DJ King Pigeon's (Mr. Lava's) Blog

Monday, 13 June 2011

Am I Mr. Lava--aka DJ King Pigeon? I think I might be. I arrived in Copenhagen five years ago with a set of CD turntables. People keep mistaking me for Mr. Lava. As I review Mr. Lava's own web page, I see that he has not been performing anywhere for the past five years--and sure as fuck I haven't been performing anywhere either.

I have been conducting a great deal of research on Mr. Lava. Did you know that in 1998 he spun at the world's longest continuous rave? This was due to an amusing mix-up; it was held at Norway's Lofoten Islands inside the Arctic Circle. It was billed as a "Rave 'til Dawn." The event began after the first week of December, which (unknown to the event promoters at the time) is when the sun disappears for an entire month in that part of the world. In order to avoid lawsuits for false advertising, Mr. Lava courageously helmed the decks for three weeks straight, so that when the sun finally reappeared in January he could truthfully say they had "raved 'til dawn."

Was that me? Did I do that?

I decided over the weekend that the easiest way for me to solve this mystery would be to visit some clubs that Mr. Lava had spun at in Copenhagen. A club owner or promoter ought to know if I am Mr. Lava or not.

I showed up at Club Fuego II, where I had read that Mr. Lava held down the fort several times in the middle of the first decade of the millennium.

As I stepped into the dimly illuminated room, I saw a couple dozen student types shaking their hips to the sounds of Pleasurekraft's "Carny." Then I felt the contact of cold steel against my neck.

"Mr. Lava!" a voice sneered. "You are either very stupid or very brave to have returned."

"My name is Darren Krew," I replied calmly, "but everybody thinks I am Mr. Lava. I am here to find out the truth. And if the truth is that Mr. Lava has somehow wronged you--and I am, in fact, him--then certainly I would expect you to kill me."

The gun slid from my neck down to the middle of my back.

"Let's take a walk."

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

I don't think I am Mr. Lava, aka the legendary Eurotrash DJ better known as DJ King Pigeon. My name, according to my passport, is Darren Krew. Despite its non-Norwegian timbre, both passport and acquaintances corroborate that Norway is my country of origin.

Today I live in a brothel near the train station in Copenhagen. I am neither a patron nor an employee there; I am a lodger.

Recently, I shared a dinner of sardines on toast with the proprietor, Madame Cha Cha. Madame Cha Cha was once, during the early 1990s, one of Private magazine's most beautiful pornographic models. Now she is a toothless old hag. I'm kidding; she is a striking, stylishly-dressed woman in her mid-40s with raven black hair, snow white skin, and red lipstick, like a still from a film noir stained by a drop of red wine.

"Madame Cha Cha," I said. "When did I move in here?"

"Five years ago," she said. She scowled as she regarded the sardine tin. "Interestingly enough, the same year these sardines were packaged."

"Did I speak any Danish or English?"

"Just Norwegian. But Norwegian and Danish are close enough to understand."

I chewed thoughtfully on my food, savoring the salty sardine flavor.

"Madame Cha Cha?"

"Yes, Darren?"

"I am trying to remember how I arrived here. How I came to find myself enjoying your hospitality." (The crack of a whip, followed by a howl of pleasure/pain, emanated from the floor above.)

"Well, you arrived from the train station with a backpack, a small suitcase, and a metal carrying case. You knocked on my door and said, in clumsy, halting English, that you had thought there might be a room available."

"Who recommended that room?"

"Nobody, to my knowledge. In fact, you acted as if you had been here before."

"Did I look familiar to you, Madame Cha Cha? Had you seen me before?"

"I knew somebody who looked like you, once, long ago. But I don't think it was you." She chuckled mysteriously.

"What do you mean? Oh do tell me, Madamae Cha Cha! You know how I cannot bear the suspense!" Then, I whirled my long locks round and round my head while crying out, "WHOOO!!! WHOOOOO!!!!" until I was quite dizzy.

"That was weird," Madame Cha Cha observed. "Well, as you know, we have no secrets here. Obviously, I am the proprietor of a brothel, bordello, cathouse, whorehouse, sporting house, gentleman's club, house of ill repute, house of prostitution, or bawdy house (if you prefer), and you know all about my past in Danish porn. So I will speak freely. The strange thing was, when you arrived at my door you reminded me of a pornographic actor I had worked with. Now of course I fucked so many men back then that my cunt gets sore just trying to remember them all, but you bore a strong resemblance to one of those actors."

I shuddered. I remembered reading about how Mr. Lava had once worked in Danish porn.

"Was the actor...'Rocco'?"

"YES!" Madame Cha Cha exclaimed, her face lighting up. "That was exactly the fellow. But obviously it's not you. You spoke only Norwegian and terrible English when you arrived; but Rocco could say, 'Fuck me you fucking cumbucket'—and a whole lot more—in five different languages."

I was relieved. It would have been awkward to find out that I had known my landlord carnally in a previous decade.

But something wasn't right.

"Wait a minute," I said.

"OK," she replied.

We waited a minute.

"You said I arrived with a backpack," I began after the minute had passed. "A small suitcase, and a metal carrying case. I think I have the backpack and suitcase in my room right now. But I don't think I have a metal carrying case."

"That's hardly as surprising a fact as you make it out to sound. The reason you don't have the metal carrying case is because you asked me to lock it up for security reasons."

"What was in it?"

"How should I know?"

"Can I see it?"

"Of course you can see it. It's yours."

Madame Cha Cha rose slowly from her chair, then strolled seductively on her 6-inch stiletto heels, one foot crossing smoothly over the other as they carried her to the living room closet. She retrieved a skeleton key from her patent leather handbag, then stuck the key into the hundred and fifty year old lock and turned it. The closet door opened. She bent over, displaying the contours of her fine, firm rump as she rummaged about. A pause in her searching indicated interest, then success. She lifted the case into view. A small look of triumph flitted across her ghostly face.

What a rush came over me! I remembered the carrying case vividly! But still, I could not recall the contents. I would need to open it to find out what I brought to the brothel in 2006.

"Here you are," she said, presenting it to me. "It's pretty heavy, so I'm guessing it's not cash."

"Thank you, Madame Cha Cha," I said receiving it.

"Oh it's no problem at all, Darren," she purred.

But the case had two locks on it.

"Fuck," I said. "I don't think I have the key."

"Obviously your 2006 self didn't trust your future self to hold onto that key. So it's taped to the outside of the suitcase."

Sure enough, there it was.

