A Mystic Muffin (2011)

THE OCCUPY TORONTO is somewhat of a lowlife transit commission, cheap smokes at a hasty store. The oversized black girl drags me along frosted Church Street, which is by now assembling furry coated office girls tripping towards their lawfirms and business machines. She knows where to find some cheap smokes for the camp, it’s the future, just so you know. This is about the only consistent sense I can drain from her dazed babble, it’s been another exhausting night down in the  the bowels of the T.O. Her voice is hoarse and fading, she must have been one of the screeching creatures, inevitably drawn towards the fire by the morning.
Said that she wanted to buy some groceries for the camp kitchen, but her money is somewhere, if 65 dollars for a tenpack were ok, she’s asking me now. I get her a single pack.

As the streetcar arrives, it’s time to politely detach from this mission. Her white noise kind of lament has grown to a steady sobbing, I’m spotting her another two bucks for the streetcar fare, no clue what to make of all this raucous confusion. I’m still way too wealthy for these streetkids, they have a smell for the quick lube, who knows what she had in mind for that obscure place where that bill of fifty was supposed to be.
Now that I let go, on the flipside of another night out in the brisk perimeter, munching the sweetest PBJ bagel, wide awake and more alive than ever, filled to the brim with the most lubricant existence, aren’t these just the most charming details?
By the end of this teaching, I kept the fire like a true skipper, do easy with the elders, pulled a guy’s foot out of the flames, as Red Stone Man was dozing off. But he’s a born dreamer, serious information, keeping his personal sacred fire. He was dreaming of a checque to come to him and it came.

WE ALL DO KNOW a lot more than we know. That’s what the naïve young mother said, mixed up with a great deal of esoteric mumbo jumbo. She had come down from Scarborough, knowing that there was no bus back. It’s what they refer to as a ghetto in Toronto, which is hard to believe. Especially after coming out of the D, thoroughly reframed. To be very honest though, I am kind of relieved for the moment. The sight of a stray dog still sends a shot of adrenaline to my nervous system, immediately scanning the situation for packs of famished hounds that might run me down the forlorn streets.
Not that I have encountered any or have come anywhere close to being mugged off my bike. Detroit has been cuddling me like a fluffy wee puppy. However, the superqueer weirdness of the urban wildlife can cause some complex digestion issues.
This radical diet of ceaseless sirens and conspiracy theories in Detroit has been getting to me. You start believing them when they’re being fired at you at all crazy times of the day. Eventually you start losing faith that this front page system has ever worked or could be fixed at all. And even up here, in a world that seemingly is not all drenched in doom and gloom, oppression and corporate cannibalism, peace of mind only comes at the price of ignorance and/or intoxication. Might not be a bad idea to wake the fuck up though.

Canada is on the eve of passing an incredibly dangerous and expensive corporate terror legislation under the name of Omnibus Crime Bill. In its core, this bill will create a private prison industry and promote the construction of ridiculous mega-jails. Short: make money off the state by detaining people for as long as possible. If there are not enough criminals, why not adjust the laws accordingly and raise minimum sentences. Make Canada safer, that usually pulls the trigger. A country, which hardly knows any crime. In the meantime, the mayor is very serious about creating new jobs and reminding his sheeple to work off their Audis and lake-side condominiums.
We have heard it so many times before, but it won’t go out of fashion. People “just doing their jobs” have been contributing to the most devastating crimes in human history. Next thing you’ll read on your flatrate crackphone is that corporate is sending in the 4G Robocop to either protect or otherwise get your ass.

WHICH TAKES ME BACK to Detroit on a minute flashback, still worked up to draw a gist from this disruptive settlement. Maybe it is the Paris of the Midwest, the renaissance city of a sweet water future. That’s what all the Michigan school kids are made to believe. The greatest fresh water reserves on the planet, light years away from tidal waves or freewheeling hurricanes and permanent bushfires. Wholefoods won’t open up in Midtown just for the tax breaks and Ernst & Young most probably has some information on the ground of which they have opened up a big new office building.
Maybe the Brokedown Chief is right and the claims are completely staked by the end of 2012. By then he will have opened up, filling bellies with Corktown’s sweetest potato hash straight from the soulkitchen. Maybe the future is indeed in the delighted hands of the whizkid from Maine, who had been hoping for so long to be coming to this city. Maybe it is in the rabbit hands of Little Ryan and all the other DIY makers & shakers, creating their own power happiness completely off the grid. Or even Derek and his brawling gold miners. Maybe they will rent out all these $1000 and up condos in the Broderick Tower and bring the gentrification that old Detroiters seriously wish for. Yes, indeed, maybe.

