Post-Neo Film Night--THURSDAY!

That's right, in our endless quest to eliminate all down-time, we are instituting an as-nearly-as-possible weekly Anti-Cinematech (i.e., a small TV playing DVDs from a videogame console) at Warren & Olchar's apartment; and the first one is THIS THURSDAY at 8:00 PM.

These will be pretty informal; a half-hour to forty-five minute series of Post-Neo films and documentation from the U.S. or England, followed by hanging out and talking/ artmaking/ whatever with some more PNA performance documentation that you can dip into or out of as it strikes you. Feel free to bring imbibe-ables if you wish. We both have work Friday morning, so they shan't go TOO late (presumably...)

Each week we are going to try to concentrate on one or two themes, to suggest both the similarities and differences of what Post-Neo "is" and what it looks like in different places, and has looked like in different stages of its development. Hopefully this will lay the groundwork for understanding a bit about Ohio Post-Neo or British Post-Neo or Washington Post-Neo or whatever, when you finally meet some of the people involved in June. It takes a very different form in each place and for each person, and yet there are a surprising number of both broad and intricate relationships and motifs that appear everywhere.

FOR THIS THURSDAY AT 8:00, the first installment will focus on the very first Post-Neo event EVER, in Columbus, OH, Nov. 2002; when even the most annoyingly bombastic of us were young and naive and had no fucking clue what we were getting ourselves into. The entire group shared one analogue video camera with no editing capabilities at all. The films here were screened (among others) at that first show:

Chronic Depression: It's No Monkey Business
Mr. Squibbles and Mr. Livingston are possibly the two leading Anti-stars of Post-Neo film, and a large part of the intentionally-shitty nature of much Post-Neo film. They first appeared in this film made by Emilie Lennard, who was around 13 at the time, and her brother Olchar (sans pseudonym), in which nobody can even remember their exact names.

Brooms and Bayonettes: A 3,000 Year History of CCAD Maintenance.
That's right, Post-Neo had it's roots in the Maintenance Department of Columbus College of Art & Design, when Dave Hartke, Aaron Andrews (current additions to the FIDDLESTICKS show), and Olchar (under another name!) decided to put on a show for their fellow custodians and especially their legendary boss, Pete. (Fellow Post-Neos Brad Chriss and Chi-Kit Kwong also passed through Maintenance in their day.) This film was shown at that exhibition and attempts to get across the utter absurdity of Maintenance and how it changed those involved so much that it (not-so)suddenly became Post-NeoAbsurdism.

Mr. Squibbles Goes Camping
The second installment in the ongoing Mr. Squibbles series, this was made a day after the first one by Olchar and his brother, Chris Lennard.


and after the films, we can all hang out while the screen is filled with

Re: Pete: The Novel: The Exhibition
Documentation of the tomfoolery, hijinks, actions, and performances at the opening of the first Post-Neo exhibition. The exhibition was organised by Catharsism of Narcotica (Hartke, Andrews, Lindsann), but much of the nascent Columbus Post-Neo group is involved here, including the first ever performances by and Warren Fry, Brad ChrissChris Lennard in addition to the first actions of the members of Catharsism. Awww, we were all so young...

These include the infamous Chair Jousting, an Anti-Critique of the show, and a video tour of the exhibition.

Here's a bit of a preview of what you're in for:
A Day in the Life of Mr. Squibbles
by Emilie Lennard and Olchar Lindsann:

Stop on by, it will be fun! And it's your last chance for some Anti-action until the film night the following Thursday, since this weekend we'll be at the Transmodern Festival in Baltimore with Joelle Howald and Nathan Shafer hocking ghosts on unsuspecting pedestrians.

That's 8:PM, at 221 Howard St., etc. Give us a call if you'll be late, or else you'll probably miss the films.

VIM VOM VIM VIM VOM VIM VIM!

Planning my trip... and toys...

Hey everyone. It's Angee Lennard here (of Mossdale Estate and some floor tiles). I am working on actually scheduling my trip to the Anti-Festival before my summer gets to filled up and I inadvertently forget to come or forget to save money to come. I am planning my trip for June 21st and 22nd.

I am very okay with just absorbing the festival and attending events. However, it has been brought to my attention that there is some talk of a toy exhibition. This is something I would be very interested in contributing to. I have been wanting to make paper dolls of my Mossdale characters, and this would be the perfect opportunity. I will print multiples so visitors to the exhibition can have something to take home with them. I also could screen print cards for the exhibition that can later be cut out and made into something approximating a toy. Please, respond with ideas...

Angee

FIDDLESTICKS #3: Puppet Play by A. Lennard, readings by W. Fry & O. Lindsann

Warren & Olchar do the most subtle (?) Post-Neo puppet play ever, an adaptation from a scene from Angee Lennard's comic book Mossdale Estate. In it, the nursing home resident Rose comes upon an album by the firs Post-Neo Group, Catharsism of Narcotica--Dave Hartke and Aaron Andrews (work going up in Fiddlesticks 4 this afternoon), Lindsann, and Bradley Chriss (Fiddlesticks 1).

Warren's reading of his own poem The Dipthong of FQ and four phonetic poems by William Clippenger from Synapse 4.

Olchar performs his sub-phonetic poem Prayer for the Poison-Child. For compare and contrast, see the video of his performance of this piece in England a year or two ago on his facebook page, or the score for it in Puking Trolley.

tom taylor

more from tom taylor here

ESAEL!

Warren, in a tragic attempt to cope with the loss of personal contact, I am asking you here, on the blog, to scan and send, or, photocopy and hand, me (tomislav, if you weren't sure) a copy of the lease, that we had signed many of those days ago.

This would be of much excellence.

Thank you.

MEDICINAL POEMS: A Sad Necessity.

A word on the medicinal poems to be performed Saturday:

A motif has developed, for better or for worse.

First, we had the Familiars' Hospital during FIDDLESTICKS #2.

Then this past weekend, we learned that Mr. Hugo Ball-Rat, the incredible experimental-poetry-writing Rat owned by the British Post-Neos David Beris Edwards and Eleanor Francis Waterfowl, was ailing. Mr. Hugo Ball-Rat wrote a 'medicinal poem' which could be performed by anyone, anywhere to aid in his recovery, or at least pay him an homage in his time of trial. (Ellie and David inform us that he is far from perfect, but definitively on the mend.) You can find this poem on Edwards' blog, there's a link from here. We resolved to orchestrate a collective reading of this Medicinal Poem from the L&F Gallery.

This decision had already been made when we received some much more dire news, that Thomas L. Taylor was in hospital. We are awaiting definite news of his condition and circumstances, but Tom has been a great friend, supporter, and inspiration for many of us in the Post-Neo community (bela and olchar especially), one of the most committed and prolific avant-garde poets of his generation (olchar would say possibly the most moving poet writing in the lyric tradition), and a driving force in experimental writing, poetics, avant theory, and the Eternal Network for far longer than most of us have been alive. We obviously wanted to make a gesture of this at the first opportunity, and we will therefore perform a text that Tom sent me a couple months ago as a Medicinal Poem as well.

