Tales of Tour Neal Breton Meth leppard
. ey St r e t on 95 6 M 4 1 - 8 0 8 4 5 8 05 -
Welcome to Swap! issue 8! What took you so long?? One of my favorite things about doing Swap! is the fact that I always, always end up with much more than I started out with. Well, I usually end up with less sleep than I started with, but that’s not the important part. Let me explain. Each issue formulates with a sort of foggy idea of what might be included: A poem here, a funny story there, artwork from a friend, etc. Inevitably, spontaneous contributors come out of the woodwork and want to share all sorts of cool stuff. In essence, they are the ones that really shape each issue. Some contributors are flat-out strangers and some are acquaintances and fellow artists/musicians/writers I’d like to get to know better. Many are good friends, and I always appreciate it when they delve into their personal experiences or share their interests with readers. When YOU get involved with a public art experiment such as Swap!, the community is richer for it. Local banjo badass Erin Inglish jumped at the chance to share her tales of touring this issue (I also shared some stories from my own time in the ole tour van). Blogger Alex Hauschild of slocalifornia.com also lends a new voice to the zine. I love his self-deprecating humor and Gonzo journalism style. Biba Pickles’ horoscopes are back by popular demand, and I do hope she’ll continue the tradition! A big thanks to Nancy Westerfield, who constructed this month’s spooky cover. Of course, I have to give it up to the incredible downtown businesses who have supported Swap! issue after issue. THANK YOU! On another note, you may have noticed I’ve started putting out the zine every two months or so instead of one each and every month. Don’t be alarmed—Swap isn’t going anywhere. It is, however, getting bigger (and hopefully) better. This issue features the most pages to date, and I still hope to grow larger in 2013. The zine is free to the public and supported by word of mouth and local businesses. You can do your part by liking Swap! on facebook, sharing it with your friends and generally getting involved in whatever way suits you best. As always, keep the contributions coming…the weirder the better! --Hayley “Bob-omb” T. (Read online at Swapzineslo.com)
A word from this month’s cover artist, miss
Write about myself? Oh boy. I’m a life-
long local who can’t get enough “making” into her day. With an insatiable thirst for creativity and a lot more free time (thanks you, job market) I’ve relentlessly applied myself in every medium presented to me. I’ve had the privilege of working with some really talented people, and have walked away from each place in my life with a project to show for it. At the moment, I’m working with leather. What I’m doing with it, I have no fucking clue, but I’m doing something with it... And I guess that’s the important part. I’ve done costume and clothing design, business branding and product design, and spent the last year and a half apprenticing under some phenomenal tattoo artists. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned over my short existence (21 years young)... It’s not to try to impress everyone with your work, but to only
impress yourself... Because, after all, we are our own worst critics. I happen to find myself very impressive (yuck, yuck, yuck). If you find yourself lingering an extra five minutes on the facerblags (fb), check out some of my latest keeping-myself-busy projects: Dead Dollies - A plush collection I started ZG Unlimited - An accessories collection I started and may never finish.
Sometimes you do need a Weatherman to know which way the wind blows
By Jon Trumbull
all, dark, mysterious Chris Lambert is kicking some ass on his new (seventh!) release, The Weatherman. By turns foreboding and addictively melodic, Lambert’s licks quickly hooked me with “A Place to Go,” a happy punk rock tune that had me dancing mindlessly…then I listened to its suddenly spooky chorus:
A place in Norther Blue Where no one stakes their claim We’ll charge it to the dust And leave it for the rain What was up with the fictional burg of Norther Blue, and The Weatherman, which both show up in the liner notes, titles, and lyrics? Norther Blue seems to be a metaphor for life’s choices, for the struggle between ambition and stasis. And The Weatherman? He’s the hope and fear, the Devil and God, which drives some of us crazy from making those choices. OK, so Chris Lambert is not just a happy idiot. The Weatherman seethes with intensity, even in its tuneful ballads like “Changing (Move or Die),” where Chris painfully considers the pros and cons of risk versus comfort: “…Blood and ichor twisted up in vein…” Throughout this deceptively simple album, Chris alternately whips your mind and body with buoyant, exultant intros, and stops you in your tracks with ominous 3 a.m. portents. Detect a pattern? It’s not an accident. Chris admits, “There’s a lot in there about my life and the people I love, and what I worry about and believe in.” Within every irresistible track, Lambert’s ambivalence hurts so good, even as his musical power soars. I think I hear Ben Gibbard in his voice’s bittersweet lilt, and Fleet Foxes in the glorious wall-of-sound “Norther Blue Overture,” so I ask him about his influences.
“Brian Wilson and Pet Sounds never stop
driving me and my writing,” he said. It’s the reason Chris usually composes on the guitar or piano, with the melody guiding the lyrics he’s been thinking about. When Chris is ready to record, he walks a few steps to his own 24-track recording studio, Radiant Radish, right at home in Santa Maria. I guess that explains how this grinning, self-effacing guitar guy can create crescendo-filled multi-track instrumentals as his AM java kicks in. Wouldn’t it be nice. What are Chris Lambert’s ambitions? I now have a few ideas, but you’ll give a shit if you find out on your own. Start by reading the cryptic liner notes that could have been written from Paul to John forty-five years ago. Confused? Curious? Well, check out The Weatherman.
Bikers, babes & Meth Leppard! by Alex Hauschild Mister and Misses Twin and I got in the car and traveled ourselves up to Atascadero to see Meth Leppard. We all agreed we hate the grade even though we agree it’s beautiful. I suggested a giant floating dirigible could play movies on a giant screen for commuters coming down the grade, but the idea was discarded due to cost and safety. As we passed through the magical heat belt surrounding San Luis Obispo, the weather went from warm, to dry, to f***ing hot. Misses Twin was extremely excited to see Meth Leppard, but she is extremely excited to see a lot of hard-core bands. Mister Twin insisted they were not so good, that time he saw them before, and Mister Twin has excellent taste. When we pulled into the alley between a series of warehouses, I knew this wasn’t going to be any regular show. Lines of Harley-Davidson motorcycles and hot rods were stacked up outside of warehouses, and leather-clad bikers roamed around a massive barbecue. Mister Twin muttered something to me about felons, and I think he was joking, but Mister Twin ought to know. The sneaking suspicion that I was somewhere dangerous trapped my mind. I was wearing a stupid Panama straw hat, and giant wraparound glasses.
Meth Leppard commands attention at a certain motorcycle club in Atascadero. Miraculously, contributor Alex Hauschild makes it out of there with his camera (and face) in-tact.
