Hunka-Hunka Burning Poo-Flinger

"He turned my stomic (sic). He is a pig and that's too good for him."

"Very Sad. Elvis deserves better than that... it is an outrage."


The above expletives are taken from a recent discussion on the Elvis Tribute Artists (Elvis impersonators, for you casual fans) Yahoo Users Group's message board. The topic? The group's newest member: Extreme Elvis. The entire conversation is proudly cut-and-pasted onto Extreme Elvis' very own website.

Extreme Elvis (EE) embraces such nasty and repulsed criticism. He would be a hypocrite if he did anything else; he's as nasty and repulsive as it gets. He's overweight on the verge of obesity, barely squeezing into his standard white Elvis jumpsuit--not that you get to see it for very long anyway. During one of EE's shows, it's only a matter of time before the suit is discarded, and his fleshy, pasty body pours forth, jiggling with unrestrained delight. He also has one of the tiniest cocks in the history of live performance. But don't worry if you can't see it (an actual possibility), because EE will be more than happy to prove the existence of his schlong by urinating out of it--into a pint glass, his shoe, or the mouths of his adoring fans. And if you're still not satisfied (or if he's not), he'll whip out the feces.

How does EE get away with these shock-rock tactics that we all thought went out of style years ago? Well, for starters he's not just another poo-flinger, but a genuinely good singer of Elvis hits, with a tight band backing him up. He may be reviled by his fellow impersonators, but EE is nothing if not a true fan of the King. He's also impressively witty and spontaneous. At one show in Los Angeles he harassed a female fan until she tried to jam her beer bottle up his ass. He waited patiently, his ass cheeks spread, as she worked the bottle to and fro, before gently taking her wrist, adjusting the bottle slightly and crooning "That's not my asshole, honey; that's my asshole." He then leapt back onstage to finish the current song.

No one can deny the creative energy that fuels EE's gross shenanigans. Perhaps he is a disgrace to the Elvis Impersonator community; or perhaps that community can't handle the fact that something new and fresh is finally stirring things up a little. JUSTIN WESCOAT SANDERS

The New King plays at the Blackbird with Roger Nusic, 3728 NE Sandy, 282-9949, Thursday, July 17, 9:30 pm, $6

Book Smart

Hey Smarty McSmarterson and Bookie McBookworm! All your best pals are coming to town this week. Read on, you won't be sorry.

R.L. Stine's new adult book, The Sitter, is basically a rewrite of his kid's version, The Baby-Sitter II, plus a couple swear words and sex scenes--but you can't deny the man has vision. With something like 200 Goosebumps books, R.L. Stine can spin a yarn but can he read in a spooky voice?

Thursday, July 17, Powell's in Beaverton, 8725 SW Cascade, 228-4651, 7 pm, free

Chuck Palahniuk, one of Stumptown's greatest claims to fame, has released a memoir on Portland herself. A meld of fact and fiction, Palahniuk explores the in-town drug dens, sex clubs, and maybe your underpants in Fugitives & Refugees: A Walk in Portland.

Thursday, Annie Blooms, 7834 Capitol Hwy, 246-0053, 7:30 pm; Friday, Powell's, 1005 W Burnside, 228-4651, 7:30 pm, both free

Lorrie Moore's emotionally caustic short stories make you laugh, cry, and cry while you're laughing. If you haven't read her book Self-Help, run out and buy it--you'll be a fan by the time she gets to town.

Thursday, Cerf Auditorium, Reed College, 3203 SE Woodstock, 219-0622 for info, 224-TIXX for tickets, $15, 8 pm

Denis Johnson, author of Jesus' Son, is the king of depressing fiction.

See Reed College information above. Thurs, 9:30 reading, Fri, 8 pm, both $15

J.A. Jance, mystery writer, shrinks your privates with a reading from her new book, Exit Wounds (nothing to do with Steven Seagal).

Wednesday July 23, Powell's Beaverton (see above), 7 pm, free KATIE SHIMER

Drink, Rabbit, Drink

Sure, some boring folks like to save boozing for after their exercise routine. Not the Hash House Harriers. The "drinking club with a running problem"--as they adoringly refer to themselves--has no trouble blurring the line between aerobic activity and binge drinking.

It works like this: Every Wednesday, the Harriers meet at a bar. After a couple of beers, the "hares" (two relatively quick runners in the bunch) take off and make a meandering trail by leaving dots of flour intermittently on the ground.

The job of everyone else ("the hounds") is to get good and tipsy, and then try to find and follow the path. It is like a frenzied scavenger hunt. Everyone works together to find the path and then bounds off in a jumble of joggers to the next trail marker.

Frequent beer breaks along the way allow time for chatting, chugging, and peeing in a bush or two. Weekly runs often cut through forests and fields as well as invade suburban backyards.

At the end of the trail a keg is waiting. Harrier "virgins" will be dubbed with a self-deprecating nickname. Veteran Hasher BeeFuck says that newcomers should have "a sense of humor and a sense of adventure." NATALIE O'NEILL

Wednesdays, call to find out weekly location, 1-866-656-5477, 6:30 pm, $5