Mundoblaineo American Edition

Back Home on the prairie

Wed Jun 4, 2003 8:48 am
Subject: secure in the homeland

Hi gang. This writing finds me in the old country, the United States of America.
I was called to my home town of Pueblo, Colorado on family business at rather
short notice. I am sitting in my the kitchen of the family manse writing to you.

It is most amazing to be back in the land of the free, home of the brave in
these security-conscious duct tape hoarding times. One of the first things I
heard upon landing at chicago’s O’hare airport was an announcement on the PA
from the department of homeland security, reminding us all that the security
alert status had been moved to “orange” and warning us to beware of unattended
baggage for this reason. The vile strangeness of this announcement reminded me
of a scene from “fahrenheit 451” or some other dystopian science fiction fantasy
from the 1960’s. This, my friends, was surely not the future I signed up for.

One may see that ‘security’ is a growth industry in this country now. Even the
ads on the television that used to try and persuade young people to find their
future in computers now peddle courses in “homeland security”. save me. all
sorts of nasty folks now patrol the shopping precincts of this country wearing
black and toting machine pistols in the name of ‘security’. They are no joke, my
friends, one mocks them at one’s peril.

On a less creepy note, having been away from this place for twenty years or more
I can see without prejudice that this town provided the raw material for the
landscapes of my dreams. I am re-visiting significant locations on my brother’s
bicycle, breathing in the magic prairie air, filled with delicious longing as
the wind charged by its journey over the prairie, heavy with the musk of an
approaching thunderstorm re-kindles sites of bewilderment in my being that I
thought had long since been papered over with experience.

This vacant frontier town gets me where I live. I suppose that only when we get
older do we realize that it is possible to have emotions which are oxymorons,
love/hate fear/desire disgust/fascination. Small wonder that this oxymoron of a
country, full of oxys and a hell of a lot of morons fascinates the world so.




Au Revoir, Cologne

The Cast of "10 Best Rocksongs"

16 may, 2003

Greetings and hallucinations. This here’s your old pal Blaine, obeying “The People from the Future”, (yes, the same ones who made question Mark write 96 tears) and writing another wee bulletinlet to further clog your inboxes. I haven’t written for a while. Miss me?

Wistfully, I prepare to close the door on this part of the throbbing melodrama and the rib-tickling carnival o’ laffs that is my life. Full of wist, I depart the fine city of Cologne and in particular this apartment. This place has done right by me. The walls have all stayed in place as has the ceiling, not too hot, not too cold with all mod cons. I will miss this place.

I have come to love the 21st century public works program beauty of this town. Riding my bicycle down one of the many bike paths, especially at night, I have lingered to step out of my gestalt, commune with my past selves and tell them all that, yes, we have arrived safely in the 21st century, guys. I love to imagine the ordinary night scene here played out in a 60’s sci-fi movie, streamlined superfast trains, computerized trams slowly gliding over a suspension bridge hung from one pole, tensile structure coliseum and tented theatre glowing blue in the distance. The taxis talk, giant tv screens distract those waiting in the metro stations, people send photos of each other back and forth with their pocket communicators.

The people in this town seem to be constantly on the move. The bike path along the Rhine is jammed with people walking, biking, roller blading, running, ships full of gawkers, kayaks and teams of rowers stream up and down the river. On a sunny day, the sidewalk cafes, restaurants, beer joints are packed. And naturally, old Guido has been known to sit on a park bench sucking on a Coke light, watching the parade of blonde pulchritude (and brunette, and red and green-haired) walk by, even those on the arms of invisible boyfriends. (old lechers never see the hapless git with the young nexus of lust. We all think “Come over here, baby, see what experience can do for you.” Then we hack up a piece of lung and risk breaking a hip trying to bend over to tie our shoe. Of course, we wait until she is gone, otherwise she will see the bald patch when we bend down.”)

I have enjoyed it here, gang. Now, it’s back to Greece. Back where the men are men and the sheep are nervous. Oh, I could go on, but I won’t. Oh, just one. The other day, I realized that the Greeks are only now getting around to emulating 1960’s America. They have eliminated pedestrian spaces, bulldozed public spaces, and are busy trying to build a replica of Walt Disney’s autopia. Face it, folks, there are just too many damn cars in Athens. There are too many damn cars everywhere, but Athens has taken absolutely no steps to provide alternatives to this. Let ’em eat smog.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>the point<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Don’t forget, friends, Tuxedomoon in Hasselt, Belgium
June 21……..Salle Belgie
Paris June 26,……Centre Pompidou

The Ten Greatest Rock Songs in HIstory at the Halle Kalk, Cologne
Final performances ever!………July 11, 12,13, 14

be there or be square.

I remain as ever,

your working boy


Wag the Dog (It's War)


March 20, 2003


Greetings, sports fans. Unless you have been hibernating you will know that george bush can die happy now, knowing that he will be remembered as the man who started the first war of the 21st century. Of course, many of us who must share the same galaxy with this miscarriage can be forgiven for wishing that he would just go, happy or not. They went ahead and did it, gang. They are wagging that dog with a vengeance. Mercy me. It’s war.