My plain blue shirt and plaid shorts were as out of place as a dress. I started snapping pictures as the band started unloading and setting up. Right away, I was approached by members of the club. They were polite, but wanted to know who I was with. I looked at Mister and Misses Twin, who huddled over their plate of barbecue and pretended not to know me. I forgot what band I was there to see, and stammered something that started with an M, which happened to be the name of the motorcycle club, which was plastered all over the walls. The guy in the leather vest, with the bright, shocking eyes, tried not to laugh and informed me, it wasn’t polite to take pictures in someone else’s house without permission.
I stammered again, something about asking him for permission. Everyone relaxed when he said “cool,” and then one of his guys gave me the contact number to send pictures to. Chop Top Bottle Co. was there, parked under a tent, fanning themselves from the heat. Anne Hamilton and Mat Frazier told me how their recycled glassware was starting to sell well. We watched as a set of glasses escaped the table, then Mat and Anne went through a list of beer festivals they’d been invited to. We jawed a while about Do It Yourself marketing, what’s working, and what’s speculation, while the twins brought beers, mingled through the club easily as they always do,
See METH, Page 7
My Van-tastic scratch ‘n’ sniff tour diary!
A Hamm’s-fueld journey to Oregon and back with Jamie, Josh & Dr. Cain
by Hayley T.
Day 1 Episode One: The phantom hooker The newest incarnation of Red Eye Junction [Jamie “Wild Cat” Mather (standup bass), Josh Feldman (lead guitar), Dr. Reid Cain (rhythm guitar, vox) and I, Miss Hayley Rose (lady vox)] embark on out van-tastic voyage from San Luis Obispo to Oregon and back. We’ve got five shows to do in five days and a lot of miles to cover while squeezed side by side in the 2002 Ford E-150 van. Last night was our CD release (The Wolves - pick it up!) at Frog & Peach, which went pretty swell. Everyone’s excited about the trip, but also no one knows each other THAT incredibly well (with the exception of Reid and I – we know each other…uh… pretty intimately), so there’s still this unknown wild card element. You never know if someone has terrible, silent-but-deadly farts, is a huge fan of Abba (Reid is guilty of that), or worse. Of course, any semblance of civility or politeness is immediately worn down after the first several hours en route to Fresno. In the first five minutes of hitting the road, Reid announces he’s forgotten all the cash he set aside for the tour. Let’s just add that to the long list of things everyone forgot (including extra underwear)….Listening to Hank Jr.’s “All my rowdy friends have settled down” just feels right as we roll into Fresno. It’s hot, it’s sticky…and Audie’s Olympic Tavern, a place that took me a month to book, is damn 4 empty. Oh well. We shrug it
off and order our free drinks. Reid rejoices at the sight of his favorite beer, *Hamm’s. We play our set. Josh’s guitar keeps going out of tune due to the heat. There’s blue shag carpeting on the stage. It’s a huge place with maybe 12 people milling around, but the people are nice – and pretty sloshed. Everyone gets drunk the first night, except for Reid, who naps in the van while me and the boys watch Lance Canales and the Flood, the local headliner. They are bluesy and swampy and fun. It’s sad that none of their friends showed up, but I know how they feel. People have lives and families and stuff to do other than occupy barstools while their friend’s band sings their heart out. All the barflies
want to know where we’re going next, and everyone’s got an opinion. Some drunk guy tells me about the anarchist collective in Eugene that showcases the best old time music ever. Audie (owner of the bar) shows me that the girl’s bathroom is cloud-themed for a reason: The boy’s bathroom is painted to look like hell, with flames and brimstone and all that. We walk in on a guy pissing. If there is a hell, the chemically scent of urinal cakes is most definitely involved. A bar employee named Prism with a mustache that makes me consider if he’s ever tied a damsel to railroad tracks gives us advice on where NOT to stay. “Stay off the 99,” he warns. “It’s gang infested.” We settle on a $30
a night Motel 6. Reid and I take one bed, Josh takes the other and Jamie sleeps on the mattress in the back of the van. We toss and turn all night as disturbing drug and prostitution deals seem go down all around us. Through the wall, you can hear the loud, heaving sobs of a woman just downright balling. Her life is obviously destroyed. In the morning we learn that during his late-night walk around the hotel, Josh was propositioned for weed (maybe even more). It could be the dreadlocks…or it could be the fact that he is a shady motherfucker who wears sunglasses at night. “But they’re prescription!” he says again and again in his defense. Right. Amazingly, Jamie had the best sleep of his life in the van. He looks downright glowing as he devours an entire Carl’s Jr. breakfast burrito smothered in fast-food gravy in the morning. I want to see a hooker, but I never do. I make it my goal to see at least one legit hooker before we return home. Day 2 “Wait, what state are we in again?” Eight hours to Medford, Oregon. Every tour has that one long, leg – from what I am told. This must be it. The only cool thing that happens in those eight hours is our stop at Shasta Lake. It’s huge, gorgeous and really hard to get down to the water – so we find. There’s this immense dam and all these tight-lipped security personnel waving you through. Everyone tries really hard to suppress any wayward bomb jokes. We finally get down to the water and get in our swimsuits. It’s super hot and sunny, so the cool water feels amazing. I try hard not to get my hair wet, knowing that there is a greater chance of encountering a unicorn at our camp site than an outlet for my curling iron. Reid and Jamie make up an idiotic sport called “*lake logging.” Basically, they take long, flat pieces of driftwood and “surf” with them. This goes on for hours. Splinters and bro high-fives ensue. Josh is content to throw big rocks into the lake to see how big of a splash he can make. Boys! We play Johnny B’s that night in Medford. The venue used to be a big Americana venue back in the day, but it was later shut down and then moved to a new location. We’re playing that new location. And it’s god damn opening night. Now, this would normally be pretty bad ass, but Jamie and I concur that no one did any type of advertising for this event. There’s about 30 people who eventually show up, and we start later than planned. It’s mostly folks from the rockabilly scene, so there’s sort of a cold and standoffish vibe in the air, save for a few older punks who were incredibly personable. Johnny, meanwhile, is jovial as ever, slapping us on the back and telling us how glad he is to see us. He must be 80 years old, but still kicking it with the best of ‘em. He shows us his old dare-devil
motorcycle jacket he used to wear, just like he hero, Evil KeneviI. He’s even got a painting of Kenevil on velvet hanging on the wall. I admire his fighting spirit but also wonder if we’ll get our guarantee. I sip my $3 Red Bull and wonder how this night is really going to go. The crowd warms up to us as we play two sets in the sweaty, unventilated joint. Reid forgets what state we are in and says he’s glad to be “in the best state of all, California.” Oops! The walls and carpet are all grey like an office building, but the whole bar is covered in old school Americana memorabilia, which is kind of jarring. The bar looks like brand-new Chuck Taylor’s that need a little dirt, a little soul on them. We don’t have a drummer, so Johnny decides he’ll play a snare setup he’s got sitting offstage. All is fine and dandy until he decides to “play” Jamie’s super expensive bass with his drumsticks, a la Lee Rocker of the Straycats. Jamie looks horrified as gleaming pieces of wood finish start flying off. We don’t stay long after the gig. Day 3 “You could fit so much weed in there!” Josh sulks around the campsite, smoking pot and cigarettes, cursing the craigslist ad that brought him to us…After spending the night at a campsite (with working showers and outlets – hooray!) in Medford, we decide to get a real big, greasy, satisfying breakfast. Before we leave the campsite, though, I take the contents of my brush and make an orange-colored bird’s nest out of my hair, leaving it in a nearby tree. We roll into Patty’s diner and grub down on a break-
