Archive for the ‘A Very Special Rumorator’ Category

2012-60: The Days Change Slower Now

Thursday, July 19th, 2012

I’m writing this shit in Futura, we’ll see how it turns out on the bloggosmos.
Guys, we got some shit coming up: We got that Aesop Rock show on the 27th. You going? Yup. How could you not? Honestly. How many times have you listened to Ruby ’81 without breathing at this point? 30? 100? Derecha de quieres?

But the really good news is the A/C in my current joint has been fixed. I had to bust out during the replacement process, so I told the installamaniacs to set it and forget it at 70. They did. I chilled. I don’t go to 68, because that is just ecological gluttony, right?

Do you know how nice it is to drink until you fall asleep because you want to, not because it’s the only option you have in the heat? Panadería para que.

In other news:

Moving into the new shack in 8 days. I cannot wait. Funny thing is I was awoken by the sound of rain yesterday morning. And my first thought was, “Holy fuck, it’s raining. It hasn’t rained since April.” Then my next thought was “Now I’m going to have to mow that fucking lawn.”

Claro que si. You win some you lose some. Nabos en la mañana, you know.

I’m tempted to flip this blog into a look-what-I’m-doing-with-my-joint machine. Of course everyday will just be “I hired contractors to…” then pics of them working as I drink booze and flip though a copy of the New Yorker on my couch.

Actually I’m kinda feeling that approach.

In other news:

Milwaukee’s Hardest Trivia is taking another run at being Madison’s Hardest Trivia. This time we’ll be at The Glass Nickel fucking with brains. Get ready to eat some shit up Madison,

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because it all starts September 6th.

In other news:

You’ll probably want to see this:

But don’t confuse it with this:

Then again, don’t confuse it with this either:

In other news:

Heading to the norf for some Wet Hot American Summer-style action. If I have any sort of mobile reception, you can follow along on the tweets and instagramps. Manténgase en sintonía con mi pene.

In other news:

Pretty much can’t enough

2012-59: Falling Down

Monday, July 9th, 2012

I’m dying here. The air conditioner in the temporary estate went out last Thursday night. I woke up Friday morning, sweating like a beast convinced I was getting sick. Nope, the air temp was just 91 degrees in my house. That’s 32-33 Celsius for my metric MFers. It hasn’t really cooled down either. All I want at this point is for the temp to dip below 80. The best night sleep I’ve gotten since Thursday was when I got drunkish and slept on El Poco Lollo’s couch.

Word on the street is The Mangler is not getting repaired/replaced until Friday. Needless the say I’m damp, irritable, tired and considering laying out a funeral suit. I might not make it through. I kind of feel like the cast of A Time To Kill.

Thanks to Cezar for that joke.


The Second Coming:
Since we’re talking about Cezar,

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grasp this Americana:


Sheeeeeeit. The Polish national anthem sucks.

You want more Americana?

Does this work for you? Looks kinda North Korean to me.

This is better. Nice work whoever put that up. The location is killer, but the content could use some originality.

I got that Killer Mike album. It’s full of raps. I like it.
I also fairly like this:

Let’s get back to the temporary estate a.k.a. the set of a Black Snake Moan reboot a.k.a. where energy goes to die a.k.a. Higgs Bored-son
On account of the heat, I’ve had the ceiling fan above the bed (or fuck nest, if you will) on full blast. Shitty thing is that something inside of it has been shaken loose so now there is this horrendous tic…tic…tic…tic…tic sound.

And since the a/c is shitted, there is a fan by the balcony. The fan is called the Hawaiian breeze. Believe me, this is a lie. I have been to Hawaii and at no time did I think, “I love the way this breeze is as loud as a jet engine, yet somehow it is moving absolutely

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no air.” Pretty sure the box said it was a fan, but my brain is telling me I bought a noise maker. So now there is the constant engine noise, the tic tic tic of the ceiling fan, and if you take a cold shower to relax, the exhaust fan in the bathroom has this metallic rattle going one.
I’m in a bad meth commercial.

The good news is that I’m out of the place, and into the new permanent estate in 18 days.

2012-55: Tackling the Tough Issues.

