HIATUS

Summer's over, excuses for sparse updates are thin, so this blog is going on official hiatus. Oh, yeah, that's because I'm going to Amsterdam for four months. I know what you're thinking, given the context, but it's just to finish my degree. We'll resume destructive anti-social activities next year, God permitting.

In the meantime, add Hed Phuq'ers to your RSS feed in anticipation and we'll still be accepting the odd freelance submission. Happy trails.

The Fuccons: Mannequin Republic Comin' At Ya

by J. Kane

Been a while, hasn't it? Here's the Fuccons for you. Why ruin it by explaining it or ruining? The Fuccons are zen, they just are, there is no explanation.

Weekend Buzz: Issue 13: Luck Be With You

Hey there, hope your summer is going well. Enjoy your weekend with a nice mind bender and thank yourself for being normal and boring.

Weekend Buzz: Issue 12: Record Round-up

In case you need something to clog up your torrents.

Record Round-up – King Kill


Well what have we in the world of music to give a damn about lately, eh? It just so happens that a certain T. Rezzy has given us another free dose of synthy goodness. That’s right, his new album with irrelevant close friend, and wife named something I’m not looking up, under the name How to Destroy Angels.

Weekend Buzz: Issue 11: Surprises!

You never know when a Weekend Buzz is gonna strike. Even I don't. How about a lazy Saturday afternoon? Yay!

Here are some more things you may not expect, courtesy of Musov Shoko.

Blu: Transformation and Decay on the City Streets

Blu (graffiti artist active 1999 - present)
by J. Kane




Blu is as anonymous as Banksy, but instead of stencils, the Italian artist uses housepaint and roller poles to create detailed, surreal graffiti. To top that, he makes animations, right on the walls. You've probably seen 'Muto' as it made rounds thru YouToob, but his latest 'Big Bang Big Boom' takes it up a notch, especially for someone with their head in the clouds.

Weekend Buzz: Issue 10: Summer Lethargy Edition

Did you think I was dead? Ha, you wish! It's summmmmmmmmer. I'm out exploring the world, setting the desert on fire, killing what's left of my precious ear drums. You should do the same after blowing your brains out on this miscellaneous medley of weird.





Best for last: Let the couch potato tell you about wormholes.

A Guide to Fucking Up Your Friends With 'Tobacco'

Tobacco (2008-Present)
(Buy this and get addicted)
reviewed by J. Kane

Trip-o-meter: 10/10


Just like cigarettes, Tobacco is disgustingly seductive. He will pour his filth down your throat, songs like "Truck Sweat" or "Hairy Candy," and you'll like it. You'll get addicted to it's grooves. And since peer pressure is good for you, here's a compulsive guide to fucking up your stuck-up friends.

Weekend Buzz: Issue 9: Love and Theft

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe this is all you'll need to get your weekend on track.






Should you need more, check out Vince Collins again.

The Fantastic Planet: Red-Eyed, Psychic, Blue People Eaters

The Fantastic Planet (La Planète Sauvage) (1973)
(go to SPAAAAACE)
reviewed by J. Kane

Trip-O-Meter: 8/10



A good sci-fi film immerses you in it's particular world, but few hold your head underwater as long as René Laloux's masterpiece, The Fantastic Planet. First off, it's a French cartoon about gigantic psychic blue people called Draags who rule a surreal, savage planet where humans (called Oms) are considered pests and routinely exterminated. Second off -- well, by now you should be gasping for air.

Girl Talk: Everything At Once

Girl Talk (2001-present)
(OMG! BUY THE SHIT OUT OF ME!)
reviewed by J. Kane


Trip-O-Meter: 8.5/10




At first Greg Gillis seems like just another queer drinking Brisk iced tea who plays a laptop because he doesn't have any friends and can't use a guitar. C'mon, his project is called 'Girl Talk.' Does it get any more lame than that, short of Owl City?
Hold up, wait a minute. It's a Trojan horse!

Weekend Buzz: Issue Ocho: The Psychedelic Qualities of the Deep

Whoever watches videos like these and then say "I'm never going swimming again," have it all wrong. It's time to deepthroat a bubbler, dive under and twist your mind around the psychedelic qualities of the deep. Go out and explore the world. Just don't get the bends coming up.

Weekend Buzz: Issue Seven: Short Films

Welcome to a new issue of Weekend Buzz. This weekend, don't play video games, don't watch TV. Go outside. Breath unrecycled air. Feel summer. Get sunburned. Pick at it. Get molested by nature.

After you bake your mind on these short films and some ungodly substance.

