ALL OF THIS CONTENT HAS MOVED TO THE BRAND NEW DUBLAB.COM WEBSITE. CLICK THESE WORDS TO COME VISIT.
PEACE,
THE LABRATS
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
WAITING WILL GET YOU NOWHERE
He sat on stacked cinder blocks and waited. This concrete kept shopping carts safe inside the Thrifty Bin parking lot but had a higher purpose, to border the sidewalk that cradled her perfect feet. She glided this path daily from school to her front door. Oh that front door! He had spent countless afternoons hiding in the bushes trying to sniff her hairspray through the wood. Now he sat on this wall waiting and although she had never glanced his way before he knew she was coming.
Her, with bubble gum breath and sunny skirts. Him, with pass-me-down corduroy shorts. Her with buoyant breasts in bright tube tops. He with sweaty, grey gym socks. She with seductive shampoo scent. He with belly button lint. She with locker full of pop stars. He with rusty matchbox cars.
What our hero lacked in style he made up for in sky high hopes. He had such grand love to give if only she could scale his shyness. He sat whispering sweet nothings to her passing ghost. The shopping carts and cicadas swooned. Time ticked by and as afternoon shadows grew long so did the beard on his thirteen year old face. It was the longest beard in the universe and although invisible to others he felt the bristles itch his knees.
He waited and waited and waited knowing any minute his Mom would call her herd in for casseroles, kool-aid and simmering teen angst. On a family trip to Texas she had acquired the ultimately embarrassing alarm, a large brass cowbell. At that moment of intense anxiety SHE, HER, THE VERY DREAM OF DIVINE BEAUTY appeared as if from the folds of heaven. Her hair flowed. Smooth intentions bounced around his mouth like silent marbles. Her tight corduroys swished. His heart beat an awkward rhythm. Then she looked his way with a slight smile and his being soared but * CLANG * CLANG * CLANG * the cowbell came and her face twisted to a smirk as if to say, "I know you are the cowardly calf being called." A tear rolled from his eye, down a chubby cheek, off the curled tip of his lonely beard and down the rough cinder block wall.
- frosty
........................we invite you to come Give Up again on March 25th. turn your teary eyes to dublab.com for the full sad scoop.....................................................................
supremely sad image by Kime Buzzelli
Her, with bubble gum breath and sunny skirts. Him, with pass-me-down corduroy shorts. Her with buoyant breasts in bright tube tops. He with sweaty, grey gym socks. She with seductive shampoo scent. He with belly button lint. She with locker full of pop stars. He with rusty matchbox cars.
What our hero lacked in style he made up for in sky high hopes. He had such grand love to give if only she could scale his shyness. He sat whispering sweet nothings to her passing ghost. The shopping carts and cicadas swooned. Time ticked by and as afternoon shadows grew long so did the beard on his thirteen year old face. It was the longest beard in the universe and although invisible to others he felt the bristles itch his knees.
He waited and waited and waited knowing any minute his Mom would call her herd in for casseroles, kool-aid and simmering teen angst. On a family trip to Texas she had acquired the ultimately embarrassing alarm, a large brass cowbell. At that moment of intense anxiety SHE, HER, THE VERY DREAM OF DIVINE BEAUTY appeared as if from the folds of heaven. Her hair flowed. Smooth intentions bounced around his mouth like silent marbles. Her tight corduroys swished. His heart beat an awkward rhythm. Then she looked his way with a slight smile and his being soared but * CLANG * CLANG * CLANG * the cowbell came and her face twisted to a smirk as if to say, "I know you are the cowardly calf being called." A tear rolled from his eye, down a chubby cheek, off the curled tip of his lonely beard and down the rough cinder block wall.
- frosty
........................we invite you to come Give Up again on March 25th. turn your teary eyes to dublab.com for the full sad scoop.....................................................................
supremely sad image by Kime Buzzelli
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
frosty's guide to procrastination...
As I pondered what words to write for this installment of the glorious and riveting RE:UP Magazine my mind exploded with possibilities. Hmmmmm what ambitious, journalistic undertaking shall I tackle this time around? I could dive deep into my local library’s microfiche collection and spend days tracing the arc of illuminated thought in dark rooms. Unfortunately, my copy of Doorknobs for Dummies was desperately overdue so I knew library action was a bust. I could go undercover as a trance dj in Ibiza and unlock the awesome aphrodisiacal secrets of hair gel, mesh shirts, and laser lights. Alas Spain was too far. I could transcribe barnacle love songs, translate them into pigeon coos, and write a whimsical account of romance between boy and bird. Yuck.
