Sunday, January 30, 2011


Fractured my hand this morning after slipping on a patch of ice in my driveway. Went to the hospital and got a temporary sling. They say i need surgery so I guess I'll see what's up tomorrow. Currently typing this with my left hand, you truly realize how integral the full use of both hands is once you injure one of them. Just getting dressed is a near herculean task. Anyway, I'll keep everyone updated as to the situation more as it unfolds.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Watch The Long Goodbye (1973) In Full

This is the awesome movie I just posted a picture from 2 posts ago. "It's ok with me, lady". I give this film my highest level of recommendation. I was riveted throughout the whole thing, and Phillip Marlowe P.I. is a great character. The frame cuts off slightly to the right, I would suggest double clicking the video, going straight to youtube, and watching it in full screen. Do it before the copy write people yank it off youtube. Watch the entire film in high quality HD here:

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

"Hey, it's ok with me, lady."

New Weekend Nachos Track "Black Earth"

Cheggit out nigs.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

My Friend's Babies

Ecstasy Bandits

This article is from Details magazine sometime in the 90's. I remember reading it when I was like 14 years old and thinking it was pretty wild.

Ecstasy Bandits

"Up until the moment the gang leader broke off our conversation in midsentence and dashed across the club to pull a knife on a bouncer, the interview was going swimmingly.

For weeks, I'd been on the trail of the notorious gang known as B.T.S.-a.k.a. Born to Scheme, a.k.a. Brooklyn Terror Squad, a.k.a. Beat the System-the one-hundred strong crew that has wreaked mayhem at raves up and down the East Coast. "Violence has become a major problem on the scene because of B.T. S.," reports one raver, a small-time Ecstasy dealer who says she has been robbed by the gang so many times that she knows some members by name. A lot of older ravers won't go to parties anymore because B.T.S. has taken over. They've ruined it for everyone."

I first saw B.T. S. in action at Back to the 'Future, a midsize rave held in July at the Manhattan club Down Time. The event's promoter had left a plea on the recording ravers had to call for the location of the party: "Please, everyone bring a positive vibe. Come to dance, come to listen to phat beats, come to meet some people. Don't come to rob people and feud n' fight and all that bullshit."

Naturally, B.T.S. ignored it. They hid in the shadows, but the gang members were easy to spot. Unlike the dopey-looking ravers stumbling about in a daze, the B.T.S. crew were sharp-eyed, dressed like label-conscious street kids. A couple of hours past midnight, just outside the jungle room, they staged a fake brawl. As the larger members pretended to take swings at each other, the smaller ones crept up behind distracted partygoers and picked their pockets or snatched their gold chains and beepers before crouching low and disappearing down the back stairs. In one corner, a messed-up raver waved a hundred-dollar bill in the air trying to attract the attention of a drug dealer and make a buy. Two B.T.S. toughs jumped him from behind. Moments later, on the first floor, another callow night crawler clutched his head and cried out to his friends, "I got beat! I got beat! They robbed me!"

When the club finally emptied out in the wee hours of the morning, the signs of B.T.S.'s handiwork were obvious: The dance floor was littered with items from purses and backpacks the gang had stolen and dumped -driver's licenses, photos, lipstick, and mascara.

A week later, I managed to hook up with a duo of fresh-faced B.T. S. foot soldiers from Gerritsen Beach- Skil One, Dope Star, and Seat- who promised to introduce me to the top dogs who run the gang. The one I wanted to meet most was a shadow figure called Chameleon, reputed to be the mastermind behind the entire operation. Skil One and company told me he'd probably be at a party B.T.S. was throwing that weekend at Planet 28, a cramped, low-key hole in-the-wall on the edge of Manhattan's garment district.

As I walk into the gloomy club, its walls covered with panels of the gang's graffiti, my stomach is gripped with a mix of anticipation and fear. Everybody who is anybody in the B.T.S. ranks-at least those who aren't in jail-is here, slapping each other on the back, showing off tattoos and knife wounds, and dancing furiously to thundering techno.

The unexpectedly upbeat vibe is greatly enhanced by the copious amounts of Ecstasy and strong green acid the gang members are popping, as well as the ketamine and crystal methamphetamine they're snorting off the backs of their hands. The closest thing to a disturbance is a small, ferocious looking "dust bunny" from New Jersey stumbling around, offering blow jobs in exchange for bumps of K.

In the corner, next to the bar, Era, a stocky B.T. S. old-timer with blond hair and blue eyes, tells me that at least a few of the stories I've heard about B.T.S. have been blown out of proportion. Yes, they sell hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of fake drugs. Yes, they beat up and rob "candy ravers," naive, colorfully dressed partiers tripping on Ecstasy. But no, they don't sell the bogus E that killed twenty-year-old college student Jason Williamson at a rave in April. "You'd think we were murderers," another B.T.S. member scoffs, "but all we do is rob people."

