Cyborg Revisited

What with our picturesque downtown, agreeable city counsellors and multiple, world-class shawarma joints, Steeltown is quickly supplanting Toronto as the new Hollywood north (isn't it Vancouver that's know as "Hollywood north? -ed.). Seems like there's always at least one film crew operating somewhere in the downtown core, and a few summers ago, Fakiegrind Central's neighbourhood was transformed into Baghdad for a couple weeks while the made-for-TV extravaganza "American Soldier" was being filmed.



So I was surprised to see this sign on a downtown sidewalk, pointing the way to the catering table. It was the only indication I could find that the movie shoot might not really be for the less sensationally titled "Till Death do us Part". However, though I cased the scene for a good fifteen minutes (waiting for my deli sandwich order to come up) I saw no signs of cyborgs nor Californian Governors. Maybe it was just a silly prank.

New Book of Oldness?

The original Book of Oldness was lost when Maskatron infiltrated Fakie Headquarters last summer (just after Happy T. Fluke made short work of clearing out the Upper Vaults of Oldness). Not wanting to create a global uproar, I kept information regarding the missing book secret these past months, but was unable to stave off the collapse of several small South American republics whose political regimes depended on certain eldritch tracts of the Book of Oldness for their continued existence.



This past week-end, whilst clearing out one of the antique Filing Cabinets of Inescapable Doom, I came across this curious tome, the covers of which are inscribed by certain obscure runes, pictograms and primitive designs. Reading through as many pages as I could manage before the information and insinuations contained therein threatened to usurp the shining beacon of reason that guides us forever onward and make my mind the prisoner of some nameless, slithering beast from the pre-historic mists of evolutionary time when vertebrae were just the wet dream of an upstart amoeba, I came across this curious poem or spell, which might as well serve as a preface to the entire work in all its curious and captivating splendor:

Vomit of moon
Tumor of trees
Comet pills warding off
Skyward disease
Cryptic pitch
Septic itch
Wreckage from
Roadside ditch
Bottom feeder
Tops the charts
Riddled rhymes
Rebel arts
Book of Oldness
New like dawn
Regal dreams
Awake the pawn

I have no idea what these strange lines might mean, and I'm reluctant to publish more of this book in these digital pages for fear of what arcane powers may be unlocked by the uttering of the twisted syllables contained therein. I will continue to study the nigh-illegible script and odd, unsettling pictures of this tome and report back with any headway I make as to their possible references.

Cattrap

Yo! I'm the cat
I like this wicker vat
Waiting for a rodent
To fall into my trap
Sleep away the day
You know I'm living right
Waking up Flatlander
To let me out at night

Do Not Resuscitate

The debate rages on and the multitudes ask themselves: was it really worth selling all our records and tapes and re-purchasing our favourite music on CD, then dumping our library on an iPod and selling our CDs to the local used music shop?

And what about the stuff that has never made it onto CD, let alone MP3 format? Artists like the Crash Crew, Fine Quality and Kevie Kev featured on this 1984 Sugarhill Records compilation that my (soon to be landfill) tape player just ate. For all we know, this may have been the last surviving copy of this record, and we may never hear Waterbed Kev's hit "All Night Long" again, now that this vintage magnetic tape has self-destructed.

I tried my best to salvage the tape, but it was a nasty disaster scene. Even after manual rewinding, the spools were all folded up on themselves. In the end I only manage to save about fifteen minutes of tape which may or may not survive transplantation into a new cassette casing.

Such are the perils of analogue technologies. Somewhere out there, in some dusty bin in a forgotten corner of someone's attic or curiosity store, there just might be a few vinyl copies of this record still kicking around. There is still a chance that Jocko's "Everybody's Uptight" has not been forever lost to history. The question, though, remains: does anyone really care?

I guess there's always Devo.

Good Eats Cheap

Who says you can't live like a king on 5 bucks a day? This document was found just south of Fakiegrind Central Headquarters...

Cosmic Cow

Last night I had a very strange dream. I was traveling a turbulent, otherworldly landscape when a large, friendly cow materialized out of the ether.


"I am the Cosmic Cow," said the creature.



"I love to graze the quantum wastes of distant galaxies..."


"and gambol in the cosmic rays of far-flung fields of time and space."


"I bathe my udders in lunar light on distant shores of sentient seas."


"I know what is past, present and to come, as well as the expiry dates of the finest cheeses."


"Flatlander, you will fashion yourself a mighty vessel in which to travel the perilous wastes of deep space, in search of pieces of vinyl cast adrift many millennia ago by the scientists of long-dead interstellar civilizations."



"You will encounter the mighty warriors of the Byzna'arian Steppes (who love sheep).


"You will befriend strange robots who will understand the Codes by which blogs might be made to speak by themselves."


"You will fight off bizarrely clad denizens of distant worlds, and will develop the ability to grow supple, mechanical pseudopodia from your shoulder blades."


"Returning to your home planet with the priceless intergalactic disks, you will be called a prophet..."


