Archive for February, 2008

lycanthropic hardcore 7″– Kitschchao’s “Peter Stumpe”

This is a completely wonderful Punk Rock record that I had a hard time finding. I learned of this band when Dennis Cooper did a post on his blog about three amazing authors who died before their respective times, and possibly before their best work was yet to happen. Tristan Egolf was one of them, having committed suicide in 2005, just after completing the manuscript for his last novel. There were a couple of amazing YouTube clips in the post, one of Tristan and others stripping down and forming an Abu Ghraib-like human pyramid during the protest of one of George Bush’s 2004 campaign stops in Pennsylvania, and another, a video for a song called “Gone Sane” by a band called Kitschchao. In it is live footage of the band, with Tristan singing in a thrift store dress, his head painted green and bright-red-mohawked. The song was great, and the video made me an instant fan, so in addition to ordering more of Tristan’s books I decided that I wanted to get whatever recordings the band had made. I looked around, and it seemed that the only Kitschchao record to be found was this 45, released on Compulsiv Records in 1993. After a lot of searching, the only copy I could determine the availability of was a used one in Holland. The a-side song, “Peter Stumpe,” is about an infamous German of the same name, executed on March 31, 1590, in the ancient town of Bedburg, for werewolfery. According to Montague Summer’s book The Werewolf, which was published in the 30’s and is considered to be a textbook of werewolfery and lycanthropy, he was accused of, among other things, having “destroyed and spoiled an unknown number of Men, Women, and Children, sheep, Lambs, and Goats, and other Cattle.” Also he was said to have slept with his sister, impregnated his daughter, devoured the brains of his son, and he apparently had a particular fancy for the flesh of young maidens, which he found to be “…both sweet and dainty in taste.” Tristan Egolf’s interest in lycanthropy is also to be seen in his last, and posthumously published novel, Kornwolf, which is about a mute Amish boy named Ephraim who stalks his hometown by night in the form of a stinky wolf who happens to look a lot like Richard Nixon. Ephraim’s particular shape-shifting talent is a family trait that reaches back into ancient European history, when villagers and livestock were occasionally culled (and ravaged) by various metamorphic fiends who, by day, walked indistinguishably among their victims.

“Peter Stumpe” is groovy. Tristan’s singing sounds a little like a more focused and fired-up Guy Picciotto. The songs are really heavy and affecting, extremely catchy, and have been stuck in my head for days. I MySpaced Dave Stauffer, who played drums in Kitschchao and maintains a nice page about the late band and the late Egolf. I asked him if there were any more recordings available, and he very generously wrote back to say that a cd/dvd was in the works, and meant to come out soon, hopefully. He recommended that I keep a lookout. He also said that this 45 contains his favorite recorded versions of both songs.

