Kalifornia Kooks Issue 3 by Kalifornia Kooks

KALIFORNIA KOOKS A bite of california music and youth cluture.

Issue 3

The Human Machine

Benjamin Rasmussen

kontent

Tyler spangler illustration.

Amit Shimoni ANd HIPSTORY “oui oui paris. in glory” BOBBBY VU

Danny Mullen

TYLER SPANGLER TYLER SPANGLER TYLER SPANGLER TYLER SPANGLER sour gummy candy.

TYLER SPANGLER TYLER SPANGLER TYLER SPANGLER

TYLER SPANGLER Tyler Spangler, age 30, originated from Orange, California until sophomore year of high school where he made the move to Huntington Beach. Although he began surfing at the age of 8, it was a lucky thing to be able to move to the beach where physical education class, turned into surfing. Traditionally using, “calculated spontaneity,” when Spangler finds himself stuck, he does what most boys do: he plays video games, surfs, or looks at his old work to try and produce something new from new perspective. “When I started playing video games in kindergarten. I loved Mortal Kombat and Street Fighter and wanted to draw everything I saw. I actually got in trouble because I would draw dismembered bodies and my teachers thought I had a troubled home life, which I didn't.” This, surfing, along with his love for the candies, razz matazz, chewy spree, skittlez, kazoozles, twizzler pull and peels, and the all too loved sour gummy candy, would be a contributing factor to the well known color schemes to later influence his art today. His love of these bright colors have always come from a sober place, and are expressed as interpretations of what he loves.

Now based out of

San Clemente, CA,

In the future, Spangler would

like to see his art taking him deeper into the 3D realm of art, although he is forever thankful for how far he has come thus far. As for the other contributing factors to Spanglers art? “Ozzie Wright ...Dota... George Carlin, Electric Wizard, Jodi, and Michael Scott.” Spanglers methodology for creating, even further, he feels is influenced but his majoring in psychology, allowing him to take an already existing image and to then change the meaning into the beautiful pieces we see today. Although a quiet person, Spanglers ability to enjoy what he loves through experimenting is clear in the otherwise loud production of his art.

Spangler and his wife continue to live an otherwise spontaneous and colorful life, where his wife continues to push him further in her carefree nature. What to expect from Spangler in the future? Who knows. I personally hope to see him strive further into the surf and skate community, in all aspects from advertisement to board design. I don't know about you, but i'd be more than willing to buy a ‘Tyler Spangler’ log if i could. *COUGH Rip Curl?? Vans???? Stop sleeping on this one!

All work copyright ÂŠ Tyler Spangler

Authors Note: All events depicted actually occurred. Some names/incriminating details have been changed to protect the careers, romantic relationships, and general ability of those involved to hold their heads up high.

Mullen

Location: Sacramento Age: 14 Era: High School

those things, and we were moments away from breaking down into panic.

Because so far we’d tried almost everything: backflips off the 10-foot “What if me and Kevin synchronize cement wall…a standard leap from our back flips off the wall–will you the 50-foot pine tree…the ol’ underflash us then?” I asked. water swim across the lagoon to demonstrate lung capacity (usually a It was a weak offering and I knew it. crowd favorite). Just throwing out ideas to see what stuck. 14 years old and this was our mating ritual. But it wasn’t working. “You guys have been doing backflips all day,” protested one of the As obnoxious as we were at this rower girls, bored. “We’re not going age, though, these kinds of situato show you our tits for that!” tions weren’t totally our fault. Some of the blame has to be laid on Lake Kevin Anderson–one of my best Natoma itself. friends–shot me a nervous look, which I reciprocated. We were the The place is just a thin shoot of most seasoned jumpers of our water, bordered by cliffs that stand group, with the deepest bag of about 60 feet tall on either side. The tricks. But at the present shelter they provide means no wind moment–which happened to take on the water, and no wind on the place during a sunny day in Septem- water means people of the sportsber, on the banks of Lake Natoman variety–an example being the ma–our skillset seemed painfully two rower girls who stood before inadequate. us–like to come out and try their hand at paddling boats around in 14 years old and negotiating to see circles. “Crew,” as I guess the sport tits. This was not an uncommon is technically called, is pretty much situation. the lake’s official form of recreation. But there are also kayakers, joggers, But maybe negotiating is the wrong bicyclists–the occasional rollerbladword. er–who like to put the lake area to use as well. In this particular case, we were groveling to see tits. The balance of power was about on par with a pet shop employee dangling food over a pack of ferrets in a cardboard box. We would have done anything to see

Basically, the place attracts mature, health-minded people with goals. But it also attracted us. And at 14 years old, we were exactly none of

those things.

it,” schemed the Mean One.

We just came for the cliffs. And the trees. Or whatever else was tall, sheer, and dangling close enough to the water to make jumping and surviving a realistic proposition. We didn’t really view the lake as a serene, natural setting worthy of appreciation, or the people there as…people. Everything and everybody was just a tool for our own amusement. Fair game.

I whimpered and continued my descent.

So is it really a surprise that, when these two crew girls rowed ashore to relax after a long day of practice, we didn’t leave them alone? Like pesky little spiders on a web, we felt their boats brush up against the beach, and our response–a descent from the trees–was instantaneous. By my count, the first crude suggestion for nudity came about five minutes after that. But as you know, things had yet to go our way. “If I do 50 pushups, will you show me one tit?” begged Dave, the runt of our group. For me, this was the afternoon’s creative low point, since I was skeptical that Dave was capable of putting up those kinds of numbers.

This actually proved challenging, though. While I’d logged many an hour climbing up trees, the preferred method of getting down was always a water landing from free-fall. And, as I was now finding out the hard way, the two directions of climb were not created equal. 15 feet from the ground, I was hard up for footholds. “Look at him!” again, the Mean One. “He can’t even get out of the fucking tree!” Blast “Danny, c’mon dude–you’re embarrassing yourself,” said Dave, trying to score himself some points. I glared at him, and for a moment allowed myself the thought of: you fucking worm–but the realities of my predicament were quick to return to the fore. Getting desperate, I started lowering myself onto a twig that was pretty dubious, to say the least, and which snapped under my first 20 or so pounds of body weight.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” said meaner of the two girls. “I could throw you across this lake right now. You look like you’re six.”

