Friday, July 30, 2010
CHECK OUT ALL THIS COOL-ASS GERMAN SHIT. YOU THINK ED ROTH WAS A NAZI? YOU'RE RETARDED. THIS SHIT IS JUST COOL, LIKE THE RED BARON & SS HATS.
HEY STUPID, this is the United States of America in the YEAR 2010. The NAZI THREAT has been over for SIXTY-FIVE YEARS. In case you hadn't heard, WE WON. PERIOD. It aint gonna happen here, & if it does, it isn't going to look GERMAN. It's going to look AMERICAN & IT'S GOING TO BE DIFFERENT. The iron-cross, the wehrmacht helmet, the imperial eagle & anything else German is JUST GERMAN. Remember, WE BEAT THEM. TWICE. BUT, there are ALOT of Americans who ARE ALSO HISTORICALLY GERMAN & THAT'S OKAY. JUST LIKE HOW IT'S OKAY THAT THERE ARE IRAQI AMERICANS, AFGHANI AMERICANS, KOREAN AMERICANS, VIETNAMESE AMERICANS, PANAMANIAN AMERICANS, JAPANESE AMERICANS, ITALIAN AMERICANS, RUSSIAN AMERICANS, FRENCH AMERICANS, ENGLISH AMERICANS, MEXICAN AMERICANS, SPANISH AMERICANS & WHOEVER ELSE WE'VE HAD MILITARY ENGAGEMENTS WITH, IT'S OKAY THAT THERE ARE GERMAN AMERICANS & THEY CAN BE INTO WHATEVER THEY WANT TO BE INTO, BECAUSE AMERICA STANDS FOR FREEDOM. THE KIND OF FREEDOM THAT MEANS IF I GO INTO AN ITALIAN RESTAURANT THAT HAS A PICTURE OF MUSSOLINI ON THE WALL, I'M GOING TO BE PLEASED WITH THEIR BALLS & PRIDE, NOT OFFENDED BY DARING TO SHOW A PICTURE OF A MURDERED ENEMY OF THE USA.
BUT, even if someone holds the beliefs of the Nazis, that's their right as Americans, it is just not their right to take away other people's natural born rights. Neo-Nazis are not Nazis, they are the white equivalent of Black Muslims. And while your college might have told you that white people are the dominant power race of the United States, there are a hell of a lot of poor, uneducated, degenerating, constantly in the legal system, addicted to drugs, daddy left the home, mommy is an alcoholic, kids are in the system, poor diet, can't afford a car, living in a trailer park WHITE people who are just as disadvantaged as the great abstract concept of "people of color", "african americans", crippled lesbians & whoever the fuck else. BUT, America doesn't reward losers, haters, ideologues & other negative Nancys, this country runs on OPTIMISM, INDIVIDUALISM & THE ID. SO IT'S A DISADVANTAGE to fall into that mentality. PERIOD. INSTEAD OF PASSING JUDGMENT, WHY NOT TRY TO UNDERSTAND YOUR FELLOW MAN.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
OK, I was in New York for a couple weeks last Fall. I had been trying to acquire Ramm:Ell:Zee's Alpha's Bet video for the Drive-In about two years before. During my e-mail dialogue with him I somehow ended up with his phone number, and left him a message, saying I was coming to New York. He called me back and in a very cryptic manner said we should hang out. So I was playing phone tag with him when I was there, and then one morning I pick up the phone and it's him, and I'm saying "when should we get together, maybe tomorrow?" and he's like "right now", and he gives me an address in Battery Park. I take a cab there, wait in the lobby, and he's appears, standing hella far down this hallway, in a football jersey, doorag, and crazy space shades. He says "Bobby Peru, this is the Ramm:Ell:Zee". I'm like "Pleasure", and he says "Do you like rum or vodka", and I say "Vodka", and we go to the liquor store and he buys a big bottle of nice stuff, and we go back to his apartment. Which is actually his girlfriend's apartment, because his old place (WITH ALL THE WORK FROM THE PAST THREE DECADES) had burned down. Apparently his paints and glues had caught fire, which doesn't totally surprise me after seeing the way he works. We enter the small apartment, and he says "Careful of the fumes", and it totally reeked like glue. He says "I'm all sniffed up". He pours two pint glasses of cold vodka, puts on Metallica's black album, loud, on repeat, and there is a TV set just blaring static / white noise. He's working on 3 toy sculptures for the Kid Robot store. I give him a bunch my shit (videos, zines, prints) and he starts flipping through and says "You've done your research", and starts really getting into it. Sean, he loved your illustration from the zines. He kept pointing them out, and saying "That's fresh", and I was like "That's Sean Goblin". I start asking him all kinds of questions about the history, the philosophy, the alter-universe, and he answers in his own abstract dialect that you just have to interpret for yourself. We talked about a bunch of shit, all afernoon. Love, Life, betrayal, artillery. Cool cat, who is intentionally under exposed. After a while, he says, "My name is Stephen". After a few tall glasses of the vodka, I'm helping him with the sculptures, and I notice that he is taking model glue and rubbing it in to the carpet underneath us. And I am getting FADED. And I've been drunk plenty in my life, and this was something else. I realized later that it was the glue. It was like mind eraser. Hours later I wake up on the floor and he's passed out too. I got up and kind of tried to get my shit together, went to the bath room. I come out of the bathroom and he's standing in the middle of the room with a red video tape. He says "I believe this is what you came for" and hands it to me. The Alpha's Bet (plus about another half hour of rare performance and interviews, called the "Evolution Griller"). I take it and stumble out the door. I mean literally, stumbling, holding on to walls and shit. I couldn't even talk when I got in the cab, and the driver says "You alright buddy?" Weeks later we leave a few voice mails for each other, both saying we should hang out again. I sent him a few post cards, and some weird toys from my collection. Then it had been about nine months since I'd talked to him and I get a phone call from his girlfriend (and art dealer), Caremella. She says "Jeff? You know that video Ramm gave you? It was the only copy. Can you dub it and send us one? Thanks!" So I did, and still have the original. It's bad.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
