With Video: What Tha F#%*!

Something odd happened during Martin Atkins’ presentation last night. I stopped counting the “Fucks!” when I finished eating my chocolate covered cluster-fuck from Bleeding Heart Bakery. It seemed a good enough time to stop. All of a sudden, it hit me! Martin’s barrage of sailorly slang is actually a built-in turd filter. Yeah! It actually helps protect his intellectual property. If you can’t acclimate to the deluge of dirty talk, then you won’t be capable of picking-up on the brilliant shit this guy is saying. It helps weed-out the brain-dead and prudish. Fucking potty mouth PROPHET!

After the presentation, we were spoiled with a Damage Manual set with Chris on guitar, and Martin on cocktail kit. This shit sounded sweeeeeet acoustic.

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Of course, me being a stubborn SOB, I didn’t heed his allegorical warning about not giving him a CD. He told quite an inspiring tale of seduction around a jar of homemade organic blackberry jam. Moral of the story: “Don’t hand me you fucking demo. I’ll sling it out of my car window somewhere between here and Madison.” (Ok that last part was paraphrased, because I had had a few beers and a cluster-fuck) But you see: it wasn’t really a demo. It was the Welcome-Shabiristan EP that we put out about a year and a half ago. I really do struggle sometimes to fit the stuff we make into a category, or even describe it to a friend for that matter. My friend and fellow parent Glenn Kotche thought it was pretty neat. I know his kid liked it because she told me. So, since Martin and Chris were partly responsible for the mess, I thought they should at least have a chance to listen to it.

When I awoke

When I awoke

I awoke the next morning groggy and dehydrated. As my eyes grudgingly drifted open, I slipped drearily into a state of day-dreaming. I envisioned, quite beautifully, that biodegradable brutly-screen-printed sleeve twirling through the sky; glistening like the sunshine reflected off a bird’s wings; seen from above. As it rotated like a golf disc gliding across the air current, it was a magnificent action—right until it got hit by a cross current, and slammed downwards. I can only hope that disc finds its way out of his Nissan within the city limits. I’m sure it would look odd enough for a 99 percenter walking by to pick it up and give it a listen.

I would consider it quite an honor for the Welcome-Shabiristan EP to be treated as a demo by Martin, and flung broad into the horizon. No one could do it sweeter disdain.

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