Images of Mistress Past. She’s twenty-five years old today. It’s hard to believe.because it seems that not all that long ago, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were looking at her, freshly emerged from her nine-month home with a head full of thick black hair and wearing a little stocking cap (this last courtesy of Mister Doctor Ob-Gyn). And wailing to beat the band. Born in Georgia, she’s lived all over, thanks to our schlepping her along on our various Family Relocations.

1. Scream No More Censorship Rar Extractor Software

Glastonbury and Trumbull, Connecticut. Houston, Texas. Marietta, Georgia, back to her roots. And now, Savannah, home of SCAD, her Alma Mater, and her choice of residence for the two years since she was graduated.

Nov 07, 2011  Yep, Scream 'No More Censorship' managed to strip out the hardcore and substitute with some interesting 'The Cult' influence. Alas, not a good record overall. I knew I was forgetting a band: Uniform Choice - Starring In The Sun. A real bummer. Track 1 of Scream's 1988 album 'No More Censorship', 'Hit Me'. May post more Rock/Metal albums.

This, despite a childhood promise - we have it in writing! - to always live with her Mommy. With a quick wit, a quick smile, and a quick laugh, she is everything a Daddy could want in a daughter. Happy Birthday, my joy of joys - may you live to be 120 ( kein ayin hora), all in good health and prosperity. That last part is important, ’cause I’ll be expecting you to support me when I’m old and decrepit. The Mistress of Sarcasm today.

While in Destin last week, I had a chance to check out some of the latest fashions in chapeaux. And since I already have an adequate supply of Panama hats and fedoras, it was time to see about an upgrade to that other quintessentially Elissonian bit of haberdashery: the infamous Colander. Yes, it’s Colander Borg-Man!

Nice, but nothing special. I busied myself with inspecting several non-metallic models. Stealth, baby. Gotta fly below the radar.and, as we all know, the Space Aliens are already on to our Tinfoil Hats.

The hanging price tag helps give it that Minnie Pearl look, am I right? Raise the antennae! Turns out this model has retractable flip-up antennae, the better to receive those mysterious communications from the Great Zorg. And that bright red color is its own Fashion Statement.

Manolo can keep his. Here, you gots Colander Borg-Blog! Nick was one of those old guys who walked the mall every morning. A regular amongst the Davenport Mallwalkers, he’d been at it for over fifteen years now. “I gotta get my exercise!” he’d say, heading past Macy’s at a brisk near-trot. Last week, all that exercise was no help. Some guy stuck a gun in his face and demanded his wallet, and Nick must not have been quick enough coming up with it.

Nick’s sleeping the Forever Sleep now, but it doesn’t seem to slow him down any. I still see him walking the mall.but only at night. Laurence Simon and the late Edloe. It’s been two years since one of the great lights of Kittydom went dark. Today marks the second anniversary of Edloe’s passing. Readers of Laurence Simon’s site, along with the regular readers of and participants in the weekly, will remember Edlow as a huge furry grumpus who took up an inordinate amount of Houston real estate.

But we all loved her, and her absence has left a void in the Kitty Bloggy-Sphere. A couple of weeks ago, I stopped by the home of one of my fellow Minyan Boyz, only to discover that he has two cats. The younger of the two, one Lucy by name, is a dead ringer (you should excuse the expression) for Edloe. I will need to get some pictures and post them; I know you are curious. Upon seeing Lucy, I felt a momentary pang.which was quickly replaced by a warm memory. I thought to myself, “As long as we remember her, Edloe lives.” Laurence is busy tonight in Second Life inaugurating Edloe Island, a chunk of virtual real estate dedicated to the late beloved Grumpus.

I hope everyone has a great time.but it would be appropriate to light a virtual candle in Edloe’s memory, and perhaps to recite the Mourner’s Cattish. I was never a particular fan of clowns in my Snot-Nose Days.but neither was I terrified of them, as so many children apparently are. Stephen King mined the Scary Clown lode pretty thoroughly in his novel It, a book that bears one of the more creative titles he has used over the years. I wasn’t all that impressed with It, which, to my taste, is not one of the stronger books in the King canon.

But the image of Pennywise, the evil clown that lived in the storm drains, must have resonated with many readers. “And we’ll have Tim Curry play him in the TV miniseries!” “ Aggggghhhhh!” I first tasted of the Evil Power of Clowns back in the fall of 1981, when Elder Daughter (at the time, Only Daughter) was a mere seventeen months old. It was Hallowe’en, and we dressed her up in a set of Chinese silk pajamas that I had brought back from one of my trips to Hong Kong. She loved it. Then I decided to becostume myself. This, alas, was a mistake.

I put on a white shirt and black pants. But then I put on whiteface, Marcel Marceau style, and committed the egregious error of letting Elder Daughter see me. She almost burst a blood vessel from shrieking in terror.

Months later, SWMBO handed Elder Daughter a magazine so that she could be occupied looking at pictures while Mommy vacuumed the house. When SWMBO turned off the vacuum cleaner, she could hear E.D.

The child had been right there in the room all the time, but the vacuum cleaner had drowned out her screams - when SWMBO picked her up to comfort her, she could see what had triggered the episode of Toddler Fear: an ad for a cosmetic mask that showed several women wearing goop on their faces, looking an awful lot like Daddy did that horrible Hallowe’en night. To this day, mimes give Elder Daughter the Shit-Willies.and I blame myself.

Of course, mimes give pretty much all rational people the Shit-Willies, even the Educated Mimes with degrees. From the Colorado School of Mimes, natch. But aside from this incident, I never had any issues with clowns.

I don’t take ’em seriously. After all, we at Chez Elisson use the term “Bozo” to - specifically, the ones that stick out from the sides of the bikini bottoms of Unwaxed or Unshaven Women., alas, still have difficulty getting past their fear of clowns. To those people, I say, “Do not look below the fold!”. Sausage lovers throughout America were saddened to hear of the recent death of Bob Evans, Ohio breakfast meat icon and restauranteur. Evans, founder of the restaurant chain that bears his name, succumbed to complications from pneumonia. He was being treated at the Cleveland Clinic. When supplies of quality sausage for his truckstop became scarce, he began making his own, thus laying the groundwork for a meatpacking and casual dining empire.

