SPECIAL NYE EDITION: HORSES 4 SALE

Whipper Pistol
The Thousandaire
Footsie
Feets Donfailmi
Mystery Feet
Marcy Mustard
Vajj Poontang
Childhood Issues
Betty Makeyrbed
Taker Sleazy
Pippy Tubestocking
Salt Petra
Butter Chainyermind
Derby Rich
Dirty Roller
Mercy No Mas
Surly Witch
Porsche Monkey
Hammer Smash Face
Stella Regions
PH Balance
Best Ass 2010 (good for two years!)

REGGAE LOVER (NEAR BUFF PROFESSOR)

CABALLITO NOCTURNO

Last night Erin and I ventured back to PH to celebrate the holidays with my family. My younger brother, Jacob, was released from the klink at midnight the night before and I was anxious to see the chap. It had been over six months since we last spoke and the 15 minutes we spent on the phone earlier in the day was full of yucks & crack-em-ups.

If I could regale you, dear reader, with every outright hillllaaaaarious jail story Jacob told, I would. There's just no possible way to remember all of them. Sweet christ, the man could base an entire career as a stand-up with the material. One of my favorite bits:

"The toilets could flush anything. We flushed an orange, then a blanket, then a pair of jeans, and then a bible. The bible was the only intact book we could fine in the entire jail to try flushing."

Tip of the iceberg right there. He'd trade photos of Kate Beckinsale for cigarettes and coffee (the latter of which, if procured illegally, would be put into a piece of toilet paper and "parachuted" with a glass of water). He also showed me how to do a "jail hug" (don't ask!). Cripes, we were laughing for hours. When we parted, he told me, "Don't worry. It'll be a while before I go back." In honor of the fellow, I offer a track from our old band below.

MP3 MURR TWISTAL - "Dance Of The Universal Peace"
[Note: Jacob doesn't actually play on this track. He did live tho'. Haha.]

OF THE WIG'S EDGE

He was like, "What are you into?" And she was like, "Oh, you know, bondage and shit like that."
He was like, "No shit. I'm into watersports." She was like, "No shit. I had no idea you were such a sexual creature."
He was like, "Yeah, pretty sexual. Just the way I was raised I guess." She said, "Huh. When did your ma stop breastfeeding you?"
He said, "What's that got to do with anything?" She said, "I don't know. Just curious."
He said, "I don't have a weird breast thing if that's what you're getting at." She said, "Nah, that's not what I'm getting at. I just wondered if you were into milkmaids, that's all."
He said, "Shit, why didn't you just come out and ask?" She was like, "I always get nervous when the milkmaid thing comes up. It seems like every guy I've dated is into milkmaids."
He said, "Huh. Well, what else are you into?"

Candy condoms.
Handjob booths.
Rubber rooms.
The future looks brilliant.

FROM THE DESK OF JERRY GARCIA

"I'm what they call an ARTIST, fuck you very much."

MORE EVIDENCE FROM THE OLD MAN'S DESK

Sweet christ, it's a brutal bitch out there. I mean, for fuck's sake, it's 6°F out. Strangely, it hasn't stopped anyone from coming into the shop, even reggae doods. [Is there a correlation there?? Probably not! Who cares?!] Anyway, Aaron's birthday party was last night (and it was my ma's birthday proper) and Robert's going away party was the night before. Lots of playing records, laffin' and sipping maté, late late dog walks (this is not a metaphor). Really, it's been so busy that I haven't had much time to process any of it. Such is the nature of a U.S. December, I s'pose.

Something that stuck out recently, from H.R. (Bad Brains):

"I would think the more important principles to remember are to stay away from trouble, stay away from troublemakers, violence, violent-minded people, and to remember the I-and-I concept: to love oneself, to love others. It's so important to balance out oneself, to take time out with your loved ones and remember the consciousness of the universal love for the proper understanding. It is still in the philosophy stage. It sounds good to talk about it, but doing it requires a bit more time, so I would say to eat good food, exercise, and when playing one's instrument, between 30 minutes to an hour every day."

Lately I've felt some back-and-forth between contentment and feeling like a violent-minded troublemaker. It feels like something's going to bust. Bust for the better, to be sure, but.... Alright. Time to head into some serious feeling-well-below-zero weather. It's the kind of stuff that'll make a dog's ears fall off.