See REJ TOUR, Page 6
From pg. 5, TOUR fast burrito the size of fat baby and pancakes the size of hubcaps. Josh orders biscuits and gravy and his plate is so gigantic it makes my head spin. My omelet must be made with half a dozen eggs and a block of cheese. Damn, Oregonians know how to eat. Reid bumps the Abba as we set out for *Cottage Grove. Everyone is hoping for a better night than the last two, but no one wants to admit that the morale is down. At least we made enough money to get to the next venue. While looking at the map for rivers to swim in, Josh asks the van, “Wolf Creek or Rattlesnake Creek..which one sounds less threatening?” We hold out for another body of water. Cough drops are somehow keeping my voice alive as we roll into the Axe & Fiddle in Cottage Grove. It’s 5 hours before our show, so we have time to look around the quaint Oregon town. Unfortunately, due to the Duck’s game (college football is apparently religion here), every shop is closed. It’s literally 3 p.m. and I cannot find a cup of tea to save my life. How is this happening? Thank god the Axe & Fiddle is open and the help is nice as heck. A bartender makes me a steamy cup of tea and I dump half the contents of a jar of honey in. When we ask people why in god’s name they live in Cottage Grove, we get the same answer: “Well, there’s lots of murals and bridges.” We count every mural and bridge we see and realize yes, there are quite a lot of them concentrated here. Impressive stuff. With the town dead and nothing to do, we buy some beer and set up our campsite, located right on a gorgeous, babbling river. It’s way too cold to swim, but just right for drinking and strumming a few songs of the guitar. A fellow camper says my singing “sounded like the radio.” Ha! The Axe and Fiddle is beautiful and everything is wooden. It’s attached to a bookshop, which makes it even more rustic and romantic. The tables have little candles. The turnout isn’t very good tonight either, but there’s a few enthusiastic patrons that make it worth it. The sound guy was a top notch pro and we really groove off each other well. We sell some merch and we load out. Meth heads outside the bar comment on how much weed could fit in Jamie’s bass case. This becomes a running joke throughout the trip. “Dude, how much WEED could you fit in [insert random object here]?” Josh finds a rare, XXL cowboy hat in Cottage Grove to cover his “unsightly dreadlocks,” however, a bum with a quasi-mohawk propositions him for sex anyway, “She was scrambling at my fly like a drunken whore!” Josh says. “Write it just like that in your tour diarty!” We decide she’s a *butterbody.
Day 4: The allure of the adult arcade Another big breakfast at 1 p.m. It has been hot the whole trip until today. It is starting to feel like September in Oregon. A woman with a tiny, terrible unicorn cloud tattoo at breakfast makes Reid smile. He wanted to take a picture of it. He says he wants a tattoo as bad as that. I think he’s got plenty…Our waitress asks for our autographs, and we give it to her, which feels very surreal. She really, really wanted our autographs. We laugh at the funny personal ads in the Eugene alt-weekly and swill watery coffee, trying to stay sane. As we head out for Ashland, we are caught off-gaurd by a strange sign: “Adult shop and video arcade” next to the truck stop.y Jamie is impressed, and decides to risk his life running across the freeway onramp to go check it out. He returns disillusioned. “A little gross,” “an old lady works the counter” and “there’s sex toys I’ve never even seen before,” is all he’ll really say. A gas station attendant pumps our gas. I am amazed by this transaction. That is his job! Jamie proceeds to name every president ever, in order, by memory and it is a little frightening. Are we losing our minds? Ashland is surprisingly populated after the towns we’ve played so far. We are playing on Alex’s on the Terrace, a swanky, upstairs bar and restaurant that looks promising. We’re fed and given free drinks on the patio. Jamie plays some jazz-style bass with a pianist performing during the dinner hour. The town reminds me of SLO but with more hippies. Pure Lithia water is offered along with the regular run-of-the-mill water fountains, but I think it taste like rotten eggs. The bar is having its regular industry night, so the later it gets, the more attractive young bartenders and waitresses fill up the place. It’s hipster central. The energy is hot and there’s dancing, copious drinking and lot of enthusiasm for our music. We are on fire. Josh even plays guitar AND piano during one song, just slinging the telecaster around his back while he goes to town, then back on guitar again. A nice, skinny guy named Erick Keffler lets us stay at his house for the night. It’s a big colonial style punk house right next to the local co-op. We thank our lucky stars! Reid and I curl up in the van and Josh/ Jamie enjoy Netflix on the couches inside. Everyone is feeling pretty great. Day 5: Brokedown in Redbluff The next morning, I leave a few Swap zines on the kitchen counter and we head out to explore the cute little town of Ashland. We split up, which
See REJ TOUR, Page 13
Photo by Alex Hauschild
From pg. 3, METH and generally treated me like their favorite kid. Nearby, the Menges Twins Speed Shop, Atascadero, California was filled with young monkey wrenches and their too pretty girlfriends. I snapped a few pictures, then caught Misses Twin leaning seductively over a massive chunk of meat, asking the hard-nosed grillman if it was tri-tip. He refused to answer her, and then she refused to pose for me bent over the hood of the car next to her. That’s when the music began. Meth Leppard is impressive. Forget their whole backstory of academics playing nasty, speedy, chunked up metal. That story only makes you think they’re going to be technical and tight. The first impression I got was System of a Down, because I couldn’t stop staring at one of the guys who reminded me of that singer from System of a Down. Then
I wondered if they had NOFX as an influence, but that got obliterated by the relentlessly driving rhythm. A long time ago, there was a speed metal band in Santa Barbara named Kronix. I just kept thinking back to those guys, and how murderous their rhythm was. Like Meth Leppard, the structures of the songs, the way the pieces blast into each other, it was like Kronix, but madder. Willy Carver’s lyrics are dense, but his voice doesn’t gargle across the lead lines, it layers them, so his attacks come with cymbal crashes, and plead into the gaps between the kick drum. Max Penetration has too many frets on his guitar, or something, because he hits his leads so purely, at such speed it boggles. Carver assaulted the onlookers, waving his bear like head only slightly less than his hand, like a preacher he point at us, and somehow, instead of ironic, or dark, he preached absolution. Yeah you moron, he seemed to prove. You’re an
addict, get over it, and get your shit together. You’re still alive. Some of the songs stumble. They’re a band more comfortable at high speeds, their vocal harmonies seem like a bad idea, yet the guitar lines always bring it back. I can hear parts of The Cult, and Screaming Trees when they slow down, and that’s a very good thing. They list their influences as Demons, Pussy, and Weed, and yeah, I think we hear them on that one. We were baked in the sun so Mister and Misses Twin, and I had to pull out before the pinup show. I snapped a couple of the Bettie’s on a metallic, ruby-red chopper and tried to impress before we hauled ass for some cool air. “Oh my God, I fucking love Meth Leppard!” Sang/Shouted Misses Twin. “That was the best fucking show, ever!” Yeah Misses Twin, just like that.
