My Picnic Lunch With Former Misfits Lead Singer Glenn Danzig 

                
                           (Pictured L to R: A sandwich, Glenn Danzig)

Glenn Danzig is angry and short; that has never changed. Yet, it seems like that is all we know about him these days. In his prime, Danzig was know to be extremely boastful about himself, but he became a quiet figure in his 40s and has now become almost completely secluded in his 50s.

The invitation was once in the lifetime. After inquiring about an interview, I was invited to eat lunch with the father of horror-punk under two conditions: That we eat outside and that I bring Jim Beam. It was a done deal. I waited outside the liquor store for him to pick me up. I felt like a vagrant just holding the bottle in the middle of Lodi, New Jersey. Then out of nowhere a horse and carriage came trotting down the corner. It looked like it was centuries old, as did the horse. The footman was draped in a black hood and did not look directly at me. “I will take you to Mr. Danzig,” he spoke. I commented on how rusted and unsafe the carriage looked. “I will take you to Mr. Danzig,” he repeated. At this point there was no turning back. I hate Jim Beam.

After getting my tailbone broken off on a horrible carriage ride, I was escorted to the courtyard of a dilapidated apartment complex. I drew a heavy sigh in realization that I might die here tonight. In the middle of the courtyard is Glenn, who I could of easily mistaken for Andrew Dice Clay at his current state. On the grass there was a black tarp on the ground. I ask him if that’s what he’s going to wrap my corpse into. He laughs. I don’t know if I just got on his good side or he just agreed with me. He pulls out a large cobblestone chest that has a demon face on the front and two naked women with large breasts on the side. “Pretty cool huh? You can’t get this shit in Goodwill.” I don’t know if that was a dig at my clothing or what, but I’m not here to fight with Glenn Danzig.

He starts pulling out food and he gives childish names to everything. “This here is a Demon Chicken, and this here is Satan Slaw.” He laughs at every one. I assume that Demon Chicken is spicy but upon tasting it is the blandest shit possible. I comment on this to him to which is says that spices clog the mind with bullshit, like most eastern religions. Okay, Glenn.

Ten minutes into eating I realize I haven’t even asked him any questions. I ask him about his new album. He goes into a long rant about the album artist and how he didn’t put muff hair on the succubus on the cover. “They don’t shave in hell, are you fucking kidding me?” I ask him why he never grew a beard, and he sheepishly says he never could. I use this vulnerability to ask him about the state of his current relationships with the other members of the Misfits. He tells me that Jerry Only is nothing more than “gargoyle foreskin” and that if he and his little brother Doyle was here with us it would be that their bones would be in the potato salad. I completely lose my appetite.

The truth is Glenn Danzig can’t talk about himself much anymore. Every question I throw at him gets deflected and he often changes the subject. He keeps asking me if I have seen the movie Inception yet. I tell him no, but the answer isn’t good enough. He trails off, “If my mind was incepted-ed (sic), that Leo faggot would be fucked”. I ask him why that was. It was the worst question I could possibly ask. He then went on rant that seemed like a fifteen page Takashi Miike fan-fiction. I didn’t write it down word for word what he said. It was too much. In the end my notepad just repeated the word “limbs” over and over again.

An hour passes and I’m getting frustrated. Glenn keeps telling me “facts” about the bible. How Lazarus was actually a “kid tweaker” and how he tried to bang Mary Magdalene when she was only twelve. He even suggested at one point that Jesus and Muhammad had a sword fight. I take my plate to the trash can and Glenn asks if I want to see some chalices he bought on eBay. Knowing that those chalices would probably be filled with my own blood, I decline. Suddenly, I star to see Danzig slightly hover off the ground while sitting indian style. Could it be? Is Glenn Danzig actually a master of the black arts? On closer look, no he is not. It seems that an army of ants had mistaken him for a crumb and are taking him back to the nest. He does not protest this so I do not help him.

I pass on taking carriage back to the hotel. Instead I ride on the waves of my own hate back. That’s what Glenn would of wanted me to do.