got to stop feeding them. Your support must now go to me - GG Allin, the commanding leader and terrorist of Rock 'N' Roll. Why do you think I am in prison right now? Because they know who I am and they fear my reality. Our society wants to stop my mission. They want to brain wash you and keep you locked into MTV, and their stagnating, safe worlds. It's a plot to kill Rock 'N' Roll. I am the savior. Thats
why I am considered a threat to society. This is what you should do: Go to your record store and buy all the GG ALLIN recordings you can find. If they dont have any in stock, tell them to order some. If they refuse, then do what you have to do. Call radio stations and demand GG Allin. Spray paint "GG ALLIN" everywhere. Make them aware that the disease and the Scumfuc tradition is still spreading. Write "GG ALLIN" on all your dollar bills. Any bills you have. People do not throw money away, so it would be a free way to get the message out. You must do it every day of your life. We must live for the Rock 'N' Roll underground. It CAN be dark and dangerous again. It CAN be threatning to our society as it was meant to be. IT MUST BE UNCOMPROMISING. And with me as your leader, it will happen. I am ready to lead you, my allies, into the real Rock 'N' Roll underground. Let's get started.
-G.G. Allin(Jesus Christ Allin)
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
"To a new world of Gods and monsters." Where man & technology are at one & both are accelerated by the relationship.
It's time to chase your dreams...
A world with no walls, no delineations, no barriers.
We answer to a higher authority.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
“We control your icons. We wrote them on your trains those big gigantic rolling pages...”
-Rammellzee, interview, Style Wars 2004 edition.
I first heard of The Rammellzee through my man Chuck Galli, who interviewed him for a paper titled “Hip-Hop Futurism: Remixing Afrofuturism and the Hermeneutics of Identity.” Chuck directed me to Zee's website, where can be found the cryptic treatise/equation that the artist's name embodies, as well as some sculptural representations of the godheads who, as Zee sees it, fight for the domination of language.
Rammellzee has been active since the late seventies. As a member of that founding generation, he was and remains uniquely sensitive to the power of symbols and signifiers to generate and destroy worlds. Hip hop is a war of symbolic communication, and like a savant or kabbalist, Zee understands alphanumeric units not as pure abstractions, but as souls, and soldiers:
“The letters are weapons. Instead of Orson Wells stating that...the books will be burnt. The books will stay there. The letters have left the page. And once it went up the letter had better be ready to fly.”
-””, Style Wars 2004 edition.
So, here is the interview:
[SC] You seem to have a unique understanding of language and its hidden powers. And I am curious how you would describe your relationship to language, whether as a sculptor, emcee, whatever...
[RZ] The "Weaver's" have it! ZeeOut.
[SC] The Weaver's!? Who are the Weaver's, Zee?
[RZ] We are...and the others that migrated from the burnt out, bulletins, schools, fuzz,death. ZeeOut.
[SC] That reminds me of a verse I wrote once,
'Learn to weave, and time will bend for you,
it is a different art from drawing lines.'
Hard to put a finger on, but 'weaving' involves a different kind of consciousness than 'delineation,' which is the mode in which man-made environments, texts, works of art are usually built and experienced.
And the tension between the two, as when an artist weaves over linear surfaces or spaces, as with subway graffiti and certain styles of rap, can be explosive. What do you think?
[RZ] As like in the Gothics or the webs Futurism. z.
[SC] You know, language has been standardized to an amazing degree in the past few hundred years, thanks to the extension of public education, bureaucracy, communications networks. But language, if left to its own devices, evolves very quickly, as evidenced by the many 'bastard' dialects that branched off from Latin after the fall of the Roman Empire.
"Standard English" is basically a closed system. There are rules of grammar, spelling, even pronunciation...which prevent us from changing it in any lasting way. But there are some people who the forces of standardization do not reach--ghetto kids, for example. And my question is, do you think this apparent disadvantage can sometimes free people to innovate or even restructure language?
[RZ] Due to the fact that in hip-hop or rap music, which are definitely 2 different things. Hip-Hop is for fun, rap is a mug shot for gangsters and war and pimps. Both are always business men or wombed-man. Emotionally it is impossible for the subject as slanguage. For if a white man can act like a black man but has forgotten that letters themselves were once racists by volume and diction. A black man thinks he owns A-Z and this rhythmic culture now noticed by the white man, makes the white man look impotent since Gutenberg's printing press and the Clergy.
White man thinks he has invented something called respect by disavowing the language of our language tree by thinking that the black man regurgitated from white man's indo-european germanic dialects.
[SC] People have probably asked you this before, but what do you think was the role of the five percenters in the development of hip hop culture? Especially maybe from 1974-79, what you describe as “a war era, where knowledge formed about by itself through the body, in the dark, underground.”
[RZ] There was none. It was about Math and the Mapamatics of the body.
[SC] Where were you during the blackout of 1977?
