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Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Pink Skull Owns Me

posted by on April 23 at 13:29 PM

Star Chef News: Madonnaís cook in LA couldnít take it. He quit. Sheís manipulative and issue filled. He was going to go on the upcoming tour, but no. She over-worked him for twenty-eight straight days and that was the last straw. Now heís working for a grand a day cooking for another rich elderly woman.

Other than that, LA is nice. Itís Spring down here. You can smell the night blooming jasmine. All these stars and their chef problems. My chef is fine. Le Taco Belle. Drive through-riche. Rice and beans wonít ever quit.


A kind little genius bird fed me Zeppelin 3 by Philadelphia’s Pink Skull before I left Seattle. I listened to it for the last five hours of the drive. It now owns me and my ear-brain. I, state your name, do hereby take this Pink Skull to be my lawful wedded psychedelaptop analog-Aztec space-wife. Zeppelin 3 is a masterpiece. Mouse on Mars-ish? Futuristic Aztecs donít fuck around when they party. (Eric’s review - here.) Heavy waylaying dance beats are wound around 130 bpmís then go schizoid to quietly abstract Gregorian refrains. Thereís a back and forth. Beats evolve, samples rip in, delays feed back. 808 pads stutter under a deranged Caribbean riff. Rusting mongoloid creatures dance around a tiki torch soldering their skin to processors. Platelets drip plasma and scar. Mitochondria in eardrum cells become supra and ears are able hear outside our round planet. They hear tectonics beneath the craters in the moon shift. It sounds like an old man murmuring. Itís not a basic noise, but it is. Your vehicle moves through dunes and the desert orbit presses play again. A hundred miles left to go.

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