"Excellent," I said. Under my breath, I added, "Thanks, 2006 self."

I went about the business of unlocking the clasps. I nearly dropped that key from my trembling fingers, so excited I was. But I pressed onward, and soon I had turned both locks. I splayed the two halves of the case as if prying open a clam.

"Well?" Madame Cha Cha asked.

My eyes leaped.

"And...?" Madame Cha Cha said.

"I'm looking at two CDJ1000s, Mk. 3, a line introduced in March 2006. And a Numark mixer."

"Are you speaking Norwegian to me? Because I didn't understand any of that."

"It's DJ equipment, Madame Cha Cha. DJ equipment!"

Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Was I Mr. Lava? This was the question that haunted me as I crossed the footbridge to Christiania to meet up with my regular band of hippie drinking buddies. I approached the benches, which were set up outdoors in their familiar arrangement under the trees and a slate gray sky. I searched for a familiar face, and I found one in my good friend Lars.

"Darren!" Lars exclaimed. "Take a seat and have yourself a pint—and a puff, if you please!"

I took a drag off his pipe and felt somewhat calmer. I set the pipe down on the wooden table and folded my hands.

"You look troubled," Lars said. His sun-burned face looked even flusher than usual.

"I am." I sighed heavily for emphasis. "This morning I was visited by two boys, members of some religious cult. They told me I was somebody that I'm not. But they were certain that I was this other person—so certain that I began to wonder the same."

"Robert Plant? You look like Robert Plant, a little bit."

"No. They said I looked like Mr. Lava."

Lars looked at me blankly.

"The famous Eurotrash DJ, DJ King Pigeon," I explained further. "Or he was famous, anyway. Fuck! Back in the early- to mid-2000s."

"Never heard of Mr. Lava," Lars said. "Never listened to that gay dance stuff." Lars then made a few effeminate dance gestures from his seated position while singing, "I'm a Barbie Girl! In a Barbie world!"

"These boys seemed certain that I was Mr. Lava."

"Who cares? You know who you are. I know who you are. You've been living here for five years. When I met you, you spoke only Norwegian. Was the real Mr. Lava a Norwegian?"

"I hear he has some Norwegian blood coursing through his veins, passed down from his ancestors, but your logic is correct—he has been writing English on his website for many years prior to my learning English and what the fucking hell?"

A small bird flew out of Lars's tangled hair.

"It's a robin. They're building a nest," Lars exclaimed. Then, beaming with pride, he tilted his head forward to better show off the delicate arrangement of twigs and cobwebs woven into his long, gray locks.

"Bloody fucking hell. That's not sanitary. You're right out of a Tolkien novel. You're a fucking tree person."

"So, my friend Darren, I see no problems. Two boys say you look like Mr. Lava, but you and I both know you cannot be Mr. Lava. So that's that." The robin darted back into Lars's hair like a big bullet.

"I suppose I feel unsettled because I am thinking to myself that I led an alternate life. That perhaps Mr. Lava was who I was supposed to become."

"But Mr. Lava already became Mr. Lava, so that role is taken. And you are exactly who you were supposed to become: my favorite drinking companion in Copenhagen!"

If this was supposed to cheer me up, it did not have the desired effect. I hung my shaggy head over the table and sighed again.

"Are you telling me you regret hanging out with your old buddy Lars?" A bird dropping fell with a splat onto his shoulder.

"Of course I don't regret that. I only regret that I achieved nothing. Nothing I did made any difference. Nothing worked."

"I'm a Barbie Girl!" Lars sang again. "In a Barbie world! Wrapped in plastic! It's fantastic! C'mon, Darren—I beg your pardon, Mr. Lava—sing this with me! It will cheer you up!"

"Lars," I exclaimed, suddenly filling with resolve. "I am a Viking. It is in my blood. I must find my destiny."

"C'mon Barbie let's go party!" Lars sang. He howled with laughter until the coughing started. Light, crimson sprays of blood flew from his mouth and sprinkled the tabletop like a fine mist. Then, his head hit the table with a bang.

Glassy eyes, frozen and flat.

With a cheery chirp, the robin flew out of his hair.

* * *

Before they removed his body, a thoughtful member of the Christiania community carefully shaved Lars's head and then transported his silver locks, along with the robin's nest, to a nearby tree. Lars's last words were immortalized on his tombstone: "C'mon Barbie let's go party!"

Friday, 3 June 2011

I awoke at 2 PM to a pounding at my door that was perfectly synchronized with the pounding in my head as I stumbled over to answer it. Who the fuck knocks on doors at 2 PM?

Two fat boys wearing suits, that's who! They looked like little piggies dressed for the prom!

"I don't believe it," the blonder boy gasped.

"Neither can I," I replied. "What the fuck are you doing knocking on my door at 2 in the afternoon?"

"Is it Mr. Lava?" the darker-haired one whispered to his friend.

"It has to be!" his friend replied in an awe-filled voice.

"You could ask me; I'm right the fuck here."

"Are you Mr. Lava?" they asked in unison.

"No!" I shouted, the hot tears streaming down my face. "I'm not Mr. Lava! The reason Mr. Lava stopped writing in his blog back in February is because he's dead! Dead-dead-dead! So without further adieu, good day, sirs!"

I began to slam the door, but a piggie foot blocked it.

"We don't believe you!" the blonder one exclaimed. "It has to be you! You wrote that Eurovision report on the 'Real' Blog and—"

"Who the fuck are you anyway?" I roared. (I apologize to my readers for my constant use of profanity, by the way.)

"Mormons!" they answered.

"What's a 'Mormon'?"

The darker-haired one explained. "We're members of a religious group. And we came here because we were sent from America to help the poor in Copenhagen!"

"Copenhagen," I said, sighing. Suddenly I was aware of the Turkish music bleeding through the wall of the next room. Above, I could hear the bouncing bed springs that signified manic fucking.

"You're poor," the boy continued. "Or at least that's what we were told was the case with people living at this a brothel?"

"Aye, a brothel it is. But I'm neither employee nor client; I'm just a lodger."

"A brothel!" the blonder one said with awe.

"I can introduce you to the madame if you'd like. You're here to help poor people, but you'd be surprised by the quality of the services the poorer people of Copenhagen render for the better-off."

They eagerly assented, the madame set them up good, and I returned to my slumbers. Or so I had hoped. For as I lay there listening to the sounds of the piggies being horse-whipped by Chella the Dominatrix, I could not sleep. The visit had disturbed me. For I was now haunted by a terrible question:

Was I Mr. Lava?

