恋愛恋愛It started恋愛恋愛恋愛when we were恋愛恋愛恋愛baptizing the恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛sheep.恋愛恋愛恋愛恋Papa Sweat,愛恋愛恋愛恋愛with his St. Nick's Beard恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛crisp as dewy dough恋愛恋愛恋standing taller than愛恋愛恋愛恋an acreage愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋in a caramel tie愛恋愛恋愛恋愛and cherry bomb jacket恋愛恋愛恋愛恋incanting from 愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋some Louis L'Amour愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛over the trough of dry ice恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋while I held suspended愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛the newborn lamb恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋her wool sticky愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛glutenous恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋gob-stopping愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋all over愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋my hands愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛he went on longer than usual恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛with the scene where恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋Faye O'Donner declares愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋her love for Sheriff Taylor愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛revealing a strawberry garter belt恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛and silky delicious恋愛恋愛恋skin愛恋愛恋愛Taylor says恋愛恋愛恋愛Now this is what I call恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋a room with a view愛恋愛恋and愛恋愛恋locks愛恋愛the恋愛恋door愛恋愛恋at the愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋Goathead Inn and Bar恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋carefully and with愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛uninterrupted eye-contact恋愛恋愛恋愛unravels her恋愛恋愛恋愛恋below the愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛WANTED: PITBULL JOHNSON恋愛恋poster愛恋愛恋愛恋愛and恋愛the恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛Goathead's very own恋愛恋愛恋愛恋39-years aged Malt Whiskey愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛恋愛
Highlights of the NW tour.
All Seattle dates cancelled due to an extreme loose stool ping-pong tournament with the dogs of hell's lacerated intestines, in a discreet love hotel in Fukuoka City. a solo performance complete with I.V. Drip and a five-hundred dollar airplane cancellation charge. Thanks, Zawa Restaurant of Fukuoka, now and forever dubbed The Salmonella Cafe. What restaurant in Fukuoka serves sashimi on hot rice? The Salmonella Cafe. After driving down to Portland, a grand ol' welcome party show at The Barn with Oregon Artificial Limb Co., a bombshell blowout with Abusive Delay and Footsolo, Shane and I (Spasmolodic Duo) followed with a reading from atop a very comfortable bed, upon which I had been sleeping off my jetlag throughout most of the show. The performances were stella-cellular, comparable to the delicious warmth of homecooked bread, if the bread were laced with an angelic aftereffectivepneumonicpneullucination pill. Then came Tuesday, a perfectly wonderful set reciting short fictions and sputtering embargoes from Castro's Weatherman (my Cuban novel) wonderful because of the masterful Doug Haning, who was musing piano improvisations at The Tugboat Brewing Company, Portland's one and only living room for people with a palatte for Chernobyl Stout, 13% alcohol. That same night with CexFux at Valentines, just down the street in a sweatier, funkier game of pallandrominoes, a new expanded version of the impro-funkestra with Asa Gervich, JP Jenkins, Mark Kaylor, Jonathan Sielaff, Luc, Shane Schneider and a few others who brewed a palatable liver-cleanser of dense monstermash audio vittles, and as you can see below, god drew an impression of this young man's tender mobilibido as he spat nonsensical chatter-collisiosyms into the mike:
∬ ﾉ( _,,_
(＼＿／) ⌒ /../ ﾐ
（´ 〜｀''） ././ ﾐ
／ ,. ＼_//
ヽ_) '┐
i' ,,-*ｰ､. `i
（＿_| * （＿_）
*
*
*
Next stop on the NW circuit was the Someday Lounge, keeps a video archive of performances, including our This is Not This October 17th performance at the Phase One Words and Music Show, hosted by Garrett Strickland, archiving the nun's habbit I was sporting that evening, complete with a very, very, heavier-than-god silver cross around my neck. Jesus. Footsolo was on amplified bicycle baked to perfection like some slithering metallic goose in chocolate mole. One night later, or was it the night before, I was slated in on the mike with FIASCO, on KBOO radio's Night of the Living Tongue, hosted by the dangerously ravishing Jennifer Robin. Bass clarinets, blenders, egg beaters, keyboards, dulcimers, neon fan, trap-set, saxophones, guitars, electronic transliterations of the formulas for nuclear energy (I'm not kidding), with Tim Alexander, Jerry Soga, Juan, Alejandro Ceballos, Bryan Lightcap and the Reverend Papa Sweat. The final night was tied-up and hung at The Waypost, with Shaun opening the night on solo piano, followed by Plankton Wat on deliciously langorous solo guitar meanderings. The nun made an appearance there as well, with Footsolo screeching and tromping gears of metal eating itself on the electric bicycle, a former member of the Portland Bike Ensemble, Whitney Woolf. Another highlight was catching up with novelist and freestyle-fiction storyteller Mike Daily, whose novel and double-CD set ALARM [2007], an ambitious and psychedellicollaborative shout-out to experimental fictioneers (including Portland's own Kevin Sampsell, who is featured as a character in the novel) scored triple points with heavyweights like Eckhard Gerdes, Steve Katz and Raymond Federman, and he still has copies. IN between the madness, I managed to place copies of my chapbook of flash fictions, Voices From the Fictionary,at the wonderful Reading Frenzyand Powell's City of Books. I was also happy to be able to drop off a few copies of Donkeys, a brilliant gem of a guided tour through scurvy English freakculture by the one and only Nottingham poet and performance artistThe Fug.
