Sunday, April 29, 2007

It's more than just a floor

Them Natives "Chemtrail of Tears" (Christian Science Fiction) Tour Spring 2007 spurted off east Wednesday. Enhance your ministry immediately! HOLD THESE GODDAMNED CHICKENS! Whew. I need a cart.
Anyway, post no bonds for the upcoming new edition. No one wants to know! Wait, I'm receiving some information. Yes! This photo courtesy of an experiment, or at least for the sake of publicizing my random internet curiosity satiation, this blog, and perhaps the following posts, may resemble the random Google image search. Set your preferences for NO filtering and type in "kuvy" and check out page 2. Anyway, the salsa I made tonight was way different than the last batch I made about a week ago, and this time I neglected to use the way-too-expensive cardboard-like "fresh" tomatoes in favor of the organic tomato sauce I bought for 50¢ at Big Lots. Let me post this and then figure out what in the filbert is going on. Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DORIS!!!!!! I love you.

Monday, April 9, 2007

(I shouldn't have to) punch) the vampire hologram

I think the first thing I heard on the radio this morning was a story about recovery of U.S. soldiers' bones from the Korean War. I guess war is almost always capitalized. Almost like domestic cuttlefish behavior analysis while lots of people starve. That seems like a paranoid analogy, but in lieu of the current jet stream, I'd rather be an obscure thief than a famous fool.
UPDATE. I can't recall the actual date of this blog but if you're that interested and a hardbuff for current events, well, then, make the moves.
SOoooooooo, the course of the blog has taken a turn for the obvious as I transmogrify the intent toward a more relevant. Please wait here while I record Rodger and his new folk ditty, "I'm constantly hungry for strange," a so-called pussy-ballad refrained from the ancient in retrospect from Rodger's perspective from the wad-end of "That Town."
Like, how do I did it? Next up, more lies..

Wednesday, April 4, 2007



DAN SARTAIN, The Magic City's darling man-child, fresh from tanning his axe all over Europe, will be greasing out a bunch of new songs w/drummer

OBESE VEGAN is Bham's newest and most refreshing scuzz metal fester-core that will more than likel
y have you reconsidering that whole revolutionary cap-n-black hoodie look thing

PONY BONES from Stone Mountain is a beautiful sanguine tombstone hurled at the reflection of the moon in a river of Old Granddad. Defitinitely for fans of seminal, totally unknown southern poet and blade-cuddler Frank Stanford

HENRY DUNKLE is Bham's blazer sportin, perma-grin troubadour ala Dock Boggs, Alabama's own chuckle-strummer Autry Inman, and maybe even a hint of Corndawg, come down from the hills to croon a ballad blue into your cheating heart.

DJ Scorchy Tawes will be providing intermission tunes from odd records

Dress warm!

3719 3rd Ave S
Birmingham, AL 35222

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

The full moon looks just like an asshole

Dropping your drawers? Chances are you are, or already have, or maybe you're currently losing a bet WI-FI-ing sans culottes "down" at ASTEROIDMONIES, thinking up clever names for a trophy dog you plan on buying.

Wow. Am I the only person who really digs most of Three Times Dope's "Live from Acknickulous Land?"

So I finally went to the doc about this previously very weepy poison oak I somehow managed to wrestle by myself from a tree in the backyard late-night after pounding some bronsons. Got a shot, got some steroids, got much cream.
Man, speaking of fucking three dimensional roid relief — when in the hell is this celebrity-pocked mound of celluloid going to infiltrate my skull and get seemingly uselessly lodged there forever upon some mirthful cloud of synapse lusting playfully at its chance to turn its faucet on to similarly minded pudge-KULTure scavengers? What Wouldn't Eliot Gould Do?

from Myspace bulletin earlier this evening...

Sweethearts of the rodeo,

Arthur has been recalled to life.
I bought Laris's 50 percent interest in the magazine thanks to the efforts of family and friends.
Now I own 100% and am moving forward with all Arthur activities as quickly as possible.
Sorry for the interruption in service.
To celebrate the occasion, we've posted the whole ALAN MOORE ON PORNOGRAPHY piece from Arthur Magazine V1 N25 online on our Magpie blog.

in gratitude,

Jay Babcock
Editor/Owner, Arthur Magazine

In other news, what's up with Forest Park? First, this house gets several noise complaints via our landlord and, apparently, voicing your concerns about volume levels with the owner of the property, not the current tenants, us, the folks residing next door every day, is to truly roll executive style on the Botox chariot in the faceless information age. A month or so later, I hear someone walk up the steps and the sound of paper being slid through the door, which I open to see what I at first thought was a city police officer shambing off to her patrol car as the pink note falls to the doormat. Turns out it's an obviously ennui-racked brownshirt from the Birmingham Police Environmental Gestapo who, upon my questioning of what her love note really means, informs me of the completely-unnoticeable-from-the-street- unless-you're-snooping-up-on-somebody's back yard's compliance with the city's visible grass overgrowth height! Unfortunately, she experiences a lot of difficulty elaborating about my inquiry into the logic of this warning, especially after attempting and failing miserable to interrogate her as to how the hidden yard warranted such unprecedented scrutiny. Did I mention that the grass in contention was no more than a few (six) surly tufts, each of which, although maybe 9" at best, could easily be yanked up by a fist? I mean, how did she know the land wasn't a backyard wildlife refuge? Now, forward to yesterday morning, where I'm greeted on the front patio by yet another piece of paper, this time from a passively 'tuded Tudor-owning neighbor I'd never met but ended up clandestinely luring over later in the day by passionately watering the very recently planted verbena and bulbs on the front mound (there is no front yard but rather a hill of dirt humping up to the stone patio wall). The letter sort of insinuates that thanks to our shabby rental property upkeep (?), some potential buyers of his fresh on the market waddle-n-dauber had actually backed out!
Did I mention that there is no trash anywhere in the front of our place? The bullshit appears to be already in full bloom. I guess things were smoothed out after our talk, but I can't help but still feel a little leery, especially considering those prospective buyers didn't mention anything to my neighbor about the character-drenched apartments two doors down from him where all kinds of eventful activity can be experienced on any given night in the shabby-chic parking lot of said units. Maybe it's time humanity got a little more in touch with its non-posturing biological energy, and just in time for Wilhelm Reich's archives to be opened! I think I will invite the piquant pharmacy drop-off lady I met while dropping off my prescriptions who involuntarily gnawed my head off, as well as the tightly-coifed noggin of a co-worker, at the Clairmont CVS yesterday. I hope she is toilet trained other than in her mouth.

Road trip anyone?