Surprise! Drug Policies in the UK are Retarded

Ever heard of Mephedrone? If you're from North America, probably not, but it's one of those interesting drugs you can buy online, legally. Up until last March, you could buy Mephedrone legally in the UK, but, predictably, the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs (ACMD) fucked that one up.

Mephedrone is like a magickal combination of coke and ecstasy, except it's neither, so sniffing it is was perfectly lawful. For once, somewhere, it was okay to feel alert, euphoric, excited and stimulated. And like most things "legally" sold online it was "not for human consumption" and relabeled as something bland. The same way Spice is being called incense, Mephedrone was marketed as a fertilizer.

But if you consumed it anyway, you had quite a fun time. Now it's illegal for no reason other than to say, "Fuck you. You wanna get high through your nose? Go get some suspicious looking capsules from the street corner."

A bunch of members from the ACMD resigned after this whole debacle, basically saying, "This program couldn't get any more confusing and idiotic." After the ACMD (sorta) decriminalized marijuana and then recriminalized it again, making a fertilizer illegal almost seems intelligent.People will get high one way or another, so why couldn't they do it through the mail? If something went wrong, like with the poor kid who OD'ed on Mephedrone while smoking pot (something seems fishy about that story) at least they'd have someone to sue. If a drug hurts you, you can't sue a drug dealer because then you'll get locked up for using the drug in the first place. It's like drug laws don't actually protect you!

Just remember, if you get a boner too long, you can sue Viagra, but if you overdose and flop around on the bathroom floor, you can't get any retribution from the guy who cut your coke with dish soap.

The only good that's come of this so far is that people are unable to ignore the many holes in their government's drug policies, the biggest of which is, that we need them at all.

Prozac Adventures

Do not fuck around with anti-depressants. You'll end up in a crippling tear-drenched sadness coma, curled up in a ball under your desk, one inch away from suicide. Yet, someone gave me a box of Prozac and Lithium to "sell" to kids at school. Um, yeah, anyway.

I easily could have tricked some yuppie into thinking these pills were ecstasy, but instead of selling my conscience for a fiver, I flushed them down the toilet, releasing them into the water supply. Either a lot of people are going to feel a boost like no other or I made a lot of fish very, very happy.

Bye bye, Prozac!

I also had liquid Prozac, which I applied a little "Drink Me" sticker to and left in a park. Perchance some lucky homeless man stumbled upon the bottle, took the advice and had a very different day from usual.

Holy Moses, what have I done? And how will I ever know the unjust ramifications of my actions? I don't watch broadcast news (some things really will screw up your brain beyond repair) so I'll never hear of any rampaging Prozac outbreaks. I'll just have to sit here and imagine.

Weekend Buzz: Issue Six: Dismal Dissonance Edition

Someday we're gonna give you a guide to curating you're own LSA from nature's Heavenly flower, the Morning Glory. If you're already nursing a hangover, like I am, hopefully the following will ease you into a Phuq'ed up weekend. This week's theme demonstrates the disgusting beauty of the human vocal cords.








Well, I guess at least half of this post is just mocking foreigners.

Monday Buzz: Spiky Spicy Stupid

That shit Spice crap put me in a coma for three days. I hear that shit's cancerous, too, so now I've got massive tumors growing out of my chest to worry about. Stick with what's real, folks. Nature ain't gonna kill you.

Anyways, have a nice weekend? Wait. . .

Well, it's 4:20 somewhere, watch this shit.




Educational:




Sensational:

The Weirdness: What's Weird is Iggy Is Still Alive

The Weirdness (2007)
Iggy Pop and the Stooges
(ick. some people will sell anything.)
reviewed by King Kill

Trip-O-Meter: 0/10

Iggy, it is time to go die. Unless you did already like fifteen years back. You damn well should’ve. Seriously, you look like a five-foot tall screaming foreskin. Just try owning a t-shirt. See how it works out. But I digress.

I remember when The Weirdness had just been announced. I was overwhelmed with glee that I get the rare opportunity to have part of a legendary bands legacy occur in my lifetime. I remember when it finally came out in 2007 and I stole it off the internet…. And then I remember not being able to listen to any portion of their discography for a very long while after that.

Weekend Buzz: Issue Five: Russians and Puppets

Hed Phuq'ers will resume a more updated schedule when we get around to it. For now, get fucked up on these Russian puppets and puppet Russians and enjoy your weekend.







Best for last:

Summer of Misdeeds

The Summer of my Miscreant
by King Kill

School is out for summer. The three months that follow hold a great deal of promise that will invariably give way to a sense of guilt and lethargy in August as we all look back at how we squandered our time. Well no more! It is time to create our hedphuqing summer bucket lists. We’re all going to die someday but if we’re lucky our seasonal bucket list can be the facilitator. These are not feats that we want to reflect back on proudly before we die of old age. This is the shit that’ll get us there faster. So come on everybody, post your list in the comments so it’s documented and at the beginning of the fall we’ll recollect on our successes and mourn the fallen brethren that couldn’t live up to their list.