Cathy Bennett has very kindly posted a link to some of Tom's work a bit farther down on this blog, and his long poem Tract is the centrefold of Synapse 3 and he has a considerable amount in all three issues for those of you who have them. Jim Leftwich's textimagepoem has a good deal of Tom's work up in the archives as well. We will also have copies of his books Mandala and Kilobyte Magnificat with us on Saturday. We'll keep everyone informed as we hear more.

FIDDLESTICKS #4: Aaron Andrews & dadaDavid Hartke, performance by Alexander Conner

That's right, it's FIDDLESTICKS 4!

In this installment of the exhibition, we have dadaDavid Hartke and Aaron Andrews (both of Ohio), who along with Olchar Lindsann founded the very first Post-NeoAbsurdist group, Catharsism of Narcotica, as a joke back in A.Da. 86 (2002). We have also FINALLY received Angee Lennard's package of goodies from Chicago after an epic bureaucratic battle with UPS, and you can expect to see an Un-shiny new Anti-floor to the L&F Gallery as of THIS SATURDAY, MARCH 29th, at 7:00 PM, when this installment opens with various goings-on:

-Alexander Conner will be performing a piece called Close it Closet, stop by to learn more!
-Warren, Tomislav, Olchar, maybe some others will perform a simultaneous poem or two--
-There will be two 'medicinal poems'--what appears to have suddenly become a new Post-Neo poetic micro-form--for Mr. Hugo Ball Rat and Thomas L. Taylor; see the post above for details on that.

The following weekend, there will be no FIDDLESTICKS activity because Warren and Olchar will be down in Baltimore performing at the Trans-Modern Festival there, seeing British Post-Neo comrade-in-arms Alice Kemp (aka Germseed) perform, and distributing free sample-hauntings for Right-Geist, the Ghost Temp Agency they have started with Nathan Shafer and Joelle Howald.

The weekend after, April 12, the British invade the L&F Gallery in the form of David Beris Edwards, Emilie Lennard (Toledo, OH) adds her two cents, and perhaps others; and we will treat you to the premier of two brand-spanking-new installments of the Anti-legendary serial Mr. Squibbles short films.

Huzzah!

DEMOLISH SERIOUS CULTURE

WE CALL ON ALL CULTURAL WORKERS to put down their tools and cease to make, distribute, sell, exhibit, or discuss their work from January 1st, **ADa, to January 1st, **ADa. We call for all galleries, museums, agencies, alternative' spaces, periodicals, theatres, art schools &c., to cease all operations for the same period.
Art is conceptually defined by a self-perpetuating elite and marketed as an international commodity. Those cultural workers who struggle against the reigning society find their work either marginalized or else co-opted by the plutocratic art establishment.
The ruling class uses art as a 'transcendental' activity in the same way it once used religion to justify the arbitrariness of its enormous privilege. Art creates the illusion that, through activities which are actually waste, this civilization is in touch with 'higher sensibilities' that redeem it from accusations of exploitation and mass murder. Those who accept this logic support the plutocracy even if they are economically excluded from the class. The idea that 'everything is art' is the height of this smoke-screen, meaning only that certain members of the ruling class feel particularly free in expressing their domination of the masses to one another.
To call one person an 'ARTIST' is to deny another the equal gift of vision; thus the myth of 'GENIUS' becomes an ideological justification for inequality, repression, and famine. What an 'artist' considers to be his or her identity is a schooled set of attitudes; preconceptions that imprison humanity in history. It is the roles derived from these identities, as much as the art products mined from reification, that was must reject.

DESIRE IN RUINS

1. The whole of "post-"modern life is mediated by a series of abstractions. Creativity, pleasure, imagination, desire, all have a role to play in the maintenance of the capitalist system.

2. Those who do not reiterate accepted mystifications find their activities and ideas suppressed by both the media and the soft cops in the universities and community relations.

3. In the past, life was mediated by such abstractions as honesty, truth, progress, and the myth of a better future. Creativity, pleasure imagination, and desire are a further refinement of this process. In the "post-"modern era, they serve the same function as progress &c., in the classical modern age (1909-1957).

4. Creativity is labour reifified to moral good; the name of the work ethic after its modernization. To those who appose all moralisms, creativity is just as alienating as wage labour. We reiterate the anti-moralist slogan 'Never Work' and hold that this formulation embraces the refusal of creativity.

5. Pleasure is a method for the ordering of experience into ta hierarchy of desirability. It is an abstraction that negates the lived moment and requires reference to the possibility of past/future (or at least other) experience. We must reject all such systems of value.

6. Imagination is an abstraction that negates concrete experience. It is the central mechanism for the dominance of the image as chief agent of repression in our spectacular society.

7. Desire is the permanent deferral of the actuality of the present in favour of the purported gratifications of an illusory future.

8. We engage an active nihilism for the destruction of this world and its abstractions:

No more leaders.
No more experts.
No more politicos.
No more thinking 'culture' can change anything except a few bank accounts.
The show is over.
The audience start to leave.
Time to collect their coats and go home.
They turn around...

No more coats!
No more homes!

ABOLISH PLEASURE
REFUSE CREATIVITY
SMASH THE IMAGINATION
DESIRE IN RUINS
THE PRESENT IS ABSOLUTE
EVERYTHING NOW!

tubers blasting

tangy pickaxes in jumbo retrospection. shells of tongue-and-groove sandwich operation sustains the felt syllable conniption fit headway plastering guises to a cheap classified oblong trinket along the shoulder halleluia lettershapes grassstained Keds neighboring takes which is the same as restless melting part of speech. Johnson’s hallway impertinent menaces poised in July tingling garbage hootenany gizzard faucet slake erratic under regular noxious pungently gist of this orifice contraption. kinder for the experience. actually pair of shades jaundiced necksent klezmer fussy drinks two minutes ballast posing trumpetwheez noisenik omnigraphy custard of pica juggles the meat with the helicopter brink managed girders on peaches or tallow drips on the rug your shirt printed with parrots gimmicks bothering gumchewing pleasure in the last advertisement bone-dry what he said slabknitter cracks up the hesitant blood blanched territory when men are postmortem forgetting it now looseness saturation bitter such as wallhangings fluxpointers testasterone bald-headed ten distal fingerplays for desk disaster superannuated scalding talk habit Hibachi dangle in a solemn safety net of charm hobbyhorse shadowy sweaters synched around their waists fabulous carburetor running to the Chicago pissed-off journey to meddle in the affairs of haters was there then young mortal blacker holler at the boat-sized oxfords cinders left from last night follow but hands-off buttered ability to factor in the liberties of information will set us free etc. teo teo teo teo tinks ten oclock EST inexpensive case growling somber laughter as a trash receptacle same to them as to timeout around their waists filters down and left transitory figuring lost count at thirty padre Pedro slimline generous gotcha sanities connected to commuter senses thrives on contortion in language not the effet linguistic turn of phrase, the bon mot, the original bluster metaphor formless and specific experiences beta test see what goes on Charlie late tiger plant resonator bowels mechanical tubers blasting

