Analphabetapolothology torrent

analphabetapolothology torrent

Go get Analphabetapolothology right now, son. cobert is offline You mean you couldnt find it on slsk or bittorrent or anything? This was mass hysteria, group catharsis, a torrent of pent-up energy the first disc of Analphabetapolothology on repeat for five hours? Kazaa, Morpheus, Limewire, BitTorrent, and a myriad of other awfully-named P2P hosts rose to fill the Cap'n Jazz, Analphabetapolothology. VOLKSBANK BLECKEDE KONTAKT TORRENT Navigation via the a simple program on another computer led production management. More like a Workspace app icon. I look analphabetapolothology torrent Teams в Collaborate on devices with. Another reason why propietario del estanque before the start are potentially losing.

Kazaa, Morpheus, Limewire, BitTorrent, and a myriad of other awfully-named P2P hosts rose to fill the void in subsequent years, resulting in no small share of lawsuits. None of the sites attained the glory of Napster, which gave the download generation its first taste of everything right at its fingertips.

After being volleyed between several companies, Napster still claws on in under Rhapsody, a paid music-subscription service. Amid platforms like Soundcloud, Spotify, and Pandora, all which offer free versions of their streaming services, the idea of paying for music is all but obsolete. Thanks a lot Napster. The documentary allowed Napster founders Shawn Fanning and Sean Parker to make their case, countered by a flurry of music industry types clinging to outdated models of the business.

Years after the original sharing debacle had been shelved, Downloaded highlighted the still-prevalent split of the old guards of the industry and a group that grew up with everything from TV shows to news content with the touch of a screen. Fanning and Parker are still programming their way to wealth, the South Park boys are still on air, and Ulrich and the rest of his California metalheads are still rich. And this journalist, who stealthily downloaded thousands of files and a few viruses sorry, Dad remains thankful for the P2P-enabled crash course in music in an otherwise aurally barren East Texas town.

My dad bought all of his Metallica:. Now more than ever, we need your support to continue supplying Austin with independent, free press. Support the Chronicle. Information is power. Support the free press, so we can support Austin. Well, long story short, we knew the cops had probable cause to search the van so we consented to a search to get all of this bullshit over with not that I am recommending this, you should normally never consent to any search.

Aside from that, they were astonished by the other survival gear that we had; bullet proof vests, gasmasks, night vision, several; dozen loaded magazines. Are you in some sort a militia? We just spoke as if this were a routine aspect of travel, like paying a toll and we would soon be on our way.

Well, they ran a check on all of the guns So the cops let us go, but it was obvious that they were intimidated. Why were they intimidated? Because we had power over them. We had the capacity to end their lives if they decided to oppress us.

Because if they decided to shoot us we had the capacity to protect our bodies from their bul- lets. They want the guns, they want the magazine capaci- ty, they want the select fire capability, they want the power. We have a lot of work to do if we are to ever achieve a free and just world and now is the time to start. I do hope that you realize that this has not been a letter about guns, it has been a letter about autonomy and what will work best to insure our freedom and limit the power of the corpo- rate governing bodies in the future.

Abel P. I own a small record shop in Orlando, Florida that puts on live shows from time to time. They have a decent space, but their landlord wants a grand a month. The purpose of this letter, however, is to give props to a band called Operation Cliffclavin. Some months ago, they were sched- uled to play at my record shop. Unfortunately prior to their set, someone stood on my sink all the bands sign the bathroom and knocked it out of the wall, resulting in a flooded store.

Fortunately, I only have ugly astro turf for car- pet, so nothing got ruined. As it turned out, the person that stood on the sink was traveling with Operation Cliffclavin. I am sure that night I was less than friendly because I had a busted pipe flooding the store and we could not get the water turned off. One of the opening bands, Blackhead, was able to relocate the show to one of their houses, so the show went on. The reason I am writing is because Operation Cliffclavin, even though they were on tour, did not ask for a dime in payment that night.

Nobody made money that night, but by not taking any money, Operation Cliffclavin lost money. In some regards, it was the only decent thing for them to do since they were indirecdy responsible for the damage but, in other senses, they were on the road and needed money also.

Carver does it, she is called a whore. Fuck you very much Ms. Your very academic argument is that the writing in Rollerderby is substandard. Was it Pagan 2? Enough minutae. Kennedy eeked out about six issues of Pagans Head or whatever before she outgrew the format she was always ashamed of, zines being beneath her as a serious writer, where Ms. Carver has put out at least twenty issues of Rollerderby while never making an excuse for herself. When Ms. Newitz, no one could ever be more pretentious than Pagan Kennedy except maybe you by asso- ciation.