And now for a more than surreal stopover in a small university city in the middle of the American prarie, in the middle of the middlewest, with an underrated subculture and plenty of time to reprint a more readable manuscript for Castro's Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist, before a few weeks in the sur-reality of the Peruvian Amazon....
All Seattle dates cancelled due to an extreme loose stool ping-pong tournament with the dogs of hell's lacerated intestines, in a discreet love hotel in Fukuoka City. a solo performance complete with I.V. Drip and a five-hundred dollar airplane cancellation charge. Thanks, Zawa Restaurant of Fukuoka, now and forever dubbed The Salmonella Cafe. What restaurant in Fukuoka serves sashimi on hot rice? The Salmonella Cafe. After driving down to Portland, a grand ol' welcome party show at The Barn with Oregon Artificial Limb Co., a bombshell blowout with Abusive Delay and Footsolo, Shane and I (Spasmolodic Duo) followed with a reading from atop a very comfortable bed, upon which I had been sleeping off my jetlag throughout most of the show. The performances were stella-cellular, comparable to the delicious warmth of homecooked bread, if the bread were laced with an angelic aftereffectivepneumonicpneullucination pill. Then came Tuesday, a perfectly wonderful set reciting short fictions and sputtering embargoes from Castro's Weatherman (my Cuban novel) wonderful because of the masterful Doug Haning, who was musing piano improvisations at The Tugboat Brewing Company, Portland's one and only living room for people with a palatte for Chernobyl Stout, 13% alcohol. That same night with CexFux at Valentines, just down the street in a sweatier, funkier game of pallandrominoes, a new expanded version of the impro-funkestra with Asa Gervich, JP Jenkins, Mark Kaylor, Jonathan Sielaff, Luc, Shane Schneider and a few others who brewed a palatable liver-cleanser of dense monstermash audio vittles, and as you can see below, god drew an impression of this young man's tender mobilibido as he spat nonsensical chatter-collisiosyms into the mike:
∬ ﾉ( _,,_
(＼＿／) ⌒ /../ ﾐ
（´ 〜｀''） ././ ﾐ
／ ,. ＼_//
ヽ_) '┐
i' ,,-*ｰ､. `i
（＿_| * （＿_）
*
*
*
Next stop on the NW circuit was the Someday Lounge, keeps a video archive of performances, including our This is Not This October 17th performance at the Phase One Words and Music Show, hosted by Garrett Strickland, archiving the nun's habbit I was sporting that evening, complete with a very, very, heavier-than-god silver cross around my neck. Jesus. Footsolo was on amplified bicycle baked to perfection like some slithering metallic goose in chocolate mole. One night later, or was it the night before, I was slated in on the mike with FIASCO, on KBOO radio's Night of the Living Tongue, hosted by the dangerously ravishing Jennifer Robin. Bass clarinets, blenders, egg beaters, keyboards, dulcimers, neon fan, trap-set, saxophones, guitars, electronic transliterations of the formulas for nuclear energy (I'm not kidding), with Tim Alexander, Jerry Soga, Juan, Alejandro Ceballos, Bryan Lightcap and the Reverend Papa Sweat. The final night was tied-up and hung at The Waypost, with Shaun opening the night on solo piano, followed by Plankton Wat on deliciously langorous solo guitar meanderings. The nun made an appearance there as well, with Footsolo screeching and tromping gears of metal eating itself on the electric bicycle, a former member of the Portland Bike Ensemble, Whitney Woolf. Another highlight was catching up with novelist and freestyle-fiction storyteller Mike Daily, whose novel and double-CD set ALARM [2007], an ambitious and psychedellicollaborative shout-out to experimental fictioneers (including Portland's own Kevin Sampsell, who is featured as a character in the novel) scored triple points with heavyweights like Eckhard Gerdes, Steve Katz and Raymond Federman, and he still has copies. IN between the madness, I managed to place copies of my chapbook of flash fictions, Voices From the Fictionary,at the wonderful Reading Frenzyand Powell's City of Books. I was also happy to be able to drop off a few copies of Donkeys, a brilliant gem of a guided tour through scurvy English freakculture by the one and only Nottingham poet and performance artistThe Fug.