Employees credited the enterprise’s rapid growth to Evans’s sage advice. The family plans a private funeral at which Evans’s remains will be ground up and stuffed into a sausage-shaped casket. Rob Smith, AKA the Acidman. Today, June 26, marks the of Rob Smith’s death. His yahrzeit, if you will.

Rob, of course, was known to the Bloggy Community as, a name that was appropriate not only because of his past employment in a sulfuric acid works, but also because of his acerbic wit and no-holds-barred approach to blogging. Or, as his buddy might put it, blodging. I first spoke to Rob in the summer of 2005. I had no idea what he’d be like in a telephone conversation, but instead of the fire-breathing dragon one might expect from (some of) his writing, his voice was that of a pleasant, soft-spoken gentleman. We had a very enjoyable conversation.and a few months later, I finally met Rob face-to-face in Helen, Georgia. It was at the 2005 gathering of the Jawja Blown-Eyed Blodgers (another Catfishism), a gathering that had its origins several years before in an impromptu get-together (initiated, of course, by Rob) at Blood Mountain.

The Acidic One was not in good shape at the time, to put it mildly; he had traveled a long ways toward drinking himself to death. But seven months later, when I saw him in Austin, he had turned things around 180 degrees. He was sober and lucid, his writing sharper than ever.

Rancho Alegre, May 6, 2006. Less than a week after the Austin meet, SWMBO, the Mistress of Sarcasm, and I joined Rob for dinner at Rancho Alegre, the little Cuban place just off Abercorn on the southerly side of Savannah. It was a very enjoyable evening.and, unbeknownst to us at the time, our final meeting.

Less than four weeks later, Rob was gone. Shakespeare famously said (in the guise of Marcus Antonius) that “The evil that men do lives after them / The good is oft interred with their bones.” In Rob’s case, both the good and evil were laid out there for the whole world to see.

If it wasn’t right in front of your nose, you could dig for it in the Archives. And it wasn’t always pretty. But Rob’s legacy - the good stuff - wasn’t interred with his bones.or, more accurately, ashes. He left behind two beautiful children, children who, it is to be hoped, have inherited Rob’s gifts of language and music. He left behind a pile of Graphica Electronica, all of which continues to sit out there on the Inter Webby-Net.

There are days that I will get more referrals from Rob’s site - still! - than anywhere else. It’s a testament to the power of his writing (and the persistence of his readers).

He left behind recordings of his music, music that still brings a tear to my eye when I listen to it. And, most significantly, he left behind a motley group of Online Journalists whose greatest shared bond is their friendship with one Rob Smith.and their willingness to do as Rob did: pursue a ceaseless quest for adoration from people who don’t know them. I’m proud to be one of them.

Technorati tags. It was as we were driving to Destin last week that I made an important observation, an observation that encompassed both the Arts and the Sciences. The Arts: Men’s clothing. The Sciences: Fluid mechanics and hydrodynamics. The observation: It is distinctly unpleasant to piss in a urinal while wearing shorts.

Why should this be? You may well ask. It’s an example of fluid mechanics and hydrodynamics in action. When you pee in a urinal, the stream impacts the back of the urinal, inevitably creating a fine dispersion of Golden Droplets.

Don’t believe it? Look at the partition between stalls: Inevitably, it will show a corrosion pattern that accurately reflects the dispersion of those Golden Droplets over time. Micturating into a toilet bowl from the standing position - unless you’re one of those people who aims for the porcelain above the water in a misguided attempt to minimize the Pishy-Noise - does not generate Pee-Mist anywhere near the extent to which a urinal does. This I know from years of observation.

To eliminate Pee-Mist entirely, one would have to sit down while urinating. For men, this is completely unacceptable.

That is, unless one is dealing with the dreaded. So: I am standing at the urinal, enjoying a refreshing pisheroo, when I notice the unmistakable sensation of Pee-Droplets impinging upon my leg-hairs. And don’t tell me it never happens to you. Which explains, by the bye, why Elisson rarely wears short pants. And why he bathes after Road-Trips.

Mingle 2 - From the inimitable comes this latest that purports to give your blog the MPAA Rating Smackdown. The basis for my NC-17 rating?

Here ’tis: This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:. hell (11x). schmutschkie (10x).

crap (8x). ass (7x). fucking (5x). doodie (4x).

dead (3x). meat (3x). pee-pee (2x). weenus (2x). pudendum (1x). frint (1x).

whoo-ah (1x). ankylosing spondylitis (1x). Zonker (1x) What a crock of shit excrement doodie poo. It’s censorship, I tells ya!

How often do you take chances? Are you a risk-taker? Do you think about things long and hard before you try something new or do you fly by the seat of your pants? In terms of psychology’s, the personality trait most associated with risk-taking is known as “.” I’m finding that, quite often, people aren’t so open, they take the safe route in life, in case something unfortunate might happen.

No, I’m not just using this as another way to study for a psych class; I got to thinking about chances and risk when I read about yesterday via, a sad reminder that sometimes taking a chance does indeed end up disastrous. I think of myself as a fairly open person. I met my husband via a back in the day, before the Internet was as popular and widespread as it is today (does that make me “open” or just a geek??) At 32, I enrolled in University for the first time and although it was a bit scary at first, I absolutely love it now. I like trying new foods, new activities, traveling, and yes, even going on scary thrill rides.

Another one of my favourite things to do is meet new people. I love everything about people: meeting them, talking to them, getting to know them, figuring out what makes them tick, or even just watching them when I’m in a public place (no, I’m not a voyeur and even if I was, this is Elisson’s pad and I'm trying to keep it clean here). I’m not what you would call shy in any respect. My mother recalls me, as a child, going up to complete strangers when we would go camping and saying, “Hi, I’m ‘Chickie,’ want to be friends?” So, it was that love of meeting people that led me to a new friendship in the summer of last year. I’d been reading these “Jawja bloggers” for a while - basically, these were the only blogs I read. I really don’t know how I ended up getting addicted to reading a bunch of cats from the southern US, it just kind of happened.