Monday, 7 February 2011

I have been making progress on my latest DJ set, which is due to arrive on 10 February (here are the first 20 minutes of it). However, recording and post-production has been handicapped by the fact that my recording studio is haunted. Consider these notes:

29:12 - Re-record; clips on word "funk"
45:48 - Re-record this transition with proportionally more volume on Anaconda
112:12 - Remove distorted voice moaning: "HELLLLLP UUUSSSS."
145:03 - Rework this transition; try and make tighter (may be impossible)
177:32 - Remove screaming hag voice

Reminds me of that time years ago when Weatherall and I spun at the Haunted Dancehall.

Friday, 14 January 2011

I came up with an excellent win-win way to make lots of money. Europeans are upset about the high price of the iPhone4, so if you're an American, offer to buy them an unlocked iPhone4 in the U.S. for around $700. Then, send them an "iFone" instead! You make a cool $590 in profit, and they get a really great phone!

Thursday, 9 December 2010

A few days ago I had a conversation at a bar about my Kindle. The guy I was talking to was convinced that the latest Barnes & Noble Nook uses "color e-ink." I told him there was no such thing as a color e-ink reader, or at least not in the United States or Europe. He strongly disagreed with me. I let it go, because I have learned there is no point in continuing such a fight; he'll look it up later, see I was right, and that will be that.

Last night he apologized:

"Yesterday I told you that the Nook uses color e-ink. You said it didn't. It turns out you were right, and I'm sorry."

"Ah, no worries!" I said blithely. "I'm used to it. I'm like Cassandra in Greek mythology—always fated to tell the truth, but nobody believes me."

"You mean Athena."

"No. Cassandra."

"I think it was Athena."

"Athena was the Goddess of Wisdom. Cassandra was the cursed one."

"No; I'm pretty sure it was Athena."


Tuesday, 7 December 2010

Telephone conversation between 10 Downing Street, London; and the British Embassy, Oslo:

"Madame Ambassador?"

"Yes, Mr. Prime Minister."

"Did you happen to read the Times today?"

"I did."

"Perhaps you read the article about the Nobel Peace Prize ceremony coming up in Oslo this week?"

"I...I might have seen that article."

"Let me read what I think is the best bit from that! 'The 20 countries not sending representatives to this week's Nobel Peace Prize ceremony for imprisoned Chinese human rights activist Liu Xiabo are China, Russia, Kazakhstan, Colombia, Tunisia, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Serbia, Iraq, Iran, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Venezuela, the United Kingdom, the Philippines, Egypt, Sudan, Ukraine, Cuba and Morocco.' Quite a list, isn't it, Madame Ambassador?"

"Indeed it is."

"Does anything strike you as being unusual about it?"

"Well, Mr. Prime Minister, perhaps you find it a bit odd that the United Kingdom is on it?"

"Oh not at all! But now that you happen to mention it, perhaps it would make for an amusing anecdote. Do share!"

"Well, Mr. Prime Minister, as it turns out, you are correct in guessing that it makes for a most amusing anecdote! We received the invitation from Oslo, but I'm afraid it somehow went missing! Then we got a little distracted by the economy!"

"Madame Ambassador, this is very embarrassing."

"Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. I suspect you can detect the shame in my voice."

"Your shame is noted and will be considered appropriate recompense for this oversight. In the meantime, please send an RSVP immediately."

"Right away, Mr. Prime Minister."

Friday, 3 December 2010

Please don't refer to me as an alcoholic. I prefer the term "extremophile."

Thursday, 2 December 2010

"Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."

I was born great!

Wednesday, 1 December 2010

The Grammy Awards' annual list of songs and albums to avoid was released today.

Friday, 8 October 2010

Another year, another failed bid for the Nobel Peace Prize. Instead, they gave it to a guy who is just SITTING AROUND ON HIS ASS all day doing NOTHING. In a Chinese prison.

Sunday, 29 August 2010

I am excited to announce my latest book: a history of techno and the black guys who made it. It is the result of years of research conducted on Wikipedia. I believe this is the truest and most comprehensive portrait of the black guys who made techno ever published. Glenn Beck, a leading authority on African-American history, wrote the introduction.

Incidentally, since "Mad" Mike Banks avoids being photographed, I am not certain if he is, in fact, a black guy. I included him anyway.

Thursday, 19 August 2010

Got into a fight with a Belgian over the whole burqa ban thing. I'm opposed to banning burqas for three reasons: 1) it's culturally insensitive, 2) burqas happen to be my disguise of choice when I need to lay low for a whole, and 3) as an American, I am particularly sensitive to discrimination against Muslims, since we have a Muslim president.

Wednesday, 18 August 2010

Doctor told me my cholesterol and blood pressure are both too high and that my liver is a disaster. "You need to stop drinking," he told me.

Hard to believe, but it seems the time has finally come when I must acknowledge reality and find a new doctor.

Tuesday, 10 August 2010

Speaking from the experience of having just been padlocked into one, I can assure you that there is nothing less fun than a barrel of monkeys.

Friday, 23 July 2010

Fuck all of you!

Friday, 23 July 2010 (cont.)

I would just like to take a moment to apologize to anyone who misunderstood what I wrote above. I'm very sorry if anyone took what I said the wrong way. Of course, I did not mean to offend anyone, but my manager tells me some people misinterpreted my remarks, which is why I am offering this apology. In the future I will try and be clearer in order to prevent such misunderstandings from arising. You're my fans, and I would never say anything disparaging to you! Not even after consuming eleven beers! I owe everything to you!

Friday, 23 July 2010 (cont.)

Fuck you all!

Tuesday, 20 July 2010

I am recovering from compound skull fractures suffered as a result of being pounded repeatedly over the head with a violin after I unwittingly upset Alexander Rybak with my recent one year anniversary Eurodance mix of "Fairytale."

Thursday, 15 July 2010

"Mr. Lava," began Mr. Albert Nijenhuis, director of Maxximum Dance Productions (a subsidiary of K-Tel). "Because of changes to the business model of music, brought about largely by file-sharing (fuckers), we need to find a whole new way to market you."

"Not my problem. That's why you have a marketing department."

"You don't have any ideas of your own for the marketing of yourself?"


"Mr. Lava? Do you ever think?"

"No. I act. I am like one of those windy things that goes round and round--"

"--a tornado?"

"Yes! A tornado. Battering the coastline, sinking ships, drowning horrified pets--"

"--a hurricane, you mean?"

"A hurricane! That's what I am!" I snapped my fingers hurricane-istically to emphasize my point.

