Ode to Albrecht Hirche

Crucifix Acupuncture.

an ode to Albrecht Hirche

I’m standing there in berlin, dressed in black

That ennio morricone music playing,

TWANG! I raise my black stetson,

Lights come up, music swells,

I swagger down off the stage to meet my enemy.

Iam super baaaad.

Baddest thang on two continents.

I am in hog heaven, grandma.

One of the best moments in my damn life, yer honor.

Then, I am sitting under the seats in a mattress-striped rolling stones suit

Not smoking. Rauchen verboten. Should be smoking. Virtually smoking, then.

Next, I am riding a no-speed bicycle with flat tires around and around and around

Praying “dear god, don’t let me fall off this thing”.

I dismount and whip out my blazing git-tar

Whoooo! Get back Loretta, I am Johnny B. Goode his own self,

I plays “Lucille”

Whoo! Y’all kin fry a egg on my “Lucille”.

Hot rats, bwana! Bop ‘til youse drop!

Before I know it, I am lying in a coffin with a radio clutched over my crotch.

I hear Mozart’s requiem

I practice being so triumphantly dead. Dead in a Mozart manner.

I see my own state funeral and all the earnest mourning over my illustrious passing.

“He was a simple man….a brilliant man…great, in a word”

Boo hoo hoo, so elegantly sad like a black rose in a dog’s mouth.

Or something.

Long black nylon hairs from the lead actor’s wig fly up my nose.

(left there from his previous occupancy, I suppose)

My hands are pinned to my sides. I cannot scratch my itch.

I try to enter an itch-free universe by chanting mantras.

It is not working.

All of these mystic moments brought to you by Albrecht Hirche.

All of these and more.

Come to give me stories to tell when I thought they was all told, officer.

Lay apostle of the first and last church of rock n’ roll.

Brother in arms.


Atom eyebitch tits.

Lunch poet.

Genius cartwheel

Crucifix acupuncture

Shanti, shanti, shanti.

Blaine L. Reininger

Athens, Greece



Bulletin from Amsterdammed

Amsterdam bridge

July 11, 2005

Hello, my little chickadees. Miss me? I know it has been many moons since I have generated a wee missive like this, but hey, who counts such things among dear compasand friends such as we?

As is pretty normal these days, I am traveling around with tuxedomoon. This last session of my life as a singing baggage handler has taken me first to Amsterdam, then naples, then mestre, near Venice and now back to Amsterdam.

We are the guests of this sort of dada surrealist community group called the Illuseum. They are sponsoring a festival of events and exhibitions called “New Atlantis” to which we have been invited. We are conducting workshops and performing hither and yon.

[pe2-gallery class=”aligncenter” ] P6230039.JPG[/pe2-gallery]I have been riding an old (circa 1920) bicycle around. this place is bike heaven. As you know, there are bike paths, roads really, everywhere with their own set of traffic lights and street markings and all. There is real bicycle traffic here; you have to be on guard just like driving a car. There are hundreds of thousands of bicycles on the road every day. Wow.

Continue reading “Bulletin from Amsterdammed”

Back from Bushland (tuxedomoon return to san francisco)


April 7, 2005

Hello my little chickadees. Here’s Blaine, back in Athens after our glorious return to Homeland America, Estados Unidos. If you ain’t aware already, Tuxedomoon went to San Francisco for the entire month of March, 2005. While
there we jammed furiously with an eye upon a new cd. This work will continue later, fiends.We played two shows in San Fran, one in Mexico City and one in Lost Angeles.

At that point, we upped stakes and flew to New York where we wowed ’em at the Knitting Factory and the Tribeca Grand Hotel. Of course, when we tell people that we played in the lobby of an enormous and luxe hotel where formerlyonly derelicts tread, they may think we have joined the Holiday Inn and cruise ship circuit. None of that.

Now, back in greece, the impressions fostered by this return are too many to process. In any case, we have a bunch more shows in Spain and Portugal. We even have one in Italy. Then we are finished, 14 April.

Suffice to say, I grew weary of the 8th grade principle’s office atmosphere of the current United States. Shuffling yet again through the checkpoints set up by the Sicherheitsamt of the Office of Homeland Security
(Heimatssicherheitamt), it struck me that we would all be better off if we dressed and acted as they treat us. As mental patients. Think about it, a bathrobe and slippers would be themost security-friendly uniform, no fumbling with shoes and belts andjackets, everything to hand for those anal probes for contraband. Also, had we all spent time in jail or the nuthouse, we would be handier with the plastic cutlery enforced throughout the secure zones of our airports. Who can deny that a little Thorazine would render the whole experience of air travel in modern America
just that little bit less stressful? I already noted that a way to smoke a cigarette undetected by closed circuit television taught to me by a former mental patient has proven most effective.