Around four in the morning, a compact, hard-muscled twenty-seven-year-old in a white fishing hat, an expensive-looking crewneck, and jeans with a hairbrush sticking out of the back pocket enters with his girlfriend, an exotic dancer who looks like a young Ellen Barkin. He's immediately surrounded by fellow gang members rushing to greet him. A few moments later, he struts up to me with his entourage. "You're the guy from Details, aren't you?" he says. "I hear you want to talk to me."

Chameleon doesn't deny his gang's exploits-he's in a mood to brag. He tells me he earned his nickname by changing outfits as many as six times a night. "I'll go to a club or a rave wearing something nice and flashy-like a loose-fitting Sergio Tacchini warm-up suit and a matching hat. I'll sell a couple pills of E and K, until I spot some- 'z body else selling, and I'll jack them for their money and their drugs, y'know what I'm sayin. Then I'll go into one of the back 'o rooms and I'll change.

"Underneath the sweat suit, I might be wearing a pair of jeans and a Polo shirt. I'll take my hat off and let my hair down or tie it up in a ponytail. I'll go back out on the dance floor and sell the drugs I just stole. After an hour or two, I'll rob somebody else and go to the bathroom and change again. Under the jeans, I'll be wearing a nice pair of shorts or something. Under the shirt, I'll have a tank top. I'll also put on a different hat. I store the spare clothes in a tote bag, then hand it to a member of my crew, who gives me my other tote bag with a new outfit in it." Afterward, Chameleon and his boys rent a suite at a fancy hotel and party away some of the loot.

Lately, though, he says, he's been trying to stay in the background. "I send out my younger kids with some money, and they buy drugs to find out who's selling what," he says. "Then they come back and my second string goes out-twenty, thirty, forty deep. The younger kids go around the room pointing out the drug dealers and we just go in-wham! wham! wham!- through the whole party. We'll grab somebody, five guys hold him, one guy goes into his pockets and takes everything, and we disperse back into the crowd. It takes about two seconds. We occasionally get resistance-then twelve B.T.S. members dive in. Some kids try to run, but there's really no escape."

In the middle of our interview, out of the corner of his eye, Chameleon spots a Planet 28 bouncer trying to shake down Era. Chameleon's face goes cold. And in a second he's across the room, with his butterfly knife pressed against the bouncer's throat. The bouncer backs off, reluctantly removing his hands from around Era's neck.

Moments later the bouncer is back, with a half dozen other security guards. The insults fly back and forth--'punk...... motherfucker,"'pussy boy'!-- and the confrontation escalates into death threats. Just when it seems an all-out brawl is about to break out, a shout goes up among B.T.S.: "Everybody out. We're gone." The standoff continues outside on the sidewalk, where the club's manager holds back his bouncers and begs B.T.S. to leave.

Later that night, at a nearby after-hours party, Chameleon looks sick-not surprising, given his 24/7 hedonism. (In fact, a few hours from now, he'll check himself into a hospital and be diagnosed with walking pneumonia.) "We're not as bad as we used to be," he says between hacking coughs, trying to downplay the incident at Planet 28. "We're not grabbing everybody like we used to. We're tired of the bad vibes."

UNTIL RECENTLY, gang violence has been more closely associated with the braggadocio and street litanies of hip-hop than the smiles and utopian mood of the rave scene. But just as the Hell's Angels went to love-ins to prey on '60s hippies, just as Woodstock gave way to Altamont, today's blissed-out teenagers make attractive targets for a pack of predators like B.T.S. Ecstasy's empathy-inducing effects are great in theory-but only if the person you're sharing your soul with isn't looking to knock you upside the head and jack your backpack.

"The rave scene today is largely made up of young, middle-class kids from good families with money," explains Chameleon, who told me he makes hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. "These kids are spending a hundred dollars a night on drugs. A pill costs twenty-five, bags of crystal twenty. You get a rave with six thousand people and there's a lot of money to be made-a fucking ton of money

"And it's my money," he adds with an evil grin.

Though ravers like to portray B.T.S. as a group of parasitic latecomers, the New York rave scene first took root not among downtown trendies or suburban hedonists, but shirtless street kids from New York's outer boroughs. Frankie Bones, the DJ who originally brought rave culture from the U.K to America with his early-'90s Brooklyn Storm Raves, traces the roots of B.T.S. back to rowdy Brooklyn street gangs like the Kings Highway Boys, the Avenue U Boys, and the Bay Boys. "The older neighborhood gangs used to come to my early parties looking for trouble," he remembers. "B.T.S. comes from that same Brooklyn mold."

"The New York rave scene has always been about hardcore Brooklyn," concurs Fly, another B.T.S. member. "That's how shit goes down in this city. These people come from New Jersey and Connecticut and think it's all about peace and love. They don't know what they're stepping into in New York."

In many ways, B.T.S. has less in common with traditional street gangs like the Bloods and the Crips than with British "love thugs," the soccer hooligans who took over Ecstasy dealing at raves in the'U.K. in the early '90s. B.T.S. has no rites of initiation- new members don't get beaten in and can leave without fear of retaliation. They're not tied to a specific ethnic group or neighborhood-the gang is a veritable Benetton ad of Asians, blacks, Latinos, Italians, and Irish, with members in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. And there's no formal set of rules, other than one that forbids screwing over fellow members. At the end of the night, the crew don't pool their loot; everyone keeps what he's scammed for himself, though they all chip in to bail out members who get arrested.