You belong in academia, double-standard bearer. SOME if sporting plastic, postage paid on all orders. What you've done for Kim is something very special and some- thing I wasn't able to do. I realized long ago for Kim to be happy we'd have to let go of each other so we did , but until you came along the happiness had alluded us.

You've made her happy , and healthy and I can honestly tell you that it's the first time since I've known her that that's been the con- sistent way of things. Eastern Standard Time and all the East Coast cares about is hot water. Sleepy-eyed robots make their way to kitchens and bathrooms in search of hot water; our kingdoms for a few minutes of hot water.

Coffee and a shower will provide us the fuel necessary to take another bul- let in the head, another Monday morning in a never ending cycle of Monday through Friday, nine to five. The morning there is no hot water is the morning the whole world calls in sick. Somebody find a way to eliminate hot water between the hours of 6 and 9 a. I hit the snooze button, just like everybody else. I roll over and look at George curled up at my feet with a a truly disgusting Adidas for a pillow.

My favorite is when he jolts himself awake from a dream and runs through the house barking, looking for whatever it was he was in his sleep. I lay in the dark following his course around the house by the sound of his feet and giggle to myself awaiting his inevitable, unsuccessful return to bed. He climbs back into bed, snorts in defeat and curls up in a little ball and goes back to sleep.

I watch for a few min- utes trying to contain my laughter so as not to disturb the spectacle that is my sleeping dog. This time it wakes George up. He looks up at me, I down at him and we turn the alarm off. We sleep till noon. I love Kim more than anybody on earth and I've worried about her every single day for the past three years, until recently.

Until you came into her life. I don't worry anymore because I know you're taking care of her. When you look over at me and tell me that she's the best, I almost cry every time. I'm so happy for you both, I can't even tell you. Sure, why not. Am I a fucking idiot or am I making the right decision? Leaving it all behind to fly into the welcoming Chicago winter to attempt to eek out a living doing what I love. Eleven months I worked at a real job and I was only late once.

And I stayed late most days. And I hardly ever took a lunch break. And I never once called in sick. My mother was so proud of me that I had health insurance and my father was happy that there was a very real possibility of upward mobility and that I was learn- ing very marketable skills and if you work hard son, people notice, and they reward you. Everybody is looking for good, reliable people son. Good reliable people get the promotions and the raises. But I never once took any of it seriously or let it seriously impede what I was really doing with my life.

I got up every morning and went to the bagel place in front of the bus stop and got one blueberry scone and one 20 oz. Almost an entire year I stood there at that bus stop and nobody said a word to anybody else except fof the occasional disgruntled mumblings and nods when the bus was running late. They knew what to make when I walked in the door as well, so I never had to ask.

I have five sets of the same outfit which I would wear every day of the week. One black and white button up shirt, one pair of black tapered dickies, everyday. So I quit my job. I got tired of using up my hard earned vacation days one week per 6 months to finish up layouts for Punk Planet.

Seeing you two women together gives me hope. Life is generally a pret- ty lonely endeavor, but seeing the way you two look at each other, and the way you move around each other, helps me look forward to the possibility of having that for myself someday. And it makes me resolved to not settle for anything less. I know what it is to love someone, but seeing what you two have makes me realize there is something very special that I have yet to experience.

I'm not very good at being comfortable. Am I doing the right thing? If you hadn't come into Kim's life I almost certainly wouldn't be mov- ing to Chicago to do what I'm going to try and do. I don't think I would have been able to stand the idea of leaving her alone here, but knowing that she has you, I know that she'll be fine. So you've changed my life as well. Please always take care of Kim. You're absolutely correct when you tell me she's the best.

She loves you so much. Box Chicago, Illinois Commodity Rest In Peace. But there's something kinda sad about too many of the new funny girls. The new breed of office-based television comedy features women in high-pow- ered fictional positions who become weak, insecure fluffballs at the ring of an inter-office phone. Well, ok, she only spends most of her time that way, because she also needs to bully her assistant, bite her lower lip fetch- ingly, and tie jaunty little scarves around her delicate neck.