Fuck, I thought, pulling myself back up. Could really use a quality branch about now.

For the girls, this was probably the creative low point because it involved Dave, a 95-pound freshman, offering up feats of strength to impress them, competitive rowers.

The word stirred something in me…drew a few frames of memory out from some subconscious vault.

I can’t be too critical of Dave, though. Soon I resorted to haggling beyond my means as well–promising a backflip from the 50-foot tree limb. I’d never done it before, and I was petrified by the thought, but since the girls had shown some enthusiasm for the idea…up I went… …and down I came. With my tail between my legs, after spending fifteen minutes perched nervously on a branch. Now beginning to resent us, the girls mocked me the whole climb down. “You little pussy!” said the larger breasted of the two (our target). “We have to row back soon, and you’re just going to waste our time and not do the flip?” “I outta kick his ass until he get’s up there and does

Branch? Branch…

I turned them over in my head. Then, maybe on a whim, wrapped my nose around the tree to look at the girls, and Kevin. These moments of inspiration are hard to understand. Maybe the universe saw how much effort I was putting into the matter of de-clothing the rower girls, approved, and decided to blow a little inspiration my way…That seems feasible. The climb down provided the key memory…but that lecherous old Universe, wanting to see some nip–maybe He showed me how to put it to use. Because in an instant, a connection was made. I had it. I knew how we could see those fucking tits.

Now, enlightened and all, climbing down seemed silly. The jump flattened me, but my body just accordioned up out of the dirt and bounded over to Kevin–too excited to be slowed by or even feel the pain. I’d been given a divine plan, after all. Nothing was going to stop me from putting it into effect…

this revelation that is at the true heart of booze worship… And once–after maybe a year or so of watching helplessly from the sidelines–you develop the cunning and courage necessary to slip a finger up some girl’s honey pot at one of these parties… well, you’ve done it now, my friend…there’s no going back to the life you used to lead… Here it is at last: Full-Blown Booze Aided Quests for Puss.

Let’s maybe digress for a moment. For a middle or upper-middle class kid from the suburbs, the age of 14 or 15 generally marks the end of Innocence.

Constant partying. Throughout the tail end of H.S. and on into college. Then, when age or bogus identification allows: bars, nightclubs, triannual trips to Vegas. All in the name of getting ass.

I’ll even be more specific: once somebody in the crew gets their driver’s license, that’s it–Innocence is fucking over. Instead of sneaking into movies or splashing around in the lake, a good time now becomes trashcan bowling, egging pedestrians…pulling open a house’s circuit breaker and flipping the switches…blowing up mailboxes with modified fireworks and PVC pipe…

This era’s a little more enduring. I can’t tell you when it goes away, or fades into something else, because at this point, 24, I see nothing more appealing on the horizon. And yes–that means anybody looking get a firm understanding of my life thus far need look no further than this little chronology:

And it isn’t long after this that the next era arrives: Early Drinking Infatuation.

Destruction: 2004-2005

You know. Your initial dabblings into the world of parties. And I don’t even think it’s the effects of the alcohol on you that kicks this Infatuation off: it’s not the tingle of your first buzz…it’s certainly not the taste… It’s wandering into somebody’s kitchen one Saturday night and, wide-eyed, seeing this: –Girls splayed across counter tops, letting people lap vodka up off their stomachs –Making out with each other after only a minute or so of prodding from the gathered crowd –Distributing hugs w/ extra chest-thrust to almost every male in the immediate vicinity Yes. Girls from your high school, who under normal circumstance would be reluctant to even tell you what time it is, are now, as if by some magic, Acting Slutty. It is

Innocence: 1989-2004

Early Drinking Infatuation: 2005-2006 Full Blown Booze Aided Quests for Puss: 2006-??? But no–back at the time of this story, we were still in the Innocence era. Though, as our desperate attempt to see tits would indicate, we were on the fringe, and soon to be on our way out. We weren’t little property-destroying monsters just yet, but even here, at 14, we did do our fair share of making the world a lesser place. Example: staging our own suicides. During a typical lake outing, once we’d gone through the motions of jumping and doing flips off things, we’d soon bore and start looking for more extreme ways to pass the day. I don’t know who first advanced the idea of shaking up rowers and joggers by making them think we were killing ourselves, but Kevin, a real pioneer, was the first to actually do it. Atop Lake

Natoma’s highest, most famous cliff, China Wall, the four or five of us who were there that day took our positions. The show began the moment a middle-aged jogger and his wife rounded the bike trail into view. Concerned Friend #1: “Kevin! You need to fucking settle down–we can work this out!” Concerned Friend #2: “Seriously–listen to him, man. Jumping off a cliff over this is insane!” (I believe this line was mine; delivered quite believably, I might add.) Semi-Concerned Friend/The Villain: “Dude–I didn’t even know you and her were together at the time!” By this point, the jogger couple was at full attention. And Kevin, playing the part to perfection, was staggering around with his hands over his ears, sobbing and mumbling incoherently. But just as the husband jogger decided to trot over and see what was the matter, Kevin exploded towards the ledge and threw himself over the cliff. “I’LL SEE YOU ALL IN HELL!” Those airborne words were, as far as our scene was concerned, his last. Of course, we’d all jumped the cliff dozens of times and knew how to take the 60-foot drop safely. But that’s a deadly looking fall to most people. And Kevin helped the illusion along by, after impact, holding his breath and swimming up under a clump of bushes along the water’s edge–totally concealing himself.

But the rowers were tough to fool. Never mind that I was 13 here–too young to be gainfully employed at even like a Burger King, much less the soul crushing white collar gig my outfit and actions seemed to imply. The physical act of faux suicide was flawed in itself. Rowers, unlike joggers, are at water level, which makes the trusty hide-under-the-shrubbery trick near impossible to pull off. So I popped up and conceded the failure of the jump: cursing my god, shaking my first at the sky. And I almost left it at that. But while climbing ashore, I realized my audience had gotten off far too easily…Last minute flare was needed. Instantly, I dropped to my knees and started screaming about a broken arm. Then I turned on the rowers, and in a rage suggested that this was all somehow their fault. The four or five guys just bobbed silently in their boat, watching me. I glared back, annoyed. The stare down continued until I unveiled this theatrical gem: pointing a shaky finger, I warned of many, many more attempts at my own life in the near future, spat on the ground, and then finally about-faced and stormed off into the woods. Maybe not a perfect performance, but I figured the end bit would at least give the jocks something to think about.

