The Many Faces of Greydon Clark

The Lights Are On

2011-12-06T20:13:00.000-08:00

Vulgar Display of Power

2011-12-06T20:02:00.000-08:00

The Sacred Disease

2011-06-06T19:21:00.000-07:00

She is dying for our sins.

Henry Hawk Learns to Fly

2011-03-25T19:42:00.000-07:00

At the Mudai Lounge in Portland.

This song is for Zeta.

Fuck California

2011-03-25T19:34:00.000-07:00

Party at the Holidome

2008-11-26T18:51:00.001-08:00

Cop Sex, the Best Sex

2008-11-26T18:31:00.000-08:00

A Paper Tab Burning on Your Tongue

2008-11-26T18:22:00.000-08:00

’75 Dodge Dart in Blue

2008-07-09T21:07:00.000-07:00

A true icon of the rust belt with its 3.7 litter Slant 6 engine, 4 speed manual transmission, and a thirst of leaded gasoline, this blue beauty would soon be traded straight-up for an 8 input Mackie mixing board.

Drain the Pool

2008-07-07T21:57:00.000-07:00

Push-push-push. Set-up (nervously).

Pop (awkwardly).

Yikes. This act should be hardwired into your muscle memory (but isn’t).

Legs flailing, you abort the frontside ollie (which given the pitiful size of the bank is a generous description of the act).

Pushing onward dejected but not defeated to the bowl. Thank god only one other person there. Drop-in. Slash microscopic backside “grinds” on the coping. This feels less awkward and more enjoyable as pumping transition is inherently fun.

Mongo-footed Hesher-Girl (Heshette?) arrives with dog on a haggard board with wheels the size of monster truck tires. She doesn’t skate. Just watches.

Growing bold you try to leave you mark on the lip of the pool. Six inches of grey is etched into the coping, a small victory. Time to leave.

Dog growls. Lunges. Heshette, scolding the canine, “Don’t chase people. Don’t chase sk-a-a-a-ters…"

Chuckle to yourself. “Skater.” Quite a compliment, all things considered. Would she categorize you as such if she knew you were going to the grocery to buy organic Swiss chard and tofu, not hot dogs and Hamm’s beer?

Hamm’s gives me the shits.

So, I Went Back to Cali

2008-06-30T22:44:00.000-07:00

And skied some steep windpack outside of Kirkwood.

Three-Fifths Compromise

2008-06-30T22:31:00.000-07:00

Skipping work to ski powder in February, epic storms dump epic pow followed by epic avalanches. Tim earned his turn in the old growth, while me and friend earned these with a chairlift and credit card.

Some days you win

2007-03-02T12:03:00.000-08:00

Thursday, March 1, 2007 it snowed in Seattle. More importantly, it dumped 20+ inches of very light dry snow on top of Alpental's very deep and soft base. These were definitely the best conditions I’ve had at the Pass. I’d like to thank the State of Washington Department of Employment for the checks and IHW for taking the photos.

Whiskey Pissed and South Bound

2007-02-28T09:40:00.000-08:00

In my youth I fell madly in love with the snowboard films of The Seans (Kearns and Johnson). These Bukowski-like post-adolescent delinquents from Canuckistan captured the spirit of post-MTV, pre-Internet Boardlordism with the freighting clarity of pure grain alcohol. Much like the Nation of Ulysses--their polar-opposites from Washington, D.C.--the influence and outright imitation of these unsung heroes is blatantly obvious in today’s music television and social networking websites. New Jack Motherfuckers, learn your roots--www.thewhiskeydocumentary.com.

While I gave-up snowboarding in 1998 and I’ve never run around a super-market in a clown suit, the Whiskey videos strengthened my attraction to snowy mountains. Some action shots from Alpental, Washington.