Ideas were everywhere but so was television, bustling bars, walks in the park, myspace.com, record shopping, girls, skinny dipping, eating cereal, petting puppies, et cetera. They all reached out to me like lonely widows to a necromancer. Who was I to deny them? The minutes turned into hours, days, weeks, and yes, months. Now as I sit here long after the final deadline my mind hums with anxiety and indecision. What shall I jot down? The here and now is all consuming. My psyche shudders yet nary a word does my pen utter. Wait a minute…EUREKA! I’ve had a revelation that’s mise en scène to the max! I will write about this moment, the act of procrastination coming alive. That’s not all. I shall bestow upon future generations the priceless knowledge that is so ingrained in my veins. (note to RE:UP publisher. Please etch this article onto stone tablets.) Like the Anarchist’s Cookbook before it let this be a guiding light for those disenchanted with the heave and ho of society. Dear reader, put that oar down and pick up a potato chip because your life is about to get a whole lot better.
a reading list for lazy lumps:
THE INTERNET
This is the ..1 distraction on the planet. In our age of hi-speed, "always on" Internet it's a wonder we get anything done at all. "Hey," you murmur in the midst of your already overdue doctoral dissertation, "I wonder if I have new e-mail messages awaiting. Oh boy! Here's one brimming with secrets. What's that? I can have the world's longest thickest, oh wait there goes my AIM chime. ding ding ding. I better see who's a ringing. Oh it's my cousin Lamela who just messaged me moments ago with a recipe for paperclip pie. I better see what urgent matter she’s addressing now. What's that Lamela? You just farted? Boy oh boy isn't technology great! It's like we're in the same room but you're actually in the next one over. Ooooooohhh now I smell the dookie diatribe you’re dealin’"
TOOTHPASTE TUBES
Everyone knows when you're procrastinating you don't read long Russian novels or even short Spanish ones. You read useless words with all with the vigor of a virgin on wedding night. So why not stroll into the bathroom and peruse the enthralling ingredients in toothpaste? Wow, fluoride and Xylitol! Who would ‘a thunk? This one’s even ADA approved. Can you top that?!
your guide to celluloid slumber:
ROCKERS
This is the king of all reggae films. It’s fictional but so damn realistic it plays like a dubwise documentary. Burning Spear drummer Leroy “Horsemouth” Wallace stars alongside a cast of musicians who formed the heart and soul of Jamaican roots music. There are some heavy Rastas representing and you know what those rascally Rastafarians love, the ganja! After watching these cats smoke spliffs the size of yule logs you might be tempted to puff one yourself. Hey kids, watch the ambition meter spiral downward. (Note: a Greek dude made Rockers. Greece with its warm breezes, white sand beaches, and aqua waves must have been too frazzling so he skipped over to Jamaica to unwind.)
DREAMS
Director Akira Kurosawa gets the gold ribbon from the Procrastination Filmmaking Foundation. He waited until he was blind to make this masterpiece. Talk about lazy! Still, Dreams is as vibrant as film gets. It’s all surreal landscapes and deep dynamics drifting with a Butoh like pace. Beeyootifull.
BACK TO SCHOOL
Damn Rodney Dangerfield. Isn’t school for teachers and 12 year olds?
music for procrastinating purists
JOHN CAGE – AS SLOW AS POSSIBLE
This is the dearly departed Mr. Cage’s loooooooooooooooooong piece. In fact by the time it’s done being played not only you, but your children, their children, and their children13 will be long gone. The composition is meant to be played, as the title states, slowly. Some kooks in Germany decided to stretch the piece over the lifespan of a church organ. They began playing it four years ago but don’t fret, they have 635 more to go. Each note extends for six months so you have plenty of time to grab a snack, sit back, and enjoy the sluggish decay.
CAETANO VELOSO – JOIA
If you’ve ever been to Brazil you know how relaxed folks are. If you rush into a police station with a knife in your ribs and the assailant still holding tight you’re lucky to get a slight shrug from the sergeant on duty between bites of feijoada. The esteemed Caetano Veloso is a resident of Bahia. This sun-soaked climate comes through clearly in his music. Joia is all shimmering tremolos, soft croons, and sandy shakers. Put this on if you forgot to fuel up your bumpin’ jeep.
BELLE & SEBASTIAN – THE BOY WITH THE ARAB STRAP
On this one album the Scottish sweethearts have songs entitled: “A Space Boy Dream,” “A Summer Wasting,” “Dirty Dream Number Two,” “Ease Your Feet in the Sea,” “Is it Wicked Not to Care,” “It Could have been a Brilliant Career,” and “Sleep the Clock Around.” These are your theme songs Dr. Lazybones.
COLLEEN – THE GOLDEN MORNING BREAKS
She comes in second only to B&S in the slow and low name game with song titles like “Floating in the Clearest Night,” Sweet Rolling,” Bubbles Which on the Water Swim,” and “Everything Lay Still.” She did one-up the Scots on the sloth-o-meter, no lyrics here! Her instrumental gems work magic. This is music to get in the mood for motionless moments. Colleen’s creations are perfectly crafted for purely delightful naptime bliss.
raiding the recycling bin:
Take notes nerds. In a dazzling display of dallying I have recycled some previously penned words for these pages. The following account of my European snoozing previously appeared on dublab.com. I even swiped the title from Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel Everything is Illuminated. I highly suggest reading the Cliff Notes.
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES : manufacturing Z’s
The person who coined the phrase, “You’ll have plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead,” is probably already in the grave.
If you’re a 9-5 worker bee you may want to look away. All others, let’s study some scientific data. Over the past week the earliest I have woken up is 1:30pm. The latest is today at the sparkling hour of 3pm. Some would call this lazy behavior. I call it deep sleep research. Falling asleep (which has been occurring no earlier than 5:30am) with the knowledge that I’ll wake up when I’m ready and no earlier is a fantastic feeling. I personally drift much deeper without the ticking hands of time hovering over my horizontal head. When I do enter the world of the living I’m much more prepared to slay dragons and chop e-mail blocks.