1. Reach the summit of a 14teener.

There are so many unfortunate ramifications to being young. We won’t realize our own vitality until it has withered away. There are only so many years of my life left that I’ll be so able-bodied to even be capable of certain feats. That said, I’m going to climb some damn mountains.

2. Meander the streets of the inner city in the middle of the day with a head full of acid, making words with at least one public official.

Tripping in seclusion is all well and good but how can you terrify the locals when you’re so far from Main Street? It’s time to get freaky and freak out some suits.


3. Live in the wild without a tent or any modern convenience, living only off the land for at least one night.

We’ve lost our connection with nature but I’m certain it can be restored.


4. Attend a show or event with no intent on paying admittance. The grander the better.

We’ve all gotten special treatment for one fateful reason or another but to say, approach Cricket Pavilion with only the intention of scaling a wall or creating a diversion holds a new element of danger.


5. Join an underground society and attend a gathering. Must be subversive in some degree.

Whether it be the Freemason or the Arizona Power Exchange, I must infiltrate the organization to an extent not typically allowed OR become aware of a society that isn’t open to the public to any extent, “Anonymous” for example.


6. Scout out and infiltrate a condemned or securely private property

An old, abandoned hospital or a graveyard would do. I must enter, investigate thoroughly and either take a memento or leave a mark of some kind.

So that’s mine, let’s hear yours….

Weekend Buzz: Issue Four: Satan and Friends

Hey, remember us? Here's something to get your weekend jumpstarted. And just remember, you can't jizz on a cracker and call it caviar.




Those crazy Dutch. Must be all those great coffeeshops.



But the Dutch aren't as bad as the Norwegians.


Every talk show should be like this. Imagine Jon Stewart talking like this. Larry King interviewing people who matter. Imagine Bill O'Reilley chillin' the fuck out.

Vince Collins: Acid Animator of Abomination

Vince Collins
(it's in here somewhere . . .)
reviewed by J. Kane
Trip-O-Meter: 10/10


I've luckily never had a bad trip and Vince Collins makes never want to. His animation style is incredibly disturbing and to make matters worse, it's flawless. Disney doesn't have shit on this guy. "Malice In Wonderland" is probably his masterpiece, retelling Lewis Carroll's classic tale from the perspective of a raving, drugged-out sex fiend who is raping your eyeballs with a cock made of pure DMT. Moreover, it makes Tim Burton's remake look like a steaming pile of crap. Collins is two for two.

I'm not gonna say much more. Just don't blame me if in 13 minutes, you never recover. (Also, some of these are NSFW.)



Look at this! He even makes patriotic bullshit seem like a backwards acid trip!



Last one. And to think, they played this shit in movie theaters! Totally normal people saw this and had no idea what to think!

Weekend Buzz: Issue Three: Muddle Muddle Muddle

It's Muddle Week! As of this post, there are a 173 videos, all like this, from the wonderful butchtuffington. Wrap your head around that as you taste these:









potaluca: How did you get a hold of my dream last night?
butchtuffington: I was there too.

Underworld: Beautiful Filth for the Confused

KAZ's Underworld (1992 - present)
(buy a book. you know what those are, right?)
reviewed by J. Kane
Trip-O-Meter: 8/10

Besides having a trippy name Kazimieras G. Prapuolenis, (Kaz for short) draws gritty, nasty, awesome comics called Underworld. Written with zen flair and drawn like smutty underground 'toons from the 80's, the jokes really don't make sense unless you're baked. But if you are, Underworld is a gem, hilarious and beautiful and a fitting commentary on contemporary society. Or as they say, "It's so beautiful, man!"

(click if you can't read these)

Here's a good example: Making fun of beat culture is almost too easy, but it seems like there's a deeper message here as well.

I first read KAZ in The Arizona Republic's awful response to the Phoenix New Times, The Rep (you can read some of the wonderful hate mail the comic received). Eventually Kaz got kicked out, but he didn't care. He just does his own thing and isn't trying to make money.
The Rep has since gone under, which is good, since only idiots from Sun City seemed to read it. Anyway, I was 12 and didn't understand what the hell was going on in Underworld. Now, looking back, I totally get the jokes and I feel much more mature. Except this comic can sometimes be immature. What a conundrum!












You can read a good bulk of Underworld's archive here. A couple episodes of Underworld are also animated. These will burst a brain vessel or two, especially "Happy Home" and "Damn Kids." Enjoy!