Wednesday, June 20th, 2012

Wind In His Hair: From the Mouth of Aretha Franklin’s Corpse

Today we’re gonna talk about respect. This is uncommon for me. But there comes a time in a man’s life where he has to make a change if he wants to see a change. For me that change needs to be made in my own neighborhood. It involves a street I walk or bike on almost daily. Williamson Street. “Willy Street” in the dominant vernacular.

Let’s get this right. Williamson Street sucks. It’s an anachronism. It’s Madison’s Neanderthal brow and vestigial tail. It’s the reason you can’t have nice things.

On my walk down Williamson Street I pass a gun shop, a bead store, a watch battery shop, a co-op where they feel the need to remind me I have to pay a surcharge on my lettuce because I’m not a member every time I’m in there, A Jamaican restaurant, painted to look like the flag, a Labor movement themed Realty office, a second hand store, 2 tattoo parlors, a grip of salons that Xine used to go to when she had blue hair, several other resturants and bars, several places that might be restaurants or might be just large patios, And a Paleontologist’s office. But that last place is pretty badass.

Of the houses on Williamson Street, I would guess 80 percent are in disrepair. 15 percent are acceptable and 5 percent are recently built condos. Perhaps this is a sign of gentrification, and for the first time I welcome it. But those 80 percent in shambles places, they have shit like mannequins on their porches and balconies, or maybe they haven’t mowed their lawn since ’06, or they are using Tibetan prayer flags as siding.

And you can’t ever say, “Yo neighbor, your house looks like shit,” or “Hey bru, I understand that your jungle lawn is your way of sticking it to the oil and lawn mower companies. But maybe you could pick up the empty beer cans, cig packs, and Vote Kerry door hangers that are floating around in that jungle.”

You can’t ever say that because then you become the man. How you gonna oppress a neighbor like that?

But it’s not just the residents, it’s the denizens as well. The speed limit on Williamson is clearly posted at 25mph, but never has a speeding ticket been issued on the street because everyone slows to 16mph. Traffic has one lane in each direction and there are always left-turning cocksuckers holding up traffic near the co-op where they feel the need to remind me I have to pay a surcharge on my lettuce because I’m not a member every time I’m in there. On the rare occasion I have to drive to my office, it often takes me longer to drive than bike.

It was on a recent weekend drive down the street that a girl darted in front of the silver spurt. There was traffic not far ahead, so I assume I was rolling at a solid 21mph. This girl was pushing her shitty bike and not using a crosswalk, but that is minimal. I should also mention she was not wearing shoes. As this girl had no sense of urgency in her mosey, I had to nearly stop and I’m sure I gave her a look that said, “Fuck you and fuck this entire street.”

When she was almost out of the road, she turned back to me and mouthed, “Slow down.” She may have actually said it, but I didn’t know. I had the windows up, a/c on blast, and El-P turned up to eleven. I’m unsure if she heard the amazering that came out of my mouth but I think she got the point from my face. At the top of my lungs, in my car, I know I told her to go fuck herself and threatened to run her ass over on the sidewalk , back up and do it again, piss on her stupid fucking hippie feet and drive 10mph into her face. I’m also sure I used the word cunt 2-4 times and told her she had a shitty bike.

Then I started driving again.

Which brings me to the respect theme. I feel part of the reason Williamson Street is so shitty is that it goes by Willy. Willy doesn’t instill pride in anyone. Willy doesn’t get business done. Willy paints his front door orange, because he wants to. Willy’s gonna wear a tie-dyed phish tee with the neck all stretched out to a job interview and then blame corporate America when he doesn’t get the job. Willy rides his bike on the sidewalk. Willy is a piece of shit.

These three pics are all of a typical day on Williamson Street. The images were lifted from

To extrapolate, there is the term “sconnie” which some people seem to think is a cute way to refer to Wisconsin, or people from Wisconsin. I’m gonna be straight with you. Everyone who thinks “sconnie” is appropriate deserves the crappy, rights-rapey, state government we have in place.

This place is Wisconsin. I am a Wisconsinite.

Or preferably a Wisconsonian.

Stands With A Fist:

This part features no less levity. For real. Look at this.

Chief Ten Bears:

Listen to this:

Who’s this now? Fifth dimension breakfast club? Mega media day?