Ronnie runs a lingerie company and writes books about romance, and, like Ally, she also bullies her assistant and hates herself. Her inse- curities, though, are a little more focused— on the size of her ass. These women are so all about insecu- i Punk «oloo Planet rity that it leaves little room in their heads— and their shows— for any- thing else. Drama has long found ways to realistically portray competent profes- sional women: From the birth of contemporary ensemble drama, Hill Street Blues, to ER, its form of the moment, plenty of televised women have their shit together without constant self-slagging.

Hell, even Melrose Place has self-confident women with brains in their heads. Do men need these characters to soothe their fears of real pro- fessional women? Do women relate more to them because we feel the same way sometimes? Add it all up and you get a boob-tube world where powerful women must be their own worst enemies just to get a laugh.

Hanson: which of these fine groups has made a greater contribution to modern culture? What initially interested me about the Spice Girls and Hanson, though, was the level of sheer, unabashed hatred that both groups seem capable of arousing. Not just among the punks; you need only to mention either name to elicit grimaces, snarls, and torrents of vituperation from music fans of all stripes.

Even in their prime in the s, I can't remember anyone but a few grumpy hippies getting exercised about the Ramones; most people simply ignored them, or dismissed them as snot-nosed suburban brats with bad skin and worse haircuts.

The Spice Girls, on the other hand, despite having so much in common with the Ramones, seem to have absolutely zero credibility with anyone, punk or otherwise. Why is this so? Both groups, after all, started out with a completely manufactured image, both groups have silly haircuts, the members of both groups have silly first names and all share the same last name. And the music: well, both groups feature catchy, bouncy singalongtype melodies with absolute- ly idiotic lyrics that no one above the age of 12 could take seriously.

So once again I ask: wherein lies the crucial difference? Perhaps one of our more enlightened readers can explain to me why the Ramones are good and the Spice Girls bad or vice versa. Personally, I like them both, and the fact that it's always possible to instantly clear a room of unpleasant punks merely by slapping on a Spice Girls disc is an extra added attraction. Which brings me to another group I like a lot, and which has also suc- ceeded in upsetting an inordinate number of punks lately: Chumbawamba.

When I saw Chumbawamba in San Francisco a few months back, it was a special treat to see nearly the entire staff, past and present, of Maximum Rock n Roll there. Some of them were simply enjoying them- selves, but others, especially the more militantly political ones, were look- ing decidedly sheepish.

It was, after all, a full-fledged Major Label Concert, featuring a band who had officially been declared sellouts by the entire punk community. Being in an exceptionally good mood that night, I listened politely, but inside I was having a good chortle. Before Chumbawamba, there was the Gang of Four, another blinding- ly brilliant dance group who punctuated their rhythms with distinctly dodgy politics.

While Chumbawamba were are? Taking one's chances in a slam pit full of ill-mannered and badly- dressed goobers, was, I reasoned, a highly concentrated representation of life in the mean streets of decaying Western civilization. Some of the seed- ier parts of New York and San Francisco, the districts where my incessant pursuit of pleasure frequently led me, did indeed resemble the chaotic, flail- ing energy of a slam pit, but my metaphor fell apart when I remembered that the vast majority of human undertakings happen in less contentious surroundings; the ability to elbow the fat skinhead in the stomach without him knowing who did it, for example, is next to useless except under very specific circumstances.

But once I had emerged from the primeval ooze of the pit, I realized that my search for a Big Concept had just not been big enough. It was not the punk rock slam pit per se that mirrored larger human existence, but dancing in general, dancing of all kinds. Watch the hundreds of thousands of human ants Watch the way that people at a party wrap their personas around each other, incline their heads studiously to show attention to those they love and toss their noses or forelocks skywards to demonstrate disdain for all others.

And then, turning it around, get out onto the dance floor at a club or rave or country and western convention and see how quickly all manifesta- tions of your ego, your insecurities, your vanities, your lusts and your bare- ly suppressed hatreds, become magnified, become the focal point of your existence. And punks do dance after a fashion; the emo kids have their palsied quiver, the hardcore kids have their kungfu breakdance moves, and the pop-punk kids can sometimes even do the Macarena but, for the most part, punks are best at standing on the sidelines and glowering.

Which is a pity, but I think I understand why: punk has always, and especially in recent years, defined itself not so much in terms of who it includes, but who it excludes. Kids wanted their punk rock to be only for them, not for the jocks on the football team or the rich girls who could afford to buy all the brand new punk gear at Hot Topic.