Who Killed Sgt. Pepper?: Entering the Mind of a Killer

Who Killed Sgt. Pepper? (2010) - Brian Jonestown Massacre
(Give Anton your money. You know he needs it.)
reviewed by King Kill
Trip-O-Meter: 10/10

(please welcome our first guest contributor, King Kill. Submit your own review here.)

Anytime I am asked for an opinion on The Brian Jonestown Massacre or its narcissistic frontman Anton Newcombe I am left fumbling for words. BJM experiences an indefinable mesh of love and hate with the rest of the world. Anton is forever locked in an alternate universe built of rock n’ roll; but this rock isn’t familiar; it can’t be boiled down to sheet music and key signatures. The world Anton inhabits is brash and ugly, cymbals and earthy groans spurt out in no sort of melody. Anton Newcombe is oblivious to what music is and could never hope of imitating it. No doubt he’s full of influence but it doesn’t permeate into anything recognizable.

The music of BJM streams out straight from Anton’s mind with hair-splitting precision. It doesn’t make it good necessarily, but it certainly is unique. Anton doesn’t grasp good, bad, or unique. He only knows how to represent it physically through instrument and voice.

That said, I hate most of his albums. His pursuit for perfection doesn’t promise clean cuts or clear vocals. I’ve seen what passes for a studio for BJM and it ain’t always pretty. His vision shines through often enough that he should still be highly regarded as an artist, probably more so than a musician. The creative energy is high enough in the room that acoustics don’t always matter.

Who Killed Sgt Pepper? runs the usual gamut of ludicrous track titles but something about the tone of the album lends a certain ominous nature to the names. As if they know something you do not but they hope you figure it out quick.

The album was recorded in Iceland, which you can feel in some off way. There is timeless aura to the tracks, making them feel far away, undisturbed by reality. The vocals are impeccable, particularly compared to his previous works, but are most notable for their ambiguity. There is no single distinct voice on the album; constantly changing tone, gender, or even language make you feel as though they aren’t actually singing to or for you.

On the track “This is the First of Your Last Warnings”, a computerized male voice warns you of something unknown. It is never specified, even when the lovely voice of a young woman calls for something mysterious in a foreign language.

The next track, "This Is The One Thing We Did Not Want To Have Happen" has more typical male vocal patterns but it’s clear the lyrics are meaningless. They are supposed to be felt inside the music, not adhered to. The music rarely feels driven or climatic anywhere on the album but every track feels like it is in perpetual motion as if they continue going even after you change the song. It’s the musical equivalent of watching a David Lynch film. Everything that the music is supposed to be is thrown out the window even though all the fundamentals are there. Lynch doesn’t just throw shit on a screen, he still tells simple stories, but displayed through a perspective so skewed it jars our subconscious.

Even the greatest films and albums are built on things that make sense. Smile means happy, death is bad, time is constant, lead vocals/protagonists, musical structure, etc… Who Killed Sgt Pepper? Exists inside a vacuum, every track drives with blazing intensity but the intensity is never satiated or justified nor do they need to be. The thundering beats that comprise “Someplace Else Unknown” feel entirely set apart from the dissident vocals of a junkie, desperate for a fix. And that leads directly into “Detka Detka Detka”, a whimsical and fun but ultimately unnecessary track with Icelandic vocals and a bouncing beat that will infect your ears like no pop track should.

This and the easily passed over “White Music” are the only real oddballs of the album. Everything else comes together to create a potent groove that’ll keep you coming back -- not because it is varied or complex but because the meticulous composition is extremely confident. It shouldn’t all fit together this well and if you only play the album at face value, it won’t. You have to accept that you’re riding down the stream of consciousness inside the mind of the beast that killed Sgt Pepper. So when you hear them calling “Let’s Go Fucking Mental!” don’t be fooled, it isn’t a call to party, it’s your last chance to run.

Submit Your Shit

Hed Phuq'ers cares about your expression as much as ours.

The header at the top was designed using this image. You can submit your own for our use, much like Wooster Collective does.

You can also submit your own psychedelic artwork which we will feature on the site. See example:

And, as you may already know you can submit your own reviews of fucked up shit.

You will be given due credit. All submissions should be sent to fireserphent@gmail.com

Get to it!

Weekend Buzz: Issue Two

Well, it's not too late for issue two of Weekend Buzz. Hope these fuck you up real good. Watch them again and again, will ya?

Adidas did something right. Check out their other color commercials.


Try to get through this without losing your head.


Umm....


Yes.