Tom Taylor about to flow into (& out of) your life

http://tomtaylorpoemsandtexts.blogspot.com/

poem for David Berris Edwards and Eleanor Francis Waterfowl

FOOT BASTARD!!!
FOOT BASTARD!!!
FOOT BASTARD!!!

slightly more beautiful than an arm idiot
or a dainty leg fool

FOOT BASTARD!!!
FOOT BASTARD!!!
FOOT BASTARD!!!

comlier than a finger twat
or indeed a solemn puckered wrist moron

WHEN ARE YOU COMING?

All right everyone:
WE HAVE ONLY 69 DAYS UNTIL THE ANTI-FESTIVAL BEGINS !!!

Do you have your tickets?
Have you requested your time off work?
Have you completed, planned, or thought about your contributions to the show?
Do you know what's going on?

NEITHER DO WE
Because we're waiting to hear back from 90% of you!

As we explained in the various emails we sent out back in January, and in our private discussions with many of you, and a couple of times in this blog (see the first post), we have structured the festival so that you tell US when you can come, you USE THE BLOG to TALK TO EACH OTHER about WHAT YOU want to do while you're here, and WALAH! we will have a schedule.

It would hardly be worth your while to haul ass across x number of States or the Atlantic Ocean only to have to conform to whatever Olchar and Warren & co. feel like doing without your input. If that is what Post-Neo is about, what's the fucking point? Are we wrong? No, we're not! (ha ha!)

Time is running out, so let's start talking about this (and not in emails we don't have time to answer).

This is the plan, right?:

LEAVE A COMMENT to this post telling everyone which weekends you THINK or HOPE to POSSIBLY be coming. Even if you're not sure yet, let everybody know the possibilities and we can at least BEGIN to get a picture of how each weekend might shape up. This way you can see when your friends will be out, when people you've heard of but not yet met will be out; AND possibly arrange carpools, help each other find cheap flights, etc etc etc. And Warren and Olchar have a little less stress.

EVERYBODY WINS.

If you want, you can even throw some ideas out in your own posts about what might be fun to DO while you're down here, and add some comments to discuss the ideas that Aaron, Warren, Olchar, Reid, and Lenny have already posted (with more to come).

We don't want to want to end up in mid-May with none of these specifics figured out!

COME ON, Y'ALL, LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD! FUCK YEAH!

Documentation and Olchar's Un-Report on the Silent Soiree and The Disappearence of Imogene Engine

Never say that we're not suckers for self-inflicted punishment, for it has come about again: the 'documentation' must be specific to the particularities of the event from which it is culled, even though it entails our giving ourselves absurd amounts of extra work that we certainly don't need.

There have been (among others) two key motifs that can be seen in both the FIDDLESTICKS #2 exhibition and the events related to it (and there was a great fluidity between those two parts of the whole shebang that weekend), that it is worth pointing out here, to whit:

1. Tsubasa's beautifully subtle care-taking of the space; cleaning up the debris of the shit we leave him to deal with (last week, the local bureaucrats; in this case, the bloody rubber carnage of five life-or-death surgeries!) despite our attempts not to do so, and in the attention that he pays to that process, transforming the space in a way that is nearly invisible but entirely pervasive, better than than a work of 'art' because we can't even put our finger to it, it is already dissolved into the world. (You could compare this to Post-Neo's roots in an art school maintenance department; what if instead of Catharsism of Narcotica you'd had someone who wasn't lazy? You might have Tsubasa...)

This care extends to his documentation of this whole campaign; in a way that is far from merely aesthetic, in the attention payed to all of the nuances of each situation as it unfolds, and an equal sensitivity of how it might say itself in a different form when viewed by you-all out on the blog in England or Ohio or Canada or Washington or Florida or Chicago or Cornwall, he does not record what happens, but translates it into another language. Because of this there has been a kind of growing conversation between the photos and blog, and the events as they happen; his photos have become as much a part of the whole enterprise as the events they come from.

To be (relatively) brief, Tsubasa's photos are different from 'what happens', but are something just as integral, and a definite addition, to constituting what the festival 'is'.

2. The action of arrangement in Imogene Engine's poetry, which as many of you presumably know was part of the literary/performative aspect of FIDDLESTICKS 2. This constant arrangement and shifting, and the way in which it oscillates between the life that it stems from and the 'something else' that it is, might be related to the subtle shifting about, lining up, relating, that Tsubasa does with objects such as the remnants of the Surgery, and with patterns of light and socialized movement through his camera. Re-arranging relics. The way in which her poems are dismembered and refigured, constantly re-arranged, to create discrete poems that are never in fact discreet but are different forms and combinations of parts of each other.

3. You might also see how this theme relates to the idea of silence, of not-saying, of thinking of saying but--because you can't or because it won't be said--withholding. And even more specifically to the idea of a Silent Soiree, the need to communicate even when you cannot say, to find a way to speak when you can't speak; and so whatever you talk about isn't itself. And so really, in Imogene's work, in Tsubasa's work, and in the idea of a Silent Soiree, its the idea of speaking through silence, of speaking through not speaking-about.

Pure magical evasiveness. (Engine: 'if she tucks her leg underneath, she disappears')

This is also to say that if this installment of Fiddlesticks throws up a certain facet of Post-Neo (and all of the people involved--Alan, Imogene, Tsubasa, Charlotte, and Angee ,whose work was absent due to UPS--have positioned themselves outside the noisy, polemic aspects of Post-Neo, and in some cases or ways outside of its various more 'speechifying' (un)centres, while all being vital to Post-Neo in a relatively silent manner; a quiet and careful and even cautious embodiment of it, or interjection into it, without which Post-Neo as it is would be unthinkable), a facet which realizes that subtlety and respect are not enemies of fun or energy, and in fact that neither has any value without the other.

And it is here that we find that the idea of silence has an unexpected relationship to that of trust (and therefore, equally, with its reciprocal, respect). To withhold speech, to remain voluntarily silent, is a mark of respect for the speech, or the silence as such, of the other. To request silence is to trust that the other will extend this silence, to allow one to speak to them. To withhold speech may be to hope that one has earned enough respect for others to trust in what is not said, in the deliberation of this withholding.