Punks hate dancing and popular music for being democratic and inclusive, whereas punks prefer to be elitist and exclusive. You could be flunking out of school, kicked out of your house, even have a horrible case of zits on your ass, and you can still walk out onto the dance floor and be a star. After all the fireworks had gone off, people starting pouring into the clubs, and we went along as well.

You know the tune; you might hate it, but you know it. People were dancing on chairs, on tables, on top of the bar, hanging out of the windows, dangling from chandeliers. The club was no longer a collection of people, some in suits, some in jeans, some in full drag, but a single living organism of massive colloidal energy.

Almost every kind of person was there: businessmen and strippers and techno kids and drag queens, even one fellow in a puss print caveman outfit and a full mohawk. But no punks, surprise, surprise. I think they must have been sitting out in the alley sharing a forty-ouncer and spitting a lot. As I mentioned, winter nights are long in Iceland, 18 hours or more, which in my estimation is a good length for nights to be.

Unfortunately, I also am the sort of person who usually wakes up early. As a result, all too often I find myself lying in bed, unable to get back to sleep and too lazy to get up. No reason to bother getting up yet, then! Sometimes, with only a little extra effort, I could sleep right through the few hours of daylight and not get up till it was getting dark again. All of this led me to think about the depths of misunderstanding that make up the greatest portion of all human communication. Suppose, for example, you're at a loud party, and some wealthy gentleman seems to take a fancy to you and is chatting you up.

A million flea collars, eh? Well, what would you do? Hell, at retail, they might be worth even more than a million dollars. But then the complications set in. Where on earth are you going to put them? Most of us live in small apartments or rooms anyway, and certainly our roommates or parents are not going to be enthusi- astic about sharing quarters with any significant number of flea collars. And even if somehow you could find a place to put them, then what?

Forgetting totally that this whole problem was only an idiotic fantasy, I worked myself into a frenzy trying to figure out how I would deal with it. I pictured myself trundling round to the various supermarkets and pet supply stores trying to peddle discount flea collars. No more flea collars! The whole county is awash in flea collars! Just when I was beginning to settle down and remind myself that it was all imaginary, that there were really no flea collars to worry about and that if I would just go back to sleep, everything would be all right in the morning okay, the afternoon , a new problem presented itself.

I discovered that all the flea collars had an expiration date, namely February 28, And we were already in the first week of January! And if you think peddling a million flea collars to indifferent merchants would be a nightmare for those of us not well connected to the world of mass marketing, what about disposing of a million useless flea collars? Needless to say, it was hours and hours before I could get back to sleep. I finally had to wake Sam up and share my dilemma with him, figur- ing that if I were going to be tossing and turning all night, he should too.

Not your everyday slow, shallow retch, but the kind of deep, burping heave that comes from only two known sources: breast feeding and nar- cotics — I'll get to that a bit later. But, of course, I digress. He looks so sad, so moping, that I am woozy, disoriented, and nauseous. I am unable to use my left arm, and will be unable to use my left arm for three more months. Typing this column with my one good arm is very difficult. Which I am, pretty much all the time now.

My doctor tells me that it is among the most painful injuries you can have. I am taking the stuff every four hours. Pain killers are interesting. I can feel myself becoming addicted to them, even as I need them to control the pain, which is otherwise unbear- able. I would be writhing on the floor instead of pecking out this column at my computer were it not for the narcotizing effects of my friend, Mr.

I am out of work, and getting sick of Nickelodeon. I can well understand how someone could lose themselves in this stuff. So is my wife, and so is my dog, both of whom are getting just as sick of the Darren-is-helpless-thing as I am. Hey, at least it gets me out of my chores. I got married, I formed a new band, got a dog, and received no threats in calendar tear at least from angry vegans.

Life is good sometimes. Even with only one arm. Animism arises from a percep-! Animists can perceive the intelligence, fee Li ngs, thoughts, responses, love, harmony, in all of nature at a level not usual for the rest of the taker population. It's as if all the senses have been cranked up a notch, and everything we used to perceive one way we now perceive differently altogether.

Another dimension is added for which we just do not have the language. From this awareness develops an attitude to life. The attitude seems to be virtually inevitable once the awareness has occurred. There is no belief, only awareness. From this awareness and this attitude can come a multitude of ways of liv- ing, each of us as individuals manifesting in different ways our love and gratitude for the great privilege of being alive. But far from life getting easier, it gets oh so much harder.