When I decided to start my own blog, many of those same writers I’d been reading started to read and comment on mine as well. I believe it was early June when, through the magic of blogging, I found out that Elisson himself was coming to my fair city. Were I the tentative type, I might have been too nervous to venture out to a bar at 10:30 at night to meet someone I’d only known electronically, this Jewish dude from Atlanta who blogged one minute about fine cuisine and the next (and quite frequently) about excrement. Everything turned out just fine, of course; we had a great time chatting over a couple of drinks and we even had the opportunity to spend some more time together later in the summer. Taking another chance, I decided to schlep my butt onto a plane and fly a mere 2500 kilometres to attend my first-ever blogmeet. A bit nervous? Sure I was, but it was worth it, I was welcomed right into the fold of the Blown-Eyes and was treated like family by E and SWMBO.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, unlike the poor girl in the story I linked at the top, I’ve taken plenty of chances in my life and so far, they’ve all turned out pretty darn great. While I don’t advocate being completely foolhardy when making decisions, I think it is a good thing to be able to trust yourself enough to try new things, even if they seem a little scary or risky at first. You never know what wonderful new experiences (or ) are waiting around the corner. Last Thursday, one of those late-afternoon thunderstorms for which the South is famous rolled through the neighborhood. I was toiling away in my home-based outpost of the Great Corporate Salt Mine when the storm blew in.

SWMBO and the Mistress were off at the Nail Salon, doing.whatever it is the ladies do at the Nail Salon.flash. POP WHAMMO! You know a lightning strike has been really, really close when you hear the POP! Just before the crack of the thunder.

This bolt apparently didn’t hit the house. Good thing, too: We’ve lost all kinds of telephones and miscellaneous electronic equipment to lightning strikes over the years, both here in Atlanta and in Houston. Alarm systems, telephones, garage door openers, television sets, HVAC system controller circuits: you name it, we’ve had it fried at one time or another. Everything seemed to be in order, though, and the DSL line still worked (after a warm reset). The next time the phone rang, though, we found out otherwise. The main line was full of static and buzz, enough to where the Caller ID no longer worked. Too bad, because you needed it to figure out who was on the line.

The buzzing was so bad, you couldn’t recognize voices. Strangely, only the residential line was affected. The business line was fine. We called the phone company, and they arranged to send out a technician. “Monday, between 3 and 7 pm,” they said. He finally showed up this morning and started doing his Detective Thingy.

Turns out the buzzing was due to a blown-out surge protector. Problem solved! That was good news indeed. It means the surge protector did exactly what it was designed to do, saving our telephones, DSL modem, and computer. We’ll have to buy a new one, of course, but that’s an expenditure I'll be happy to make. It’s a small price to pay for the safety of the Electronica d’Elisson.

Do you have surge protectors? And do they have slots for your telephone lines? If not, what are you waiting for?

Get yer ass out to the office supplies or electronics store and buy some cheap-ass protection! Think of it as a Condom for your Electronic Dick. Safe computing! One of the little.ahh. Peculiarities of She Who Must Be Obeyed is that she cannot resist buying Useless Crap for the kitties. Cat beds, in particular, seem to bring out the Purchasing Instinct in her.

Never mind that 99% of the time, the only bed our cats want to sleep in - Matata, anyway - is the one in which we may be found. Yesterday, as we prowled the hallways of Costco, SWMBO’s laser-guided Kitty Crap Detector started zizzing and beeping. What should we find but a Dinky-Ass Sofa, one perfectly sized to fit a dog.or a cat or two? Anything north of standard poodle-size might have trouble squeezing onto it, but for Hakuna and Matata, it was just right. Of course, we had to buy it. SWMBO insisted, no matter how much I rolled my eyes and ridiculed her.

And - lookee here! - Matata likes it! More territory from which to exclude Hakuna!” And it’s also eminently suited to some of our More Petite Friends.

It’s a perfect fit for Laura Belle! Elisson’s Dad (L), SWMBO’s Dad (R) As an Empty Nester Dad, I enjoy the company of my chirrens whenever I can.which, alas, is not as often as I’d like it to be, given that they reside at a distance. Fortunately, within the last three weeks, I’ve had the opportunity to spend time with both Daughters d’Elisson. Besides affording me great pleasure, a visit with my girls always reminds me that simply being their father is, without question, my greatest personal achievement. I remember the near-panic I felt before Elder Daughter arrived, but I have to work hard now to summon up that memory, buried beneath over twenty-eight years of Subsequent Experience. Most remarkable to me is the fact that, upon becoming a Dad, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Even more, it was like opening a window into the soul of my own Dad, Eli hizzownself.

Suddenly I felt closer to him than ever before, owing to the bond of shared experience. As I’ve noted in past posts, being a Daddy is a team effort, and I owe a lot of my Mad Daddy Skillz to the fact that I am attached at hip and shoulder to the one and only SWMBO. But today is Father’s Day, and so I will bask in the limelight while I can. Does Father’s Day observance include Catholic priests?

Just curious. “Daddy.” It’s a title I carry with pride, an accomplishment for which I was trained by riding on the shoulders of giants. Look upon their photographs above, and be awed. Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads out there! You’ve earned it. Or, What I’ve Been Reading Lately. It’s been ten months since I’ve posted about the Old Book Pile d’Elisson.

As I said last time I did so, putting up a list of the books I’ve been reading is nothing more than another great big Exercise in Self-Indulgence, right up there along with my Friday Random Ten. But, of course, that won’t stop me. So: What has Old Uncle Elisson has been reading over this last couple of months, anyway? March.

On The Wealth Of Nations - P. O’Rourke The premier conservative humorist deconstructs the Founding Document of Western-style capitalism in his inimitable style. Here Comes Civilization: The Complete Science Fiction of William Tenn, Volume II - William Tenn.

Immodest Proposals: The Complete Science Fiction of William Tenn, Volume I - William Tenn A two-volume retrospective featuring one of the great (and underappreciated) science fiction writers of the twentieth century. Tenn is insightful and sharp-witted in this collection, a must-read for any serious SF reader.

Needless to say, I read Volume II first, since I had to jump through hoops to find a copy of Volume I. April. Eat What You Want and Die Like a Man: The World's Unhealthiest Cookbook - Steve H. Graham The author is none other than blogdom’s own Steve H., proprietor of and. This book, originally published using the tried-and-true vanity press route, will shortly be coming to a bookstore near you, courtesy of a Real Publisher. I recommend it more for Teh Funny than the recipes, which are devastatingly tasty-sounding but which will stop your heart.