Wednesday, June 13th, 2012

Let’s get this shit kickstarted. International playboy and all around rad dude, the outlaw Jonah Whipp is trying to raise some money for his movie. It would be cool if you could throw some dollars at it. But if you can’t, at least check it out. I got hopes for this.

The :10 mark just kills it.

Ps. Dude still owes me a dragon’s head from when took my backpack and went to Taipei.

Since we are talking about the moving picture, this came out recently:

It is an important thing to talk about with your friends. However, the same cannot be said about still images. Por ejemplo, I have recently taken these two pics of Madison. One vertical and one horizontal. As you can see, they both do great job of capturing the utter ridiculousness of life on this isthmus.

Unicycles would just look ridiculous in horizontal pics

Tough break for the working class in Wisconsin last week. Things are shaky, but I’m trying to see the positives, so I wrote up this list.

Also note the vertical picture takery.

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Coincidentally, I recently came across @GlassedEye on the tweet box. I knew this guy when I was a youngster

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and he was certainly one of those people I wish I knew better and for longer. He now lives somewhere near me. On the night of the WiscoDischord he blasted this shit out:

So I know his brain and heart are still in the correct place.

I was flipping through channels the other night, probably trying to get between Pawn Stars and Property Brothers, and I got locked up on some station because I thought I heard a Polica track. So I was stuck there for the opening five minutes. Turns out I was watching Saving Hope some civil service drama about a hospital. I imagine it’s much like Grey’s Anatomy without that broad that looks like she just blew Acid Man. No, not Sandra Oh. You racist.

So naturally I shared my experience on the tweetbox, and this interaction followed:

It seems that dude is the dude who puts music into schlocky tv shows to hook rubes like me.

On pretty much a daily basis, I blow my own mind by thinking that someone pays me money to write things and just make shit up. I think I’m pretty fortunate. Then I see @DavidHayman’s gig at Supersonic Creative and I get a little jealous. Plus he’s a Torontarian.

Blast off.

2012-53: Børn

Monday, June 4th, 2012

1rd—Food Board
What does a cantankerous, aging man eat for his birthday lunch?

Pastrami on rye, naturally.

2st—Bykke Bli

Something tells me this is an expensive brake break:

3th—Big Riggin’
I am officially in the market for a new rig. Here’s what I am considering:
• Nissan Frontier crew cab
• Nissan Xterra
• Toyota Tacoma crew cab
• Subaru outback (2008 or 2009 only)
• Ford F150 crew cab

I want to be able to move shit and burn up resources as fast as possible. Thanks in advance for

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any shared opinions.

2012-47: This One Goes Out to Dechen

Friday, May 4th, 2012

Sometimes I think these guys made everything okay for me when mom and pops vR were getting divorced. Things were scary then, I had no clue what I doing. I had no clue what I was supposed to say to my bothers. All I knew was that I

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was going to see the Hello, Nasty tour. That summer with my friends and going to that concert kinda saved my brain. I bet I listened to this track 500 times that summer.

But even before that, they were making it okay to be on the island of misfit toys. Fuck it, they were blazing their own trail, why shouldn’t everyone. Sure, they released

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some questionable tracks, but they released heater after heater after heater for every tepid track. It saddens me incredibly to see Adam Yauch pass on, but makes me feel better knowing he left a strong legacy.

2012-39: You Can’t Touch This

Monday, April 16th, 2012

The pic is pretty much unstoppable. Kind of iconic at this point too. I could just post it up because it’s so fucking awesome. But really, it’s because that dude on the guitar, it’s his birthday. And not just any birthday. Señor McKay is 50.

For what it’s worth, Fugazi was the first concert I ever saw. It was at First Ave in Minneapolis. I totally lied to my parents to get there too. I had to work on a Sunday morning and then I was going to see the show that night. Naturally I told my parents I was going apple picking with A. Kobersnatch in the morning, and then I would be working in the evening.

Apple picking. WTF, right?
Shit was a top-notch parent lie. Never did pick apples with that mamajama either. That was probably for the best though, as I heard everyone else did. HEY-O!

Anyway, half a century. That’s legit. And he’s held fast to truth. So much respect.

I should say a big thanks to IanDC of Lenorable to tipping me off.

2012-34: The Sweetness, or TL, DR

Wednesday, April 4th, 2012

Somehow, this is 2012.