Even Old Dudes Love Skateboarding

2007-02-07T10:34:00.000-08:00

Front-nose, the author -- SF, CA

Backlip, Southgate Rob @ Thee Ramp

Drivers, set your AM dial to White Empowerment

2007-01-18T22:44:00.000-08:00

Lecherous

2007-01-18T22:29:00.000-08:00

Pissed Jeans

2006-05-25T01:10:00.000-07:00

My friend Ron (from Pennsylvania) proving that he is not dead yet, despite his advanced age—31.

I’m thirty years old, married, and at work I have my own office—which doesn’t double as a break room. Yet, it is 1AM on a Wednesday and I’m half-drunk, listening to Pissed Jeans MP3s and reading the bios on le tigre world dot com. While I’m a fan of Deceptacon and whatnot, Pissed Jeans are whats keeping me up at night. Fuck, I’ve been listening to song 1 over and over and over again and dreaming of buying an Gibson RD, stringing it with 58-13s, and smashing my fist into the pick guard in time with the Neolithic rhythm that beats within our primal hearts. It is so refreshing to hear something new, which sounds old and familiar and true. No contrivance or aspirations, just expression.

How is that for lauding accolades on anonymous Heshers from rural PA? I wish I wrote it in blood, not Word Perfect. Check out their unrestrained brilliance at http://www.whitedenim.com/pissedjeans/music.html.

Get high mother fuckers, get high. Afterwards, enjoy the photographic documentation the winter of 2006.
Self aggrandizement

Self preservation

Me and my bike

2005-11-01T23:49:00.000-08:00

Punks in the Beer Light

2005-11-01T23:28:00.000-08:00

I’ve always avoided the Silver Jews. I have a good reason. A semi-reprehensible college roommate was notorious for listening to Silver Jews records for hours on end—naked, while lazily masturbating. After ejaculating, he would wander into the kitchen, have a bowl of my Apple Jacks and organic soy milk (without permission), and ramble on about the brilliance of the Silver Jews. How could I ever like the Silver Jews if a twat like the Lazy Masturbator loved them? I couldn’t. Until I read this Pitchfork interview with David Berman.

Generally, reading an online interview with a minor-league indie rock celebrity is one of the less interesting exercises one can undertake. However, the David Berman interview broke that mold into a million pieces. He was interesting. He was honest. He was angry. He made me want to purchase his records. I was especially taken by his candor and willingness to discuss his religion, his finances and his addictions. He also gave the self-anointed online punditocracy a very large and extremely extended middle finger. Because of this, I’ll keep my editorial comments on merits and weaknesses of Tanglewood Numbers brief:

As an album, Tanglewood Numbers won’t change your life. You won’t spend hours stroking your cock fantasizing about the day you match its brilliance. But you’ll be happy that you own it. You’ll enjoy listening to it. David Berman is a poet and you’ll enjoy the pictures his words paint in your head.

On to other things things that I like, www.teddybearcrisis.com. Kris Ostness is back in the ski film game. Thank god. He definitely makes the most creative and visually appealing ski movies. Also, you don’t have to turn down the sound on your TV because the film scores are respectable—deep cuts from the electro-pop underground. But onto the meat, A.K.A., the skiing. Apparently, a rabid pack of neon clad Swedish midgets is roaming the intermountain west and the Alps. They are committed to skiing backwards and front flipping the largest, most ridicocklous, jumps you’ve ever laid eyes on. Apparently, Mr. Ostness was able to capture most of their antics on film. Their stunts are tastier than pickled herring.

I will not be stopped by technical limitations!

2005-10-20T23:36:00.000-07:00

My introspective musing will not be limited by a lack space. The unpublishable photos—bask in their glory! Feel what I felt. REJOYICE!

My heart beats like the rising of the sun—in symmetrical beats per minute

2005-10-20T22:41:00.000-07:00

The shear audacity of the project made me want to attend. Or maybe it was the absurdity. The Rambler, was a twelve hour composition of amplified sound. “An interpretation of the Sun's proximity to the Earth as expressed on the autumnal equinox, defining a relationship between light, sound, and the space they inhabit.” You can’t make that shit up. Nonetheless, if some heavy metal dudes are going to going to play at 6AM and celebrate the rising sun and the return of the autumnal equinox, well, I’m going to be there.