Continue reading “Back from Bushland (tuxedomoon return to san francisco)”

let it snow

February 12, 2004

Just about to give up on this uneventful day when the sky opened up and it began to snow. This was not just a wimpy little dusting, but a big sloppy blizzard with fat wet flakes billowing down. I need not remind you that this is far from common in Greece. I hear the cars honking down on the avenue. Panic is no doubt ensuing down there. I smirk secretly to know that the ever-aggressive drivers of this town, who stop for nothing and no one have met their match in the strange frozen water from the sky. Ha. Honk at that, bozoes! The lights of the city reflecting up on the snow lend a strange light to proceedings, something like sunrise on one of Saturn’s moons.

I took some photos of the snow on the lemon trees. Lemons are hardy and tenacious little devils, they hang onto the tree until the last, unlike their orange cousins who drop off and rot away if not harvested. This may not be news to some of us, but to a boy from Colorado like me the snow is less mysterious than the behavior of citrus trees.

Speaking of Colorado, I want to call your attention to a recent addition to my site, a photo gallery dedicated to my recent return to my mythic and strange home town, Pueblo, Colorado.


Damn. Wish I could just post the photos I just took. Perhaps you are lucky that I can’t.



New World Short Order (detained in the posh burbs)

this is the way back to the ghetto

Thursday January 22, 2004


Howdy. I neglected to tell youse about a rather amusing event that transpired the other day. Some bozoes of my acquaintance, musicians for whom I did a session came out here to bourgeois land Sunday to take me to a video shoot for their cd. They came in a beat up red car (important later). Also important to remember is that I decided to dress in my Matrix-influenced baddest drag for the occasion. I sported my long black leather overcoat, a pair of blue mirror shades, black turtleneck. Couldn’t have done better had I consulted “Osama’s Secret” terrorist wardrobe catalogue. We hadn’t travelled more than 500 meters down the road when a pair of newly-minted fascist cops from the olympic brigade decided this was our lucky day. Beat up red car in a posh neighborhood? Scowling mafioso in the back seat? It’s them, stavros! Oh, the arrogance. The leather lad in charge pulled us over by standing in the middle of the road and pointing his finger. You.

Continue reading “New World Short Order (detained in the posh burbs)”

Danton Bomb Scare, Mixing Cabin in the Sky


Peter P, Marc Hollander, and Coti K. listen earnestly to “cabin in the sky”

DECEMBER 31, 2003

urbi et orbi pope guido speaks

Oh, my friends, it grieves me. It grieves me so. Here some…3? 2? MONTHS! Have passed without a mundoblaineo update from me. Not to mention that the site itself languishes in neglect, covered with pixellated dust, reeking of cybernetic mildew. I beat my breast in remorse. I wail. I gnash my teeth.

Not only that, but the year is turning! 2003 becomes 2004 tonight and what will you do about it? What CAN you do about it? More on this later. What, you may ask, has old Blaine been up to all this time!??

First off, the play in which I played, strutted and fretted many hours upon the stage has come to a merciful conclusion. This was a tough one, folks. “Danton’s Death” faded off into theatrical history on the 2nd of December.

I should tell you that we had to interrupt play one memorable night for a bomb scare. Yes, folks, someone took the trouble of calling the Athens police to tell them that they had planted a bomb in the Theatro Amore. Just as I was getting ready to put down my baglama, rush backstage and change into my queen Victoria ballgown for the drag scene, the stage manager came in and turned on the lights. “we must evacuate the theatre” or words to that effect. We trooped out onto the sidewalk, some of us still in costume and makeup, others smarter, in street clothes, watched the audience fade into the night, waited as the police sent bomb-sniffing dogs into the theatre and then we buggered off home.

This was shortly after we had our power failure. A scant two nights before the bomb threat we played the thing out by battery-powered emergency lighting. It went fairly well until the last bit where we sang a Beethoven song “Rasch Tritt der Tod”. Without the digital piano to guide us four act-ores we had no idea where the tonal center lay. No, not even I. it sounded like the Schoenberg version. Or maybe 4 guys listening to walkmans singing along to 4 different songs.

During the run of danton, the intrepid Peter Principle and Marc Hollander came down here to Athens to work on the mix of the new Tuxedomoon CD. The title of this remains a state secret. We had some halcyon sessions in a pleasant little studio near the local river. We would take a break from our intense labors to chow down on some magnificent Cretan food. Truly marvy, gang.