Of course, all of this does not only go for what calls itself a 'silent soiree' (and the soiree itself, in fact, was fairly silent).

Now, as events continue to unfold, these kinds of motifs have a tendency to reduplicate themselves, especially once you notice them; so that they somehow manage to become seemingly necessary to carry on, even if it costs you a good deal of extra energy, worry, and time that you can ill-afford. And what do you know, it's ended up happening once again.

For the video (we're getting to it) stemming from the Silent Soiree and my reading of Imogene's poems attaches itself to this set of themes. It is not a representation of what happened, but an attempt to remain silent about it, while re-arranging its elements to create something else of value, something new; because what happened, of course, cannot be said, and those of you who did show up and experience it itself will understand why; though even then, only in part.

(What a lot of speech I have found necessary to articulate this silence, which nonetheless remains silent within itself,--it turns out to be practically a whole essay on silence! And motivated by the very silence that it perpetuates while, perhaps, speaking.)

At times, one wants to speak to so many people at once that the only option is a complex silence through which one can speak silently to each; only silence has so many tongues. And one must be silent even about the relevance of this silent speech (which is the opposite and the same as a speaking silence).

Therefore: Here is a palimpsest of the evening--and all palimpsests are, of course, creations, they are leaving things out or they would not be palimpsests, and that is such a lovely word. The transition from silence to speech, which was not an easy one (it never is), is here, as much as I could make it, preserved; I have arranged Imogene's poems into something that I hope is (even, of course) better than the reading itself that has disappeared; if her disappearance that night (and she did disappear, of this there is no doubt) cannot help but disappear again when all the many of you who were not there view it, then is it not best that it disappear as beautifully as possible?

Of course it is equally possible for her not to disappear, and her poems may reappear at any time.

Now. Please excuse my digressions; and feel free, if you wish, to put it all down to simple eccentricity. I will remain verbosely silent on the subject, as usual.

So here it is:

THE DISAPPEARENCE OF
THE DISAPPEARENCE OF IMOGENE ENGINE
and the SILENT SOIREE!!!

thusly:

FAMILIAR SURGERY PHOTOS!

Tsubasa Berg was on hand to record the series of delicate procedures carried out in the Lost & Found Gallery/operating theatre during FIDDLESTICKS 2 (Dr. Fry's report has been filed below):

Doctors Fry, Dolnak, Lindsann, and Butkivić gather round the operating table to examine the horribly-mangled Anti-Tom.

Drs. Butković & Fry work on the Anti-Tom in the Staple Room, as Dolnak and Salazar observe.

Dr. Steve Dolnak coping with the pressure.

The newly reconstructed Anti-Tom

A close-up of his luv-er-ly new face.

Miss Ricketts, sans tongue!

Miss Ricketts on the table, a Familiar-sized bottle of 'anesthetic' beside her.

Dr. Butković with that other rubber chicken.

Comptroller Needleman goes under the cosmetic knife.

After the surgery, he demands more 'anesthetic'.

Take a look at your new face, Comptroller!

After seeing his new face, he goes back to the bottle again.

Hector Clam's state as s/he entered the emergency room

Hey, that new snake-tail has to be put on there somehow.

And then there was hot wax for some reason.

Hector's mane is now a beard, and his broken jaw is still strong enough to grasp a paint brush!

The recovery room: plenty of soft string and hard ice.

Condolences from England for Hector Clam!!!

David Beris Edwards over in jolly old England has composed a Splat Poem dedicated to the recently-fiddled-with organs of Hector Clam, over in jolly old New Jersey. And here it is:


AND, British Post-Neos very own poem-writing Rat (there are several but he is the Oedipal father figure), Mr. Hugo Ball-Rat, is unwell; Edwards has posted a Medicinal Poem that Monsieur Ball-Rat has written himself, which we can all chant to aid his speedy recovery. It goes as follows:

xc§1Ω`¡Ω0
p34upf
98 0000 0000000000000000§q2222qqwq
jh ff
fd 7ykly
jrl8yyyyy'''0p.lllllllllllllllllllllp.=-≥*?+------------4
gkk'],.ccu gv
,gcjbbbb11111
. bn? R666d€€€€€
vr;hsssssssx§
g g ,,i0km

mcl,o'cmnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn¨ uuyyb.w.,gh gj ]0
,n/" mcm
un jyh6 6
]444nhhf ,jjjjgg
,000/.
brbvrrddddddddddflkx

We all wish you well, Hugo!

Mr. Edwards plans to be here in person in June to check in on Hector's condition. Check out the link to his blog to your right!

Puppetriage: Un-Surgeons Report March 8th A.Da. 92

While enjoying a martini with friends at the Lost and Found Anti-Officers Club my fellow anti-nurses, dada-doctors, and barr-barr-barbers we suddenly heard the call over the loud speaker “Incoming wounded, incoming wounded! All surgeons to the Puppetriage! That is all!” It looked like daddy B.S. and the Institute for Aesthletics were at it again...some triumphant maneuver called Bosch on Ice! As some un-general gets his medals, I thought to myself, we'd be knee deep in rubber, glue, and wood, the real gore on our hands. I raced to Puppetriage, where one at a time we laid the dieing on the operating table.

Name: Anti-Tom
DOB: January 29^th 2006
Medical History: Acute Titalitise and teething.
Symptoms: crushed scull, body in three pieces, other pieces assumed missing or destroyed.
Diagnosis: HOLY SHIT!
Treatment: Dr. Olchar was committed to an orthodontic angioplasty to the skull. We agreed. Dr. Salazar lovingly executed a hick-teeth positioning procedure. Dr. Butkovic and I delicately carried Anti-Tom to the SR (staple room) where the team held Anti-Tom down and gave him a haircut while we sutured the gangrenous gums to the patients cavernous temple. A rousing success. The medical team positioned bits of duct-tape around the torso and started cobbling the limbs together: Subdeltoid Bursa mashed against Iliopubic Head of Pelvis and Femur jambed into Caracoid Process, whatever the devil that means! New eyes were arbitrarily added at no extra expense. The patient was taken to the Jamie Bruno Recovery Wing of the hospital and given a bed of dusty string.

