Oh creepy child how I feel for you. You just consolidated a new trend. I wonder why this died off. I want to ride an alligator damn it!
(notice the even creepier suited goon in the background, damn!)
Doreen has an Alligator
Oh creepy child how I feel for you. You just consolidated a new trend. I wonder why this died off. I want to ride an alligator damn it!
(notice the even creepier suited goon in the background, damn!)
Oliphaunt Messiah
This is the Son of the Elephant God, Ganesha. His mum was impregnated by a winged elephant messenger. That's him in the womb. Say hi. One day he will die for the sins of all elephant-kind.
Dancing with Ghosts: A Memoir of Tribal War
If we are to stand a ghost of a chance of surviving the increasingly imminent catastrophe our culture is hurtling toward, we must learn to adapt to new habitats. We must be able to migrate with the seasons, to intermingle with unlikely allies and long lost cousins, to hunt for opportunities to gather momentum as if our lives depended on it. This is a true story about a time when we did some of these things with a measure of success.
We received a spectral smoke signal of nybbles and bytes requesting our presence in the cold plains of Oneida, New York. Not knowing what to expect, our hearty band of improbable and impermissible white wanderers from the flatlands of the South journeyed to the snowy plains of Oneida. Following directions hastily and poorly translated over an obscure pay phone, we came onto a stone longhouse, the home of the Onyota’a:ka, the traditional Oneida of the Standing Stone. We pried open the heavy wooden doors, and peered inside.
A mighty elder, Clanmother Maisie Shenandoah of the Oneida, greeted us with open arms and a broad smile. A powerful woman, she had seen generations come and go, and she feared that this would be the last to live in freedom. She explained that this thirty acres land we were now on — and the homes upon it — were the last of the sovereign nation of the Oneida people, subject to no law except their own. This proud people and their land were under assault from without and within (as they still are [1]). One of their own had gone to Harvard, gotten himself a business degree, and incorporated the tribe as a corporation, building a financial empire spanning mid-state New York. Oneida Nation Inc. — an independent fiefdom with its own laws, its own taxes, its own courts, its own (mostly white) police, with Judge, Jury, Executioner, God, and State wrapped up in one man: Ray Halbritter.
Known among the locals as “No-Face Ray” for cursing the ways of the Oneida and declaring himself against all sanity and tradition “Chief for Life,” Ray is attempting to develop this pocket of land, the thirty acres of the traditional Oneida, the last remaining sovereign Oneida land. Women have been evicted by Ray’s private “Housing Inspectors,” and seen their houses bulldozed before their children’s very eyes. Shopping malls will soon rise up, following the pattern of twisted and terrible progress familiar to any denizen of Western capitalism and civilization. If you stand on the edge of the thirty acres, you can already see the future — a giant casino, sprawling across the land like a bloated carcass. A call to arms. Soon.
Ray’s private army was patrolling the thirty acres, and we were told that the official explanation for our presence was an invitation to a tribal dance. Dancing it was. One by one, all the Oneida families of the thirty acres piled into the little longhouse, and with them they brought a never-ending procession of all sorts of food and drink. After a rousing meal, one of the older men stood in the middle of the room and began chanting in a tongue my ears could not comprehend, a sound rich with dignity beyond compare. Children lined up behind his booming bass voice, providing a brilliant treble. Soon the entire room, except for us white folk, was dancing up a storm. They absolutely refused to allow us to remain mere spectators, grabbing us hand in hand until we were all dancing side by side, some of us with considerably less skill than others.
When the dance came to an end, an old man with white hair pulled two of our band off to the side. “Did you bring baseball bats?” he asked. We weren’t sure what he meant, so we said that we were “ready for whatever it took,” an equally coded answer. He then started telling us stories, about bingo parlors burning and Mohawk revolts, about the first winter snow and about Ray’s mother’s facelifts. After considerable mystery, he left us with a simple message: “Gringo Windshield.”
