another wonderful transmission. depending on how you look at it.
Paul Pagliaro: dear god
Paul Pagliaro: you realize we need years of therapy and medication right?
Kasai REx: yeah
Kasai REx: decades
Kasai REx: all of us
Kasai REx: of course i realize that
Paul Pagliaro: just kidding, fuck all that hippie bullshit!
Paul Pagliaro: the only thing i need is a doctor that's gonna prescribe me whatever i want, whenever i want
Guns N Bombs - Nothing Is Getting Us Anywhere
Videoclip from Angelenos and Kitsune soldiers Guns N Bombs, shot with friends in and around Echo Park. Directed by Jeppe Laursen (Senior from Junior Senior) and filmed with 70s-era video gear. Starring the musicians (IMAROBOT"s Filip Turbotito and Chicago DJ Johnny Love) and their wacky California friends frolicking about, evoking a scene of some sort of cocaine-soaked, Reaganite Rococo daydream. Now that you have background, let's get back to me. Because it is, after all, my show Ed. Don't you FUCKING forget it you senile FUCK. I'M JOHNNY FUCKING CARSON GOD DAMMIT!
This track makes me wanna get all fucken MadCHESTer and eat like 25 Es (and maybe blow a few more for extra credit) and fly across the river to Manhattan, just to cause some ELE-grade problems at Stereo, yeah. Maybe play some kickball, go visor shopping. Smoke a little weeeeeeed. I know how much you kids love your marijuana. And why not keep the party train runnin' and shoot over to London City for a bit, on the wings of MDMA? Up for a Green Light Test yeah? 225 BPM or die. Safe as fuck.
Where my E pill bitches at? Cos ya need to give me a call around Thursday or Friday. Your country needs you. And by your country, of course I mean the seratonin and dopamine receptors in my rapidly deteriorating brain. Semper Fi.
Death From Above (1979) - "Blood On Our Hands"
As the REx has been in digital hibernation for some time, it's only courteous to play a bit of catch up, yeah?
The scene is the Borough of Kings. Somehow.
God knows how long ago the Saturn's Day in question was.
God knows what transpired the Friday before.
But you see. That's the trip with this set. Days become nights and weekends never really die. This is all far beyond any song lyric or party Polaroid on Last Night's Party. You Talk It, We Live It. Which ironically, is part of a song lyric. So there you go.
A Saturday morning not all that spectacular in and of itself. Oh no. Quite normal really. A head full of fire, megalomaniacal thoughts and more than a bit of dust. Plenty of "You Go Grrrrl!" Overdrawn accounts all around. Like some House Party 3 shit, yeah?
Let's move. Coked-Up Werewolf and the Ultimate Warrior are made of sterner stuff that morning. TimeMachine, however, breaks out the fake blood, a full week before Halloween, methinks. Not putting that shit on my face. Sensitive skin. But once again, emotion overwhelms logic and something beautiful is the end product. Two banshees, braving the cold steel rain, bleeding profusely from the head, awaiting the opening of our favorite boozer, Williamsburg's CYN (Lounge). Just down the block from "home".
Drive around a bit, stretch out those Aquatreads. The GraveDigger hydroplanes about Greenpoint, and by now, I'm on my way to taking an entire can of highly lethal Dust-Off to the face. Gotta be economical, yeah.
Eventually, the potential for vehicular manslaughter becomes too much for even TimeMachine and I, so we park the GraveDigger where we damn well please and take a walk. A long walk. Bloodied, soaking wet, well mashed, sketching out any and all who happen to be in the blast zone. One concerned Brooklynite stops me to ask if I'm alright (on account of the blood), even offering to help fuck up whatever vato done did it. My reassurances of a lack of injury don't seem to calm his murderous rage. Perfect. He's on the team.
A short time afterwards, I've found an umbrella, a child's, made in the P.R.O.C. All purple and My-Little-Pony-cute. Time to make this thing grotesque, cos' that's what the REx does best, yeah.
Within the span of a few blocks, I've destroyed the umbrella to the point that it consists of little more than a mangled revision of its flimsy metal endoskeleton. Occasionally, I hold the eye-poker at arm's length, squatting in the middle of Bedford Avenue for long stretches of time, horns honking left and right of me, all the while making any and all attempts to pick up a transmission from those pesky fucking Scanners. It's a war so futuristic it has but two combatants and one side. Nervous stares all around. No NYPD for miles.
Time's gone. CYN's on, with a dear friend manning the bar. L.A. Guns and blood-soaked Roses will be the vibe. Lots of Death From Above 1979. Tour Support. In spades. And so much blood on our faces and clothes that we'll most likely develop skin cancer 10 years from now as a result of the cosmetics. Everyone is worried about us.
Frequent dashes outside with my former-umbrella cum interstellar listening device. And on one such occasion, who should I see ambling down Bedford Avenue but Kyp Malone, guitarist and vocalist for Brooklyn indie supergroup TV on the Radio. Not unusual in and of itself, as he's often in the neighborhood, along with lead singer Tunde Adebimpe. But this is special. I'm feelin' strong and the world is mine, so to speak. Literally. Shhh. Here he comes...