There have been other times in my life when I’ve enjoyed a relaxed schedule. As lads my brother Derelict and I would visit our Dad on summer vacation. Our days were filled with low-pressure living. We would crack our sleep encrusted eyes open to the late afternoon and roll slowly to the living room where our still sideways bodies absorbed hours of Yo! MTV Raps and kung fu flicks. Nothing got in the way of our loose lifestyle except the occasional visit to an amusement park. On those special days we zombie strolled to the car and crashed out until arriving in Goofy Lot Q or Yosemite Sam Orange. College was another period of suspended animation, which you would fully understand if you saw how tightly I hugged my bong.
These days I am comfortable in my subconscious skin. Upon arising I fill my hours with excitement. I stretch, do some sit ups (to counter my heroic beer intake), sip mint tea, watch the Tour de France, take a shower, and stroll to the store only to catch a parade of haggard souls making their way home after a dreary day behind desks. I spend my evenings staying busy and slip under the sheets with the bright morning light. At home I’m more of an early bird but in this foreign setting I’ve decided to loosen the strings. Maybe I’m just staying close to LA time so when I return I’ll be up with the milking of the cows and in bed right at twilight. Or…maybe I’m the laziest son of a gun you’ve ever seen. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
history’s greatest procrastinators:
GOD
Sure it took this big wig six days to make the heavens, Earth, plants, animals, people (mind you only two), minerals, vegetables, etc. but how long was he/she building up the steam to make it happen and why with all his/her power did he/she need to chill out on day seven? Oh yeah, what’s the deal with the robes? Throw some slacks on once you hop out of the bath bum butt.
FROSTY
I don’t want to toot my own horn but hey I’m the one with the pencil. Plus who else would be so lazy as to wait until the very last minute to write an article and then write about being lazy? Whoah dude pop some mini-thins and get busy.
ANDY CAPP
This wily little Brit needs a real kick in the ass. He never pays his taxes, he’s always running off to the pub, and his little cabbie cap is pulled so low he’s probably asleep half the day. He was nearly disqualified from the Procrastination Hall of Fame in 1986 due to controversy over the Andy Capp Hot Fries line of snack chips. Naysayers believed he was harboring hidden motivation. After intense investigation it was discovered that Andy merely sold his likeness to a multinational potato chip conglomerate in exchange for a pint. That’s integrity.
frosty’s no dough recipe corner:
If you wait until your pockets run dry to eat don't distress. There are always resources out there for dimeless diners. Here's my famous (in Union Pacific boxcars) recipe for HOBO STEW!
Ketchup
(use fancy catsup for romantic occasions)
Salt
Pepper
Any other ingredients to be found for free in fast food joints, truck stops, or hospital cafeterias are a bonus: hot sauce, relish, mustard, Horsey sauce, mayo, honey mustard dressing, etc.
Place an empty tin can (beer cans work too) above fire. Add ketchup. Stir gently for five minutes. Ketchup (now technically stew) will become silky smooth. Add anything else you were able to dig up. Season to taste. Enjoy with a glass of liquid. yum (that's right, a lowercase yum. You’ll understand why when you taste it). Psyching yourself out does help. Try gazing at a grocery store circular or a menu from a classy restaurant while eating and you’ll never know the difference.
=============================================================
Message to the youth : professional procrastination isn't worth a hoot without eventual action so don't just sit there forever. Let that energy build up in you until it bursts, then make something happen.
bye bye,
frosty
(these words previously appeared in the royally radical pages of RE:UP Magazine)
Ideas were everywhere but so was television, bustling bars, walks in the park, myspace.com, record shopping, girls, skinny dipping, eating cereal, petting puppies, et cetera. They all reached out to me like lonely widows to a necromancer. Who was I to deny them? The minutes turned into hours, days, weeks, and yes, months. Now as I sit here long after the final deadline my mind hums with anxiety and indecision. What shall I jot down? The here and now is all consuming. My psyche shudders yet nary a word does my pen utter. Wait a minute…EUREKA! I’ve had a revelation that’s mise en scène to the max! I will write about this moment, the act of procrastination coming alive. That’s not all. I shall bestow upon future generations the priceless knowledge that is so ingrained in my veins. (note to RE:UP publisher. Please etch this article onto stone tablets.) Like the Anarchist’s Cookbook before it let this be a guiding light for those disenchanted with the heave and ho of society. Dear reader, put that oar down and pick up a potato chip because your life is about to get a whole lot better.
a reading list for lazy lumps:
THE INTERNET
This is the ..1 distraction on the planet. In our age of hi-speed, "always on" Internet it's a wonder we get anything done at all. "Hey," you murmur in the midst of your already overdue doctoral dissertation, "I wonder if I have new e-mail messages awaiting. Oh boy! Here's one brimming with secrets. What's that? I can have the world's longest thickest, oh wait there goes my AIM chime. ding ding ding. I better see who's a ringing. Oh it's my cousin Lamela who just messaged me moments ago with a recipe for paperclip pie. I better see what urgent matter she’s addressing now. What's that Lamela? You just farted? Boy oh boy isn't technology great! It's like we're in the same room but you're actually in the next one over. Ooooooohhh now I smell the dookie diatribe you’re dealin’"
TOOTHPASTE TUBES
Everyone knows when you're procrastinating you don't read long Russian novels or even short Spanish ones. You read useless words with all with the vigor of a virgin on wedding night. So why not stroll into the bathroom and peruse the enthralling ingredients in toothpaste? Wow, fluoride and Xylitol! Who would ‘a thunk? This one’s even ADA approved. Can you top that?!