"The marketing department tells me that we have to approach marketing you not so much as a failed--I mean exciting--Eurodance musician, but as a lifestyle."

"A lifestyle?"

"A lifestyle. So what is the Mr. Lava lifestyle?"

"Well, it's like I said. A tornado."

"A hurricane, you mean?"

"I meant what I said! A tornado! Or, rather, a hurricane crossed with a tornado! That would be one bad-ass muthafucka!"

"Mr. Lava, where are we?"

"Imagine a giant hurricane, big dark cloud just rolling along. Already a terrifying image, right? But then! Then all these tornados shoot out of it like tentacles!"

I made a loud whooshing sound as I used my hands to recreate how this might appear, with wriggling fingers representing the tentacle-like tornados emerging from the clouds (the clouds being represented by the non-finger parts of my hands).

"Mr. Lava? Where are we? Do you know where we are?"

"What a dreadful sight! I won't be able to sleep for days, now! Why do I do this to myself?

"Mr. Lava! For the last time! Where? Are? We?"

"We're at Club Fuego in Maribor, Slovenia."

"We're not. Take a look around."

I took a look around. Soon, I realized my error.

"We're in an office."

"We are."

"Is this Amsterdam again?"

"It is."

"Can I have some of that eucalyptus you're gnawing on?"

"You cannot."

"That's fine. I didn't want it anyway."

"So it seems that there is a Mr. Lava lifestyle. And I would say that lifestyle is: total confusion."

"Without a doubt!"

"Great. Now, what did I just say?"

"You asked me, 'What did I just say?'"

"Before that part?"

"I have no idea."

"Thanks, Mr. Lava. We will take it from here. You stupid fucking son-of-a-bitch."

Monday, 10 May 2010

I have been asked to step in as manager for a Swedish girl group called 4 Non-Brunettes (their original manager is getting some much-needed R&R in Dubrovnik after an incident in a Stockholm hotel*). The girls are talented and hard-working, and they lip sync perfectly (no Ashlee Simpson SNL-style screw ups here). Bookings can be arranged through Maxximum Dance Productions.

* Cocaine, gun, tighty-whiteys

Tuesday, 6 May 2010

So we're all watching this movie called My Big Fat Greek Banking Crisis. My agent, who happens to be Greek, suggested yesterday that I return to America—and that I also find a new agent. Today he hanged himself with his wife's strappy belt.

Actually, the timing of his suicide is probably just a coincidence. All of my agents hang themselves eventually.

Tuesday, 27 April 2010

My music is not available on American iTunes, but I was touched to find that a number of bands who are selling their wares there have been performing covers of my songs in loving homage. So check out the Chart Toppers, the Countdown Singers, the Future Pop Hitmakers, and the Cardio Workout Crew! These talented kids are some of the most versatile performers out there. So what's up with all the negative reviews? Seems there are a lot of haters out there. Hey! Thanks for the tributes, guys!

Friday, 23 April 2010

I'm back. I had to lay low long enough in order to be officially declared dead. More later.

Last night in Budapest two attractive women invited me to join them for drinks at a fancy restaurant they recommended. We rode an elevator up to the place and then enjoyed a few rounds of beverages, me sticking to beer, they to rum and Coke. The conversation flowed easily and there was much merriment.

Then came the bill. Cost for two beers and four drinks? $500. The girls seemed sort of surprised. The rum they had ordered was cheap stuff, but the restaurant must have substituted their most expensive brand. My $50 Becks beers were deemed "German imports," and I was informed that these particular bottles had been "aged to perfection" (about two months).

A scowling, thick-necked bouncer with a gun strapped to his side told me in no uncertain terms that I was to pay the bill or face the consequences.

"Sir!" I exclaimed magniloquently as I threw an arm around the man. "Because I have had such a wonderful time here, I will pay you five thousand dollars!"

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

OK, France. You've got to grow up. I am boycotting your country until Bébé Lilly, Six'co, Kid 2 Kid, and any over kiddie fare I'm forgetting are off your charts.

Monday, 9 November 2009

I can't remember what city I'm living in. I'm either visiting Krakow or living there. Tomorrow I am either visiting Bucharest or going home to Bucharest. Sometime soon I might be dropping into Kiev, or am I moving there? Please help.

Everybody is talking about the Berlin Wall this week. I was in high school when the walls, as John Cougar Mellencamp so memorably put it, "came tumblin' down." I was so enthralled with the magic of that moment that I dropped out of high school (despite my straight-A average and a promising future in the animal-testing industry) and flew straight to Bermuda, because the weather there is so much nicer than Germany's in November. After a year of smoking weed and spinning dub, I wandered over to the UK and hung out with Inspiral Carpets (aka "the Carpets"), the Happy Mondays (aka "the Mondays"), and Ned's Atomic Dustbin (aka "the Neddies"). By that time I had forgotten all about the Berlin Wall. The world had changed, you see, and maybe not all for the better. The tides of history had kicked up the flotsam and jetsam and assorted messages in bottles and steered them through the Scylla and Charybdis with no fucking idea what I'm talking about.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

When you see a guy with the words "kick me" taped to his back, do you kick him? I do.

Friday, 23 October 2009

Enjoying the finest gołąbki in Krakow. With Pixie Lott!

Tuesday, 20 October 2009

Started dating a Serbian chick. Don't know if my Albanian and Kosovar and Bosniak friends will forgive me, but she's hawt.

In fact, she's a model. She recently appeared on the cover of French Vogue. The photo shows a perfect-skinned, trim figure with legs that go on forever.

That particular cover was heavily criticized by French feminists who complained that the image's heavy use of Photoshop created an impossible standard of beauty. They feared that women seeing the image would engage in eating disorders in an effort to achieve this unattainable level of perfection.

Turns out the joke was on them; there was no Photoshopping of the image whatsoever.

Stories like these are why all the women I date and sleep with complain endlessly about the discrimination faced by the Super-Beautiful.

Friday, 9 October 2009

On Saturday, in what is sure to be the most confusing World Cup qualifying game ever played, Slovakia will face Slovenia. Which is which? The entire world is bound to be baffled as the two teams, one from the former Yugoslavia, the other from the former Czechoslovakia, battle it out. And was Czechoslovakia the one nearer Italy? Or was that Yugoslavia?

I have dated a Slovenian girl and I recently spent time in a Slovakian jail. So I can tell you all you need to know:

The Slovenians, who inhabit a tiny country that borders Italy, Austria, and Hungary, are awesome at basketball. They are lousy at soccer. So, they will lose.