Soon, however, our desire for bigger and better suicide illusions began to exceed the limits of the human body. That 40-foot swan dive in the busiResult: as the non-suicidal actors fled the scene, the runner couple went insane–spending a healthy chunk of ness suit might actually have been the breaking point. afternoon scanning and searching for a body that appeared to have sunk straight to the bottom of the It fucked me up. lake. This was an influential performance in our world of Natoma mischief.

In the name of authenticity, I’d landed on my neck and back, both of which were sore for most of next month. No more of those–at least not for me.

Maybe a month later, I found myself wearing a suit and tie, sitting in the top of a pine tree, and holding a bottle Of course, we could keep tossing ourselves off of Wild Turkey bourbon (101 proof) that we’d found in China Wall until the Second Coming of Christ, but the feet-first imperative there was beginning to turn some bushes in the previous week. us off. A crazed man bent on destroying himself doesn’t get a nice running start and then jump Then, when a crew boat passed too close to shore, pencil style into deep, blue waters–he flings himKevin and I sparked up a full-volume dialogue about self into the air, hoping a cross wind will plant him the merits of killing myself or not killing myself over on his stomach, his back, his face. my job: the climax of which came when I took a last swig of Turkey, swore loudly, and swan dived for the None of this was possible on China Wall, since water some 40-feet below.

none of us were actually willing to die.

It was time, we all agreed, to employ an artificial body. Enter Passionate Pat–a dummy Kevin and I had made in the weeks before. Pat was decent: snow overalls and a jacket stuffed with newspaper. Shoes, gloves, and a hat stapled on to suggest human appendages. He looked real enough to terrify the neighbors, at least. We’d crawl up into a tree in front of my parents’ house and toss him in front of speeding cars, eliciting locked brakes and screeching tires. But the tree we chose–actually growing out of my parents' front lawn–made for a short list of suspects, and soon the neighborhood was mobilized against me. Seeking resolution, my dad took me door-to-door to apologize, then made me promise to retire the dummy, for good. Kevin and I decided on a watery grave. The next day, Passionate Pat was strapped to a Mongoose BMX bike, wearing an American flag helmet, a cape, and facing the ledge of China Wall. Better yet: near the middle of the lake, an older woman in a kayak and sun hat was paddling about happily–humming to herself, smiling. We began salivating, squealing, praying she came closer. She did. A flock of quacking ducks at the base of the Wall caught her interest. Now in hot pursuit of the animals, her humming rose in both tempo and pitch. While I’ll never really know this woman’s train of thought–wanting ducks, getting what appeared to be Evel Knievel: flying, tumbling over a cliff…connecting equal parts tire and face to some 60-feet of near-vertical dirt and rock, landing just a stone’s throw away from the kayak (and promptly sinking), three youths cheering the whole thing on–it’s fun to speculate. Confusion? Horror? A dark enough experience to ruin her joy in kayaking forever? So we hoped. But times were changing at the lake. Our tastes were maturing, and a hunt for fresh ways of getting kicks

brought on a kind of mini-era, you could say: one that took us again closer to the end of Innocence. Basically, the lake crew wanted to get back to its roots. We were like early punk rockers: tired of the musical excess dominating the scene and wanting to create something rawer. But instead of hating on, like, Hendrix’s solos for instance, or Zepplin’s riffs and time signatures, we turned against our own meticulously rehearsed suicides–the dummies, the memorized lines and stage directions, the costumes that helped along the way. We needed to strip things down…needed to find a direction that would have an even greater emotional impact on our audience. It wasn’t easy. This was a time of heavy introspection for our crew. Conflict, doubt, and chemical dependence all reared their ugly heads before the next creative barrier was finally shattered… The first lucky people to catch a glimpse of our new, minimalist art were, of course, a party of rowers. And this one was the real deal. Eight dudes paddling frantically. A midget coxswain squeaking orders through a megaphone. A motor-equipped platform boat buzzing along behind to keep tabs on things… And we got everybody. I don’t know who the first poor soul to see us was, the first sweaty guy in a headband to take a gander off the port side and…no…is this a symptom of heat exhaustion? An apparition? I can’t really be seeing… Four kids completely naked in a cove. Their faces streaked with mud, and all of them dancing around and screeching. Beating sticks against trees, fists against chests, feet against dirt. A hellish, R-rated reimagining of Disneyland’s Jungle Cruise. And things only got uglier once we had their undivided attention. We rushed to water’s edge and started stretching out our penises, rolling our eyes. The procession of boats drifted on, but it was a shell of its former self. Eight pairs of jaws–all in a row–hung limp; the small party on the platform boat, previously pacing around chatting, no longer moved or spoke; the once tyrannical coxswain’s orders had become hesitant–mere suggestions punctuated with question marks.

And we ran with this nudity theme for a while, yes. Who can forget the time Kevin wadded onto a public beach, removed his trunks, and scrubbed himself down with a rock? Or, or when we first experimented with jumping out of trees naked? But soon even all this began to tire. Truth was, after the first China Wall scene, the suit and tie bit, the Passionate Pat stunt, we’d shocked the lake-going public about as much as it was capable of being shocked. Petty nudity, we should have known, was doomed from the start. For fuck's sake–we’d made people think we’d killed ourselves. How do you really top that? Tar and feather somebody? Erect gallows and stage a public execution? No matter how creative–or uncreative–we got, we’d hit a point of diminishing returns; more and more of what followed began to fall in the realm of anti-climax. I considered this dilemma one day while sitting in the tree that we liked to call Frontier.

God might keep on me. I’ll admit that.) Still in a sitting position, with Nick some ten feet below, I began inching across the branch–on the sly, and very carefully…trying to situate myself directly above him… “Danny, what do you think about this kayak rounding the cove over there?” “Yeah yeah–we’ll get ‘em for sure,” I said, biting my tongue, closing one eye to measure my alignment. “Cool. Let’s get into position a-and plan the attack.” A deep exhale. Well, here goes nothing. Sitting on that tree branch high above Lake Natoma and Nick–the latter snickering to himself about a prank that would never take place–I committed the ultimate act of betrayal: I began pissing myself. “What the…Hey….OH FUCK!” said Nick.