On the road with SLO’s resident banjo pickin’ modern-day shaman By Erin Inglish “Hey, I’m going on tour!” Say this, and all of your friends are going to hug you, wish you well in your dreamy life of rockstardom, and secretly envy your amazing, newfangled existence. I’d like to share some insight as to what it is actually like to “go on tour.” Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing like the open road, and what a privilege it is to be free from the traditional shackles of our modern social order, but there is so much more to the story of the modern musician. One of the great intellectuals of our time, Joseph Campbell, aptly states that “shamans functioned in earlier societies as artists do now.” Shamans were highly-respected storytellers. They were spiritual leaders of their time. There were integral members of local culture. And I am going to go out on a limb to say that they did not live in poverty while the rest of their tribe thrived. Have you ever thought about the day to day life of your favorite musicians? Where they came from the day before your town, where they are sleeping that night, what it is like to be with their band mates twenty-fourseven in a tiny vehicle, what they do when they get
There was never going to be a rationally ideal situation for leaving the creature comforts of a salary, health insurance and social stability. Every day that I was not following my bliss, I felt a little bit less alive. --Erin Inglish, banjo picker sick, how much money they invested to go on tour, and how much money they have in their pocket at the end of the night? The artists and musicians of the twenty-first century may very well be the last remaining storytellers. But the almost inevitable, stark reality of poverty that accompanies being an artist so often hampers the artists’ experience of being alive – and we don’t have many options for thriving in today’s world. This past summer, I quit my nine-to-five job to join the ranks of the working musician in the lucrative folk music industry. I have a degree in mechanical engineering and was making a decent livelihood for myself, but for so many years now I have habitually invented scenarios that would gracefully allow me to leave my “responsible” career and dedicate my being to playing the banjo, singing, and songwriting.
I finally had to let go of the notion that it would ever “make sense” to make the leap. There was never going to be a rationally ideal situation for leaving the creature comforts of a salary, health insurance, and social stability. At the end of the day, every day that I was not following my bliss, I felt a little bit less alive. And this was enough to convince me to “give it all up.” I’m guessing that there are multitudes of people out there who can relate to this. Since resigning from my job, I have toured with my band mate throughout the country. We were descended upon by a herd of wild boars in a New Mexican orchard. I battled what I thought was a scorpion in a house made of straw bales. We gigged on a stage framed by vintage hats in an old barn where Pete Seger used to play (and now lives down the road from) in Connecticut. We reluctantly recorded a Christmas song in September about
Send your love! Email Erin on the road at Einglish@gmail.com.
Erin Inglish is a Central Coast native, musician and potter. Inglish & Louise – her collaboration with Colorado-based singer/songwriter Gabrielle Louise – will be playing and recording a live album at the Steynberg Gallery in San Luis Obispo on Friday, October 19th. More information at www.erininglish.com. Santa Christina (Santa Claus’s wife) and her sled dogs as a legitimate exchange for a place to stay in Manhattan. In San Francisco, when we realized our PA could not compete, we decided to go ahead and announce that so-and-so’s fries were ready. Earnestly though, in only ten weeks, I feel more alive than ever! Every morning, I wake up and start work. We play music, we write songs, and we share this with our audiences. So many times, people have walked up to use after shows and expressed deep appreciation for the experience of being at our show, of listening to our music, of hearing the stories. This is it, folks! This is the beauty of art, and this is why I am doing what I am doing. And I find comfort knowing that I am
not alone. I have faith in Campbell’s idea – that artists are a legitimate and important facet of our culture – and we will be valued and taken care of somehow, someway, someday. The reality of touring is that we are barely paying for gas with the money from the door, and we are buying food with the sales from the merchandise table. Most of us will never own homes, and if we get sick, we are at the mercy of public aid. I’d like to think that musicians are not just destined to be gypsies and vagabonds, but until our society shifts into a dimension that can celebrate the revival of the modern shaman, this social struggle will be our ironic boon. So, in the meantime, if you can afford a CD and if the music speaks to you, please do buy one.
