Danny James

I’m xhineem

No loggorhea today, I’ve been excoriated by superior zoomer minimalism. We’ll be city-side this afternoon, 18th and Valencia, selling all kinds of boubas and kikis to the prickles and goos. This is some real spiritual s**t right here. Come out and put. Then take. Give.

I have generalized antipathy towards dee-jays not dissimilar to my take on museum archivists when compared to painters, or film festival programmers as compared to directors, promoters to bands, et cetera; all overpaid gatekeeping positions. As Viggo Mortensen put it:
"The McDonald's french fry is unbelievable. When you bite into it, you think: It's so tasty, it can't be real. As soon as it gets cold, it turns to lard and flubble. I mean, have you ever tried to eat a McDonald's french fry that's gone cold? That's one of the circles of hell. The gulf between the warm, fresh, lightly salted McDonald's french fry and the cold McDonald's french fry is as great a gulf as any I know.”
Also, they used to use local farm-to-table potatoes depending upon where your MacDonald’s was as located. When they chose to strictly rely upon reheating freeze-dried Idaho Russets they created the fifteen minutes of shelf life that most of us know and race to love. Be better off going back to regional variety, if you ask me.
However, there are exceptions, like ’s curated pop-up of once and future fashions tonight at Pop’s Mini Mart in 2800 24th St, San Francisco, CA 94110-4214, replete with dee-jays, other curios, fortunes forecast and lucky charms. Tonight, now, five to nine pm. Oo-de-lally!

The real question on everyone’s mind is whether the first AI pop star to be programmed by a major label will write its own music or be a prefabricated sell-out with give-or-take a dozen different producer bots

Punk isn’t all the time about sonic minimalism, sometimes it’s about a barrage of noise, and always it’s brazen—whether that means lines and beats that cut to the quick or an avalanche of sloppy ideas, or, with a little bit of work, both things stereoscopically at the same time. What’s important is intent, intent and control, release and passion. Winding up and letting go. So if you’re a post punk band and you think you’ve cracked the code by rehashing a mode of static conservatism, maybe think a little bit more about what code you’re cracking and what dogma you’re reinforcing. Songs are spells after all, and if there is a culture war one should be aware if they’ve engaged in friendly fire—not to say that it’s never appropriate. In other words, f**k genres, f**k purity tests, use your head. I’m sick to death of fascist music snobs. You’re boring. Write your own treatise. There are new ideas to be had, and all comers are welcome, even coomers like you

Question: Why did the chicken cross the road?

Answer: CLOTHES, RECORDS, LIBATIONS
Pop-up, rain or shine tomorrow
The show is indoors!!
12pm-4pm

Or, acccording to the Texas Rangers, renowned for their “take-no-prisoners” toll-booth ambush of infamous fugitives Bonnie, Clyde, and Harrison Ford:
“To pierce the veil of darkness and become one with all ideas, porous, opaque, real and ersatz; and to basque in the unraveled eras of a grand reunion.”
It is thus that only through transubstantiation of Mr. Chicken that we learn to tolerate the disgusting flavor of bone broth soup everywhere, recouping not only its health benefits, but also transfering fowl and arcane knowledge of hackneyed jokes to our own paltry, poultry lives.
B. Congratulations, we survived the Dying Months of January and February (so named by an huckster Stromboli I once labored under)—or, at least, most of us survived.
Anthropologist Peter Metcalf wrote that “paying particular attention to the ways in which bodies are treated in death holds the key to understanding a culture’s approach to death rituals.” In other words, “dead is as dead does, or some s**t.” What would he make of my having spent last weekend, climbing the walls of a five by ten foot room, one of four trauma-shocked prisoners, including the parents, grieving over the open casket body of their thirty-three year old son for two paid hours?
C. Well, speaking of thirty-three year old sons: eldritch indo-European rituals laid the dead out on long shelves to decay, and, after reaching the desired “perfect Goldilocks rot”, were pruned at the shoulders to better fit into giant earthenware pots, until the juice separated from the solids and everybody could partake in a loving endo-cannibalistic cup of people wine. Eventually the practice was married with Christ’s devotion to his apostles and evolved into the Holy Sacrament, just as Easter’s pagan symbolism was combined with the rebirth and the cave and we couldn’t have done it without you, Pete.