I don’t really recall my exact plan–maybe to pull out my dick, shriek like a girl, then jump as close to an approaching boat as possible, or something equally uninspiring–but I remember for the first time feeling that the whole charade was pointless. I knew how this person was going to react, if they reacted at all, because I’d seen it happen so many goddamn times.

But being halfway up the tree, he had nowhere to run–too low to make the water, and too high to bail out for the ground…not enough 2x4 rungs to circle away, either.

The rower/kayaker demographic, I realized, was exhausted.

“DANNY! I FUCKING HATE YOU! ARGGGH!”

…but the friend demographic wasn’t What? Where did this thought come from? I looked down at my buddy Nick, who was presently making his own ascent into the tree. Whoa–he did seem pretty vulnerable down there. Just shimmy’n his way up the branches and 2x4’s: teeth clenched, grunting a little a bit. Plus, the bull’s eye had been on the boats for so long that an act of friendly fire might cause quite a stir…just the kind of rush I was looking for… (Just as a quick FYI: I like to think I’m a pretty good friend, and that I was back then too. I don’t normally get a charge out of upsetting my buddies or letting them down, and, most importantly, within the confines of the law, I always do everything in my power to get them laid. Looking back, though, this was a real cigarette burn on any permanent record of friendship that

He had to absorb the full, undiluted contents of my bladder.

A neat cinematography trick here would be to do a series of withdrawing still frames. First, one from couple hundred yards out, then one from like a mile or two down the lake…next, an aerial shot from 30,000 feet, and, finally, a portrait of Earth from outer space–Nick’s screams being audible in each.

Grabbing Kevin by the shoulder: “Hey, I think I know how we can get her to flash us.” This was where we left off, no? Now armed with that precious memory just described: delivered by serendipity, infused with meaning by the cosmos. “Really?” said Kevin. “How?” While walking him out of earshot from the girls, I recounted the main plot points (Nick, me above Nick, urine).

“Wait,” he said, suspicious. “So you want to piss on these girls? How’s that going to help?” “No no no,” I said. “I want to…” Fuck. This was going to be a tough sell.

would that be?” Dave was now back in the mix too–watching me curiously.

“You want to what?” asked Kevin. “What the fuck are you talking about dude?”

“Will you flash us if I piss all over…”–some dramatic display work with my hand here–“my dear friend Kevin Anderson.”

I sighed, looked over at the girls again.

That did it: big silence.

Both were scowling at Dave, who in the place of real game was pretending to be interested in their canoes.

Kevin had his head down–ashamed but committed.

“I want to…see if they’ll flash us if I pissonyou…” unable to stop myself from mumbling. “What?” Oh Christ… “I want to ask them if they’ll show us their tits in exchange for me pissing on you.” My eyes were fixed to the ground the whole time–how else can you deliver a line like that? “Dude…” “C’mon man–it won’t be so bad.”

Dave was wide-eyed, but holding his tongue for the moment. Both Big Tits and Mean One were tough to read. Then, finally, Big Tits: “Uh, that’s fucking gross.” “Yeah, seriously Danny, what the fuck is wrong with you, dude?”

ly 100% venom.

Oh, now Dave has an opinion. Unable to stop myself, I shot him look that was basical-

“Why the fuck do I have to be the one getting pissed on?”

“Wait,” said the Mean One, cracking her first smile of the afternoon. “I actually kind of want to see that–a lot.”

“You, me–what difference does it really make?” Danny the philosopher.

“You want to see two little boys pissing on each other??” said Big Tits, surprised, confused.

“Can we piss on Dave at least?”

Mean One: “Well it depends–like, are you just going to spray his feet or something?”

“You know he won’t be down for that,” I said. “Look at him–the guy has no spine.” As if on cue, Dave was now being shooed away from the watercraft. “True...” “I’m going for it man–at this point, we have to at least try.” The girls were rummaging through their boats while I made my nervous approach. “Ladies,” I gulped. “We have one last offer.” Big Tits stopped what she was doing and stood up straight. “Yeah?” she almost laughed. “And what

“What?! Oh fuck no!” I said, maybe a little too quickly. “I mean, if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right–shit, I’ll hose him down.” Kevin shook his head, started pacing around in agitated circles. The Maybe Not So Mean One considered this for a moment. Then: “Lexi, will you let the twins out if this kid gets peed on?” “Wow,” said Tits, “So I have to flash them now?” “Don’t you think this will be entertaining?”

“Uh, I don’t know…maybe, I guess.”

hand for good measure.

“Well, you are the one with something to show,” reasoned Nice One, pointing at Big Tits’ tits. “Just do it Lex–it’ll be funny for us and you’ll make these kids’ year.”

Throwing 14-year-old Danny a taste of the limelight? Dangerous move.

Kevin, Dave, and I were ferrets again. Bulging eyes, standing at full attention. Tits: “If I do, can we can leave right after?” The ferrets all nodded in unison. “Yeah,” said The Most Benevolent Woman On Earth. “I’m ready to go.” Then she turned to me. “Alright kid–it’s your lucky day. This better be good.” Cut to a big rock on the beach. I stood atop it, turning away from the spectators–like, way away–as I worked down the front of my trunks. Why? Well, my package, afflicted by the Cold Water Shrinks and still on the cusp of puberty, was, predictably, miniscule. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. And Kevin…well, Kevin was down on hands and knees below me in the dirt. “Danny, please, whatever you do, man, just don’t piss on my head.” “Dude, this is going to be so priceless,” Dave had the nerve to say from the sidelines. I shook my head, mumbled “Dave…you son of a bitch…” “Wait–hold on for just a second,” said the Reformed Mean Girl, producing a camera phone from her canoe. This prompted me to turn another 10-degrees, in the name of Kock Koncealment. “OK,” she said. “I’m recording.” All this pressure made the first burst difficult to get out, but once it came, the ensuing stream was majestic: thick, heavy, and banana peel yellow with dehydration. A classic, All-American piss to be sure, hitting Kevin right at mid-back. The girls laughed and cheered loudly. Dave took a sidelong glance at them before deciding to do the same. And poor Kevin shook violently. The sounds he was making were, for the most part, incomprehensible.