"...only to discover that your base of operations has been destroyed in your absence (yet again)."


"But you will rebuild your empire, and, with the knowledge gained from your travels, will be a great benefit to the producers of recreational lawn dart equipment on three continents."


"So speaketh the cow. Now AWAKE!"

...And that was the end of my dream. That strange cow made quite an impression on me, but what was all that crazy nonsense about a space ship and sentient robots? People say that dreams foretell the future using a kind of symbolic picture language, but I have no idea what any of this could mean.

Fear Factor (Feline Version)

They have reproduced!

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New Adventures on the Wheels of Steeltown

With all the projects we have on the go here at Fakiegrind Central, space is limited. Our Time Machine Research Department alone takes up a good city block of space, which, when the tessaractic flux field is taken into account, means that we have to make do with 43% less counter space in the staff kitchen.

Our Feng Shui expert, Dr. Thirdeye, recently came by to help rearrange the space wherein we house the Modular Acoustic Disruption Generator (MADG), otherwise know as the Wheels of Steeltown.


Dr. Thirdeye could make a prison cell seem like Club Med.

Thirdeye's genius allowed us to retrieve the Steeltown One unit from the Vaults of Oldness, wherein it had lain dormant for some months.


Steeltown One glows from inside, and never skips a beat.


He also added a homey touch to the space with this framed interstellar treasure map found hastily scrawled on the page of an old phone book. We suspect it leads to a stash of old disco records buried on one of the moons of Saturn.

Along with the direct drive of Steeltown Two, we are now all set up to do some serious Disco Disruption Mixology. However, the astral charts are predicting heavy solar flare activity over the week-end, which could interfere with our glandular beat-synch membrane. There are times when I curse my foyer into biomorphic technology!


Steeltown Two cooks at 33.3 RPMs.

After a manicure and cuticle spa treatment at the local disco lounge, DJ Thing is itching to fire up the newly assembled system and get down to some mixed bizness.


Thing has primed the wax.

Now, if only we could somehow hook our tape machine up to the computer, we could disseminate the progeny of Thing's bizarre vinyl copulations via the interweb. But, so far, Fakie scientists have not managed this alchemical feat of translating analogue signals into digital. Heck, they haven't even figured out a way to retrieve the focus group we left stranded in the Mesozoic Period during our last time machine experiment!

Every Second Day is Hallowe'en

...at least for the next little while, until the candy bowl is empty.



Unfortunately for blogdom, our favourite link mistress, Mondo Retro Girl is on hiatus. So, today, Fakiegrind is busting out our own sweet linkage. Word.

Dr. Sketchy's Anti-Art School Blog (18 and over)

Sketleton Art

Star Wars Art

Rocket Pack Art

Free Buck 65 Downloads! Love that dude.

Borat opens today. Is it playing in Steeltown? Nope.

Love to eat mousies (I've got a mug featuring this cartoon.)

B. Kliban fact: the lyric "She's playing footsies in another dimension" in the Beck song Nighmare HIppy Girl is from one of Kliban's twisted drawings.

And, speaking of Beck, I like the new look of his site.

Finally, don't forget the Oldschool Skateboarding (an inspiration to us all).

And, of course, Oldschool Rap (or, "how to be a 17 year old rap star").

OK, I guess that's a (w)rap. That was a lot of work! How does Mondo Retro Girl do it? Peace out.

Overdose

Yes, I've overdosed on sugary treats again this Halloween, but we're getting down to the bubble gum and suckers, so the ordeal is almost over. I think a good way to fight the ongoing war against terror, rather than bombing or difficult ground maneuvers, would be simply to airdrop tonnes of cheap candy in the areas suspected of housing terrorists. Once the sugar high had worn off, the foes would feel drowsy and apathetic, and the forces of liberation could just move in and ship everyone off to Syrian detention camps.

Tanks and cannons could be re-outfitted to fire volleys of candy bars, and machine guns could be modified to spit jaw-breakers and gum. The resistance would counter by establishing confectionery aversion training camps, where operatives would be schooled on the dangers inherent in "riding the white dragon" of sugar addiction. Dentists would replace paramedics in field hospitals, and modern warfare would enter an era where foodstuffs replaced firearms as the weapon of choice.

This vision brought to you by the Cadbury, Nestle and Kraft corps.

An Eldritch Tale of Sweets

Somewhere over licorice bridge is a magical place
where all good children love to go to stuff their pimply face


There's sweets galore, and what's more; you never brush your teeth
There's gummy bares with jelly stares and marshmallow-paved streets


A veritable paradise! but if you eat a lot
An overdose might put you into hypoglycemic shock


And suddenly you might just wish that you had stayed in bed
When you wind up visiting the city of the dead!


It's quite a trip, I tell you, for I've been there recently
It's much better than anything that's playing on TV


The sugar eats away your brain and leaves you in a state
Your eyes collapse, your nose implodes, your teeth deteriorate


But in the end it's worth it, if only for the view
The colours are so bright after a candy bar or two!