Secretly, I wish I had a pagan side. I wish I could talk about Satan and sacrificing goats or even the existence of evil with a straight face. But I can’t. Shit is retarded—Jesus Crispiness, but with a slightly different hue. Yet, in spite of my relentless pragmatism, I love the equinoxes. I love the solstices. Do I celebrate these demarcations the way a new mother celebrates the circumcision of her son or his first bowel movement? No. But I try to make them memorable. I try to be outside. I try to see the stars, the moon; the celestial objects that demark our collective place in the universe. Why? Because I’m going to die and I might as well see what has always been and what always will be.

A few years ago, my friend Ben and I did some hiking in Yosemite; we climbed a couple peaks and then spent the autumnal equinox sleeping under the stars. This is as close as I get to religion. And it was beautiful. I don’t wish you were there. This year I arose at 5AM, got on my bike, rode through the ghetto and watched some Heshers express—through symmetrical beats per minute and a wondering collective of wondering minstrels—the rise and fall of the Sun; its twelve hour trajectory across the sky. It was beautiful. I wish you were there.

Orgasm Addict

2005-10-19T23:41:00.000-07:00

Once again, Deerhoof delivered relentless riffage and blast-beats to the masses, but without the codpieces and ridiculous t-shirts normally associated with these Heavy Metal kid adjectives. Don’t get me wrong, without a doubt, these guys could talk you ear off about the brilliance of Bonham, and a couple of them were spotted burning a j at Iron Maiden night, but, thankfully, they abandoned the stifling confines of recycled Hesher-rock long ago. Last Saturday, Deerhoof returned to the stage and unveiled their new album to a sold-out the Great American Music Hall. Still, I was strangely frustrated by Deerhoof’s brilliant pop; why can’t they abandon the art-school deconstruction of hard rock and play those riffs for just a few more measures?

Check out these gruesome fuckers.

20 Lakes Basin

2005-08-22T22:29:00.000-07:00

Go there today.

Paradise Valley

2005-08-11T19:08:00.000-07:00

Some places are aptly named, some aren’t. Paradise Valley is. I was very happy that Susan and I were able to visit.

The higher you get the higher you get

2005-08-02T23:24:00.000-07:00

Tele skiers are nerds. We obsess over soft-shell outerwear and 90% of us wear the same hideously colored Patagonia jacket to the ski hill. Worse yet, the freaks, burnouts, and dope fiends have quit the sport. These days, most tele skiers have college degrees and rather frequently advanced degrees. I assume this is why we can’t have our morning cup of coffee without discussing the subsequent bowl movement on the Internet. But worst of all, we’re gear freaks. And our upper-middleclass dual-income buying power allows us to SPEND! SPEND! SPEND! We buy active bindings for downhill performance and then fret endlessly about uphill efficiency. Of course, all of this is moot unless our skis have that “sweet round flex”. Still, every once in a while, we realize that we love a sport predicated on a really really cool technique for turning skis across the fall line.

Telemark, also known as free-heel skiing, doesn’t need professional athletes to develop new gear. The Super Nerds among us will do that in their home machine shops – after they figure out how to keep that foam shit from falling off the space shuttle. Nor do we need professional freeskiers to show fixed-heel skiers and soft-boot-strap-binding snowboarders how rad our ancient technique is. For some reason, despite our flailing and total lack of social skills, peeps want to try our sport.

What we need, or, alternately, what I want, is someone to capture in print or electronic media the pure joyousness of our freakish, inefficient, painful, and antiquated downhill cross-country technique. I want photos that ooze style not steeze. I want prose that fuses the sport's roots with 21st century gnarl. I want a hero that has the absolutely unfuckwithable style of a Jason Lee or Jaime Lynn. Also, I want ski films that don’t have pop-punk or horrible trustastafarian neo-hippy funk in the sound track. How about some Motown or a cut from a Wire record.