[RZ] Madison Avenue. Zee OUT.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
SSQ - Synthcide
Stacey Q - Two of Hearts
One time Stacey was a hostess at Ruby Pagonia's. She also worked as a cashier for the valet parking lot at the Mariott. She dyed her hair magenta, they suggested it was a little too wild for their employees. She was nineteen at the time. It was kind of funny because they wanted to keep her on because they really liked her work so they suggested she dye her hair back. She said, "Not on your life!" and was out of there. As a teenager through to early adulthood, Swain bought and listened to records by David Bowie. Her favorite albums were Hunky Dory and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Swain has claimed her style of music was actually influenced by Bowie and other hard rock artists, including Hanoi Rocks, The Rolling Stones and Depeche Mode.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Mega Mall has the ability to be the ultimate pinnacle of human culture. At its most basic form, it is a big box, filled with boxes. You can do ANYTHING with these boxes. To condemn the mall to what it has been or what it seems to be is to lock up one's imagination & deny the unlimited potential of human creation. The Mega Mall can be EVERYTHING. IT CAN BE CURATED.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The Founding and Manifesto of Futurism by F.T. Marinetti 1909
We had stayed up all night, my friends and I, under hanging mosque lamps with domes of filigreed brass, domes starred like our spirits, shining like them with the prisoned radiance of electric hearts. For hours we had trampled our atavistic ennui into rich oriental rugs, arguing up to the last confines of logic and blackening many reams of paper with our frenzied scribbling.
An immense pride was buoying us up, because we felt ourselves alone at that hour, alone, awake, and on our feet, like proud beacons or forward sentries against an army of hostile stars glaring down at us from their celestial encampments. Alone with stokers feeding the hellish fires of great ships, alone with the black spectres who grope in the red-hot bellies of locomotives launched on their crazy courses, alone with drunkards reeling like wounded birds along the city walls.
Suddenly we jumped, hearing the mighty noise of the huge double-decker trams that rumbled by outside, ablaze with colored lights, like villages on holiday suddenly struck and uprooted by the flooding Po and dragged over falls and through gourges to the sea.
Then the silence deepened. But, as we listened to the old canal muttering its feeble prayers and the creaking bones of sickly palaces above their damp green beards, under the windows we suddenly heard the famished roar of automobiles.
“Let’s go!” I said. “Friends, away! Let’s go! Mythology and the Mystic Ideal are defeated at last. We’re about to see the Centaur’s birth and, soon after, the first flight of Angels!... We must shake at the gates of life, test the bolts and hinges. Let’s go! Look there, on the earth, the very first dawn! There’s nothing to match the splendor of the sun’s red sword, slashing for the first time through our millennial gloom!”
We went up to the three snorting beasts, to lay amorous hands on their torrid breasts. I stretched out on my car like a corpse on its bier, but revived at once under the steering wheel, a guillotine blade that threatened my stomach.
The raging broom of madness swept us out of ourselves and drove us through streets as rough and deep as the beds of torrents. Here and there, sick lamplight through window glass taught us to distrust the deceitful mathematics of our perishing eyes.
I cried, “The scent, the scent alone is enough for our beasts.”
And like young lions we ran after Death, its dark pelt blotched with pale crosses as it escaped down the vast violet living and throbbing sky.
But we had no ideal Mistress raising her divine form to the clouds, nor any cruel Queen to whom to offer our bodies, twisted like Byzantine rings! There was nothing to make us wish for death, unless the wish to be free at last from the weight of our courage!
And on we raced, hurling watchdogs against doorsteps, curling them under our burning tires like collars under a flatiron. Death, domesticated, met me at every turn, gracefully holding out a paw, or once in a while hunkering down, making velvety caressing eyes at me from every puddle.
“Let’s break out of the horrible shell of wisdom and throw ourselves like pride-ripened fruit into the wide, contorted mouth of the wind! Let’s give ourselves utterly to the Unknown, not in desperation but only to replenish the deep wells of the Absurd!”
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when I spun my car around with the frenzy of a dog trying to bite its tail, and there, suddenly, were two cyclists coming towards me, shaking their fists, wobbling like two equally convincing but nevertheless contradictory arguments. Their stupid dilemma was blocking my way—Damn! Ouch!... I stopped short and to my disgust rolled over into a ditch with my wheels in the air...
O maternal ditch, almost full of muddy water! Fair factory drain! I gulped down your nourishing sludge; and I remembered the blessed black beast of my Sudanese nurse... When I came up—torn, filthy, and stinking—from under the capsized car, I felt the white-hot iron of joy deliciously pass through my heart!
A crowd of fishermen with handlines and gouty naturalists were already swarming around the prodigy. With patient, loving care those people rigged a tall derrick and iron grapnels to fish out my car, like a big beached shark. Up it came from the ditch, slowly, leaving in the bottom, like scales, its heavy framework of good sense and its soft upholstery of comfort.
They thought it was dead, my beautiful shark, but a caress from me was enough to revive it; and there it was, alive again, running on its powerful fins!
And so, faces smeared with good factory muck—plastered with metallic waste, with senseless sweat, with celestial soot—we, bruised, our arms in slings, but unafraid, declared our high intentions to all the living of the earth:
Manifesto of Futurism
We intend to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and fearlessness.
Courage, audacity, and revolt will be essential elements of our poetry.
Up to now literature has exalted a pensive immobility, ecstasy, and sleep. We intend to exalt aggresive action, a feverish insomnia, the racer’s stride, the mortal leap, the punch and the slap.