Blood for Dracula: Andy Warhol is a Vampire

Blood for Dracula (1974)
(buy this sick shit and just leave it on at parties)
reviewed by J. Kane
Trip-o-Meter: 8/10


If you know anything about Andy Warhol besides that he painted soup, you know he was a sickly pale, whiny bitch. Which is why, when I discovered Andy Warhol presents Dracula, I knew I had to buy it. The VHS cover was very misleading - it didn't tell anything about the director (Paul Morrissey) or actors or even the rating. In fact, it said more about cameos from directors Roman Polanski and Vittorio De Sica than it did anything useful.
When I popped the tape in, it told me this film was rated X. Holy shit. 1970'S X-rated films are legendary or something.
Then, the title cards say this film is called Blood for Dracula. It turns out that there are several titles for this film, including Young Dracula, something in French and the most popular, Andy Warhol's Dracula, which we'll go with.

It starts out like every Dracula film you've ever seen - and you only need to see one to have seen them all. But already something's different here. Maybe tricks with the light. The music, which seems to be only two tracks - one for exciting and one for calm. Or it's the pale Udo Kier as the Count applies makeup in front of a mirror, with no reflection. What a trip.
That's about how far the mythology goes. Garlic isn't Dracula's kryptonite - he's just deathly allergic. Crosses make him cross-eyed and he isn't evaporated by sunlight, he's just really, really stuffy in it.
And this reveals the truth - this Dracula represents Andy Warhol. He's an old, sickly, whiny bitch. There is none of the suave, collected horror from the original classic Dracula. There isn't the fawning, drooling stalking from Twilight. No, Andy Warhol's Dracula reveals what a vampire really is. A vampire isn't some demi-god creature and he isn't a shimmering faggot. He's just a rusty old pervert that gets off on blood, just like those freaks that call themselves vampires in real life.
Everything about this movie is bizarre, from the old grindhouse scratches on the film to the distant dialogue, the drawn-out conversations about Romanian lettuce to every character's bulging, psychotic eyeballs. Every character sounds flamboyantly gay with heavy European accents dripping with so much over-acting it almost seems convincing. Almost.
This Dracula changed the way I perceive vampires entirely, more than 30 Days of Night or Interview with the Vampire ever could. It totally took away the mystery of this mythology and turned it into a brilliant joke. Who could expect less from Warhol and Morrissey?

So anyway, Dracula's sociopathic adviser Anton tells the Count he will die unless he drinks the blood of a virgin. Why does Dracula believe this guy? Well, why not.
As there are no virgins in Romania (probably true) the two roadtrip to Italy with Dracula's coffin strapped to the roof, like something out of A Goofy Movie. Dracula moves into the mansion of a wealthy family whose estate is falling apart. These poor bastards are in a lot debt, so to get some money they propose to marry one of their four daughters off to Dracula (brilliant idea) but of course, she must be a virgin!
There's only one servant, a Communist bastard named Mario (played by Joe Dallesandro, one of Warhol's wonder boys) who has fucked all but two of the four daughters. There's a lot of random stripping and sex and even some sisterly incest, but most of it's rape. Mario constantly beats the shit out of these girls and rapes the hell out of them. The raping gets so mundane that he actually starts humming. He's bored!
Well, Dracula seduces these women, meaning he holds them down and sucks their neck. Dracula and the girls seem to get off on it, until the old vampire realizes it isn't truly virgin blood and he vomits, violently, everywhere. It's insanely funny and disturbing.
(update: orig. vid was taken down, but this should do, for now)


Dracula is still gonna die if he doesn't get virgin blood soon, but by now jealous Mario has figured out Dracula's secret. So he tells the youngest daughter, Perla, a 14-year-old, they need to have sex. "C'mon, for your own protection." Of all the slimy ways to get a girl into bed, this is one of the best. Perla still says no, so Mario rapes her anyway, until they're interrupted by the mother, who believes Mario's story and let's it slide. Thanks, Mom.
That's not even the worst part. Dracula arrives at the crime scene and licks up the virgin blood. Ugh. That's almost as bad as sucking used tampons at a middle school.
The last virgin in the house, Esmeralda, just gives herself up to Dracula. Why the fuck not.

Spoiling the ending should be fine, since you probably know the routine.
Anton stabs the mother and gets shot in the forehead. Mario the rapist saves the day by hacking off every one of Dracula's limbs with a hatchet. This is the funniest scene in the movie, very "Here's Johnny!" meets The Black Knight. Dracula even says you can't hurt me, ("It's just a flesh wound!") right before Mario pounds a huge stake through the Counts heart.
Esmeralda comes in screaming and throws herself onto the stake, Romeo and Juliet style. Except Romeo is humorously amputated and Esmeralda is kind of hanging above him. Now Mario owns the estate, where he is free to rape the remaining three girls. He just has to explain to the police why there are half a dozen corpses lying around. Vampires, I swear.