What is my point? I have no idea. But I do like the following bit of verbiage from freeheel life:

Freeheel skiing is well on its way to becoming the coolest thing out since sliced bread, so tell all of your friends, your mom, your girlfriend, and anyone that listens. We are going to storm the world this season in every way imaginable! Thanks to all that have been a part of this so far, and to all of those that become a part of it in the future. We at FHL look forward to making many new friends.

They seem like really nice guys.

It Never Got Weird Enough For Me

2005-08-01T00:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, maybe once or twice I’ve felt I was in over my head, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt it was too weird. Pretty subjective and arbitrary, and more than likely it means I’m not out there pushing it and inserting myself into new situations.

Thursday, July 28th, Erase Errata performed at the Eagle Tavern, one of San Francisco’s more popular leather bars. Being alone in a night club that caters to bearded and burly gay men was definitely a new experience. I kind of felt like I was in the Blue Flame, the “gay bar” in Police Academy, except the Eagle has hand drawn posters of freakishly over-sized muscle men performing fellatio other members of the Ursus arctos horribilis family and the guys wearing sleeveless cop uniforms and tool-belts with handcuffs are serious. Despite the cop sex imagery, the crowd was pretty tame, 50% of the paid attendees were anemic indie rockers and the other half were bears in their mid-fifties.

After one beer I spot a fellow ex-pat from the 26th and we retreat to the well heated deck (I assume to accommodate shirtlessness) and drink Budweiser while hiding from the opening acts. Mercifully, Erase Errata is set-up and playing by 11:30. The set is good. The band is now a three piece, having jettisoned the dude they hired to do vocals. Not sure when this happened or why, but I’m glad. He was crap. They didn’t play a lot of material from the two LPs, but they snuck in some hits and I enjoyed the songs that were new to me. Basically, with the reduced line-up, they are a bass-drums-vocals band with some noise/slop guitar. And, strangely, it isn’t unmusical trash, but enjoyable and catchy.

Still, with the line-up changes and somewhat abrupt and unceremonious end to their set at the Eagle, one senses that the band’s time has passed. Hopefully I’m wrong and in the near future the EE drops a solid LP on the masses, but I doubt it.

Self Aggrandizing Bullshit

2005-07-28T20:41:00.000-07:00

When the mid-90s were turning into the late-90s four friends met in an Ypsilanti, Michigan basement to express their mutual love of playing pop melodies at double time and maximum volume. They wrote some songs and played some shows. Their friends encouraged them and occasionally a stranger said, “Good set.” But they had jobs, and school, and women, and beer, and other bands to tour with, so the practices happened less often and the shows got sloppy, but they still liked the songs and each other and their friends kept encouraging them.
Late one night they decided it was time to record some songs, so they started practicing and played a few shows, soon they visited Mr. Tim Pak, of Woodshed Studios. They recorded six songs totaling18 minutes and a 22-minute instrumental noise opera about a boy seeing the face of god in his bedroom ceiling. They recorded five of the songs in one take. One was a little tricky and took three takes. The guitars were Gibson’s and the amps were 100-watt tube dinosaurs with 4X12 cabs, all the distortion was produced naturally. The bass amp was 300-watts, transistor, and running at 2 Ohms while powering two 2X15 cabs, the square wave distortion was provided by a mid-70s rack mount effects unit -- known as “The Speaker Destroyer” because of its tendency to set speakers on fire. The drummer played a marching snare and taped two quarters to the beater of his kick drum. He didn’t bring a rack tam to the studio and only hit the floor tam once in the entire session. The band wanted the guitars to sound like jet engines. For the drums and bass an early ‘70s dance hall sound, inspired by The Upsetter, was the goal. The vocals were shouted into a mic hanging in the middle of the studio.
The next day they mixed the songs and took the tape home for their friends. Someone suggested a split 12” with Wallside, their friends and the best band in Detroit for much of the ‘90s. Joel and Aaron in Kalamazoo agreed to press the record. Money was saved, cover art created and more shows were booked. The record was reviewed in various punk ‘zines of the day and was compared to Gang of Four and Heroin (the band); all liked the chaos- none mentioned the melodies. Between the recording of the record and the pressing of the record, something happened, and they couldn’t write new songs. They unceremoniously called it quits before a show in Ypsilanti. All the members wanted keep the band going but they had jobs, and school, and women, and beer, and parties, and new places to live, and other bands to tour with.
All the members of The Shag Van Club are still friends. Some members play in bands in the DPA catalog. Some quit playing music because they heard the dogs of war howling in the drum kit while tripping on ‘shrooms. They now express themselves by eating sand and granite and pray for low-pressure systems in the Gulf of Alaska. They hope you will enjoy these songs; but want you to know they were never intended for a digital environment. At this point in time it is a worthless distinction to make, and only deserves mentioning because of the bands dedication to vinyl, vacuum tubes and magnetic tape. The songs are about youth and freedom, and volume and friendship, and working for an asshole, and staying up late, and having sex on the couch, and having a cherry car, and drugs, and Satan, and saying fuck you to the man, George Bush and his crippled bitch, your job, and responsibilities, and all the other things that led to their demise.
Fuck wax, the MP3 are coming…