I know that the cogent arguments against this war (forget the arguments for, they don’t deserve the breath it takes to say them) have been written and talked about until everyone is bored stiff and numb and apathetic. That’s the way THEY want you to feel. I will refrain from rehashing these points. Go to for articulate satiric comment on this mess from the man who gave you “Bowling for Columbine”.

What I find particularly sad is this. The people who gave the world rock n’ roll, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Manson, the Beatles, Shakespeare, Citizen Kane, Andy Warhol, Hollywood, the Wright Brothers, the Marx Brothers, in short all that is liberating, fascinating, sexy and fun in modern culture have turned their back on the spirit that gave rise to these things. How can the people of the world continue to emulate Americans in their desire to be free, beautiful, self-motivated and glad to be alive after those same people have opted instead to become bringers of death from above, a snarling ignorant herd who believe that they are the only real people on this planet? The lives that they disrupt can surely have no meaning. Surely the people of iraq will only be truly happy when they too can shop at wal-mart and wear levi’s as god intended them to.

Now, when I meet people in Europe and elsewhere in love with late 20th century American culture, those fascinated with the history of rock music and the culture it spawned, I am embarrassed for my country. “Yes, we invented rock, but now we’re too old to want to hang out with our friends and play guitars on the beach. Now, we want to rule you morons and bomb you into the stone age if you disagree even mildly.”

George Bush and the nasty constipated little people who have put him in power are trying to kill Rock n’ Roll. I will never forgive them.

Pass the Freedom Fries.

Germans on Parade



Saturday March 8, 2003

Greetings sports fans. Blaine here, writing from cologne where I am engaged in a longish residency in the theatuh, dahlings. If you were unaware of this because you have neglected to memorize my last site bulletin, you will be in for some harsh penalties, but that is a task for my minions and not subject to discussion here. Even now, I am tabling a UN resolution to this effect, but I will give inbox inspections time to take hold.

You will all be relieved to know that carnival is over and it is once again safe to walk the streets. If you were uncertain, cologne-ians take carnival very seriously and life itself ceases for a week while the citizens assert their right to wear day-glo orange afro wigs and cow suits not only in their places of employment, but also while riding the tram or sleeping, in short, everywhere. Millions of germans have voted with their mouths and urinary tracts to retain beer as the national beverage and the right to festoon public places with decorative vomit has once again been upheld. I myself was privileged to watch as a candle-light procession burned the um…german word…scapegoat in effigy, sang a few songs and then buggered off home because they had to work in the morning. And that was the end of that.

If I have neglected to keep you all informed about the other petty details of my life, it is only because I have had the devil’s own time connecting to the internet from my friendly little Sudstadt pad. I spent long hours trying a George Bush style frontal assault on the system in order to download my latest spam to no avail. It seems that the German telephone system is incompatible on several levels with my (regrettably) American hardware and I have been forced to do a survey of available hardware in order to rectify this. Unfortunately, the survey was conducted by buying several boxes of circuit boards from consumer outlets and handing over largish amounts of my hard-earned Eurodollars in return. I was then free to try the objects out in various configurations until one worked. I have at last found a winning combination, no thanks to the advice of anyone working for the newly-privatized deutsche telecom or any of its fellow mammon worshipers.
Regrettably, it also seems that prerequisites to working in a German consumer electronics store are:
a. a deep and abiding hatred and suspicion of anyone who would dare to enter any shop seeking to purchase any item (thus disturbing the catatonic trance of the employee) and
b. a profound ignorance verging upon clinical death of anything regarding the behavior of electrons in a circuit of any sort.

If you throw a nasty case of acne into the bargain you may begin to understand the landscape which presents itself to would-be clients of german ‘service’ enterprises

There you go. Wa wa wa. Poor me. I’m okay now, though. If you ever want to know the difference between the German dialing protocols and those of the rest of the world, I am your man. As is often the case whenever a gnarly system problem presents itself on my Microsoft-equipped computing device, I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about the subject. The truth is out there, folks, in the immortal words of fox mulder, a fictional character who will soon no longer exist outside of the memories of ancient and ignored people.

Oh, old blaine, he do go on, don’t he?

I will tell you, before you attempt suicide from boredom, that the play in which I strut and fret will soon premiere on the stage here in cologne. “The 10 greatest rock songs in world history” will premiere on March 28 at the Halle Kalk, Cologne. The estimable director, Albrecht Hirche has once again brought forth a triumph of post-narrative media saturated divertissement which will keep you talking for literally minutes after seeing it performed. This is no mean feat in our attention-deficient culture. So, be there or be square.

And, “what about that george bush and his happy little war?” What indeed, friends? Would I be far off the mark to call George Bush a vile trumped-up little nazi buffoon? An arrogant little prick of a frat boy who just wants to…like blow up some arab dudes and say “whoa…awesome” when the brains splatter his nintendo screen? I don’t think so. For more salient comment, I suggest you go to and see what the likes of Kurt Vonnegut and Gore Vidal have to say about the antics of Bozo the Clone, our de loved pres.