Nasty Bits, The: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones - Anthony Bourdain More Cheffy Fun from the author of Kitchen Confidential. Good, the Spam, and the Ugly, The: Shooting It Out with Internet Bad Guys - Steve H. Graham Steve H. Takes on Nigerian internet spammers. Hilarity ensues. May.

Rollback - Robert J. Sawyer What happens when the aliens finally start communicating with us? And how do we establish a dialogue when each message takes thirty-two years to reach its recipient? That premise is intriguing enough, but it’s just the backdrop to the real story: What if you and your True Love of a lifetime can have your youth back.and what if the treatment only works on one of you?. Platinum Pohl - Frederik Pohl An anthology of some of Fred Pohl’s finest short stories. The Yiddish Policemen’s Union - Michael Chabon A noirish-Yiddish detective novel set in an intriguing alternate world, a world in which the Jewish homeland is established, not in Palestine, but in Alaska - an idea that actually was considered for a brief time following World War II. June.

America Alone: The End Of The World As We Know It - Mark Steyn A humorous look at a serious subject in the vein of P. O’Rourke, this book examines the decline of Europe and the ascendancy of Islamic “Eurabia,” a shift in civilization driven by birthrates, religion, and politics. Enchanter Completed, The: A Tribute Anthology for L.

Sprague de Camp - Harry Turtledove (editor) A collection of SF and fantasy stories honoring the late author L. Sprague de Camp, writer of Lest Darkness Fall and numerous other tales. Einstein: His Life and Universe - Walter Isaacson A detailed and eminently readable examination of Einstein’s life and his contributions to 20th century physics - contributions that have not only changed the way we look at the world, but that have changed the world itself. What have you been reading lately? Few people know that the modern game of bowling traces its origins to the steppes of Central Asia.

To the very court of Genghis Khan, in fact. His Mongol hordes wreaked cruelty, death and destruction on all who resisted their sweep across Asia. It was after they leveled a particularly recalcitrant village that Genghis took the head of its chieftain - now detached from its body - and, holding it by the mouth and eye sockets, rolled it down a dusty alley, knocking over a pile of villagers’ bones. But it was his grandson Kublai who invented the Bowling Shirt. A connoisseur of Matters both and, has been posting about the X-15.

Which, of course, inspired me to share the photograph below. This is a picture of the Real Thing: the X-15A-1, one of only three X-15 rocket planes ever built. It’s the specimen hanging at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C., photographed by Yours Truly last November. I Photoshopped it to remove the museum background and hanging cables, then pasted it into a nice blue-sky background with a little gratuitous motion blur. There’s something awe-inspiring about standing mere feet away from a machine like that, a machine that has burst the surly bonds of earth and come home (with its living human passenger) to tell the tale. There were giants in those days. When I pulled into our synagogue’s parking lot for morning Minyan today, I saw Bill, the congregation’s Custodian, Chief Cook and Bottle Washer, and General Factotum, on his hands and knees in the parking lot, spraying the asphaltum with black spray paint.

Wha’?” thought I to myself. But when I got out of the car, I could see what he was doing. He was attempting to cover up some swastikas that had been spray-painted on the asphalt during the night. Fortunately, the momzers that left their Stupid-Ass Greeting Card did not deface the building. Perhaps that will come later. The Rabbi was pretty complacent about the whole thing, apparently because the building itself was not targeted. But we insisted that the police be called - not so much because they will be able to catch the perpetrators, but because they need to know it happened.

And they would be the ones to know whether this was a solitary act or part of a larger pattern.a pattern that would be undetectable if individual desecrations were unreported. So, who did it? A couple of asshole teenagers? That’d be my guess. These morons barely knew how to draw a proper swastika, fer cryin’ out loud. Were they just having Idiot Fun?

Or were they really trying to insult, intimidate, or threaten us? For few graphic symbols pack the visceral wallop of the swastika.

It’s the icon of the Nazis, for whom the destruction of all Jews was a matter of official policy, a policy that was acted upon to horrific effect. By rights, the sight of a swastika should send us into a vengeful rage that would make the Danish Mohammed cartoon jihad look like a game of pattycake. But that’s not what we do. After a few thousand years, we’re used to the occasional gratuitous insult. No, we won’t be rioting in the streets.

But we will go on with our lives, saying our daily prayers, and every so often shaking our heads and wondering quietly to ourselves, “Why do they hate us?” But just the same, I’d love to find the jackasses responsible. I’d make ’em sit through a few days of Diversity Training, hold their hands and sing Kumbaya.and then break their fucking legs with a Louisville Slugger.

I normally don’t post random Funny Shit that lands in my in-box, but this one was worth sharing, IMBEO (In My Bloatedly Egotistical Opinion): What happens in a coffee house when a fly falls into a cup of coffee? It depends on who is drinking the coffee. An Englishman will throw away the cup of coffee and stalk off, muttering about the bloody rotten hygiene of the coffee house.

An American will take out the fly and drink the coffee. A Chinese will eat the fly and throw away the coffee. A Japanese will drink the coffee with the fly, since it was extra. An Israeli will sell the coffee to the American, the fly to the Chinese, and, with the proceeds, buy himself a new cup of coffee.

A Palestinian. Don Herbert, AKA Mr. Wizard, June 1978. David Pickoff/AP photo. The world has lost a real wizard.

Not one from the fictional world of Harry Potter, but someone who, back in my Snot-Nose Days, brought the magic of science to the small screen. I refer, of course, to Don Herbert, the of television’s Watch Mr. Wizard, who from complications of multiple myeloma at the age of 89. I remember watching Mr. Wizard as a kid, doing his simple experiments and demonstrations - most of which used easily available household chemicals and which he encouraged viewers to replicate at home.

In today’s Nanny State, that’d be a troublesome proposition, but back then things were simpler - and people were credited with having more common sense. Along with the fabled Gilbert Chemistry Set, the Science Service’s “Things of Science”, and, Mr. Wizard helped kindle a lifelong interest in science within Yours Truly, one that culminated in my earning a chemical engineering degree (cum laude!) from a Reasonably Prestigious University. Harry Potter may be able to wave his wand and convert a turd into a diamond, but Mr. Wizard could show you how molten sulfur could change color from yellow to orange to red to black, all the while making your kitchen stink like Satan’s sphincter. That was real magic.