One Hundred Degrees in the Shade

2005-07-28T20:26:00.000-07:00

So what is half the country is in the midst of a heat wave? Me and some friends, October 30, 2004. Kirkwood California.

Dawn Patrol, Tahoe California. Big Wednesday, January 2005.

Thirteen Songs for Walking

2005-07-27T21:10:00.000-07:00

>From: "scott m. stimac"
>Subject: Lungfish, Greatest Hits
>Date: Thu, 21 Jul 2005 12:27:21 -0700

in chrono-order:
1)friend to friend in the endtime
2)mother made me
3)**the song alec mackaye sings on towards the end of the song screaming"we're ready all ready all ready*** drawing a blank on the name.... (You might Ask Me What)
4)cleaner than your surroundings
5)to whom you were born
6)you did not exist
7)shed the world
8)love will ruin your mind
9)god's will
10)space orgy
11)the words
12)love is love
13)way out is the way out
………………………………………………………………………………………………

Damn, Scott threw down the gauntlet, but he forgot Creation Story. I guess I need to compile my own track list. If you’re interested in joining the fray, email you're top 13 Lungfish songs to Greydon_Clark_bmf @ hotmail.com. I’ll compile the results in a Greatest Hits CD.

Feral Hymns

2005-07-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

Wow, it has been months since I last put pen to paper and spewed out my guts to the cyber optic world. What can I say? I’ve been busy. In May and June I did a bit of skiing, the highlight being Mt. Shasta. Me and a semi-acquaintance, Alex Stoy, climbed the trade route (Avalanche Gulch). We planned on summiting and then descending the West Face to Hidden Valley, but the thunderheads had other ideas. Despite leaving at 4AM, we only made it to Red Cliffs or a little below 13,000 feet. Honestly, it was a real motherfucker of a climb. We were averaging a thousand feet an hour for six hours or so, but by 10:30 I was gassed. Still, the ski down was amazing and we raged freaky tele steeze for over 5,000 feet—slashing turns at 45 mph and whatnot. Needless to say, I’ll be skiing Mt. Shasta next spring.

For the 4th of July I was in Detroit celebrating Patriot Day and watching my mate Rob get married. At the exact same instance, my friend Ben was doing this ... Hopefully he will let me join him next year.

When I was in The D, the Ghetto Blaster was in full effect and I poured many pints of sweet Motown goodness down my throat while bull shitting with the bros. I was hyped to catch-up and rant about music, friends, and whatnot, but, to my astonishment, none of the bros owned the new Lungfish record, Feral Hymns. What the fuck? Thankfully I rectified this situation, at least on my end.