your guide to celluloid slumber:
ROCKERS
This is the king of all reggae films. It’s fictional but so damn realistic it plays like a dubwise documentary. Burning Spear drummer Leroy “Horsemouth” Wallace stars alongside a cast of musicians who formed the heart and soul of Jamaican roots music. There are some heavy Rastas representing and you know what those rascally Rastafarians love, the ganja! After watching these cats smoke spliffs the size of yule logs you might be tempted to puff one yourself. Hey kids, watch the ambition meter spiral downward. (Note: a Greek dude made Rockers. Greece with its warm breezes, white sand beaches, and aqua waves must have been too frazzling so he skipped over to Jamaica to unwind.)
DREAMS
Director Akira Kurosawa gets the gold ribbon from the Procrastination Filmmaking Foundation. He waited until he was blind to make this masterpiece. Talk about lazy! Still, Dreams is as vibrant as film gets. It’s all surreal landscapes and deep dynamics drifting with a Butoh like pace. Beeyootifull.
BACK TO SCHOOL
Damn Rodney Dangerfield. Isn’t school for teachers and 12 year olds?
music for procrastinating purists
JOHN CAGE – AS SLOW AS POSSIBLE
This is the dearly departed Mr. Cage’s loooooooooooooooooong piece. In fact by the time it’s done being played not only you, but your children, their children, and their children13 will be long gone. The composition is meant to be played, as the title states, slowly. Some kooks in Germany decided to stretch the piece over the lifespan of a church organ. They began playing it four years ago but don’t fret, they have 635 more to go. Each note extends for six months so you have plenty of time to grab a snack, sit back, and enjoy the sluggish decay.
CAETANO VELOSO – JOIA
If you’ve ever been to Brazil you know how relaxed folks are. If you rush into a police station with a knife in your ribs and the assailant still holding tight you’re lucky to get a slight shrug from the sergeant on duty between bites of feijoada. The esteemed Caetano Veloso is a resident of Bahia. This sun-soaked climate comes through clearly in his music. Joia is all shimmering tremolos, soft croons, and sandy shakers. Put this on if you forgot to fuel up your bumpin’ jeep.
BELLE & SEBASTIAN – THE BOY WITH THE ARAB STRAP
On this one album the Scottish sweethearts have songs entitled: “A Space Boy Dream,” “A Summer Wasting,” “Dirty Dream Number Two,” “Ease Your Feet in the Sea,” “Is it Wicked Not to Care,” “It Could have been a Brilliant Career,” and “Sleep the Clock Around.” These are your theme songs Dr. Lazybones.
COLLEEN – THE GOLDEN MORNING BREAKS
She comes in second only to B&S in the slow and low name game with song titles like “Floating in the Clearest Night,” Sweet Rolling,” Bubbles Which on the Water Swim,” and “Everything Lay Still.” She did one-up the Scots on the sloth-o-meter, no lyrics here! Her instrumental gems work magic. This is music to get in the mood for motionless moments. Colleen’s creations are perfectly crafted for purely delightful naptime bliss.
raiding the recycling bin:
Take notes nerds. In a dazzling display of dallying I have recycled some previously penned words for these pages. The following account of my European snoozing previously appeared on dublab.com. I even swiped the title from Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel Everything is Illuminated. I highly suggest reading the Cliff Notes.
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES : manufacturing Z’s
The person who coined the phrase, “You’ll have plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead,” is probably already in the grave.
If you’re a 9-5 worker bee you may want to look away. All others, let’s study some scientific data. Over the past week the earliest I have woken up is 1:30pm. The latest is today at the sparkling hour of 3pm. Some would call this lazy behavior. I call it deep sleep research. Falling asleep (which has been occurring no earlier than 5:30am) with the knowledge that I’ll wake up when I’m ready and no earlier is a fantastic feeling. I personally drift much deeper without the ticking hands of time hovering over my horizontal head. When I do enter the world of the living I’m much more prepared to slay dragons and chop e-mail blocks.
There have been other times in my life when I’ve enjoyed a relaxed schedule. As lads my brother Derelict and I would visit our Dad on summer vacation. Our days were filled with low-pressure living. We would crack our sleep encrusted eyes open to the late afternoon and roll slowly to the living room where our still sideways bodies absorbed hours of Yo! MTV Raps and kung fu flicks. Nothing got in the way of our loose lifestyle except the occasional visit to an amusement park. On those special days we zombie strolled to the car and crashed out until arriving in Goofy Lot Q or Yosemite Sam Orange. College was another period of suspended animation, which you would fully understand if you saw how tightly I hugged my bong.
These days I am comfortable in my subconscious skin. Upon arising I fill my hours with excitement. I stretch, do some sit ups (to counter my heroic beer intake), sip mint tea, watch the Tour de France, take a shower, and stroll to the store only to catch a parade of haggard souls making their way home after a dreary day behind desks. I spend my evenings staying busy and slip under the sheets with the bright morning light. At home I’m more of an early bird but in this foreign setting I’ve decided to loosen the strings. Maybe I’m just staying close to LA time so when I return I’ll be up with the milking of the cows and in bed right at twilight. Or…maybe I’m the laziest son of a gun you’ve ever seen. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
history’s greatest procrastinators:
GOD
Sure it took this big wig six days to make the heavens, Earth, plants, animals, people (mind you only two), minerals, vegetables, etc. but how long was he/she building up the steam to make it happen and why with all his/her power did he/she need to chill out on day seven? Oh yeah, what’s the deal with the robes? Throw some slacks on once you hop out of the bath bum butt.
