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Re: “Letters to the Editor

Salt for Slugs, now there is a magnificent beast I havent seen in print for awhile. The delicious plum on this tree is that Candy White, JBs (James Bernard) wife, is coming to its defense. And the choice cut is that Salt for Slugs is now magazine, when I oft remembered it being derided as just a zine, even when the Slug was getting fat off of green salads. I was shocked to see salt poured into wounds and besmirching the honor of Greg E. Boy, known in your parts as Greg Barbera. Here is a dude who played Mr. Mom for his kids, and with the tykes off to school has managed to claw his way back into the media space. Sure, its just the fucking Independent and its for his two-bit punk rock band The Chest Pains, but he got back into the local alternative weekly. Lord knows he knows a thing or two about those in the Triangle. I remember Greg as a disembodied voice who would spit the best music criticism over the mojo wire of the Internet. I also remember countless features, photos, record label contacts for ads, and basic bad-assness that came from Greg. I knew that Greg and JB were old school boys-the stories were classic and dense. They were the backbone of the greatest underground print team ever assembled. The mother-fucking A-Team of Contemporary Literature for the Random Reader, that was the boys of Salt for Slugs. If you could find us, and your cause was just and damn amusing, we would be there. JB was definitely Hannibal. What should never be in doubt is that JB was the ringleader of this band of social misfits. He was the man with the plan. Let it be known that without his workhorse ethics as he plowed through the layout of SFS on old-school Quark on an even more old-school Mac, you would have never seen an issue. I remember JB as Hannibal, with a cigar of pop metaness hanging from his mouth, talking about how our fucked up plan was coming together. Ray was Face, but since he is now married, I wont go into why. As Ran Scot, I was Murdock, court jester of the operation. Plus, when really needed, I would break out some kind of clever monkey tricks and amaze the crowd. Just like the dude from the show, I excelled in flashes of brilliance followed by long lulls of stupidity. And Greg was Mr. T, the heavy. Greg was always rock solid on his music reviews, which we are mostly remembered for, and his assortment of other contributions. He was also the voice of reason that kicked the truth that was bulletproof which raised the roof, even if obtuse. Playing other roles were Gene Slacks, as the van, who was steady and always got us there. Paul Sparx was Mr. Ts gold, giving flash to the place. And Brian Carr, Burt Cocaine and countless other pseudonyms came on the show as guest stars a la Boy George, Rick James, Isaac Hayes, and more. Tower Records Accounts Payable would have definitely been Colonel Decker. Bitches. And when an issue came out, it was just like the montage of the A-Team, the Slugs would form like Voltron, bringing salt to the eyes of those who truly deserved it. But when you remember the A-Team, who do you remember? Thats right, Mr. T. Thats why if you Google Salt for Slugs, all you find are music reviews. It is true Greg did not run SFS, but he was part of our A-Team, which could not exist without the sum of the parts. Any argument otherwise, especially from someone who would not have pissed down the magazines throat if its heart was on fire, is, in the immortal words of Bottle Rocket, Cucaw! Cucaw, indeed, Candy. Cucaw. And Candy, I still love you. But come on, come the fuck on. Lets cheer Greg on, instead of the hot karl of jealousy. Slugs in Waiting, Ran Scot and Gene Slacks Brooklyn, Bitches.

Posted by ran scot & gene slacks on 08/29/2007 at 10:26 PM

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