"we are the scientists of memory." from that nosferatu movie. i think it's probably a real murnau quote.
we are the scientists of memory. competing to be the voices of history. history is dead and in the trash. new york city rools: now history is mine - quin/ 'junkyard dog'.
the dogsonrox tribe inhabited the mesa east of dos passos through which the course of the proposed highway is being dynamited and dug out by sherriff haney scott's chain gangs.
"anti-folk" was the soundtrack of the tulipomania dot.com years here in new york and that was because eureka joe's lived under the flatiron building. dave pearlstein was cooking at michael's before he opened eureka joe's. i can remember the nervous fervor he practised on us before going to meet with investors. this would've been ninety three. i can remember going to the elvis room in portsmouth new hampshire that labor day and returning to describe it to dave. sparrow's foamola was the best band i ever heard at eureka joe's. i assume foamola played lach's, but i don't really know. i was a cursory spectator to the "anti-folk" movement because everytime i checked it out the best of it was just the violent femmes again (except for sparrow, but sparrow mostly represented that which the anti-folk supposedly opposed). in the worldwide latte domination movement eureka joe's was a late entry. new york is a slow town. similarly "anti-folk" was obssessed with digging up that which we'd already sucked dry and buried. the content of "anti-folk" was sick puppy hymns of dysfunction. throw a stick. pray the puppy gets hit by a car. meanwhile the suspense, what kept us checking in, was the possibility someone might actually un-plug themselves. "anti-folk" was the soundtrack of the tulipomania dot.com years because we found ourselves endlessly plugging in and downloading the useless upgrades and we wanted to imagine not having to. in this respect "anti-folk" was just another example of the consumer being cheated.
kurt hung himself out the perfect punk sacrifice. and things got better. the eighties had been so horrible (supertramp, amy, was a seventies band. they sucked pretty bad. but not as bad as the eighties.) negroes quit listening to stinky romance r and b and got peaceful. dre and snoop could not resuscitate pop but they were obviously thoughtful young men of integrety which made them a happy change from the cretinous shit we usually get in star status.
kurt hung himself out the perfect punk sacrifice. pop died. i started thinking about singing cowboys.
when i was a little boy i remember coming upon daddy twirling the knob of his new f.m. receiver through the empty east texas static.
"what you doing?" i asked.
"listening for koo kowlick."
10:36:08 AM 
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