And it go a little somethin' like this:
kasai REx: "Big fan Kyp, Huge fan. Great live show man!"
Kyp Malone: "Jesus dude, you're bleeding!"
Mission Accomplished Mr. Hawke. Return to base for some Jack-and-Waters.
Mumbled through a mouth full of peach Skoal, TimeMachine proposes a jaunt to Manhattan, seemingly out of nowhere. On the hunt for some trim. Two guns up! Terrible idea. kasai at the wheel?
Across the bridge without mass death. Somehow, someway. Not so lucky from there on out. A mingling of sheetmetal interfaces. on Houston. a yellow cab and a narrow escape, courtesy of a now freshened Ultimate Warrior. if only it had been one of those mobile paternity test centers, like the ones I see in Bed-Stuy. Then maybe I could have cleared up some, uncertainty. Yo well.
Though the night would continue from that point (approx. 5pm Saturday) through 9am the following Sunday, this story does not have a happy ending. This denouement is one of parking tickets, the petty theft of Apple products, empty wallets and empty hearts, "how do I taste", the death of the fake blood gag and epicly savage coke crashes. So for your own sake, you'd best stay behind the yellow line. And please do mind the gap.
i. I've got a 9mm bullet casing hiding between the blue and pink layers of my reversible BoxFresh jacket. Funny, as I have no idea how it got there. I don't own a gun (n.b. - given my professed derangement and past outbursts of warrantless and excessive violence, probably for the best), so that's out.
Most likely, I found it somewhere and was carrying it around, fully in the throes of TOUGH GUY Mode. And it's highly possible that someone in "The Circle" advised me to put it in of the "Keep New York City Clean" trash cans on some Brooklyn corner, so as not to draw unnecessary police attention. Holding, you see. Funnier still is the fact that, short of cutting the jacket open, which I'm not fucking doing, there seems to be no way to get it out.
ii. By around 4pm this day, I should've been fully prepared to hang myself. To think that my drug counselor (and former addict) uncle visited the family home, well mashed, driving around my young cousin and her friends, advising me to stay away from the "drug scene". Farbeit for me to stop a drunken sermon. Let him run. He'll wear himself out, with lots of talk of how the mental illness/savage drug problems that plagued him and my grandfather "skipped" me. Assuring nods, yeah. Guess that's my M.O. Case ya didn't know. To paraphrase, The Spark In His Eye Belies The Apocalypse Inside Him (thank you TVOTR). And don't you fucken forget it.
But hey. I did gain some insight through all the Newport haze and Jack Daniels belches. A sober-eye view of what cats look like when totally mashed. Not enough to shut the lights out when I get back to Brooklyn though. The Fatal Flaw. Drag the Waters.
Epilogue... Bullet troubles aside, it occurs to me now that the aforementioned uncle in Article ii. was the same uncle who gave me my first beer. At age three. And apparently, getting toddlers wasted has been his M.O. for quite some time. The More You Know...
Panties for men
Dust and Peyote, but not in that order
The Maytag Man's illegitimate black son
Flatbed trucks carrying other flatbed trucks
Monster truck video games (in 2007)
Dreaming that Pervez Musharraf was dead
Lindsay Lohan's head on Eminem's body
1991 BMW (E30) M3
The 201 area code
The Coked-Up Werewolf
God damn skylight!
Being referred to as Miranda Richardson on some blog
Trying to steal my own identity
"This is the game of LIFE!"
Point Break, thrice in one day
Euros under my tire
Talk of the Nation
"I want that inside me!"
Jim Palmer rookie cards
Holland Tunnel's "suicide squad"
MLK Jr.'s funeral
Midgets drowning on inflatable rafts
19th Pregnancy Scare
"One Day The Children Came"
Flight Simulator X
Live Free or Die
"Because Heart Care Can't Wait"
This is the nightmare. Lived every day, all day, 1/30th of second slower than it actually jumps off. Melding a somnambulist's fuckwittery with a Reaver's perpetual anguish. We'll drink to that. Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again.
Finally. A thoroughly haunting, hyper-accurate, post-Barye representation of what KASAI Rex looks like at the height of his Brooklyn-based raging. "You've never seen me very upset". London has its own definition for this icon, but we'll settle for the biographical, yeah? Love you!
Imagine my shock when I discovered that the most dangerous, most elusive, most mysterious drug on Earth, scopolamine (or Devil's Breath) is available in the form of some sort of prescription(?) motion sickness treatment. Smiles all around. It's only a matter of time yeah. Further info can be found here.
Let it be known that from here on out, KASAI Rex (a newly acquired moniker -ed.) shall be acknowledged as the hardest partier in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Far beyond braggadocio, this "statement" is a matter of empirical fact, and shall be, upon request, verified by the vanquished, possible contenders for the crown.