best club on earth. It was rammed and the show blew my mind. 10 years later, Fucked Up played the same club, something I didn't realize until I walked in the door. To my great surprise and amusement, not only is the main floor rife with German punks and good memories, but the backstage room is chock full of years worth of penis graffiti.


Ok cool.


Sticker dicks count.

Happy dick.

Hidden dick.

BORING.

Censored.

Dick talk.

Racist dick.

Call The Office, London Ontario

Hi. If you play in a touring band, you see a lot of dressing rooms. In fact, the different room you spend your evening in every night becomes your "room", like your room at home in your own personal house, because it's where you unwind before and after work, where you read the paper, talk with friends, and have a drink. Thankfully, dressing rooms the world over have been artfully adorned by other bands and creative types by one reccuring visual mantra - drawings of penises. This blog will document this frightening and stupefying cultural wall paper.

The first time I visited Call the Office, it was maybe 2001, I went to see No Warning open for Hatebreed. Last weekend FU played there and I got a first hand view at the dressing room. Here is what it had to offer:



Elephant dick (with additional penis-tusks)


Calm and collected penis retrospective (this was in the bathroom, and as you can see, had become a heated debate by the time I got there)

Swastika Dick! It makes so much sense.


GBH dick fucking another dick (with scrotum getting fucked)

Why? (question mark dick, baby victim)

The walls of the dressing room were so infested with dicks, that someone had to draw their dick INSIDE the refridgerator. This was on the shelf where the eggs usually go.

Duh


Chill dick.

Duh.

DUH

I never will.
This meta dick was placed like a giant god above all the other dick creatures.