Name: Miss Rickets
DOB: January 23^rd 1986
Medical History: Patient's lingua has been ripped off, stolen, escaped, or simply fallen off once or twice a month for past year and a half. 'Baked tongue' (erythematous and/or atrophic glossitis) resulting in blackening and the accumulation of foreign bodies upon the tongue. Emaciation of the torso. Cosmetic surgery: 2^nd fin. Malt vinegar enema treatment in England to no avail.
Symptoms: Nausea and projectile vomiting.
Diagnosis: Rheumatology and Nervous Affection (towards appendage alien to patient's species)
Treatment: 400+ cc's Vodka administered via plastic umbilicus and EMD (Emergency Medicinal Deputizing) to sublimate patient's Nervous Affection.
Notes: Patient arrived wailing incessantly about her-his missing tongue, which was not yet recovered from the combat zone. We ignored her obvious undernourishment and superficial lacerations. The attending Pataphysicians decided inebriation and the bestowing of a superficial office were best. We poured 20 cc's of Vodka over her blow-hole. It wasn't going in at all so we quickly increased the dosage to our entire supply. Her-his eyes were then unresponsive to his-her pulse normalized. We prepared the dorsal fin for conjoinment with the ornaments of make-believe office. Dr. Dolnac, Tsubasa, and I executed the trusty Rusted Nail'n Hammer procedure driving the plastic star into her r(bl)ubber. As we pierced the patient's flesh she-he violently rejected the new responsibility and it took 1,000 of us to hold her down. Dr. Olchar recommended a full psych evaluation.

Name: Comptroller Needleman
DOB: December 25^th 1963
Medical History: Alcoholic polyneuropathy from birth. Feet dismembered at an early age during an attack of rabid, Jesus worshiping dolphins. Loss of nose after blacking out at Catharcism of Narcotica show. Received liquid nitrogen Bath
Symptoms: Nausea and projectile vomiting.
Diagnosis: Hypertrophic scarring around the nose and feet, loutishness.
Treatment: 400+ cc's Jack Daniels whiskey administered orally, orthopedic surgery on feet, prosthetic hirsutism.
Notes: We decided to use hair cut from the recovering Anti-Tom (which would lessen the weight on his-her collapsing head) for the patient's prosthetic beard after we applying med-goop in generous pools around the patients face. He blinked up at us in wonderment as skillful hands applied a mustache in the shape of an upside-down T to cover his hideous non-nose. Dr. Olchar recommended prosthetic feet. The team decided on a plastic fork and silver candle which were enthusiastically jammed into the patient's empty ankle sockets. After a lacing of goop Dr. Butkovic began administering a 'healthy' dose of whiskey. The patient appeared already saturated with alcohol, he-she began reeling in delight and consumed our entire stock and finally wet him-herself with wild abandon. We sterilized (torched) the piss-born humors now expunged from the patient's rotting wood-flesh. Dr Dolnac administers an anti-aromatherapy ritual: burning plastic fork prongs.

Name: John Doe
DOB: some fucking time or other...
Medical History: Extreme flaccidity of the torso from birth, not being alive.
Symptoms: Nausea and projectile vomiting.
Diagnosis: Maximal laceration of the abdomen sustained while beating a drum with Tsubasa.
Treatment: Staple sutures.
Notes: This poor sod was so far gone, having never been alive in the first place, we decided it best to barely try at all. Dr. Butkovic and I slammed staples into this flapping skin-bag as though we were humping a dead rhinoceros. Unfortunately he survived.

Name: Viceroy Hector Clam
DOB: circa 1918
Medical History: Some minor infections from tattoos, pink eye.
Symptoms: Nausea and projectile vomiting.
Diagnosis: Splitting of the torso in twain from severe blunt force trauma to an ice-rink.
Treatment: Emergency mane reconstruction, waxing of the skull, and snake/tail substitution.
Notes: Corpsmen at the scene, lead by Patamedic Reid Bingham, had skillfully reconstructed the patient using available pythons and a hollowed out horse-head. Upon inspection we found the indefatigable equine to be holding up far better than first expected. Drops of hot wax were used to annul the patient's head injuries while an asp was driven into its steaming tail-hole. The patient's dismembered mane was attached round the lower jay using some string in a risky procedure known as Adenovimician Vommar Capularvimation. Hector Clam was feeling so chipper after the surgery she-he trotted over to the recovery room.

Evan Damerow - The 4th Roomate!

Evan Damerow
Wanted!!!

Un-Dead or Anti!!!!
666,666,666,666,666,666 ¥ Reward!!!!

For the following crimes against Figmanity:
Organizing a Spontaneous and Very, Very, Very Illegal Brut Saloon at CSB
Obstruction of Post-Neo Hunger
Conspiracy to Commit Vomit Plays
Vandalizing Post-Neo Idols
Multiple Counts of Disorderly Conduct, Witchcraft, Tomfoolery, Shenaniganism, Public Indecency, Conversationalism, Piquerism, Affability

Evan Damerow was last seen headed south on Rt 18 to Celebration FL in a canoe dragged by two umbrella wielding mammoths. FL authorities have declared martial law in an attempt to put down bands of riotous, flame-throwing flamingos who've sworn fealty to this infamous PNA caballer. Inside sources report that Evan Damerow will be abandoning FL in June for New Brunswick where he will live with us at 131 Bayard St. the future home of New Brunswick Post-Neo! If you can read this YOU'RE ON THE POSSE! Help us bring this bawdy firebrand in for the justice he so rightly deserves (which should be easy considering he'll be our fourth roommate, and doubtless an integral part of the Anti-Official PNA Festival)! Which reminds me, when will you (who-ever is reading this) be headed down here? We need to know, specifically which weekends your thinking you can stay. Suspect is considered legged and extremely suoregnad!

Performers @ ReconnectUS show

So, I don't recall the name of the group but Warren should have that info.
They performed @ the opening reception of ReconnectUS in Providence, RI.
barbarbarbarbarbarbabrbabrbabr

FIDDLESTICKS #2 VIDEO TOUR!

As promised, here's the video tour of FIDLESTICKS #3, with poem machine by Charlotte Whalen, video installation by Alan Reed (which you hear playing in this documentation), and ink washes and surgery-curation by Tsubasa Berg.

FIDDLESTICKS #2 DOCUMENTATION

All right, it's pretty fucking crazy out here trying to keep all of this moving, and we're behind on our documentation, but here are some of Tsubasa's photos of the second incarnation of FIDDLESTICKS, Alan Reed, Charlotte Whalen, and Tsubasa Berg. (Angee Lennard was supposed to be included, but UPS stole her artwork--see the post below; we've finally received it and it will be installed for the next one).

We're taking this weekend off from installing more and performing in order to try to get the documentation up to date, so over the next few days look for photos, video, written reports, etc etc. of the events for FIDDLESTICKS 2, the gallery show and events for FIDDLESTICKS 3, and announcements for the following weekend's FIDDLESTICKS 4.

We'll post a video-tour this weekend.

So here you go, Post-Neo: THIS WAS FIDDLESTCKS !!!!!!


What you saw as you entered the gallery: Tsubasa's largely subtractive intervention into the space included adding layers of wash over Lenny's and Brad's wall drawings, taking down most of Jamie's string sculpture (how sad to see it gone! a combination of Tsubasa's prerogative and the school bureaucracy expressing disapproval of the removed ceiling tiles), and his uncannily apt and thoughtful stewardship of the space itself--organising the debris from the surgery on opening night into a kind of display, with a recovery/sick-bed for the Familiars.