Ave atque vale, Don. We’ll miss you. And Buy My Kid’s Jewelry, Too, Dammit!

Cast o’ Characters Yet More Self-Aggrandizement “Got-dam Philistine! Is NOTHING sacred to you?” - “The Bard of Affliction.” - Houston Steve “My hat’s off to Elisson! All hail Elisson!” - “Elisson’s blog: mysterious.like unraveling a turban and finding a moist dildo inside.” - “.Obi-Wan Kenobi of Georgia.” - “.when I grow up, I want to be Elisson.” - “Elisson ain’t right. We know that.” - “Elisson.has totally gone off the deep end.” - “.of many talents.” - “.the ever insightful Elisson.” - “.Elisson, my man.I’m impressed.you are the man.” - “You make my heart sing.” - “.maniacal, obsessive rants about duck fat.” - “In a world almost entirely without heroes, Elisson stands alone.” - “I really want to whup Elisson upside the haid.” - “The world is a much stranger place since I began reading your blog, Elisson.” - “the cat’s ass in his trademark white fedora” - “.R’ Blog Shem Tov.” - Erica Sherman “By gadfrey, sir.You’re the most amazing character. There’s never any telling what you’ll say or do next, except that it’s bound to be something astonishing.” - “Elisson, you are such a Renaissance Man you make Newton, Descartes & Copernicus look like Larry, Moe & Curly!”.

You know what?.this is more like it. Proper no nonsense punk metal, with a guitar sound like a buzzsaw cutting through a corrupt bankers crushed stone driveway. Topped off with Blinko's best gravel gargling vocals since 'Cacophony'; and great psychotic scribbled on padded cell toilet paper artwork. All the songs are between 58 seconds and one minute thirty in length, so they never overstay their welcome, and in some cases fit into the 'Leave 'em wanting more' slot from the annals (or anals) of 'Showbiz'. I think i could listen to the riff for 'No Other Truth' for a good twenty minutes, with no need for extra vocals.this is always a concept i have always wanted to explore musically, a bit like a heavy metal Circle.(.the finnish group who explored the magic of repetition to the nth degree). As this RP EP only lasts less than fifteen minutes, that concept interests me more.is a song as long as a piece of string, and if so do they merely 'end', or just 'stop'?

And when they stop or end, does the effect end or stop with them.Music's magick can be truly infinite in the sonic chapter of the 'Theory of Relativity': Energy = mass divided by the speed of sound squared or E=mc2( i looked up the mathematical synbol for the speed of sound, and it was the same as for the speed of light!); so the faster the song moves the more time distorts, and bends back in on itself.Therefore are short songs really short? And would they exist if we weren't here to listen to them; for they are just different wavelengths of air movement, and you sure as hell can't listen to a movement of air pressure without a brain to create the language to understand it. Language is a virus and music is a language.

What i'm saying is, short songs may end, but their effect can last many times longer than their actual acknowledged length,like a microcosm of curved space/time in your Brain,which is the only place that music, or non-music, actually exists. Tracklist: A1 Captive Of Atrophy A2 No Other Truth A3 Essence A4 Bequest A5 The Mirror A6 The Underclass B1 Unchanged B2 As Nothing B3 Choice Of Evils B4 The Internal Censor B5 The Ocean Of Misery B6 Clandestine Harem. Rudi P goes metal.but it's good metal.

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Simple riffs, no boring solo's, short tunes, and intelligent lyrics.but it' ain't no 'Death Church'. Smith once said that Punk Rock was just 'badly played Heavy Metal'; well this version of Punk Rock is well played Heavy Metal, that doesn't sacrifice intelligence for power, both of which it has in spades. Tracklist: A1 The Flame Of Insanity A2 In Memory Of Pain A3 Dissolution A4 Only Death A5 Womb So Scorned A6 Time Passing B1 Echo B2 Voice B3 Stone B4 Trial By Separation B5 From The Heart B6 Your Secret Life. After another forced hiatus of seven years, where Nick Blinko was in fact detained under section 3 of the UK mental Health Act in a psychiatric institution.It was during his time in this secure unit that he wrote another Prog-Punk concept album.allegedly. Its a strange beast with a speech loop of the latin translation of Pope Adrian, playing for the whole of the album between and during all the songs!?you have to be crazy to have an idea like that. Musically, the songs have become a standard three minutes in length, slightly slower and metallic, and Blinko's vocals have become a lot more restrained; as if he was on medication, which he probably was.

These are the meds, he says stop him dreaming, that he has to stop taking in order to make his art, Obviously not necessary in order to make music. Comfortably the worst Rudi P record.but don't worry it gets a lot better from here. Tracklist: 1 Pogo Pope 3:26 2 The Pope With No Name 3:23 3 Hadrianich Relique 3:27 4 Il Papus Puss 3:59 5 Muse Sick (Sic) 4:25 6 Vatican't City Hearse 2:02 7 I'm A Dream 4:07 8 We're Gonna Destroy Life The World Gets Higher And Higher 3:52 9 Pills, Popes And Potions 4:08 10 Ireland Sun 3:47 11 Regicide Chaz III 3:51 12 Iron Lung 2:47. After a gap of five years since Death Church, during which Grant Matthews (bass) was diagnosed with cancer, Nick Blinko struggled with his schizophrenia, and they gave up playing live; Rudi P came back with an Anarcho-prog concept album based on the life and works of horror writer H.P.Lovecraft. As with a lot of concept albums, there is a lot of between track nonsense in an attempt to link it all together like some bad musical. Top marks for doing the most non-punk thing possible, by making a literate concept album.stick that in your mohican and smoke it! Between the frankly irritating speaking in tongues connecting parts, there lurks some decent tunes.It would have made a killer EP, which they are very good.

As for cacophony, there are plenty of records on this blog which make this sound like ABBA. Not the best Rudi P release by some distance, but still rather bizarre and you won't find anything that sounds quite like it. The sporadic releases of Rudi P after 1983 created a need for product which was generously fulfilled by this live bootleg from two pre-Death Church performances in 1982. There were 5 years between the first and second albums; mainly due to Nick Blinko's psychological condition,and the various anti-schizophrenia drugs he had to endure, which halted the creative process in its tracks.