Ray Halbritter was going to enter the thirty acres to hold a meeting of his cronies in an ancient longhouse that he had closed to the community long ago. His private army of goons was to be there to strike fear into the locals’ hearts. In the morning the old man’s words rang true. A small line of us in full black bloc regalia surrounded the larger crowd of traditional Oneida, who were for the first time in years going to contest Ray openly. We prayed that our threadbare patches of anarchy and punk would protect us from bullets. Ray scurried into the longhouse at our approach, and his goons tried to arrest one of our burly black-masked friends. I screamed “Let him go!”
Magic.
Ray’s police did let him go. We were shocked. Since we weren’t Oneida, Ray’s police had no legal right to arrest or even touch us. Bristling with badges, guns and clubs, they just told us to leave. We began laughing in their faces and mocking them. “Police? You aren’t even real police! Come on, just touch me!” “So how does it feel to beat up women in front of their children for a living?” “Don’t feel so high and mighty now, do you, boy?”
The traditional Oneida were delighted, and began joining in the taunts. Under cover of the commotion outside, they sent their children through the back door of the longhouse. Inside, Ray and the world he represents found themselves an emperor without clothes, as little children ran around in the meeting openly defying him and giggling at his self-important madness. Soon, the commotion got so out of hand that the local city police showed up, along with reporters — an unheard of event in Ray’s territory. The traditional Oneida took the police and reporters aside, showing them their home videos of Ray’s police beating women and destroying their homes. Smiles broke out on all our faces when Ray turned tail and fled. The ice that separated us from the Oneida began to break.
There we stood, two tribes — one ancient and the other new — united against a common enemy. The ancient tribe was fighting for survival, and, unlike our ancestors at Wounded Knee, we turned our backs on allegiance to race, nation, or any other fiction, to join them in arms. This alchemy released magic — police unable to police, children ridiculing kings. The Oneida’s struggle against extinction goes on, as does ours. Let us hope it goes on together, as we realize the possibilities of tribal alliances that can overcome our loneliest moments and the impossible odds. In the end, we are not ghosts from the past, but ghosts of the future. Let us dance — together.
“Here we are, the dead of all time, dying once again, only now with the object of living. You have to get out of yourself to save yourself.”
— masked spokesperson of the black bloc, Chiapas, Mexico
Footnotes
[1]^ Their struggle continues today. To get in touch with the Oneida, contact:
Onyota'a:ka People of the Standing Stone
PO Box 450
Oneida, NY 13421
315-363-2304 (ask for Maisie)
www.oneidasfordemocracy.org
Source:
Retrieved on November 25, 2009 from http://www.crimethinc.com/tools/downloads/zines.html
Notes:
from Hunter/Gatherer #1
We received a spectral smoke signal of nybbles and bytes requesting our presence in the cold plains of Oneida, New York. Not knowing what to expect, our hearty band of improbable and impermissible white wanderers from the flatlands of the South journeyed to the snowy plains of Oneida. Following directions hastily and poorly translated over an obscure pay phone, we came onto a stone longhouse, the home of the Onyota’a:ka, the traditional Oneida of the Standing Stone. We pried open the heavy wooden doors, and peered inside.
A mighty elder, Clanmother Maisie Shenandoah of the Oneida, greeted us with open arms and a broad smile. A powerful woman, she had seen generations come and go, and she feared that this would be the last to live in freedom. She explained that this thirty acres land we were now on — and the homes upon it — were the last of the sovereign nation of the Oneida people, subject to no law except their own. This proud people and their land were under assault from without and within (as they still are [1]). One of their own had gone to Harvard, gotten himself a business degree, and incorporated the tribe as a corporation, building a financial empire spanning mid-state New York. Oneida Nation Inc. — an independent fiefdom with its own laws, its own taxes, its own courts, its own (mostly white) police, with Judge, Jury, Executioner, God, and State wrapped up in one man: Ray Halbritter.
Known among the locals as “No-Face Ray” for cursing the ways of the Oneida and declaring himself against all sanity and tradition “Chief for Life,” Ray is attempting to develop this pocket of land, the thirty acres of the traditional Oneida, the last remaining sovereign Oneida land. Women have been evicted by Ray’s private “Housing Inspectors,” and seen their houses bulldozed before their children’s very eyes. Shopping malls will soon rise up, following the pattern of twisted and terrible progress familiar to any denizen of Western capitalism and civilization. If you stand on the edge of the thirty acres, you can already see the future — a giant casino, sprawling across the land like a bloated carcass. A call to arms. Soon.
