!!!
The other day, I decided to use the restroom at Walgreens on Belmont and Broadway in Chicago. Walgreens is one chain that almost 100 percent of the time has a public restroom in Chicago. So that is definitely a good secret in case you have to take an urgent poop or pee. But you will also have to deal with the horrible maintenance of the bathrooms. In less than five minutes I could point out seven disgusting things about the bathroom:

1. Soap on the floor and walls, DISGUSTING, crusty, and probably 3 month old handsoap.

2. Dried white “who knows what” on the mirror. Are people brushing their teeth in the bathroom and splashing on the mirror?

3. Spilled coffee, or something disgustingly brown on the floor.

4. Pee still sitting in toilet from person before.

5. Coffee cup ring on toilet paper dispenser…disgustING!

6. Foamy moldy stuff on bottom of toilet, accompanied by a piece of chewed gum.

7. Coffee stains on “unused” toilet seat covers.

Now, if Walgreens offers a public restroom, the appearance should state something about how clean the store is. This just convinced me that the store is a royal and moldy mess!

DJs, Producers, Live Mad Scientists, MCs, Knob Fiddlers, you know…

In no order, and I am going to update this once a week.

1. Moldy
2. Pretty Lights
3. Bassnectar
4. THE MOTHERFUCKING GASLAMP KILLER
5. OOah
6. Heyoka
7. Ana Sia
8. Eskmo
9. Skeet Skeet
10. RaSouL

News for you Adam Green fans! His new album Minor Love will be released soon! The record will be released via Rough Trade on January 8th in UK/Europe! It will feature 14 brand new tracks. On this album Green ‘enlists the talents of Rodrige from Little Joy and other hanger-ons, like his brother Joel(and look-a-likes Joe Steinbrick and Greg from Megapuss’(according to the Rough Trade site).

You might now Adam from his previous work with the Moldy Peaches. He also released 5 other (solo) albums before this one. He recorded this album with long time friend and producer Noah Georgeson in Los Angeles, California.

Other words from the Rough Trade site are: ‘The album showcases a tender side of the often arrogant and emotionally unavailable bully/singer, Green. In a total state of isolation, Green attempted to play nearly all the instruments on the record, due to incurable social phobias which plagued him. The inspiration for this album lies in Green’s fatalism. ……… The good news for any of you who may be kicking themselves for not paying attention to the dates(note from Music Cookies: he’s now touring with the Cribs)… is that starting on January 26th Adam will start a full European and UK tour!‘

You can download What Makes Him Act So Bad, the first track from the new album, here.

25 Sep 09 Properly Storing Your Dog Food 

Read the entire story here: Monster Resources Incorporated

“A lot of people tend to underplay the importance of storing your dog’s food properly.  Not storing dog food properly can lead to health hazards not only for your dog, but for you as well.  The improper storage of dog food can lead to rodents taking over your house, or the unintentional contamination or spoiling of your dog’s food.  That’s just bad for everyone involved.  But by using a few simple and worthwhile techniques you can assure that you’ll never have a problem with your dog’s food.

Remember that even though dry dog food keeps for longer than moist food, it will still spoil if you don’t store the food properly.  This means purchasing a big enough sealable container to store the dry food from the bag.  Try to find containers with screw on tops, or rubber seal tops.  Anything that will create an air tight seal to keep the food fresh and safe.

A lot of the time people neglect bags of dog food in their pantries and closets.  This is bad because an open bag is not a good long term container.  The dog food bag is not the most sturdy container, and can tear fairly easily, which can lead to food spilling out.  This can attract all manner of bugs and rodents, and that’s not at all what you want in your house.  If you store any household chemicals in the same closet, that could also be bad, as a dog food bag is very susceptible to liquid leaking through.

In addition to proper storage of your dry dog food, make sure to inspect the food each time before filling your dog’s bowl.  Check to make sure that the food smells fresh, and looks okay visually.  If the food seems clumpy, or is moldy or moist in any way, it’s best to play things safe and throw the food out.  You don’t want to risk your dog’s healthy by feeding them food that may be spoiled.”

*Just a few added notes – If possible I put the bag in the freezer for a day or two, this will kill any eggs or anything else that hitched a ride. Also put the food in a locktite containers – this will prevent pests from getting in or out. 

Due to popular demand I am writing up my showcase suggestions for the 2009 Decibel Festival which begins TOMORROW!

I have been pimping for this festival for a while; I believe strongly in the smart curation of the party. These lineups are not just thrown together, but rather placed with precision into intelligent mixes of eclectic talent. In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I write for Decibel, and am honored to be a part of Seattle’s EDM festival.

I have bolded my top pick for each day, and added links in orange to the showcase descriptions that I wrote up.

Happy Decibel everybody!