FROSTY
I don’t want to toot my own horn but hey I’m the one with the pencil. Plus who else would be so lazy as to wait until the very last minute to write an article and then write about being lazy? Whoah dude pop some mini-thins and get busy.
ANDY CAPP
This wily little Brit needs a real kick in the ass. He never pays his taxes, he’s always running off to the pub, and his little cabbie cap is pulled so low he’s probably asleep half the day. He was nearly disqualified from the Procrastination Hall of Fame in 1986 due to controversy over the Andy Capp Hot Fries line of snack chips. Naysayers believed he was harboring hidden motivation. After intense investigation it was discovered that Andy merely sold his likeness to a multinational potato chip conglomerate in exchange for a pint. That’s integrity.
frosty’s no dough recipe corner:
If you wait until your pockets run dry to eat don't distress. There are always resources out there for dimeless diners. Here's my famous (in Union Pacific boxcars) recipe for HOBO STEW!
Ketchup
(use fancy catsup for romantic occasions)
Salt
Pepper
Any other ingredients to be found for free in fast food joints, truck stops, or hospital cafeterias are a bonus: hot sauce, relish, mustard, Horsey sauce, mayo, honey mustard dressing, etc.
Place an empty tin can (beer cans work too) above fire. Add ketchup. Stir gently for five minutes. Ketchup (now technically stew) will become silky smooth. Add anything else you were able to dig up. Season to taste. Enjoy with a glass of liquid. yum (that's right, a lowercase yum. You’ll understand why when you taste it). Psyching yourself out does help. Try gazing at a grocery store circular or a menu from a classy restaurant while eating and you’ll never know the difference.
=============================================================
Message to the youth : professional procrastination isn't worth a hoot without eventual action so don't just sit there forever. Let that energy build up in you until it bursts, then make something happen.
bye bye,
frosty
(these words previously appeared in the royally radical pages of RE:UP Magazine)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - baby's on fire!
Tommy D and I rode into Paris with heat beating through the car's windshield. On sweat we streamed to our destination. The catalyst for the jaunt was a rendezvous with the LA crew. Carlos Niño, Dwight Trible, Lil Sci, Gaby, and Andres were in town to perform at le Triptyque. With a few hours to pass before the show we stashed our bags at the hotel and hit the town. No agenda pressed us in a set path so we wound through the summer streets taking in whatever lay in our path. Cafe, cafe, shop, streetlight, candy wrapper, pigeons, cafe, cafe, cafe, and people. People of every shape, size, smell, color, personality and gender hustled and bustled about. With flowing robes, turbans, silk shoes, rapid-fire speech, hearty laughs, smiles, and shouts Parisians shined. They are a swirling blend of diversity buzzing through the most beautiful city.
With the sun on our path Tommy and I cruised about, taking in glances of beautiful women and wafts of freshly baked baguettes. We cafe hopped catching flashes of the Tour de France between beverages. In the evening Carlos and crew blew up the dancefloor with explosive sneak peeks of the future roots revolution resonating from Los Angeles. It was wonderful to see such excited reactions to music that’s so close to the heart of the dublab collective. After the show we wandered around town and eventually landed back at the hotel for a twinkle or two of sleep.
We arose late our second day in Paris. Upon flinging open the impenetrable hotel curtains we discovered a brilliant landscape. With haste we hopped on the metro and zipped to Montmartre in search of sustenance. This came in the form of pastis partnered with icy water. Sip sip sip, skip to the next spot, sip sip sip and on again. The weekend had become a marathon of mellow sidewalk sitting. It was at our third stop when in the midst of a sentence slightly slurred by a fifth anis based aperitif that !!! CRACK !!! All exploded. Bombs had just gone off across London but these atrocities had eased to the back of our optimistic minds as we strolled this metropolis with ease. Egads! We were now amongst the same sinister mayhem. My god how many casualties could there be? As the smoke cleared I touched my torso to make sure it was still intact. The sulfur stung my nostrils and I glanced up to discover a bearded face just inches from my own. "Bonjour beastie!" came a call through the haze, and then it began.
The smoke dissipated and we now saw before our eyes the full figure of the formerly floating bearded face. He looked like a cross between Jimi Hendrix, a salty sea captain, and an owl. Striped pants nearly reached his nipples (thankfully these were covered by a ruffled tuxedo shirt) above which were pinned various medals commemorating vague valor. Had he really rescued a family of geese from enemy submarines? Was he the most accurate meteorologist in Mali? Could he pull a train with his teeth? My puzzled, wandering wonderings were snapped short by another explosive blast. Fear ripped through my world and again this STRANGEr chirped, "Bonjour beastly beasties!" He then grabbed our arms and tugged us into his far out orbit. With another flash of fire and smoke Tommy D and I were no longer lounging on a Paris sidewalk. We had somehow been teleported. Teleported? Telepor-huh? Was it the heat? The pastis? A bump on the head? Nope, reality all too obviously vibrated through the unbelievable moment.
