Pinnn’s SpielLabor.

This place is already giving me that nightmarish feeling. I’m tripping over myself looking for these folks. It smells like sad pathetic falsehoods in here. Snuggling up to the counter-top, “GLASS of… WATER.. Please”. I’m yelling over the shit these people call either “house” or “techno”; whichever they claim it is, it isn’t. The ceiling looks at least 500 feet above my waist. No surprise there; “it’s all part of the process”, I’m muttering to myself silently. A group of brunette twenty somethings gather to my left. Professionals. The drunk one isn’t speaking any language I’ve ever heard, and her face is… well… droopy. Sagging down into her chest. That’s it. Make your presence known; snatch up that attention, it’s what you want. What you NEED. Fucks. And to my right: a sad sad sight. The type of person who would attach onto anything that spoke to it. Head low. Eyes a wandering despondence. Ahh- here we are. Haahaha… the keeper makes me giggle like a fool. At least he’s having fun. I turn around and the site of raw uncut bar/club nightlife absolutely worries me. Not in a “I’m not safe here” way; more of a “is this what we’ve become?” way. These Goddamn people. I’d say they need to get fucked, but most of them probably are on a regular basis. No- they all need a good three hour sitdown with 2001. That’ll (hopefully) straighten them out. Why am I here? Oh yes. To the stairs I stroll. My body glides lower to the ground than normal, like I’m somehow traveling under the “gone-out” radar. The strobes around the dance floor, and over the DJ’s booth are enough to make me vomit. I’m beginning to feel it. Get out! Those big towers pulsating down on me with their beady lights going do… do… do-do-do. I close my eyes only for a moment; immediately bump into someone. Holy shit: I know you, man. This thick red beard starts talking about how he’s been making music for this troupe, but it’s frustrating because people wanna adapt his songs to their own style, he doesn’t like it, but he tolerates it cause it’s music and music’s the SAVIOR, but he’s about to quit and do his own thing, and blah blah; it was interesting at first. But… you know, he pisses himself over John Ford; so that explains that. Finally, the stairs that look to have no end. “In these situations you should always watch your drink (not shrink)”… I know I should… “Yeah, well you haven’t been. Who knows what’s in that water”… Shut-up, if I someone wants to give me a helping free of charge I’m not stopping them… Kk? And the march to an upper floor begins. Something really fucking cool better be waiting for me up there…

-Sonny

A George Russell Experience.

Straight from the pages of Doors Of Perception. George William Russell was a painter, poet, writer, critic, and friend to Aldous Huxley.  These are his words:

“I was sitting on the seashore, half listening to a friend arguing violently about something which merely bored me.  Unconsciously to myself, I looked at a film of sand I had picked up in my hand, when I suddenly saw the exquisite beauty of every little grain of it; instead of being dull, I saw that each particle was made up on a perfect geometrical pattern, with sharp angles, from each of which a brilliant shaft of light was reflected, while each tiny crystal shone like a rainbow… The rays crossed and recrossed, making exquisite patterns of such beauty they left me breathless… Then, suddenly, my conscious lit up from within and I saw in a vivid way how the whole universe was made up of particles of material which, no matter how dull and lifeless they might seem, were nevertheless filled with this intense and vital beauty.  For a second or two the whole world appeared as a blaze of glory.  When it died down, it left me with something I have never forgotten and which constantly reminds me of the beauty locked up in every minute speck of material around us.“

-Sonny

Zzzt, shshshshshshshshshshsh.