This film will completely freak you out, worming it's way into your mind for centuries. Unless you're totally desensitized to rape and porno-violence; if so, you may want to see a counselor, Ed Gein.
It also has some of the greatest lines in cinema from "I'd like to rape her real good," to "the blood of these whores is killing me!"

Bonus:
All the different posters are really fascinating as well as the history behind the film. It was made out of boredom, really, after Andy Warhol's Flesh for Frankenstein, which sounds just as awfully good.
Also, here's a bizarre reenactment. YouTube, you're the best. And by best I mean, why in God's name do you exist?

Weekend Buzz: Issue One

Here's a fun little list to get you started on your weekend. The rest of it is up to you.

• Seizure Robots - Click, especially if you're epileptic.

• Banned clip from The Adventures of Mark Twain
As if clay people making more clay people isn't weird enough . . . 
"What's your name?"
"Satan!"



•Dock Ellis tells a good story about his infamous LSD trip.



• It probably has to do with heroin being legal or something, but cartoons a long time ago rock.



See you next week.

The Brave Little Toaster Goes to Mars: Take a Trip to Space

The Brave Little Toaster Goes to Mars (1998)
(buy this: ruin your little brat's psyche)
reviewed by J. Kane
Trip-O-Meter: 8/10

It's no secret that children's programming is really fucking trippy. This is in part to do with kids being stoned all the time, something to do with underdeveloped brain chemistry or something. Why do you think they're so happy? Hell, they need it, because God knows life is shitty enough without drugs -- imagine going through it when your brain is about as useful as a baked potato. It'd be a nightmare.
It's also no secret that children's cartoonists hate their jobs. When your biggest fans still poop their pants and will forget about you in less time than it takes to MAKE a single episode, you gotta wonder where your life went. Like most of us losers, they resort to massive amounts of psychedelics. How else do you explain forgotten gems like The Brave Little Toaster Goes to Mars?
Similar to the Old Man and The Sea (Hemingway would shoot me for this comparison) TBLTGTM explains the entire plot in the title. What else is there to get? A toaster, that is brave (and little) travels to the Red Planet. It doesn't make sense, (it doesn't have to), but there you have it.
But after viewing a VHS copy purchased for $0.75, I've found there's so much more. This video (based on a book by Who-The-Fuck-Cares) is an example of Disney's retard stepchild straight-to-video market, making these middle-aged, drug-addled cartoonists resent their lives all the more. So they threw in a plethora of embittered sexual innuendos while at the same time vicariously explaining the meaning of life to a market of daycare preschoolers whose parents don't have time to tell them what sex is. More on that in a moment.

At first, TBLTGTM seems like a boring, everyday cartoon. Then your jaw falls into your crotch as the appliances come alive; a toaster, a lamp, a radio, an electric blanket and a vacuum cleaner, among other things. And then they start talking, spouting these bullshit philosophies about life and death. It's creepy, like talking doll creepy, especially coupled with sing-alongs from cutesy hell.
A baby comes into the picture and the appliances ask, "Where do babies come from?"
Totally avoiding the question, the lamp (aptly named Lampy) responds, "I dunno, but it must be very nice."
The appliances love the baby, calling him the Little Master and singing this godawful song about how wonderful newborns are. Then, a hearing aid that was once owned by Albert Einstein (no kidding) tries to beam himself to Mars, instead sending the Little Master into space. What. The. Fuck.
The appliances, led by Toaster, decide to go to space. How? "Going to Mars is easy!" the little fuckers say. How easy? They strap a chatty ceiling fan to a laundry basket, hookup a calculator to a microwave and insert some Pop Secret. Yes, that's right, popcorn can fly you to Mars. Think about that the next time you get the munchies.
Now, while soaring thru space and shit, the cluster of contraptions find a bunch of balloons that were let go and soured up into the stratosphere. A hippie balloon talks about how "high" he is and all the helium-huffers sing a song about how they're gonna float in space forever. FOREVER.
I'm positive these balloons are a metaphor for death. And what little kid hasn't wondered what happens to a balloon they release? The truth, that they pop, land in the Pacific and choke baby seals, was a little too harsh. So in Brave Little Toaster Land, the explanation is a lot more peachy.
Once on Mars, the kitchen accessories befriend a forlorn Christmas angel and Viking 1, the space probe that was sent to the Red Planet in 1976. Viking talks briefly about his mission (some random, weird bit of education) and how after six years, he stopped working and is now just waiting. And waiting. And waiting.
"It's your job to wear out," he says. And like some disturbing, existentialist metaphor, he's talking about you.
Infinity is a concept foreign to children and incomprehensible by anyone else, so why throw it in here? Because it's depressing, that's why. On a planet with no real elements, you will stay there intact forever.
All of the appliances are deeply concerned about becoming obsolete, because as submissive little Lampy points out, "I love being used!" It's almost akin to communism - work ethic is supreme.
These appliances want to be used so badly, that the obsolete ones moved to Mars, led by a gigantic fridge, who is aiming a missile at Earth. It's like some kind of eerie reference to the Cold War. And it's not even a very good one.
To stop this ICBM, Toaster runs for election (they're held every day, for some reason) against Giant Fridge and wins, becoming Supreme Commander. How is Mars not communist? It's red, it's got cold-hearted refrigerators bent on destroying the planet . . .
Anyway, why does Toaster win? Because the hearing aid was able to explain the unified field theory. He was owned by Albert Einstein, after all, but that's just a little bit too weird.
Then Toaster enters inside giant fridge, which is a vast arctic wasteland. Whoa.
They go home, after the Christmas topper strips naked and burns her clothes in the microwave and everyone lives happily ever after. There's some Christmas theme, because every kid's movie imaginable must mention this consumer driven holiday.