Seemingly, the only requirement for joining B.T. S. is a talent for crime. "You have to have a skill to join," explains Chameleon. "Like a good head for scheming. Or be a good runner-someone who doesn't get nailed by security Or a good con artist like a young kid who buys the drugs and says to the dealer 'Yo, can you hook me up? Can I get your phone number?' Then when he gets the number, he calls him and goes to his apartment and kicks the fucking door in and takes everything."

Recently, the gang has begun exporting its mayhem all over the East Coast-- they've hit raves in Pennsylvania, Maryland, and all the way down to Florida. In September, fifty B.T.S. members flew down to the 16,000 person Zen Festival rave near Tampa, where they sold enough bogus drugs to walk away with about $4,000 each.

In April of 1997, they invaded a rave at the Washington, D.C., Armory. "Will you Brooklyn kids please stop fighting?" the promoter pleaded on the microphone. "Will B.T. S. please stop robbing people?" The answer was no. "We wrecked shop," boasts the aptly named Kaos, a beefy B.T.S. enforcer with close-cropped dark hair. "I even had cops robbing kids for me! I swore I was a promoter and pointed out all the drug dealers [and said they'd stolen my money]. The cops were taking their money and giving it to me."

In June, they turned the Funky Monkey party at Manhattan's Roseland Ballroom into "B.T.S. central," as one raver put it. The scene was more like a British soccer match than a rave. Sporadic fights finally culminated in a massive free-for-all on the dance floor. The B.T.S. dealers were so brazen, they peddled their wares in full view of security guards, who were apparently too scared to intervene. "B.T.S. basically acted as house dealers," recalls one of the featured DJs, Odi of Digital Konfusion. "They totally controlled the party." Their greed was so boundless that they sold drugs to the same people they later robbed. Even little, barrette-wearing raver girls were battered mercilessly

But assaulting and robbing ravers may not be the worst crime B.T.S. has committed: Friends of Virginia Tech student Jason Williamson think the crew is also guilty of murder. Williamson attended the April Foolz II rave at Mount Airy Lodge, a holiday resort in the Poconos, earlier this year. It was a suffocating crush of nearly nine thousand bodies packed together like psychedelic sardines-a perfect setting for B.T.S. to conduct business.

In the hardcore room, Williamson befriended a group of kids from Brooklyn. One of them gave him a free Ecstasy pill, according to Sean Choudry and his girlfriend Caxla Ringquist, Virginia Tech friends of Williamson's who were with him that night. After swallowing the bogus E ecstasy- which a nurse later told Ringquist was actually a mix of drugs that included a horse tranquilizer- Williamson ran outside, where he collapsed on the ground and had a seizure. At four in the morning, after medics tried to stabilize his condition, he was rushed to the Pocono Medical Center, where he lapsed into a coma. "All of his organs exploded in-side of his body," says Ringquist, who described the doctors' bandaging her friend from head to toe like a mummy Early Monday, Williamson's parents, who had rushed to their son's bedside from Virginia Beach, gave doctors permission to pull the plug on his life-support system.

Choudry and Ringquist say they saw half a dozen other ravers in the medical center's intensive care unit. "There was some indication that at least a couple of those ravers took the same drug," says Sgt. Donald Fernbach of the Pennsylvania State Police. "But I did not find any evidence of an individual specifically intending to poison another person to death. If we had, we would have conducted a homicide investigation."

"Jason was a newcomer to the scene who thought everybody could be trusted," Choudry says. "B.T.S. are murderers. They knew the pill was bad."

"That's an absolute lie," replies Chameleon. "We're not looking to kill anybody we're just after the money and the drugs."

As of now, the New York City Police Department isn't even keeping tabs on B.T. S. "At this point," says a public information officer," we don't have anything on them." [As a result of this article most of the leaders were jailed]

"USING THE TERM 'GANG' about B.T.S. is a bit misleading," says Frankie Bones. "It's much more loose-knit." The group started out in the early '90s as a neighborhood graffiti crew, a bunch of friends who hung around a homemade recording studio in the basement of a travel agency in Brighton Beach, a shabby seaside resort that's the Russian mob's home-away-from-home. The original members were a Vietnamese immigrant named Soak; his right-hand boy, E.S.; the owner of the studio, Kaos; E.S.'s little brother Era; and Miss Melody, the only female founder. Originally, B.T.S. stood for Bomb the Subway, and initiates are still expected to tag walls and compile black books of their illustrations. Later, B.T.S. stood for Born to Survive, when several of the members were homeless.