But since I still have feelings for my Slovenian ex-gf, and I did not enjoy my stay in the Slovakian jail, I'm cheering for Slovenia.
Sunday, 11 October 2009

...and Slovenia won! B-)

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

Ahoj from Slovakia! I'm in jail!

I was just getting started on a week of club dates throughout central Europe. I was in Hungary on Monday, and last night I spun in Slovakia.

Unfortunately, after I was handed the mic to thank the attendees, I accidentally addressed the Slovakian crowd in Hungarian. Which is against the law in Slovakia, where Slovak is the official language.

Anyway, as soon as Mária Círová posts my bail I'll be back on the road again.

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

Condé Nast just axed four of my favorite magazines: Gourmet, Modern Bride, Elegant Bride, and a scrappy little parenting magazine called Cookie.

Monday, 5 October 2009

DJ'd a set for a bunch of European diplomats in Washington, D.C. this weekend. Afterward I chatted with an attractive Latvian woman. I asked her for her phone number.

"Sure, Mr. Lava!" she exclaimed. "It's 202 EAT-SHIT."

I wrote the number down, and then I stumbled to my cab.

Years ago I would have made fun of a person so unfortunate as to be assigned a telephone number like that. Today I'm more sensitive.

Thursday, 10 September 2009

Few things are staler than reaching for a remix titled "2008 remix" in the year 2009. That's why, in order to ensure that my remixes remain relevant longer, I am now crediting them all as "DJ King Pigeon 2047 Remix".

Thanks to Sergio Fernandez, whose "Unforgettable Summer [2010 Vision Main Mix]" gave me this wonderful idea.

Friday, 28 August 2009

I was called to testify at a Dutch hearing this week regarding a 13 year-old girl's ambition to become the youngest person to sail around the world.

The girl in question, Laura Dekker, keeps running into resistance from the Dutch legal system, which claims that allowing her to undertake such a journey qualifies as child endangerment of the highest order.

"But what does Mr. Lava think?" the judge asked those assembled in the courtroom. The assembled then turned to their neighbors and anxiously repeated the question to one another.

It all makes sense. Since I am a popular DJ in the Netherlands, it was inevitable that the court would call me to the witness stand.

I laid out My Master Argument.

"The sea is a very dangerous place," I began to a rapt audience, "full of ferocious humpback whales and deadly dolphins."

In the back of the courtroom a peg-legged Japanese whaler cried out, "Dolphin took my leg!"

"But this is all the more reason we need a mariner Joan of Arc to go out and tame it all! When I look into the eyes of Laura Dekker I see The Chosen One! The child who will purge the oceans of aquatic beasts! She will shape the water with her mind and control the weather when the moon is full and—"

"You're confusing Laura Dekker with the mermaids on 'H2O: Just Add Water'," the judge reminded me.

"If Laura Dekker does not sail around the world the seas will become sick and die! Deadly jelly fish men will lumber onto dry land and attack us in our sleep! So if Laura Dekker must sacrifice her life in order to save humanity, then it must be so!"

"'Sacrifice my life'?" Laura mouthed.


But the rest of the courtroom failed to chant with me, so my own voice grew gradually softer until I finally fell silent.

"Dank u wel," the judge said wearily.

The court turned Laura over to child protection officers.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

I have parted ways (again) with my record label, Maxximum Dance Productions. At issue: they appended my name to a release that I had not sanctioned—indeed, NEVER would sanction IN A MILLION, TRILLION YEARS.

That's why I'm asking all of you to boycott DJ King Pigeon Pres. Fartz - "Let 'er Rip!!! (The Fart Song)".

Fartz (I'm pretty sure) is Deadmau5. And while I hate to say it (especially without a shred of evidence to back it up), I think Deadmau5 DELIBERATELY wrote this awful song for the sole purpose of having my name grafted onto it in an effort to SUBVERT my rising DJ career in his native CANADA. Shitty games like these are typical of the DIRTY TRICKS played by CANADIAN dance music artists born in the MORALLY BANKRUPT 1980s.

To reiterate: DO NOT BUY THIS SONG. I DID NOT and NEVER WOULD endorse a piece of total FUCKSHIT GARBAGE like "Let 'er Rip!!! (The Fart Song)"!!!

Tuesday, 4 August 2009 (cont.)

A reader informs me that last week I spun "Let 'er Rip!!! (The Fart Song)" five times in a row at a working-class bar in Birmingham. When asked by puzzled patrons what I was playing/doing, I explained that I was spinning "the best song I ever wrote."

I apologize to Deadmau5 and any others of you out there who may have been confused by some of my earlier remarks.

Thursday, 2 July 2009

I grabbed lunch with my friend Unemployed Guy Fred the other day at a nice Cuban restaurant in Berlin.

"Mr. Lava, after years of friendship I have to say, you are the most self-centered person I know."

"I'm fascinated by what you think about me; tell me more."

"Remember how my girlfriend got pregnant and you advised us to get an abortion?"

"Hannah with the big boobs? Yeah, that was my personal feeling at the time, taking into account your feelings, finances, and general life situation."

"So you recommended a doctor."

"I did. I was trying to make things as easy for you as possible."

"And then we learned afterward that the doctor you happened to recommend was also a close personal friend of yours who, as it turned out, was desparate for work."

"Dr. Hook, that's right. It was a convenient intersection of needs."

"I sometimes think that the only reason you recommended the abortion was in order to give Dr. Hook some business."

I bit into my Cuban sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.

"It's interesting you would think that. After years of friendship I thought we'd have established some trust."

"But is it true, what I suggest?"

"Well. Again, it was an intersection of needs. So, it is partly true, but only in the manner that we have already discussed."

Fred nodded.

"Oh, and there was one other thing," I said, remembering.


"Your girlfriend was pregnant by me."

Fred chewed for a while on his sandwich while considering this.

"That's interesting. I never knew that before."

I shrugged.

"You know what I find particularly interesting? How, after years of friendship with you, nothing shocks me anymore."

"Familiarity dulls one's potential shock value."


"Cheers," I said. We clinked glasses.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Mr. Albert Nijenhuis, who heads my record label, Maxximum Dance Productions (a subsidiary of K-Tel), asked me to come up with a new dance song.

"Here's an activity to illustrate where I'm going with this," he said to me. "Name a song targeted specifically at girls who are 16."

"'Sixteen Candles'?" I replied. "Oh! And 'Christine Sixteen' by Kiss."

"Now name a song that makes specific mention of 17 year-olds."

