Monthly Archives: July 2010

Look What We’ve Been Building.

Oh yeah, it’s like that!

I’ll still be cracking jokes and putting new teasers and unfinished tracks and pictures of tits and weasels up here at the blog, which is the way it should be, but you can get your fill of high-bitrate MP3s over there. Now go grab the album!!!

Another Day, Another Fake Dollar is available as of July 12, 2010. You can stream individual tracks and download the whole record for free at the website. Bandcamp is hosting the beast, which is awesome because you can choose to download in any format or sample rate you could possibly want, and probably a few you’ve never heard of. There are twelve tracks listed, but you get the Christmas jam as a bonus when you download the whole record. It will ask you for your email to send the download link, but don’t fret–It goes straight to me and lets me know who’s downloading, and then I can shoot you an email when new stuff is released. If you hate it, let me know and you’re off the list.

Next stop Berlin!

Fake Money x Boombox x CNick x Candy RAIN!

Sometimes you just need a giant new sewing machine and some big motherfuckers to make that happen.

The Recovery Of My Damn Wheel

It’s noon. Krillz calls me up: “Hey, how common are those blue Rolfs that you had stolen? There’s this guy here on Varick that’s got one–OH SHIT, HE JUST GOT HIT BY A CAR!” Oof. “Is the wheel okay?”, I ask. Yeah. “Can you just…take it from him?” “No man…I mean, I guess I could, but shit, I just feel…kind of bad for the guy.” “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU FEEL BAD FOR THE GUY? TACKLE THAT CLOWN!”

 So I jump on my bike and head over to check the rumpus. When I see him, I feel bad for the guy too. He’s old, blind-drunk and crippled. He can’t walk too well. He’s got a boom box with this really frenetic jazz on blast. He’s got a pair of glasses on and they’re rimmed with this white crust, and he’s drooling a little bit. I tell him slowly and firmly that he’s got my wheel on his bicycle and that I’m going to take it back. He starts yelling that he paid CASH MONEY for the bike. It’s an old Marin mountain bike and he’s got my Rolf 9-speed road wheel on the back, with no brake, and the tire’s mostly out of air. I tell him that although I believe that he did pay cash money for the bike, one risk you take when buying stolen property is that you are going to run into the person it got stolen from and there’s a chance they’ll be bigger than you. He’s yelling and I don’t know what to do, so I call the cops. Terrible mistake. We wait on the corner. Forty-five minutes go by. No one shows. I call the cops again, they tell me they’re on their way. Sure. Well, dude wants to get out of the sun and back to Brooklyn, and what am I gonna do? A citizen’s arrest? Why did I involve the cops in the first place? He’s got possession of my shit; I should have just swiped it back. He starts rolling. I follow him. He narrowly avoids a gruesome death at every intersection we hit. He stops, out of breath, and gives me a Newport. I smoke it and I say thanks, but I tell him that I’m still going to get that wheel back. I’d asked Krillz to grab my laptop, which had pictures of my bike, with me on it, with the wheels in question, dated about a year earlier. He shows up with it right about the time we arrive at the base of the Manhattan bridge. I get in the guy’s way and he falls down, hard. I help him up and tell him he can either come to the precinct with me and sort it out, or I’m just going to take the wheel from him as soon as he gets on the bridge and he can limp home with a busted bike. He considers his options, decides that I’m not fucking around and says he’ll go to the precinct.


I show up with my bicycle, my stolen wheel, my thief and a series of hi-res pictures that show the wheel on my bike. Slam-dunk, right? Umm…well, actually…”Sir, we have no way of knowing if this is your wheel. You know bikes, but we don’t know bikes. The only thing we could do is “voucher” it, which means we keep it and neither of you gets it until someone furnishes a receipt with a serial number.” Does this wheel even have a serial number? Shit. “So let me get this straight: last year I was locked up because some van driver who doesn’t even speak English pointed a finger at me in a snowstorm and said that I damaged his automobile. All I had was a bag of pretzels and a bottle of gin. All it took to get my ass thrown in jail, with the requisite string of court dates and a year’s probation, was him saying the grownup equivalent of “teacher, he hitted me!“. But somehow this doesn’t constitute enough evidence to get my fucking wheel back? I’ve already done all the work! What’s wrong with you people?”  “Well, why didn’t you get a police report when it was stolen?” “Are you serious? You’re not really going to pretend that the NYPD cares about stolen bikes, are you? Dude, you guys don’t even care when people die, why should I expect you to give me and my two-wheeler the time of day?”  “Okay, listen. I’m done with you. I don’t want to deal with this, and if we voucher this wheel, I can personally guarantee you that you will never get it back. It will sit in our storage room until the end of time. You have to sort it out between the two of you.”  So the guy who’s riding around on my wheel is sobering up a little big (it’s been a few hours by this point) and he’s actually pretty jovial. He’s chainsmoking and cracking himself up and yelling “YEE! YEE!!” in front of the precinct, and everyone’s trying to avoid stepping on him. I kind of like the crazy old dude, and I feel bad because his bike is basically his walker. That’s how fucked up he is; I think he’s got something terribly wrong with his legs. Only a true hardline asshole would want to see this guy trying to limp home with his club foot on a hundred-degree day. So I make a few phone calls, including one to Jeff over at Continuum. I feel like an idiot, because he offers to help me out with the cops (something I hadn’t thought to ask earlier, but which made perfect sense: bike shop friends!) but I ask him if he’d be willing to sell me some piece-of-shit beater wheel to give the guy something to careen around on. He says no problem, get over here and we’ll handle it. And handle it he did, even throwing some spokes on this old wheel he dug up, truing it and installing it on the dude’s bike. I think he was thrilled to be getting a new wheel. Kept sayin YEE! So we sent him on his way, happy as a damn clam, and I have my wheel, and everyone’s more or less happy, but I’ll be a shade happier when that goddamn mouthbreathing shitstain of a white-shirt over at the 5th precinct gets shot in the line of duty.