THURSDAY 9/24:

• Dub Echoes film screening at the Seattle Art Museum followed by Q&A with Mad Professor
• Ghostly International: Decibel Opening Gala (Lusine, Tycho, The Sight Below, Michna)
• dB in duB Part 1: Past, Present & Future of Dub (Mad Professor & Benga)
• Sweatbox Showcase (Ctrl_Alt_Del, Derek Plasaiko)

FRIDAY 9/25:

• dB DJ Lounge w/Produkt DJs (Goner, PrEssHa, Andrew Luck)
• dB in duB Part 2: Dubstep Massive (Caspa, N-Type, Juakali, Boxcutter, much more)
• Dirty Dancing International (Noah Pred, Rob Hood, Alex Under, The Wighnomy Brothers)
• dB in duB Afterhours: Dub Mutants (DJ G, Pinch, Moldy, KJ Sawka, Dopelabs)
• Innerflight Red Eye Afterhours (novaTRON, Nerd Revolt, Phil Western)

SATURDAY 9/26

• Future Funk H20 – Boat Party (Pezzner, J-Sun, Packy, Ramiro, Jeromy Nail)
• Bass Lovers Unite (Mala, Mary Anne Hobbs, Megasoid, Nosaj Thing, Daedelus)
• Disko Cassé (Hookerz N Blow, CLP, Truckasaurus, Brodinski, Recess, MC Anton Bomb)
• dB Afterhours: The Deep End Part 2 (Voodeux, Move D, Martyn)
• Starborne Dirty Velvet Afterhours (Nalepa, Mimosa, Mike Slott, 3WS, Eprom, Skoi Sirius, Take, Kotchy)

SUNDAY 9/27

• dB in the Park: Don’t Feed the Animals (Gaslamp Killer, Sub Swara, Juakali, KiloWatts)
• Decibel Festival Finale (Derek Michael, Jerry Abstract, Tim Exile, Alter Ego)
• Muti Music Showcase (Dov, Heyoka, Mimosa, an-ten-nae)
• Renegade Bridge Party @ secret location

Shilo Loves Decibel Festival!

As the dub sound spread from Jamaica to the UK and on to the rest of the planet, the genre twisted and mutated into a loose and often dysfunctional family of subgenres, from dubstep to drum and bass to experimental IDM. In fact, all electronic music owes a loud shout-out to dub, from its focus on the bass to vocal sampling to the idea of stripping extraneous elements down to the minimal. Dub lives on in a thousand miscreant children, all of whom will continue to evolve, mutate, and produce offspring that will perhaps become genres in their own right.

Pinch

At dB in duB Afterhours: duB Mutants we celebrate the family of freaks that has grown up influenced by the heady sounds of daddy dub. Straight outta Bristol comes Pinch, a passionate pioneer and influential tastemaker for the dubstep sound in the UK. He is known for fusing the genre’s heavy basslines with techy and melodic subtleties, as well as with reggae, dancehall and world music- this producer knows no bounds. DJ G landed on RinseFM with his first-ever 12” dubstep release, and his devotion

Moldy

to the deeper, more soulful side of the genre is winning him widespread acclaim all over the world. Rolling in next from the frontline of dubstep is Moldy, the “Original Fungalist.” This mover and shaker is one of the most prominent US producers in the genre; his club nights, radio station and choice releases are making a massive impact on electronic arts culture, particularly on the

KJ Sawka

East Coast. Adding to the lineup is local Seattle favorite KJ Sawka, whose live drum and bass performances on acoustic drums set to electronic triggers make dance floors doubt their eyes, and move their feet.

Next door the lounge will be indulging the weird side of the dub family, with artists whose far-out approach to music makes them avant-garde oddballs in a family of freaks. ndCv experiments on sound, manipulating noises in the most nontraditional way and bumping them back disguised

Obelus

and distorted. Evolving in front of you next is Obelus, who forms a link between traditional live performances and electronica to create musical conversations as laptop meets improv. Electrosect runs in with wild eyes from the left field; this enthusiastic promoter and unmatched supporter of the Seattle community uses his keen intuition to guide listeners into the deeper and more abstract realms of electronic music. Finally the family meets at the sonic intersection of dubby midtempo and hip hop textures with Snap’Krakl’Pop, three brothers whose found sounds and interesting approach to musical divergence just might be the next offspring of the dub revolution.

Like any family, the dub clan is full of freaks, ready to try out this world for themselves and to fly their flags high.  Go to dB in duB Afterhours to dance, to groove and to chill, but most of all- do it for the children. The mutant children.

dB in duB Afterhours takes place Friday, September 25 at Little Red Studio. Click here to buy tickets and for more information about the 2009 Decibel Festival.

Anyone that knows me  knows that I will be a fantastic 80-year-old because I know how to do all their stuff.  I love my dainty tea sets,  I drink their cocktails (Manhattan or Rob Roy anyone?),  low impact and water exercise is my preference, and I seldom pay attention to what’s happening with my toenails. 