"Uh...'Seventeen', by Winger?" And 'Dancing Queen' of course! 'Young and sweet only seventeen'. Not to mention 'Edge of Seventeen' by Stevie Nicks."

"Very good! Now name a song for 18 year-olds."

I thought a bit. "Uh, '18 and Life' by Skid Row?"

"Of course—which is overdue for a Eurodance remix, but that's a conversation for another day. Now. Nineteen."

"'19' by Paul Hardcastle."

"A no-brainer. Now...27."

I thought.

I thought some more.

"I can't think of a song that specifically mentions a 27 year-old."

"That's right. But there's a big 27 year-old demographic out there that's single and clubbing. What I want you to do, Mr. Lava, is write a dance song for 27 year-olds. One that specifically mentions that age in its lyrics. It could be called, '27'. What do you think?"

"'She came from heaven—only 27', or something like that."

"Yes!" Mr. Nijenuis clapped his furry hands excitedly.

"...or, 'I'm 27 can't you see?/Halfway through my PhD'."

"Yes! YES! Oh this is VERY good INDEED!"

"But why not 33? Like, 'Now I'm 33 and my heart wants to be free'. Or 'She's dirt poor at 54 but she's still got her priiiiiide'?"

Mr. Nijenuis gnawed thoughtfully on a eucalyptus branch. "Mr. Lava, you're getting way ahead of yourself. Let's just start with 27 and see how that goes."

Wednesday, 29 April 2009

You might recall I was forced to leave Romania due to a (successful!) effort to RECOVER MY OWN STOLEN AUTOMOBILE that resulted in the deaths of three people.

So I have to go live somewhere else. My temporary lodgings are in Krakow, Poland, which is lovely this time of year.

Did you know that Pope John Paul II has died? That's one of the many interesting bits of gossip overheard during my first 24 hours back in the city. There was also a scandal involving recently uncovered CIA death camps in Auschwitz (fall-out from the Obama administration declassifying a lot of documents, probably). And some intelligence guy I drank with last night told me something I'm not supposed to share here "because it might start World War III." Well, fuck it; only a hundred people come to this page every week, and you're not going to start World War III, right? So yeah, that "controversial" missile shield the Russians are trying to stop Poland and the U.S. from building? It's already been built.

In more mundane Krakow news, the pigeons these days don't seem as a numerous as I remember them being. The beer is still poured into half-liter glasses. And Kasia Kowalska and I are having lunch later today.

As for where I might settle post-Krakow, Paris is tempting. You might recall my failed effort to live there once before. It was too expensive. Well, things have changed. I was particularly excited to hear that on 1 July they are greatly reducing the value-added tax in bars, cafes, and restaurants (the only "value" the tax "added" was 19.6% to every bill).

So, perhaps I slum it in Krakow from now until 1 July, and then trash onward to Paris. Sound like a plan? Maybe I'll see you soon! Ceau!

Friday, 24 April 2009

It's a somber day today for Armenians as they honor the memory of those who perished in the Armenian, eh, the, um....the day that hundreds of thousands—possibly over a million—of their people and systematically killed by Ottoman Turks. This mass slaughter of people, who included in their number countless women and children, many of whom died on death marches—I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!!!!!!! IT WAS 'GENOCIDE', OK!?!?!?!? DEAL WITH IT, TURKEY!!!!!!!!!

WHOAH! The "Eurotrash or Eurotreasure?" Office offers a speedy apology to Turkey for Mr. Lava's outburst. Obviously, all those dead Armenian women and children were combatants in a civil war. We apologize for the error.

Thursday, 23 April 2009

While I was in the middle of a DJ set last night in Nice, the club personnel informed me that they had kidnapped me as a labor negotiating tactic. I am being treated well, and hope to set a world record for longest DJ set performed while in captivity.

Thursday, 23 April 2009 (cont.)

In order to take naps, I am dusting off my prog rock records.

Thursday, 16 April 2009

Big news coming out of Europe this week: A BEAR IS WANDERING AROUND LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA!!! The bear was spotted hanging out in Tivoli Park, which is Ljubljana's biggest park. Tivoli is a very nice place for a jog—WHEN YOU'RE NOT BEING EATEN BY A BEAR!!!!!

Slovenia has the highest density of bears in Europe. This is why, whenever you hear about bears being reintroduced to other parts of Europe, the bears usually come from Slovenia. Slovenia is also shooting a lot of bears because they have too many of them. They're up to their necks in bears—as the recent Ljubljana news attests.

According to the latest wires, the bear has "wandered off." It was last spotted drinking heavily at Metelkova, where apparently it has way too much to say about the Croatian/Slovenian border dispute.

Tuesday, 7 April 2009

The aformentioned Smart Car Recovery Incident has concluded with my being asked to leave Romania "for a while." So, I slipped across the border to Moldova, since I've grown comfortable with the Romanian language and wanted to continue to use that when asking people where the toilet is and stuff.

By coincidence, it turns out there was some sort of election this weekend in Moldova. While getting shit-faced at a Chisinau bar I pointed out that most elections were rigged—particularly those where communists turned out to be the winners. That's pretty true; always a lot of ballot-stuffing in those elections. The problem with communists is that they're not subtle with their election-rigging; "Exit polls show that 128% of Moldovans voted the communists back into power"—that sort of shit.

Next thing I knew I was standing on the bar counter leading Romanian revolutionary chants (ah, sweet memories of 1989!) before an increasingly unruly crowd of drunken students.

Must have bought a train ticket or something in my drunkenness, because I was jostled awake the next morning by the clackity-clack of railroad tracks and the sight of the Ukrainian countryside rolling past my window.

I wound up in Tallinn, Estonia, where I am now sipping a latte and awaiting the arrival of Hannaliisa Uusmaa.

Oh, latte! I have never felt more alive!

Saturday, 4 April 2009

Since the arrival of Barack Obama in Europe, there has been a suspicious 300% increase in the number of "funky" dance tracks on the European DJ hot 100 charts.

Friday, 3 April 2009

Some punk-ass kids stole my Smart Car the other night. Since I'm technically not supposed to be living in Romania, I felt it unwise to go to the police to recover it (I'd be deported on the spot).

So I hired the White Tights to recover the car for me. These long-legged Eastern European femme-fatales seduced the three carjackers at The 416. After taking them to the edge of town, they handcuffed them inside an abandoned Dacia 500 (on the pretense of a sex game). Then they pistol-whipped the ring-leader and extracted two of his fingernails with pliers. This, in turn, successfully extracted a confession regarding the whereabouts of my Smart Car. The girls thanked them all for the information, then rolled the Dacia off a mountain. The guilty trio were likely picked apart by the rooks and jackdaws endemic to the region. Problem solved; let's just get on with our lives!

