WWWW – Elsewhence 2016

1.) Watch for the Chong Twins on MOOP patrol as they bring performance art, music, dance and trash clean-up outreach to the beings of Elsewhence. Don’t dig trenches. Be mindful of your filth. Leave No Trace yo. No feather boas or furry glitter ’round he’ah!

It's Chong Kitchen yo.

All is well at Chong Kitchen

2.) Chong Kitchen, serving up succulent meats, coffee and tea for hungry patrons since 2014, will be open at various times throughout the event.

Perhaps representatives of Chong Kitchen will show up in your camp bearing succulent meats from frog legs to bison to a myriad of sausages to alligator meat and much much meaty more. So much meaty, fleshy more.

the Raccoon

The Dale family had scores of pets over the years and none was more frightening and nasty than our Raccoon. It wasn’t a real Raccoon, but a mangy cat.


To this day, the very mention of filthy Raccoon strikes disgust and anger among all who were touched by this thinly, wisp of a sickly cat. For as long as I can remember, grubby Raccoon had always been synonymous with excrement. A stray that lived under the grandparent Bailey’s trailer in Pueblo, Colorado, grimy Raccoon subsisted on table scraps and sewer rats. She made the trek to Denver with the family. From that day on, Raccoon’s shit would be a staple in our home while growing up.

We designated one corner of the basement to Raccoon’s toilet. The “Fecal Annex” as my father used to call it. The entire room was covered in newspaper, except the small area for the dart board. Raccoon would shit everywhere around the house but the litter box, which would remain immaculate in the corner. She never had a normal, solid BM. Hers was always liquid diarrhea splattered here and there and everywhere! Raccoon poopie on the breadbox, feces on the living room walls, crap on the couches, defilement in the laundry room, diarrhea in the doorway and excrement in the VCR!

Friends and family hated that cat, except for Mommie Dearest. Mom treated the skittish nimbus feline like royalty. Raccoon lived a hated trouble-free existence and even soiled my car with her filth!

Raccoon somehow got locked in my car one day by crawling through a window or the sunroof. After partying for the night, I returned home and secured my car, not knowing that Raccoon was inside. The next day was hot, 95 degrees. It was 2 in the afternoon when I had errands to run. I went out to my car and when I opened the door, I noticed diarrhea all over the seats. There was filth on the dashboard, scat on the steering wheel and shit in the backseat and hatchback. There were claw streaks in poopie on the windows where it was obvious grubby Raccoon frantically tried to claw her way out.

It was one of the most horrific things I have ever seen. The temperature was so hot in the car that some waste had evaporated and soaked into the seat pads. Ripples of stench and heat emanated from the vehicle.

What had caused this?! I spied around in rage and sure enough, spiteful Raccoon lay exhausted and dehydrated in the hatchback. She visibly felt my contempt brewing and mustered up enough energy to scurry out of my car and into the bushes. I screamed the cliché, “Noooooooooooooo,” while shaking my fists at the heavens.

I cleaned my car and fashioned trash bag seat covers. I bought 3 vanilla flavored rearview mirror air fresheners, but they hardly helped. They created a vanilla-smelling funk, a literal vanilla whore’s bath for my car.

I picked up normsquatch that day. The very mention of fecal matter disgusts Norm. It literally makes him vomit. I’ll never forget the look on his face as he was sitting in my car noticing the stench and questioning the trashbag seat covers.

“Raccoon Norm, she shit everywhere,” I said jovially. He squirmed. It was hilarious. If normsquatch could hover or levitate, I am sure he would have at that moment. He never rode in my car again.

Grimy Raccoon lived a long and fruitful life. After her mysterious passing, we rallied the funds to have her sparse body stuffed, forever hunched in both pain and ecstasy. Shitting for all eternity. Some Droogs tell people I murdered Raccoon by holding her down on the edge of the curb and decapitating her with the sharp end of a shovel. I didn’t.

1980s Aurora, Colorado

I grew up in Aurora, Colorado in the early 1980s. Near my house at Iliff Ave and Buckley Road there was a “Movies on Call” video store.

Le Mans, a coin-op arcade by Albertson’s grocer, was where I classically became one with “The Force” and mastered the original Atari “Star Wars” wireframe arcade game as well as the game “Tron.” Peter Piper Pizza: their zucchini sticks were the best I ever had.

Aurora … Buckingham Square Mall… The memories. Those memories float up to me.

The hydrotubes. Yes! Many fond youth memories do I have at Buckingham Square Mall, one of them being the 2 green tube water slides placed upon the roof of the old Safeway store. They were the HydroTubes!

I spent countless hours climbing up the yellow metal stairs listening to “Drive” by The Cars before sliding in a loop-de-loop whilst banging my head on the sides of the tubes and plummeting semi-conscious into the filthy brown-green pool below. It is a fond childhood concussive adventure in which I really traveled in tubes. The water slide stayed open for less than a year.

There was Mile High Comics at that mall also. Sweet Mile High Comics… And God Fathers Pizza if I recall. And wonderful Christmas decorations.

Can you feel my smiling face?

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.

Inhale deeply the salts.

Inhale deeply the salts.

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.

Confessions of a Former Glostiksai

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.

Confessions of a Former Glostiksai

Confessions of a Former Glostiksai

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.