Now, I bask in the radiance of a day off from travail and I plan to use this day in the manner in which god intended. I shall sleep.

Great sizzling gobbets and knobs of love

Your working boy,




Greetings, sports fans. Your loyal working boy finds he butt in the cold northern wastes of Cologne, Deutschland. It be snowing even as I write this. I just arrived here to begin rehearsing “The 10 Greatest Rock Songs in History” with German director Albrecht Hirche. Things are moving along swimmingly. As things stand now, I am working on a radio show with several other strange types. In the course of the first scene, I play “Lucille” by Little Richard on the guitar, complete with SOLO! Before the night is through, I play Nirvanas “Teenspirit” as well. Many other fab tunes are to be heard as well.

I will keep you posted with the thrilling details. We will premiere this piece at the Stadt Theater of Köln mmmmm March 1st or so. Will clue you all in.

Just wanted to poke my pointy haid into yalls lives for a spell. Its snowing even now. I am wearing “thermal pants” which I bought for 10 euros at one of the plentiful outlets for Chinese consumer goods which clutter the german landscape.

They say theyre having economic troubles. I say a german recession is hard to tell from the glorious golden age in many less fortunate countries, like my poor backward Greece. Somehow I cant see the Greeks understanding, using and maintaining something like the touch sensitive color display in every tram which dispenses tickets. I cant see the greeks happily bussing their own tables at macdonalds either.

not that my world is made up of trams and macdonalds. oh well.

gotta go now. eat my chinese take out in my happy little cologne apt.



Hi gang. I am sitting in an internet cafe in coldogne waiting for my laundry to finish in the laundromat next door. How simply magnificent! They have laundromats (laundrettes) in Germany. You may laugh, but there are about two in the whole city of Athens, a city of 4 million. The Greeks just take their laundry to mom. This is doubtless caused by the church. I won’t tell you why I think so. Here in the god forsaken pagan wastes of protestantism people stand on their own two feet, having dispensed with mom forever! They take their laundry wherever they damn please! Vive l’anarchie.

Sri Swami Pastananda Gwee Doh Rinpoche's New Year's Message 2003

December 31, 2002


Greetings, my little chickadees. Here we are again at the same point in our solar orbit as last year, poised to begin yet another headlong swing around the hellish unquenchable flames of our nearest stellar neighbor. The new year is almost upon us, in other works. Even as we speak, an eternal loop of Guy Lombardo’s band playing “Auld Lang Syne” fills the air here in Mundoblaineo. Hephestus, my vulcanologist and Clothilde, the chief eunuch must work overtime to keep the bubble machine topped up with rare and costly perfumes from the mystic east. (This would be the east of Athens where the noble fragrance “Axe” may be had for two dinari the hogshead. Ah, heady days!)

Greetings, my little chickadees. Here we are again at the same point in our solar orbit as last year, poised to begin yet another headlong swing around the hellish unquenchable flames of our nearest stellar neighbor. The new year is almost upon us, in other works. Even as we speak, an eternal loop of Guy Lombardo’s band playing “Auld Lang Syne” fills the air here in Mundoblaineo. Hephestus, my vulcanologist and Clothilde, the chief eunuch must work overtime to keep the bubble machine topped up with rare and costly perfumes from the mystic east. (This would be the east of Athens where the noble fragrance “Axe” may be had for two dinari the hogshead. Ah, heady days!)

I have completed two holiday greeting Flash movies and now must rest, having posted them in the sanctum sanctorum of Mundoblaineo, the holy of holies, the website. Hie thee hence, gentle reader and partake of their soul’s nectar!

Those deluded fools amongst you who swallow the rabid dog drool that is chinese astrology may be curious to know that 2003 will be the year of the goat, and/or the sheep. sheep sounds about right as dubya saunters lazily into war, just for the hell of it and the u.s. congress and the american public just bend over, grease themselves up and show him which part of their collective anatomy will pleasure him up most.
And far in the East, Typhon doth crack he cheeks for to blow a turrible tempest upon ye infidel slugs! Woe! Guai! Guai! Fie! Pi r squaRED! and so on….

Apropos of pretty much nothing, I came upon two bons mots about art while reading Kurt Vonnegut the other day. (Yes, Kurt still alive, occasionally worth reading.)

“I say in speeches that a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit. I am then asked if I know of any artists who pulled that off. I reply ‘The Beatles did.'”


“Artists are people who say, ‘I can’t fix my country or my state or my city, or even my marriage. But..I can make this square of canvas, or this piece of paper, or this lump of clay, or these twelve bars of music, exactly what they OUGHT to be!'”