FRESH EYES, NEW EVIDENCE

Let's talk about the OC fire.
Let's talk about ape radar.
Let's talk about heads floating in jars.
Let's talk about drug metaphors.
Let's talk about AARP.
Let's talk about warm white wine.
Let's talk about the disappearing ring.
Let's talk about the shape our shadows are beginning to take.
Let's talk about something that's constantly bleeding.
Let's talk about the monk's hotshit new prayer.
Let's talk about a white spider in a sugar bowl.
Let's talk about CSI phantasms.
Let's talk about the cop's archery cabal.
Let's talk about Funnoween.
Let's talk about the community garden muse.
Let's talk about the train conductor's secret foyer.
Let's talk about a lite lunch on Pickles Beach.
Let's talk about fish polish.

Let's talk about Juan's Thanksgiving case study.
Let's talk about some sick, sick deathrace.
Let's talk about the draft dodger diet.

JACK ON FIRE

It's quite a feeling. It sounds gross. If you haven't done it then you can't really talk. You're in a Las Vegas hotel, you and a famous telepath are sharing a hot tub filled with champagne. It doesn't matter how many cigars you accidentally drop into the froth, you keep drinking and light another.

48 hours later, you're in the desert watching your best friend being skinned alive. The telepath shoots you a text:

Whassup. Picking
up bad vibes but
ur far away. Lay
the scoop down
on a brotha

Vultures circle. "This is payment," you think. Caught up in the rapture of the telepath's glitz, you quit writing the New England Scene Report column for a famous punk zine without giving notice, sold your roommate's bike, and wrote "Happy Hallowe'en" on the mirror before leaving. In the distance still, The Enforcers were edging closer.

to be continued

BUSINESS LAW BOUTIQUE

Fellini's best lawyer film,
Dustin Hoffman lighting a j-bone

to his client, he says:

"Shit, man
I don't know what's going to happen to you
but

(exhales)

it's fucking payday
and I am in
such a great
fucking mood."

The client brightens,
shrinks,
and in that case,
wants to get blazed too.

"No,"
says Hoffman.
"That's hardly a good idea
for someone in your spot.
Who do you think you are --

Willie Nelson?"
The client thinks.

"Tell you what,
I'll let you drive
my new wheels
around the block
a couple times.

But don't you ever hang
up on me like you like
you did the other day.

Do you hear
me, mister?"

A LETTER HOME FROM ASSHOLE PARADISE

"Dear Danny,

ran into your cuckold wife. I had no idea she likes older men -- what a gas. She sounds like a lot of fun. That's good. They're probably so pleased to lose their cocks inside that grapefruit-colored pussy. You got a weeping willow growing around your heart. A fern around that beet red/beef red sausage sauce-spitting dick muscle.

"It's asshole paradise inside your Lamborghini. He's the son of the worst sailor -- an impotent sailor! He only got married because his mother liked pussy-men that could dance. This is beautiful, pal. This storm.

"Couldn't stop thinking about New Year's Eve. Her legs were beautiful -- so beautiful that all the old gay guys practically went straight, kept buying her drinks and pointing at her legs."

THE GLUE OF LOVE, THE POLITICS OF MORONS

To Kill a Petty Bourgeoisie made their Ann Arbor debut last week and it was murder. They showed around 3pm, we hung out for a hot minute, ate dinner and split to the venue. Windy did a really intense piece about 20 minutes in length, Halolos played a tight little set, and TKAPB was a dark, bassed-out monster (but, you know, with a pretty voice cutting through it all). The new jams were insane, especially the last song during which the majority of the small crowd literally howled over top to great effect. Maybe it's that I get so amped up at rock shows because I attend them pretty infrequently these days, but it was really exciting to watch them. There was danger, catharsis. It only now occurs to me that I watched the entire show from behind the PA. Hm. Anyway, the whole shebang was over with by 1am but we stayed up until 4 or 5am drinking Sparks (just kidding).

Wow. Listening to the Rolling Stones now. Some album called Now! and these cats can really cook. Like, the tube amp is all heated up and they're cooking eggs on top of that fucker. Someone go to the store and grab some Canadian bacon. Bust out a $20 cuz I wanna' make an anti-capitalist statement.

LISTENING The Rolling Stones - Now!

PARTY WITH ME PUNKER... IN A CONDO!!! or CONTEMPT IN L.A.

First off, can we whip off an official cease-and-desist letter to The Apples In Stereo? They're like Dr. Frankenstein's anti-Flipper (figure that one out). If they continue to write complete bullshit like "Can You Feel It?" -- and appear on television playing the song where I can accidentally see them(!!) -- then they shouldn't be making music. In one review, the song in question is described as "a sugary sweet blast of power-pop goodness." Hello -- where's that fucking barf bucket at!? ANYWAY...

