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    « January 2009  | Main  | March 2009 »


    Back Home in the CHI.

    Posted on February 27, 2009 at 08:58 AM

    Back home from NYC. Bi-polar appetite for tunes lately. Listening relentlessly to Last Goodbye by Jeff Buckley (1995) and Afterlife by Avenged Sevenfold (2008). The guitar solo in Afterlife is literally beyond my comprehension. -also on repeat is Kiss Them For Me by Siouxsie, who I dream about pursuing for a KH duet-  other then that, it’s just NPR and Youtube vids of snowmobile crashes and bear attacks and things.

    our friend Kat Von D came through town for a book signing, and the next day I gave her and her sis a short walking tour of the city, which was cool.  Dan, greg, jonny and i might jet out east to Bam’s next week for her B-day party, which I can imagine being equally wonderful and seriously dangerous. My liver is quivering in anticipation.

    I was spending time on my Crackberry unsubscribing from email lists when I came across this little piece of digital gold that some German site called Dank Haus sent to me:


    German freaks sized

    WTF! i wonder if i could hire them just to hang out in my kitchen and “keep the energy high" for a couple hours a day while i work.  "Hey, Prinz Bobby, it's mat again. um, my energy is getting low? yeah, i'm gonna need you to drop by in your fuckin Klu Klux Dreamcoat and stir shit up a little."

    here’s a t-shirt I just designed in defiance of fashion week.

    Nice shirt sized

    two pieces given to me by Wirrow, my favorite new young artist from england

    Wirrow sized

    this is the scariest thing i own

    Creep doll sized

    My piano

    Piano sized

    View from my window. -and that's the perma-cloud that puts my spirit in a headlock every day

    Sears tower 2 sized

    view from my window at night.

    Sears tower out my window sized

    B&W raccoon print from a NYC bar 

    Raccoon chick sized  

    And finally, as a token of my appreciation to the loyal raccoon readers, I give you 2 riotous Remixes of my hero, Christian Bale’s, on-set meltdown.

    If these don’t make you laugh, then we must differ so greatly on such a fundamental level that we probably couldn’t ever be friends. ever.

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    Escape To NYC. Let's get ugly one time.

    Posted on February 23, 2009 at 02:18 PM

    As loyal, patient readers to this inconsistent blog will tell you, when Papa Raccoon goes AWOL for a while, I usually return bearing strange tales and intrigue from some ill begotten adventure- 

    you should that, here in the studio, as I type, I smirk. Firstly, cos it’s getting impossible to contain my excitement for the new KH tracks, and also because I'm wearing what I believe to be the most majestic shirt ever to cover my gangly bones. ¾ sleeves and extra thick cotton that I think is woven with asbestos. I defy anyone to put a price on fashion that makes u gag and laugh at the same time. drink it in

    Ugly sized 1b

    Ugly sized 2

    Speaking of fashion and getting ugly, the escape artist in me struck again, and jumped a prop plane to NYC for a change of scenery and a prime opportunity for irresponsible gallivanting.

    Turned out to be the start of Fashion Week, and within a few hours of landing, I was sitting at a Charlotte Ronson runway show, across from Lohan, who looked sharp and who’s swarm of paparazzi I found to be literally terrifying. Barracudas. The clothes were great- she chose a 30's/40's G.I. military bigband/swing theme that i liked. Heres a pic of sean lennon and some models off to the side

    Fashion show sized

    -reconnected with old cronies and crashed in the St Marks area, a place that holds a great deal of nostalgia for me. When we were 14, my best friend and i used to step over heroin addicts on these very corners to buy Ramones records and Smiths posters and things. then we’d jump the subway to Chinatown for fireworks and throwing stars, and to try like hell to convince some clerk to sell us porn. kids. Nun chucks and explosives, no problem. Hash in Washington Square Park if we wanted it, ours. Magazines with nude photos? Not until you’re 18. "Get out of my store you little punks."

    Had a few prohibition-era cocktails at a speakeasy called PDT, which is sequestered in an unmarked Japanese takeout shack. Enter the concealed antique phone booth in the corner, say the right thing into the receiver, and the rear wall opens to reveal a hidden bar, where a little geisha girl ushers you to your booth. Ours had a dead raccoon over it, which for some reason at the time, I took as a good sign.

    note proper drunken hunchback form. -dont know why i'm dressed like Rob Lowe from St. Elmo's Fire

    Mat nyc raccoon sized  

    When your toxified body spills out to a new york city morning where the sidewalks spin, and the magnetic poles in your brain have been reversed, there are certain things you don’t want to see. Like a dog taking a shit, or the garbage from a Korean butcher, or this church sign. 