Ray’s private army was patrolling the thirty acres, and we were told that the official explanation for our presence was an invitation to a tribal dance. Dancing it was. One by one, all the Oneida families of the thirty acres piled into the little longhouse, and with them they brought a never-ending procession of all sorts of food and drink. After a rousing meal, one of the older men stood in the middle of the room and began chanting in a tongue my ears could not comprehend, a sound rich with dignity beyond compare. Children lined up behind his booming bass voice, providing a brilliant treble. Soon the entire room, except for us white folk, was dancing up a storm. They absolutely refused to allow us to remain mere spectators, grabbing us hand in hand until we were all dancing side by side, some of us with considerably less skill than others.
When the dance came to an end, an old man with white hair pulled two of our band off to the side. “Did you bring baseball bats?” he asked. We weren’t sure what he meant, so we said that we were “ready for whatever it took,” an equally coded answer. He then started telling us stories, about bingo parlors burning and Mohawk revolts, about the first winter snow and about Ray’s mother’s facelifts. After considerable mystery, he left us with a simple message: “Gringo Windshield.”
Ray Halbritter was going to enter the thirty acres to hold a meeting of his cronies in an ancient longhouse that he had closed to the community long ago. His private army of goons was to be there to strike fear into the locals’ hearts. In the morning the old man’s words rang true. A small line of us in full black bloc regalia surrounded the larger crowd of traditional Oneida, who were for the first time in years going to contest Ray openly. We prayed that our threadbare patches of anarchy and punk would protect us from bullets. Ray scurried into the longhouse at our approach, and his goons tried to arrest one of our burly black-masked friends. I screamed “Let him go!”
Magic.
Ray’s police did let him go. We were shocked. Since we weren’t Oneida, Ray’s police had no legal right to arrest or even touch us. Bristling with badges, guns and clubs, they just told us to leave. We began laughing in their faces and mocking them. “Police? You aren’t even real police! Come on, just touch me!” “So how does it feel to beat up women in front of their children for a living?” “Don’t feel so high and mighty now, do you, boy?”
The traditional Oneida were delighted, and began joining in the taunts. Under cover of the commotion outside, they sent their children through the back door of the longhouse. Inside, Ray and the world he represents found themselves an emperor without clothes, as little children ran around in the meeting openly defying him and giggling at his self-important madness. Soon, the commotion got so out of hand that the local city police showed up, along with reporters — an unheard of event in Ray’s territory. The traditional Oneida took the police and reporters aside, showing them their home videos of Ray’s police beating women and destroying their homes. Smiles broke out on all our faces when Ray turned tail and fled. The ice that separated us from the Oneida began to break.
There we stood, two tribes — one ancient and the other new — united against a common enemy. The ancient tribe was fighting for survival, and, unlike our ancestors at Wounded Knee, we turned our backs on allegiance to race, nation, or any other fiction, to join them in arms. This alchemy released magic — police unable to police, children ridiculing kings. The Oneida’s struggle against extinction goes on, as does ours. Let us hope it goes on together, as we realize the possibilities of tribal alliances that can overcome our loneliest moments and the impossible odds. In the end, we are not ghosts from the past, but ghosts of the future. Let us dance — together.
“Here we are, the dead of all time, dying once again, only now with the object of living. You have to get out of yourself to save yourself.”
— masked spokesperson of the black bloc, Chiapas, Mexico
Footnotes
[1]^ Their struggle continues today. To get in touch with the Oneida, contact:
Onyota'a:ka People of the Standing Stone
PO Box 450
Oneida, NY 13421
315-363-2304 (ask for Maisie)
www.oneidasfordemocracy.org
Source:
Retrieved on November 25, 2009 from http://www.crimethinc.com/tools/downloads/zines.html
Notes:
from Hunter/Gatherer #1
Jovial Fatso
He returns to consciousness.
