Hello travelers. Can you feel me near you? Can you feel my smiling face? Nod if you’re there! These not beggar words blasted into the ether will hopefully bring me good tidings. I need your help. Help me. Do deeds that are good please.
Standing on the scorching and dusty saltpan dry lake bed, without respirator, I wish to desperately choke on the beautiful salt dust blown about by mother nature whilst in a haze, listening to the thumping dubstep of oblivion echoing down the playa.
My skin may become dry, cracked and bloody. I may have playa foot. My lungs may fill with the nature powder sublime. My body may be encased in an alkali filth crust, but this ecoregion calls to me and makes mine heart soar. I want to look towards infinity across the salt scrub. Stories of this semi-arid region have infused my mind matter and I need, no must, take part.
My bloodstream twitches with the ache for soluble hydroxide alkali earth metals entering my skin bag through unnatural methods.
But I need a ticket. Have a spare? Please help me join with my saltpan haven. I would shower you with gratefulness for eternity.
Glowsticking is the art of dancing with glowsticks. I wouldn’t call it an artform. I admit it looks cool from a distance and even cooler when one looks on as a casual observer in a drug-enduced stupor state of altered mind while techno music makes the ears bleed in the background.
I am a former glowsticker, a certified master Glostiksai (pronounced glow-stick-say), one who twirled the glowsticks at raves and electronica dance clubs in the early 1990s, some of the parties raging all night long! For fun. Yes I had fun doing it. I can destroy the dance floor. I can spin those glowsticks. Call me Russ Glostiksai and bow to me.
I was the best light-oriented dancer of my time, with fans from all over the club scene getting giddy upon seeing my moves. Both freehand glowsticking and glowsticking with strings was what I had mastered. I prefer freehand glowsticking yo. I never used the primitive figure-eight move followed by circle using both strong and slow lights. Hell no! I had more ellaborate moves; a swagger, a strut. My stage name was PappieMasterGlowStickster and that blessed name should strike fear and admiration in your mind if you are a true Raver because scores of young men and women of the 90’s would encircle me to watch in hazy delight as I did my thing.
I am quailfied to speak out against glowsticking. Now is the time for me to break my silence.
I helped write the Ravers Manifesto. That’s right, I soberly helped write the smutty laughable Ravers Manifesto while my co-authors were in a peyote-educed haze in 1991. I don’t do drugs. Dancing is my drug. Ravers across the globe love the manifesto and worship it and wonder who wrote it. They are perplexed by the wordage, tear off their club clothes and speculate what anonymous person penned it. I finally come clean. Finally Ravers can rejoice! 1st round of ecstasy, LSD and ketamine on me!
The Manifesto was once a reciting requirement for Ravers. When at the map point deciphering when and where the DJ will be spinning at the shanty warehouse, and upon confrontation, if one shouted: “Tell me the Raver’s Manifesto,” the Raver is supposed to stop dancing and twirling their glowsticks, turn down the technoy bass, silence the group fornication, drop their baggy pants and be bound to recite it in a passionless monologue as if they were blowing mentholated vapours into the nose, mouth and eyes of an unsuspecting recipient! Extra bonus kudos were given if they burbled bile simultaneously due to the copious drugs they were on.
“Our politics of choice is NONE!” I snort with laughter and embarrassment that I had a hand in writing that crap. “We are the MASSIVE!” Please. I take it all back.
I have veiled myself in trenches and in dirty underbrush hiding from the authorities for years, and now I have resurfaced to speak out. I’m now against the filthy glowsticking. I have seen so many horror shows in my raving days, mixing with urchins of the night and their grubby ways. I know DJs. I know vinyl-spinners. I know dancers and glowstickers and drug dealers and filthy filth. Raves are rife with gang activity, rape, robbery and drug-related offenses!
Now I mock it all. I now choose to glowstick with the real dangerous shit, like fire and flame.
Fire performance rules.
Some random videos of my Road Trip 2016 Adventures:
My war bag. My tech bag. It holds my gear. It keeps me mobile. It’s flashy.
Tom Bihn makes some very quality backpacks, briefcases and travel bags.
I love my manly Ristretto Bag by Tom Bihn. It’s made in the USA. Ristretto is a very “short” shot of espresso coffee. Delicious!
It’s a vertical messenger bag in the color of Black/Wasabi for toting my essentials; including the Samsung Galaxy Tab S2. I live the portable life yo. Now I can be portable and still show off my keen sense of style. The mannish bag looks great and is super functional. I am a fashionista and this accessory is ideal.
There is something about an interior padded compartment that makes me as giddy as a hog on butchering day. The compartment is open-cell foam laminated with durable 4 Ply Taslan® on the outside, and features an interior of super-soft brushed nylon. Say that 100 times real fast! I am impressed by the asymmetrical flap that closes with the distinctive Tom Bihn off-set buckle.
When the ladies shoot me a broad smile I know it is not only attributed to my rugged, flannel-clad, mountain-man handsome self – it’s partially because of my awesome as heck messenger bag filled with gadgets and trinkets and pens and paper.
My Monster Thick Burger commercial/monologue:
EXT. FIELD – DAY
A filthy cowboy, clad in dirty blue jeans, cowboy boots, blue flannel shirt and hat looks into the camera. He is chewing tobacco and spits towards the ground.
I’m a manly man. Here on the ranch, after a hard days work of wrastling livestock, destroying flowers, regulating the sheep and makin’ sweet and gentle love to my lady, I need something that fills my massive appetite.
COWBOY SPITS TOBACCO JUICE
When my belly calls for something hearty jumbo, I have Hardee’s deliver a Monster Thickburger so that I may feast here on my ranchy battleground.
When this burger’s grease spills down the front of my musty flannel, I am amazed at the beefy goodness. It is seasoned, fried and delicious. With two one-third pound hunks of Angus beef, four strips of crispy bacon, three slices of American cheese and seven tablespoons of mayonnaise on a buttered, toasted, sesame seed bun, I cannot help but fill my belly. My abdomen is genetically designed to process and digest a massive amount of meat products. I’m a rancher. I need thickburger.
Buy one today, a Monster Thickburger from Hardee’s. Woo Beef SooWeeeeeeeee!!!