FlawsyFiles recently made the ridiculous claim that there never was an “us” in snowboarding, snowboarding was never ripped from us and that the scene is loaded with a fake history. But I’m about to disagree.

For me it started way back at Christie Mountain, home of the Blue Hills Beast and the racialistly coded slogan, “Christie Mountain, you’re all white.” I remember seeing some dude up there with a K2 board, just blasting girl methods off anything. I’m pretty sure they weren’t even called girl methods back then. The dude was pulling tricks that were way cooler than my rawdog, spread-eagles off gutter jumps. Even at 9-years-old, I knew that guy’s shit was wicked awesomer.

I should note that at this point in life, my exposure to snowboarding was essentially through TV, and TV has always made it look like some super lame bullshit. Sure, they would show footage of Damien Sanders back-flipping off a cliff in hard boots, but were they going to show him filing his teeth into fangs (Did this ever really happen?)? Were they going to show his harem of Black Flys fly girls?

But something about seeing that guy riding in person clickity-clacked with me. I wasn’t any sort of a stand-out kid. On weekends I rode bikes and played football with my friends in our parents’ yards. We would have sleepovers and sneak out of our homes, just to see what it was like. It was boring. But when I saw that guy on a snowboard, I knew I wanted to be part of that. Fuck it, it was pretty much over. I was already hooked.

It’s like an addiction. It’s just the way some of us are. We’re simply wired that way.

I can only liken it to growing up gay—this comparison I can only speculate on and do so with no intention of trivializing the struggle that it must be to grow up gay.

But I went through middle school struggling to fit in on various sport teams. Not because I wanted to, but because it was what you did. If you didn’t join the team you were pushed even further out of the acceptable crowd. It was a crowd I was already on the edge of thanks to oversized pants, chain wallets and heroes like Steve Graham and Gilligan Yoder. So I played along, and at football games I sat on the bench waiting until the last four minutes to play.

Like all kids, I eventually found those like me—those who were just as obsessed. They became my “us.” In a way it’s where I learned what snowboarding was all about. Backyard picnic table sessions, driving around for hours to find a good road gap in Wisconsin, picking up skateboarding only as something to do when we couldn’t snowboard, and fanboying over all the new decks at the shop in August—all of that is the shit that creates an “us.”

Snowboarding in those days was accepting of so many kinds of people, so long as you were a little bit on the fringe. If you had a snowboard, you could hang. Often anyone on the shred had a similar outlook.  The school-sponsored team sports weren’t for them. They weren’t very good at free throws or interceptions. But none of that mattered, because, snowboarding was simply about you choosing to do it and the awesomeness you found hanging out in sub-freezing temperatures.

The public image of snowboarding was reckless. It was still six-year old images of Damian doing back-flips off cliffs. They kept their distance. But had the public gotten any closer it would have been worse. Cigarette smoke, white dudes with dreadlocks, missing teeth, drug use, bar fights and puke breath were par for the course. Snowboarding was as gnarly as the skate and surf crowd it devolved from, or at least that was the way snowboarders told the stories. And often snowboarding was mocked for this. Look at the snowboarder in Ski Patrol. Classic public perception. Disgusting. Being represented by a three-faced dude in a movie wasn’t the greatest thing ever, but whatever, it was Hollywood. Hollywood ruins everything.

Perhaps I am looking back at youth with a rose-colored lens, but I refuse to believe that completely. My evidence comes from the fact that it is still easier for me to talk to snowboarders than most skiers. There is something that connected this pastime to each of us, and we share that bond.

Then something happened. It’s hard to say when. I would guess around 1994, but I’m sure those older then me would say around 1990. Bob Klein would probably claim around 1982. But everyone got invited in—it wasn’t just for the outliers anymore. Snowboarding was thrown in the Olympics. Snowboarding became less of a lifestyle and more of an activity. There were snowboarding teams and snowboarding coaches.

Instead of being snowboarders, suddenly snowboarders were supposed to be athletes. People committed to making their bodies the pinnacle of performance for one task only. And just as athletes participate in their sport after school, so did snowboarders. And if they had some inherent skill, they snowboarded a little in college and then they probably stopped. Sure, if it was on TV on a Sunday afternoon they would watch it, reliving their glory days.