He opens his eyelids carefully, half-expecting someone to be there, standing over him. No-one is there. What a relief, he says inwardly. He contemplates rolling out of bed and then realises that the word fits perfectly, horribly. Roll. Like a marble. A meatball. A four-hundred-pound man-dumpling.
Slowly and with considerable effort, he lifts himself, his eyes tangentially scouting the curvature of his body. He thinks, any more and he'll start looking like a planet. He'll start attracting other masses. He'll have his own gravitational pull.
Every cough an earthquake. Every day a repetitive rotation around his miserable self.
A woman enters the bedroom.Thin, unkempt, with the look of people that look after others. She looks like she's part of the house, a piece of furniture. An old family heirloom.
'Good morning dear' she says in a compromising voice.
Ugh, he thinks. He smiles the smile of fakes and madmen. An imitated smile. 'Good morning love'.
He hates himself. For being a hypocrite. For being forced to be a hypocrite. But most of all, he hates himself because he does it too well. And he pushes it all down with a joke.
She helps him get dressed with the patience of a saint and the efficiency of a retired accountant. His very own Saint Bureaucrat. And for that he can't stand her. But he hides it well behind buffoonery.
She packs him a lunch and kisses him goodbye in the same way she has for the past century and in the same way she will in those still to come. And for that he abhors her. But he drowns it all in light-hearted witticisms.
He gingerly shuts the door, almost sarcastically, and mentally prepares his affable camouflage for the day.
He opens his eyelids carefully, half-expecting someone to be there, standing over him. No-one is there. What a relief, he says inwardly. He contemplates rolling out of bed and then realises that the word fits perfectly, horribly. Roll. Like a marble. A meatball. A four-hundred-pound man-dumpling.
Slowly and with considerable effort, he lifts himself, his eyes tangentially scouting the curvature of his body. He thinks, any more and he'll start looking like a planet. He'll start attracting other masses. He'll have his own gravitational pull.
Every cough an earthquake. Every day a repetitive rotation around his miserable self.
A woman enters the bedroom.Thin, unkempt, with the look of people that look after others. She looks like she's part of the house, a piece of furniture. An old family heirloom.
'Good morning dear' she says in a compromising voice.
Ugh, he thinks. He smiles the smile of fakes and madmen. An imitated smile. 'Good morning love'.
He hates himself. For being a hypocrite. For being forced to be a hypocrite. But most of all, he hates himself because he does it too well. And he pushes it all down with a joke.
She helps him get dressed with the patience of a saint and the efficiency of a retired accountant. His very own Saint Bureaucrat. And for that he can't stand her. But he hides it well behind buffoonery.
She packs him a lunch and kisses him goodbye in the same way she has for the past century and in the same way she will in those still to come. And for that he abhors her. But he drowns it all in light-hearted witticisms.
He gingerly shuts the door, almost sarcastically, and mentally prepares his affable camouflage for the day.
An Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied:
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied:
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
Kick it 'til it breaks
they say we are too reckless;
that the world we burn for
can not be born from flame,
that we must plant its seeds.
but we answer them,
with soot on our faces
and clods of dirt in our fists,
“we are making our garden rich with ash.”
that the world we burn for
can not be born from flame,
that we must plant its seeds.
but we answer them,
with soot on our faces
and clods of dirt in our fists,
“we are making our garden rich with ash.”
To Make Soap, First We Render Fat
Unless of course you make your soap by cold process soapmaking like I did. This is the fourth batch I've ever made. It's coloured with blue food dye (I know it's purple, I clearly haven't perfected my soap colouring techniques yet) and it smells like a fifty megaton lavender bomb. It also has POTPOURRI!!! I wasn't shouting, this is how you pronounce POTPOURRI!!! Anyway, it's up on the curing rack now and in about four weeks someone will be rubbing their bodaciousness with the Lavender Bomb (and scratching themselves with POTPOURRI!!!). If this sounds daunting, it isn't, you should try making your own soap, it's quite empowering. POTPOURRI!!!
Revenge of the Jackalope
Abandon all ye faithfulAbandon all ye hope
Abandon all ye faithful
It's the day of the Jackalope
Clutch - Day of the Jackalope
Sore Thumb (or My Place in the World)
I wish I had the thousand words that this picture very easily sums up.