The godfather of the gang was Soak. B.T.S. members told me he's now finishing up a two-year jail term for robbing $20,000 from the safe of a Chinese restaurant in Brooklyn; when he completes his sentence, the government will try to deport him back to his homeland. "Soak always held everything together," remembers Mr. Lover, a B.T.S. veteran who looks tougher than his small stature might suggest, thanks to a broken nose. "Things are falling apart a little bit, now that he's not around. It was easier two or three years ago, when the younger kids were younger. Now they're getting older and they have their own minds."

In 1992, Miss Melody, an exotic-looking Italian-Irish-black-Cherokee woman from Sheepshead Bay, took the crew to check out one of Frankie Bones Storm Raves. "There were no kids robbing each other back then," recalls E.S. without a trace of irony. "It was all about dancing and having a good time." Miss Melody agrees: "There were no ulterior motives. Now every raver wants to be a drug dealer."

As the rave scene grew, the crew hit on the idea of selling fake drugs to gullible suburban kids. One weekend, Mr. Lover remembers, he and Soak hit a rave in Connecticut with hundreds of packs of breath mints that looked exactly like some green-speckled Ecstasy that was going around at the time. They sold out-at twenty dollars a mint.

"Before I found the mints," says Mr. Lover, "me and Soak used to sit in his basement and spray-paint hundreds of white tablets."

Another time, he recalls fondly, he and Soak went to Boston with eighty bags of Epsom salt which they sold as crystal meth, and two hundred niacin tablets which they passed off as Ecstasy Not one of the customers complained. Instead, says Mr. Lover, they kept coming back for more, pestering him for his beeper number. At the end of the night, he found himself in the bathroom surrounded by a bunch of pretty girls as he cut up huge rails of Epsom salt. "I was telling girls 'Bring your friends over.' I was sniffing with them - I didn't give a fuck."

Another favorite scam is selling incense as "Red Rock opium" -a con that has worked so well that kids come in from out of state to buy a "drug" that B.T S. made up. Mr. Lover sometimes travels to parties in Connecticut, where he charges $1,200 for a pound, $400 for a quarter, and $150 for an ounce. "When they find out I have 'Red Rock, 'the stupid motherfuckers fight with each other over whose house I should go back to. 'Come to my house, "No, come back to my place.' Even the people who figure out it's fake still buy from me because they know they can double their money by selling it to some other stupid raver."

"I USED TO BE CRAZY," Chameleon tells me. We're in the basement of a downtown club, where the gang leader is dealing hits of genuine Ecstasy to baggy-trousered beat fanatics. "I got shot twice and stabbed twice. I had my index finger sliced off by a big black guy with a machete who was trying to rob me buying pot." But the charismatic gang leader wasn't always a criminal.

At the age of eleven, he ran away from his comfortable home in Queens to Florida, where he learned to ride horses from his grandfather, a professional jockey, but his racing career came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen when a horse fell on his upper back during a race at Belmont Racetrack. Temporarily paralyzed from the neck down, he had to wear a steel cage on his head for six months, Nvith four bolts screwed into his skull.

A few years later he befriended Lord Michael Caruso (no relation to the editor of this magazine). At the time, the scene at the Limelight was controlled by techno promoter Lord Michael. In order to ensure that Chameleon and his boys didn't disrupt business, Caruso struck a deal to buy up Chameleon's complete supply of Ecstasy-usually the popular brand known as ""moons' -at fifteen dollars per hit. He then gave the pills to his runners, who broke them in two and sold "half moons" for thirty dollars apiece.

Chameleon observed Lord Michael's operation closely and soon began to imitate his most lucrative crimes. Just as Caruso ripped off drug dealers he became friendly with, Chameleon would screw over rave kids who trusted him. "I'd befriend them to get into their apartments," he recalls, " and I'd tie them up with their phone cord, take all their shit, and leave them sitting there." Dealers also made perfect targets because they have large amounts of cash on hand and are afraid of the police: "I'm one of the ones that climbs through their windows at six in the morning, ties them up, and takes their safes. The most I earned for one job was $125,000, when I climbed up a drug dealer's fire escape.

His new line of work was so profitable that soon he was able to move into real drugs.

Chameleon was an avid club-crawler both before and after his accident, and one night at the Limelight, revved up on cocaine, he came up with a novel idea for a new career. "I realized the amount of money I could make selling drugs at raves. So I got a group of kids together and I showed them how to create fake drugs. Why should I spend money on E's when I can go to Duane Reade, stick fifty Chlor-Trimeton tablets in my pocket, and go sell them?"

Chameleon first met members of B.T.S. through mutual friends two years ago at a dance club called Vinyl. He sweet-talked himself into the gang's good graces, throwing sex-and-drug parties for the members at fancy Manhattan hotels. "Chameleon spent a lot of money on those parties," says Miss Melody "We were all ordering filet mignon and champagne on room service."