You’re Gonna Be Fine

Okay, it’s been long enough. Fuck it. This is what a handle of Beam, an entire bag of Top and a Full Single Saturday turns into when it’s a hundred degrees out in Bushwick. After I laid the bass and vocals down, I fell down four flights of stairs, floated down to the Siren Festival at Coney Island and crashed my bike into a porta-potty.

Incidentally, this is the first track I ever did with Ableton+Reason after switching over from Cubase 4.

Fuck you, Cubase. I’m a better man for having left you. Live is like a steak after six years of prison food. A tough steak, but god damn, the bitch goes down.

Suck It, Sennheiser

I love my headphones, but seriously guys, twenty bucks for a new set of ear cups?

Thanks, Mom, if they’ve legalized blogs wherever you are now, for being a class act of a mom and teaching me how to sew. It used to get my ass beat, but now it gets me laid. If for no other reason than because it’s easier to get laid with twenty bucks in your pocket than without.

I wish I had some red thread, it would have looked awesome.

See you all out there tonight, and Saturday night, and (if we make it that far) Sunday morning (Fourth of the Damn July), and on the beach on Monday! (Except for you, Mom, I don’t expect to see you at any of these functions and I don’t think it’s going to be your type of party anyway. Love ya anyway though!)

Tonight! Friday Night! Big Party!

I’ll be rocking my Fakebuilt Box, you can win a Squarebuilt Bike, everyone will be getting drunk, there will be goldsprints and mayhem and a ton of cool people so don’t fucking front.



This thing got an epic writeup, which you can read after the jump. I know better than to try following it; I’ve been preemptively trumped.

Myself and MC Mike Death Machine [FAKE/MONEY/MACHINES] (cuz why not?) are going to take the stage at some point, bathed in blinding white light, riding giant translucent unicorns and making bitches faint. We’re so white-hot they didn’t even put us on the flyer because it was giving people burns on their soft pink hands.

Ride The Snake
July 3, 2010
372 Ten Eyck St. BROOKLYN$10 cover – 21+
$10 OPEN BAR from 10P-6A
(that’s basically $20 and you are all taken care of)
BBQ by Davo all night!
Dirty Finger
The Brooklyn What
God Ox
Jellybean Fiasco
Cobra Krames
+ surprise guests
Art/Performance by
Scattered Sam King of America
Billy Ehret
CACKALACKA SHINE specialty brewers!!!!
We’re celebrating the birth of America with the same hardcore spirit that founded our nation… Ride The Snake style!
Two hundred thirty-four years ago, our nation had no boundaries. The land on which we live today is the home of the first true Americans–men who pushed back the British from lower Manhattan and into Harlem, who camped in the hidden hollows of New Jersey to take out the British as they arrived in their pompous red coats.
Too many people have become soft in the luxurious perception of freedom. Freedom is not a luxury, though. It is a right–a right that requires a bit of ferocity. Freedom is for people who will remain accountable to its glorious bastions, even when those bastions require sacrifice.
The same weak sense of entitlement that oppressed the early Americans in the 1770s assaults our freedom today. We expect that freedom is a guarantee, but we avoid the pains our Revolutionary forefathers bore for us.
Those soldiers were serious mother fuckers. The troops at Morristown suffered the coldest winter ever recorded, wearing nothing but rags. 2000 were slaughtered at the Battle of Brooklyn and 10000 were tortured in Staten Island. Marines from Philadelphia stormed across New Jersey with drums painted with coiled snakes and stars. Their battle cry to the British was a disobedient DON’T TREAD ON ME!
* * *
At this special Ride The Snake we will scream our battle cry in the only way we can!
Be ready for the sounds of JELLYBEAN FIASCO to quake your brain, the ferociousness of GOD OX to tear into your soul, and the PUNCH of THE BROOKLYN WHAT to palpitate your entire body!
If you hadn’t had enough by then…
Once the DJs start rocking the sound system you may never sit still AGAIN!
DIRTY FINGER is back using the speakers like a bazooka. The dance floor will be pounded when that audacious ALL AMERICAN ASS PANIC hits you. Then COBRA KRAMES comes in with a revolutionary tag team completely OBLITERATING any chance you had to get out without sweating your ass off on the dance floor.
What else? Scattered Sam and Billy Ehret will tear you blinders off and make you see the serpent. We also have arranged for a few MORE special guests that’ll take the house down like we’re all cannon fodder. A one time project by some people may already know who…
* * *
” . . . with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other
our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor . . .”
– Declaration of Independence

PS: This event is 21+ ONLY!!!
Sorry guys!


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