Feral Hymns… When I purchased this record, the nice looking young woman working the counter at Aquarius Records claimed it was the best Lungfish record ever and she was recommending it to everyone. Is it the best? No. I don’t think it has the power of Pass and Stow or the simplicity of Rainbows from Atoms, but it might be the best record of the post-John Christ era--maybe. Feral Hymns doesn’t have any Mitch Mitchell Feldstein drumming, druid chanting, or Jews harping; just endless repetition, fiber-optic birdcalls, multi-tracked guitars (21st Century studio trickery, eh?) and THUMPIN’ bass. I’m stoked. Buy this record on vinyl and listen to it at MAXIMUM volume when your teeth are humming and the Unholy Christ Beast is gnawing at the back of your skull. Your neighbors will love you and Higgs will make it all better.

But what the fuck do you expect me to say? I love Lungfish. Right now my IPod free ears are listening to Rainbows from Atoms, Pass and Stow, Indivisible, Necrophones, and Feral Hymns on shuffle. If you want, I can start mumbling about these records being mile markers in my life or talk about opening for Lungfish on their first tour with Sean Meadows on bass, but who wants to read that? As a band, Lungfish transcend entertainment and create art. The sea greets the sewer with a perfect kiss. The words the words the words the words…

Superwolf

2005-05-18T23:24:00.000-07:00

Superwolf.

Superwolf is an indie supergroup that joins the talents of Matt Sweeney and Bonnie “Prince” Billy, aka Will Oldham. For a long a review written by someone with, undoubtedly, a rather unsatisfying job go to Pitchfork. Me, I like most of the songs on the record. Like all Will Oldham projects, you have to skip past a couple of stinkers, but overall the record is solid. Epic, folk, ‘70s, Greatful Dead, dark, absurd are words that come to mind, but you’re capable of listening to music without the aide of my thesaurus. When you buy the record, as an added literary bonus, you get a paragraph by ex-pat writer Paul Bowles on the pot and alcohol. Fascinating... seriously.

Recommended tracks include “My home is the Sea” and “Only Someone Running”.

This record came out in January, so my "review" isn't that hot and stinky

Long Board Day… Saturday April, 23rd Kirkwood

2005-04-20T22:49:00.000-07:00

The time is at hand for the long awaited 1st Annual Kirkwood LONG BOARD DAY.
Meet at 10 @ 10 and look for the dudes with the tasty looking Blizzard Thermos and RD Valdez Extremes. Oh, what are long boards? Minimum length is 210 cm. Any shorter… FUCK OFF. I can't wait to ski the MEAT and slay the GNARR on the big planks, sans side-cut!

Update, shit went off.

We Are The Damned

2005-04-20T22:40:00.000-07:00

The federal judiciary is target de jour of Christian fucktards in Congress and Churches across the inbred South. Raise your hand if Tom DeLay and John Cornyn's recent spat of inflammatory proclamations against federal judges made your blood boil. Pick up a brick if you find it painfully obvious that their comments reflect a larger scheme to reshape federal courts. Clearly DeLay and his cronies in the GOP are implementing a multi-pronged strategy to pack the nation's courts with ideologues loyal to the Vampire Cult. The nomination of extremist judges, the campaign to eliminate the filibuster, and the attempt to break up the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals are each part of a larger picture. DeLay and friends want to develop a court system with predetermined outcomes.

In eighth grade I learned that federal judges receive lifetime appointments so they can make decisions that are independent of the current political climate. But when the courts decide it is okay to let a human vegetable die, be forewarned, the powers are going to fix the problem. Any Mormon worth his second wife knows that the easiest way to ensure that the courts produce the "right" decisions is to jettison the notion of balance and nominate and confirm loyal ideologues. Under the current Senate rules this is very difficult, but majority leader Bill Frist is considering changes to make it much easier. The "nuclear option" would eliminate the minority party's ability to filibuster and, in practice, allow the majority party to confirm nominees to the federal bench at will -- independent of how extreme, unqualified, or unacceptable to a broad constituency of Americans the nominee is.