Poor but artsy? ‘Poor But Sexy Mercantile’ is now open for business. Neal Breton talks about finidng a home at Kreuzberg, ninja worms and the joy (and pain) of slinging art supplies. I recently sat down with Neal Breton, the man behind the mysterious red pencil. Despite what you may have thought, the local artist has been anything but idle since the closing of his shop and artist’s alcove, SLO Art Supply. Over the past few months, he’s racked up quite a few accomplishments: His art has made a splash in high-end galleries (local and otherwise) and he’s been featured in and on the cover of the New Times more times than I care to count. Of course, you will remember his artwork from the cover of Swap! Zine issue #3. In October, Breton found a way to make Kreuzberg a bit sexier craftier, opening Poor But Sexy Mercantile, located upstairs at the sprawling hipster hangout. He aims to cater to his friends: Fellow art renegades, tattoo artists, taggers and disillusioned art school dropouts with a bone to pick. “It’s a boutique of sorts,” said Breton. “There’s local stuff like Genuine Stolen [T-shirts], stuff for vandals like spray paint and markers, and fine art supplies for tattoo artists, like inks and tracing paper and pencils. Basically, what I tried to do, is take the best stuff from SLO Arts Supply, and throw it into the coolest space in town.” Not a bad business concept. Sitting amidst his stomping grounds at Sally Loo’s, Breton holds up a round, vaguely chocolate-looking pastry wrapped tightly in clear, plastic wrap. “Part of my tradition is taking one of these from the day-old pile,” he says. I ask what the heck it is, but Breton doesn’t even know. He also doesn’t care. Don’t get between this guy and his free baked goods, people. Swap: So, SLO Art Supply is gone—or has been absorbed. Do you want to clarify what went down? Breton: It’s not a touchy subject. It was a business decision. I took an opportunity. My friend Isaac York had been picking my brain for some time about wanting to open his own store in Temecula, where there is a dearth of real art supplies unless you drive into San Diego. It came to a point where I had just moved into Coalition [in downtown SLO] and maybe that didn’t work as well as I thought it would. I liked the people and the location, but for what I was getting into, it was a little more than I expected. After four years, I was burnt out. I had worked almost every day. I was 10 open 7 days a week and didn’t really take off
Pictured: The great, North American Bearded Breton as found in his natural environment, The Establishment in SLO. The Art school dropout and lover of baked goods recently opened Poor But Sexy Mercantile, a new art supply shop located upstairs at Kreuzberg. CATCH NEAL’S ART SHOW running at Sally Loo’s at 1804 Osos St. in SLO through Oct 14. holidays unless they were dead. So, I was burned out and I took the opportunity to help [Isaac] open a store down there. His store is called Half Bad Gallery& Supply. Swap: So, he freed you from the prison which is having your own business? Breton: It’s a bigger cage and a longer chain to hang yourself with. You still have someone to an-
swer to: The city, the government, the IRS. You never stop having a boss, you just have these omnipotent bosses that take money from you, sometimes arbitrarily. So, I would much rather work for somebody, and I am looking forward to that. What I did after SLO Art Supply is become semi-retired. I consulted for Isaac and spent time in LA doing group shows and reconnecting with that community that was just burgeoning when I had left it. Temecula is a hole. You think it would be like Paso (with its wine region), but it’s more like a dirty toilet. It’s San Diego’s ugly ass hat. But, there’s a lot of kids there who don’t have a lot to do and they like to do art. So, the concept of having a store similar to SLO Art Supply works well for what Temecula needs.
Swap: So Isaac York is new to SLO. People will be seeing his shit around town? How did you meet? Breton: I looked as his art and saw something there. I gave him a shot during a last Friday Art Party, and I gave him an opportunity to show his work at Kreuzberg and we’ve been friends since then. My earlier work is a lot of acrylic on canvas, similar color schemes, but different subject matter. His stuff is funny and it pays tribute to artists that I like in the underground lowbrow or graffiti scene.
Swap: Do you want to name drop a few artists, or will that make you look dumb? Breton: I know my history! He looks like Ed Templeton or Barry McGee or Margret Kilgallen. Let’s hope people will google these artists. Swap: “Lowbrow” is a key word for what your style is, right? Breton: Yes, I think so, but they stopped calling it that. Now-a-days, they call it “suggestivism.” It’s the new art school word. Swap: The art world is so vast and ever-changing. Breton: There’s cliques. You have people that have
Artwork by Neal Breton
graduated with these degrees in art and they are very expensive, and those are the people you see in Juxtapose, Art Forum, Elephant, name your favorite art magazine. If you are someone who’s a dropout like me, the chances of getting into a magazine like that becomes like winning the lottery. Swap: Does that piss you off? Breton: Yeah, it does. I think there is a lot of talent that out there that isn’t getting seen because [the artist] doesn’t have the right piece of paper that says he sat through Algebra and P.E. That’s not to say all of them—some people are at the right place and the right time. In music and art, if you are in the right place at the right time, you’re the winner. Swap: It’s like being hit by a bus. A freak thing. Is comic book art a big influence on you? Breton: When I first started doing art, I was drawing my own comics. My mom has a ton of these comics I made…
See NEAL, Page 16
* Butterbody: Like a butter face, but everything is hot “but his/her body.”
* Hamm’s: “From the Land of Sky Blue Waters.” This beer is quite refreshing and kept Reid sane on the road.
* Amnesia: Bad ass little club on Valencia Street in SF with Americana/bluegrass nights every Monday.
* Lake Logging: A manly sport created by Reid and Jamie at Shasta Lake. It requires balance, cunning and a love of splintery, wooden logs.
*GO GIRL: Device a lady can pee in while on tour. More expensive than a Gatoraide bottle, but less chance of drippage.
*Cottage Grove, ORE.: The land of bridges, murals The Ducks and meth.
From pg. 6, REJ TOUR
feels good. Jamie finds a music store and I find some stuff written by my favorite zine-writer, Arron Cometbus. Reid busies himself at the local comic shop. Josh just chills back at the dude’s house. I almost buy a *GO GIRL, a device for girls who need to pee on the go. I regret not buying said GO GIRL later in the trip. Eventually, we get back on the road and head out for our last night: San Francisco. But, right around Red Bluff, spooky things start happening. First, the AC goes. Then the gas gauge and speedometers stop working. We pull over at the first auto body place we see and, of course, the van won’t start again. Mr. Gruff at the auto body place can’t see us. It’s 3:30 and we have a gig in San Francisco at 9 p.m. This is bad. Now comes the nearly TWO HOURS it took for triple A to send a tow truck out to meet us. Reid makes the gutsy decision to forgo another shop (most are closing anyways), and opts instead for the local Napa Auto Parts. He suspects it’s the alternator that needs replacing. On this gut decision, we are deposited in the parking lot of the sleepy auto parts store. It’s about 95 degrees outside, so I change into Reid’s swim trunks and a tank top, kick off my shoes and sit tight. Everyone is sweaty and agitated. While Reid works on the van, we all try not to pass out. We are cutting it REALLY close for our last show. I decide that tour is reading Cometbus on the hot pavement in a nowhere town while Reid is yelling into the hood of the van. An hour later, he closes the hood, starts the van and says to me, “You’re lucky I’m a red neck.” I’ve never been more happy about this truth than at that very moment. Back in the van and feeling victorious, we speed as fast as we can to SF, taking shifts driving and napping. I wake up
on the mattress to the familiar sounds of the city. We’re here and with only minutes to spare. We pile out of the van and rush through the side entrance of *Amnesia, which is completely packed. It’s their Monday bluegrass/ Americana night, and Toshio, the resident Japanese cowboy, is killing it on stage with his Hank Williamsesque yodels. My big sister is there ready to party and it feels so good to have made it to my birthplace. Reid’s old friend Jagger from his Oakland warehouse days has come out to support us. The band is nearly home and we have just one last show to go. This one is sure to go swell. The place is swarming as we take the stage and rip into our set. The energy is electric and the crowd is loving it. I’m loving it too. I feel accomplished and content, albeit also sweaty, tired and ready for a shower. After a knock-out night, we bid farewell to our old and newfound friends. Reid and I promptly pass out in the back of the van while Jamie and Josh drive all through the night to get home. We arrive at daybreak. “This is the latest I’ve ever stayed up,” Jamie admits as we roll into SLO. We all laugh like at the end of a cheesy sit-com. “And I still didn’t get to see a hooker!” I wail. Roll credits. This show was performed in front of a live audience! Thank you and goodnight.