Now feeling obligated to put on a show, I began marching my stream up Kevin’s back. “Danny! What…NO!” Too late. A final yank of my hips doused his neck and skull. And that about did it, ladies and gentleman. Next thing I knew, Kevin was in full sprint for the lake, howling and flailing as he went. A contrail of urine followed, flowing artfully from his hair…

“Alright–I think seeing some tits is definitely in order now” said Kevin, good as new after spending five minutes flopping around in the water. “You know, that was really funny and all,” began Tits. …wait a second “but I kind of changed my mind about the whole flashing thing.” Oh boy. The take away…the sense of loss inflicted on my young mind. Devastating. About on par with the time my family dog died in traffic one Thanksgiving in the mountains. And that was just me, aka the guy who hadn’t endured the Golden Shower of another man. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” whispered Kevin, his upper lip starting to twitch. “Ha nope,” said Tits. “Sorry kiddo, maybe some other time.” “Oh. No,” said Kevin, sounding homicidal. “No–you’re very much mistaken. See, you’re going to flash us, because you won’t be leaving this beach till you do.” He then advanced on the boats, presumably with sabotage or hijack in mind.

“Piss kid!” said Tits. “Pose for the camera!”

“Kevin, quit being such a bitch,” chimed our hero Dave. “Lexi, if you don’t want to flash us, I totally understand.”

I hesitated for a second, then flashed a toothy grin…added in a little thumbs up action with my free

“Dave, I will personally drown you in this lake if you say another word. Do you ‘totally understand’

that too?” my patience with him kind of dwindling, you could say. “Guy, I’m joking!” said Tits, rushing over to restrain Kevin. Both girls then cackled with delight at the revelation. Ah. I see. Quite the pranksters. “Oh thank God,” Kevin almost sobbed.

For More Great Stuff, and his first book FREE visit his page, and follow his twitter for always entertaining accounts of his life. @ DANNYMULLEN

“But seriously,” this is Tits again. “You”–she pointed a finger at Dave–“really do look like you’re six. You have to go stand over there.” Her hand indicated some bushes by the water. “W-what?” Dave in disbelief. “Yep. If you watch I’ll feel like I’m flashing a kindergartener.” “Ha!” I said. “You hear that, Dave?! Time to take a walk, buddy.” “Not that you weren’t, like, super invaluable to the process,” Kevin added darkly. “No–fuck this!” said Dave. “I’m staying right here–you can all fuck off!” “Woah woah–wait a second…” I purred. “Don’t be such a bitch, dude. If the lady doesn’t want to flash you–well, you should understand.” Dave gritted his teeth, looked back and forth from me to the rowers. “Fuck you, Danny,” he finally managed. Then, pointing at Big Tits of all people: “And fuck you too.” With that, he turned to make his solitary walk down the beach, our taunts and laughter molesting him as he went. And then things were as they should have been. With Dave pouting in some bushes, with Kevin and I shoulder-to-shoulder, rubbing our hands together greedily, and, of course, with a busty rower girl presently lifting up her sports bra… Ahhhh–justice had found its way to Lake Natoma. The Dirtbag God in the Sky was raising his scepter to us–saluting our victory in this adolescent battle for tits…marking us as worthy soldiers for the never-ending war that was soon to come…

TheMullenMode.com

Amit Shimoni -

-Young israeli illustrator from Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem. Visual Communicator based out of Jaffa.

“I think anything can be turned into an illustration, seriously anything, whether it is scenery or a feeling, I believe an illustration has a place anywhere, seriously anywhere, whether it is in the Louvre, or on coasters, if it is illustrated I love it.” Shimoni, the young designer, explaining illustrating as his love. He goes on to compare his process of creating works to a game of Ping Pong, capturing the random thoughts and feelings brought on by everything and anything around him, only to filter them through his own perception, and turning it into a tangible concept. He strives to make you think, but equally hopes that you find beauty. Shimoni began with depicting and illustrating the israeli generation of founding fathers. The response? A wild fire. It was something that had become relatable to people young and old. “As i do affordable art, i exhibit mostly in small galleries and pubs, and i sell copies of the illustrations online. I see no shame in doing art that is sold by relatively cheap prices, but really can be seen at everyone houses…” Target groups for Shimoni fall into the categories of the ‘hippy student, and the mid age novo-rich.’ After the success of the israeli series, there was a sudden idea to carry on in this special niche of creation. Shimoni tells of how Lincoln, being his first, is really his favourite, and since the oldest- is the most detached from the hipster like scene he portrays. In

opinion, Shmoni finds this even relatable in today's youth: “[To] tell you the truth, i think even some of the hipsters [now] are detached from their identity, yet they keep it anyway.” “ 1)HIPSTORY wishes to re-imagine the great leaders of modern history and to place them in a different time and culture - ours. In our time and culture, the ‘big’ ideologies are lost - we have grown tired, or perhaps too smart, to follow big systems of absolute ideas and beliefs. But have we lost something in this process? With nothing to hold onto, we are becoming global beings - focused more on our individual selves and less on society and ideology. HIPSTORY wishes not to criticize, but to shed new light on the way we think of ourselves and the figures who inspire us. “