And like any good 80-something, my! how I enjoy the handicrafts.  Not the strenuous ones like hollowing out gourds or woodworking – no.  I like the ones that can be done easily by all - and I mean ALL:   the 80 and betters, the morbidly obese – anyone.  Like me!   So yesterday I got a round trip ticket out of Mothertown thanks to a summer camp for Cam and a babysitter for Griff.  After all the drop offs, I nimbly scampered (ok, loped) off to the base where I fit in an obligatory workout, and then got down to my reward  – checking out the A&C Center on base – I’ve been trembling with excitement to see what’s up in that place and now, at last, I had my chance. 

If one wanders into any military base’s Arts & Crafts center, your first impression will probably be something like the following equation:

A+C+M = 10000E. ( Arts + Crafts + Military = 10,000 ways to make an Eagle).   

Indeed there is a dazzling variety of different methods to make an eagle, and people are signing up at the A&C Center to learn how!  Just wander into ten military family’s homes, and you will see that at least eight of them have a hand-crafted eagle on prominent display somewhere.  People need their eagles and someone’s got to make them – why not you!  So the Center’s pamphlets beckon – Come to the base A&C center and knit your eagle!  We’ll show you how!  OR! Stain glass up a soaring eagle scene that will make your military friends go absolutely and militarily nuts!  You can quilt, watercolor, silkscreen, carve,  stain, or bead yourself a nearly endless array of eagley things! 

I’m not so much into eagles (we’re godless Obama-lovin’ civilians with bumper stickers that read: Ask Me About My Abortions!), but I did discover that (shhhh) in the back rooms and dusty cellars of these centers there are people, if you pretend that you have already made all the patriotic stuff, who can teach you to make other items (!) that are more arty, or useful or everyday- I know!!!!   This is how I discovered ceramics, (which incidentally has the highest eagle per crafter ratio of all the crafts).  I wasn’t into the Paint Your Own Pottery kind of ceramics, but rather the pour, clean, fire, sand, clean THEN Paint Your Own Pottery kind of ceramics.  There’s a difference, you amateurs.  They had a beautiful ceramics center in Hawaii where I spent most of my down time creating many a breakable object.  I made a gorgeous chess set for Paul, our dishes that we use to this day, coffee and teacups, artsy glazed ceramic tiles, etc. - because of this love of ceramics, most of my Hawaiian buddies were in my prime demographic – very old.  The ceramics center is to old ladies what the American Legion is toold Veterans but without cheap beer.   It was a gathering  place for talk, gossip, and camaraderie.    There was always a gaggle of ”hens” at the center all talking over each other in hushed gossipy tones, while working on their latest project which was always one of three things:  a kitty (next to eagles, they especially LOVE to make their kitties), one of those large ceramic Christmas Tree things that light up, or a decorative box with a lid.   Anyway, I’d plop myself in the middle of them and just listen to them and would learn much about two things a) how rotten my kids will be to me someday and b) ceramics.   I might not have like what they were making, but I liked a lot of the techniques they used that had taken them decades to figure out. The down side is that I hate my children now, but Yay!  Ceramics.

They didn’t have a ceramics center in Dayton, sadly, and I let my certification expire, so I’m very excited about getting out the tools again, buying my first gallon of slip and killing a few hours a week.  That’s ceramics talk.  Don’t I sound cool?  No?  Are you over 80?  Well, that’s why.

I’ve been a fan of Banksy a long time.  Here are a couple pieces I had never seen before, though I am told neither one was actually done by Banksy.  Oh well.

via: widelec

New hats, what did you expect?

First off, the XD-licious, which is the word of the day, the Asimov Outlaw hat, which is sold for 101 R$, and I recommend you buy it, or at least buy it to retexture into a certain Star wars army.

Next, the Ultimax Zero, which I have no clue what it is.
And fo r 1,001 R$, of course DON’T BUY IT.

Last, and probably least, the Sienna Power Hair. It looks just like a spiky set of moldy hair. But for 16 R$? MEH.

-Cool33333

Remember science experiments?  You know, the vinegar and baking soda volcano, homemade play-doh, hooking up a light bulb to a battery?  Those were the good ol’ days.  Nothing could make a terribly boring day at school turn into a totally awesome day like a science experiment.

These days science experiments only come along once in a blue moon.  My last science experiment involved separating the hydrogen and oxygen molecules from water using electricity.  This created a flammable gas that some people are using as a supplement in their cars to increase gas mileage.

Anyways, Dawn and I are currently conducting an experiment involving bread.  We purchased a loaf of bread a while back and somehow never finished it.  If I remember right it was pretty crappy bread so it inevitably made its way to the back of the pantry.  You feel bad throwing it away because of all the starving people in Africa and China and where ever else.  So, you just ignore it until it gets too old or moldy and then you can throw it away with a clean conscious, “Oh well, I guess it would have been moldy by the time it arrived in China anyways.  Besides, they may not even eat white bread over there.”