Big thanks to Jamie Mather for converting us to Islam with his vast knowledge of religious history, Josh Feldman for being sensible enough to pack snacks and Reid Cain for taking the vantastic voyage into space madness with me. It was a dream come true, minus the Abba. I apologize in advance for making everyone “look bad” and for all the incorect facts and embelishments.
OPES! C S O R HO with
“I can’t tell the future, but you sure as hell don’t know that.” Aries (March 20th - April 19th): This month you’ve been getting up in people’s asses a bunch, seriously. You have some kind of OCD where shit comes out of your head and through your mouth.You have to have everything perfect sometimes because your anxiety will drive you insane. So insane that you might get into a car while talking to yourself about the difference between Macaw parrots, then drive the car through a corn field listening to freestyle jazz, ruining all hopes of that crop. You’re crazy, terrifying, and maybe people worry sometimes that you might one day drive through a children’s hospital when the corn doesn’t suffice the blood lust that has grown inside you like a tumor. Don’t let it get to that, because the minute that those tiny little wheelchairs explode on impact into your windshield, no one will think twice when your ass gets thrown in jail. Don’t get into how people are like blood filled balloons either, it won’t help your decry. Taurus (April 20th – May 20th): This month is a very secretive time for you. You have been planning on doing loads of shit without coming through. You probably think that you’re going to do all this fabulous stuff, and you’re going to get revenge on all those assholes in high school, but no. I don’t think anyone cares anymore, or remembers. Stop pushing that electro album that you made with mac book pro software with sound clips that are included, your shitty DJing at some tiny restaurant/ nightclub, your run of the mill black and white photos you took while at the beach of a sunset (why the fuck black and white for a sunset, dude?), or any angsty poems you wrote in a coffee shop about your ex, your dead dog, your parents, some guy that stared at you for too long, and all that bull shit. If you’re mad at your neighbor, just tell them “go away” instead of painting a bunch of crappy abstract shapes on a canvas that everyone hates. Gemini (May 21st – June 21st): I’m going to be totally honest with you; people think you are the most uncool person at every social event. It’s not because you aren’t fun to talk to, or a bad person. Well, maybe you’re kind of a dick sometimes, but it’s not that. It’s because your ass is clenched up so tight at every possible moment that you would not only crush diamonds up there, I’m pretty sure you are splitting atoms too. You’re skittish sometimes, on edge, and weirded out frequently. It’s like being around a feral cat when people hangout with you. You can be social, but overall 14 you just come across as someone that just did
Biba Pickles is a KCPR DJ and music director. Catch the Biba Pickles Variety Hour Saturdays on 91.3 FM from 4 to 5 p.m. She has impeccable taste. Duh.
coke when you push yourself to talk to people. No one wants to talk to someone that may or may not be a coke fiend, because those people are shit bags. What I mean is to stop being afraid like your mom is watching you do everything. Experience your life like you’re about to have anal sex. You better loosen up, or it’s going to hurt when you’re experiencing it. Cancer (June 22nd – July 22nd): You are a hermit crab, no pun intended with the crab thing. You are very solitary and you worry about worst case scenarios all the time. That’s why you insist on having the best escape plan and equipment. You worry whenever there are tests for sirens or emergency standby stuff. You think that bad things happen constantly all around you. That’s true to a certain degree, but don’t let that shelter you away from life. You’re going to die anyway. Then when that happens you might understand that protecting yourself was for nothing, and that you missed the party boat to naked-hot-peoplesville, boozetown, or cool-not-addictive-drugsington. Also, this pickiness over having the best shit is stupid and bothers everyone. I can understand you not wanting to buy a pregnancy test from the dollar store, but shit, you have to buy something cheap sometime. Learn to settle, because there will always be disappoint-
ment with life; like when you get drunk and wake up the next day in bed with a strange naked ugly person. When you learn to settle and be content with things, you find contentment in general and overall the feeling of being comfortable more. There is no perfection, and even though you will never admit that your “humble and enlightened self” is a perfectionist, you are, and that IS a bad thing. Leo (July 23rd – Aug 22nd): Today is a spastic time for you, but then again, that’s every time you have ever had since the dawn of your existence. You are a busy person with a lot of craziness inside of you. It is not uncommon for you to leave the house without knowing what you’re going to do, then coming back dragging a cabinet behind you like a kid with ADD on crack. It’s always cool to have a bunch of crazy energy, but try to prioritize. If you wake up feeling the need to paint your friend’s house like a rainbow, just refocus on painting something small in your house like a rainbow. If there’s something you have to learn, it’s that your start strong and then get tired and fall flat like a bear shot full of tranquillizers. That probably means you wouldn’t finish painting your friend’s house, so it’d be this half painted rainbow house that looks like a magical gay unicorn threw up on one side of it. Learn to be in the background, not unlike a piece of furniture. You’re addicted to attention, and maybe if you don’t stop your friends will put you on that show ‘Intervention,’ and then they’ll stick your ass into rehab until you’re not a status junkie anymore. Of course you may like it in rehab because they tend to your needs. Toughen up, child. Virgo (Aug 23rd – Sep 22nd): You are a natural born leader. Too bad that your leadership skills are centered on your inevitable world domination plan and your control freak attitude. You are a little obsessive. You are
most likely to cause scenes when you think you have something to gain. These temper tantrums start over anything, and are not unlike being around a 3 year old while you’re in Denny’s trying to enjoy your shitty, cold food. Dating you can be a full time job when it might mean you’ll cut their eyes out if they leave you. I know you try to hide that you collected your ex’s gum on your windowsill at your house to look at. That’s creepy and gross considering that you never dated, and most of the events you recall were probably completely made up. It’s time to grow up and stop thinking you’re 17. And just because your parents are ready to catch you when you fall, doesn’t mean its ok to crash your car into a farm house at 3am like your Marty McFly. You’re the type of person to brush things off because you are the misunderstood genius that has “connections in LA.” Maybe that’s true, but also maybe it isn’t, and maybe no one cares. No one cares about your beard or any other trinkets you may show off. Become humble and maybe everyone won’t secretly hate you anymore. Libra (Sep 23rd – Oct 23rd): This month is dominated by you trying to get yourself out there. You say this every month. You don’t actually do this, but you sure act like you are. Stop updating your facebook photos, or just your facebook in general. How many pictures can you take with your phone while looking in a mirror? It’s the worst fucking pose ever, and it makes everyone that does it look like a gold brickin’ asshole. No one cares how many times you saw Bassnectar, your collection of quotes from famous people (is that James Joyce quote supposed to be profound and impressive, because you’re just an asshole), and the too many pictures of kittens you upload from Instagram. Also stop promoting the hell out of your twitter, deviantART, Model Mayhem, or any other horse shit you want people to