We were suddenly back in the car heading to Paris. Everything was just as it had been a day earlier with one exception. As we zoomed along the roadway of the past in present tense our quizzical minds spied a note taped to the windshield. Tommy hesitantly grabbed the paper and peeled it open. Written on the back of a pack of firecrackers we read, "Enjoy! It's only a bit of smoke." As we went through the hours we had already traversed everything occurred exactly as it had before with one exception, we kept the prophetic glimmer in our minds, "Enjoy! It's only a bit of smoke." We approached the explosive future with calm. Then again, !!! CRACK !!! but this time we leaped into the air with jubilant shouts. Once the smoke cleared we didn’t see Weirdo Beardo but instead a cheering populace. Everyone clapped and cried, "Viva la France!" We soon discovered it was French Independence Day and our earlier fears of exploding terror were now non-existent. The celebration commenced with flowing champagne and kept going. Our night of action packed partying was right on thanks to the strange encounter with a time traveling man. Now I understand the point of the episode. We must take life in brave stride without a sense of worry. When life explodes explode with it. Jump full force into the fire. If it's truly a bitter bang you’ll find out soon enough but if it's a benign blast your fun will start on the mark, so stay open and go for it!
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
With the sun on our path Tommy and I cruised about, taking in glances of beautiful women and wafts of freshly baked baguettes. We cafe hopped catching flashes of the Tour de France between beverages. In the evening Carlos and crew blew up the dancefloor with explosive sneak peeks of the future roots revolution resonating from Los Angeles. It was wonderful to see such excited reactions to music that’s so close to the heart of the dublab collective. After the show we wandered around town and eventually landed back at the hotel for a twinkle or two of sleep.
We arose late our second day in Paris. Upon flinging open the impenetrable hotel curtains we discovered a brilliant landscape. With haste we hopped on the metro and zipped to Montmartre in search of sustenance. This came in the form of pastis partnered with icy water. Sip sip sip, skip to the next spot, sip sip sip and on again. The weekend had become a marathon of mellow sidewalk sitting. It was at our third stop when in the midst of a sentence slightly slurred by a fifth anis based aperitif that !!! CRACK !!! All exploded. Bombs had just gone off across London but these atrocities had eased to the back of our optimistic minds as we strolled this metropolis with ease. Egads! We were now amongst the same sinister mayhem. My god how many casualties could there be? As the smoke cleared I touched my torso to make sure it was still intact. The sulfur stung my nostrils and I glanced up to discover a bearded face just inches from my own. "Bonjour beastie!" came a call through the haze, and then it began.
The smoke dissipated and we now saw before our eyes the full figure of the formerly floating bearded face. He looked like a cross between Jimi Hendrix, a salty sea captain, and an owl. Striped pants nearly reached his nipples (thankfully these were covered by a ruffled tuxedo shirt) above which were pinned various medals commemorating vague valor. Had he really rescued a family of geese from enemy submarines? Was he the most accurate meteorologist in Mali? Could he pull a train with his teeth? My puzzled, wandering wonderings were snapped short by another explosive blast. Fear ripped through my world and again this STRANGEr chirped, "Bonjour beastly beasties!" He then grabbed our arms and tugged us into his far out orbit. With another flash of fire and smoke Tommy D and I were no longer lounging on a Paris sidewalk. We had somehow been teleported. Teleported? Telepor-huh? Was it the heat? The pastis? A bump on the head? Nope, reality all too obviously vibrated through the unbelievable moment.
We were suddenly back in the car heading to Paris. Everything was just as it had been a day earlier with one exception. As we zoomed along the roadway of the past in present tense our quizzical minds spied a note taped to the windshield. Tommy hesitantly grabbed the paper and peeled it open. Written on the back of a pack of firecrackers we read, "Enjoy! It's only a bit of smoke." As we went through the hours we had already traversed everything occurred exactly as it had before with one exception, we kept the prophetic glimmer in our minds, "Enjoy! It's only a bit of smoke." We approached the explosive future with calm. Then again, !!! CRACK !!! but this time we leaped into the air with jubilant shouts. Once the smoke cleared we didn’t see Weirdo Beardo but instead a cheering populace. Everyone clapped and cried, "Viva la France!" We soon discovered it was French Independence Day and our earlier fears of exploding terror were now non-existent. The celebration commenced with flowing champagne and kept going. Our night of action packed partying was right on thanks to the strange encounter with a time traveling man. Now I understand the point of the episode. We must take life in brave stride without a sense of worry. When life explodes explode with it. Jump full force into the fire. If it's truly a bitter bang you’ll find out soon enough but if it's a benign blast your fun will start on the mark, so stay open and go for it!
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - manufacturing Z’s
The chump who coined the phrase, “You’ll have plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead,” is probably already in the grave.
If you’re a 9-5 worker bee you might want to look away. All others, let’s study some scientific data. Over the past week the earliest I have woken up is 1:30pm. The latest is today at the sparkling hour of 3pm. Some would call this lazy behavior. I call it deep sleep research. I’m not just talking about the time spent sleeping but how that ample rest effects wide-awake moments. Falling asleep (which has been occurring no earlier than 5:30am) with the knowledge that you’ll wake up when you’re ready and no earlier is a fantastic feeling. I personally drift much deeper without the ticking hands of time hovering over my horizontal head. When I do enter the world of the living I’m much more prepared to slay dragons and chop e-mail blocks.
