Theme Song

Listen to "Where The Wild Things Fvck", the song, on Adult Roy's myspace

KDTH FM: Live from the Racetrack

"Good evening, folks, you're listening to our evening show "Talk, Damnit, Talk" on KDTH 92.8FM and I am your perpetually enthusiastic host, Lee Reynolds! Last week, we had a very special guest on the show, America's young controversial hero, Roy Howlend, more widely known as "Adult Roy."
We'd like to thank Mr. Howlend once again for answering our call and for the wonderful interview he gave us here at the KDTH studio. Now I’ve received a lot of questions about Roy in the past couple of days, such as "What’s he like?" or "What’s he thinking?" or even "What’s his problem?!" And one listener – sounded like a European guy from out of town -- called in to ask what he was wearing “to the interview.” As if he had a set of interview clothes he changed into before stopping by the station. Puh-leez. This ain’t TV, folks. No one is worked up about how we look. On TV, all your newsmen have haircuts so gelled up it looks like they could deflect a small caliber bullet.

But for that fashion-curious listener out there, I’ll indulge you. I tell you, it looked like his gear was from, I dunno...everywhere. He had a cheetah jacket, with a hood made out of a cheetah's head, fur and skull, the works, but he let that hang in the back behind his collar, if he'd worn the hood up it probably would've looked like his head was getting eaten by half a cheetah mouth. God knows where he got that item, doesn't sound like American Apparel would have that in stock, but they should, shouldn't they? And he had jeans with all these painted designs on 'em. And snakeskin boots. But they looked fake, didn't they, Ed? I bet they were fake. The kid didn’t strike me as the type who’d get too excited about ‘authenticity.’

Now some of you other callers are asking about all the bastards he's up against: the Voodoo Queen, the Aztec God, Vampire Jake, drag sirens, G-Khan.... Some of these guys, I mean man! Have you seen these pictures? Of course you have! Still you'd barely believe it. Who's crazy enough to face off any of these bad guys? "Adult" Roy, huh?? Makes you wonder if the boy is some kind of psycho! But you know, I'm an optimist, something tells me he's just a kid compulsively looking for adventure in a world that’s lost all romantic credibility...I really do believe that.

We have to take a quick break, but we'll be right back after this, to interview a girl (whose real name we will not disclose) who says that just last Thursday she barely escaped the most radical new cult on the scene, the Straw Dogs of Hecate. For all you hopefuls out there, I hear that if you're a beautiful virgin broad and you're pious as hell, you've got a good chance of getting in! Stay tuned.

About Us:
KDTH is set up in a former RV, or at least the remains of one that was abandoned down at the Stovepipe Wells campsite parking lot back in summer of 1990. Most reckon it was some hapless retired couple who neglected to read the fine print under the “Welcome to Death Valley, California” signs. No one should be coming out here in the summer. The tourists get nervous if they see too many vehicular carcasses dotting the roadways. And now that miners have finished sucking the mineral guts out of Death Valley, tourism is everything. Like the remains of Charles Manson’s hideout. Or the legendary pancake joint in Stovepipe Wells. A big biker destination.

The Racetrack:
It’s not an actual racetrack. But it can make your heart race. And your mind will follow. But there’s nothing literally racing on it unless some hot-shots are out there daring each other, testing their wheels on ground that looks like it belongs to another planet. Or another planet's moon. The Racetrack is just a flat, caked, sun-baked geological formation in the Mojave Desert. But it plays more tricks on your brain than a season’s supply of the peyote that bored LA teenagers scarf down in Joshua Tree, looking for kicks while they persuade themselves they’re on some Native American ‘journey.’
The Racetrack is just Mother Nature served up so unadorned that you can’t tell what’s what. It’s sun, air, a diabolical whisper or two of ever-shifting moisture to keep the visual information from adding up to anything reliable. And of course cracking desert earth. It shimmers. It’s a mirage-breeder. Depending on the time of day and where you’re standing, it can look like a lake.

The Desert:
Deserts excel at painting confusion in every direction. Then again, deserts are where visionaries go to see God, or to seek truths. Stuff we’re blind to elsewhere shows up in deserts. Or stuff we can’t face elsewhere just heads to deserts to hide out and await those who can stomach meeting it there. And I don’t mean by taking peyote. The real trippers know it. Reality is stranger than drugs.