So, in conclusion, my steaming love dumplings, let all of us in the dirigible moored on Mount Olympus which is Mundoblaineo Galactic Headquarters wish you and yours the best time possible as we observe the coming of 2003. Be reassured that even Scientific American now tells us that “Time is…probably an illusion.” God rest ye merry, Mary, with Nietzsche’s notion of eternal re-occurrence, be good because you JUST MIGHT HAVE TO GO THROUGH ALL OF THIS CRAP AGAIN!

blessings upon ye

sri guido

Elvis Past Life Readings,Xmas Gig, Pacman


Elvis past life readings,Xmas gig, Pacman

Greetings. You have 4 of your earth shopppping days until the festival of your deity, Santa Christ. My sources inform me that you must burn all of the paper entropy symbols for which you strive so earnestly the rest of the year in order to keep the howling void at bay for another orbit. I have made similar preparations and shall be burning my EURO “coins” with my quantum spin cancelling pistol in my usual sacrifical locus, MacDonald’s. Merry New Year.

Be advisled that Blaine will play with two of his buddies at the admirable Athens establishment known as “To Mikro Theatro Musikon” or “The Small Musical Theatre”. This place is renowned for being:
a. small
b. a musical theatre

I will be destroying a series of seasonal ditties in the company of two of my Athens chums, Christopher Silvey and Pan Pirakos. The show will begin at 22:30 on Sunday, December 22, 2002. Be there or be rhomboid.

I would like to welcome new members on board. You know who you are. Don’t you?


I’d like to, like, hip you dudes to new additionizations sitewise. First, we got a new additionization to Elvis’ much-loved game zone
PACMAN! Of course, I wanted to ‘theme’ the game to fit in with the (pretty flimsy) Elvis flavor of the region, but it’s just pacman.
Pretend you are in 1982 in your favorite disreputable dive, pumping quarters (and/or francs, pfennigs, yen) into a flickering radiation-emitting color tv attached to a 5hz CPU. As David Boweed has said “In space it’s always 1982”. Ain’t it the truth? Don’t you wish you’d said that?

chuck it out, dodes.


After the smash hit of my ASK ELVIS section, the King has agreed to sit in for PAST LIFE CONSULTATIONS, right here on Mundoblaineo.

ain’t that wonderful.

No one remembers Lucas Samaras. When I began taking photos of myself all over the damn place with the auto-timer function on my camera, I used to say “This reminds me of Lucas Samaras” and people would say “WHO?” or “WHUT?” Well, there’s a picture of this seemingly forgotten man up on my site now. People will still say “whut?” but they can’t say I didn’t try. He used to do SX70 art. “SX 70? Whut that? A new Palmtop?”

And that’s about it for today, gang.



Oh yes, if I don’t speak with you before then


Avant Pop Manifesto, Christmas Deconstruction Site

*****The latest from******

The site that would be a man, this man.


Greetings ladies and germs. Forgive me if I am preaching to the converted here, and/or boldly going where everyone has been before, but it seems like my conscious mind is finally catching up with the instinctive, butt-sniffin’ dog that is my artistic neandearthal self. I have been just diggin’ in to arty endeavor pretty much my whole life and puttin’ my pinky up to the wind, followin’ my nose and not exactly knowing why. “what the hell are you on about?” I hear you say.

Surf, sample, manipulate. surf, sample, manipulate. sounds good to me. I have been taking xmas carols from a MIDI file site. I want to play Christmas songs with some other cyboid geeks and destroy them. Why? Because I HATE CHRISTMAS THAT’S WHY!!! HE HE HE HE.
Not really. I love christmas.
I am lying.
everything i say is a lie. including the previous sentence. not really. maybe.

(p.s. you may have noticed my failure to capitalize words. sometimes i don’t, then my inner grammar school teacher
steps in and I must do as I am tole. i am ee cummings. no i’m not.)

I went online to find some kind of post mo manifesto, found one, some wordy geek named uh…let’s see
Mark America. Lives in Boulder as it happens. seems like this guy has been thinking as I have all this time, what with my notion of Joeboy the Electronic Ghost and all of that. We are what are known as “bricoleurs”. this is claude levi-strauss’ word for those who cobble together ‘texts’ in whatever medium. It seems that a text in this sense is different from what our print-driven minds would suppose. anything can be a text. a website is a text. a song is a text. a text is a text.

none of this is new. this is that whole semiotic/structuralist/postmodernist thing that has been kicking around for some time, especially among the more intellectual types who have haunted the new wave punko part of the cultural spectrum.

it’s just that I have come to realize that there is and has been a method to my madness. my webbing and bricolage over the years are an integral part, not a side effect of this exciting epistemology. my last coupla shows have been a vindication of sorts. yes, virginia, i do have a new direction. yes, it is cynical as hell. “let’s download midi files of christmas songs and pictures of car crashes and give the proles what for!” yeah. viva la revolucion.

oh yes. i forgot. “Americans don’t do irony.”
innarestin’ thing about irony is that those on the receiving end of the ironical must believe, along with the ironizer, that the ironizer is better, smarter, wiser and more moral than his material. americans are not used to coming into a discussion with any kind of preparation, thus often find themselves in the dark. everything must be dished up on a plate for americans. to expect someone in the audience to actually KNOW SOMETHING a priori is asking too much.

oh yes oh yes oh yes.