Mammatocumulus
Give us clouds.
Clouds like big breasts.
Like condensed milk dissolving in water.
Like ripe fruit hanging from the branches, waiting to be plucked.
Give us rain unending.
Clouds like big breasts.
Like condensed milk dissolving in water.
Like ripe fruit hanging from the branches, waiting to be plucked.
Give us rain unending.
Choreomania (Saint Vitus' Dance)
Most people have heard of this. People spontaneously errupting into dance. Wobbling and jiggling until they colapse. Hallucinating about demons and such crap. Most people attribute it to "mass hysteria". Here's my scientific opinion on "mass hysteria". Bollocks. Utter and complete bollocks. You want to explain a complex social phenomenon based on people's psychology? Find a half-decent explanation then rather than a cheap cop-out that saves you the trouble of doing real research and work. Anyway, bollocking done. Back to the dancing mania. There is no real consensus as to what caused (and is causing) this. My guess, at least fot the cases that occured in the Middle Ages (let's just say that soap wasn't a prized possession back then, neither was a burial a thing of habit), and judging by the fact that the symptoms described sound a lot like the symptoms of poisoning and general neurological doo-hickeys (yes, doo-hickeys is a scientific term), the people that danced like crazy until they colapsed, foamed at the mouth and saw DEMONS!!! DEMONS!!! DEMONS EVERYWHERE!!! were most likely poisoned (possibly with ergot). Although I don't discard the possibility that under stressful conditions, psychologically vulnerable people are very susceptible to other people's behaviour (just look at all the crap about "The King of Pop"), "mass hysteria" is not a valid scientific explanation, in fact it's not an explanation at all. So, next time you use the term, expect the Science Ninjas to creep up to you when you least expect it to exact critically acurate and rigorous revenge. With the power of Peer Review!!!
Tokyo. Gore. Police.
Three words that on their own don't mean much more than their unique concepts. But put them together and you have something special. I may have mentioned this before, though I don't remember it, but I have a very broad taste in cinema. One of the extremities to which I venture frequently (in the company of my amazing partner which also found this gem) is fucked up Asian films. And when I say fucked up, I mean really weird ones, the kind that almost makes you feel guilty for enjoying it. I'll post the trailer to it but I feel it doesn't do it much justice, so right below the trailer I'll give you a quick synopsis and review, hopefully without spoiling it too much.
So as you probably guessed there's lots of gore. Duh. It does what it says on the box. This is a dystopian vision of near-future Tokyo where/when the police is fully privatised. Our protagonist is a petite, female super-cop named Ruka. She has the usual and almost stereotypical emotional baggage about the assassinated dad (notice I said ass... twice). In this alternate version of the Japanese capital, there are criminals which have somehow altered their bodies so that whenever they get hurt the wound almost miraculously transforms into a weapon. Cool huh? Our traumatised hero is trained especially to hunt down and destroy these people who are also known as "engineers", making her, rather cheesily, an "engineer-hunter". By the way, I should have said this earlier, the film is very cheesy so if you can't deal with that, well, get the fuck off my porch!
Anyway, there's tons of blood spurting with great force out of severed limbs and various other gashes and cuts, taking the whole notion to new extremes (I will not spoil the last scene, I will not spoil the last scene). The visual effects people have really set a new standard in this niche of cinema and as far as the weapons/mutations go, they really seemed to have a limitless imagination. The whole film is laced with really strange, twisted shit that could have easily come out of the strangest David Lynch films. My personal favourite is the random advert for the new-improved-and-cute self-harming razorblade sported by inappropriately happy Japanese schoolgirls. Dark shit indeed.
I don't think I do the film justice either. I only watched it last night and maybe not everything has sunk in yet, but if there is one thing to be told about this film is that it keeps topping itself. Where other films of this kind go WHAM!!! and then either dwindle or stagnate, this one goes wham!!!Wham!!!WHAM!!!WHAM, MOTHERFUCKER, WHAM, WHO'S YOUR DADDY BITCH?!