There have been other times in my life when I’ve enjoyed a relaxed schedule. As lads my brother Derelict and I would visit our Dad on summer vacation. Our days were filled with low-pressure living. We would crack our sleep encrusted eyes open to the late afternoon and roll slowly to the living room where our still sideways bodies absorbed hours of Yo! MTV Raps and kung fu flicks. Nothing got in the way of our loose lifestyle except the occasional visit to an amusement park. On those special days we zombie strolled to the car and crashed out until arriving in Goofy Lot Q or Yosemite Sam Orange. College was another period of suspended animation, which you would fully understand if you saw how tightly I hugged my bong.
These days I am comfortable in my subconscious skin. Upon arising I fill my hours with excitement. I stretch, do some sit ups (to counter my heroic beer intake), sip mint tea, watch the Tour de France, take a shower, and stroll to the store only to catch a parade of haggard souls making their way home after a dreary day behind desks. I spend my evenings staying busy and slip under the sheets with the bright morning light. At home I’m more of an early bird but in this foreign setting I’ve decided to loosen the strings. Maybe I’m just staying close to LA time so when I return I’ll be up with the milking of the cows and in bed right at twilight. Or…maybe I’m the laziest son of a gun you’ve ever seen. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
If you’re a 9-5 worker bee you might want to look away. All others, let’s study some scientific data. Over the past week the earliest I have woken up is 1:30pm. The latest is today at the sparkling hour of 3pm. Some would call this lazy behavior. I call it deep sleep research. I’m not just talking about the time spent sleeping but how that ample rest effects wide-awake moments. Falling asleep (which has been occurring no earlier than 5:30am) with the knowledge that you’ll wake up when you’re ready and no earlier is a fantastic feeling. I personally drift much deeper without the ticking hands of time hovering over my horizontal head. When I do enter the world of the living I’m much more prepared to slay dragons and chop e-mail blocks.
There have been other times in my life when I’ve enjoyed a relaxed schedule. As lads my brother Derelict and I would visit our Dad on summer vacation. Our days were filled with low-pressure living. We would crack our sleep encrusted eyes open to the late afternoon and roll slowly to the living room where our still sideways bodies absorbed hours of Yo! MTV Raps and kung fu flicks. Nothing got in the way of our loose lifestyle except the occasional visit to an amusement park. On those special days we zombie strolled to the car and crashed out until arriving in Goofy Lot Q or Yosemite Sam Orange. College was another period of suspended animation, which you would fully understand if you saw how tightly I hugged my bong.
These days I am comfortable in my subconscious skin. Upon arising I fill my hours with excitement. I stretch, do some sit ups (to counter my heroic beer intake), sip mint tea, watch the Tour de France, take a shower, and stroll to the store only to catch a parade of haggard souls making their way home after a dreary day behind desks. I spend my evenings staying busy and slip under the sheets with the bright morning light. At home I’m more of an early bird but in this foreign setting I’ve decided to loosen the strings. Maybe I’m just staying close to LA time so when I return I’ll be up with the milking of the cows and in bed right at twilight. Or…maybe I’m the laziest son of a gun you’ve ever seen. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - Kraftwerk
The European festival circuit is an entity unto itself. Any given weekend the green, continental countryside is dotted with massive gatherings of freaks. Enormous stages surrounded by booming sound, luminous lights, and thousands of flailing folks become flashpoints for now music. Last weekend I stopped into the Rock Werchter Festival in Belgium. Held in a remote, open field it fit the typical bill to the tee. Throngs of electric teens and wasted boozers filled the grounds for the momentous miracles of muddy musical overload.
Unlike the many thousands camping for the entire four days of the festival we swooped in and out like moths to momentarily bright lights. Luckily my pal Saul Williams was playing and scored us handy artist passes which allowed all access. While heavy rain turned the already gooey fields to a complete mess we lounged luxuriously backstage in a private dressing room sipping wine and nibbling snacks. When it came time for a performance we simply strolled along the raised wooden walkways to view the shows up close and personal. The cold ache of guilt did flow into my body as I gazed warm and dry into the pupils of performers whom the general public obviously adored. They had shelled out a small fortune and braved intense elements to hear their heroes while I simply knew a few folks. What right had I to be so spoiled?
All of these faulty feelings flashed out of mind the moment Kraftwerk reached my pupils and ears. I stood not fifteen feet from the musical robots as they whirled through their catalog of electronic pop blueprints. It was a moment of pure nostalgia and perfect present tense. Memories of my breakdancing youth flooded back as I pop-locked to the syncopated circuitry of “Numbers” and chugging funk of “Trans Europe Express. I heard the essence of every electronic dance song resonate within the tones of “Radioactivity” and swayed to the sexy swing of the “Model.” Watching the man machines on stage was an absolutely surreal experience: Ralf Hütter pressing his wireless mic close while half singing every seminal vocoded word, Henning Schmitz ever so slightly pumping his rigid pelvis to the beat, Fritz Hilpert faintly grinning as he checked out the girls, and Florian Schneider looking as always like an intense, futuristic Frankenstein. They played all the hits, turned into robots, and donned glowing body suits. While their middle-aged bellies threatened to burst the seams I was awash with how ultimately funky these German cats still are.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
Unlike the many thousands camping for the entire four days of the festival we swooped in and out like moths to momentarily bright lights. Luckily my pal Saul Williams was playing and scored us handy artist passes which allowed all access. While heavy rain turned the already gooey fields to a complete mess we lounged luxuriously backstage in a private dressing room sipping wine and nibbling snacks. When it came time for a performance we simply strolled along the raised wooden walkways to view the shows up close and personal. The cold ache of guilt did flow into my body as I gazed warm and dry into the pupils of performers whom the general public obviously adored. They had shelled out a small fortune and braved intense elements to hear their heroes while I simply knew a few folks. What right had I to be so spoiled?