And now for a more than surreal stopover in a small university city in the middle of the American prarie, in the middle of the middlewest, with an underrated subculture and plenty of time to reprint a more readable manuscript for Castro's Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist, before a few weeks in the sur-reality of the Peruvian Amazon....
I'll be dressed as a bearded nun with a voice like satan, again, for this one...
this is not this - electronic voice
(moscovich and foots)
plankton wat - guitar
s.r. ongley - piano
the waypost
3120 n williams
saturday october 20
8 pm - free
this is not this - electronic voice
(moscovich and foots)
plankton wat - guitar
s.r. ongley - piano
the waypost
3120 n williams
saturday october 20
8 pm - free
PHASE ONE: Words + Music. Portland, Oregon 10/17...
[NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW]
WE (K)NEW:
- Finishing up a split-season residency of sorts, BECCA YENSER once again joins Phase One for what will undoubtedly be yet another stellar reading of her impressionist poetry and prose. With wry humor and unexpected poignance, Yenser deftly renders - with gem-like language – a pratfall ballet of tenderness, shame, and vulnerability; light refracted off the mirror of memory and back to illumine her characters’ purest and most unifying humanisms. A rising talent if there ever was one.
- Experimental electro/hip-hop multi-instrumentalist RASHEEDA AMEERA weaves entrancing beats and soulful vocals, rhymes and flutes, typewriters and turntables. We are very pleased to have her at this month’s show.
- NORA ROBERTSON, formerly McCrea, spent her first post-collegiate year in Cluj-Napoca, Romania, learning to cook a mean chicken paprikash, which does appear somewhere in the novel she’s working on. Her fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in such publication as Redactions, 2GQ, and Plazm. “How to Boil an Egg,” a recipe-poem from a collection-in-progress entitled Body Project: A Cookbook, was nominated by Redactions for the 2007 Pushcart Prize. Her spoken-word performances have been included in the 2007 Public Works multimedia series (curated by 2 Gyrlz Performative Arts), the 2004 Enteractive Language Festival, and in the multimedia reading series Phase One: Words + Music. She lives in Portland, Oregon and teaches ESL in the Portland Public Schools.
- Not as much a band as it is a ritualized gathering of energy, WHITE FANG plays songs the way that light does, bouncing and shattering and reforming without any real sense of self. Not as much music as it is a way of thinking, White Fang is more beast than band; that one dark form in the shadows that you shot at but didn't check to feel for a pulse and now there's something loud and bright coming up the stairs looking for you with beer and good vibes.
- DAVID MOSCOVICH is the author of the recently-completed book Castro's Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist, which is either a tragicomedic novel or a prolonged and lewdiculous way of clearing his (the author’s) throat. He plays the amplified bicycle, performs vocally in an invented and improvised tongue, and lives inside a scurvy, time-traveling shadow in Edo Era, Japan. (BLOG: dyslexistential.blogspot.com)
- Hailing from the myriad landscapes of Ohio – creeks, hills, rivers, farmland, and Native-American burial mounds - OHIOAN & NATIVE KIN is the familial joy-child of Oryne Warner. After hightailing it out to this, the other O-state, he went to work distilling both his and a musical history. The new album, BEING OF THE GOOD RIVER, is a culmination of this, a “life put into a canoe and set a-flame”. Featuring contributions from members of Shaky Hands, Old Time Relijun, Evolutionary Jass Band, Joggers, CexFucx, Eternal Tapestry, Au, LKN and many more, Warner has crafted a musical experience that musician and writer Adam Gnade has called “a haunted universe where high-plains drifting country rock rolls like a thunderstorm into swampy firefly-lit funeral processions that disappear; later reborn as junkyard free-folk or midnight dixieland-goes-drum-circle-joy freak-outs… Birth, death, rebirth, god and blood, love and strength, snow and fire, riffs cycle back over a clattering landscape of busted-up Americana, faces emerge out of the fog and it's fuckin' Mardi Gras down that rainy alley.” Definitely not to be missed.