We affirm that the world’s magnificence has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A racing car whose hood is adorned with great pipes, like serpents of explosive breath—a roaring car that seems to ride on grapeshot is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.
We want to hymn the man at the wheel, who hurls the lance of his spirit across the Earth, along the circle of its orbit.
The poet must spend himself with ardor, splendor, and generosity, to swell the enthusiastic fervor of the primordial elements.
Except in struggle, there is no more beauty. No work without an aggressive character can be a masterpiece. Poetry must be conceived as a violent attack on unknown forces, to reduce and prostrate them before man.
We stand on the last promontory of the centuries!... Why should we look back, when what we want is to break down the mysterious doors of the Impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We already live in the absolute, because we have created eternal, omnipresent speed.
We will glorify war—the world’s only hygiene—militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn for woman.
We will destroy the museums, libraries, academies of every kind, will fight moralism, feminism, every opportunistic or utilitarian cowardice.
We will sing of great crowds excited by work, by pleasure, and by riot; we will sing of the multicolored, polyphonic tides of revolution in the modern capitals; we will sing of the vibrant nightly fervor of arsenals and shipyards blazing with violent electric moons; greedy railway stations that devour smoke-plumed serpents; factories hung on clouds by the crooked lines of their smoke; bridges that stride the rivers like giant gymnasts, flashing in the sun with a glitter of knives; adventurous steamers that sniff the horizon; deep-chested locomotives whose wheels paw the tracks like the hooves of enormous steel horses bridled by tubing; and the sleek flight of planes whose propellers chatter in the wind like banners and seem to cheer like an enthusiastic crowd.
It is from Italy that we launch through the world this violently upsetting incendiary manifesto of ours. With it, today, we establish Futurism, because we want to free this land from its smelly gangrene of professors, archaeologists, ciceroni and antiquarians. For too long has Italy been a dealer in second-hand clothes. We mean to free her from the numberless museums that cover her like so many graveyards.
Museums: cemeteries!... Identical, surely, in the sinister promiscuity of so many bodies unknown to one another. Museums: public dormitories where one lies forever beside hated or unknown beings. Museums: absurd abattoirs of painters and sculptors ferociously slaughtering each other with color-blows and line-blows, the length of the fought-over walls!
That one should make an annual pilgrimage, just as one goes to the graveyard on All Souls’ Day—that I grant. That once a year one should leave a floral tribute beneath the Gioconda, I grant you that... But I don’t admit that our sorrows, our fragile courage, our morbid restlessness should be given a daily conducted tour through the museums. Why poison ourselves? Why rot?
And what is there to see in an old picture except the laborious contortions of an artist throwing himself against the barriers that thwart his desire to express his dream completely?... Admiring an old picture is the same as pouring our sensibility into a funerary urn instead of hurtling it far off, in violent spasms of action and creation.
Do you, then, wish to waste all your best powers in this eternal and futile worship of the past, from which you emerge fatally exhausted, shrunken, beaten down?
In truth I tell you that daily visits to museums, libraries, and academies (cemeteries of empty exertion, Calvaries of crucified dreams, registries of aborted beginnings!) are, for artists, as damaging as the prolonged supervision by parents of certain young people drunk with their talent and their ambitious wills. When the future is barred to them, the admirable past may be a solace for the ills of the moribund, the sickly, the prisoner... But we want no part of it, the past, we the young and strong Futurists!
So let them come, the gay incendiaries with charred fingers! Here they are! Here they are!... Come on! set fire to the library shelves! Turn aside the canals to flood the museums!... Oh, the joy of seeing the glorious old canvases bobbing adrift on those waters, discolored and shredded!... Take up your pickaxes, your axes and hammers and wreck, wreck the venerable cities, pitilessly!
The oldest of us is thirty: so we have at least a decade for finishing our work. When we are forty, other younger and stronger men will probably throw us in the wastebasket like useless manuscripts—we want it to happen!
They will come against us, our successors, will come from far away, from every quarter, dancing to the winged cadence of their first songs, flexing the hooked claws of predators, sniffing doglike at the academy doors the strong odor of our decaying minds, which will have already been promised to the literary catacombs.
But we won’t be there... At last they’ll find us—one winter’s night—in open country, beneath a sad roof drummed by a monotonous rain. They’ll see us crouched beside our trembling aeroplanes in the act of warming our hands at the poor little blaze that our books of today will give out when they take fire from the flight of our images.
They’ll storm around us, panting with scorn and anguish, and all of them, exasperated by our proud daring, will hurtle to kill us, driven by a hatred the more implacable the more their hearts will be drunk with love and admiration for us.
Injustice, strong and sane, will break out radiantly in their eyes.
Art, in fact, can be nothing but violence, cruelty, and injustice.
The oldest of us is thirty: even so we have already scattered treasures, a thousand treasures of force, love, courage, astuteness, and raw will-power; have thrown them impatiently away, with fury, carelessly, unhesitatingly, breathless, and unresting... Look at us! We are still untired! Our hearts know no weariness because they are fed with fire, hatred, and speed!... Does that amaze you? It should, because you can never remember having lived! Erect on the summit of the world, once again we hurl our defiance at the stars!
You have objections?—Enough! Enough! We know them... We’ve understood!... Our fine deceitful intelligence tells us that we are the revival and extension of our ancestors—Perhaps!... If only it were so!—But who cares? We don’t want to understand!... Woe to anyone who says those infamous words to us again!
Lift up your heads!
Erect on the summit of the world, once again we hurl defiance to the stars!