All of these faulty feelings flashed out of mind the moment Kraftwerk reached my pupils and ears. I stood not fifteen feet from the musical robots as they whirled through their catalog of electronic pop blueprints. It was a moment of pure nostalgia and perfect present tense. Memories of my breakdancing youth flooded back as I pop-locked to the syncopated circuitry of “Numbers” and chugging funk of “Trans Europe Express. I heard the essence of every electronic dance song resonate within the tones of “Radioactivity” and swayed to the sexy swing of the “Model.” Watching the man machines on stage was an absolutely surreal experience: Ralf Hütter pressing his wireless mic close while half singing every seminal vocoded word, Henning Schmitz ever so slightly pumping his rigid pelvis to the beat, Fritz Hilpert faintly grinning as he checked out the girls, and Florian Schneider looking as always like an intense, futuristic Frankenstein. They played all the hits, turned into robots, and donned glowing body suits. While their middle-aged bellies threatened to burst the seams I was awash with how ultimately funky these German cats still are.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
FROSTY'S EURO ADVENTURES - squats
European cities are tightly packed brick to brick with buildings. Some ancient blocks lean sideways as if centuries of wind have tried to blow them down. Amongst these countless shelters stand some that have been forgotten. Buildings made empty by better digs across town, economic collapse, civic redevelopment, nasty smells, boredom of that same old view, gone fishin', etc. often lay empty for years, but have no fear, the squatters are here! Squatting communities are thrifty nomads who make the most out of discarded real estate. Their buildings are as diverse as the occupants: chapels, ornate fire stations, factories, schools, and office buildings. All are emblazoned with the squatter’s symbol, a circle with a lightning like arrow climbing diagonally up and bursting towards the sky. Often cities will allow squatters to stay for years if the structure is up to code and drugs aren't flying out of the chimney. With room to breathe squats stretch into vibrant social havens hosting art happenings, freak out music shows, and co-op style "people's kitchens."
Last weekend some pals and I hopped in the car and zipped to Antwerp for the Scheld'apen Festival. This two-day celebration of celebrating was held at a squat that's been jumping roadblocks to successfully survive for nearly a decade. The old, utilitarian building has become a fully operational music venue. All weekend it bumped with sweaty bands and experimental films. Outside, the gorgeous tree sheltered yard glimmered with smiling creative souls enjoying some fringe fun. A bbq blazed with satay while plates sagged under the weight of fresh salads. The hands down highlight of the festival was the Singing Tulip (http://www.tulip-die-singende-tulpe.de). A mushroom stood on the outdoor stage playing a lovely keyboard. The audience smiled. From the distance came the melancholy strains of a deep voice. The Singing Tulip strode slowly from behind the crowd and weaved his way to the microphone. Dressed in a blue, one-piece jumpsuit and crowned with a golden tulip he sang strange and captivating songs teetering on the cliff of romance and tumbling into the cavern of despair. ‘Twas a fine show for any flower.
These flickers are all mind you a hazy blur in my mind but I assure you it all happened. Someday I will sketch illustrations of this party from my tiny chamber atop the distant mountain. If you would like mimeograph copies of these drawings please send a self addressed stamped envelope to the future. So yup, squats rock steady. Next time you're cruising down a European block and see a beautiful building spiced up with graffiti look for the squatter's symbol and you might discover something far out.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
Last weekend some pals and I hopped in the car and zipped to Antwerp for the Scheld'apen Festival. This two-day celebration of celebrating was held at a squat that's been jumping roadblocks to successfully survive for nearly a decade. The old, utilitarian building has become a fully operational music venue. All weekend it bumped with sweaty bands and experimental films. Outside, the gorgeous tree sheltered yard glimmered with smiling creative souls enjoying some fringe fun. A bbq blazed with satay while plates sagged under the weight of fresh salads. The hands down highlight of the festival was the Singing Tulip (http://www.tulip-die-singende-tulpe.de). A mushroom stood on the outdoor stage playing a lovely keyboard. The audience smiled. From the distance came the melancholy strains of a deep voice. The Singing Tulip strode slowly from behind the crowd and weaved his way to the microphone. Dressed in a blue, one-piece jumpsuit and crowned with a golden tulip he sang strange and captivating songs teetering on the cliff of romance and tumbling into the cavern of despair. ‘Twas a fine show for any flower.
These flickers are all mind you a hazy blur in my mind but I assure you it all happened. Someday I will sketch illustrations of this party from my tiny chamber atop the distant mountain. If you would like mimeograph copies of these drawings please send a self addressed stamped envelope to the future. So yup, squats rock steady. Next time you're cruising down a European block and see a beautiful building spiced up with graffiti look for the squatter's symbol and you might discover something far out.
- frosty
(from summer 2005)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
