Specially prepared for POPBITCH, the Duran Duran – Notorious/Kelis – Trick Me bootleg

*Remember to bid on David Lee Filth’s Auction’s of rare punk and hardcore records. The C.I.A.’s 7″ is already up to 92.11, and the Vatican Commando’s (Moby) 7″ is holding even at 45 smackers, who’da thunk it.

Meanwhile, stay informed via, the info-packed NYTimes Guide to the 2004 Election. Read about the Vote For Change Tour featuring various rock luminaries. Do we really need musicians telling us who to vote for, isn’t that why we have actors? Conceptual artist Claude Closky fucks with letters from wordmarks, then unites them together again to create some brand repellents.

Conduct a Snapdragon.
They look like flowers.
They smell like flowers.
Wait, that’s because they ARE flowers.
Sound? Music? Where’s the sound coming from?
That would be the flowers.
Music Bird Corporation has developed FLOWER SPEAKER technology to make sound come out of flower arrangements.

Finally, quit tuggin‘!

To photograph is to hold one’s breath, when all faculties converge to capture fleeting reality. It’s at that precise moment that mastering an image becomes a great physical and intellectual joy…Henri Cartier-Bresson 1908 – 2004

PARIS – Henri Cartier-Bresson, the legendary photographer and photojournalist whose work captured the human drama on film, died Tuesday at age 95. Remembering Henri Cartier-Bresson From NPR’s All Things Considered. A few quotes with links to some of his well known images;

Photographers deal in things which are continualy vanishing and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth which can make them come back again

With the one eye that is closed, one looks within, with the other eye that is open, one looks without

Late summer heat-wave, every air conditioner in the county must be cranked to sno-cone, rolling the local power grid into a cascading ‘brown out’. Irritating yet manageable until the electrical flow decides to drop off abruptly, whereas I’m storming off in search of a power source. I can’t even think of purchasing a generator, think post millennium bug please. Tired of karate chopping the start button, I decide to pack in the freelance work for later and haul my ass outdoors. The evil black hound is looking a bit wilted, conducting the sun like a four legged solar panel, so I decided to set up the baby pool. Much to the amusement of the neighbors he plops down in the center of his cooling aqua-spa, laying his head ever so restfully on the edge, with a grunt. What luxury, I can hear the Pet Psychic Sonya Fitzpatrick; Oh darling, he just loves the pool, the specially formulated Eukanuba food, and he is really quite partial to his three best friends, colby, jack and cheddar.

Damn, it was so great to kick back and enjoy the afternoon, I called in a favor for Iced Mocha’s, which were so promptly delivered and enjoyed. Slathered on some leftover Hawaiian Tropic Suntan Lotion and baked up in a failed attempt to develop a raging case of melanoma.

Later in the day, I got my ass kicked at the gym, without the wobble board, but feel surprisingly refreshed. Think I’ll stay up late, adjust my code, and paint into the wee hours of the morning.

The only difference between saints and sinners is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.…Oscar Wilde (thanx Brian!)

Latin boys are dangerous angels. Picking up on transmissions volume 7: The D.I.Y. Disco nap into the wee hours of the morning. Perform a ridiculous amount of push-ups before leaving to attend after-hours. Remove t-shirt once inside, allow white underwear with the blue and yellow waistband to peek out of jeans. Stomp around in old black shit kickers, frown, look dirty and fucked up. Shake your biness’ on down, be real, mighty real, get sweaty. Feel the funk:

I’m not so bad, I just like to do what the bad folks do
When it comes to lovin’ lovin’, There ain’t nothin’ like lovin’ on you
Gonna stroke it easy, Wanna’ stroke it long, Wanna’ feel your body
ALL NIGHT LONG!…Fatback

Monday, regain equilibrium, remix parts of the weekend for added pleasure, try to fight back ornery grin. Process, lather, rinse, repeat.

Friday’s visit to the thrift store was indeed a thrift score, among the various Montovani albums, patio-ware, cocktail shakers and the polyester pantsuits, a few choice items were unearthed. Pictures and commentary to follow. My excursion was really about utility and function, to satisfy a penchant for weird looking items, to save money. My mantra, dead fads are fun, which they are, but not as fun as the other shoppers. Wow, what can I say, true life is stranger than fiction and frankly I’m still speechless. Hey, this shit isn’t exactly out of my realm, I grew up in the city of Cleveland proper, so I know oddities exist.

Later that evening, I had Larry Flynt sign my copy of his book, Sex, Lies & Politics: The Naked Truth. Chock full of Socio-Sexual-Political commentary from a smut peddler who cares. You don’t have to subscribe to Flynt’s lifestyle to appreciate his commentary as a well-read citizen, defender of free speech, and foe to hypocrisy. Conflict of interest, think again, Flynt has a few things to say;

People who have a nice, healthy connection to their crotch have a better connection between the head and their heart,” and “in a land of sexually healthy people we’d have less crime, less poverty, less divorce, less drug use-and fewer right-wing Republicans.”

Tough, funny, honest and articulate, Flynt’s book is an edgy fun read.

The early part of Saturday was spent lounging on the lawn at Blossom Music Center, listening to the Cleveland Orchestra, taking in the summer. The orchestra was amazing, performing a program of Romance Classics, Ravel, Mozart and Dvorak. Although Cleveland may be best known for a burning river, and abandoned steel mills, we have always had one thing shining and bright, The Cleveland Orchestra. Read this glowing review from Glasgow.