The ROZZ-TOX Manifesto
(a 1980 artifact with end of the millenium resonances)
Item 1: The avant-garde is no corpus. It merely lies in shock after an unfortunate bout with its own petard. It feigns sleep but one eye glitters and an involuntary twitch in the corner of the mouth belies a suppressed snicker. The giggle of coming awake at one's own funeral dressed in atomic TV beatnik furniture. A mutant with a mission.
Item 2: There are twenty years left in the twentieth century. Twenty years to reap the rewards and calamities that have been put in motion in this period. At this time a current of aesthetic function is emerging: the inevitable culmination of concepts and experiments pioneered and conducted in this century. We declare society an amusement park and one to be dead reckoned with.
Item 3: A deadly texture and tone have taken the cereal Nirvana: a misanthrope born of capitol realities, tendencies, and inter-office memos. Sightless businessmen-posed-entertainers shovel up tons of soulless Saturday morning animation. Would that you could make cost effective the rubbery genius that was the Saturday morning of our youth.
Item 4: We say enough to the instigators of game show design for we are sick and dizzy. Show us the backs of these monstrous facades, for even bare plywood is a healthier texture. Oh you seekers of the new who run terrified from history into the clutches of an eternal life where no electric shaver can be built to last.
Item 5: Close the bars! We require well lit media centers that serve soft drinks and milk. We require that top-40 radio stop it. And this for extant executive entertainers: We know when to laugh. Machines don't, and it is irritation to hear them laugh at the wrong time. They laugh at nothing and nothing isn't funny.
Item 6: Find the evil doers, the merchant peddlers of Pavlovia who use our unmentionable parts against us. Will you hide behind a scrim of two-dimensional phosphorescence when Biology exacts its reward?
Item 7: Profound faith in glamour is a surefire way to not see that you kill what you eat. We believe and worship a two-dimensional world. No god printers save us when we stand naked and brainless before an uncompromising and impartial physicality. We are sick now/get wise to the media. Join the art police. We call for posting of cow pictures in every fast food franchise. And for vegetarians, recordings of screaming vegetables at every salad bar.
Item 8: Beautiful and effective communicative marketing and aesthetic media are not innately evil; merely seductive. However, seductive aesthetics and media are prone to undermine common sense and vision in a capitalistic culture. Our own creations have shamed us. Teaching us that the hand and opinion of the individual are not as legitimate as that of opinion transmuted and inflated by broadcast ... especially when that opinion is on 80-pound coated stock, in full color ... or when that opinion steals invisibly and incomprehensibly into a box in our homes. Would that society reveled in certain varieties of vandalism and disarray. May we mow our lawns and remain civilized.
Item 9: It is unfortunate and unacceptable what vile and lazy do-nothings are given unwarranted credence for mouthing such foul and mean clichis as "rip-off" and "sell-out." They have no understanding of our economy and the time it takes society to go. Confess and shut up! Capitalism good or ill is the river in which we sink or swim. Inspiration has always been born of recombination.
Item 10: In a capitalistic society such as the in which we live, aesthetics as an endeavor flows thorough a body which is built of free enterprise and various illnesses. In boom times art may be supported by wildcat speculation or my excess funds in form of grants from the state or patronship as a tax write-off. Currently we are suffering from a lean economy. By necessity we must infiltrate popular mediums. We are building a business-based art movement. This is not new. Admitting it is.
Item 11: Business 1. To create a pseudo-avant-garde that is cost effective. 2. To create merchandising platforms on popular communications and entertainment media. 3. To extensively mine our recent and ancient past for icons worth remembering and permutating: recombo archaeology.
Item 12: Waiting for art talent scouts? There are no art talent scouts. Face it, no one will seek you out. No one gives a shit.
Item 13: Market saturation was reached in sixties - everyone knows that. Fine Elitist Art is of diminishing utility. There is not more reward for maintaining or joining an elite and sterile crew.
Item 14: Elitist art cannot help the emergent complex through its painful and potentially stupidly dangerous adolescence. Start or support primitive industry, propaganda to no dogma, and environmental jarrs.
Item 15: Law: If you want better media, go make it.
Item 16: We are born capitalists and manufacturers of alternative goods and services. We are made propagandists and propose an antimedia to no dogma. We call for popular environmental manipulators, primitive industry, an avant-garde placed squarely in the entertainment field, for archaeologists and synthesizers.
Item 17: A call for mutant intuition and wrestling is real. A current that synthesizes ideas and entertainment .. an antimedia that creates, participates, and services and broader-based lunatic fringe and one that is capable of finishing the century outright. An avant-garde that has no mean diversion and stocks the supermarket.
Item 18: Our lack of popularity in high school was led us to think and thinking has lead us to this. No war is waged here; only a strain, a virus, a toxoid, a Rozz-Toxoid. The emergent complex asks for just twenty years of your time. Now, stand and sing ...
Final Note: Capitalism for good or ill is the river in which we sink or swim, and stocks the supermarket.
Monday, May 24, 2010
"On the plane coming home, Paul (Morrissey) reflected, "You know, there's alot to be said against San Francisco & its love children. People are always so boring when they band together. You have to be alone to develop all the idiosyncrasies that make a person interesting. In San Francisco, instead of becoming outcasts like you're supposed to when you take drugs, they organize communities around it! Then they get pretentious & call it a religion - then they get hypocritical & say some drugs are good, others are bad..."