Well, God must be sending us a message about those starving kids because this bread has yet to grow any mold.  “When was it purchased?” you ask.  Seven months ago.  For seven months this loaf of bread has been in our pantry and it still looks as fresh as the day we bought it.  This is completely unlike the bread we’ve been buying lately that grows mold before you can even spread the mayo on your first sandwich.

I wonder if the folks over at Ingles realize that they have created bread that will last forever.  They’re sitting on a gold mine here.  Food drives and nuclear bomb shelters will never be the same.  Either that or their bread is so chock full of chemicals that a  styrofoam container filled with six pack plastic rings would break down faster.

I’ll keep you posted on our loaf of super bread.  Here is a picture at seven months of age:

We were looking at houses, and one was just amazingly nasty.  It had cats peeing everywhere, and a kitchen full of rotten, moldy food.  The whole place reeked.

We finally decided on this amazing old tan and brown house with a beautiful turret.  We knew it was going to take a lot of work, but we decided to go for it anyway.  There were a lot of stairs up to the front door, and I thought this wasn’t going to be good for moving furniture, or growing older.

I was sitting on the steps, and my family was there helping clean the house and get it ready.  While my family was there, I was talking to my mom on the phone, but the phone was a hair dryer.

Victory Prima Pils
ABV: 5%
IBU: ?
Calories: 150
Volume: 12 fl oz
Glass: Tulip
Purchased at: Joe Canal’s
Price per fl oz: $8 / 72 fl oz = $0.11 per fl oz
Consumed on/at: home on March 18th, 2008

sensory first impression: No head but a beautiful yellow golden beer. A pilsner, to be sure – pale, clear, and plain, visually. Aroma is smoky. Aroma is deep and rich. Aroma is hints of pork and cabbage. Taste is delicious, rich and hinting of other flavors. I taste bologna. I taste bread. I taste lettuce. I taste toast. It’s wonderfully balanced, a superlative taste but so very simple and unidimensional. Lacing is nice, but head is minimal. Warm with light alcohol. A great simple beer.

Aroma/Olfactory:
Malt flavor is: bread, cereal, nuts, toast, oats.
Hop flavor is: resinous, floral, very herbaceous
Yeast flavor is: doughy, thick, moldy, leathery, deep.
Other flavors include: bubblegum, lightly cherry, ginger, raisin, smoke

Visuals/Appearance:
Color is: pale, golden, amber, light, thin, white.
Liquid is: clear, immaculate
Head and lace are: minimal, white

Taste/Flavor:
Maltiness or Sweetness level is: medium to heavy
Hoppiness or Bitterness level is: light to medium
Sour level is: none

Palate/Tactile:
Body or Mouthfeel is: medium
Texture is: creamy, thick, silky
Carbonation is: lively
Finish is: long and wonderfully balanced.

Overall experience: Visually this is not a stimulating beer, but so rewarding in other ways. It’s delicious in terms of taste, though not overwhelming in any way. It’s feel is enveloping, smooth, and mellow. Its aroma is enticing, but not overwhelming. It’s a wonderful beer, and easily my favorite pilsner.

Events in my life have conspired to prevent me from completing the goal of fifty thousand words within a month’s time. I am loathe to set the blame on external circumstances, but it is true enough. This here is an excerpt from the CHESTER section, which concerns a zombie’s odyssey. He will interact with Vogina and Seamus, another character I have not (yet?) shown in this blog, though minutely, despite their convergence being of the utmost importance (to the plot, if I threaded it correctly). Chester remains largely unwritten and exists in the rough chunks of excerpts, so forgive any discontinuity. I just might finish this novel, for the hell of it, having just read it after a couple of weeks dusting. It’s not too bad. A bit weird, yes, but that’s the type of fiction I subscribe to. Well, happy readings, and do share your thoughts of Chester, if you managed to read through the entirety of this unusually long post, hell, even if you didn’t make it through.

Good luck.

Dripping, mouldy Chester Chadwick emerged from his final resting place, brushed the dirt from his decayed trousers, and surveyed the seedy graveyard with a critical eye. He observed jagged yellow tombstones covered with undecipherable writings jutting from dirt with a sky of grass… and groaned. He wriggled his foot and the tombstones wriggled accordingly. He reeled in his eye severely and secured it in its socket. That was better. He sighed, phlegm clattering in his throat. He wasn’t very good at being undead, having spent most of his non-life scratching against solid oak. His coffin was lined with fingernail splinters. Damn his family for being so rich! A pine box would have been a lifesaver, he thought, chuckling at the bad pun. It was moonlit, like an opening scene in a B-movie, and it was so ominous in the graveyard he’d just unearthed himself into that it gave him shivers. Fog wreathing gravestones, looming pines, groaning wind sounds, the usual fare. But then, in a horror movie, all you had to worry about, most days, was losing your life… that part, he had cinched.