CHAMELEON IS SOMETHING of a controversial figure within B.T.S. He didn't grow up in the gang like most of the other key members, and he's from middle-class Queens rather than blue-collar Brooklyn. He claims he is the leader of B.T S. now that Soak is in prison, but other members say Era six-two Irish-Italian member whom I see wearing khakis and a white shirt after coming from his day job on Wall Street- is the acting don and that Chameleon is only the boss of the Long Island branch. "Chameleon is a crazy cowboy who thinks he controls everything," says Miss Melody "Sure, he represents B.T.S., and he's always there to help us up when there's trouble. But he's only been down with us for two years. He's older than the rest of us."

Melody's roommate Griz, who calls Chameleon "B.T Wannabe Prez," says that the usurper "wants to dominate us. But B.T.S. is like a tight friendship or a family. Everyone is equal."

"Chameleon is dogging my shadow," complains E.S., angry to hear that Chameleon told me he's in charge. "Chameleon is like a brother-but B.T.S. is my crew."

The gang face another problem that's even larger than their leadership struggle: They may have cooked the golden goose. "The rave scene has diminished alarmingly in the last two years because of us," admits Chameleon. "Kids are afraid to come out. That's why we're trying to boost the scene back up again by selling real drugs."

Other B.T.S. members are even trying to go legit. By day, E.S. and Geo sell stocks, cold-calling potential customers from a Wall Street office. They may be switching careers just in time: The DEA is currently widening its investigation into New York nightlife, and agents have already picked up Chameleon for questioning. But he says he isn't scared. "What happened to Lord Michael is not going to happen to me, because I'm mobile while he was in one club controlling dealers who kick back to me," he says. "Every night of the week I'm in a different place. That's the trick-to stay mobile and never carry large amounts of drugs personally."

Digital Konfusion's DJ Odi, who frequently plays B.TS. parties, says he can't believe it but he's nostalgic for the reign of Lord Michael-who conned and later ratted on both his enemies and his friends. (He became the star witness in the government's unsuccessful attempt to jail the owner of the Limelight, Peter Gatien, on racketeering and conspiracy charges.) At least then, Odi says, blood wasn't all over the dance floor. "Back in the days of the Limelight, dealers didn't step on each other's toes," he remembers. "There was a hierarchy and a structure. With the disintegration of the club scene and the disintegration of the rave scene, there hasn't been anyone with the authority to police the situation.

"That's how a group of wild-ass kids like B.T. S. can take over." "

So much awesomeness going on in this picture.

The Jesus of Cool.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Dapperless Dons

Here's an article about mafia fashion faux pas. Never thought I'd see something like this circulating.

Dapperless Dons

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Cleveland Rocks!

Fuck that Drew Carey shit, this is the original by Ian Hunter from Mott The Hoople, with Mick Ronson on guitar.

Can you even call this a brawl?

Watch Here




Friday, January 21, 2011

The Night Owl Blog is now on Facebook!

Search for it, give it a "like", write on the wall etc. I always love hearing feedback from Night Owl readers. Also scope out the new artwork, it rules.

Demo Roundup

Here are some demos I've been digging on lately:

Black and Blue Demo
Download Here

This is really solid hardcore and the recording on this demo sounds superb. Quality fast parts and hard hitting breaks are the rule here. They throw in lots of Oi riffs too throughout the demo which I dig. Some of Chris Schuman's lyrics are a bit simplistic, but they get his point across well. Scene Knuckleheads, fake friends, and self loathing are a few lyrical topics covered. Schuman's voice sounds pretty ferocious and pissed off on this record. There are several rap samples that kick off the beginning of songs. I heard a couple people talking shit about them being a wannabe Cold World, but the samples don't detract from anything in my opinion. They come as part of the package. Keep your eyes peeled for these guys, they're playing a bunch of shows in the near future and will hopefully write some more songs. One of the best bands/best demos out as of late.

Suburban Scum '08 Demo "Suburban Discipline"
Download Here

Some crucial fast parts with some hardstylish choppy breaks with gang vocals in the background, heavy riffs galore etc. This band has a harder edged NYHC Biohazard type sound with very prominant bass and angry vocals. "Self Loathing" is the standout song on here, the part where the singer starts talking "Ever get the feeling, everything you do, IS ONE BIG CROCK OF SHIT!" then his voice warps into a hardass demonic sounding shout which sounds fucking awesome as the music picks up and gets heavier. You may be tired of all the new bands riding the "hardstyle" pony, but these guys really do it justice. "Blind to Life: is a mid tempo riff fest that sounds like a straight up Biohazard track besides the vocals. All in all great demo, great sound.

United Youth Demo
Download Here

This one has kind of a late 80's New York Hardcore skinhead vibe ala' Warzone, Straight Ahead etc. Hard riffs and fast parts galore, this one was over before I knew it. I think it clocks in at like 7 or 8 minutes. These dudes have potential, I'm interested to see where they go from here.

Warhound Demo
Download Here

Another demo heavy NYHC vibe. I've mentioned them on here a few times before. This one especially is VERY well done. This demo sounds great, it could easily be released as an EP. "Demons" is the fucking jam. Crunchy fucking guitars and hard hooks on this one. "I'm my own worst enemy it's clear to see"....I dig it. Looking forward to seeing these guys live. There's seems to be a bit of a buzz surrounding them. I know they're from Illinois, they gotta get out and start playing Chicago in order to make a name for themselves. They have definite potential.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

High Times With the Evilest Man on Earth

Here's a very interesting article on the infamous Aleister Crowley from the July '78 issue of High Times.