There you have it. This film will blow your mind if you're not a shitfaced toddler and don't take these concepts at face value. To recap, this film teaches children about sex, becoming obsolete, sex, the Cold War, death, sex, communism and infinity.

It seems the whole mess was uploaded to YouTube, so here's part uno:


Back to those hidden innuendos I mentioned.

Military Toaster: We're ready to pop. The Supreme Commander will be very pleased.

Blanket: The Little Master didn't want to get sprung!

Toaster: Quick! Into my crumb tray!

Hearing Aid: You don't have to be bigger to be better.

Ceiling Fan: If I knew I was gonna be on the bottom, I never would have agreed to this.
Ceiling Fan: I've enjoyed this new perspective, looking up instead of down!
Ceiling Fan: Just leave me on the floor, face up.

(Man, that Ceiling Fan has some loose legs. If you have any of your own weird quotes from this film that I may have missed, email them to me at fireserphent@gmail.com)

Boards of Canada: Subliminal Dream Machine

Boards of Canada (1986-present)
(buybuybuyAMAZONbuybubuy)
reviewed by J. Kane
Trip-o-meter: 10/10

I lost my virginity to Boards of Canada. Metaphorically, of course.
Every song is drowning in analogue goodness, which will remind you of your childhood when you listened to the same damn "Kiddie Songs" cassette tape over and over. Then you poured soap into the gears just to hear what it sounds like.
Or, maybe that was just me. Then again, BoC has that rare musical power purely associated with a wide-range of personal interpretations.
Dabbling deep in subliminal messaging and cult religions, nothing you hear is what it seems. It feels familiar, but it isn't. Few bands can hope to aspire to the amount of mindfuckery BoC are capable of. Some of their songs come straight from creators Mike Sandison and Marcus Eoin' dreams, like they've peeled back your scalp and played back your own memories.
Many people have a problem with the slow, warped feelings, but under the grip of the right hallucinogen, you'll enter into an endless kaleidoscope of fucked-up. It's music that moves you til you're immobile.
Geogaddi is possibly their best release, but Music Has The Right To Children gets the most attention. "Aquarius" will totally screw you up for life, as will "Happy Cycling," "Julie and Candy" (below), "Sunshine Recorder," "Melissa Juice," "You Could Feel The Sky" and "Dawn Chorus."
But don't take my word for it. Hear for yourself:




Read some of the YouTube comments and you'll understand that "personal interpretation" thing. For example:
Killadelphi420 ..had a pretty crazy trip the other day and a godly figure was saying that life exists in a thought or in a balloon and he kept telling me to let the balloon pop....
fpsekond I dont think Boc realise how much people connect with there music,for me listening to there music is a part of my life for the calming effect it has on me and the overwhelming sense of nostalgia it has.
21stcenturyphantom Oh, Boards of Canada; if only you knew you were the soundtrack to my life. In every pitfall and in every high, I turn to you, and you turn back, with comforting sound I would not find anywhere else.

OK Go: YouTube on Mute

OK Go (1998-present)
(buy a CD on Amazon. Then you'll be cool.)
Reviewed by J. Kane
Trip-o-meter: 4/10

OK Go writes songs for preppy high schoolers that only like music with a positive message. People like that dweeb in you calculus class with a 4.9 GPA that thought Coldplay was cool. He may have a seven-figure salary in Silicon Valley while you're dealing schwag in a sketch one-bedroom apartment, but at least you have taste!
Anyway, OK Go doesn't seem like the type to be into fucking up your mind, even if they've joked about snorting lines off the Queen of England. Their music isn't going to get you anywhere, but their videos speak otherwise. Maybe it's best to just turn it on mute.
Aptly named WTF? you gotta wonder how they thought all this out. But don't think too hard.