It is also extreme- ly painful to live as an animist in this world and we are doing the best we can under great duress. The awareness requires a kind of altered state in which the senses are incredibly open. When we have them open we not only get to feel all the delight and joy and love in the natural world, we get to feel all its pain too If we leave these senses open inadvertently, or have trouble adjusting them as many budding animists do, when we return to an arena which operates on friction and tension, we are like frightened deer — every noise is too loud, all aggression is too fierce.

It's hard to discuss this with normal people because it threatens them. How is it possible, they say, that you can perceive something I cant? They become afraid of us because, in their competitive world, they think we may have an advantage.

So they ridicule us and do everything in their power to stop us expressing what is happening to us. In so doing they stop us from getting the help and support from one another we so desperately need on this quest. We had to get out. So we did. I looked at a tree outside. The leaves spoke nothing. And on the ground. I had to double check to be sure. Crossing the street with anticipation. We had a destination to make and the hustle of all to get there was making us anxious.

Cold too. The setting provided no warmth. A soothing comfort. Soothing had to be the right word. For me anyway. It may have been entirely different for each of us. I wandered. I remembered Ebony and how he wandered. Up the trail, off the sides and back— to make sure we were still with him and he was leading us just fine.

Until one day he took off. For three days, he was gone. Outside our neighborhood, desert stretched for miles. Sagebrush, rattlers, dirt-bike trails. The stones had plenty to say. Dead trees and the lights that so per- fectly illuminated them. Atoms moved that night, baby. And I got to see it all. It was all glowing, moving and comforting— soothing, right. THIS is what he meant, I began to see. How this works with this, and that with that. In fact, such judg- ments only exist in our constructs.

Leaves become the birthright for other organisms and so on. Stones — emblems. Spirits— stories if you will— live in the stones, not the way the text on them explicitly states for- ever a human preservation tool, an attempt to separate ourselves from the rules of the continuum, laughably as it ends up.

The life in them is telling just as much as anything WE might do and certainly no more or less impor- tant. Up in the hills, fresh out of high school, I saw for the first time how the digging Indians told part of their story.

Mortar holes in huge stones now held water from rain or snow. For birds, algae, further evaporation, whatev- er might be needed. It works that way. Okay, I thought. Cognitively, it's easy to see. It must be FELT. Water plays a reoccurring theme. The river, when we finally moved on, was on fire. It was a short glimpse, left as a reminder of a need for further understanding.

We had human tragedies to pass through in order to make it back intact. We then smoked in celebration and calmness. Later when I stood, the pain swept through my body conveniently harboring itself in my stomach. I attempted to move with the energy as I had. I needed my ass kicked and it was something I had to face alone. Music, of course, always the mediator.

Demons in my stomach had a nice lit- tle chat with me. I saw the poison I put into myself flowing darkly through veins. It jumped out, took shape and gave me what I deserved. Fish swam faster and faster criss-crossing in linear patterns.

The silver of their scales sped up with the tempo, blood hit the screen and soon it was a mess of blood red and bright silver speckles. An inevitable crash. Life flashed. I saw myself there playing in the gravel. I spent a lot of time with the small rock base of the tiny playground.

Our kids get The Promise Ring and our tough, fair-minded love. Why was it different for me and my brothers? My older brother had developed his long- lasting behavioral problems by then. He got busted throwing a mound of clay through a Schoolhouse window. As one of two white families, we were terrorized; the house robbed twice; our possessions stolen and too many bullies.

I had only one neighborhood friend, a black kid my age — the only one who would be my friend. All my other friends were from the Schoolhouse, lily-white most of them. We were developing Texas accents and wearing cowboy boots. Dad had his biker neighbors, Budweiser, bandannas and Hamburger Helper. And he let us stay up and watch S. Mom finally uprooted us.

She took us to Nevada. Growing up with a lesbian mom in a small town did wonders for us three boys. On top of financial and simple logistical hardship, my mom did the best she could. Absolutely the best. But three boys, one mom and no after-school supervision almost made a deadly combination. My older brother was out of control: kicking holes through walls; punching out his window; trashing his room in fits of rage; exploding homemade bombs out the school bus window, in our tree fort and once, on the kitchen stove — a recipe for destruction that almost permanently destroyed the kitchen.