The best feeling.

Waking up in the middle of the night thirsty, going to the fridge and guzzling ice cold ginger ale as long as you can stand it. I'm going back to sleep now, new update when I wake up.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Diggin' in the Crates

Met up with my friend Matt Clark this morning.......he was going to this monthly record sale in Hillside, and once I found out on Facebook (yes, I have a facebook now) that he was coming out this way I told him to swing by and pick me up cuz I'm right down the road. We went to Darcy Lynn's Snack Shop over by 1st and Ogden in Brookfield and had a cheap and delicious meal. I had some biscuits and gravy that made Matt a little jealous because they looked so good. They did indeed taste as well as they looked as well. The record fair itself was awesome! Saw tons of cool shit that I wanted/want, if you're not careful you can spend a shit load of records so try to keep that in mind. There are so many vendors, so many records that it's all a bit overwhelming.....but at the same time awesome because you have the ability to comb through many, many different collections on one giant place. Another cool thing about the fair is the level of passion and knowledge inherent to serious record collectors. I could walk up to a mild looking older record vendor, and have an in depth conversation about ultra-rare power pop records that you'd think would be the last thing this guy would know about. Lots of great records in eye-popping condition as well. My lone score for the day was the first LP "Glory Boys" by British mod revival stalwarts Secret Affair for 10 bucks, both me and the LP can be seen above. Good times.

Skydiving on DMT

A friend recently brought this to my attention. This is fucking insane. It was taken from a trip report on the site. I can't even imagine what this must have felt like. I've always wanted to have the sort of spiritual breakthrough this guy seems to have had. Maybe one day.

"A Godlike DMT Experience

HOLY SHIT!" is all i have been thinking for the past week. I finally made my 2.25 grams of crystalline Dimethyl Tryptamine from 2 pounds of Mimosa Hostilis rootbark. Ive already tried DMT recently a few times with exceptional experiences but nothing can ever sum up to what happened this past weekend.

Ive been an avid skydiver out of my freind's own private high-altitude propellor plane for some time now. About a year and a half. Ive constantly been searching for the "truth about everything" with the use of LSD, Shrooms, and Ecstacy for the past year. I felt it was about time i made a humongous leap forward into my discoveries. I made the decision to attempt the world's first act of tripping DMT while in a high-altitude freefall, at least that i know of.

The qualifications for this type of an experiment has to be exceptional safety and perfect timing. Prior to jumping, with complete gear on (including parachute and reserve), i planned to inhale one complete rip from my dmt pipe aboard the plane and then immediately proceed out into the abyss of the sky where i will exhale hopefuly after i pull the line. Nothing in this world, however, could prepare me for what would really happen.

Jumping out of an airplane at 35,000 feet while holding your breath is already difficult enough. But to do it while the world's most potent psychoactive begins to flourishly react with my consciousness is a completely different story. My freind, well call him FRIEND, is the only other person that knows this experiment will take place.

Goals of this experiment are:
3) The most ultimate and godlike experience anyone on this planet could ever experience while faced with complete danger to succeed into the next level of ultimate enlightenment.

You think im crazy? Well, yeah, this is proof. lol.

This past saturday, after a two-day fast, at 10 o'clock in the morning i wake up with the necessary mindset to accomplish a remarkable feat. Speaking with others was off limits, only complete focus on the objective. Noon and im at the dusted airstrip taking off with FREIND. We take one trial run where i take a hit of weed from a pipe, jump off the plane, pull the shoot, and exhale. I immediately became worried when flight was acheived without being able to hold my breath easily. I knew it would be harder with plastic-tasting DMT. I decided another trial was in order. Once down, i grab another parachute and head back to the airstrip where FREIND is refueling. Oddly enough, the second trial commenced at 4:20 pm and the jump went smoothly. Slightly stoned and floating down to the ground, a smile couldnt help but overtake my face as i realized the next time is THE time.

7:00 pm and the sun is getting close to the horizon. A few minutes are left until 35,000 feet is obtained and then only half an hour max before its too dark. This was crunch time, and i knew it. I could hardly bare the anticipation. My hands shook incredibly fast and my heartbeat was skyrocketing. I began to have second thoughts and if this didnt work, i could kill myself. I quickly realized that all of the intellect and wisdom obtained from my previous psychedelic experiences were shouting out at me that anything is possible if i just believe. I began to meditate in the plane in a state that almost seemed to be an lsd flashback. I knew my body was pumping fear but my brain was combatting it with faith. I knew this would be the defining point of my pre-adulthood if i succeed and i knew that i could survive. Thinking of conquering this unworldly feat began to enstill a sympathy in myself towards myself. I felt as though i didnt need to do this to define my life, but at the same time i knew i needed to in order to advance in my stages of enlightenment. All of a sudden once everything seemed to be good to go, and ready to fly, the cockpit hatch opened up and FREIND yelled out to me, "You ready to fuckin FLY?!?" I responded only with a smile and began to place the pipe to my mouth as my hand holding the lighter trembled.