Well, last night I was arrested for my role in RECOVERING MY OWN FUGGIN' CAR. Yeah! I'm tweeting from a goddamn Romanian jail! (I should take a moment to thank Veronique, my former 19-year-old French maid, who has agreed to compile, edit, and post these tweetings here. I will do that in a future post.)

There is hope that something will be worked out. It will probably involve a promise to leave Romania pronto. Either that, or I might stay and run for president of this country.

Saturday, 14 March 2009

Just watched the Melodifestivalen final. I wanted Alcazar to win. They didn't. But now is not a time for political division. I am asking all Alcazar fans to cast their full support behind "La Voix." Even though it totally rips-off Puccini.

Friday, 13 March 2009

Congratulations to Malena Ernman and Fredrik Kempe! In an age where it seems every other song on the charts rips off (or "pays homage to") some tune from the 80s, 90s, or this decade, their "La voix", which competes in tomorrow's Melodifestivalen final for a chance to represent Sweden at Eurovision 2009, manages to be the first tune in many decades to rip off a tru Eurotrash original: Puccini's "Nessun dorma"!

And lest you think the similarity between the chorus of "La voix" and the familiar, main melody of "Nessun dorma" is just a coincidence, may I remind you that Kempe made a Eurotrash dance hit out of a cover of "Nessun dorma" back in 2002, titled "Vincerò."

Mr. Kempe! Tomorrow the ghost of Puccini is watching Melodifestivalen! AND HE WANTS ROYALTIES!!!!

Thursday, 5 February 2009

Greetings from Nearly Mr. Lava. Real Mr. Lava has asked me to stand in for him while he recovers from all those late nights and long hours making Set Number 29 for y'all. He requested—or rather, I requested, I suppose—that I effectively Lava, or nearly so, until...I return from whatever it is I am doing and take over

Wednesday, 4 February 2009

Greetings from Romania. I am Nearly Mr. Lava. Real Mr. Lava has outsourced his blogging to me so that he can concentrate on building up other parts of the website. In the meantime, please treat me as if I were the real Mr. Lava.

So. What's shaking, dudes?

Thursday, 29 January 2009

As it was heading out the door, the Bush administration slapped a 300% duty on Eurodance in retaliation for lower consumption of American hip-hop music amongst EU nations.

Wednesday, 28 January 2009

Got sued for a million euros by my former record label. The suit alleges that my latest single, "Furious Asses," is a rip-off of my own "The Beat That Fucks You Up the Ass." Because Maxximum Dance owns the rights to "The Beat..." they are suing me and the head of my current record label (a talented and now completely terrified 20 year-old Dutch kid).

The Dutch kid makes a good point when he says that this lawsuit is some major insult to injury, considering that "Furious Asses" has sold only three copies.

Thursday, 15 January 2009

I have picked up a cold and a cocaine habit, though I think both are finally under control, at least as much as they're ever reasonably going to be.

Wednesday, 7 January 2009

When your country's Russian gas supplies have been cut, there's one good way to keep warm: EURODANCE!!!!! Also: sex.

Wednesday, 7 January 2009 (cont.)


Monday, 5 January 2009

I am not the father of Rachida Dati's child.

Wednesday, 31 December 2008

I recorded a kickin' electro version of ABBA's "Happy New Year" about a month ago that's ready to rock tonight's New Year's Eve parties! But unfortunately, due to a scheduling mix-up, my label is releasing it the Tuesday after next.

Monday, 22 December 2008

Christmas traditions past: Donning a Santa suit to make a cameo appearance in Andre's "Noapte de vis" video. Grooving to the Yuletide sounds of Crazy Frog. Celebrating a "Cheeky" Christmas with my (former) best friends the Cheeky Girls. And Dannii Minogue's 1991 reading of "A Visit from St. Nicholas."

Wednesday, 17 December 2008

My record label, Maxximum Dance Productions, came up with a great promotional campaign for my latest 12", "Da Shit." They asked me to donate a sample of my own stool to mix into the vinyl during the manufacturing process. So a few weeks ago I hung my derriere over a churning, black tub of liquid vinyl until my donation was made. The stool was then swirled into the wax until it was equally disseminated throughout the product.

Unfortunately, like oil and water, stool and vinyl do not fuse very well. Consequently, the resultant records proved very brittle. Every one of them broke during shipping. That's why there are no copies of "Da Shit" available anywhere anymore.

We also found that the thin veneer of urine spread over the surfaces of my CDs was too opaque for laser readers.

Tuesday, 16 December 2008

It is a Romanian tradition to slaughter a hog on the Ignat Day. To that end, my DJ friends and I rented ourselves a nice little place in the country where "Vasile," our pig, is growing fatter by the day. Some pig! :-)

Don't know why we named him. Personifying the animal is going to make it that much harder to tie his struggling legs together, pull back his head, stab him deeply in the throat, and pull up forcibly on the blade as the hot blood splashes out!

Monday, 15 December 2008

I'm in that warm, fuzzy place you visit the day after a heavy night of drinking and a couple of hours after you have taken two headache tablets. Squinting right now at the Eminescu tree in Copou Park. Park is pretty deserted; temperatures falling. A feral dog trots past.

I have never felt more alive.

Tuesday, 3 December 2008

A year ago I attended the wedding of my friend Marco and his beautiful architectural journalist girlfriend Hannah. The reception, held on a party barge in Amsterdam, was excellent. I hooked up with another attendee who turned out to be a bit wonky, but after the passage of time and some changes to my Facebook profile security settings I look back on the evening with fondness.

Marco was a bit stressed right after the wedding. In addition to adjusting to married life he also had to defend his PhD thesis. But things worked out, and he hosted a get-together at a club in Vienna to celebrate his doctorate. There, several of his friends inquired about my life. I told them that nothing much had been going on in it.

Shortly thereafter, Marco accepted a mid-six figures salary at an international IT company. The job required his relocating to Paris for a few years, so Marco threw a farewell party at his and Hannah's flat in Vienna to celebrate the transition. I checked into a cheap hotel and shuttled over to his place by cab. I spent the evening talking with several women—all of them married, engaged, or ugly—and then returned to my hotel room alone, save for the company of an unseen variety of rodent that gnawed on the insides of the walls throughout the night.