 
icon for podpress  Gone Sane [2:35m]: Play Now | Play in Popup

 
icon for podpress  Peter Stumpe [3:00m]: Play Now | Play in Popup

berserking

When the world ends, it’s not because of asteroids, plagues, or global war. It’s because a few of the old gods return to fuck things up finally in a way that makes our lame fuckups look like a billion microbes jerking off into a mist of pee. For example: at the Boy Scout meeting we learn how to make a fake scar by pasting rubber cement onto pinched skin. This is the secret of scouting: all the lessons are bullshit, but if you persevere and observe patiently with splatter-vision, you uncover useful secrets. You rip the rubbery layer off in an offhanded but interested way when you’re done, like removing a skin cancer in the quickest possible fashion: with your fingers, or teeth. We have no time for anesthesia, the world is over. Doctors are dead, medicine is trial-and-error. But the knowledge of berserker healing is recovered from the viking ghost world if you can force yourself to sit quietly. Then we find as many snails as possible, all the snails on the continent purged, all in our coffee can. When rolled, for example downhill, the can’s a land-mollusk centrifuge, shells in the center, guts on the outside. There’s a surprising amount of fluid in snails. A new method for emergency water collection is always welcome. The scout house is a cave, made of rocks and debris. Cast iron webs hold it together here and there. Scoutmaster is a rejected viking with a blonde mustache and blond curly hair, which was cut short as punishment for being a retard. Scoutmaster is ashamed of his killed beard and braids and built this fucked house to feel better. In the bathroom it smells like copper and I pee in the hammered-brass sink basin. I have tentacles instead of a dick, some for which grabbing is easy, some which are made for the purpose of peeing, some which are strictly sensory organs, and all of which object to the chilled metal of the sink, a sick joke. I laugh. But in Scoutmaster’s secret office we silently evaluate every concealed truth. Beneath a metal bust of Cthulhu in one corner I find a dread portal, wherein Scoutmaster hides a clan-stash of the ancient version of our modern pot. Cthulhu’s green metal octopus arms are sharp and one pokes me. A demented dwarf scout objects to my discovery: Scoutmaster’s his dad. Alarms are raised, time to flee invisibly. There is an empty corrupted ritual about to start, and our absence has been noted. Instructions for a group task: we’re supposed to scour the destroyed subdivision for alive souls, knock on burned doors, inquire with knife blades and burlwood tree stumps. All beneath the charade of a scout activity, a pitiful clinging to gone society. Girls are absent, no one can tell us why. Scoutmaster’s wife hardly counts. Morale is low. Exiting the smelly scout HQ, it’s said that all the girls in the world are busy doing exactly what we are at this moment, except without us. We’d all benefit from female companionship. Separation of the sexes is unnatural, time to shed outdated notions. Someone theorizes that Scoutmaster is actually a woman, like Grendel’s mother, a monster pretending to be human. I make it known that someone forgot the snail can. I also point out that if Scoutmaster’s a female monster, hiding in an excommunicated viking suit, she’s got the strangest pussy ever invented, because it looks like the biggest hard-on imaginable, with ugly nuts beneath like stinky goat balls. Demented dwarf objects yet again, but my argument is seconded, thirded, fourthed. A mixed truth, for him: his patriarch isn’t actually a female monster, but does shamefully reveal his weird dick to us. We all grow stronger with newly found shared experience, I think. The innocents will be killed and those near death already anyway will also be killed. Death is the natural side-effect of the end of the world.

excremental and/or putrefying food #1: Weasel Coffee

“Our coffee has a strong taste and an even stronger aroma”

luwak2-medium.jpg

Kopi Luwak is the most expensive coffee in the world, selling for between $120 and $600 per pound, and is sold mainly in the United States. It is increasingly becoming available elsewhere, though supplies are limited: only 1,000 pounds (450 kg) at most make it into the world market each year (Pg 23, The Gospel According to Starbucks; Sweet). One small cafe, the Heritage Tea Rooms, in the hills outside Townsville in Queensland, Australia has Kopi Luwak coffee on the menu at A$50.00 (=US$46.00) per cup, and approximately 4 people a week are up for it, which has gained nationwide Australian press.

Kopi Luwak or Civet coffee is coffee made from coffee berries which have been eaten by and passed through the digestive tract of the Asian Palm Civet (Paradoxurus hermaphroditus). The civets eat the berries but the beans inside pass through their system undigested. This process takes place on the islands of Sumatra, Java and Sulawesi in the Indonesian Archipelago, and in the Philippines (where the product is called Kape Alamid). Vietnam has a similar type of coffee, called weasel coffee which are coffee berries which have been defecated by local weasels. In actuality the “weasel” is just the local version of the Asian Palm Civet. -Wikipedia

luwak_poop.jpg

Now for the tasting… Cup one is with cream and sugar. The coffee is medium bodied with excellent flavor and a pleasant bouquet. There is a slight nuttiness to the coffee and no hint of bitterness. The finish is clean, with no acid or bitterness. There is a bit of fruit to the aftertaste and perhaps a little smoke. -read more

buy some

this place makes simulated Kopi Luwak

read what the BBC thinks

7 spooky house pictures

post #1

noidea2.jpg

Hi. I think this all is working now. It’s been an interesting learning process, but I hope it’s finally over, and I can forget everything that I had to sort of learn in order to get this thing up, and concentrate on putting stuff in it. Here’s to nakedness, bears and hot water.