The Earth above and around him listless, he sits in a bath of deliberation; bathed in purpose, and completed by nothing as of yet. The walls crystallize into a sparkling teal color. This is the man behind the man’s one true home. A filthy labyrinth of meditation. Somehow between the thousands of Chiroptera lies redemption and studiousness. A serious home on serious Earth. Tonight’s absolutely no different. In his musing, he’s once again lost track of the time and date. Days and weeks feel like one in the same down here. Down here. The coffee’s on; the little black tail sails by the pot without sound. It’s unusually quiet, even for a deep, dark cavern. “Record highs again today as the….” Zzzt “…explaining the recent spike in…” Zzzt “…ime Alley’s quarantine for now.” The tele grabs firm hold of his attention; it seems to be switching channels all on its own, at least in his mind. Story after story. Enough stories to make him immortal, so to speak. He swivels his chair back to his workstation. “Something big walks this way…” he thinks to himself obediently. Below the platform a steady pace of tiny water droplets echoes in the gigantic hollow rock. The studies continue. Unknowingly, he advances to his eventual downfall; and subsequent rebirth. But what is this new antagonist who pokes at him so?? The one thing he could have never even dreamed of seeing. The one thing that will make him crumble to fragile pieces. He traces each screen over and over again. He leans closer, hand on chin. The florescent blues and greens from the monitors illuminate his face. It’s a young face, but one scarred with a lifetime of hardship. His eyes are cracked and red, half open. Drip-bloop goes each droplet. “Someone’s coming..!..” he mutters out loud to himself. Straining, he looks deeper into the screens. His collage of Urban/Industrial decay gradually merges into a perfect composition. It’s enough to make him want to cry, and knife a stranger. White noise filters in through the outsides, eventually consuming this vision of his. “Ahh!” It’s deafening visually and aurally. An executioner of those susceptible to it. The kind of terror he could never identify, or put his finger on, but always lurked close to him. He dreamt this time would come. He nightmared how it would end. “STATIC!” he cries out to the cave, “White noise!!” Convulsing madly, he collapses onto the floor, foaming at the mouth and bleeding at the nose. The critters even retire to the utter darkness. He’s completely alone, and he’s lost control entirely. This unseen, unknown conspirator calls the shots now. The keys to his mind have been swiftly taken by it. It could be weeks before anyone finds him. The static has him right where it wants him. Alone and vulnerable. Helpless in a way he hasn’t been since his earliest memories. Paralysis begins to set in as the man lays awkwardly on the platform floor. His hands are clenched in unmovable fists. His teeth mashed together to the point of broken, chipped and a lot of blood. Motionless, he awaits the next phase of the attack. Would it be external, or from within???

-Sonny

Aldous Huxley’s Consciousness.

My lady friend picked up a book for me about a week ago.  In Aldous Huxley’s The Doors Of Perception & Heaven And Hell, Huxley examines the state[s] of altered consciousness.  His direct observations come from taking mescaline (in pill form) and meandering around his own house while the observer he hired asks him questions/interviews him.  These questions came directly from Huxley, which seems so very strange.  Knowing that in an hours time you’ll be of a different mind; writing down questions to ask yourself during this altered state.

The biggest point I’ve taken out of the book thus far is the idea that the brain doesn’t ENHANCE experience, knowledge, etc, but rather LIMITS these.  The brain acts like a filter for which all knowledge and information must pass.  Without it, human beings simply wouldn’t be able to handle the vastness of information and experience in the universe.  We’d go insane.  With it, we’re able to take in that which is for the most part necessary (finding food, shelter, companionship, etc).  The use of psychedelic drugs, Huxley says, essentially removes this filter from our brains, letting in all experience and knowledge seemingly at once.  Makes sense though: those who shut off their filter ALL the time do end up going insane (as I mentioned earlier), and those who claim to have religious experience on mind-expanding drugs.

In one specific description of Huxley’s trip, he talks very candidly about his experiences.  Much like my own experiences, Huxley says that he never quite sees things that aren’t there.  Nothing of complete and pure imagination slithered across his hardwoods or anything like that.  But he does mention spatial relationships not making any dent in his view of the things around him.  Such as, seeing three objects in line with his point of view.  A chair in front of him, then a desk, then a table.  It isn’t like the space between these things disappeared, rather the significance of such spatiality did.  When The Mind at Large’s brain filter is shut-off, spatial relationships dive straight to the bottom of the totem pole.  Filling it’s place are things like composition, the most subtle of movements, and color relationships.  Once again, the without the filter he’s seeing things that aren’t essential for his survival (knowing the exact amount of space before he bangs his shin on the coffee table).

