the prodigal donkey returns

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The Evangenitals have a ritual... and we're not ashamed to admit it!



Every Sunday round about 9pm you're pretty sure to find us (often after a nice fish dinner) sitting down round the televisor to watch Vincent D'onofrio laying it down Columbo-style on Law and Order: Criminal Intent.

Like me, you may have had your first encounter with Vincent when he appeared as the tubby young psycho Private Pyle, taking soap-beatings, gettin' gun crazy, and blowing his brains out in the latrine in Kubrik's Steel Metal Jacket.

Now, he's still fucking crazy... but he's a crime buster. And we love him.

So. We're adding a link on our links page to this great site we found, dedicated 100% to the unsinkable Vincent D'onofrio.

Check it out.

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we all got our own blogs now!
check out brett's and lisa's blogs.
this one is pretty much mine, mothasuckas!

don't forget to come to the show.
this is pretty much your last chance before I take a month off for the PhD think-tank in Switzerland adventure. however, I'm sure I'll be bringing back all sorts of crazy new ideas to sing about, so it all pays off in the end.

to be sure. to be sure.

haikus on mike kelley

mike kelley speaks of
postmodern art in navy
blue and spectacles


he was, at one time,
a most important pants man.
funny animals.


if you haven't heard
the music that he once made
you didn't miss much

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You are lost and forlorn because you dwell in a world of words.
You feed on words, you are satisfied with words when what you need is substance.
A menu will not satisfy your hunger. A formula will not slake your thirst.


if you are satisfied with the world where words are enough, you cannot enter the Kingdom of Sounds.

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Here's a fun & dorky thing to do!!!

If you happen to be on Friendster(tm), you can be Friend's with the Evangenitals!
Here's a link to us: http://www.friendster.com/user.jsp?id=6521951
We use the bulletin board feature to post shows.

If you want to add us, here's the info:

First name: Evangenitals
Last name: Inc
Email: julio@evangenitals.com

If you are not on Friendster(tm) and would like us to invite you to join... drop us an email and we'll reach out and touch you.

we love you already.

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IT'S FANCY TIME, MY FRIENDS!


COME JOIN THE PARTY!!!!!

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The Pangs. The Fucking Pangs.

There is a whole Opus Pistorum to be written on The Pangs.

The feeling: a sort of reverse-nostalgia.

A bittersweet, memory-like longing for something that hasn't yet happened. The girl you never knew that broke your heart comes to the party in the skin of a woman you've never met... will she ever understand that you already love her? Deeply, truly, thoroughly. Is this love any less valid because it exists in another dimension and has nothing to do with anything real* (*i.e. having any connection to that which actually happened in this lifetime)?

The relationships of the mind, whilst listening to songs, whilst watching the sun go down, whilst watching movies, sitting in the tub, are so full, so beautiful, so sad and perfectly imperfect. Inside of these images of imaginary love affairs, cinematically painful, slowly and quietly intense and dramatic, we always look beautiful when we're crying. Our faces are never red and puffy and pathetic, and if they are, they are adorably so, intensely so, sweetly so. Pain is a pang, a slide-guitar gut sensation, a minor note felt in the aorta, a heart choke. Eyes blink in the soft light, tears roll down the cheeks, always in slow motion, with a sound track, slow, with ringing harmonics which die away, open tuning, the sound of the metal rattling on the fret. Imperfectly perfect, and slow.

Behind, above, surrounding it all, there is the glowing specter of a heart, full to bursting with love, that grows and grows and grows.

The people-in-general, the hoi polloi, the vox populi go on about their business. Another day, another nickle. Back to work. Me too. Here I am. Senor Cog: Welcome to the Urban Junkyard! Your Civic Duties await you! Please report to the office and place your Cog in the Machine. Although the System runs quite smoothly without You (it is, in and of itself, a self-propagating, self-copulating, self-emulating machine) We sure do like having You around. All is Better Back in Line, waiting for your side-order of fries. Here we Go.

Need to get simple and monosyllabic for a minute. Yes, no, good, yes, ugh.... simple simple. Even simple has two-syllables. Too Many! Need the Ones: Plain. Good. Girl. Boy. Beach. Sky. Sea. Camp. Walk. Sleep. Read. Light. Dark. Beef. Fish. Eat. Love. Joy. God.

It is time to cry. Really cry. Not just weep that bittersweet lovesick weep that's burning in the throat 24/7, but fucking WAIL. Wail to the heavens in a combination of a "thank you!" and "why? fucking why?" A question and an exclamation. Why is she so beautiful? Why can't it last forever? Why would I want it to? Why do I deserve such light? Such feelings? Such a friend?

I love those days when one knows, beyond a doubt, that happiness is right here. Nothing more is needed. I could live in a dirt shack chicken coop, and so long as the face turns toward the sun now and then, happy is here.