Friday, May 21, 2010
"The game was developed primarily by a young Namco employee Tōru Iwatani, over a year, beginning in April 1979, employing a nine-man team. The original title was pronounced pakku-man (パックマン?) and was inspired by the Japanese onomatopoeic phrase paku-paku taberu (パクパク食べる?), where paku-paku describes (the sound of) the mouth movement when widely opened and then closed in succession. Although it is often cited that the character's shape was inspired by a pizza missing a slice, he admitted in a 1986 interview that it was a half-truth and the character design also came from simplifying and rounding out the Japanese character for mouth, kuchi (口) as well as the basic concept of eating. Iwatani's efforts to appeal to a wider audience—beyond the typical demographics of young boys and teenagers—eventually led him to add elements of a maze. The result was a game he named Puck Man."
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Goblinko vending machines are now to be found at MECCA, the Bijou, Kitsch & Olive Juice, all in unlikely Eugene, Oregon. Currently in the machines are Monsters, Weirdos & Creeps cards, Sticker Please! stickers & just released PIZZA PARTY character cards with ROSHAMBO fighting action! Check them out!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Love this GG Allin on Jerry Springer. Almost everything he says is a great quote.
Jerry Springer sounds like the Kwik Bunny.
"If you get raped at my show, you're probably better off for it."
Also, check this out, "Who Killed Bambi?", Roger Ebert's original screenplay for the Great Rock & Roll Swindle, to have been directed by Russ Meyer if all had gone according to plan. Thanks to Theo Auer for the heads up on that!
I hadn't become reobsessed with Andy Warhol before McLaren had died either, so the picture was incomplete. McLaren & Warhol are very similar sorts of people, people with the Midas touch, people that create broader value out of things that might be otherwise overlooked, ignored & undervalued. Curators of humanity! In the Art world, there is alot of emphasis on "creation" & things being "new", but when you take a look at how many people are creating all of this new stuff, how much of all this stuff is just piling up in hidden areas, it becomes ludicrously apparent that what is needed is one of these McLarens, one of these Warhols to come & put something together out of it. As they begin to assemble this thing, it gains a bit of cultural gravity & people begin to find this new thing & even conform to it & soon you've got an enormous snowball rolling down the mountain collecting everything in its wake.
People have called McLaren & Warhol exploitative as if it's a bad thing, seems to be that it's better to be exploited than to be ignored. Once you get a bit of that gold value, you can run with it & do with it as you like. It's fantastic.
McLaren's art is fully realized in the movie "The Great Rock & Roll Swindle", make sure to watch it soon!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
In games and toys, as in all traditionalist manifestations, there is nothing but grotesque imitation, timidity (little trains, prams, puppets), immobile objects, stupid caricatures of domestic objects, antigymnastic and monotonous, which can only cretinize and depress a child. With plastic complexes we will construct toys which will accustom the child:
to completely spontaneous laughter (through absurdly comical tricks);
to maximum elasticity (without resorting to thrown projectiles, whip cracking, pin pricks, etc.);
to imaginative impulses (by using fantastic toys to be studied under a magnifying glass, small boxes to be opened at night containing pyrotechnic marvels, transforming devices, etc.)
to the continual exercise and sharpening of his sensitivity (in the unbounded realms of acute and exciting noises, smells and colors) to physical courage, to fighting and to war (with gigantic, dangerous & aggressive toys that will work outdoors).
After reading this, it seems clear to me they are talking about Japanese Robot toys with the shooting fists, transformations, missiles & the like. I still sometimes can't handle how amazing what the Futurists wrote was/is... they really saw the future, America is exactly what they are talking about, but as i say in my Futurist pamphlet (which you can order from me for $2), without the soul of the artist & the packaging of the poet, it has the same passeism as the Italy of their time. I profoundly believe that with just a small amount of guidance & direction, the things that so many Americans point to as excuses for their alienation: shopping malls, car culture, fast food, television, education, mass media on every level, everything really, can be sources of joy, inspiration & pride. The work of Andy Warhol points to this, the work of Gary Panter points to this & the formula is laid out clearly by the Italian Futurists.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
"I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're beautiful. Everybody's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic." ~Andy Warhol
Friday, April 16, 2010
Years later as i am slowly creating my own media empire, i dream of having millions of cartoons & toys & cookies & slime pies & gelatin deserts & oven mits with my designs on them. I still think that Eastman & Laird screwed up on some levels with the recreation of the turtles as commercial products, on the other hand, some of the wrongness of having something as absurd as teenage mutant ninja turtles cereal & the Archie comics series end up being very right in a very right way.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
"BUG-EYED TAR BABIES? Once again, EW makes a racist faux pas in its choice of “clever” cartoons. First was the baffling image of a man passing off his Nazi salute as a pose for Lord of the Dance — in SCOTTISH garb. Now we have the distasteful April 8 cover by Sean Aaberg. The style may be a nod to R. Crumb and/or underground comics of the ’60s/’70s but I’m sorry to report that there are images of blacks portrayed as bug-eyed big-lipped tar babies. Of course, they’re in the back of a bus. It’s pathetic. EW, aren’t you even looking at this stuff?! Again I must remind you that we’re in the 21st century. Glenn Leonard, Eugene"
The bus in question is being driven by my character, "Fabulous Mario".
