September 28, 2006

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 182.

An anarchist-surrealist tribe called the Metropolitan Indians staged mass shoplifting raids at luxury stores.

Posted by dean at 07:50 PM

September 27, 2006

"How Do You Look So Young?"

She asked, behind the counter.

"Don't carry change," I said. "Alcohol instead of vitamins. Hate everyone but the world."

"Yes," she said, looking at the security camera.

Posted by dean at 04:03 AM

September 23, 2006

. . .


Posted by dean at 06:50 PM

September 21, 2006

Most People Were Lucky Growing Up, Reading Under The Covers With A Flashlight.

I had to read with an illuminated watch and a lighter.

Stories in three-second intervals and burned sheets.

Posted by dean at 07:46 PM

September 20, 2006

Not Accepted At This Time, For Bizarrely Unexplainable Reasons That Defy Loads Of Sense And Rationality.

North American Tour

And finally, of course, is Muse. A career based on the idea that Radiohead's The Bends is best when shot through a glam cannon of opera falsettos, speed-prog riffs, masturbation aids, and knock-off fireworks, exploding in flailing, manic arena-rock like a kid scribbling in a coloring-book by a stopwatch. They're so embarrassingly over-the-top, they're fucking great -- at least on Origin Of Symmetry -- and I can't wait to see them for the first time, which'll be stupid mental.

Posted by dean at 01:42 AM

September 17, 2006

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 102.

You could imagine them watching the TV news with the sound off and a joint burning, marinating their minds in an ambient broth of catastrophe and conflict.

Posted by dean at 07:16 PM

September 12, 2006

. . .

Posted by dean at 11:26 PM

September 10, 2006

She Listened To Pre-Adolescent Imagery, Lyrics About Swimsuits And Dungeons & Dragons.

The end of pre-sex, that's what she liked, that helped her study the sub-atomic level.

Made more sense.

Posted by dean at 04:48 AM

September 07, 2006

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 92.

"I had really tight drainpipe jeans, stitched at the crotch with leather, and instead of a T-shirt I had a pair of women's tights, with the crotch ripped out for my neck to go through, pulled over my head and stretched really tight. And I'd got a cigarette and burned holes in it, so it was split everywhere. The finishing touch was the bracelets: two small, individual-portion baked-bean cans, cut out at both ends and then slipped over my wrists."

Posted by dean at 05:31 PM

September 06, 2006

. . .

Posted by dean at 08:04 PM

September 05, 2006

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 77.

He'd first noticed Castle because of a prankster performance art stunt he'd pull during the fine-arts faculty shows. "I'd be this character Gorge who wore an enema bag badolero," says Castle. "My sidekick, Poot Man, dressed in black wrestling shorts and a black full-face mask like those Mexican wrestlers. He walked around like a monkey, knuckles trailing on the ground. The art was always bad, derivative stuff -- endless mindless landscapes and still lifes. I'd point at a picture and go, 'Poot Man!' and he'd rub his ass on the artwork, or hold his nose like it stunk. Every time Poot Man took a pretend shit on the art, I'd reward him with milk, which he'd suck through the enema tube."

Posted by dean at 03:37 AM

September 03, 2006

. . .


Posted by dean at 02:14 AM