This time, my bowl was filled with DMT. I cornered myself away from the wind, slowed down my breathing, lit the lighter, placed it to the bowl and began to inhale. Immediately i was astonished by how i could stand the taste this time. Almost as if the DMT was rooting for me as well. After a deep, deep rip, i shut my eyes, focused on the mission, placed my goggles over my eyes, and darted out the door.

The immediate weightlessness was startling for some reason this time. Within seconds of shooting out the plane, all hell broke loose. The trip began. Scared and in a state of paralysis, i exhaled the smoke and witnessed my life beginning to flash before my eyes in a kaleidoscope of remembered events ordered in a way that seemed incredibly perfect. All i could think about was my friends, family, and my personal journey through life. My eyes were shut and the roar of the wind was instantaneously replaced by a shearing high pitched crackle. I knew i was falling, i knew i was going to die, i knew i'd miss my life but i did not feel as though i had failed. I suddenly realised that the life that just flashed before my eyes was a good one and began to accept that this is the perfect way to die, in harmony with my own mind. All of the hectic closed-eye-visulatisations of memories and swirling patterns made me feel as though dying was merely the next step in enlightenment which after all, was the inevitable goal of my experiment. Feeling at ease with the thought of death, i felt myself relaxing into the flight and let gravity take over. No longer was i in form and now i was just tumbling through the sky.

Visions from my most recent acid trip began to play before my eyes as i fell further through the sky with my eyes still closed. The message i took back from that trip was a subjective reality, that which is produced personally at all times, began to flourish about in my hectic thoughts. I opened my eyes because something compelled me to. I was in the clouds. I readjusted into proper skydiving technique. All i could see was the faint light of the sun glowing my surroundings and i began to wonder if i was in heaven. I wondered if this was the product of my mind producing a subjective reality while in a DMT trip or if i was really dead. Emotions at this stage in time seemed incredibly intense.

The clouds parted and gave way to the view of the massive earth quickly accelerating towards me. Suddenly no longer was this a mission to enlighten myself, it was back to staying alive. My guess is the brief DMT trip had began to die down and gave me a chance to save myself so i could take back my story to the rest of the world. Subjective reality philosophy is very interesting to me. In this case, i began to feel as though i had created the earth that was rushing towards me and i had also created the parachute on my back. I could either discover the purpose of the hard, brown land or i could discover the purpose of my parachute. Immediately, all energy that could possibly be imagined was summoned. I felt as though i was gaining power and spirits were helping me. There were beings on the ground tossing light at me. My only response to this vivid hallucination was to embody it and use the energy to my advantage. As i caught the light, my energy seemed to revive and my arms went out to the side as they began to glow a brilliant white. I felt as though i was god, or a god, or at least an angel of some sort and that all of me was glowing white. I felt that if i hit the ground while possessing this much energy, it would be a complete waste and i would let all of the spirits of the world down and the world would gradually die away. I suddenly felt as though pulling that cord was the only thing that mattered in the world at the time. I visualized the president in his office dealing with Iraq difficulties, i visulaized a mother giving birth to a baby i even thought of what id perhaps be doing if this had never occurred. None of it mattered any more.

I had to pull that cord. With an amazing feeling of lightlessness, i shut my eyes once more and forced my arms up to the cord and released all of my energy. Instantaneously, the weightlessness was replaced with ultimate heaviness and an incredible pain in my torso. Once the chute was deployed, a sigh of relief and a release of endless amounts of tension took place. I survived. I accomplished. I defeated. I conquered. I fuckin did it!

I survived the ultimate test of concsiousness and obtained the ultimate level of enlightenment. No more living life half-heartedly. No more arguments. No more anger. No more stress. Life from then on is to be happy, spiritual and amazing. From then on, i use my new godlike perspective to help me live through life as though i had created it all. This viewpoint will allow me to connect with anything or anyone i wish and will allow me to teach others of these ways.

Hovering a thousand feet over the land, i realized how close a call this was and let out a scream of joy that seemed to echo around for miles and minutes. I must have still been feeling the residual effects. As i landed back on the ground, i bent over while beginning to cry and kissed the sandy ground. If i truly am to believe that i created all, than i am to believe that the dirt sticking around my lips at this moment is something i created. I licked my lips and smiled as though i had just finished a meal i prepared for myself.

Overall, this experience was IMMENSELY enlightening and also probably one of the most idiotic things a person could do. BUT, i survived and for the better. Dont try this without either talking to me, feeling as though your life is worth the risk, or if you have experience. I instead suggest that each of you find your own crazy idea for a trip, fulfill it, and realize the best way you can live your life once you complete it. Just dont do anything so dumb as to kill yourselves because as i discovered, life can be a beautiful thing and id hate for you to fail at trying to realize this."