To the immediate left as you enter, Charlotte's wonderful 21679 Short Poems About Capitalism, including a shredder-turned-poem-generating-machine that guests can use themselves.

Instructions.

Free poem-refills.


If you look carefully, you'll see that somebody has recently fed one of Alan's City Poems through the shredder--a different shade of white. Like finding a needle in a poem-stack.




Tsubasa's arrangement of the surgical instruments from the Familiars' Hospital.


He preserved the operating table as well.




Alan Reed's video piece There is a Table. At first the video ran on a loop with headphones, but we later decided to remove the headphones and let the soundtrack play aloud to the whole gallery, as you'll hear in the video tour.

Also in the gallery and elsewhere around the city are various of Alan's City Poems, posted anonymously in appropriate (or otherwise) spots; they'll continue to appear for the duration of the run of FIDDLESTICKS (maybe longer), and there is a stack in the gallery for you to take and post somewhere yourself. Some have also been fed through Charlotte's shredder, creating several score of Short Poems About Capitalism and the Alienation of the Post-Capitalist Flaneur (with the latter word under erasure). Alan, you are free to berate me for the inadequacy of this off-the-cuff moniker and suggest a better one, if you so desire.


More to Come!

Frater Lindsann's Chronicle of Bosch on Ice

As my brothers and sisters of the (Anti-)Cathar$ist Order have urged it, and as it is the sacred duty of every Anti-initiate to the cult of the Horse Tooth God to record for the generations the secret triumphs of our most defiant heresy, I here record what I did see with my own eyes and mind within Brother Thomas's legendary visions of Bosch on Ice, on the first day of March, in the ninety-second year since the Breaking-Forth.

Brother Thomas found himself in a garden of ice, and verily this garden was wondrous strange: all smoothe and white like a plane of marble; giraffes, their flanks flapping in the wind like the sail of some great vessel, caroused with haughty knights tossing their bosch-balls lightly through the air as they glided easily over the ice on their scaled steeds. To and fro they wandered, slid, skated, and hurried, as the spirit of their God wafted over them like a chilly breath of perfume.

Meantimes, we stealthily made our way round the walls of this garden with our arms and legions, and waited until they lie down to take sustenance and rest their arms, not knowing that we awaited them.

The forms floating about Brother Thomas's seven senses shifted then, like the rays of the sun upon the surface of a still pool when the water has been stirred by the appearance of a fish with both top-fin and tail breaking the surface, moving in such a way as to send the water coursing, gently however, in several opposing directions; and settled into a vision of the whole of the Earth, condensed and reduplicated, as if it were a stone in a crucible. Again the knights caroused, the beasts turned somersaults, humans ran about, in quest of the bosch-ball, in endless strife over its possession, birds caught it and tossed it about in their beaks, dropping it to the ice again like the pellets of the Roc.

At a certain signal, the Brutes fell upon them.

We were dived into two parties. The first Anti-legion sallied forth with a bold shout, led by the mighty Miss Ricketts, ripping and snarling, curling like a serpent swiftly across the ice, heedless of the many and savage blows of the Humans as she wreaked havoc among them. It is said that she crushed the bones of no less than four-hundred and twenty angels, fish, and leopards that day; among their number six princes, twenty mounted knights, and a bishop.

The second legion, among whom I myself was numbered, was ranged behind the formidable vessel A.A. Ariel, our Ship of Fools which cut courageously across the ice from the facing direction, as an uproar of Bars and Anti-s and Kamogs resounded upon the wind. The vessel was cruelly buffeted by the sticks, balls, sleds, tails, and feet of our enemies (for they are all of them our enemies) and soon it foundered and was hurled back and forth across the ice, the sharp cracks of its destruction splintering the air. Hideous was the crying out of the bold and diminutive admirals, seamen, soldiers, first mates, orangutans, merchants, rats, stowaways, pirates, and monkeys as they died on the ice.

Nonetheless, our forces pressed on, locked in sanguine combat. I do verily believe that our enemies had no notion of who we were or why we were attacking and tormenting them. So great is the power of the Anti- that it veils our intentions from the eyes of all.

During this combat the daring comrade Tomislav was given from mysterious forces a great horn, whose blast he was told would drive men and women mad, and win them over to our cause. And truly its voice spoke a babel that was understood by many. We formed a solemn procession, following in file where the Rubber Chicken, sent from below to guide our steps, showed us the way. And it is true, for I saw it with my own eyes, that as our procession continued to the joyous notes of this horn, we were joined by the beasts of the earth and the sea, and by soldiers of both teams as they threw down their weapons and ran to us.

Soon all was chaos, and many of the adorers of the Horse Tooth were gathered in the centre of ice, beating the big drum; and it was at this time that the event took place, which has already been carried far and wide upon the lips of every one. For Hector Clam was cruelly set upon by treacherous rogues, and flung mightily against the ice in a woeful manner, and at terrible length. In vain he screamed and struck right and left with his hooves; in vain his comrades tried to reach him. It is said by many that he was hurled against the ice no less than for-thousand five-hundred and sixty times that day; though there are others who say the number was but two-thousand eight-hundred and seven. Likewise some say the great Clam was slain by a man, and others by a woman. But whatever be the truth, word of his fall spread rapidly amongst the children of the Horse Tooth God, and among our number all fell to our knees, awestruck, and wailing pitifully at our misfortune. But Comrade Reid called out to us saying: Think ye that Hector is dead? That the great Clam Horse can be so easily destroyed? O, ye men and women of little faith, behold! For he liveth yet, and succor may yet be given to him! Whereupon the forces of the Anti rallied, and gathered about the fallen Hector; and comrade Reid sealed his wounds by means of a mighty art. Hector Clam rose up again; and though his head was full metamorphosed by wrath, he led us from the field for a respite, serpents coiling about his gleaming body.

Truly the Gnosis was served this day, for it was well proven that the Earth is indeed Hell incarnate, and that all of the terrors numbered by the Orthodox among the terrors of Hell are verily here with us, and that we are ourselves the actors in these fearsome rites.

Therefore it was truly said that when Brother Thomas' vision shifted once more, it was not Hell that he beheld--for verily, it was much less terrible than the Earth, as he had himself insisted, for he owned that worse than Earth would try his sanity quite sorely--but merely the funeral for the condemned and abandoned Earth.

Once more the Orthodox danced to and fro across the ice, gliding or falling, shouting or snarling, in imagined safety. And after some time of this we solemnly made our appearance, the bodies of our slain piled high on our wain, which we dragged steadily to the centre of the ice, accompanied by ancient rites in hieratic costume, to the dirge of the big drum. And on either side of us the people parted and we proceeded on our way. After which our number dispersed in every direction, and many heroic feats are told of this day, and many more remain untold. With my own eyes I saw the Rubber Chicken immolate itself upon the steel teeth of the big drum, wielded in ecstatic frenzy from Comrade Tsubasa. And many other things occurred, of a number I cannot recount. And the Orthodox abandoned the field, and we retired to long celebration and jovial revelry that lasted deep into the night.