As for the question, ‘Am i Hipster?’ and more importantly, ‘Does any hipster admit himself to be a hipster?’ : “The truth is that, whether i want it or not, i am a part of a generation, that concerns more about being unique and creative than about other ideologies those great leaders were concerned about. I, [although no better than anyone], don't think that being hipster is negative, [but that is something that i] will let my audience reflect on and decide.” History, in the last century, was, and continues to be heavily defined by its prominent figures and leaders who shape the course of our future. Shimoni finding himself imagining a world where some of these leaders are less interested in influencing lives, and more focused on their own persona produces images such as Gandhi, obsessing about his

looks, and not about releasing India from the British rule. Abraham Lincoln searching for a hip bar, instead of abolishing slavery. Although leaders of this stature all carry a great grand narrative together, shimoni brings to light the individual personalities they take on through his filters. HIPSTORY recreates these iconic figures, and places them in different times and cultures. In today's moment, “collective identity is less binding and anyone can reinvent themselves”, Shimoni states. In comparison, conduct a search for an 18 year old. Multitudes of different pictures in different outfits can be easily found, but do the same for a political figure such as “Mao Zedong”, and, little to none. “ HIPSTORY’s intention are not in choosing the better generation but rather in highlighting the differences, by changing the point of view and introducing a new perspective. It is my hope that this series will encourage us to reflect: upon our leaders, our society, and ourselves. And [if failing in that], HIPSTORY will at least make us smile.” As for future projects, he reports only a few. One being a series of posters and designs for HERCULES, an organization that promotes Animal Rights: “I have a dog myself, and if my art can contribute to animals, I would definitely use it for this purpose.” And as for future HIPSTORIES: “I am now working on a French series, and will be touring Europe with my work in

summer. I was also thinking of a Ukraine figure, but am having trouble [in deciding who it will be].” But in this case, he might just allow the audience to make that decision. Shimoni, as well as heavily believing in art as something affordable to anyone, believes that as long as art is respected, can make you think, and is appreciated and loved, that that's all that can really be asked of. The popularity of the series, as well as the educational opportunities that help connect the youth to history drives Shimoni to continue in making this series. It's reported that some schools in israel have already integrated the HIPSTORY collection into their history and civil classes. “ What can I say, a dream came true and my work became really popular

(remember that I was totally unknown outside my school, friends and family)..” Although some people took Shimoni’s art the wrong way he encourages people to give different interpretations to his art and kindly, “accepts all reactions.” As for the leaders' reactions: “I know some of them liked it a lot, for instance Hillary even received a special copy, and Angela took it good humor. [Although,] most of the leaders I draw have already passed away. I can only guess that some would have liked it: Kennedy and Mandela; and some would dismiss it: Che.. (was probably pretty mad to see a symbol of a commercial capitalist country on his hat (Adidas)

Shimoni also included an exclusive look for his already released Bowie tribute print. Thank you for your time Mr. Shimoni !

shimoni-illustration.com

instagram.com/amitshimoni

facebook.com/AmitShimoniIllustration

Patterns The Human Machine

*Artwork by Posterphilia *This is a TriRilla Recordings Release

“Patterns” Album Review by Dylan K. Allard of Crush & Valley Girls

I’ve made a lot of music and spent a lot of time with the members of this band, so I can say with authority: this is a band of impeccable taste. I’ve known ‘em since right around their first release, Contrashiva. My friend Ciaran told me about this guy in his dorm with great taste in music; we bonded over Piglet and Maserati (Lava Land and The Language of Cities); Patrick (guitar) and Jake (bass) both lived in the bay while Jon (drums) stayed south. I always enjoyed THM’s earlier work because it sort of slid around The Generic Mathy Thing–fast! crazy! seven! wild! thirteen!– and attacked math rock with a pop twist: songwriting first, time signatures second, a little funky, mostly pretty. that probably culminated in their excellent self-titled album, released (I believe) right when they finally reunited after college. It was a little darker, a little more brooding than some of their earlier stuff. Then, they started playing together again, which gets a marked departure: Palimpest. Four songs in forty minutes (their latest, Patterns, is four songs in sixty) it amped the brood factor way way up, suddenly songs were ten minutes long, singing about “you’re eating me alive!” and “I’m seeding red, my violent temper has caught me again”. Things are the same: music first, always about the groove . but things have also changed. I think Patterns represents the human machine really coming into their own, a band maturing and finding its sound. More on this later. it’s not really psychedelic rock, not in sense of the grateful dead nor tame impala. It’s definitely not stoner rock or metal. but there’s something indebted to that music’s appreciation of guitars as textural elements, and the way that things can unfold and simply be for a while. Hearing “Walking Upright” on the record, I go back to lying on a couch listening to them rehearse for a show, playing their new stuff, hearing that song for the first time, sounding like the ocean. That feeling translates through recording. it’s not really ‘alternative rock’. it’s not Nirvana. there is no quietLOUDquietLOUD jumpstart pogo-up-and-down dynamics… but it is extremely dynamic in a cinematic way. Tension is very tense, release is very relaxed. No 5 minute guitar pop tunes coming your

Jake Ingalls Patrick Whitehill

Jonathan Modell

way, but there are definite In Rainbows vibes: carefully constructed and repetitive drums, the guitar ambience (delays on delays on delays, minimal guitar playing), the vocal delivery–and of course they are completely independent, self-released, and currently a sterling alternative to the rock norm in southern California, and they are definitely also sort of a rock band (in the sense of being a guitar/bass/drums trio). it isn’t really minimalist, but it is really economical. I’ve been in power trios, I understand the desire to let everyone

take up as much space as possible, and I’m sure THM has been through that phase, learned what they could from it, and moved on. Jake’s pedalboard is giant but carefully deployed–a loop constructed live here, a ring mod there, a reverb swell over there. The economy of their playing is equally rooted in minimalism and jazz–Davis’ famous saying “it’s what you don’t play” comes to mind with the truly excellent guitar solo in “Seatbelt”: one note, right at the 7-minute mark: a single “pling”, sent out into a wash of stereo delays and back, another single “pling” and the cycle starts again. Repetition is its own form of change; as the listener subconsciously filters out the repeating bits, the tiny nuances become increasingly apparent. Suddenly, one change by one instrument becomes a huge tonal shift. but it’s not really krautrock: it’s driving, but there’s a certain gliding push-pull in “Seatbelt”, things speeding up and slowing down in waves with the chords–and unlike Can or Neu, guitars turn into synth pads and resolve into cellos, building in the background forever. There’s something darker in there: “Glacial Pace” begins with demented Eno and ends up at Earth. it isn’t snarky or sly or sarcastic, yet it is self-aware and very clever. These songs are long, yet even the shortest uses all of its time wisely. Seatbelt is twelve minutes long and basically one chord. Spacemen 3 would be proud, but it’s all buildup to a some huge ending, every minute or so hinting at what that ending might be, and then it’s flowing and going and you’re past a noise freakout rushing and, suddenly, finally, there’s a big beautiful chord progression thing and all that spacemen 3 stuff is out the window and that’s sick. and despite the influence of Miles, it isn’t jazz, neither ideologically nor harmonically (no solo, lines, licks, riffs, forms, heads), but there are things in there: the way they swell to fill a room, huge dynamics to the transcendence of Coltrane and the collage of In A Silent Way. Another collage that comes to mind is Blue Nude II. I’m not really synaesthetic but if I had to guess, Patterns is smooth and rich, yellows and blues, flashes of green and orange. okay, now back to the band maturing: of course it’s maturing, duh, that’s what things do when time passes. Duh it’s a band maturing. It’s how things mature. it’s about finding your sound. which depends entirely on a band’s taste. I think the human machine, as they played more, realized that they loved making that kind of music together, that creates a particular kind of live energy. I have always felt that a truly great live show happens to you. its not about leaving talking about How Cool That Band Was, a really really amazing show is about leaving not talking at all, just trying to process what the fuck just happened. Good shows tap into something primal there, some real shit, when the room and the audience and the band and the music is right, and everyone feels good at the same time together. I found out later, well after listening, that a lot of the decisions made on this album were improvised, in the moment. During the recording of “Walking Upright” (they recorded the whole album, mostly live, by themselves in their practice space) a worker came in and started painting their door. That’s why, at the end, Jake mentions doing it again and they all laugh. anyways yeah good dudes backed hard as THM gets older it sounds like the ocean more

