Daniel is shredding pretty hard around the east coast right now [don’t worry though, he’ll be back on Sunday in time for day 3 of the FREAKIN’ WEEKEND!] so if he’s coming to your town, do yourself a favor and go check him out. Especially if you’re in the Brooklyn area tonight — he’s playing at Don Pedro’s with Liquor Store, Home Blitz, Ultrabunny, and NT as a part of the Midnite Till Death series. Let’s shred!

Shreditorial 9

Spalding Gray Watching Scanners

Let me tell you: a definite shred: Computer Music Nightmares. Sort of like the soundtrack before you head explodes. Or like violins swelling with the veins in your head. Like Chat Roulette around the room on an endless Next without a Back button.

@ The Lap Dance Convo Club.

Sort of am insider’s celebration of a pragmatist’s cynical surrender to the armchair of infinite possibilities: time’s blank check on comfortable contemplation: a Phantom Projector scanning the rooms like a Terminator telephoned from Island to Island.

Whose chest is twisted.

Inside a room wallpapered with the worst photos ever captured: gulags, Nazis, war, famine, death, fast food slaughterhouses, childhood obesity, morbid scarcity, and existential tether balls and karmic teabaggers.

Cashing chips on your face, moving you to action.

Is the set of a game show where you have to choose between a motley crew of carnies, gimps, dogs, dunces, and other wounded receivers and the mysterious silhouettes of the Future Bringers of a Possible Better.

Called the White Man’s Lie.

The game consists of the feeling before your head explodes forever to the Computer Music Nightmare and essentially gambling between your Wounded Receivers and Bringers of the Future. The key though is to remain on 11 long enough to jump full force in wanton abandon.

Straight into the Deep Fryer.

The only variable to worry about is that your Wounded Receivers are the Sure Thing, and the Bringers of the Future could be empty handed, or cold shouldered, or merely there soft enough to know your name but feel and share no pain.

Whose breath don’t pass their teeth.

They could wave at you while walking in the rain, or sext you on your deathbed. Or be the next best thing, but are you going home tonight with what you came with or more or less? That’s the game that is always playing where there is Milk N Honey.

Skeleton Face Cereal Box.

303,824,640 Lighthouses grinding through the soil in traffic blasting how the weather is up there hoping to go home with a prize; secretly hoping to get toppled hard enough to fuck without a condom on.

Raw Dogger or Mind Fucker or Trent Reznor.

In the rubble and bricks of this thing that was built for them to maintain and decorate and snipe from and escape from and crawl down with miles of hair because your can’t starve so now what?

Equalize Yer Playing Field.

Sup Wez?,

Pujol

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  1. Dillon says:

    BODY OF LIGHT.

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