To cut a long story short, if you like strange, gory, unlikely and fucked-up Asian films this is not so much a must-see as a your-life-was-up-until-now-meaningless. It is definitely a serious contender for the most fucked-up film I've ever watched.
Anyway, there's tons of blood spurting with great force out of severed limbs and various other gashes and cuts, taking the whole notion to new extremes (I will not spoil the last scene, I will not spoil the last scene). The visual effects people have really set a new standard in this niche of cinema and as far as the weapons/mutations go, they really seemed to have a limitless imagination. The whole film is laced with really strange, twisted shit that could have easily come out of the strangest David Lynch films. My personal favourite is the random advert for the new-improved-and-cute self-harming razorblade sported by inappropriately happy Japanese schoolgirls. Dark shit indeed.
I don't think I do the film justice either. I only watched it last night and maybe not everything has sunk in yet, but if there is one thing to be told about this film is that it keeps topping itself. Where other films of this kind go WHAM!!! and then either dwindle or stagnate, this one goes wham!!!Wham!!!WHAM!!!WHAM, MOTHERFUCKER, WHAM, WHO'S YOUR DADDY BITCH?!
To cut a long story short, if you like strange, gory, unlikely and fucked-up Asian films this is not so much a must-see as a your-life-was-up-until-now-meaningless. It is definitely a serious contender for the most fucked-up film I've ever watched.
Radio Pirate Artichoke: Be Yourself, By Yourself, Stay Away From Me
I know you missed this. Even if you don't admit it to yourselves. It might hurt but you like it my filthy poop-minions.
Les Diagrammes Modernes d'un Mouton Anglo-français
Once in a while, you get to experience a moment of pure genius. Then, something shifts in your head, something clicks into place, gears start churning and sparks flying. Nothing will ever be the same again. Nothing. And all of that because you have met that most dangerous of animals, clever sheep.
Telophase (or Split in Twain)
Like the cell that splits in two when it has reached the appropriate concentration of substances.
Like the guerilla collumn that splits in two to maintain its mobility and manoeuvrability when too many rebels have joined its ranks.
Like the zygote that splits in two virtually identical beings.
Only now, we need an "evil" twin. The same actor, with a crappy mustache, walking in the room in season three.
It's been three years and two hundred posts since the interweb was spat and shat on by the digital wart that is anorthodox. It's about fucking time it got a split personality. The "evil" twin blorg will have some things in common and some things will be very different. For the time being, they are quite similar, but soon, very soon, they will spiral away from each other.
Like the guerilla collumn that splits in two to maintain its mobility and manoeuvrability when too many rebels have joined its ranks.
Like the zygote that splits in two virtually identical beings.
Only now, we need an "evil" twin. The same actor, with a crappy mustache, walking in the room in season three.
It's been three years and two hundred posts since the interweb was spat and shat on by the digital wart that is anorthodox. It's about fucking time it got a split personality. The "evil" twin blorg will have some things in common and some things will be very different. For the time being, they are quite similar, but soon, very soon, they will spiral away from each other.
Holy Virgin of the Barricades
Hail Mary, full of rage
Our Desire is with thee
Blessed art thou among women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,
Fire.
Holy Mary, Mother of Barricades,
pray for us free people,
now and at the hour of our life.
Our Desire is with thee
Blessed art thou among women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,
Fire.
Holy Mary, Mother of Barricades,
pray for us free people,
now and at the hour of our life.
Saint Dymphna, mother of Gheel
Occasionally, and it usually happens when I start losing hope for the human race, something happens or I find out something which makes me happy to be a member of this species. The same thing happened when I found out about Gheel. Gheel is a village in Antwerp, Belgium where instead of institutionalising mentally ill people, they integrate them. So, rather than locking them away where they can't see them, they treat these people as the equals that they are. Enlighten yourselves here and here.