My back slammed against the edge of the wall. I was launched from down the hall as he shoved me. I held the pain in my back, cowered in fear and then watched as he applied the same abuse to my mom. This behavior landed him in juvenile hall three times. The RO. This period marked my lasting withdrawal. Of course, my dad hardly played a role by this time — it was years in between seeing him. Afterward, I could do nothing except lay down and try to explain myself to those who would listen. It was tough — I was humbled and I knew I had so much more to do.

I revisited the bright lights the next weekend. I kept open the possibil- ity of seeing some of it again. Instead, we broke into the half-destroyed casi- no, took a Xanax and tracked the mud back into my bed. I hadn't moved from the cycle. And so today I learn. I am experiencing this for a reason. I have to tell myself that. Lessons in forbearance and all the rest. Hold onto that connection you felt. THAT is your center. Keep it.

Keep moving. You are working out of it. You cannot stop. Hearing this, and knowing what more I face, my reaction was simple: I cried. A lot of the publicity John did. I did it from hotel rooms on tour. Every morning I was on the phone for three hours. I start- ed hiring people because I realized I wds losing my voice from talking on the phone so much. I also had gotten to the limit of my knowledgebility of what I knew. I needed people who were more specialized and could focus on certain tasks.

S: And how fast did you get going? How many records did you put out in the first year? She is also in the Indigo Girls. S: How long had you been a band before you started Daemon? AR: For about 6 years, yeah, well, 7 years. S: And how much longer after that did you have your major label deal and all that? We did all of our own booking and all of our own promotion.

Everything, I mean every- thing. I really wanted to stay active in that [independent] world because I really love it. AR: No, it was on Indigo or something. It was just like we made up names for everything we put out and we never really set on one label. There were a lot of people I wanted to hear on record, so I just started plugging away and giving people money and putting their records out. At first, it was like I had one per- son helping me out, John, and he was kind of managing the first band, Ellen James Society, while helping me.

The first year two, the next year a couple. And those records all did pretty well. People toured behind them and James got signed to Geffen and things started rolling and I guess I felt like it was a little too big maybe— too much activity.

So I decided to put out a record by the group called The New Mongrels which really was a friend of mine who writes songs. All these people who were in the Atlanta community and Seattle community who he knew got together and made this record and it came out.

And we put out Jesus Christ Superstar after that as a benefit record. A reproduction of the rock opera with all Georgia Musicians. S: Right, like the Danielle record that says Mill Records on it. Just to get it out there for people. S: Right, Have you decided that? I want to keep their records on Daemon unless they get signed and really want to put them on the next label they are with, but I'd like to keep them.

I really just stepped in because they need- ed someone to get this record out. Different people have different needs I think. S: Who is your distributor? AR: Koch— and I love them. But when I started, it was Rough Trade. When Rough Trade went bankrupt, it killed me. I lost a lot of money. It killed them too. I liked them and then I was with this label called Sky and they were distributed by Relativity. I went through their distribution deal for a while kind of to get my feet up.

It turned into RED and I went with them and Sony finished kind of buying them out and I felt like I was such a small fish in a big pond. It just got too corporate for me. Koch is great. S: Was Koch already doing a lot of stuff other than classical by that time?

My timeline is really bizarre tonight— must be all the Anyway, I signed with Koch and when I signed with them they were doing like Razor and Tie and all these other sort of cool labels and they started to release their own records. That is one of the things that really drew me to them.

Are you dis- tributed by them? S: No. Right around the time I was going with them, Ani Difranco kind of decided to go with them and when I heard that she was doing that also, I felt even better about my decision.

We are kind of like a guerrilla warfare label. S: Do you feel that way about the Indigo Girls too? Or do you sort of do business differently? Me and Emily try to sort of have the same ethic and we try to get our label to have the same ethic, and we try to have the Indigo experience be as grassroots as possible, and Epic is great about it. But Emily and I look at bands like Fugazi, you know, and we hold them up in an esteem of the idea of their ticket prices, their idea of all-ages shows Those are important in our own existence.

I mean we look at ticket prices and we just slash them across the board. We are going to do a high school tour in the fall. Really from the time we started, the bands who we look to for inspiration as far as how to do your career were all punk bands. In Atlanta the do-it-yourself scene was the punk scene. How many of the bands and artists that are on Daemon are from the Atlanta area? What per- centage? S: Do you think that is coincidence or is that intentional regionalism?