He groaned involuntarily. B-b-brains! His nostrils, inept in life, could contest a bloodhound in death. He smelled gray matter miles away. His half-eaten brain sloshed in its pan with anticipation. On limbs like rancid bags of noodle soup with onions for elbows and knees, he put a foot ahead of the other, congratulating himself on his exquisite b-brains! and authentic shamble. As he walked, or tried to, a philosophical spirit settled onto him and despite the overwhelming hunger for a chewy cerebellum or a finger-lickin’ amygdala, he wrestled with b-b-brains! metaphysics and metempsychosis, his thoughts launching into a lengthy discourse with himself about his death and subsequent resurrection. Considering his circumstances, he was sensible enough to lend credence to the idea that a body, or a brain, for that matter, was not necessary for consciousness. B-b-brains! He was the living heh heh proof. He shambled past the wrought iron gates of the graveyard, remembering.

Eight and engaged in a chess match with his father, Chester Chuck Chadwick Senior, who was then lecturing at him the sanctity of the military establishment and the tactical advantage afforded by a more than rudimentary knowledge of the going ons of a chessboard which would greatly influence a man on the battlefield, Chester thought about his father’s words for a long moment before sweeping the pieces off the board, crying, “In war, there are no real rules but those created by the players! The pawn may become a king.” He stuck a finger high in the air, proud of his point. He was a rather dramatic child. If his father had been a beet farmer instead of an intensely patriotic soldier, the shade of his face would have matched his produce, and Chester Chuck Chadwick Senior’s precisely trimmed toothbrush mustache bristled with indignity at the offense visited upon the noble and sacred establishment of the chessboard as he spluttered, “Off to your room, boy! No green beans and carrots for dinner!” He was a particularly peculiar child as well, his interests running against the grain of conventional children things. He had gone to his room and pored through the pulps, searching for mannerisms to adopt, from the swelling chest of a heroic aviator to the ponderous hand on chin of the ever clever detective.
The father’s hopes for the military future of his son suffered a hairline crack that night, a progression which was, within a few hours, to result in a complete shattering, when he promptly died from an over-stressed heart. His mother, throwing up her hands (which a second ago had contained a butcher knife still red wet from the preparations of dinner) fell onto her husband to shudder violently before slumping motionlessly. This Chester saw from his door, slightly cracked open to admit his sight. She had fallen on the knife, and the media, unsure what to make of it, called it a suicide pact.
Chester was admitted to an orphanage. It was filled with the cruel gestures of welcome that young boys specialized in….

Unwritten sequence leading back to the present.

He burst into the clearing in a way only people who shambled could, slowly and awkwardly, attracting the attentions of the three figures seated around a boisterous fire pit.
“Hey, man have a drag!”

Chester shambled over, and struggled with his trembling fingers to finally grasp the outrageously fat spliff proffered, hoping it brains! would distract him from the all-consuming hunger that b-b-brains! made his etiolated limbs tremble and his consciousness waver. He sniffed at it with grey nostrils, though the smell scarcely cut through the intense scent of fresh brains, and sipped at the joint, delicately at first, then urgently, the thick smoke curling from his ears.

“Say, man, that’s a nifty trick!” The youth whistled appreciatively, a laugh bubbling quick and easy from his expressive face. His female companion had gotten up and started dancing around the vigorous fire, her movements dictated by some internal beat, primal, feral, carnal, her hair flashing like loops of copper wire, her nipples, when she tore her flimsy shirt off, stiffening into pink rosebuds billowing as if in a soft wind. Her friend, emerging from her piss stop in the bush, tugging her cut-off jeans into place, joined in, capering along, her ample flesh and blonde coiffure gelling nicely with the redhead’s movements.

The urge to gnash his teeth on the fair-haired youth’s skull contrasted strongly with a consuming curiosity as to why he did not run away screaming when approached by someone who had bits of flesh dropping off his bones every so while.

He discovers that the trio have dropped acid. He gets vague explanations about the current Gregorian calendar date. Chester succumbs to his urges and inadvertently consumes his companions.