AS OF TODAY – the very most I can speak about – the Chief can’t even bring up three single bucks to buy a jar of hummus and his business partner isn’t taking the phone when the Chief’s calling from his own number. He’s gotta use my phone for stealth maneuvers. For the time being, the Christian nut bar is losing it all when speaking in tongues to her daughter, trying to exorcise a flu out of the frightened child.
In my time, there is a huge gap even between downtown and the so called bustling hipster midtown. Not even to mention the full state that’s sprawled out between Motown and the white trash fence at 8 Mile. As of now, Handsome Tim rather watches weird movies instead of mingling in predominantly black blues bars. But all I really know is about the tiny future. The dollhouse future of smoking, clowning, bicycling, sincerity or wood fires and solar panels. The rest is just a snapshot, contemporary as fuck, even of which I don’t have the faintest idea.
So – after all – don’t listen to a word I say. The D is an equally imaginary and delusional place as Black Rock City. No doubt, it was dedicated to the Sun King himself, Louis XIV. Go and see with your own eyes and make sure you stay at the hostel. The manager is a little fruity and hasty but actually a real deal sweetheart.
Watch Robocop, Cycles of the Mental Machine and the Street Fighting Man, or learn to pick random Motown songs from the jukebox. They’re always good, every single one of them. Pick up Jack Kerouac’s On The Road from your bookshelf, the first line is dedicated to a girl from Grosse Pointe. And don’t neglect your rich friends from there or from Birmingham. The Halloween Baby makes some sterling Wiener Schnitzel and should stop worrying about Sugartits, who is a true crackmaster on the boulder.
Go Fowling with the Crack Puppy and put it all on the deck, I don’t know anybody who doesn’t love toy factories and talking dolls. You can put him on speed-dial on your crackphone. The number is 1-800-EAT-SHIT.

Last Day in September (2016)

Last day of September and I start seeing the California People in the Colorado People. Like as if the situations are either from some other time, past or future, or timeless, prototypical déjá-vus, but then again, we are of course smoking A LOT OF weed every day in a good number of days now.

I wonder if those stoners like us ever get anything big actually going, such as pulling off a five week rally for a random guy they might not necessarily be wanting to do business with to potentially sit on the county’s board of commissioners.

So, this whole story might or might not receive a dash of political flavor. There’s a bunch of elections coming up and the green farmers of Hippie Delta U.S.A. feel a growing urge to have their interests represented at the appropriate level now.

Provided always that they actually do know what they want outside of making a lot of easy money.

Making my way back to the cats in the press shop thru tender is the mountain night. I mean just to get things straight.

All those Boys ever really want is to press some glistening fancy buttons on heavy machinery all the while getting high as fuck.

Now the sheriff’s on their tail though and something’s got to happen. They must have made shitloads of money, paying eighty grand in trimmers alone, but that was last year, and the careless splendor of those cotton candy days is still lost and forever probably.

Not even two weeks since I first got here, and yet I’m being sucked right into this giant hazy vortex, sitting down at the inauguration meeting of what might turn into a political landslide or at least it should be fun to watch.

The joints are huge and so are the pizzas they had coming. Classic Americana, one is tempted to say, and straight to the ice cream it is, together with a serious series of high-powered dabs, and that’s how they roll out here pretty much.

(Taken from “The Grotto“)

The harder they come, aka The Grotto

Wednesday, 17th of January 2018. It’s been a while, but here’s a new book to read eventually. The Grotto is an experimental piece of work, as to be expected, it’s bilingual, molecular, hazy and metamodern, of course. On top of that, The Grotto is somewhat of a historic document by now, written down in the last days of what they call the Pre-Trump America, long lost and forgotten.
Special shoutouts go to Pietro O’Rourke from Hamtramck, Michigan, for his patient editing, to Gonzalo de la Fuente for the groot cover drawing, and last but not least to Sebastian Schellenberger from Heidelberg, for his loving care on the difficult homestretch in the printing process.
Here’s some more details on the book and where to get it.

 

 

United Nations Day

Close to high noon in Dab City U.S.A.
Still seeking shade from the Rocky Mountain sun, still at the base of the All-American flagpost, still in the very center front of Union Station, still turned all upside down everything. The same old Union Station, or is it, all new and shiny, where I last got off from the the California Zephyr, some five years to the date, the year before they went all recreational in the state of Colorado.
In the state of today, there’s Ten Thousand People coming in here every month, the Steve Jobs lookalikes will keep telling you on the all new busses turning into the all new bus stations, not even counting The Hobos. But that’s only what I didn’t say.
And all of this is happening just because of the weed, I asked the Steve Jobs lookalike, who said he had taken a class on the roots of all this cannabusiness, but I couldn’t tell if he had figured it out or if it just had gotten him  more confused. Nobody can tell, not even me, better to curb my attitude before it even starts building up. Read more →

Modern Day Tom Sawyer

61’ Hi Freaks, says the modern day Tom Sawyer. He knows the panic rooms to their shitshow, he’s been all over them high country airports.
What he still doesn’t know is what’s really cooking out there at Denver International, halfway into Kansas. 
Do they just pad it down on Peña Boulevard, do they simply think otherwise, do they talk in code, like all the way on Arizona Two Six Four?
What he doesn’t know still is which type of pretzel logic they fancy, building museums of their own breed, where obscurity goes up on trial. They is a strong word in just any conspiratorial stance, the strongest one in all the facts behind the facts. They, with all the dark powers on their invisible hands. Building a showroom of theyr very own device is such a smart move on behalf of the secretive society, visitors are welcome indeed. It is at the same time the cut-throat argument of any deluded moron dealing in alternative truth, because he can always argue that THEY just did that, build that exact showroom, to hide THEYR true intentions and underhanded agendas. Read more →