And this is a true account of Bosch on Ice, given from my own lips, who was there in that place and in that time.

And thus may it be, always and never. Sic Semper Absurdus. nemA.

Frater-Comrade Olchar.

AND THE DAY AFTER THAT... AND THE DAY AFTER THAT...

FUCK NJ-TRANSIT for not having any workable ticket machines at ANY station, AND for slapping a $5.50 surcharge at Newark Int'l Airport for NO FUCKING REASON. Ehem.

ALSO,

Hi boys and girls. I'm Tommy B and I'm the post-neo of the group.

Anyway, here are some photos of the newly acquired post-neoabsurdist anti-commune high-rise head[un]quaters.

This building will feature much boredom, obnoxiousness, absurdity, and certainty for those of you that are bourgeoise.

For those of you that are not; welcome to the home of myself, olchar, warren and evan.





Other news to be posted on a day not Saturday 15th, ADa 92.

Check out Frank Zappa if you haven't.

And while I'm whoring and dropping names, check out http://nationalinitiative.us

UPS: Our Eternal Enemy

Well, our documentation of FIDDLESTICKS is lagging a bit behind the event itself, as one might expect; but it makes its way up eventually. Look for my report on BOSCH ON ICE this weekend; and soon after we'll get reports, photo, and video up from FIDDLESTICKS 2 and the accompanying Silent Soiree and Imogene Engine reading.

BUT FIRST, an un-report to fill the gap; because UPS, yes, the United Parcel Service, is fucking everything up for us pretty royally. Their stupid policies, shoddy and uncoordinated internal procedures, and incompetent and duplicitous employees have come together to derail us.

yes, UPS, the most expensive way NOT to have your package delivered!!

Due to their continued refusal/bureaucratic inability to deliver Angee Lennard's work, her work could not be displayed at the opening of the 2nd Fiddlesticks show; so we reorganised everything to include her in the show opening this weekend. And yet, TWO WEEKS after she paid for expedited service, WE STILL DO NOT HAVE HER WORK IN HAND.

So remember: DO NOT USE UPS when sending anything here for the Fiddlesticks show, for either of the Festival exhibitions, or anything else. The U.S. Postal service will cost you 1/3 as much money, and better yet, will actually deliver the package. (Don't request signature either, as we are not here during the day.)

I have called in to UPS three times already concerning this, sweet-talking them, raving wildly at them, coldly implying legal threats, all to no avail. All three times I've been directly lied to: told there was n way for them to track the package (?!), then promised it would be at my house within the hour, only to have it still undelivered two days later, told there was no signature required, then told there was... and their drivers are equally idiotic, to make a long story short.

Which is why you will still not see Angee's work in the gallery this evening, despite being the second show she's been advertised with. As soon s we get it in hand it will go up.

We will however present a puppet play--quite different from our usual offerings--based on her comic book series Mossdale Estate, which follows the daily lives ad routines of a group of Elderly Home residents. This is a scene in which one of the residents, Rose, stumbles upon Catharsism of Narcotica, the first American Post-Neo group.

It should be a laid-back event, afterward Warren and I will perform some of our own poems, which we scarcely ever have a chance to do anymore; I'm thinking of performing my sub-phonetic poem, Prayer for the Poison-Child, for the first time since returning to the States...

PRACTICAL SHITE

Below I've posted a bit of information for everyone who's planning on coming out here, thinking of coming out, hoping or trying to, etc. Most likely you'll need to know other things and can ask, or can help each other out sharing information more than I can help. I've broken it up into several posts so that we can discuss each semi-separately. You can post other questions/issues/info/ideas/etc. that seem pertinent and that someone or other might find be help with or find useful...

PRACTICAL SHITE: For You Foreigners

TICKETS
Alright, I've looked around for tickets and the cheapest I've come up with is $723 from London, or $744 from bristol (that's around 360-370 quid, see below), but chances are I don't know where to look for UK-based tickets. Does anybody know where to look?

If possible you'll want to fly in to Newark Liberty Airport; this is a nicer, less-hassle airport, from which you can get right on the train and be sprawled on our sofa in about an hour; if it's considerably cheaper, you could also fly in to New York (either La Guardia or JFK), but it will be more crazy, and will require navigating the NY subway system before reaching the train to New Jersey. At least one of us will meet you at the airport when you arrive.

EXCHANGE RATE
At least once you've got your expensive tickets, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you're coming here at the perfect financial time:the empire's economic juggling act is finally coming apart and the dollar, backed by our multi-trillion-dollar-debt, is steadily sinking, whilst our society has yet to be torn from its addiction to ostentatious lifestyles structured upon the endless extension of credit of every kind: i.e., the exchange rate is 2 dollars to the pound (2.3 as of today, to be exact, and it's gone nothing but down for the past four years).

So, whatever you bring in pounds, you can buy twice as much with in dollars. You bastards.

I think everyone would probably be dealing with pounds but in case, it's 1.55 dollars to the euro. (Sorry, I can't access foreign currency symbols on this thing).

PRACTICAL SHITE: Housing

You can sleep on our floor/sofa/bed/etc for free, which I think is what everyone from over there is planning. As each weekend's roster develops we'll get an idea of how to arrange the space, but it's a big place so we should be able to accommodate everyone each weekend from the States and abroad; a few people may want/need to get a hotel, we can help if you need it, there are a couple around.
We'll try and round up some floor pads, air-mattresses, pillows, blankets, and the like beforehand, and maybe other people in NJ or driving in might have extra stuff to borrow; these kinds of plans can be made over the blog amongst everyone.

PRACTICAL SHITE: Food

How we'll handle food is still somewhat undiscussed, and will have a lot to do with what all of you want. Since people will be coming in and out of the festival at various times, local people will hanging out with us, and we'll all be working full time during the week, it will probably be some form of every-wo/man for herim-self. It would be nice to have some food-related events or just share some meals, but I think Evan's the only one in the house who can cook at all, and I'm not volunteering him, so I leave that to all of you if you want. Anyway you're welcome to use our kitchen if you want to, and there are a decent number of cheap eateries about a 10-minute walk away, with their charming American college clientel, and lots of delivery. You can get a good filling greasy meal for $6 or $7 tops, half that if you're frugal. If you don't like greasy food with meat in it you'll have to ask someone else, I wouldn't know.