Their brains, moist memories on his swollen tongue, were sweet with remembrance, as if the essence of their beings merged with his by virtue of raw osmosis leaking into umwelt, bringing to surface unknown sensations and experiences causing him to lay prone against the trunk of a tree, dribbles of white matter frothing down his chin. Childhoods, miseries, joys, failures, prosaic slices of lives spiraled into his consciousness helixesque, twining then bursting apart like delicate dreams, candy shards of bitter and sweet perusals…

…brunette plump as a child, enduring the ridicule of her schoolmates, doubly cursed by her parents with the name Ethel, which conjured visions of cheek pinching grandmothers wearing horn rimmed glasses. Consequently her soul became fossilized early, so young, the inner landscape contrasting congruously with her cherubic appearance, and the intellect that shone behind these eyes pierced like the glare of winter sun off ice. When she hit puberty, the weight fell off like fat off meat roasted over an open pit. Her breasts bloomed, catching the eyes of her former tormentors and elevated the malice of her female peers. By then, her father, a successful importer / exporter, discovered by the authorities to be providing products and services of a highly illegal variety, was integrated into an institute of incarceration. Her family became destitute and was forced to relocate to a less effluent, more squalid neighborhood, her mother taking to amphetamines when she started working three jobs in a classic lament of single motherhood. Sixteen was a rough year for her. She was constantly battling off rape attempts with an increasing repertoire of self-defense techniques. One day, she was assaulted by a pack of youths, obviously aged ten or eleven, and as they held her down the leader penetrated her downy swath of pubic hair. She broke free, her fingers scrabbling finding a large shard of a fractured window. She thrust the sliver of glass deep through his abdomen with a groaning from deep inside her gut as they both burst wetly with a shared cocktail of ecstatic pain. The youths, mouths Oing, returned to the boys they really were and fled to their mothers. He lay there gasping on her like a beached fish, the contents of his stomach pumping across her torso, flecking her lips. It stank. She stared cruelly at his dying eyes and when he had finally expired, crawled from under. She had an abortion, and the scars on her fingers, inside her abdomen, and her soul never left her. From that day on, she was never able to achieve orgasm without a pattern of violence, and selected men who would beat her. Until she met Felicity, she had no hope of finding herself in a real relationship, one unblemished by the dream of violence…the blonde, whip smart despite appearances, belying stereotypes, was from the city. In her early twenties, Felicity lived in an apartment complex and every day, if the sun was shining, her progress to work, without fail, would be punctuated by catcalls and wolf whistles from the Mexicans and Italians who crowded truck beds and lined the curbs. It was all right, actually a bit exciting at first, but it grew old before long. One evening out with the girls, drunk on a lark, she purchased an authentic looking strap-on at an adult entertainment store and the on the very next day, she slipped into her tightest miniskirt and a flimsy shirt that flaunted her voluptuous torso. She also buckled in the strap-on under her panties and when she strode down the street towards the inevitable ogling, she commenced a bump and grind routine with what many considered an extremely lucky streetsign, unfortunately causing collateral damage when thunderstruck drivers with vested interest in the female anatomy plowed into bumpers and dented side doors. After plenty of jazz hands and throttling hips exhibiting a dizzily acrobatic rump, Felicity let her fingers snake down to the hem of her skirt, teasing it upwards, reveling in the groans of randy men straining brute fingers towards quickly cramped crotches, then titillated with a slow downward descent of lace trim, tortuously tempting until boing boing boing an erect phallus sprang out like a demented Jack-in-the-Box. The response was immediate, as if they became suddenly pious Christians averting their gazes from a foul demon. Begone! She strutted away, their groans music to her ears, and in subsequent days she no longer had problems with unsolicited male attentions on that street, though upon arriving at work that very morning after relaying the tale to her boisterous co-workers she discovered her boss was a dyke quite skilled with the usage of sexual paraphernalia, the subject on which she was enlightened during a disciplinary hearing brought up on trumped up charges. She decided she would misbehave a bit more frequently on the job, for she found the punishment quite satisfactory…Vaseline smeared on a mirror, distorting the greased mohawk reflected…big strong arms gripping girlish hips swinging wide circles airplane airplane airplane wheeling world big strong smile big strong mustache big strong daddy swinging airplane airplane airplane…bubbling cheese on the lasagna, checkered apron draped on bustling mother busy fretting green beans and wine, splashed soda…finger pointing staccato giggles, “I’ll touch yours and I’ll let you touch mine!” bits of bright plastic proffered smooth to the feel…harsh draw in of burning throat smoke coff coff ow!…bottle glass shards sudsy dizzy property wheeling to meet glance grassy roots tickling the cheek…chasing dark alleys…menacing glow bursting from the closet in thin tendrils of light threatening to creep into retinas and infiltrate frightened thoughts huddled under blankets…