    I mean really, get creepier. Fuuuck.  Want to go in and pray? No thanks I’d rather watch Deer Hunter by myself again

    Precious blood sized

    Flight home: I find I have written B G D E in large letters on my hand, which must be a chord progression to explore when I land. Also at some point i'd scribed the word FRAUD on my arm, which I recall was both a good idea for a clothing company as well as a statement of fact. Sifting through my tuxedo pockets I found another note written to myself on paper for once instead of skin. It seems that, while semi-obliterated, I must have come up with some new additions to my growing list of imagined ‘worst band names of all time.’ 

    The Midnight Snaxx

    Ricky Loves Cock (this i noticed had been carved into a wooden tabletop at a pizza place on Bleecker st.)

    New Kids On The To Kill A Mockingbird Block

    -and apparently a ballad entitled You Can Be My Fag Hag I Will Be Your Beard

    That note was accompanied by this Mark Twain quote, torn from a magazine:

    “I believe I have no prejudices whatsoever. All I need to know is that a man is a member of the human race. That's bad enough for me.”

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    All Quiet On the Midwestern Front

    Posted on February 4, 2009 at 06:01 PM

    Drinking: 2005 Mitolo jester Shiraz

    Watching: Man on Wire

    Listening to: M83, NPR All Things Considered 

    The official title of this photo perfectly summarizes my mood right now: Vacant and Awaiting Demolition.

    Vacant and awaiting demolition sized  

    I’m looking at the buildings outside my window just hissing in the frost. How could you not fall into torpor in a climate like this... It’s subhuman. I need a spark of inspiration. -maybe another red-eye ghetto sojourn to the tropics is just what the doctor ordered.

    Speaking of prescriptions, I came across a review for Bigger Faster Stronger, a documentary on steroid use in America, and it made me wonder: with full awareness of the catastrophic side effects, does anyone use steroids recreationally? –like, not to work out, but more to… go out? Or hang out? Does anyone get juiced and then meet up with friends for pizza?  I imagine if anyone has the answers, it’s probably this guy:

    Retard desert sized  

    Speaking of degenerates, I’ve gotten a few emails lately from girls asking for relationship advice on various matters, and I have a new theory (based on a scrape I got into in Manchester) that may help to simplify things.

    I happen to believe that science will one day prove that there are only two kinds of men in this world;

    1. those who headbutt 

    2. those who don’t

    headbutting is basically the most barbaric thing you could ever elect to do in your lifetime. Just the thought of it makes me gag. so ladies, ask your man if it's his style to use his head like a fucking coconut, and chances are, no matter how well he’s dressed, (provided he isn’t a top secret jujitsu expert for Mi6) he’s total white trash.

    Also, do any raccoons out there have any intel on St. Trinian’s? you know there's always a special place in my heart for gothy private school kids, but I’m in the dark here.  http://www.sttriniansmovie.co.uk/

    Q-photo-belles-of-st-trinians-games-hockey-new sized

    framed British WWII poster i want

    Vanillakeepcalm-1 sized

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    How to Become an Archvillain

    Posted on February 3, 2009 at 11:10 AM

    This is the Purple Pieman from Strawberry Shortcake. That’s who I look like when I grow a mustache. i have no idea why his dick is giving the thumbs up like that.

    PruplePieMan sized

    This is Dick Dastardly.

    Dudly sized

    ...and this is Snidely Whiplash

    Snidely-774178 sized

    As you can see, the Victorian gentleman villain was a popular archetype in many 80’s cartoons, which is why everyone my age has grown up equating mustaches with sinister intentions.

    This is not a hit. Not at all.

    The few friends I’ve seen in public have all reacted similarly. -scrunching their faces like they've just received horrible news or ate a sour patch kid or something. Then they take me aside to explain how disappointed they are, like I personally offended them and ruined their night out.  

    if i could get my hands on an antique Russian Cossack uniform, maybe I could pull off a stately 19thcentury baron or something, like Count Vronsky from Anna Karenina, but until then, it’s just 21st century Chicago creep. All I need is a black van with no windows and I'll be the complete embodiment of everything good kids were raised to avoid.

    Jonny Depp grows a soul patch and smoothly morphs from ‘Irresistible American Heartthrob’ to ‘Irresistible French Bohemian Heartthrob with Mystique’. I forget to shave for a couple weeks and I’m a pie man with a rape truck.

    Mat stache 2 sized

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    « January 2009  | Main  | March 2009 »




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