A month later, Marco threw a housewarming party in Paris. Unfortunately, I was DJ'ing a private party in Tirana at the time and could not attend. That's too bad, because in Tirana I was repeatedly punched by a drunk Serbian nationalist after I refused to play a Ceca song (the reason for my failing to accommodate the request being that the host of the party had told me that if I played Serbian music he would "gut me"). By the way, I hope my noting in this public forum ten months later that I am still awaiting payment for my DJ services is not "gut-worthy"!

Some time after that, over beers at a posh Paris nightspot, Marco announced that Hannah was pregnant. I bought him a drink and toasted his impending fatherhood. Too many beers later, most of them consumed by me, Marco abandoned me at a bar somewhere in Montmartre, where I was arrested.

And a month ago Marco's and Hannah's kid came into the world! A party (actually billed "A Celebration"—Marco and Hannah are not so into "parties" anymore) was announced. By (un)happy coincidence I happened already to be in Paris on that date; I was due to appear in court to defend myself from a lawsuit filed by the owner of an apartment complex in which I had rented a space briefly some time back (a minor misunderstanding regarding the last month's rent). After the court ruled against me, I dropped in on Marco's and Hannah's soirée at their spacious studio pad. Due to having had a bit of a "head start" on the day's drinking, I passed out on their couch near the beginning of the "celebration." To clear some additional sitting room for his other guests, Marco rolled me into a taxi.

It's been such a delight celebrating all the milestones in Marco's and Hannah's lives in 2008!

Monday, 2 December 2008

Spun tunes at the Sweat Machine in Lviv, Ukraine, Saturday night (following a great performance by Alena Vinnitskaya—kisses!). About 500 enthusiastic Ukrainians demonstrated that they can party as hard as anybody in Europe—despite the fact that the dreams of the 2004 Orange Revolution have been dashed forever.

I opened with hard electro, which no doubt surprised some of the patrons. Some might even have been as disappointed as they were by Prime Minister Tymoshenko's recent kowtowing to the Russians, President Yushchenko's complete and utter political impotency, and the petty rivalry that has come to define the relationship between those two former teammates over the last few years.

But then I transitioned into an uplifting set of classic Eurodance, which no doubt comforted those who feared I'd gone all trendy in my tastes. For the hundreds packed on the dancefloor, the throbbing sounds of Culture Beat's "Mister Vain" provided temporary respite from the thought that Russia will likely cut off Ukraine's gas supply on January 1st.

Arms waved and people sang—even though it appears Ukraine has no hope of ever being anything more than Russia's much-abused stepchild!

Afterward, rosy-cheeked students, every last one of them betrayed and abandoned by their politicians, stumbled deliriously into the cold night air babbling enthusiastically about the evening of entertainment I had provided them. They were blissfully unconcerned by the fact that a NATO path to membership is now out of the question for Ukraine, which in turn casts serious doubt over any possibility of Ukraine ever joining the European Union, thus relegating the future course of the country to the caprices of Russia, meaning a likely eventual end to Ukraine's free press, economic growth, and democracy in the near future!


Wednesday, 26 November 2008

The economy has changed DJ'ing. A lot of Moldovan DJs are spinning in Romania because there's more money to be made in this country. They are welcome, actually, as they are filling a void left by departing Romanian DJs who are jetting to Poland and Hungary to make bigger bucks. Meanwhile, Polish and Hungarian DJs are turning up all over Germany and Austria. And the German and Austrian DJs are flying out to Moscow, where oligarchs with murky pasts are paying them triple what they'd earn in Berlin.

I myself live in Iasi because the cost of living is cheaper (rent sets me back only ten dollars a month, though I share a room with six other DJs). The city has its own airport and dedicated airline (the planes were donated sometime after the first World War), so it's convenient for me to fly off in a SPAD S.XIII to various destinations like le Suquet in Cannes, where I might DJ from atop the Tour de las Castre for an audience of several hundred lucky NRJ FM radio contest winners.

Lately I have accepted some gigs in the United States (all in Queens, NY) because the dollar has been doing relatively well against the euro and the Romanian leu. And America, my country of origin, has now dangled an exceptionally enticing fruit of temptation before me.

You see, I am considering an offer President-elect Barack Obama has extended me: a personal invitation to join the Obama White House in the capacity of House DJ. I would replace the U.S. Marine Band (popularly known as "The President's Own," so Obama can do with it as he chooses). This makes abundant sense. Paying one guy to handle all the music at the inaugaration is wiser than shelling out salaries for 130 Sousa-playing musicians. I mean, who really listens to Sousa anymore?

Fuck Sousa!

Sunday, 26 October 2008

The European Ornithological Society has completed a grueling project wherein every individual bird in Europe has been tagged with a tiny transmitter. The tag identifies the species and provides specific information about that bird. So, if one is confused as to which species of Calidris sandpiper one is observing, simply point a hand-held tag reader in the direction of the bird in question and—Voila!—the bird will be properly identified for you. Plus, you can learn where and when it was captured and tagged in the first place. Amazing!

Since the tag is a transmitter, it also serves to locate birds, which is great news for birdwatchers pursuing a glimpse of the rare red-breasted goose on the Danube.

And it's just as useful for hunters attempting to track down a rare-red breasted goose for the dinner table! :-)

Sunday, 26 October 2008 (cont.)

I haven't had red-breasted goose in years.

Thursday, 23 October 2008

Today's Question of the Day Today: To turn my life around, should I join the Objectivists, the Scientologists, or Alcoholics Anonymous?

Thursday, 23 October 2008 (cont.)

Not dissuaded by their poor showing in yesterday's conversion competition, the Jehovah's Witnesses who participated have formed a psy trance group called "Jehovian Satellites."

Incidentally, the group's name was a Googlenope before today.

Wednesday, 22 October 2008

I was witness to an extraordinary competition held between Objectivists (adherents to the writings of Ayn Rand), Scientologists (adherents to the writings of L. Ron Hubbard), and Jehovah's Witnesses (crazy muthafuckers). Goal was to convert the most people to their philosophy/religion in 24 hours.

It was not much of a competition. Since it was held in Germany, the Scientologists were rounded up and gassed. The Objectivists won, largely because confused Germans kept asking the Witnesses, "Was ist 'religion'?"

To be honest, I have always been foggy about what Objectivism is, since Ayn Rand wrote only a few thousand pages on the subject. Fortunately, the Ayn Rand Institute offers DVDs, CDs, supplementary non-Rand-authored works, and symposiums to help clarify what wasn't obvious in Rand's massive tomes.

That's the Ayn Rand Institute. Visit the site today!

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