Mescaline, Huxley says, is completely unique in one special way.  “Administered in suitable doses, in changes the quality of consciousness more profoundly and yet is less toxic than any other substance in the  in the pharmacologist’s repertory”.

Probably more to come on this…

-Sonny

Batman #676.

Before the last issue of Morrison’s Batman run, I’d gone back and read a number of the previous issues (something I do quite often with my regulars). My anticipation skyrocketed when DC’s synopsis of the issue read “Bruce Wayne has faced unimaginable challenges and risen up to the task. But is he prepared for what’s around the corner? More secrets revealed as we move closer to ‘Batman R.I.P.’”. Truth be told, I wasn’t that impressed with the 675. Expectations may have been too high. On top of the that, the regular artist Tony Daniel sat out. The filler-inner, Ryan Benjamen, did a terrible job with the artwork. Part of this may have been because he was picked up at the last second before released, and rushed to finish it.

Well- in the latest chapter to what Morrison calls his “Batman novel”, the regular team is back, and the so is the regular FEEL of the book. That dream-like landscape that doesn’t seem to make sense until 3 issues later. The creator of the book has even said that this story he’s going for is very much a psychological Batman story. It isn’t the gritty, street/crime type (think War Crimes); or the blockbuster type (think Hush). No this is very much so Morrison’s Batman. A complete mind-fuck of an arc that extends far beyond typical Batman bad guys, one liners, and explosive plots. In fact, a percentage of EACH book contains hallucinations, dreams, and generally things that aren’t “real” (remember, this is a dude, and I’m talking about Grant Morrison here, who believes in all sorts of occult-type things). But this fits in perfectly with the overall story: the “isolation chamber” experiments, and the Thogol ritual of death simulation via 49 days in a pitch black cave with NOTHING.

Bruce’s mind is probed once again here. Except this time it’s through a conversation between Alfred and Tim. They’re worried because Bruce has been becoming more and more paranoid, citing a “complex interconnected web of influences and events” and of course “the Black Glove”. This brings me back to the very beginning of the issue, which is there to show us just how influential this “Black Glove” actually is. How far its reach is, too. There’s some sort of “pyramid of influence” at work. The “Black Glove” is an organization at the bottom, and a PERSON at the top. Actually I’m probably gonna go back and read my “Club Of Heroes” arc to pick up the clues left behind on this “Black Glove”.

Speaking of clues, I might also have to go back and read the Joker prose issue, which was utterly beautiful in its creepiness. Because you-know-who makes an appearance in this issue as well. At first (this once again goes back to the hallucinatory nature of the story) we see him imagining himself standing proudly above three of Bruce’s dearest friends after he’s carved them up with a straight razor. In blood, behind Gordon, Tim, and Nightwing, are the words “put on a happy face!”. Of course he’s also carved Chelsea smiles into the threesome’s cheeks. Yeah. The same man who appears in the opening of the book, visiting the “Black Glove”, comes back at the end to offer the Joker an invitation to Batman’s “Dance of Death” (possibly a Seventh Seal reference?). To which he slowly replies… “a… pretty… flower…”.

Look for things to get dirty in the second issue of Batman R.I.P.

-Sonny

NES, Woodstock LP, Poser (Digital) DJs.

I’m waiting around before I go to work.  I’ve mentioned before (not that anyone would know) that I believe we’re coming to a point in popular culture where nostalgia is starting to wreck the ideas of today.  Case in point: the insane amount of TV/movie remakes.  But nostalgia isn’t always bad.  I suppose it’s how you utilize it.  I’m sitting here playing Super Mario Brothers 2, Marble Madness, and Paperboy on this old-ass NES.  But goddamn, it was plainly obvious to me around 2 years ago, when I started playing my SNES again, that Mario Brothers 2 is clearly my favorite Mario game.  Part of this may be because its the only Mario game I’ve played while tripping, but that’s another story.  Marble Madness is one of the most ORIGINAL games ever.  The only current thing that comes close to it is Super Monkey Ball, which is geared towards the tikes.  That’s the really strange thing though, we don’t update the things which would cater nicely to updates.  Mutant League Football/Hockey, Marble Madness, Zombies Ate My Neighbors…. THESE are the games that should be updated.