Dylan K. Allard of Crush/ Valley Girls/ Seabringer

“Patterns” Album Review by M.Arzu of CreatriixxHouseArt In the compilation of sounds recently produced by The Human Machine, you’ll find yourself listening in to something coming from a familiar place, yet endlessly evolving. It can be compared to the small moments, and if not dreamy track that is everyday life . Eerie, clean, and easy on the ears. Relatedly, it can also take you on a journey. Roadtrip approved-its good by default. Evolving again: ambient, sexy, and dark. Keep digging, and Rock on.

- M.Arzu of CreatriixxHouseArt

“Patterns” Album Review by Omar Akrouche of Transporting Planets & Humble Hobo Records “for the first time in my life I feel alive” On their new record, “Patterns”, The Human Machine strip things down enough to allow for a near total dissolution of form in their songs. The album, an hour long, is comprised of only four songs, in a format very reminiscent of experimental jazz like compositions of the late Miles Davis. The unpredictability of the music, the long stretches of space and exploration within songs are not earthly-bound and overtime, it becomes very easy to see how The Human Machine draws a major influence from free jazz. However, in conjunction with other sources of influence like drone, shoegaze, krautrock, and slowcore, this free jazz/modal-esque tone is very well assimilated into their own style. However, the strong humanistic tone that the “Patterns” conveys tells me that the band relies on other influences, perhaps not merely musical, but inspiration drawn from the world around them and the feelings they have all experienced before. The band builds songs from the ground up. Songs build with guitar drones, near-endless trails of glowy analog delay pedals, cello breathing down your neck, motors whirring in your brain until some sort of groove integrates itself, sometimes taking up to six minutes of drum-free droning until some sort of hypnotic backbeat magically appears in the mix. The three piece really uses this hour of the listener’s time to explain themselves. Their name, The Human Machine, becomes so incredibly tangible after listening to “Patterns”. The three are truly a machine. Is the band looping their instruments with their circuit boxes that laden the floors, or is it merely the musicians themselves, so mechanically involved in their own playing? Guitar loops feel so real and warm, so interwoven, but so sterile and ornate. Florid movements seem to slowly break down and reassemble themselves at the perfect rate, before your very eyes, seducing the listener to bob their head to the song's’ hypnotic krautrock-esque grooves. Computers whirr beneath them, the space seeps in between the band grows further and further and the sounds further and further into themselves while still maintaining such a collective groove. Nearly everything about “Patterns” tells you that what lies ahead is dangerous, however, as if in a trance, it enchants you to continue forward. The appreciation for repetition and loops is very obvious in Jake Ingalls’ bass playing, as well as Jon Modell’s drumming. The album is disorienting. The listener is given no direction, but is only strapped in with a seatbelt and forced to take the ride. The ride could take you anywhere- a barren desert, the moon, inside of a Kubrick film, or just deeper inside of your own mind. The only sense of direct human interaction that the listener can grasp onto is the murmurs of lyrics by guitarist/vocalist Patrick Whitehill. “Walking Upright”, arguably the most easily explainable track on the album serves as a release from the tense, and brooding opener “Seatbelt”. The vocals, when audible to the trained ear of those who choose to listen to music with subdued vocals, are quite beautiful and very humanic. However, as soon as track two is over with, the listener is cloaked in a black sheet and taken to a cold, harsh, and sterile environment in “Glacial Pace”. The unnatural hums of and cello squeaks are suddenly joined by drums as the doomy atmosphere finally sets in. The glimmers of hope towards the end of the song when the vocals come in are the last the listener will ever hear from the album, because the closer, and title-track of the album close the record with an intense feeling of loneliness, however the listener is left feeling as if some sort of macabre deed has been done. A life has been lived. A live has been taken. The cycle starts again. I definitely see “Patterns” as a type of album to return to over a period of time as the songs bloom and tie themselves to the listener. The album provides two very long songs without vocals, and no direction the first and last track, and also provides two songs with lyrics just ambiguous enough to be unique to the individual sandwiched in the middle of the album. This is definitely not an album for the faint of heart, and it may not even be entirely digestible at first for the average listener of this sort of music, however for The Human Machine, this record is a great accomplishment and great document for showing the giant machine that we are all apart of. This album is prime example of human interaction, human emotion, human sentiment, and human dilapidation. Poetics lines talking about the human experience, seeing a change in someone, trying not to take things personal, or feeling alive for the first time in your life only add to the beautiful soundscapes on the album.

