We gonna Swim for a little bit here. Before we go into the crazy shit of combining the Punk "Mentality" that existed in Fuckno way back then with our insertion of the Unreality of ZID into that mess, (holy shit, what an explosion of fuckishness) let's take a dive.
Fishbone, Swim. You dive in, you learn to swim, or you get eaten by sharks.
Nice Punk Boots on this long-legged-lovely, BTW.
Joey was not your Ordinary Punk. If there ever was a thing. Kraftwerk, was a German Avant Garde Synth band he had discovered a few years back. Check it out at the 1:00 minute part.
But this had been bastardized by Afrika Bambataa and Soul Sonic Force in "Planet Rock, and that is what we heard from every Messican Low Rider in Fuckno back in the day, all day long, and all night long, during lunch hour on the street, and on the drag strips at night.
There weren't drag car races anymore. Young, horny Messicans crept by and showed off their hydrolic skillz to the ladies, all blasting their bass.
Joey did not play his German Electro shit that night when we punks were holding onto the orange shag carpeting for dear life. He even avoided playing Nitzer Ebb.
Just play thirty seconds of each of the following to get an idea of what else he had in vinyl.
Nitzer Ebb's stuff. Sounds like Depeche Mode synths.
Can you hear "Head Like A Hole" By NIN starting at the 30 second part of this one?
Or, that song by NIN "Fuck you like an animal."
OK, enough. You get the idea of Joey's taste in tunes. I could go on and on with other artists, but that would be fucked of me.
Antidote.
We're in this together, you and me. You've come this far. Don't bail now.
Trent Reznor fucking rocks.
You ever been to a punk party? How do you get invited? Do you bring a nice bottle of wine and some flowers?
No. You invite yourself. You end up there, like it was Purgatory. These were rarely planned, and if you brought wine, it was the Koolaid of Boones Farm, or Night Train Express, or Irish Rose, well... you get the idea.
I always had warm vodka on me, the kind sold in a plastic bottle, so it wouldn't break when diving from a moving automobile. You might wake up in a ditch, and it would be ugly. But take a sip and the birds started chirping.
But if you'd somehow made it to one of these after-gig melees, you might get a chance to watch the punk band play some more tunes. The house would become unstable from the amount of damage to the foundation from all of the assholes thrashing into each other and then through the supporting walls in their crazed moshing.
Serously.
Stick-built homes require the supporting walls to hold up the roof. And when a bunch of punk bastards crash into each other and through one wall (from the kitchen) into the nice dining area (that no one ever used, except for a Bossman or some other VIP), well, 2x4s would suddenly be exposed.
These, when busted, are easy to rip out, and then some assholes who did not have this kind of home would begin to thrash the rest of the place. No windows would be left intact, not pottery, not anything nice that you may have worked quite a while to amass.
Punks are assholes, always were, always will be.
But you ain't seen nothing yet.
It began with a whisper. An explanation followed. Then word grew. And then we became sought after. And then we had to get away.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
These following words are not intended to in any way to endorse the consumption of illegal drugs. This is simply a description of a time, 25 years ago, when a certain gang of young fools got themselves into a world of mess.
This is a story, and not drug use advocacy. Drugs are bad. Do Not Use Drugs.
So this was how it began at an after gig house party in the outskirts of Fuckno, way back then, while the Punk Band was setting up their new stage. Many folks offered to help lug in the amps and cords and drum kit.
The guitarists wouldn't let anyone handle their strings.
The crowd of people at the home of this rich kid (poseur) were mostly the dregs and leaches of society, and they had adorned themselves with only the finest pageantry of spray painted leather jackets, spiked hair, boots, and wrist cuffs.
Many of the fine ladies that evening/early morning were done up like scary models who had been in a train wreck, and quite a few giggly Madonna Wannabees had somehow found themselves there as well.
This would not end well.
While the band tuned up....
"Pssst. Wanna take a trip?"
"It's like this. You chew it. Savor it. Don't spit, just swallow, no matter how shitty it tastes."
It will not effect you for an hour. But it will get you. It will knock at your door. Then it will break the door down."
"No mater how drunk you are, or get, you will suddenly be sober. You will consume alcohol like water. You will be Superman."
"The first one is free."
God Damn The Pusher Man.
Again, not advocating for drug use. It is an ugly world to visit, and you might not ever leave.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Antidote:
Here are a few links for you on this lovely Saturday.
Saturday Morning cartoons for ya. Edmund Finney has quite a back log of these, too.
Another toon strip for ya.
Cool artwork, using only a Bic Pen. Hyper-realism here.
Cars can now see, thanks to bionic, stereoscopic vision. Soon they will drive for you. Fuck that. There's too much fun to be had.
What does the future hold for us in AI? Well, the "future" is occurring at an ever accelerating rate.
But we'll still be like this.
Hire a stunt vagina for your next movie?
That's from this nice site of links.
OK, gotta bail. But one more. I'd like to own this here thing.
Iceland Volcanic Wristwatch. Huh.
Tomorrow, it might be fun to check in here.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
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