Not only that, but while I’m gaming these by-all-means classics, I’m listening to my girl’s [father's] vinyls.  Let me tell you, they sound really fucking good for how old, and in some cases scratched, they are.  Abbey Road’s side 2 is fuckin’ brilliant.  I realize that this word may be used WAY too much in relation to the Beatles; but Abbey Road’s second side is FULL of un-classics and beautiful obscurity.  And holy Moses, this Sly & The Family Stone section from the Woodstock LP breathes “legendary”.  Sly Stone was so awesome.  The version of “Higher” on this record blows all the other stuff away, excluding Hendrix’s Instrumental Jam/Star Spangled Banner.  Sly’s managed to get all these LSD infested heads to actually sing and clap along energetically!  Even the folks way up on the hill scream “HIGHER!” with every amount of conviction imaginable.  It must’ve been quite a site.  So I guess I can’t talk too much shit about nostalgia; while I’m sitting here listening to records from the 60s and playing videogames from the 80s.

But take these fucking double decks that Korg, DigiTech, etc have been making more and more of these days.  They’re supposed to simulate the vinyl-DJ experience.  OK?  So in one package, you get a mixer with these dumb little fucking black spinners (they’re supposed to feel like records, but they’re about 4-5 inches across), and this software for your PC/Laptop which emulates a Turntable setup.  These programs come with certain FX that are such bullshit.  One tells you exactly how many BPMs your MP3s are without any work at all.  One pitch-bends your two tracks so that their speeds match up exactly.  It’s such bullshit.  So essentially anyone out there with $300/400 and a PC/Laptop can get this program and call themselves a “DJ”.  If you aren’t pitch bending/mixing/scratching/combining in an analogue fashion, I’m sorry to say, you ARE NOT A DJ.  If you’re mixing together two iPods via a Mac DJ Portal, YOU ARE NOT A DJ.  This is yet another example of BULLSHIT nostalgia, not the good variety.  There’s lots of skill that goes into Djing the REAL way.  It’s tough, and you need either a shit-ton of practice or a musical background to do it well, in some cases both.  DJing shouldn’t be something any fucking LA bastard can pickup so that he can mix his Fiest/MIA and 50 Cent/Eminem together.

-Sonny

Euro-Journals, Spawned From Tossers.

Re-reading through Scott’s European tour journals with The Tossers inspired me to dig deeper for classic, fragmented prose, journal style writings. The “Scott At Home: An Epilougue” particularly interested me as a good piece of journalistic writing. I hope he does more of these at some point on the future. Absinthe seems to be the perfect drug, here. If someone trips too hard, the writing suffers. Experienced users (don’t know how experienced Scott is) could probably make SOME sense while tripping at any regular level. Making sense isn’t always necessary, words can be beautiful from a aesthetic standpoint too; not just meaning. My digging led me mostly, I’m not sure why, towards the direction of Brooklyn’s Hubert Selby Jr. I own two of his seven lifetime novels: 1964′s Last Exit To Brooklyn (his first book- which I’ve semi-reviewed on here, look to Books), and 2002′s Waiting Period (his last book- before dying 2 years later, which is somehow fictionally auto-biographical). Apparently 1989 saw the release of Last Exit‘s film adaptation.  Jennifer Jason Leigh’s awesome though, and a younger Sam Rockwell plays “Al”.  Ironically, I always thought Sam Rockwell would make a good Scott.  This movie’s one of the German Uli Edel’s few feature films.  Sounds interesting, but it could never live up to the novel.  Selby’s second full novel, The Room, sounds almost deliciously disturbing.  It centers around a convicted criminal hallucinating sadistic, twisted visions against the society he’s so utterly detached from.  Scott’s journals don’t remind me of Selby’s writing in CONTENT, but in style.  And I suppose certain drugs merit a severely different tone than others.  Yeah they can destroy some lives, but they also can- you know- free the artist within.  Let’s not forget that.

-Sonny