I found some wonderfully terrible midi files of xmas songs online. I also found a place, not a porn site, where on the first of every month a group of people (somewhere in california) have a sort of orgy onlines and the online audience, connected via chat and video interface are asked to masturbate along. the purveyors of this event, called ‘globalgasm’ profess to want everyone to orgasm in synch in order to raise the planetary consciousness. well, I know where I will be on January 1st.

the whole goddam thing is just too damn excitin’.

The small music theatre of athens presents Blaine L. Reininger’s Christmas Deconstruction Site. We will deconstruct a series of well-known Christmas songs, mostly from the American-English tradition which has declared itself world culture thanks to mass-media. Greek songs will not be immune, however.

Participating will be Blaine L. Reininger on violin, vocals, guitar, FM radio, found objects and visual heresy,Christopher Silvey on trumpet, video, and DJ, and Pan Pirakos on keyboards, didgeridoo and hair-do.



mark america


Home of the avant poppies

Jack, We Hardly Knew Ye (Anniversary of JFK's Death)


November 22, 2002

I just realized that tomorrow is the 22nd of November. On November 22, 1963 John F. Kennedy was put to death before the eye of the world. I was ten years old at the time. Like many people, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard this news. I realize that a fairly lightweight little bulletin that reaches a number of people comparable to that of a small Baptist church in Kentucky or a reasonably full Airbus is hardly the place for great moaning polemics on the snuffing by force of liberal ideals or the insidious refusal of fascism to just die of embarassment, but what the hell.

I just didn’t want to let another anniversary go unobserved by me. This little missive is my JFK memorial.

I remember when Jack Kennedy came to my hometown of Pueblo, Colorado in the summer of 1963. Maybe it wasn’t even summer. Maybe it was on the same fatal trip. It would have made sense for him to stop in Colorado before heading further South. He had come to speak upon the allocation by Congress of funds to build a dam and reservoir in Pueblo, a stubbornly arid place.

East 4th Street was the way to Pueblo’s little airport. It was also the main street to the Barrio, the Mexican neighborhood, my neighborhood. All of us mexicans loved Kennedy because he was Catholic like us and because we perceived him as being on the side of those of us outside the grace of white America. We all lined up there on east 4th street, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. As it turned out, he didn’t stop, but he did slow down.

I remember seeing him there, backlit by the glare of the Colorado sun. I was amazed to see that his hair was red. The sun in that red hair made him look like very Apollo himself, Dionysos, Balder, the hung god come to perish for his beauty.

It doesn’t matter that Kennedy turned out to be another Irish machine politico, a spoiled frat boy with a bad back. Like the Russians after Stalin, we were all basking in the thaw after so many numb years under Eisenhower, and like the Russians we would have to learn what it felt like to have the cage door slammed back in our face.

Now we have empty suits like Clinton and Blair and Schroeder and Bush, fronting like the pimps they are for the fascist reptiles who truly call the shots around here. Ah well, I will nip this diatribe in the bud before it goes on too long.

I remember you, Jackie boy. I remember November 22nd. There. I have said enough.

bye now


Uneasy Listening, Origins of the Mosquito

November 2, 2002


Greetings earthlings.

I seem to have been absent from your inboxes for a while. Miss me? I sure did. Time and tide find me in Athens again, preparing a show with my goombah Coti K. We will do our “Uneasy Listening” show at the AN club here in Athens on Saturday Nov. 9 and Sunday Nov. 10. If you happen to live in Greece, or you are desperate and fanatic, be sure to catch us. This show is an example of “surreal cabaret” and/or “semiotic stress disorder”. We are using some handy modern gadgetry and some very modern attitudes to take everyone’s minds off of the great shrieking pit of existential nausea that is life in the first part of the 21st century. Whew. Excuse me. I was looking at a picture of George Bush and I lost the will to live for a second there.

Other than that, things are ticking along well enough. Tuxedomoon is still lollygagging around, waiting for the proper home for our next “proper studio release”. Oh well. “We will sell no swine before its time”.

Enough o’ my yakkin’. I feel compelled to share a little story with y’all. I have had mosquitoes on the mind lately, from rehearsing the “Uneasy Listening” tune called “Re-Build the Mosquito” and since the little hell-spawned fiends refuse to do the decent thing and become extinct. They are still active in Greece. You think we get this climate without having to suffer? Hah.

Here is perhaps the only myth in human culture which bothered to explain the mosquito.