One must say the boys are on fine form here, blasting out their one minute symphonies to a constantly chit-chatting audience. The sound quality is rather good, and must have been recorded from the soundboard, with Blinko's screaming being especially clear. A fine document of a fine group. Tracklist: Musicians Collective, Camden, London 7/6/82. This has to be one of my 10 Desert Island Discs. As near a perfect embodiment of the Punk Rock myth that one could possibly find.

The song 'Rotten To The Core' simply encapsulates the betrayal us teenagers felt when our favourite Punk legends turned out to be hypocrites of the first order. I don't usually print out lyrics,or even read them, but here goes: Have you Realised that Rock Stars Always seem to lie so much? John Lydon once said he cared But he never really gave a fuck Said he'd use the money he made So that people would have somewhere to go But now he lives in the USA and Snorts Coke after the Show.

Why is it that Rock Stars Always seem to lie so much? Joe Strummer once said he cared, but he never really gave a fuck Said he'd use the money he made To set up a radio station to make the Airwaves full of something more than Shit Have you noticed we're still Waiting? You must realise that Rock Stars Always seem to lie so much Some will always tell you that they care, But they don't really give a fuck, Still you suckers don't ever learn That rock stars deal in money not truth It's good Business to exploit you Just look at Lydon or Strummer for Proof. Lydon was full of great soundbytes, but all he wanted was a Future. A healthy bank balance,some real estate in Chelsea,and live the Rock Star dream in LA!

How he managed to make such perfect records like 'Metal Box' and 'First Issue', I'll never work out. His enormous ego destroyed one of the most perfect groups that ever walked this planet.yes, PiL; not the fucking Sex Pistols! And now he's every middle aged mums favourite cute interviewee, chatting with TV idiots like the hideous Piers Morgan, and the idiotic Graham Norton among many others; 'Ah isn't he luvleh?' This is naturally weird music. It goes way beyond the boredom of the hardcore punk template, like a ominously dark scream of anguish. UK hardcore never quite matched its US relations between 1981 and 85 for either musicianship or brutal intensity, but it did have the more uniquer and stranger angles, like Rudimentary Peni and Discharge (who I think are quite bizarre?), counter balanced by the dumb and dumber end of the Exploited and GBH.

Was conspicuous by its total absence stateside, probably because that was equated with the commie left wing to the american mindset. Or maybe the constant soapboxing by organized anarchy commune dwellers Crass put off the spoilt Americans.It certainly put me off,even though their own DIY aesthetic, the Farce EP included, has to be admired. Things Hardcore got weirder in the UK after 1985 with the grindcore bands like the bizarre Napalm Death. The sticker on their debut LP 'Scum' declared them as the official worlds fastest band, but I reckon nerdy Indie pop stars The Wedding Present were faster,or certain parts of The Nightingales,notably their guitarist. Now, who invented Hardcore?.I Reckon it was from Australia, although Wire have a very strong claim for 'Pink Flag' which undoubtedly influenced as the first US Hardcore band; not forgetting The Damned for first bringing speed for speeds sake into the equation. Rudimentary Peni take the prize as the most creepy,darkest and disturbing of all the 'hardcore' type groups in the third wave crop of Punk Rock.Gothcore, Deathrock, whatever you want to call it, this band are definitely very unique.

Tracklist: A1 Sacrifice A2 Cosmetic Plague A3 Subdued Violence A4 Only Human A5 The Bile Ball A6 Farce B1 Bloody Jellies B2 Mice Race B3 Defined By Age B4 Zero Again B5 Bubble. As much as I cant stand, Rudimentary Peni stand out like a shiny diamond amongst the washed out black clad white rasta trust fund hippy smear that populated /populate this fine extrapolation of the human 'Hive Mind'. True, they seem to follow the standard political line as set out by the king of the Anarchists, Crass; anti-war,anti meat, use the word 'Fuck' a lot, and seem to believe in the oxymoron of 'organised Anarchy'? Despite this,RP seemed to to stand out sartorially (ie no black uniform and greasy dreads), musically, and most importantly, artistically. Mainly thanks to singer/guitarist Nick Blinko's dark twisted visions of existence.

Dark lyrics aside, his unique art does have a certain 'drawn in a psychiatric unit' quality about it(as mentioned previously Blinko is indeed a diagnosed Schizophrenic). A cross between Hieronymus Bosch and schoolboy doodling.

It certainly stands out as pretty unique, and Blinko's drawings can fetch quite a few quid if you're lucky enough to own one. Musically, there's something rather gothic about the otherwise standard Anarcho-punk fuzzy thrash. A demented darkness that brings to mind one of the Bible's three descriptions of Hell, 'a wailing and a gnashing of teeth' (the other two by the way are, 'the Fiery Lake of burning Sulfur'; and 'the blazing furnace'). As Blinko wrote a rant against 'religion' in the that accompanied this EP, I don't think promoting the word of the 'good' book was on his agenda.

Tracklist: A1 Media Person A2 Him Hymn A3 Blind Dogs A4 B-Ward A5 Crazy Chain A6 The Gardener B1 Teenage Time Killer B2 Hearse B3 Dead Living B4 Black President B5 Tower Of Strength B6 Play. What better way to mark the inauguration of anti-intellectual philistine Donald J.

Trump as leader of the western world than to intellectualize the art of the very short avant-pop tune and outsider art? This ',would be instantly labelled as 'Garbage' in the black and white world of Trump and yer average Brexiteer (Entartete Kuntz anyone?).just like Hitler's chums did back in the thirties. Nick Blinko's first release was with Martin Cooper on vocals/words, in a minimal synth duo called The Magits. The four songs,if we can call them songs(?), are so short they seem to only exist as long as sub-atomic particle in the hadron collider. They have a lot in common with the 40 one minute tunes on; like a collection of intro's, unfinished ditties,and songs cut in half. The song titles seem to describe the music very well, fragmented, disconnected, disjointed, and detached.

