About Me
This past Winter, in the City of Wind, was a winter to be remebered by many. Not only did the temperatures drop lower than they have in some many years, but as did the Famed "Pidgeon Killer" or "Pidgeon Massaccarist", drop in his standards of taste and tactfullness. Bating the wing-ed unpopular, yet common, modern city dove, the Pigeon Blugeon-er used discarded doughtnuts supplied by the 711 dumpster to lure the birds into his unrivaled man hands. Thus, collecting his victims, recently overwhelmed by joy, now in a state of spasmodic confusion (sugar combined with man hands), he would take them back to his layer, presumably, where he would commence to.... oh sweet Betty, I don't know if I should even be giving information this intricate and laiden with such voluminous amounts of grotesk depair on a public web thingy....he would..... cut them... with the precision of Burma Rug weaver and leave them in shrines of fried dough, creating random diversions on the city's slummis walkaways.
When I first caught sight of a work of the Pidgeon Carver, I was, thank my lucky stars, not alone. My unbelievably attractive friend, Kit "Vagina" Stovepipe and I had just gotten off 'the elevated' railways, returning from the library and comic bookstore when we both noticed what seemed to appear to us as a severed heart, and/or meat chunk, with greasy wing strap-on's attached...(you know?) .
Anyway, that was my one and only sighting. Unfortunatly, Kit met the Pidgeon Mutilater's offerings a few more times, makiing cookie/chip excursions to the local 711. This caused the both of us much greif , doubled by a onslaught of parinoia and crazed public accusations torwards loved ones and men with bulge-esk eyes. . Though neither of us had money or Antarctican star gazing garb, the colder than fourty witches tits weather and the haunting presence of the dirty dove demeantor kept us locked happily in the basement, away from stupid Chicago.
It is in this same basement that we recorded all of the songs upstairs... I mean up there... on the site... you see...? Yes, in the basement apartment of our friends Amy and Ron, we began our feindish, sleep deprived week and a half long sebatical, staying up all hours of the night and day, and even at times waking neihbors with our motivational pep reviving
antics.
These songs where all electrically recorded in the basement apartment of a buzzing, clanked-y clank old brownstone (though it was grey), on California and Milwalkee in the City of Wind. We used a computer microphone to record all the tracks, the mic ingeniusly built in directly above the the computer's cooling system, aka fan, aka....loud buzzing sounds. Therefore, we maticulously constucted a cooling system to deterr the fan's mosquito like droans, which deserves a full description, for it, itself was a work of art. First, a small collection of great books (like 'The Rutabaga Stories', a R.Crumb portait book of early Jazz, Country & Blues musicians, 'the Ragtime Ephemerlist' , and a book of old photobooth collections) served as a means of elevation to allow premium air flowage. Next, a twin pack of frozen sausages of the utmost savory selections, to keep the computer
from getting too hot, too quick (....girrrl you need to calm down), and last, a ink splatted rag, rags (of the fabric kind) being a rarity at the Sausage Stack Basement Reording sessions, we used our pen rag to blaket the bed of the 12 weiners, keeping any moisture or condenscation from getting on the computer. Other anti distractive sound rituals were: unplugging the refridgerator, turning off the heat and praying to the poop god that nobody in the upstairs apartment was slaying a dragon (slaying dragon=clankedy fan noise).
The first night we even made a blanket tent, hoping the blankets would take a egg crate type of effect... it didn't. Finally brother Mike lent us his snowy blue ball, which helped us get a much clearer recording. Mama always said, "It's crazy what a difference a little ball on the table can make." Boy oh boy am I thankful for all the people and things that I love. What would life be like if without old recordings to listen to? friends to sing with , colors to eat or air to swallow? What would our lives be if we couldn't make believe?