The Young Chamorrita Bride who turns into a Mosquito

One day the son of a chief from Talofofo on the island of Guam wanted to marry a young 
Chamorrita girl who was the daughter of the chief from Tamuning. When the couple 
received the consent from their parents, they agreed to marry. 
Soon after, the young bride died unexpectedly. Because of his undying love for his wife, 
the husband kept her body by his side and wept day after day.
After a while, he built a raft from a dokdok tree put his wife’s body on the raft and started 
out to sea. Suddenly a taotaomona appeared before him. It said to the young Chamorro, “I 
can bring your wife back to life.” 
“In order to do this, I need a pin made of bamboo.” The young Chamorro husband made a 
pin of bamboo and gave it to the taotaomona who stuck it into his hand. Blood from the 
wound flowed onto his wife’s body, and behold, she came back to life. 
“that’s a pretty neat trick,” said the man.
“thank you,” replied the taotaomona and disappeared.
Soon the young husband, tiring of sea food, decided to swim to shore to get some fresh 
fruit. On his return with the fruits, he saw his lovely wife standing on the raft with the 
She told him that she was going away with the taotaomona. The enraged husband knew 
that he would have to kill her for betraying him. He stabbed her with the same bamboo pin 
which had brought her back to life. (The taotaomona, being no fool had buggered off.)
Her blood flowed into the water of the river, and she disappeared. As her blood emptied 
into the ocean, it turned into mosquito larvae. It is not known what happened to the young 
husband, though some believe that he became a taxi driver in Athens.

Today when a mosquito bites people, it is sucking blood with its long proboscis, trying to 
get back enough blood to become the once beautiful young bride which once lived on 
Thank you for your kind attention. See you at the taotaomona’s place for Guamian snacks.

Edinburgh, Friday the 13th, Maggie the Pig


Ian among the scottish
Ian among the scottish dead.

Greetings, fellow agents. Yesterday was Friday the 13th all over the world, except for Greece, where it was Friday the 10th. Tomorrow is Greek Friday the 13th, except that makes it Sunday. Damn Gregorian calendar! As usual, the Greek custom on Friday the 13th is to get in your car and drive as fast as possible, being sure that you shout constantly and forget to shave, especially females. Wait a mo’, that’s what they do every day here!

As you may gather from that introduction, I am in Greece now. I have been here for a while, having returned from Edinburgh where my wife Athena particpated in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I could report on the goings on there, except I spent the whole 2 weeks carting my 2 year old son Ian around. It was a pleasure. Many days we could be found in a cemetery where the little tyke played on the picturesque headstones, kicked over by picturesque scottish lager louts. I told him, in fatherly Addams Family style that we were amongst the dead. “Deh…” he solemnly repeated. “Now play, my son!” I urged him, and so he did. Then it was off to the local petting zoo, Gorgie Farm, where he made the acquaintance of Maggie, an enormous “Stone-age pig” the size of a small car, aptly named after the former Prime Minister Ms. T. “Pee-K” he would say, and I would reward him by giving him a day off from his scripture lessons and having him translate only one page of Latin. After a great deal of strolling around in his enormous (and HEAVY) stroller, it was off to the lawn of St. Mary’s Cathedral where we would peruse the many pictures of “Jeezy” which I assured him was the name of that renowned Israeli beatnik water skier. Then we would retire to the enormous lawn of that cathedral, which he had decided was an appropriate place for infant defecation. “Good boy” I would say. And then I would photograph his donation to the Scottish ecosystem. How smart he looked in his new infant leash, one manacle on his wrist and one on his father’s. He laughed, knowing that he was leading.

Ah, youth! As Oscar Meyer said, it is wasted on the young. They are too damned stupid and broke to take advantage of it. Of course, by the time they get their hands on some money, they are too old to enjoy it. And the cycle starts again. Yet, I don’t regret a single day of my life. Well, maybe one. All right, a lot of them. Most of them, in fact. But that’s water under the hedge, so don’t go counting your chickens before you eat your cake. There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done.

Before I get carried away (they are here to repossess my knees) I should tell you about a couple of the events coming up for uncle Guido here at Harpoon Investigations. (Me, in case I grow too cryptic). First, I return to Italy where we will perform the ever-popular “Isaia l’Irreducibile” September 22 a Roma and September 24 and 25 in Napoli. Then I return to Athens. On November 8 and 9, my friend Coti K. and I will perform “Uneasy Listening” at the newly-refurbished AN Club in Exarchia. Uneasy Listening is a bit of what I call ‘surreal cabaret’ in which we do gibe and gambol in the wave (sic) using many found objects, coti’s adroit manipulation of his many fine musical computing devices and my ham handed readings of computer-generated and guido-generated texts. I am also hammering away at multi-media this time. I intend to bring a bit of the old Mundoblaineo style into the light of day.

If all goes well, I shall webcast this extravagance. I intend to stream forth with live video and audio, live chat with Uncle Blaine from the stage, and some kind of free something or other for members of this list. I don’t know what yet, but it’s gonna be BIG, ladies and germs, bigger than anything in this paragraph.