...Annnnnnd, we are back, folks, I'm Lee Reynolds on ninetey two point' - - [click]

Welcome To Where The Wild Things Fvck

Hi! I'm Adult Roy.

Not that long ago, I almost decided to get a higher education.
My crusty college advisor, former ladies-man and pirate, Mr. Brakes, suggested I go for an alternate road to learning, which he would, in a raspy, totally unsexy voice, call:

"a weirder education."

Mr. Brakes was kind of great because he never wore a shirt in his office, which I appreciated (I rarely wear a shirt anymore, except when I'm going to a party, so that I can take it off at some point when I get there), but also, to endearing effect, he was totally out of his mind most of the time and everyone who worked in his office was a definite crackhead. But that's how it was and that's how he is.

I never do what anybody says and I don't take advice unless it's a really gorgeous woman giving it. My college advisor was very disappointing in this regard, by which I mean he was not a gorgeous woman, which is a nice way of saying that he was a hell of an ugly and beat-up dude.

Nevertheless, I listened to him because he'd pitched me an interesting idea and said to me "Boy. Think of it this way. Forget about what you think you should do with your life... Do what you NEED and want to do, because if you don't do that, you'll die a slow death. Death by feeling miserable, death by waste of time, death by boredom and rot."

So I said "Okay Mr. B. How should I start handling this then?"

And he said "Well, what do you think you should do?"

And I told him "Um...I think I should get a job that would involve giving a lot of head in Hollywood, so that maybe if I'm lucky, I can become hot shit, like Robert Downey Jr. or something, I could wear a sweet moustache and have a minibar full of european booze."

Mr. Brakes frowned, then said "Okay, sure, now tell me what you need to do."

And I thought about what I "needed" to do. What I "wanted to do." It didn't take long:

"Sir... I need to ride a motorcycle into the desert, very fast, and fight monsters and spit in the faces of ancient gods and become a slick adventurer with a devil-may-care attitude."

Mr. Brakes, over-fucken-joyed: "That's what I'm talkin' about, boy!"

He shook my hand and I let him shake it good and then a savage-looking topless woman with fishnet stockings and magic hair strode in and started dancing on the coffee table. The rush of joy of my advisor's approval of my career plan combined with this made me feel really strange.

Mr. Brakes looked at her and then said to me:

"Now get the fuck out of my office. I've scheduled this time as my special time to do blow off a stripper's tits. It's my favorite part of the day. There's the door. Shoot me an email if you get in trouble."

I walked out of his office and headed for the motorcycle shop.

I was thenceforth committed to the weirder education.

Soon after that, my friends and me we went out to the Racetrack in the middle of the night and we never came home.

What we encountered there is hard to describe, but without much exaggeration, we found: phantoms, carnivorous gods, serial killers, teenaged gangsters barely our age, vampire surfers without waves, dragqueen mermaids with bushy beards but without water, motor-geeks with supped-up muscle cars, religious cults of beautiful mute girls, zombies...

The world I came from, like an american dream of mindless and dissatisfied professional ascent, where me, my mates and everyone around us focused on shit that wasn't important , that was a world that I didn't like so much. It's the kind of world that Mr. Brakes didn't want me to live in because he knew that I wasn't made for it.

Now I live in this new world where the black-light sun rises on us like a bad nightclub head-ache, where violence threatens to waste us and anarchy kicks up dust...even my body has changed and I've grown a psychic third eye on my forehead that comes and goes like super-powered herpes...basically what I'm saying is we've landed in a pile of shit filled with sticks of dynamite.

Fvcking American Nightmare.

And I. Love. It.

I've got plans for this place.

We're gonna lay down some power. I'm gonna take this desert back.

One grain of sand at a time.

This is the story of the life we lead in the desert and of the journeys we made across the globe, of my rise to tyranny over the world of the dead and the weird, of the thousands of pleasures and twice as many pains that we've got on our skin and under the hood, and what exactly is happening where the wild things fuck.

Cheers. Here's to a weirder education

Your chum,
Roy