Probably how Blinko felt within himself,as he is now a prescribed schizophrenic. The short song was an anti-establishment statement following the progressive rock era from 1976 onwards. So the shorter the song the more punk kudos one received,until it became the art form first displayed by art-punkers Wire on the monolithic album, and taken to its logical conclusion by Napalm Death with the one second long 'You Suffer' from the jaw dropping 'Scum' album. Blinko's rather good anarcho-punk group Rudimentary Peni, stuck largely to the short burst template,at least until the mid-eighties,when lengthier tunes started their comeback,for the same reasons the sub-minute songs appeared in 1977. Blinko is now referred to,patronisingly, as a much sought after, (who isn't?) mainly due to the fact he makes interesting like drawings and is a Schizophrenic.

He has to stop taking his medication in order to create his art,and dream believe it or not? Therefore he has to risk his mental stability to satisfy his desire to make his pictures; this really is art on the edge. Both Magits and Rudimentary Peni's releases were works of art rather than one person's expression of their 'angry years'; they were just pure,untutored, expressions of the need to create.

In fact the first couple of hundred copies of this EP came with a small photocopied 3-page folded & stapled 'Magitzine' which features collages, a small essay and lyrics. Some of these initial copies also came with a hand-made paper 'magit' - a small and fragile hand-cut and glued representation of the creature image used on the front sleeve (referred to as a 'Magit') - basically an egg-shaped face with a tail stuck on.

Tracklist: A1 Fragmented 0:55 A2 Disconnected 0:48 B1 Disjointed 1:24 B2 Detached 0:55. Dunno about being cold, but the Irish sea is certainly radioactive thanks to the British nuclear reprocessing plant in Cumbria on the site of the world's first nuclear power station at A slightly less amateurish follow up to,with a half decent, and dancable(?), sing-a-long opening number on side B; followed by the obligatory Joy Division experimental tune,as in 'I Remember Nothing' or 'Auto-suggestion'.but obviously, not as good. The A-side, could easily be a first album Modern English out-take.

Sounding rather like a proto-goth crowd pleaser to these malfunctioning ears. Tracklist: A -The Deepest Of Reds B1- Drift B2-Industry & Nature. Were The Soft Drinks the UK's equivalent to? The Greville brothers(Jon,- future Rudimentry Peni member - and Lee) and a mate(Cliff Silver of Sad overs and Giants!), had synth had drum kit, then made a record.bizarrely on Nick Blinko of Rudimentary Peni fame's Outer Himalayan Records. They normally liked to sing about various beverages, as heard previously on This time they stick mainly to just one song about that; and the a-side about 'Pop Stars in their Pyjamas' (although Cocoa is mentioned)!.Now you wouldn't find the 'Screamers' singing about that subject matter.

They liked to rock out,albeit very artily; whereas the Soft Drinks liked to have a laugh and dilute any rock to the minimum.This seems to be a common difference between Americans and Brits. Americans like to travel in one direction getting more hardcore as they crash into a wall and stay there; where their former colonial master's like to turn left or right,quite often off the edge of a cliff. These tunes are a definite turn to the left off the rock'n'roll highway, maybe even an exit, as they disappeared after this jolly single entered the bargain bins. Quaint Synth pop ditties made with the tongue firmly in the cheek,by persons who knew how silly Pop music really is. Tracklist: A Popstars In Their Pyjamas B Cinzano Wet Dream.

As and main man Paul Platypus was in with the legendary;it is about time I plugged the last release on;- the excellent 'Ellis Is Poofyman', EP? Mini album?i dunno, but its rather good. All together now.'

I've Been farting On The Moon!' I dunno how he does it? Another sing-a-long classic from a world reflected in a fairground mirror in an underwater House of Fun. More synthetic voice phrases assembled and rearranged to reveal the true meaning of language. Backed up with all the aural abstract expressionism of a DIY Willem de Kooning.

Before he developed Alzheimers! You should know by now NOT to be disappointed by any Philip Johnson recording,and this definitely is no exception.

Made,originally, in the much maligned 3' CD format to further limit his audience. Exhibit 'A' formed in late 1978 when four 14-year-olds discovered a shared interest in John Peel's late night radio shows — whilst avoiding sporting activities together during school breaks.

They produced three issues of a fanzine, Wombat Weekly, and recorded their first EP, No Elephants this Side of Watford Gap at a central London youth club in 1979. At age 15 and 16 they were one of the youngest bands to release their own record independently. Guitarist and indie idealist Paul Platypus also played with the excellent Reflections (with and Nag from ), with, and (joined by former Exhibits drummer Andrew Lunchbox-good stagename- and bassist Matthew Matrices among others), and founded Namedrop Records. Matthew went on to release one of thee classic DIY tapes ever with.In fact everything the members of Exhibit A had to do with was rather marvelous indeed.

This lot deserve their place in the pantheon of real boy(and girl, as in Honey Bane.) Bands, alongside, The Fatal Microbes., and half of Eater. Another classic Street Level compilation of UK DIY,with shades of Proto-Indie, is 'The Thing From The Crypt'. A shared album for acts on Dead Hedgehog and Nick Blinko's (of Rudimentary Peni!?) Outer Himalayan Records.

No Anarcho Punk on here, thank fuck,despite Blinko's connection,- he always sounded a step apart from that washed out black clad clique-; but it has much to point towards the vague watershed between UK DIY and the early 'Indie' sound. There's some quaintly amateurish Goth by S-Haters, but I don't mind a bit of that, as long as its as badly played as these two tracks. And we have 'Sad Lovers and Giants', who are just too conventionally good in a New Wave sense, and amazingly still exist today!!? The stand out band are obviously teenage tearaways 'Exhibit A', featuring future' Twelve Cubic Feet'-ers and 'Solid Space' members. Altogether an album full of that uncertain amateurish charm we all love in this digitally padded cell; yet is soooo absent from today's boringly 'clued up' society.

'They', whatever 'they' may mean(?), are so clued up they are in fact very,very, Clueless. Tracklist: A1 –Exhibit A - Rain A2 –Sad Lovers & Giants - Take Me Inside A3 –Mex - Evil Creatures A4 –Gambit Of Shame - Dancing With The Turks A5 –Flying Beechcraft - Bugger Off A6 –Image In Ruin - Tank A7 –Soft Drinks - Squash A8 –S-Haters - Necromancer B1 –Soft Drinks - Pepsi Cola B2 –Flying Beechcraft - Frog Girl B3 –Image In Ruin - Bottle B4 –S-Haters - Canal B5 –Exhibit A - Echoes B6 –Sad Lovers & Giants - Clint B7 –Mex - Functioning Fripp Girls B8 –Gambit Of Shame - She Lawn. Well.This is a catchy tune!