Maybe you've seen "This Too Shall Pass", but try following this one. It's amusing, at the very least.

Blue Velvet: '50s Dreamworld Gives You Nightmares

BLUE VELVET (1986)
Directed by David Lynch
(buy on Amazon, freak out yer mom)
Reviewed by J. Kane
Trip-o-meter: 8 out of 10

Anyone who knows anything about David Lynch can see where this is going. As far as weirdo directors go, Lynch is a giant among leprechauns. His films push the envelope so far that if anyone could be outmatch Lynch, the sun would explode five billion years early.
Compared to Inland Empire or Lost Highway, at the very least, Blue Velvet has a somewhat discernible plotline. Well, even that's debatable.
When his father has a stroke, innocent little college dweeb Jeffrey Beaumont (Kyle MacLachlan) returns to Lumberton, his picture perfect hometown. Because suburbia is incredibly boring, Jeffrey goes hunting for trouble, uncovering a severed human ear lying in a field. Somehow, this spells a Hardy Boys mystery, so Jeffrey recruits prissy pretty girl Sandy (Laura Dern, best known for Jurassic Park) and the couple break into the home of sultry nightclub singer Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini).
Things are getting incredibly weird already but by the time Dennis Hopper inhales helium and rapes a girl (*spoiler!*) that rape begins to feel done to your mind.
The dialogue is sometimes so clichéd and dated it's like watching every episode of Leave It To Beaver at once. But it has it's charm, like how things such as tootsie roll pops or hippie music can make you nostalgic for time periods you've never experienced. You feel trapped inside a 1950's dreamworld, where Grease meets American Psycho.
Lynch is a master of symbolism, lighting every scene like an acid dungeon and throwing in incredibly obscure, repetitive metaphors (play a drinking/smoking game - take a hit/shot every time someone says "Blue Velvet" or "Candy-Colored Clown") but the result works ingeniously. Afterward, your mind will feel the relief of a good brain orgasm -- all those nerves finally relaxing, finally getting it, releasing endorphins because (thank God) your life isn't like Lynch's nightmare cellophane orgies.
See for yourself. One of the most indulging scenes is when Dean Stockwell lip-syncs Ray Orbison's "In Dreams": (no spoilers)

TRON: Blacklights and Bullshit

TRON (1982)
Directed by Steven Lisberger
(buy on Amazon, you consumer fuck)
Reviewed by J. Kane
Trip-o-meter: 6 out of 10

Let's start with something easy. Tron is by far, one of the most creative sci-fi films to rise above typical '80s filth and has become some kind of bizarre cult classic. And there's only one way to enjoy it - with your best friend, Mary Jane.
Basic plot? What basic plot? Super nerd boy genius Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges) had some computer games plagiarized from him. Instead of getting a lawyer, he tries hacking into the big, evil Master Control Program (what a shitty name. At least call it something like Microsoft). Like some weird precursor to Honey, I Shrunk The Kids, Flynn is sucked into Computerland, where programs have personality, video games are some kind of gladiator battle and weapons are glowy Frisbee things.
For computer animation from 1982, it holds up pretty well. It's nothing special, but at least it's not alarmingly bad. Most of all, it's trippy, if just a little bit. It's not gonna blow your mind, but it'll incite a few "ooh, sooooo pretty" remarks.


It may get on your nerves how bad the dialogue is and how obvious every fucking scene was just shot in a basement filled with blacklights. Also, nothing in this film makes sense. Computers don't run like this, they never have and never will. It's written like a crippled old geezer suffering from Alzheimer's escaped from the local retirement home and made a screenplay on them newfangled computers, something he understood nothing about. If I were to make an action film about the Large Hard-On Collidor, I'd probably do the exact same thing.
One treat is Jeff Bridges trying hard to act like getting sucked into a computer and forced to fight evil "programs" is not some kind of ex-WOW stoner fantasy. He acts like Keanu Reeves ("whoa, dude!") but sometimes says something that gives him a pulse. He was so young and un-Oscar-worthy at the time, too.
At the end of the night, this eye candy will give your corneas a boner, but don't expect to come away enlightened. It definitely falls into the "turn on, tune out" category.

Hello. Kiss Your Mind Goodbye.

Ladies and Gentlemen, light your spliffs. Hed Phuq Reviews is a blog dedicated to bringing you the most mind-numbing, brain-freezing, head fucking music, movies and miscellaneous psychedelic media available. We rate things from how confusing to how astonishing to how bizarre this planet can be. Join us Phuqers in the twisted distortion and ultimate destruction of the human mind.

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