Great, I can’t wait until we have fuckers like current Ninth Circuit nominee William G. Myers making decisions that affect us all. When employed as a lobbyist for the mining and cattle industries, this douche filed two amicus briefs with the Supreme Court arguing it was illegal for the federal government to enforce the Clean Water and Endangered Species Acts. Who knows what kind of slobbering ghoul Bush has waiting in the wing to fill the looming Supreme Court vacancy.

But why should the good soldiers in Christ’s army settle for changing Senate rules when they can change the entire federal court system? In October 2004, the House of Representatives voted to split the Ninth Circuit federal appeals court into three new courts. Why? The Ninth is delivering decisions unacceptable to the red necks in rural California, Oregon, Washington and the welfare whore in Alaska.

We are the damned.

Smoke from the bong

2005-04-20T21:59:00.000-07:00

In case you can’t read the Internet yourself, the new Lungfish album will drop this summer. Without a doubt, this album will be absolutely banger. How do I know? In October Lungfish was in SF recording Feral Hymns with Tim Green, they played a show and I was as impressed as ever.

A photo stolen from Dischord

Also, rumor has it the Crooked Fingers are discovering all new ways to suck.

Deerhoof

2005-04-13T00:53:00.000-07:00

Yo, yo, yo… just got back from a Deerhoof show in Oakland and it was the sickness. The show was at the Metro which is only notable ‘cause the venue is next to a porno shop. Kind of funny to think that some dude was trying to yank one off to Anal Vixens of Texas and losing his erection when the trumpet scatters its awful sound.

Deerhoof is clean tone riff rock with blast beats. A collection of contradictions and frequently annoying beyond belief, they have the ability to amaze. And tonight they were amazing. Saddly, they did not play Beep Beep.

Check them out in a town near you:

a n d i e g o c h e c a f e 4/7l o s a n g e l e s e c h o 4/8l o s a n g e l e s e c h o 4/9d a v i s U C d a v i s 4/10 s a n f r a n c i s c o b o t t o m o f t h e h i l l 4/11 o a k l a n d m e t r o 4/12 p o r t l a n d l o v e l a n d 4/14 o l y m p i a e a g l e s h a l l 4/15 s e a t t l e p a r a d o x 4/16 m i d d l e t o w n w e s l e y a n c o l l e g e 5/4 a m h e r s t a m h e r s t c o l l e g e 5/6 p o r t l a n d s p a c e g a l l e r y 5/7 b a l t i m o r e o t t o b a r 5/8 p h i l a d e l p h i a f i r s t u n i t a r i a n c h u r c h 5/9 c l e v e l a n d b e a c h l a n d b a l l r o o m 5/11 c h i c a g o o p e n e n d g a l l e r y 5/12 m i n n e a p o l i s t r i p l e r o c k 5/13 c h i c a g o e m p t y b o t t l e 5/15 a n n a r b o r b l i n d p i g 5/17 t o r o n t o l e e s p a l a c e 5/18 m o n t r e a l l a s a l a r o s s a 5/19 c a m b r i d g e l o b d e l l h a l l - M I T 5/20 b r o o k l y n n o r t h s i x 5/21 b r o o k l y n n o r t h s i x 5/22

Big Business

2005-03-29T22:18:00.000-08:00

From: Greydon Clark
Subject: Big Business
Date: Sun, 27 Mar 2005

Sunday night I attempted see the Big Business in SF, but blew it and showed up late. This fuck-up lowers my lifetime Big Business batting average to 1 for 4. In the past cops and naps have prevented me from rocking the fuck out to this amazing band, but Sunday it was accepting an ill timed long distance phone call from Scott Stimac. (Also, a flooded garage played a small part in my tardiness.) To atone for my sins I purchased the new BB CD, this further illustrated the error of my ways--the record is tough as nails. I encourage all of you to shower these guys with riches and buy their record today.