Στις τουαλέτες τα όνειρα σου θα ξεράσεις
Για την πατρίδα κι όλους αυτούς
που δεκάρα για σένα δεν δίνουν
για γυναίκες παιδιά, κουφούς και τυφλούς
που κατάμουτρα στους δρόμους
σε κοιτάν και σε φτύνουν
-Τρύπες
Proof That God Does Not Exist (or That he's a sadistic bastard) pt 3
Further proof of god's non-existence or the fact that he/she/it/they is/are a sadistic fuckhead is the video below. It's made by an Israeli arms dealer (no, really) in bollywood style. It was made for some kind of genocidal fuckhead convention or other. Whatever, who gives a shit. Enjoy the horror.
Vikernes Rides the Media
Christian "Varg" Vikernes has been released. I don't know what to make of that. He is a great musician or at least was. But he still remains a royal fuckhead.
In case you didn't know, he was in one of the most influential bands in metal, Mayhem. That is until he killed the frontman. Killed him dead. Very dead. Like, 23 times dead. With a knife. Anyway, he's out now, after fuck knows how many failed escape attempts. And I still don't know what to make of that. There's an interesting documentary though about his trial and how norwegian media sucks ass in pretty much the usual way media sucks ass everywhere else. It's called Satan Rides the Media (like the dirty little whore it is), look for it.
Radio Pirate Artichoke: This Time It's Personal
This time I'm experimenting with a new format which means I don't have to upload anything because someone else has. It's not exactly radio anymore, but hey, who gives a fuck?
The day noone went to work.
One day, nobody went to work. Parents got up but said "Fuck it. I'm not going to the office today, I'll pretend I'm sick". They let their children sleep until they wanted to get up for themselves. Students didn't go to school, high school or university. People stayed in and made love with their partners. Somehow, a great degree of universality was achieved without anyone knowing about it. Like a cosmic emergent phenomenon, everyone decided to be lazy, unproductive and happy. Noone had proclaimed "Sloth day" and nobody had contacted their friends to arrange it. It most certainly was not an advertising trick. And yet, noone went to work. Even the workaholics, executive directors and board members. A terrible feeling of malaise had possessed them when they realised their secretaries and aides and assistants hadn't woken them up this morning. Rather, they had woken up on their own, four hours late. For some reason though, the feeling of discomfort disintegrated as soon as they looked out of their window and saw nobody attending their lawn.
The people that worked the night shift? They stood and stared for a couple of moments as soon as the sun came up and then it hit them. They didn't have to be here. They could be in bed and sleeping the best sleep there is. The stolen sleep. The kind of nap students take on their desks, the extra five minutes children sneak in before their mom shouts "Time to get ready for school!", the sleep of a dog fed, tired and happy. So they did. They dumped whatever trash it was they were hauling, whatever car they were pumping gasoline into and with its driver they went for a beer, rampant sex or they just went their separate ways.
The factory workers, the public servants they didn't feel like working or serving either. That's not to say they stayed inside. They went outside. Into the world. Into outer and inner space. And they took their children with them for navigators.
The cars were left as they were. The traffic lights stopped working because noone was manning (or womanning) the power plants.
Nothing was produced other than happiness. Nothing was pursued other than dreams. Noone was miserable.
And suddenly, like the infinitesimal event that starts a feedback loop leading to a gargantuan avalanche of consequences, an idea flew into everyone's mind at the same time.
They didn't have to go to work tomorrow either.
The people that worked the night shift? They stood and stared for a couple of moments as soon as the sun came up and then it hit them. They didn't have to be here. They could be in bed and sleeping the best sleep there is. The stolen sleep. The kind of nap students take on their desks, the extra five minutes children sneak in before their mom shouts "Time to get ready for school!", the sleep of a dog fed, tired and happy. So they did. They dumped whatever trash it was they were hauling, whatever car they were pumping gasoline into and with its driver they went for a beer, rampant sex or they just went their separate ways.
The factory workers, the public servants they didn't feel like working or serving either. That's not to say they stayed inside. They went outside. Into the world. Into outer and inner space. And they took their children with them for navigators.
The cars were left as they were. The traffic lights stopped working because noone was manning (or womanning) the power plants.
Nothing was produced other than happiness. Nothing was pursued other than dreams. Noone was miserable.
And suddenly, like the infinitesimal event that starts a feedback loop leading to a gargantuan avalanche of consequences, an idea flew into everyone's mind at the same time.