know EVERYTHING about. It’s bull fucking shit how much you’re into naked pictures of yourself, how you take naked pictures of girls, your computer generated art, or just the random shit you say throughout the day that you have to update people on. Great, you like sour gummy worms, so does every other child. Scorpio (Oct 24th – Nov 21st): Space, the final frontier. This is also known as your brain. I’m going to take a wild guess and say you like weed…a lot. You are someone that stares out into space when you stare out into space too much. Your brain is in permanent orbit. You also probably watch The History Channel a bunch and pee your pants whenever ‘Ancient Aliens’ or those UFO shows come on TV. You should also try to make a decision and stick with it. You are possibly the most indecisive person ever. It’s probably why you have trouble finding stable ground in your life. You can’t have the space party happen for you forever. If you keep on that path you’ll be that creepy old dude that talks to people about how magical crystals are in front of Trader Joe’s. For now, you’ll have to work on not being the creepy kid talking about magic crystals in general. It weirds people out, and I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as magic crystals. Sorry to burst your bubble (No, I’m not). Sagittarius (Nov 22nd – Dec 21st): You are eccentric and prideful of it. You are the person that wants success and you go through many business endeavors to get it. You do, however, always put yourself in risky situations. You’re like a used car salesman merged with a dare devil. You have to be known and recognized, and that’s how you get your foot in the door. The main issue is that you can be viewed as a novelty or a danger. You can’t run around with mouse traps on your nipples trying to See PICKLES, pg 20
From pg. 11, NEAL
Swap: I need to know what one of these titles were! Breton: “Ninja Worms.” They were worms that were radio-active and they became ninjas. A rip-off of Teenage Mutuant Ninja Turtles. Swap: Fuck! Ha ha! Ok. Seriously, in SLO, what’s the status? What’s the pulse? I feel like I ask everyone that question, but everyone has their own perception. Breton: It was starting to gain momentum steadily, but I feel now it’s lost its momentum. Jeff Claassen’s gallery, when it was on Marsh next to Subway, that was one of the most important things to the underground scene. He was doing shows every three or four months. Everyone went to those shows. 300 people went to those shows. People stood out in the rain…go and try to find that in this town now and that just doesn’t happen. He made that happen. He’s a veteran and I have nothing but respect for that guy. Swap: Do you think someone needs step up and do another venue? Why don’t you do it? Breton: I’m working on it. To run a gallery in the town and to have that kind of work is harder to do without a big bank roll.
Swap: What’s the solution? Is there one?
Breton: I’ve glommed on to places like Heaven and Earth Gallery, but now I am not really involved with them anymore. They were a little
too nice. You have to be a bit more selective. Like at Sally Loo’s, if you are going to get a show at a coffee house you are going to be waiting a year, maybe even two years.
Swap: Wow. You think that booking gigs is hard, but that is hard! So you are saying if you scale back and limit the pool… Breton: In L.A.., when my shit sucked, I never got a show. I just didn’t cuz I was bad. I was dumb enough to try to get into this little place in Hollywood, at George’s, it’s a big thing. They had some cool low-brow art, so I showed them my stuff and they rejected me. That’s how it should work. Then I went back and assessed why I wasn’t getting in. It was because the work wasn’t good.
Swap: Do you have to accept the fact that this isn’t an “art city?” Breton: No. I won’t accept that. I think the small groups of coffee houses and some willing galleries, it is their responsibility to show better work. It is our responsibly, as artists, to make better work. We also need to reward the people busting their ass and not the people who are kind of faking it. My friends have called me a snob, but I tell them it’s my job to be elite. If that is the case, then that is my job. I want to push the best out of people. Because, in the end, there’s a lot of artists in this town and they’re really great. Check out Poor But Sexy Mercantile on facebook.
Art by Neal Breton. Photo by Steve Miller
2 4 1
Greyer than the gooses you gander And my feathers Ashley Fischer You rumple They droop, I hate Drop; When you sling Fall: Your smug rhinestone Tugged down smirk By some invisible weight Crooked as a question And you look mark So dreamy, It dazzles So contemplative With the unshakeable Like the guy who reads confidence Plath Of a well-dressed manOr who poetry really nequin speaks to, you know? At Christmas on display (and oh, believe me, I do) And I love Know you: When you tie my tongue I am your portrait, With unkempt accusations And you; And we fight You are my Like cradled cats. Dorian. Your eyes
Life of a Sim by Ben Simon
Ugly and beautiful And every deep dark part of me. Even the rain could envy Your hands Fingering my malice With lovelorn atrocities Your burn Bubbles sweet With mad complexity; Your touch Lingers. Your fingers Curl; Long like bony bootlaces that choke/me with promises of penance/and an ill-conceived mediocrity. Your words Stink; Like gentlemanly truth In hot breaths rich
With vermouth and indignation. Your voice Hovers; Lower than Mariana’s trenches French oaked and woodier Than Sinatra’s dinner table You are My city that never sleeps Glittering like late night skyscrapers Over city streets littered dirtily You tower With your tall tales And your long arms Wrapped around Your bodily False; Advertisements.
g left to be When there’s seemingly nothin done els on my shelf: I And I’ve forgotten those nov Amerika Capture the Castle and Kafka’s e Sims 2”
I turn on my PC and use “Th
There a 3-D world of diverse
Sims awaits me
racters until I I delete all of my useless cha iths Sm rial rest reach the extrater us name and he Whose patriarch has a ridiculo hates the General next door After two hours, Mr. Smith is son in college
divorced with a sCarbo has
And a drifter named Goopy Gil drowned in the family pool
for Goopy’s While the Grim Reaper arrives soul the screen freezes as a .bmp file The game is now as immobile on Microsoft Paint e become a It leaves me to wonder if I hav . Sim to technology
KCPR Fall Flood Festival THE CELebration of local bands, 91.3 KCPR fundraiser kicks off oct 19 - 21 ACROSS SLO
Friday Oct. 19th - Meklit Hadero & Quinn DeVeaux and Amber Gougis at Sanitarium Spa Bed & Breakfast 8pm $12 cover - The Booker Tease at Sweet Springs Saloon in Los Osos 9:30 pm $5 cover - Michael Musika, Bob Thayer & Joe Lewis, Sea Birds and This at Linnaea’s Cafe 7 pm pass the hat - The Chosen Few, Dope City Saints, Jon?Doe and more at Z Club 8pm $6 cover
Saturday Oct. 20th - Little Wings, Sparrows Gate, Jimm Cushing Paradox, Ghostporn, Dirt Dress, Churches, Hot Talk and Bad Bad at Sanitarium Spa Bed & Breakfast 5pm $8 cover - DJ Rob Bliss and more at Novo 10:30pm Sunday Oct. 21st - Sparrows Gate, Dead Volts, American Dirt, St. Vincent Folk, Emily Wryn, Evan Roberts, Brianna Lea Pruett, King Walrus, Warbler, Mel Russo, Redial and more at the Frog & Peach starting at noon.