All this WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17Th
at SOMEDAY LOUNGE (125 NW 5th Ave)
9 PM. $5. ALL-AGES!!!
See you then, Portland!
- Garett Strickland
Host / Curator
Phase One: Words + Music
www.myspace.com/phaseonepdx
[NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW]
WE (K)NEW:
- Finishing up a split-season residency of sorts, BECCA YENSER once again joins Phase One for what will undoubtedly be yet another stellar reading of her impressionist poetry and prose. With wry humor and unexpected poignance, Yenser deftly renders - with gem-like language – a pratfall ballet of tenderness, shame, and vulnerability; light refracted off the mirror of memory and back to illumine her characters’ purest and most unifying humanisms. A rising talent if there ever was one.
- Experimental electro/hip-hop multi-instrumentalist RASHEEDA AMEERA weaves entrancing beats and soulful vocals, rhymes and flutes, typewriters and turntables. We are very pleased to have her at this month’s show.
- NORA ROBERTSON, formerly McCrea, spent her first post-collegiate year in Cluj-Napoca, Romania, learning to cook a mean chicken paprikash, which does appear somewhere in the novel she’s working on. Her fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in such publication as Redactions, 2GQ, and Plazm. “How to Boil an Egg,” a recipe-poem from a collection-in-progress entitled Body Project: A Cookbook, was nominated by Redactions for the 2007 Pushcart Prize. Her spoken-word performances have been included in the 2007 Public Works multimedia series (curated by 2 Gyrlz Performative Arts), the 2004 Enteractive Language Festival, and in the multimedia reading series Phase One: Words + Music. She lives in Portland, Oregon and teaches ESL in the Portland Public Schools.
- Not as much a band as it is a ritualized gathering of energy, WHITE FANG plays songs the way that light does, bouncing and shattering and reforming without any real sense of self. Not as much music as it is a way of thinking, White Fang is more beast than band; that one dark form in the shadows that you shot at but didn't check to feel for a pulse and now there's something loud and bright coming up the stairs looking for you with beer and good vibes.
- DAVID MOSCOVICH is the author of the recently-completed book Castro's Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist, which is either a tragicomedic novel or a prolonged and lewdiculous way of clearing his (the author’s) throat. He plays the amplified bicycle, performs vocally in an invented and improvised tongue, and lives inside a scurvy, time-traveling shadow in Edo Era, Japan. (BLOG: dyslexistential.blogspot.com)
- Hailing from the myriad landscapes of Ohio – creeks, hills, rivers, farmland, and Native-American burial mounds - OHIOAN & NATIVE KIN is the familial joy-child of Oryne Warner. After hightailing it out to this, the other O-state, he went to work distilling both his and a musical history. The new album, BEING OF THE GOOD RIVER, is a culmination of this, a “life put into a canoe and set a-flame”. Featuring contributions from members of Shaky Hands, Old Time Relijun, Evolutionary Jass Band, Joggers, CexFucx, Eternal Tapestry, Au, LKN and many more, Warner has crafted a musical experience that musician and writer Adam Gnade has called “a haunted universe where high-plains drifting country rock rolls like a thunderstorm into swampy firefly-lit funeral processions that disappear; later reborn as junkyard free-folk or midnight dixieland-goes-drum-circle-joy freak-outs… Birth, death, rebirth, god and blood, love and strength, snow and fire, riffs cycle back over a clattering landscape of busted-up Americana, faces emerge out of the fog and it's fuckin' Mardi Gras down that rainy alley.” Definitely not to be missed.
All this WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17Th
at SOMEDAY LOUNGE (125 NW 5th Ave)
9 PM. $5. ALL-AGES!!!
See you then, Portland!