And yet, simultaneously, that thought horrifies me.... this is it? this is all you want? this is happiness? no no not enough never never never enough.... I am the bitch of ambition! I am the slave of the self talking mind! I am the hog-tied POW of "not enough" "less than" and "falling short", and am a shit sandwich with a side order of failure and a self pity shake.

Those are The Pangs, mang.

PSA:
This is a Banner Ad.
If you click on it, it will take you to Newgrounds.com
On that site, there are a lot of games and fun stuff
This simple game, however, is mesmerizing.

I've never been a "gamer" and this is probably a good thing.
I'm a rather obsessive girl, and I can see how that stuff could quickly get out of hand.

I played The Sims once, when a roommate at Grad school had it on their computer. I constructed my whole life on there. My friends, my lovers, Kurt Cobain was our neighbor, I had the trick code for unlimited money, and an underage houseboy named Enrique. One day I sat there chainsmoking and drinking a gallon of blush wine watching a little simulated me wake up, go for a swim, read a book, paint a picture, have a dance party, make out with Kurt Cobain, cook meals, play pool, exercise, read another book, sit in the hot tub (with Kurt) and go to sleep.... my roommates left that morning for school, and when they came back I was still sitting in the same spot, watching a simulated me do everything that I wanted to do that day.

Upon their return, the horrifying realization set in. A flash-premonition of a matriqued future in which we all humanity sat in little cubicles witnessing our virtual lives as our useless meat-sacks turned to jellylike mush and only our fingers, grown long like talons, remained capable of motion ... click, click, clicking away at our little mouses (the only remaining companion)

I freaked. Bulldozed the house. Deleted the personae. And I've never played again.

Beware the Game, my friends.

Behold the Muzak.

Don Blue lost his wits, so that he might find them, by reading too many books of Chivalry and he happened upon the oddest notion to ever strike any human being: that of being the savior of the whole world. Or, rather: that of being a Knight.

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el culo es libre

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Ventura:

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Even the Children are Laughing...

your momma so fat,
she's gotta use a mattress for a tampon...

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we are not alone.

evidence:

(provided by Dr. Gordy Amede)

#1

Bullywugs

bullywugs need to dampen their skins
from time to time.
some types of these creatures are more intelligent
than others.

intelligent groups tend to dwell in caves or
deserted human habitations.

the less advantaged bullywugs hate their more intelligent
fellows and make war upon them.

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berbalang #2

the berbalang passes the greater part
in an apparently dormant state,
hibernating

preferably
in a well-hidden cave.

though seemingly comatose, the berbalang is
actually roaming the astral plane
where it spends its time hunting creatures

weaker than itself...

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and, of course, the eye killer

at birth,
the eye killer is limbless.

later,
it develops a bat like upper torso.

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VII. Alone (at last)

And when I say alone, what I mean is, he toiled alone and in the dark.
Not easily explained or understood.
The words of the wise and their dark sayings.
Widespread ignorance,
lack of progress.
As, we are all in the dark concerning his plans.
As, plans hatched in the dark.
As, darks and lights are both necessary.
As, water is necessary to life.
That which must be done.
Labor.
Toil.
Drudgery.

Below these watery pastures lie the answers to all things, which we can only gaze upon and wonder at their unsteady reflection. The image that I see beneath is the moody moving image of my state of being. And all these words which flow and stream are but a feeble attempt to put a label on a feeling. To transform a feeling into an idea into a word into a memory into something I can recall at a later date and say ‘Oh yes, remember when and how it was and doesn’t it feel so nice that it all goes on and on and that it all isn’t meaningless?’ Because I have assigned a word and a meaning to every thing. And each experience has its category and each memory is in its cabinet and my life can be written down in a series of anecdotes and occurrences which will make men smile and frown and laugh and cry and I live and I die in an entirely rational manner.

I shall proceed to my logical conclusion.

DAD

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Julio's Dad was born in Alabama to a family of Lunatics.

Dad was hit by two cars in the same day and had a staple shot into his head. He wrote a book on the history of Alabama, became a history professor, and had affairs with his students. He won 2nd place on Jeopardy but was unable to claim his prize because he hadn't paid child support since the divorce. Dad had an awful temper and would often be sent to his room, by Mom. Mom would make us put ice in his pants to calm him down. He once made scrambled eggs with sugar in them and threw them against the wall. He hid the household bills in shoeboxes that he kept in the closet and recorded porn movies at the end of our cartoon tapes. He tried to make me eat orange peels and hot dogs with peanut butter and cheese because "it all went to the same place anyway." Dad got born-again and wrote a 3000 page novel on the sex life of Jesus Christ. He married a Norweigian woman he met on a cruise ship and moved to Puyallup, Washington where they ran a tuxedo rental business. They would not loan my brother a tuxedo for prom. The new wife fell off a horse, hit her head and went insane. Dad heard Jesus telling him what numbers to play in Vegas. He developed cancer of the lymph nodes and died, right around Christmas time.