Friday, April 9, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Goblinko has launched its first vending machine at Olive Juice in Eugene, featuring new STICKER PLEASE! stickers & Monsters, Weirdos & Creeps cards. Operating our own vending machines has been one of our plans since day 1 of Goblinko & is now coming into fruition. We aim to get a comics & zine vending machine together next as well as other sticker & card vending machines in other locations.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The lawyer for a Lebanese man sentenced to death in Saudi Arabia for witchcraft has appealed for international help to save him. Ali Sabat was the host of a popular Lebanese TV show in which he predicted the future and gave advice. He was arrested by religious police on sorcery charges while on a pilgrimage to Saudi Arabia in 2008. His lawyer, May el-Khansa, says she has been told Mr Sabat is due to be executed this week. Ms Khansa has contacted the Lebanese president and prime minister to appeal on his behalf. There has been no official confirmation from Saudi Arabia, but executions there are often carried out with little warning. Mr Sabat did make a confession, but Ms Khansa says he only did so because he had been told he could go back to Lebanon if he did. Human rights groups have accused the Saudis of "sanctioning a literal witch hunt by the religious police". An Egyptian working as a pharmacist in Saudi Arabia was executed in 2007 after having been found guilty of using sorcery to try to separate a married couple. There is no legal definition of witchcraft in Saudi Arabia, but horoscopes and fortune telling are condemned as un-Islamic. Nevertheless, there is still a big thirst for such services in the country where widespread superstition survives under the surface of strict religious orthodoxy.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
I was watching videos of that awesome Japanese National Anarchist politician Toyama Koichi who gave the terrifying speech, & then followed some more links & found that the big Japanese Nationalist style is these propaganda vans. I love these things. I was immediately reminded of Public Enemy & also of the KLF with their ice cream van. I think GOBLINKO needs a propaganda van now.
Remember the brief "jeep" trend? What if those jeeps were actually these propaganda vans? I think Alex Jones should get on this. Put the bullhorns on a van man.
I forgot to mention Flavor Flav's denim trench-coat. 2010 FTW.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
By Stephen Messenger
King Penguins are notorious for their prim, tuxedoed appearance -- but a recently discovered all-black penguin seems unafraid to defy convention. In what has been described as a "one in a zillion kind of mutation," biologists say that the animal has lost control of its pigmentation, an occurrence that is extremely rare. Other than the penguin's monochromatic outfit, the animal appears to be perfectly healthy -- and then some. "Look at the size of those legs," said one scientist, "It's an absolute monster."
The under-dressed penguin was photographed by Andrew Evans of National Geographic on the island of South Georgia near Antarctica. As the picture circulated, some biologists were taken aback -- including Dr. Allan Baker of the University of Toronto. His first response was disbelief:
Wow. That looks so bizarre I can't even believe it. Wow.
While multicolored birds will often show some variation, Dr. Baker explains that what makes this all-black King Penguin so rare is that the bird's melanin deposits have occurred where they are typically not present -- enough so that no light feathers even checker the bird's normally white chest.
Melanism is merely the dark pigmentation of skin, fur -- or in this case, feathers. The unique trait derives from increased melanin in the body. Genes may play a role, but so might other factors. While melanism is common in many different animal species (e.g., Washington D.C. is famous for its melanistic squirrels), the trait is extremely rare in penguins. All-black penguins are so rare there is practically no research on the subject -- biologists guess that perhaps one in every quarter million of penguins shows evidence of at least partial melanism, whereas the penguin we saw appears to be almost entirely (if not entirely) melanistic.
Whether or not the all-black look catches on in the penguin fashion world, it's nice to see someone dressing-down for once.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Anarchists in Vancouver are not happy about the Winter Olympics being held there and recently marched through town smashing windows, covering their faces, and yelling about everything from capitalism to the seal hunt to indigenous land. Some of their beefs are valid. The Olympics is a big waste of taxpayers’ money. The Anarchists in Vancouver are not happy about the Winter Olympics being held there and recently marched through town smashing windows, covering their faces, and yelling about everything from capitalism to the seal hunt to indigenous land. Some of their beefs are valid. The Olympics is a big waste of taxpayers’ money and in a city where one junkie dies every day, the local government could afford to be focusing on more serious problems. However, when reading the “manifestos” of today’s anarchists, one thing becomes abundantly clear, they hate capitalism more than they hate government.
I grew up going to anarchist conventions and don’t regret the various A’s I have tattooed up and down my arms in the slightest. We looked exactly like the 2010 Olympic protestors when we did things like protest outside the Chinese Embassy for China’s human rights violations in 1988. But back then, only a handful of anarchists would cover their faces. It drove us nuts because we were out there screaming about government ineptness and guys are acting like our adversary knows what he’s doing. “You realize your assumption that they are recording your face and putting you in some kind of effective database implies they know what they’re doing, right?” we’d ask them. I mean, if you’re doing something illegal, then yeah, cover your face but if you’re simply protesting, grow some balls. As Lisa Carver pointed out, “They rely on fear to do their job of censoring and fear-mongering for them.” This seemingly small detail is actually indicative of a much bigger split in the anarchist community: government aptitude.
Getting to the bottom of this split is like finding a needle in a pile of barf. Anarchist gatherings (or un-gatherings as we used to call them in an attempt to refute every possible rule you can imagine) are a great way to meet like-minded people in a convention-like atmosphere but they’re also disorganized mess of conflicting beliefs. There’s the tranny who shows up to the Sexuality Workshop and is almost killed by punk single mothers after trying to argue young children are just as sexual as adults. There’s the curiously furious men who are angered at not being allowed into the Rape Trauma Workshop because that’s sexist. There’s the guy with the Styrofoam cup and the cigarette who is booed out of the workshop for Pollution Prevention. There’s the mentally ill kid who hogs the talking stick for so long talking about his therapist, everyone eventually meanders out of the room. And finally, there’s the fucking communists. What the hell is this twerp with the Mao hat and the camo side bag adorned with a giant, red star doing at a convention for government haters? Mao killed ten times the people Hitler did and he did it trying to make the round peg of government fit in the square hole of human destiny.