Round about 1982 the dreaded 'Musician' started to creep out from his priest hole and started to re-impose himself on the public who had begun to tire of doing it themselves and wanted to be entertained again. This deadly affliction even infected Fuck Off Records, presaging the New Pop anathema which justified itself by corrupting from the inside.but never did once the spondoolicks started rolling in. There were some artists who, of course, emplyed this tactic correctly, like ATV, The Fire Engines,and, best of all,The Associates, The title track of this EP is another fine example of making listenable Pop music with morals. This Street Level super group, including Mark Perry and Grant Showbiz among others, have forged a real toe tapping slice of mellow, dubby and funky post punk. Blue Midnight make their third appearance on a Fuck Off record, but the excellent Funky Blue Midnight from are regrettably absent;replaced by some blues jamming post pub muso's.a definite B-Side.

Tracklist: A –The All-Stars - One Million Hamburgers B1 –Blue Midnight - Dream B2 –Blue Midnight - Tribute (To Don Drummond). This is a re-post of a re-ripped Fuck Off/Deleted Records shared album from 1982(at 320k,for those who care); featuring The Instant Automatons, Britpunkfunk combo Blue Midnight, and Street Level super groop The Hambirger All-Stars, featuring various members of Here and Now and Alternative TV, among others. Blue Midnight are particularly fine, with their brand of punky brass led DIY funk.Like a cross between Pig Bag and early Dexy's sans the awful Kevin Rowland. The Hambirger All-Stars are also, very fashionably for 1982, Dubbed up, Funky and Punky. A sooper groop of sorts, with 'Here and Now' street hippies Steffy and Grant Showbiz; Anno, Mark and Dennis from Alternative TV;alomg with someone called Justin Adams from Impossible Dreamers. Then we have, the late great, Protag and Mark automaton with 6 tracks of Instant Automatons' skewed DIY pop songs on behalf of Deleted Records.Including the classic 'Short Haired Man (In a Long Haired Town)'.

How can you argue against a line up like that? Wot a great,and very lost, record!? Tracklist: A1 –Blue Midnight -Quarter To Blue 2:23 A2 –Blue Midnight -Fireplace 2:37 A3 –Blue Midnight -Joy! 2:21 A4 –Blue Midnight -Crazy 3:51 A5 –Blue Midnight -Hot And Cold 2:26 A6 –Hamburger All-Stars -I Woke Up 2:52 A7 –Hamburger All-Stars -Swinging London, Pt. 1 2:00 A8 –Hamburger All-Stars -Studded Leather Jacket 2:58 B1 –Hamburger All-Stars -My Life Is A Mess 1:37 B2 –Hamburger All-Stars -Swinging London, Pt. 2 5:15 B3 –The Instant Automatons -Worcester Avenue 2:38 B4 –The Instant Automatons -Catacomb 1:57 B5 –The Instant Automatons -Too Big!

1:59 B6 –The Instant Automatons -Violence 2:42 B7 –The Instant Automatons -Drunk In Woolwich 3:01 B8 –The Instant Automatons -Short Haired Man 2:31. The Terraplanes, also known as Animals & Men after an Adam and the Ants(Mk1) track, are another beyond great Post-Punk group to slip through the net.

This is up there with Kleenex/Liliput for shambolic amateurishness; but no LP's on Rough Trade for Terraplanes!? They were left inexplicably on the shelf until Hyped2Death resurrected their corpse. The result is this cd-r compilation from 2003/5.

One definite kiss of death for pop groups is changing your name.as tempting as that may be.you are guaranteeing sub-cult status immediately. The Spizz Energi syndrome,who admirably changed their name every year to garner anti-commercial kudos, and eventually desperately back to Spizz Energi 2, to remind the public that they had had a hit single as Spizz Energi 1. Of course, these hallowed pages are the first to applaud such an ambition-less display of commercial suicide. The result of which are these 25 tracks of unspoilt suburban nature, now undeniably extinct.

If i could extract a sample of DIY DNA from these tunes and clone a duplicate of this group and der zeitgeist, it would fail disastrously in the modern 'everything you want now' hell we find ourselves imprisoned amongst. To make music like this, we need freedom from choice, lack of opportunity, freedom from information, and denial of the trappings of success, dangled as a very distant carrot, just enough to keep an unattainable dream in intensive care. The Mystery and the Dream are both now beyond resuscitation, like pop culture in general. Everyone can easily have their empty 15 minutes, if they so desire, in a world where the fatuously attainable is yours for the taking.

Unless its owned by the Rothchild mafia naturally.The American Non-Dream. If ever there was a moment for some William S.

Burroughs quotes, this is it: 'The way to kill a man or a nation is to cut off his dreams' 'Communication must become total and conscious before we can stop it.' As its another new year's day, it's an opportunity to post some of the few things I have left from the original inspiration for this blog,from what is now termed, UK DIY. One of the last great UK DIY compilations featuring some of the stalwarts of that brief period, Mark Automaton, Digital Dinosaurs,and Missing Persons.

The Missing Persons are,as usual, a bit dodgy in the 'we're all Hippies' department; whipping out the acoustic guitar for a sing-a-long around the travellers camp communal fire, as they all invariably await their trust-funds to start paying for their future Docklands apartments,and inherit their place on the board of the Bank of England. That's proto-anarcho punk for y'all!

The other Hippies on this disc are The Digital Dinosaurs, but they were genuine, working class hippies who just happened to write fantastic pop songs.One classic of which is 'Sheena Easton'; which one can adapt for todays crop of plastic pop stars by simply replacing her name with any talent show winner of your choice, and Esther Rantzen with Simon Cowell.if you know any of these wankers, because I don't! Mark Automaton,does his usual Mark E. Smith without an ego versions of zero-budget pop, and sounds like the Instant Automatons, but is called, on this occasion, The Stan Tomato Band. There is lots more of ambition-less, anti-pop charm to make up the rest of the tracks on this nicely understated compilation, from a time when life was, in retrospect, not quite so shit.