That said, I conclude with a couple of little stories I have gleaned from the web, working on an idea called “100 new ways to die” which I will turn into a song, or at least a JPEG file.

yours in turpitude


49th Birthday on Mytilini

Mundoblaineo site news

49th birthday at Mytilini

July 10, 2002

Happy Birthday to me

Yes, it’s true ladies and germs, tomorrow, July 10, 2002 is my 49th birthday. On Friday, July 10, 1953 Mr. and Mrs. Reininger took delivery of a big mess of trouble at 3 am in Pueblo, Colorado. What does ‘friday’s child do?’ Hell if I know. I am quite frankly amazed that I have made it this far. I don’t need to be reminded how close I am to the ‘blue period’, my fifties. I say it is blue because I associate colors with numbers in a big way. The number 5 is blue for me, therefore, 50 is blue.

Forty nine is black followed by red. This is called ‘synesthesis’. It is quite a common phenomenon wherin some people experience the input of some senses with other senses. Some people, for instance, see colors when they hear sounds, often seeing moving fields of patterns while listening to music. I am one of these. Number/color association is the most common.

I have been spending the last weeks working on my tan and swimming in the sea. This island is marvelous. Tomorrow night I go to Italy where I will play with people from Materiali Sonori in an evening of improvisations. It is worthy to note here that the record ‘Keen-o’ featuring me, Roger Eno (Brian’s bro) Pier Luigi Andreoni and Giancarlo Bigazzi is just now becoming available. One may purchase this fine item at
tell ’em guido sent you.

When I have some pearls of wisdom to share, rest assured that I will pass them on. At the moment I feel blessed to have the opportunity to let the sea teach me a couple of things about permanence.

Thanks all, especially those of you who have jumped the gun and wished me happy happy joy joy already.


From Russia with Gloves

From Russia with gloves

red square

A rubber glove inserted in one’s fundament, that is. This here’s uncle guido back in athens, deep fried like a thai grasshopper.

Before I go on, a word about Russian security……argggggggh! That’s the word. After our halcyon days in St. Petersburg, we got off the 8 hour train to Moscow and were denied entrance to our hotel on the grounds that our papers weren’t in order. It seems that the travel restrictions practiced by the former unmentionable regime are still in force and one must supply hard copy to back up one’s claims at legitimacy in the Russian federation.

We were thus privileged to discover a new kind of limbo, waiting to be allowed past the border between the street and our hotel. We passed the time at the convenient hotel police station by sipping a coke or two at the convenient Limbo bar and grill, conveniently located in the basement.

All of this security begs the question “What the hell are you dopes keeping so secure?”
“We are guarding the other guards.”
“And what are they guarding?”
“It’s a secret.”

state of the art russian toilet
state of the art russian train toilet, 2002

There were not only security guards at the front desk of the hotel, there were roving gangs of security who prowled the halls of this 2000 room monster left over from the heady days when Brezhnev’s guests and cronies luxuriated there. Now, the fountain reminiscent of Las Vegas’ Sands Hotel lies rusting in the Moscow rain, it’s mosaic tiles falling loose almost audibly.

I had planned to go on and on and vent all kinds of spleen but I am afraid that I just don’t have the energy. Some slimebag stole my laptop from the hotel lobby in Barcelona and I no longer want to live.

I will write an update soon, describing the sublime majesty of Red Square and the surrounding monolithic buildings, the warmth of the Moscow audience and much more besides.

I include for your consideration the fact that I was almost obliged to leave my violin in Moscow since IT’S papers were not in order. I somehow neglected to get a passport for my fiddle, folks. Only a quick inspection by a violin specialist at customs saved my instrument. It seems that n’er do wells have been known to travel into Russia with a cheap violin and leave with a looted Stradivarius from the Moscow Conservatory or something. Hell.

Right now, I am in mourning for my computer. It was a cheerful little fellow, a Compaq, not astounding but all mine. No more, alas. He will be sorely missed by his doting dad.

I will keep my chin up. You have not heard the last from your correspondent, not by a long shot.

Mundoblaineo In Russia

White Night, St. Petersburg









We Arrive in Russia

16 June, 2002

Your correspondent here in St. Petersburg, (Russia that is if you are American and don’t know that there is another St. Petersburg in the world.) We, Tuxedomoon, are up here for a week or so, we play here tomorrow and then we go to Moscow.

I don’t have a hell of a lot to report about life up here in the former home of the evil empire. I have been luxuriating in the fact that I have my own room here in the Tuxmo Arms, in which I can sleep and SMOKE, without fear of brain-damaging my son. I can also read undisturbed and I have just finished devouring a book by Bruce Sterling. “Distraction” it was called. A political diversion set 5 minutes into the future  as the cover said. Pretty good. I recommend Bruce Sterling as post-Gibson reading. (In the science fiction community he is known as Chairman Bruce. 

First thing off the plane, we got hit by shuckers and jivers. Some knuckle-walking son of Ivan wanted to charge us thirty dollars for carrying our baggage 10 feet. We wanted to get from one terminal to the other of the stunning world-class facility that is Moscow airport. Were we ever shocked to discover that the ticket agent of Aeroflot was in cahoots with the gypsy cab drivers and luggage schlepper to get us to part with about 100 dollars of Tuxmo money. When we asked the woman at the aeroflot desk when the free shuttle bus service was she replied in words not of this time space continuum.