Then the LSD hit. The memories swept away with the advent of high velocity auric waveforms that steepled from objects, buzzing. Color spaces converged and tore apart, throbbing into their component hues. Shafts of red blue green like a great television screen dramatically zoomed. Growth. Shrinkage. Chromatically. Dimensionally. Exchange of values, sensory chits trading places, purposes. Smelling the movement of an arm. Seeing the cascade of sound as it sprang from the hickory tang of flame. Stones trembled, their customary stolid silences revealed to be illusionary. Inhaling the incredibly loud, astonishingly colorful world, a whirlpool of cartoon zephyrs sweeping through the esophagus and breathed out of orifices, whistling from nostrils, trickling from ears, farting from sphincter, jetting from eyelids. An exhalation of stillness: he was the order maker, the re-arranger of things. Out of the chaos Chester plucked meaning, pulled it into boxes—words—he knew to be meaningless without context, without breath. These boxes, he parceled out of the locomotions of his larynx, solid bubbling thoughts into the effluvia in which his flesh wallowed. He named all he saw and by lengthening his legs and throwing them like rubbery ropes, he strode from the clearing, his heavy crotch crossing continents teeming with to be named life marveling, momentarily moonshadowed, words to be experienced. Passing oaks and firs and maples swaying, his arms long bark of timber whirling finger foliage flailing crescendos of primal music frothing out primeval life from organic soup tattooing space-time threads of pulsating change tracing flea trajectories out of the atmosphere tiny metal spore puffs of dandelion dusting the hard husks of mineral crumblings in a void spread wide in universal dreams a wide wild rushing cosmic river carrying leaflets of galaxies little sparkles in a vibrating tapestry filling out the spaces between moments quarking the mesons and leptons in a giant baryon dance fermioning toe-deep in loam fingers bursting green sparks flurrying like intoxicated butterflies around Chester’s head as he stopped at the shore of a shimmering sea. It drew itself up in a sad, long history of a city, dramas playing across its beaten earth to culminate into a giant boiling carcass of crumbled, decaying technology, rising above him like a stiffening nipple.

He saw things that did not make sense to him. Windowflashes of sound and sight: It smells a cooking good smell, says the metal cobbler restling his gnarled feethings on a moist stool, crashing off his metal charms rusting to the beaten floor. Hidey-ho, says his wife, girthy handfuls of spud eyeing the fresh cabbage cut degracing husband’s pate; etiolated trunk limbless despondently masticating midst dirty sheets, the laughing teeth of bright rogued nurse slopping soupy spoonfuls towards sour maw of bedraggled chinny chin hair; rats shifting through the lofty remnants of garments, sniffing for unspoored regions and leaving behind pungent markings; bright-eyed children chasing paper bats past cat black sentiment of the dull sailor sipping at pipe; a drafty draught of yeasty breath through the doors of a stainless steel pub; rows of ghostly visages green glowing suspension in the high rise darkness, pale fingers pressing at muted keyboards; a tattered scrap of cloth on flagpole flaps pathetic remnants of municipal pride; frantic pace of marathon runners with slabs of steak pinned to their hips pursued by dark slavering dogs; the tangled air of ion trails traces a strange mandala against the cold sky; wild gaze of horses enslaved to trot endlessly through the same broken roads; the spirit leached from this place like time slowly strips the color from a photograph, the souls that forget they live wander through the motions of half-remembered customs. A stink permeates the air, of waste, of burning metal, ionized air. The iron red rank of freshly spilled blood. The bitter bile of vomited resentment and rage. The ground salts itself with tears, and timely hate crumbles the ferrocrete to dust under leather soles.

Further unwritten sequence in which he meets the others (Vogina and Seamus) and is damned to hell. He is supposed to retrieve the Necronomicon.

He lay crumpled on a flesh junkyard, strung up in angles on alien rib cages, half-rotted femurs, translucent pelvises, and horned skulls daubed with dried brains. He lay that way for a long moment, absorbing the setting: pillars of fire that rose and fell with the stink of brimstone, the quavering mirage of a constant heat haze that made his flesh contract involuntarily, an opera of pain with an obvious xylophone of cracked ribs and tinny clatter of fingerbones on brainpans.

A man emerged from the waste to fill his vision, condensing slowly in the heat haze, dragging a something behind him with a length of chain. He had sandy hair and wore spectacles. His suit and red tie was filthy and patched with holes. “This is a philosophical treatise,” he said to nobody in particular, hauling the gigantic object out of the morass, “encompassing my life.”
It was a single volume with pages that must number in the thousands, bound by some rough bark tied down with scraps of ligaments and a trio of humeri. Its vellum was a patchwork of human and some alien skin, carefully stitched and cut in large rectangles. Majestic calligraphy decorated its breadth. The man with the sandy hair sat down on his book and mopped his brow with his stained tie. “In Hell, Time acquires a distinctive quality,” his red lips lamented from under piercing blue eyes, “that derives predominantly from its immense quantity. All moments become alike. In infinity, there is only one. Infinite quantity cancels out any real temporal progression.
“That being said, I begin to write myself. Once upon a time…”
“Hey, wait! A-Alhazred?”
The spectacled man looked myopically at Chester, pursued his lips.
“You’re not from around here, hmm?” he said, more to himself. He drifted, losing focus. “No you can not, your flesh has not acquired the charring distinctive to the impoverished, as yourself, in flesh of the area.” He stood up and resumed his struggle along the rough terrain, the book cutting a uncomfortable furrow of vague order through the morass.
“Sir! Wait!” Chester struggled to his feet, caught the man by the arm. The man paused and stood waiting. Chester fidgeted in the heat and said, “That book… is it the N- uh Necronomicon?”
Chester endured the direct gaze of these bitter blue eyes before flinching as the man guffawed.
“Ha ha, hoo hoo ha!” He slapped Chester’s back, dislodging a clavicle. Chester watched the laughing man with disgust as he set his bone back in place. “That’s rich! (My name’s Rich, by the way, and in no way Alhazred! Do I doff a turban? Do I seem mad?) I have not had that good a laugh for centuries!” Rich beamed brightly at Chester.
“No, my friend…” Rich let his question linger.
“Chester.”
“…Chester, this is a philosophical treatise, encomp—“
“Your life and yadda yadda,” rudely interrupted the zombie, angry and disheartened. Of course! Had he expected it to be this easy?
Rich, wounded, and daubed his eye with his tie.