As a consolation prize I got to watch the These Arms Are Snakes set. TAAS are a solid band playing emotionally charged, if somewhat spastic, hardcore. I also hypothesize that they own records by The Jesus Lizard. You can’t fuck with the Lizard. Actually, the more I think about it, TAAS are pretty damn good, much like BB, they love the volume and if I wasn't an old fart I would have driven to Davis on Monday night to see both of these bands.

It should also be noted that in the process of making me miss Big Business, Scott called out the singer of These Arms are Snakes as a "Fashionista". Sorry dude, but this is somewhat hilarious as the fellow's style of dress and waistline is frighteningly similar to yours. However, Mr. TAAS does dance like an idiot.

Keep your feet on the ground while reaching for the stars...

Greydon

PS: In the name of fairness, I must publish this rebottle from Mr. Stimac:

From: scott m. stimac
Sent: Tuesday, March 29, 2005 2:49 PM
Subject: Fashionistas

while it is true that both myself and the singer from TAAS wear slim fit diesel jeans, it should be noted that:
1: He doesn't have a beer gut.
2: I don't have an eating disorder.
3: He doesn't get mistaken for a member of the Black Crows.
4: I don't play in band that goes on tour.

the big business disc is indeed fucking rad. and it should be known that These Arms Are Snakes are tight as fuck, i just don't like the dance moves.

keep it easy,

stimac.

Center for Consumer Freedom

2005-03-28T20:56:00.000-08:00

Hello,

Have you seen the anti-PETA ads that sometime appear in Newsweek? They are produced by the Center for Consumer Freedom and, to put it mildly, these guys are a bunch of bell ends. However, their website, activistcash.com, really pisses me off. It is unbelievable that they call what they are doing “in-depth” when topical partisan hackery is an understatement.

Some highlights of an email:

The purpose of activistcash.com is providing detailed information about the funding source of radical anti-consumer organizations and activists. You state that because these organizations are tax-exempt the public has the right to know “what they're up to”. Sounds fair to me, if a cause is just no one should feel the need to hide their involvement. However, it is rather curious that Center for Consumer Freedom is purposefully oblique when it comes to the source of its own funding. I did not find a copy of your 990 or annual report on your website. I did find a vague description of your funders and their desire for anonymity (citing concerns of safety and privacy). It begs the question; wouldn’t the foundations and fellow 501(c)(3) organizations you profile have the same concerns?

At the suggestion of your website, I did some research and found your 2003 990 online. I find it rather interesting that Berman and Company is listed in part V of the 990 as one of the Center for Consumer Freedom’s Officers, Directors, Trustees, and Key Employees. I wouldn’t expect a public relations firm to be listed as a key employee of a tax-exempt organization. I really did not expect the firm to be working on the exact same issues as the (I assumed) independent nongovernmental organization. Wow! How many of Berman and Company client’s are benefiting from this gaming of the tax code? Talk about shifting the debate.

Really, what is the difference between leftwing activists trying to force us to live according to their vision of society and the Center for Consumer Freedom and the Berman and Company’s clients trying to force us to live according to their vision of society? The color of your stripes?

I look forward to your response.

Greydon Clark

PS: Your “biography” of David Brower is a real piece of crap. The intentional omission of the man’s accomplishments does not strengthen your argument against him. Who knows, maybe one or two of your one thousand supporters has enjoyed visiting one of the national parks David Brower helped establish. Also, in case you missed the news, David Brower is deceased. You might want to update the “Background” section of your “biography”.

For an excellent take on Brower read Encounters with the Archdruid by John McPhee.

It feels like the first time

2005-03-24T20:48:00.000-08:00

Wow, my first time typing on the Internet... fuck... this is amazing.