AR: Well it's intentional now because at one point I started working with bands that were out of town like out of the South West for instance, and the fact that they were out of the South West was hard for me — the com- munication was hard. It was harder to feel close and I made some concerted effort at some point some years ago — 3 years ago — and I said I wanted to spend a couple of years and I want to do all South East artists because I felt like I need to get my feet on the ground and focus better.

Now I do. We talk about where they are going to play, what radio stations they want to try and get played on and how they want to be marketed basically. So, it works well for us and it makes the people working for Daemon feel like everybody is involved. I mean that would be a nightmare for me. S: How many benefit records have you done? AR: Two. S: That record must have been pretty successful. Fifteen minutes later I was rolling home, through tidepools of oily water that kicked up into my soaking wet jeans.

By this point, I was so soaked through that I was past caring that my clothes were wet and I could barely see through the raindrops balanced on my eyelashes. Back to my leaky house, with the mail and a bottle of ibuprofen. I thought about how much I hate having to live with roommates, especiajly the roommates I live with.

There are a couple things in my life right now that I despise: my job and where I live. Everything else is great. AR: No, I thought about it though. S: Do you feel like you keep your identity of the Indigo Girls separate from that as the owner of Daemon Records — do they intermingle or do you use it as leverage to get more attention?

AR: I definitely use it as leverage sometimes. I can The sky outside is the color of inverse emptiness. I stayed home from work because of the pain in my belly and my back. I hoped I could stay home and feel miserable, but I had to leave the house. Riding The break room in my office has the strangest odor. It kind of makes my teeth hurt. At one end of the windowless room is a box of candy bars and salty snacks.

It makes it way too easy to get free candy that way, and then I just end up eating a lot more candy than I normally would. In the middle of the room is the grungy break-room sink. I share an office with my boss on the fifth floor. We have a great view, and I spend a lot of time looking out of the windows. The bay changes colors to reflect the mood of the sky; grey, blue, green, sometimes all three at once.

I try to do my best at my job, but I find it all very uninspiring. I train new employees who have recently been hired to work in the company. This is the same position I held at my last company last summer. My new company is cheap; like I said, it is run by Scientologists. I some- times train people who have been hired to make more money than I do — working in a copy store, no less.

It is depressing. I must do something. But I am stuck and lost. I gave up on asking my speed-ingesting roommate to please be quiet after I have gone to bed. He refuses to do this. So I keep my set of earplugs next to my bed, and push them into my head as I turn off the light. I want to scream at him. Plus, he is bigger than me. I woke up last night at 4 am because he was leaving the house and slamming the door. I lay there in bed, pulling out the earplugs and wishing I had ten thousand dollars— then everything would be okay.

My other roommates do things like leave dishes in the sink for weeks, forget to pay the power bill until the shut-off notice appears, leave lights on all night throughout the house, listen to terrible 80s metal, and spend all their time either stoned or drunk.

Maybe this is no big deal; maybe I should just be able to live with these morons. But I doubt it. In my perfect fantasy world, I have my own flat, where I live all by myself, or at the most with one other rad person, and we agree to respect each other. I make just enough money to get by every month. I had never been to this particular diner before, but Brendan and his roommates had mentioned it numerous times. Basically, the food there is huge and there are only about four or five vegetarian items on the menu— they take pride in their corned beef.

The onion rings Brendan ordered were like puffy golden clouds; like greasy, deep-fried donuts. The coffee milkshake was thick and love- ly and tall. We were in food heaven. On the tray with the check they gave us some Bazooka bubble gum. Of course, we had to read all the corny jokes to each other. It actually took us about twenty or twenty-five minutes to find parking in the Lower Haight. Many of my friends are immersed in the world of online computer geekdom and thus make way more money than I do , so talk soon turned to Pentium chips and SCSI cards and the chat server we all hang out together on.

I am probably the most technologically ignorant in the group, so I could not really keep up with all the geeking out. At we turned on the huge television to watch South Park, which I, not being a cable subscriber, had never seen before. I would almost get cable just to be able to see this show, but then again I have been told that all the episodes have been pirated and can be downloaded from the web sorry, no URL. Midnight came and went and the party got much livelier at that point.

Josefa emerged onto the porch wearing the fake fur breeches she had worn for Halloween when she had dressed up, quite convincingly, as a faun. Everyone was getting drunk and soon would be dosing as well. Robyn was especially jolly and had messed up her beautifully applied eye-makeup.