- Garett Strickland
Host / Curator
Phase One: Words + Music
www.myspace.com/phaseonepdx
The Quit-aholic
I had to have the job -- what's more, I knew it would be mine like the cheap, easy bitch of a job I knew it was, despite the claims it was a refuge for the gourmet palette in a tasteless take-out industry, I knew it was the dregs of this six-lane highway, that they called it a Boulevard was another greasy misnomer. I wasn't completely aware that I was doing it again, mouth dry as a whip, offering myself as the courteous, whimsical asset they just couldn't live without, dressed in my best corduroy blazer and purple necktie. My target -- Donald Levy, charismatic proprietor of the newest five-star drive thru (yes, a gourmet drive-thru monstrosity) in Los Angeles, and admittedly a brilliant chef. When in the initial days of training (he insisted everyone sample the menu in order to better serve the whiny, upper class, poodle-obsessed clientele) he offered us a green tea sour cream gelato, I had to admit I was dealing with a world class jackass -- the ingredients and the taste were of such high quality, such obscenely perfect texture and deliciousness, it deserved the same ambiance; an uptown location, the best crystal, the white tablecloth, the pristine service and at least two discreet on-location high class prostitutes. Instead, Levy was packaging his Huso-Huso Belugan Caviar in cheap, white polyurethane, destined only to be mauled in a CO2 frenzy by some ratty Chihuahua hussied up in rouge and a pink garter belt and netted stockings.
The ending should go something like this…
Dear Mr.Levy, and all the employees at Fiddler’s Feast,
I have a confession. I am a quit-aholic, and you are my latest victims. The past three and a half years have been a whirlwind of petty addiction, a relentless game of seduction, deception, capture and release – a dangerous adrenalin-ridden game of impermanence which at its base is a deep cloud of despair and a whole lot of valium acquired by unscrupulous means. And the loneliness of a man whose only sense of power lies in his ability to say no – No, I’m not waking up at 8:30. No, I’m not making coconut mousse Italian parsley cake for that whore with the Pomeranian in a wedding dress. No, I'm not going to light a Belgian chocolate candle at our only table for the 5-digit couple who want the romantic, slow-food experience at this absurd Dadaistic experiment gourmet fast-food Frankenstein. No, I’m not picking up my last paycheck and no, I don’t give a flick of a bugger’s ass.
Thus it is with regret, and a great rush to the head for me to inform you – I quit.
I had to have the job -- what's more, I knew it would be mine like the cheap, easy bitch of a job I knew it was, despite the claims it was a refuge for the gourmet palette in a tasteless take-out industry, I knew it was the dregs of this six-lane highway, that they called it a Boulevard was another greasy misnomer. I wasn't completely aware that I was doing it again, mouth dry as a whip, offering myself as the courteous, whimsical asset they just couldn't live without, dressed in my best corduroy blazer and purple necktie. My target -- Donald Levy, charismatic proprietor of the newest five-star drive thru (yes, a gourmet drive-thru monstrosity) in Los Angeles, and admittedly a brilliant chef. When in the initial days of training (he insisted everyone sample the menu in order to better serve the whiny, upper class, poodle-obsessed clientele) he offered us a green tea sour cream gelato, I had to admit I was dealing with a world class jackass -- the ingredients and the taste were of such high quality, such obscenely perfect texture and deliciousness, it deserved the same ambiance; an uptown location, the best crystal, the white tablecloth, the pristine service and at least two discreet on-location high class prostitutes. Instead, Levy was packaging his Huso-Huso Belugan Caviar in cheap, white polyurethane, destined only to be mauled in a CO2 frenzy by some ratty Chihuahua hussied up in rouge and a pink garter belt and netted stockings.
The ending should go something like this…
Dear Mr.Levy, and all the employees at Fiddler’s Feast,
I have a confession. I am a quit-aholic, and you are my latest victims. The past three and a half years have been a whirlwind of petty addiction, a relentless game of seduction, deception, capture and release – a dangerous adrenalin-ridden game of impermanence which at its base is a deep cloud of despair and a whole lot of valium acquired by unscrupulous means. And the loneliness of a man whose only sense of power lies in his ability to say no – No, I’m not waking up at 8:30. No, I’m not making coconut mousse Italian parsley cake for that whore with the Pomeranian in a wedding dress. No, I'm not going to light a Belgian chocolate candle at our only table for the 5-digit couple who want the romantic, slow-food experience at this absurd Dadaistic experiment gourmet fast-food Frankenstein. No, I’m not picking up my last paycheck and no, I don’t give a flick of a bugger’s ass.
Thus it is with regret, and a great rush to the head for me to inform you – I quit.
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