I love those dudes who gave up snowboarding after college. It was like hacky-sack or soft drug use to them. I particularly like it when they try to dump their 7-year-old gear on craigslist for anything more than 10% of retail.

This is what lead to capital S Snowboarding. These are the Toddlers and Tiaras Tindies© (copyright 2012 Keef Love) crowd. These are the athletes you’ll continue to see in TV ads. Not just snowboarders, but Snowboarders. They are destined to be the pretty face of snowboarding. Allowed to have just enough edge to make parents call it edgy. Shaun White is Will Smith.

And therein lies the dichotomy of snowboarding. Capital-s Snowboarding will from now on be commercial-friendly, coached, TV-ready and soulless. Meanwhile, snowboarding will be night sessions, sleeping on couches, trunk beers, in the streets and halfway into your sister’s pants. So much of snowboarding is still on the edge of Thunderdome and Snowboarding has become the Truman Show.

And I’m way older now. My body is starting to fail me. I’ll still snowboard every chance I get, and I’ll watch Snowboarding every time it’s on TV. To me, Snowboarding is my football.  These days I’m geeking out over the technical aspects of clothing and when I find someone who wants to talk about it as much as I do, it creates a new “us” in snowboarding. And then you start discussing the cuts of coats and pants and how it’s necessary that you have at least 4 jackets ready to go at anytime. When you find someone who understands you’re nerding-out 12 months a year. There is still an “us,” it’s just not found in Snowboarding.

2012-26: No Irish Need Apply

Tuesday, March 13th, 2012

Lets pretend for a minute that you are going to do something other than shots of crap whisky and drink shamrock shakes until you puke for St. Patrick’s

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Day. Can we do that? Can we all stop pretending that we’re mega-Irish for the day? You wanna dig deep and claim some shit? Well dig this, Momma vR has got some Irishness. Probably claiming Country Cork or Wexford or some crap too. But she’s also got some Austrian and English and German and Cherokee and French Canadian and Bengali in her bloodstream. Shit, the Irish portion just sullies a proper melting pot. And I mean I’ve read Joyce. Fuck it. College was basically me plagiarizing The Dubliners. I’ve listened to the Pogues, I fairly like them. But I also like the Klezmatics and pretty much any ethnic music.

This is the time of year when I start hating the flamboyantly Irish as much as the republicans hate women.

Dear St. Patrick’s Day, fuck your green Bud Lights and temporary shamrock tattoos and Irish Pubs and dudes in kilts and your Cahills Porter Cheddar and all that. And please stop saying “Cheers” as rather than thank you. I hate you so much.

Here’s a better plan. Squeeze a few hours out of your day and do some snowboardy shit. This is what the dudes in Wausau are throwing down this weekend:

Knowing what little I do of Central, I can only assume this will be a 100% radder contest. So, if you’re in the area, go to it. Do some tricks, or just watch. Then get our drinks on. But please don’t do it under the guise of Irishness. Do it because

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you want to get a little drunk with a lot of friends and maybe this year Mil-One will take her shirt off and show everyone her boobs.

beeteedubs: What’s the story with that Capita typeface?

I’m pretty sure guys should not be using tumblr. Women just do it way better. Prove me wrong.

This is worth backing:
Fuck the FIS

Taco Bell® Make a Run For The Border presents: FOURTH MEAL!
Not a wholly bad hair day.

2012-16: Remixxers

Friday, February 10th, 2012

I knew him back in the day.

That’s pretty much how I’m gonna have to talk about flawsyfiles now. Well not really back in the day, but definitely for a year-ish. A-man swept the e-nets shredit world by storm a couple days ago. This is way better that the slow motion video of the BCA airbag saving life.

If you somehow haven’t seen his video yet, watch it:

Scarier And Also Cherrier from a man on Vimeo.

Seriously, somebody give this dude a job making these edits all day.

This is a video that more people need to watch:

Mega-performance weekend. Tonight, I’m going to see Demetri Martin say things that should make me laugh. Tomorrow, I’m off to see to Kill A Mocking Bird and eat dinner with the fam. Sunday it’s time to ride with Keef and hopefully Moefaniel. I’ll do some tricks or something.

As a whole, Madison needs to get it’s trivia game in order.