They didn't have to go to work tomorrow either.
The Glorious Burning Synapse
Holy fucking crap. This is awesome. This is my favorite superhero ever.
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And I made him here: The Hero Factory
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And I made him here: The Hero Factory
Transubstantiated Trousers
My old pair of trousers died. So I turned it into Piotr Kropotkin, cloth revolutionary! Well not all of it, just half a trouser-leg. Reclaim the trousers!
Why is it Bliss again?
The anarchist is a very fierce creature. It is first cousin to the gorilla. It kills presidents, princes, executives, likewise sabotages their summits and summer holidays. It has long, unkempt hair on its head and all over its face. Instead of fingernails it has long, sharp claws. The anarchist has many pockets in which it carries rocks, knives, guns, and bombs. It is a night animal. After dark, it gathers in groups, large and small, and plans raids, murders, plagues. Lots are drawn to select who must carry out the work. The anarchist does not like water. It never washes or changes its clothes. It is always thirsty and drinks only salt water. The home of the anarchist is in Europe, especially Italy. Some few have been exported to North America, where they are feared and hated by all decent folks and hunted wherever they show themselves. Papa does not like anarchists a bit. They give him bad dreams, he says. He has given orders to have them caught and put in cages, and he will not allow any more to come into this country if he can help it. If any sneak in, he will have them shot like rabid dogs, Mexicans, mountain lions, and such animals. I practice every day with my rifle so I can shoot these wild beasts when I grow up.
-A White House nursery composition, 1904Click here to start fighting for your life.
Radio Pirate Artichoke: Once More with Passion
Here's the second blow, low as always:
Mr. Bungle - My Ass is on Fire
Isis & Aereogramme - Delial
Meshuggah - Closed Eye Visuals
Battle of Mice - Sleep & Dream
Lair of the Minotaur - The Wolf
Mr. Bungle - My Ass is on Fire
Isis & Aereogramme - Delial
Meshuggah - Closed Eye Visuals
Battle of Mice - Sleep & Dream
Lair of the Minotaur - The Wolf
Make Up My Mind
Ah, remember remember this burning December. What was gained, what was lost. Analysis, comprehension, planning, acting, victory (and loss). I gained a lot from these days. The most important being a fire in the throat and and burning images in my mind's eye. Fire, shouts, rocks, people. Stories and people. And blood. What will happen now is up to us. But if there is one thing I want to linger on and I believe I should be allowed to is this picture. I could say what I think about it but I wont. I could also try to convince you about how I feel about this picture and why you should feel the same way but I wont do that either. Instead you have to make up your own mind. So go on, make up your mind.
Same Shit, Different Asshole
Feel free to copy without asking for permission and without referencing.
Radio Pirate Artichoke: The Commencementationess
It's time for us to reclaim music, to reclaim fun, to reclaim entertainment. It's time for us to reclaim life. This is Radio Pirate Artichoke.
Black Sabbath - A National Acrobat
Melvins - A History of Bad Men
Pelican - Mammoth
Acid Bath - Dead Girl
High On Fire - 10,000 Years
Fantomas - Rosemary's Baby
Αγγελάκας & Βελιώτης - Οι Ανάσες των Λύκων
Shrinebuilder
Scott Kelly - Neurosis
Wino - Saint Vitus, The Obsessed etc.
Dale Crover - The Melvins
Al Cisneros - Sleep, Om
All. Star. Band. Of. The. Decade.
Do I need to say more?
DO I???
Wino - Saint Vitus, The Obsessed etc.
Dale Crover - The Melvins
Al Cisneros - Sleep, Om
All. Star. Band. Of. The. Decade.
Do I need to say more?
DO I???
The Girl
There was a small girl
With a red crimson curl
And a taste for the dark and bizarre,
She liked the small boy
(The rapture, the joy)
This happiness nothing could mar.
With a red crimson curl
And a taste for the dark and bizarre,
She liked the small boy
(The rapture, the joy)
This happiness nothing could mar.
Digna Rabia (or Where the Fuck is Wally?*)
*That's Waldo for you Zionist, Neo-nazi, collaborationist scum.
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