Saturday, January 15, 2011

The Biters

This band from Atlanta called The Biters caught my attention last week. I checked out their EP "Biters" and it blew me away. They take all my favorite glam rock influences (T Rex, The Dolls, Slade) and combine them with punchy punk bands (like The Boys, The Jam, Exploding Hearts etc.) to make a very rocking, exhilarating records that makes me want to go out and drink lots of whiskey and debauch myself. So far they've released the "Biters EP", and just recently came out with the "It's Ok to Like Biters" EP.

Here's the The Biters EP:

The Biters EP


1. Hang Around
2. So Cheap So Deadly
3. Dreamer
4. Beat Me Baby

"Beat Me Baby" is my favorite song on here, it was hard to choose just one as they're all really good!

Check out their Myspace here:

The Biters Myspace

Go here to buy Merch/Records:

The Biters Website

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Nug Porn

Here are some eye popping pictures I've collected in the last month or so. All 4 of these looks absolutely out of this world.....this really makes me want to go to California! I got some Silver Haze x Hawaiian Haze right now though, so I'm not hurting too bad.

Super Silver Haze

Electric Haze

Bruce Banner 1

Bruce Banner 2 (up close)

Arjan's Strawberry Haze

Monday, January 10, 2011

Confederate Glue Sniffers

Awesome piece from the June 1978 issue of High Times. A bunch of crazy hick townies talking about sniffing mass amounts of airplane glue and doing stupid/crazy shit. Personally, I've never sniffed glue, have you?

Sunday, January 9, 2011

High Times Interview With Andy Warhol (1977)

Sorry if the scans look dodgy at all, my scanner has been giving me shit lately.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Role Models

I love this movie.

"Suck it, Reindeer Games!"

Friday, January 7, 2011

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Can you even call this a brawl?

Watch Here




Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Harms Way Live at The Rumble 2009

I filmed this awhile back, and was going to release it on DVD, but instead decided to share it here instead. I switched from Night Vision to regular vision mid-set because at that time I still didn't know a lot about how to work the camera.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

The Motherfucking JAM.

On the Marc Bolan show. Yes that Marc Bolan.

Monday, January 3, 2011

HT Comics

The first one is by Legs McNeil of Punk Magazine and High Times fame. I'll be scanning some cool articles from him in soon. The second one is pretty weird but cool, done by Ken Landgraf. Sorry about the dodgy scans, my printer gives me problems sometimes.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Messages I Got On OKCupid Blog

Top notch.

Whirl (Shoegaze Content)

There's a new band on the West Coast called Whirl, who have a great Shoegaze/Indie rock sound, which reminds me of Starflyer 59 a lot. You can listen to them here:

The material is available for download for a donation of your choice (I threw em 3 bucks, you should donate something too......if a band brings joy and smiles to your life a few bucks is nothing). Stoked on hearing new things from this band!

Big Greasy Baby

This was taken on New Years after me and my friend Donnie went to Al's beef. We both felt like rubes after spending a bunch of money on not very good food (HIm=$13 for a beef, fries and a drink. Me=$8 for a 6 inch beef and fries). Donnie goes," I feel like I have a big greasy baby in my stomach" which proceeded to make me laugh my ass off for the rest of the day.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Let me clarify my stance on New Years

I'm not a hater, I'm not some salty little grinch who hates fun. I hope my readership went out and drank watered down well drinks and plugged some holes/got their holes's just for ME, something has always been bad on New Years. Either I'm sick and there's a party next door so I have to listen to drunk mid-20's eterna-bros ice eachother at 3 in the morning between bouts of extreme nausea, or my plans fall through, or my plans GO through but some stupid little detail ends up ruining the whole night. It's amateur night. 8/10 people get blackout drunk and/or coked up to the gills, and I have the joy of sharing the road with them, not to mention DUI checkpoints, overzealous cops and the like. Illinois doesn't fuck around with that shit. I'll tell you what I did last night. I had a 1 makers w/ ginger ale (Bourbon and Ginger is what I like to drink nowadays, that or Vodka Tonics), smoked about 5 bowls of some good buds I have, popped a half a xanax bar (I only need a hlf to accomplish what I need to accomplish) and passed out at about 12:30 reading the Richard Kuklinski book "The Iceman; Confessions of a Contract Killer". No regrets on my part. I'm now up at 10:00 AM with absolutely no hangover, I actually have a nice sedated little glow from the other half of the xannny bar which I popped at 5:00 AM to go back to sleep. I'm having a particularly strong cup of coffee now and will probably smoke a bowl and listen to this new band that I like "Whirl" in a few minutes. I will post Whirl's info today because it's a really good band and I want to share it with others.....but for now, I'm just chillin. For those hungover......drink 2 purple Revive Vitamin Waters, smoke some good quality weed and try to choke down some greasy food. (This usually stops any hangover dead in it's tracks, and believe me, I've had some baaaaad ones.) You could also do the whole Bloody Mary thing, but I've never had a Bloody Mary and can't vouch for it's efficacy. Heard they wprk though.