More bands TBA. Check facebook for updates or email email@example.com.
EVEN MORE LOCAL
Got a local gig coming up? Spread the word. Send Swap! the details and we’ll print ‘em up free of charge. Email firstname.lastname@example.org with all the dirty details.
Oct 12 Próxima Parada, Arman Orakcilar: Kreuzberg, 8 p.m.
Local bands take over downtown! Lineup updates via Facebook. Oct 19 - 21
Oct 30 Orion Walsh w/ Musical Chairs Frog & Peach, SLO 8 p.m.
Oct 13 Mother Corn Shuckers: SLO Creek Farms 2 - 4 p.m.
Oct 25 Sparrow’s Gate, The Golden Awesome (New Zealand): The Crossroads, 1545 Carmel St. SLO
Nov. 3 Agent Orange, The Grim, Magazine Dirty, Raised by Radio: The Ranch, San Miguel
Dead Volts, Goddamn Gallows: SLO Brew
Nov. 8 American Dirt, The Mutineers, Reverend Peyton’s Big Damn Band:Whiskey Richard’s, SB
OCT 15 Drag the River: SLO Brew Oct 18 Mewlips, Pinnacle (local), Grass is Green (Boston): The Crossroads, 1545 Carmel St. SLO Oct. 19 Inglish & Louise with Kendra McKinley: 8 p.m. Steynberg Gallery $15 KCPR Fall Flood Festival:
Oct 26 Girls & Boys: Linnaea’s, SLO Oct 27 American Dirt, Dead Volts,
Michael Dean Damron, Matt Woods: SLO house show. Email email@example.com for info.
Mondays Open jam, Frog & Peach, SLO Wednesdays Open mic night, Kreuzberg, SLO
promote a new band you’re managing. That band probably doesn’t like that you get associated with their name. It’s also kind of a weird gimmick for a girl folk duo. Way too much enthusiasm on your part. Don’t brand things with your name, and don’t be the puppet master with the projects you take on. Also, you are probably the most impulsive person out of anyone you know. That can be scary when you get drunk and the night winds down at a party. You end up just screaming at people “I’ll do it, I dare you to watch me do it” like you’re in some sort of hostage situation. This usually leads to you breaking a bottle over your head or fighting a man for his pants and underwear. The death match at parties is usually the death of the party. People get scared when some kind of injury may be imminent. Tone it down, and don’t get drunk at parties anymore.
Pieces (Feb 19th – March 20th):
Biba Pickles smooches her pet bunny, Robocop.
Capricorn (Dec 22nd – Jan 19th):
Aquarius (Jan 20th – Feb 18th):
This month you are very health conscious. You probably worry constantly about getting diseases. Shingles can cause nerve damage, Mono stays dormant in your body, so does herpes, oh god the world is ending. It’s a scary thing, but there are some vaccines for that. It’s a double edged sword though, because you throw up every time you are around a needle. I think you just throw up a lot in general. What the hell is up with your orange vomit anyway? What kind of health food are you eating to prevent jaundice? You have to stop being a germaphobe, and you can’t live in a bubble, figuratively and literally. As long as you don’t do things that are ridiculously nasty, and go to the doctor when you’re supposed to, nothing too fowl should happen to you. You don’t have to do all that weird health store shit where you’re giving yourself grape seed oil enema and eating flax seeds at the same time. That sounds terrible and maybe the stress of having to do all these weird rituals will make you sick in the first place.
You are a very intense person to be around. It’s all or nothing with you. You have to either go out in a purple speedo and mosh around at a concert, or you won’t go at all. The all or nothing attitude can get really furious, so much so you may become oblivious to how disruptive you are. Taking things to a new extreme is something that’s probably way too important to you because it might put something in jeopardy and you may not even know it. You probably say YOLO a lot too. You can’t live by that your whole life, because if you really wanted to live it up and be “YOLO” then you’d ram your car through shit tons of buildings, eat people’s faces off while stealing babies and playing basketball with them, then setting fire to everything and everyone along the way. YOLO. That isn’t very acceptable though, People actually have to tell you when something is crossing the line. How the hell did you think it was a good idea in the first place? You can go around going up to people telling them you like their ass, then blowing
This month you are going through a huge change. Everyone thought they knew you, but they didn’t because you have found out you are the devil inside. You have discovered that you hate people and you’re just going to go into your backyard and build stuff until the hate that consumes you subsides. That’s cool, some of those people you hate are probably assholes, but you’re also an asshole, you shouldn’t forget that. This new stage in your life where you’re a hateful diva carpenter is kind of weird. It’s kind of like Spider-Man 3 where Peter Parker changes for the worst, but it’s not all that bad because he’s just being a bitch emo fuck. That’s kind of where you’re at. You don’t want to be Peter Parker anymore, so you’re just going to do weird stuff to push it away. This means you’re going to start taking on a persona that is not you and you know it, if you haven’t already. The whole re-inventing yourself image was created in the 80s by Madonna when she had a yeast infection while fucking a rodeo clown in her Tokyo hotel room. Now that you know that, it should make you feel bad that you’re on the same boat and an aging dirty whore. That should be a sign for you that being a poser isn’t just a middle school thing. Stop acting like something you’re not, and thinking you can do all this stupid assed shit because it’s your new persona. You can’t play pretend imaginary dress up time because you’re not a 7 year old anymore; too bad your maturity doesn’t know that.
* Ask your parents first, then cut here for an awesome Swap! mini-poster by Neal Breton. Impress your friends. Collect ‘em all!
out snot rockets and grabbing them violently, kind of weird when you don’t even know them, but that’s what we call inappropriate. For fuck sakes you have to stop being an giant aloof man baby all the time because it’s really fucking annoying when you don’t realize that people are totally fed up with your shit.
From page 15, PICKLES
Art by Neal Breton. Photo: Steve Miller
Published on Oct 16, 2012
Published on Oct 16, 2012
Radioactive worms, downright mean horoscopes, Mr. Poor but Artsy, Chris Lambert & The Weatherman, a run-in with Meth Leppard (and some biker...