If my love life is a loaf of bread, it has officially passed stale and has hit thoroughly moldy.

More about that later.

If you are tired of having your sandwich stolen out of the office/shop/breakroom refrigerator (or for kids at school), this Anti-Theft Lunch Bag is for you.  It is a clear, reclosable, plastic bag that features green splotches as a design that makes your sandwich appear moldy. 

Now, why didn’t I think of that? Well, New York based designer (and self-described nerd) Sherwood Forlee did:

As I was watching the Democratic National Convention earlier today, I was arranging some of my old art projects. It was on a commercial break, so I wasn’t paying too much attention to the television screen. But one commercial caught my attention. It sounded really familiar. Well, here, you take a look and see if you notice anything.

Sound familiar? I bet. That’s an exact copy of The Moldy Peaches‘ “Anyone Else But You” song made popular by that one movie about a pregnant girl. Except, it’s really bad and all the words were different — something about riding dolphins and playing golf. However, the song itslef was identical to the original. So I did a bit of investigating and found a statement that clears my curious mind from one of my favorite artists and Moldy Peaches singer Kimya Dawson.

“I guess by now many of you have seen the silly commercial
for the Atlantis resort. Sigh. Thanks for the outpouring of concern, but no
we were not ripped off. No one is getting sued. I have always been very
much against having my music in commercials. My solo music.
With The Moldy Peaches it is tricky because it isn’t
just me. I do say no most of the time, but every once
in awhile I have to be willing to compromise and be a group member
and not a total control freak. A couple years ago we did that French cell
phone commercial with all the soccer balls.
This time I agreed to the resort going poor mans Weird Al version of
‘Anyone Else But You’. I figured if I am going to be a team player
I am going to feel least like beating myself up if the words and voice
are not my own. It is just our melody. We were not involved in the rewrite.
Anyway, dolphins schmolphins, it’s done.
I bought my parents a car. So it goes.”

- J Diaz

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

This plan just never ceases to crack me up.  Informal Crown Room polling suggests that I have a good following in my bid for Oregon’s top office.  So, when the time comes, Vote For Party Mom.  Tyler’s in charge of the victory party already….

(and again with the cracking up…HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)

But fer real.  We’ll be out on the town again tonight.

This duo is FUN.  Versatile and talented.  Multi-taskers and groovy.  Step out with me and DANCE.

But for those uninterested in a live dubstep/drum and bass/breaks/house/trip hop improv band, there’s always something else…

• Ante Up at The Crown Room.  You can get your hip hop on.  Please remember to put your hands up.  Pursuant to my new position as Microphone Heckler, I may stop by at the end of the night.  Should anyone get the bright idea to freestyle at me, I promise to have you forcibly ejected from the premises.

• Various at Branx.  Dubstep from Moldy, Ryan Organ, Monkeytek and D.Poetica.  If it’s dubstep you like, you will love this so much.

______________________________________________________________

For your consideration:

• IPL Skin Treatments for just $89.95 from Doctor Tasty (née Sija)–Receive natural, drug-free, light-based treatments for rosacea, acne, removal of sun damage, fine lines and wrinkles.  Even hair removal!  Just $89.95 per treatment.  http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/event.php?eid=139918612683&index=1

• West Sylvan Magazine Drive–subscribe to new mags, renew old ones!  Hit me up for more details.

www.toothpastefordinner.com (I love that guy)

• And check this out:   This logged 2000+ hours over the course of 18 months.  And it was made right here in Portland.

DJs, Producers, Live Mad Scientists, MCs, Dark Lords, you know…

In no order, and I am going to update this once a week.

1. Excision
2. THE MOTHERFUCKING GASLAMP KILLER
3. Babylon System
4. Dorian Concept
5. PrEssHa
6. Pretty Lights
7. Mala
8. Take
9. Lazer Sword
10. Moldy

Please, make yourself at home.