We were shaking shaking shaking tail feathers, baby, when I brought my left brow down onto the edge of Erin's vodka tonic glass. It was just after midnight and the Ann Arbor Soul Club's two-year-anniversary party was sold out. Up until that point, I had been stationed at the merch table and was anxious to dance. Within minutes of stepping onto the dancefloor, I was holding my eye and cussing. There's no bruise but three days have gone by and it still effin' hurts so bad. Nonetheless, Soul Club was unreal. A little over 230 people were at last year's anniversary and 2008 saw that number double. Crazy. Great great jams all night too -- Mr. Fine Wine came back and killed it and Robert & Brad played something like the-greatest-hits-I barely-know. Erin and Aaron worked a catering gig beforehand and both showed up looking great (although Erin was far, far more attractive).

Before heading to Soul Club, Mike and I slugged whiskey for an hour and talked about life. A letter on Minus Times stationary arrived in the mail that day and news was good. When I came home and saw the letter sitting in the mail, I was so genuinely excited about the contents that I yelled at Chacho (well, to Chacho -- Erin wasn't home). Fuck, man. It makes me want to listen to Amon Düül II.

I am listening to Amon Düül II.

LISTENING Amon Düül II - Phallus Dei

SPORTS OF THE DEEP SOUTH

"Kill the butler! He has really weird ideas about family & children, doctors & hygiene, among many other topics unsuitable for the missus," said the house negro. "As a result, myself and the guests of the house are all becoming uncomfortable!"

Madame raised her hand to silence the servant. She then removed her shoes and balanced on the balls of her feet, tipping just slightly toward the three female gymnasts standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a stationary pose near the middle of the dining hall. Trio, as they were referred to, wore matching white jogging shorts, differentiated only by the color of the piping. The middle gymnast wore shorts with blue piping, the left gymnast wore green piping, and the right wore black. Trio stared into Madame's eyes for a moment, then each into the eyes of the other, from right to middle, middle to left.

Trio took each other hand-in-hand as an ornate throne of silver rose up several feet from an opening in the floor. Perched high atop a slender column, the throne lay in recline. The back of the chair was abnormal in its extended height and the seat was of normal length. From the seat, a short footrest was held out by seven metal bars.

The middle gymnast walked to the foot of the throne. From the opening, two tentacles exited and lifted her into the seat where she lay back. The two other gymnasts advanced toward the throne, stopping just before the middle gymnast's sneakers touched their sternum. They hiked their shorts slightly, revealing the edge of their asses, and the sweat glistened on their thighs.

With a quick jerk, they removed her sneakers and slowly rolled the socks from her feet. Now bare, her toes wriggled wildly as an intense wind picked up from the south of the hall. The crowd at the north wall felt the brunt of the wind's chill, toupées blown off and replaced with icy crystals.

Still balancing on the balls of her feet, Madame turned toward the throne and howled into the gale as the tentacles slinked back into the opening. In perfect unison, the two gymnasts commenced sucking the first toe of each of the gymnast's feet. She moaned and pushed both hands into her jogging shorts. The two moved to her next two toes, the gymnast pressing harder onto her clitoris while their tongues massaged the soft flesh between the toes.

Starting almost imperceptibly beneath Madame's wail, a fire engine siren rose from a soft whir to a horrible alarm as light began to pouring through cracks in the north wall made by an ax.

BRUNCH SANCTITY

My stomach's doing flips but that's what you pay for eating peppers for breakfast! A couple years ago, the ex of a friend stopped by his apartment to pick up her mail and found the leftovers of his dinner sitting on the table: half-finished 40oz., a bowl of peppers. Ramen burritos, Cup-o-noodles, gin & Sun Chips. Someone oughtta' pen the Bachelor Cookbook. Hm. I'm sure it's been done. Esquire might've even covered it (btw, it looks like 2009 will be there year I subscribe).

How did I forget to mention that the Mr. Wiltoncroft book is done?!? It was supposed to come out just over a year ago but there were numerous delays with artwork, the introduction, blah blah blah. At any rate, it's finished and looks beautiful. Hopefully, and perhaps once the new issue of Minus Times is out, there'll be a little celebration. Beyond printing the "pocket reader", Mike was instrumental in the process of creating the final product and I almost couldn't be happier with it. Hunter Kennedy did the fantastic introduction and John Zeichman painted the cover. Soon the public will know the brilliance of Brent Van Daley!

Now, where are those Tums at?

LISTENING Stars of The Lid - The Tired Sounds Of...