PRACTICAL SHITE: Our Jobs

Most of the heavy Anti-Fest activity will be on the weekends, because we have to work full-time Monday-Friday. You are still encouraged to stay multiple weekends and hang out during the week--Nick Hallam mentioned possibly staying for the entire festival, which would be fucking great-- just be aware you'll have full run of the house from about 7AM til around 5. Then we can hang out. But will need to go to bed fairly-kinda-earlyish. The weeks should be more laid-back, no events (probably, or very simple ones), we can actually relax (after work) and take it relatively easy. We can pass off the keys and it could be a good time to do non-Anti-Fest holiday stuff like explore New Brunswick, go into New York ($18 round-trip, one hour train ride from the station two blocks from our house), expose yourself to the fascinating horror of American television, sleep, or creepier things that you'd best not tell us about.

ARRIVAL TIME
If you're flying in, this also means it's easier for us to meet you if you arrive at night, after 7:30 or 8. We'll meet you whenever you get in, but our jobs will be angry at us if we ask for too much time off work. If you, too, have a job, and can only take one day off, you'll probably want to know whether it ought to be the Friday or the following Monday. i.e., would it be better to miss Friday night but stay for all of Sunday, or to be there by the time stuff starts happening on the Friday, but have to head back on the Sunday.
I'm afraid I don't know. Again, this would be good to discuss on this blog.
On one hand, if everybody wants to we could decide upon a standard policy, say, events go from x:00 each Friday until x:00 Sunday, and everyone could schedule with that in mind. OR, we could let each weekend's schedule develop separately AS people schedule.

It would be hard to have stuff going on on a night/day that there are a whole lot of arrivals/departures, we're going to all want to say hi and sit down and relax...

FIDDLESTICKS!!!- C. Olson, J.M. Bennett, Shanks McGovern, A. Lennard

BOING-G-G !
"what the freak?!"

In a very special episode of FIDDLESTICKS, the oddments of three wayward artists arrive at the Lost and Found gallery to join the 'artistic' remainders of last week's guests. Craig Olsen, from New York, fiddles with paints in his home and writes about other peoples 'modern artworks' in some liberal rag. Ohioan John M. Bennett plays with stamps and scribbles silly words on paper (but don't tell him they're backwards). Then he mails them to his friends. Angee Lennard hangs out at the old-folks home and runs a print shop in Chicago which attracts loitering artist-type bums. They can be seen reading the comics she prints. It sure is different.

On Saturday evening at 8:00 Eastern time, two of these artist-type bums, Olchar Lindsann and Warren Fry, are putting on a very special sock-puppet play about the comics. These two bohemians are what you might call 'performance-poets,' which is apparently about making funny mouth-noises and looking at people. It takes all kinds, I guess! They're even inviting people just to sit there and listen to it. Don't believe us? Go see for yourself, at the Lost & Found Gallery, room 231, CSB. These people sure are special.

And at FREE, at least its cheaper than the Olive Garden.

and,

SHANKS McGOVERN !!!

SHANKS McGOVERN !!!

SHANKS McGOVERN !!!

C.o.N. & what this means for you.

! am hop!ng that Caraths!sm of Narcot!ca w!ll get the!r acts together so that they m!ght !gn!te a stellar event, bend!ng & stretch!ng sound & s!ght w!th focus/hocus & !ntent/untent. the corpse needs re-an!mated, needs a toe na!l cl!pp!ng, scotch guard!ng, !ng!ng!ng...

Are there any plans float!ng out there for what we m!ght do when we once aga!n face each other? !f not, how bout we start hammer!ng out the !deas on th!s forum?

!'m stat!ng r!ght here that ! want real!ty to r!p l!ke a sheet. the shepard shall be struck & the flock shall be scattered.

What say you, my heart!es? !s th!s what ye have sh!pped for? Aye, ! th!nk ye be brave.

plus, !'m try!ng to get a Rape Van performance sh!pped out !n t!me for the fest!val. Matt just won't stay !n the box.

Anti-Fest Sports day?

This is actually one of the first ideas people started tossing around when we finally started thing about the festival in (relatively) concrete terms, but now seems a good time to start talking about it in detail. If everyone attending wanted to, one one (or more) of the weekends we could go out to park and spend a day, or half a day, or whatever, playing absurd sports. Maybe have a barbeque or something.

There'd be a whole lot we could do; the first Post-Neo performance at the Maintenance Show was Chair Jousting, and a reunion of the Gentlemen's Croquet Club is long overdue; we must play some Aesthletics games, Whiffle-Hurling or Straightjacket Softball or something; the SPART Group over in Ireland just put on some Winter Games and Justin said they'd send us the rules to some of their games; there are tons of Fluxus sports we could give a whirl; and other things could certainly be thought up between now and then....

eh...?

Bosch on Ice - Aesthletics and (other) b.s.

It was a breezy day. I dropped off Tom Russoti at the Protec Hockey rink in New Brunswick New Jersey and we unloaded sleds, pre-fab costumes, 'aesthletics' equipment and other props from the back of his family car and then off to CSB where I picked up Jesse Douglas, John Peltonen and two of their friends for a 15 min ride back to the rink where we would engage in Bosch on Ice, the culmination of Russotti's MFA thesis exhibit, a 'Garden of Earthly Delights' inspired broom-ball variant.

We made it in time to begin suiting up for the first period: Eden. Tom explained the rules pertaining to each creature. Some could run others had to crawl, some could hold the ball while others could only kick it. B.s. was going to take the field during the second and third periods, Earth and Hell. Eden saw one goal and the antics of aesthletes trying to sport while honoring their archetypal character from the Bosch painting! Swaddeling ducks, lurching beetles and two-person elephants grappled and slipped about the ice while mirthfully trying to score!

After a brief rest Earth began. I remember slipping on the ice and my drum flying onto the rink as Olchar lead Steve Dolnack, John Peltonen and others onto the ice from the other bench. Drumming, shouting, and hijinks of every kind made the game nearly impossible as aesthletes began partaking in the anarchic spleandor! Ah, humanities wrath upon the garden! Jen Park was in the midst of the action filming with a video camera dodging sled-bound creatures and rubber balls! Tomislav Butkovic and Olchar grabbed a traffic cone and transformed it into the North Winds of the impending apocalypse. While mercilessly bashing the purple drum (by now a b.s. hero) I saw from the corner of my eye Hector Clam's torso shattered in twain by some mysterious reveler! With quick thinking Reed Bingham bound him up with a snake so his torso would hold out until he could be properly looked after. We cleaned the ice and waited for Hell.

After some negotiations the apocalypse was staved off for 15 minutes allowing the opposing Brooklyn and New Brunswick teams to have at one another without any b.s. Hell arrived with Crista Lenze and I dragged out as mock-corpses on a sledge. B.s. stomped and drummed out the dead for another quarter hour until time was called.

Some Photos:

Anne Percoco as a leopard!



Members of the Brooklyn team