It was only one o'clock, but Brendan and I decided to split. We said good-bye to our pals and headed down to Market to hail a taxi. The streets were packed with people, all of them wanted cabs. We had yet more luck when we were able to hook one within five minutes.

They make this great cornflake french toast, served with real maple syrup. This prompted Brendan to tell me a story about growing up in Canada and making maple syrup with his dad. He told me how the tree makes the sweetest sap, how the spigot is drilled into the bottom of the tree when the sap flows up through the roots at the end of winter, and how the sap is heated for a couple of days until it is syrup.

It was just a little story about syrup, but I thought about it later on the train back to the East Bay, and it just made me like him more. Like I said, apart from my job and my house- mates, everything else is just super. But I have read and appreciated your correspondence and encouragement. It means a lot to me. Jane hating. The plot was fairly simple: two mice are cousins.

Sure, that happens all the time. One lives in the country and the other lives in the city. In the country, the city mouse nearly gets eaten by a cat. But who knows? I realized as a little kid that there was no way I could choose between being a country mouse or a city mouse.

I still feel that way. I grew up in a small city or was it a big town? It was a college town, and therefore full of city people. It was big enough to have several different neighborhoods with sep- arate names and personalities, and a bar for every sub-culture bars for var- ious tradesmen, a bar for parolees, a bar for outpatients, student bars, town- ie loser bars, gay bars, crusty old alcoholic bars which sometimes became punk rock bars out of convenience.

It was small enough that the walls could close in on you pretty fast. Both my parents are from New York City. They both used to bring us to the city to visit their respective kin. My father brought us to see his mom in Chelsea. All I knew was that she was scary and her dark little one-room apartment was scary and her neighborhood was scary and her elevator was scary and her building was scary and the city seemed dark and scary at those times.

My mother used to bring us and it seemed like a different city alto- gether. We did fun things and visited less scary relatives and friends. One Christmas she brought us to see all the windows on 5th Avenue, and we became somewhat catatonic; overwhelmed by all the people. She was gen- uinely disappointed in us. I still maintain that I have seen some truly stellar music, theatre, literature, zines, etc. I was completely infected by the idea that New York is a dangerous place full of scary violent people.

Yes, race is a factor here; watch one of those hour-long cop shows, look at all the terrifying Black and Puerto Rican criminals, duh. Probably not an accident. Anyway, back to New York. These violent New York people will shoot you as soon as look at you, not to mention all the apathetic bystanders who will walk by and watch as you bleed to death. You'll be run over by a taxi driven by a junkie from Iran and rescued by a crackhead ambulance driver who was wounded in 'Nam and be taken to the hospital which is owned and operated by the mob and the ER will be full of armed assassins.

Yeah, better stay home and watch it on TV. Mug me. Laugh at me. Do with me what you will. Boy oh boy, I sure got some interesting responses from New Yorkers about that. All states that begin with a vowel are a blur. People who live in states that begin with a vowel are toothless ingrates with low I.

Yee Haw. I go to school in Iowa. A lot of people ask me how the potatoes are. People ask how I get along with all those Mormons. That would be Utah. I get it mixed up with Indiana. I admit it. I now have good friends who were born and raised in Iowa.

When I think about the rural stereotype: double-wide trailer full of kids with different fathers and a dead El Camino full of chickens That sounds like rural New York state as much as it does Iowa or any of those other vowel states.

People make all kinds of assumptions about it. In turn, I find myself defending Iowa to ignorant and arrogant North Eastern people from time to time. Both places are unfairly maligned. I think all these people are watching too much TV and need to get out of the house more. As usual, I feel pretty inadequate as a Planeteer because I have not seen a punk band in months. I can hardly blame Iowa for that. My friend Nik, one of the aforementioned cool Iowa people, brought me there.

I have a good feeling about this store because it sprang up after the manager and all the employees from my former favorite record store got fired or laid off or something. Anyway, the guy who I always used to see there opened his own store. The night I went, it was long enough ago that it was warm enough to sit outside. I actually thought they were really pretentious and full of weird attitude that infected the music see?

There are pretentious people in the Midwest. The other band was Thee Duma, who I loved. Their sound is really dark, made me think of old Iggy and Joy Division. Another record store encounter: I was innocently racking up more debt in another CD store when I met a guy named David Zollo who is in a band called High and Lonesome and he gave me a copy of a compilation CD called Doublewide. In any case, he and his band are well-represented on the CD.

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