-Omar Akrouche of Transporting Planets/ Humble Hobo Records

“Patterns” Album Review by Garrett La Bonte of Fugue In high school there were three bands I was really into: Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Sigur Rós, and Explosions in the Sky. All of the bands share similar styling, composition, and audiences, but deep fans have the need to point out that they are widely different from each other. These bands stem out of a musical genre dubbed “post rock”, basically explaining the process in which a “rock band” breaks away from “standard rock procedure”. Usually longer compositions of instrumentals and ambient sounds are involved, but it’s not necessary. It’s honestly not one of my favorite terms because it’s one of those blanket terms music critics and snobs tend to throw over varying projects to have it sound more unified. Or something like that. In high school though, I wasn’t really too familiar with the term. When I first listened to “The Earth Is Not a Cold Dead Place”, I was not aware of the term. I was really into this term I was using quite a bit at the time: “experimental”. Punk broke away from rock, and “experimental” music broke away from punk. Anything that was pushing the boundaries punk had set up in previous years, I saw that as something experimental. Trying out something outside of tradition that I was accustomed to, and presenting it in a new way. For me, experimental music wasn’t just bands like Explosions in the Sky. At The Drive-In, Low, Murder By Death, Minus The Bear, etc etc.; these were bands experimenting and creating unique sounds. In my later musical years, I have become a little more jaded and can get caught up in the thought process of seeing most new bands as a rip-off of something from yesteryear, but that honestly is a convoluted and pretty unfair way to view it. Every generation of musicians have something new to offer. Just because a kid has made the 10,000th Rites of Spring-style band or the 20,000th Spacemen 3-sounding band doesn’t mean you should write it off right away. It’s easy to, but that same kid is growing into their own skin and learning more and more about their musical taste, instrument, and passion. You don’t have to like their band now, but that band might fall apart and something truly note-worthy will emerge from its ashes. Don’t always write music off right away because it sounds like something else. That’s normal, and usually a good thing. If they like what you like, and what you like is

actually worth listening to, maybe it will turn into something you will actually really like. New music has a way of doing beautiful things like that. The Human Machine is akin to the “experimental” music I liked in high school, and I unfortunately was tempted to write them off because they sounded like these bands I loved. I’m probably a music snob, but I’m trying to deal with it. I first met Jonathan Model at a show Fugue was asked to play in San Clemente. I honestly was kind of nervous about the show because I didn’t know a single band on the bill, and that was a first for us for a while. We usually always played with at least one friend’s band on the bill, but this was not the case. What if all the bands sucked? What if the crowd hates us? What if we make some South County moms really mad while playing at this nice art supply in San Clemente? Who was to say, so we decided to run with it. It turned to be a very memorable show. Many people came up after our set and gave us very intense compliments. It was pretty unique to receive compliments from absolute strangers in such abundance. It was a special occasion, and this was the night I met Jonathan Modell. I’m pretty sure; I might be wrong. But I remember that being my first interaction with him. Great guy, a little younger than me, and someone with a very soul-searching glance. I ran into him again later on after I attended an OC DIY collective meeting in front of a Starbucks in Irvine. My girlfriend had work that night I believe, so I decided to kill some time and drive to the collective meeting. After the meeting, some kids drove to Del Taco, and since I am a deep appreciator of “going bold”, I decided not to miss the opportunity. Jonathan was in attendance, and after our meal he gave me a CD-R of his band’s new material (Palimpest) to listen to. I’m pretty terrible when it comes to that stuff; I tend to already get preconceived ideas in my head of what the band will sound like and what they are going for. I don’t do it to be rude to the person delivering the music; it’s unfortunately a subconscious thing that kicks in. But since this new community of Orange County kids was being so kind to me and my band, I wanted to make a point and listen to it. So over the past few weeks I had the CD in my car, and I listened to it quite a bit. At first it didn’t sink, then a

little later it started to blend more, and after several listens I sincerely enjoyed it. At this point Pedestrian had only released “Everyone I Know Who Skis Is Dead”, so there really wasn’t any other bands writing four 10-minute long songs in the area and releasing that as an album. I really appreciated that part. At the beginning, Fugue was a little more adventurous with writing longer songs, so we never really met that 10 minute mark. Bands that can do that and still keep my attention are winners every time. It’s really hard for me to write a song less then 4 minutes. Palimpest is a slow-mover, but for good reason. It meditates on specific ideas and drills them until it becomes a mantra of some sort. Listening to it in the car definitely helped me get into the songs more, because I tend to think too deeply when I drive, and having a nice soundtrack to my deep thinking helps me not go into the darker places I shouldn’t be. “Patterns”, The Human Machine’s new album, is important. It is important because it supports what I said earlier: even if a band sounds too closely like a band you like a lot, don’t write them off right away because they might grow into something more. Human Machine did that for me on these four songs. It’s still the same band, but they are growing. It shows maturity, appreciation for further textures, closer attention to composition, and a hyper-focus on limitations. Limitations meaning they know where there should be more and where there should be less. A lot of bands take years to figure that out, but I see Human Machine is already starting on the path to understanding of that realm. Also, Orange County doesn’t produce music like this very often at all, so the fact that they are doing this and doing it well is something to be noticed. All of the instruments in this band are wonderful,

but the bass tends to really grab me. There is a beauty to the sea of bass in these songs. It’s not overwhelming, but it is steady and washes over you. A drone that engrains the key in your mind. This four track album is a hefty piece, clocking in at one hour and four minutes, but it is not boring. Obviously you have to like this kind of music first, but for someone that has heard many long-winded bands throughout the years, The Human Machine does not leave you bored. The first three tracks create a presence, demand your attention, and hypnotize you into what is my favorite track on the album, the album’s namesake, “Patterns”. Complete with low-register drones, slowly picked hopeless guitar sounds, dark sustaining cello, and the late-arriving saddened drums leading you into a tunnel of reverberation and echo. A lot of descriptive words, I know, but it’s real. The last track has me in its grip the whole time. It’s a very beautiful thing. It’s the keystone of the album, and it wraps everything up in this melancholy march of a story Human Machine paints. I can’t wait to see this live. I still haven’t seen The Human Machine live. I have seen plenty of Jon’s other bands, but this is one I have not made it out to see yet. That will change, I am highly looking forward to being at the Frida Theater, accompanied by other projects I enjoy, with visualizations to compliment the music. I look forward to the day our musical paths will cross on the same stage, and I really look forward to how this will be received. It’s something very memorable that I hope people recognize as something special. Experimentation is the key to “Patterns”, and I’m glad they are doing it.

-Garrett La Bonte of Fugue / Avacado Records

Ben Ben Rasmussen Rasmussen

Age:20 Location: Los Angles/ Orange County

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issue 3