I understand why Socialists are tolerated in the Anarchist Community about as much as I understand the anarchist hatred for capitalism. Even at 39-years-old I’m still arguing with my old comrades about this unresolved conflict (I gave up after seven pages because their website has too many rules). Sure, the wage discrepancy between CEOs and the factory workers is disgusting. I also hate the way big business ships in illegals and lowers the minimum wage to zero but if anyone has dealt with government at any level in their adult life, they’d realize big business is the lesser of two evils by a long shot.
It’s not just banks and the so-called “Military Industrial Complex” today’s anarchists want to destroy. It’s basically any company that employs more than 100 people. The Gap is evil because it manufactures clothes with leather and uses Third World Labor. Have any of these people tried NOT manufacturing products in China? I made some dolls for the DOs & DON’Ts a few years ago and to manufacture them in America was going to be literally fifteen times the price. In other words, impossible. Years before that I was publishing a comic book compilation and we tried to use hemp paper. We lost our shirts trying to get presses to overcome the varying thickness hemp paper provides and eventually published it on normal paper at a loss. In my early 20s, I lived in a shared house with solar power and it was like living in North Korea. If you used the washing machine that day, you could say goodbye to listening to music that night or using any outdoor lights. We were slaves to the battery. The fridge of course, was propane-powered because that would have taken a whole other roof of solar panels to fuel. Before you knock the evils of “the system,” give another avenue a go, it sucks. Of course, most of these socialist anarchists have never tried any alternative solutions. They just like smashing things. As Orwell said, “All left-wing parties in the highly industrialized countries are at bottom a sham, because they make it their business to fight against something which they do not really wish to destroy.”
Anarchists with covered faces smashing the windows of retail stores are in fact, communists. They want money out of entrepreneur’s hands and into government hands where it can rot. They advocate unions like it was the 1930s and guys with tweed caps needed to get compensation for black lung. Nice sentiment but today’s teacher’s union is the most powerful political lobby in the world and has more cronies on both the Democratic and the Republican side than any other group in Washington. These unions are essentially mobsters who shake down anyone who dares pay electricians less than $50 an hour plus time-and-a-half for overtime plus double time-and-a-half for holidays. That’s more than architects and doctors make when they start out. Is $700 a day the fair wage the anti-capitalists want for the working man? It’s more money than I ever made and I’m rich.
It’s like that seven hour argument I had with Penny Rimbaud from Crass. When I asked him why the MDC can’t blow up Mugabe the same way the Taliban nailed Massoud he said, “Zimbabwe is needed to cart diamonds out of South Africa. America needs him there the same way they need Iraq to get oil out.” Is there anything the American government does not control?
I don’t get it. If government is such a powerful monster, why do anarchists want to give it The Gap’s profits? They can’t seem to decide if the government is this elaborate network James Bond reports to or a quaint group of intellectuals who want to empower the poor. The truth is. It’s neither. They are not all-knowing; They are know nothings. They are not a “secret society” (as Crass once said) they can’t even keep an infidelity secret. Since the president got caught using a cigar as a dildo, we’ve learned: John Edwards was screwing his biographer, governor Mark Sanford was boning his Argentinean mistress, senator Larry Craig was fishing for blowjobs in the bathroom, and Spitzer was fucking prostitutes with his socks on. Politics is Hollywood for ugly people and the White House is just a big DMV with Greek columns out front.
Danny Schechter’s new book Plunder! Investigating Our Economic Calamity and the Subprime Scandal, makes it crystal clear: the government is everything bad you can say about big business but without the “employing people and manufacturing stuff” part. This sentiment is what attracted me to the anarchist movement in the first place—not Marx’s pretentious claptrap about his “dialectic.”
This is why, as an adult, I’m drawn to libertarians like John Stossel. Sure there’s flaws like a love of open borders which I see as a chance for big business to go on an exploitation bender (anarchists also want open borders which I never quite got), but Stossel’s show spends 90 percent of its time pointing out government incompetence and exposing the way they oppress us. During each episode he holds up a tiny book that’s about half the size of the communist manifesto and explains this is the bill of rights and the constitution combined. Then he shows us the endless piles of documentation the government uses for even the most insignificant rule. “This is all we need,” he says holding up the small book. That’s the closest I’ve seen to a plausible anarchist goal in America—ever.
Then Stossel gets specific. We learn about swimming pools that have diving boards revoked because of impending danger and then cause more accidents because kids no longer know where the deep end is. We hear local governments in Texas are strangling restaurants with insanity like “No Outside Dancing” laws (a bizarre rule New York’s previous mayor used to close down clubs he didn’t like). Stossel is very vocal about big money firms like Goldman Sachs and how much they’ve benefited from Obama’s new big government plans. From daycare workers being muscled into joining unions to California being bankrupted by bureaucrats, John Stossel has done more to mobilize hatred for government than any punk kid in black sweatshirt could ever hope to.
If the fashionable punks in Vancouver really cared about personal freedom and really wanted to abolish as much of the government as possible, they would swallow their prejudice, tune into Fox, get over his moustache, and take notes from the most articulate and driven anarchist in America today. In short, it’s time for crusty punks to Get Stosselized!
(I’m trademarking that so don’t even think about stealing it.)