“I never told you to take a bus, now you have to pay for standing twenty minutes talking to information, WHY WHY WHY do you insist on taking a taxi when I TOLD YOU the only taxis here are directly controlled by the mindwarp brainfog hare krishna voodoo no coke pepsi. NEXT PLEASE? TAKE TAXI OR TAKE BRITISH AIRWAYS NEXT TIME STUPID!!”

I simply must tell you, however, that st. petersburg is stunningly beautiful, knock out drop dead gorgeous. They have a ‘respectable river’ here as peter says. I have never seen a river whose current is so fast. It positively assaults the bridges. We are staying not all that far from the Hermitage and the surrounding plazas. This town is laid out on a grand scale, the sky is huge and the sun doesn’t ever quite set. We are in the middle of the ‘white nights’ period. At most, the sun sulks a bit, we have a crepuscular glow for a while and then the sun comes back up. I will go now, I have finally managed to get online but it costs. I am sitting in my underwear as I write this. I thought you needed to know that.

SPECIAL REPORT from the hermitage.

hermitage museum st. peter 

Greetings sports fans. This is your working boy here, writing from an internet cafe inside the HERMITAGE, St. Petersburg’s enormous repository of art from all times and places. Thus far I have seen many of the biggies, Titian, Caravaggio (including the Lute Player upon which my friend Harpeaux Crapaud superimposed my haid for my site.) Gaugin, van Gogh, Michelangelo, Cezanne, Degas, Renoir and the hits just keep on happenin’. I am struck here, just as I was at the Parce Guell in Barcelona by how much the pure flow of art resembles religion for black clothes wearin’ arty types like me. At the guell park, people were putting their hands in the water of Gaudi’s fountains and rubbing it on their heads with a spontaneous devotion I have never seen in a church. Perhaps at Lourdes.
peter in peter
The tuxedomoon show last night was not bad. We couldn’t hear anything on stage, but that’s showbiz. Also, it was strange to be playing in broad daylight at 9 pm. Such are the idiosyncracies of the planet’s attitude towards the sun up here in the north country. These people seem to like us. We played some of the new material which will end up on the new record, taking it out onto the road to temper it up a bit. This is also as it should be. After the show, our erstwhile host, Oleg Kuptsov and company took us on a boat ride through the late night canals and passages of this city. I tell yafolks, you shoulda been there. We had the moon on the water and the never-setting sun drooling indigo and orange all over the place while we puttered around these broad neo-classical waterways. Simply divine my friends. Now I am having a coffee break before hitting the egyptian part of this place. Later I may go with the boys to buy bootleg software or cd’s. When insane, do as the sane do.
don't hurt me
on the boat
machoman on boat
I hit the egyptian part of the museum and was naturally floored. I also dug the many Roman statues. I also saw a piece of Greek ceramics that didn’t make me want to pass out from sheer boredom. Now I am off.

dos vedanya


Tuxedomoon in Barcelona (Sonar Festival)

gaudi's lizard
gaudi lizard, parce guell
14 June, 2002
Greetings all. This is your correspondent writing from the hotel lobby in the fabulous city of Barcelona. I am here with the Tuxedomoons since we played last night at the Sonar Festival. This is a massive festival of new electronic music, jam packed with young folks here to have their ear drums bleed from exposure to the latest and greatest electronic sounds. Our show last night was most excellent, we played a set of new material which will find its way onto our new studio cd, coming soon to a bootlegger near you.

This city is quite jammed with gorgeousness and gorgeosity.
I ain´t never seen the like. The streets are crawling with attractive people of all genders and the architecture is to die for, girl.

One highlight of the show last night was the chance to introduce my son on stage. I took the little tyke out after the last bow and introduced him to the crowd with the words “Este es mi hijo.” (this is my son, in case you not know). I may have started another unfortunate soul down the road of applause addiction. I was watching his little face as the adulation of some uncounted number of jazzed up young people washed over him and his dad. You should have been there folks. Now he knows what I do besides feed him oatmeal and chase him around the playground in mytilini.

The next day we slogged through the heat to get to the one destination I could not face missing, Gaudi’s famous Parce Guell. I have to tell you, folks, that it is better than all of the photos I have seen in art books.  Walt Disney’s take on the human capacity for whimsy and pure fantasy is to this park as a MacDonald’s Big Mac is to Cordon Bleu, or any cuisine you care to name that has soul. Cajun, Greek, Italian, anything. This park could be called ‘otherwordly’ were it not for the fact that it is in our world already. It’s just that civilized minds are not often free enough from the limits of stupidity to see through the veil to this extent.  

I would also like to take this opportunity to announce the coming of at this address you will now find links to other sites, including mine, but much more will come.

that said, I wish you all buena suerte from 
Gaudi´s town.