Of course, much has been seen, said, felt, consumed, stapled and mutilated which will never find its way into these letters. That is as it should be. Suffice to say that 2003 was, by and large, a pretty good year for me. I have been working like 10,000 dogs (to quote a dear friend of mine) and that is marvelous. what joy to feel the jingle of change in my jeans! i’ve heard of that…money.

Let us try to forget for a while the march of the fascist morons intent on screwing up a perfectly good world with lots of fun things to do. Hell with ‘em. We can only wish that george bush and his brown shirted thugs and their cousins on the other side of the holy war would just zap off to hell in a foul-smelling cloud. No such luck. We have to endure their presence. No question about their reception in hell. George W. Bush has a private room already booked. The world situation is pretty scary,though. I hate to admit that I am more concerned about my mp3 collection. I guess when the new world orderlies come to the door to machine gun my old bones I will become politically engaged. It will be too late, though.

But serially, folk. we surely don’t have to wait for the worm to turn to live like free-thinking people. We can make every effort to do so now. and…um… I forget. What’s on tv, George?

I will close. I wish each and every one of you, my precious little love bundles, a simply scrumptious 2004.

Ta ta for now


Back to Griechenland

athpix0202AUGUST 16, 2003

Greetings culture fans. This is old uncle guido here, writing a belated update. I am sure you were all just jumping out of your skins wondering what I have been up to. or probably not.

at the moment I am back on the island of lesbos where my wee son ian and his mother athena live. i have been riding my bike and swimming and so forth. yes, it’s marvy here. yeah yeah yeah.

not so damn long ago me and the other tuxedomoons finished recording our new cd. this has been an epic journey. much of this material was written in cagli, italy 2 years ago. this time around we found ourselves in our old schlomping grounds the fine city of brussels, belgium. ah, bruxelles! ah belgique! ah, les frites! ah le mannekin pis! let me tell you it was most strange to find myself back there. i spilt a great deal of vitriol and moaned many moans over that desolate ville. stranger even was the fact that it didn’t look all that bad this time. there’s some mighty fine architecture thar. faded old whore of a 19th century imperial capital.

we set ourselves up in a suitably decaying rehearsal room with very high ceilings and a most delicious subterranean fecal vibe down by the gare du midi (which is not in the middle as you might think, but in the south of the city). and there you go. our friend and engineer coti k. came in, we set up laptop, amps, mikes, coffee maker and bob’s your uncle, hey presto, we were in the record biz.

this said, what remains to do is to mix the dang thing. we plan to release this beauty around spring 2004. yes, we will also play bruxelles on the 28th (?) of september, so make your travel plans now.

that’s about all i will inflict upon youse right now.

i greet thee from the sea




After They Seen Pareeee

Tue Jul 1, 2003 2:39 pm



“How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm
after they seen Pareeeeee?”

Popular WWI song

Greetings, sports fans

Here’s uncle guido back in Brussels. Since my last bulletin I have returned from
the united states and come back to Yerp. I linked up with the other bozoes from
Tuxedomoon and we did two very satisfactory gigs, one in Hasselt, Belgium and

Yes, you may say that Paris was a bit of a good time. I must tell you that after
our show we got a standing ovation from those noble Parisians. I can’t remember
when we have had a full-fledged standing ovation with the whole damn audience on
its feet. Moved me to tears don’t you know.

We were housed right smack dab in the heart of old paree, near the aging
shopping mall of Les Halles. The whole area is aging in fact. Interesting to see
how the former bad boy of architecture, that nasty old oil-refinery-looking
centre Pompidou with all of its exposed ducts and ventilation shafts recedes
into the background as its post modern scions around the world have multiplied.
The whole mirror-tiled free-flowing place looks increasingly quaint, in a word.

I suppose the main feature of Paris is architecture. (I exclude the hordes of
drool-inducing young women who prowled around in their summer undress). The
place is just lousy with great buildings and exciting urban spaces. Take the
pyramid at the Louvre, par example. Old I.M Pei succeeded in creating a postcard
worthy landmark so that Louvre Brand art is instantly recognizable around the
world. I don’t suppose it is widely known but under that pyramid is YET ANOTHER
SHOPPING MALL. Yes, it seems that almost no area frequented by humans these days
is free of the opportunity to shop. The space under that pyramid is magnificent
but the people occupying it have turned it into something that resembles an
airport, complete with x-ray machines, metal detectors and CCTV surveillance.
One may not smoke anywhere within its confines. Soon, earth will resemble
Heathrow airport. Marvelous.

All of that said, I take my leave of youse. In the immortal words of Gen.
Douglas Macarthur when asked what he would do with the sweater he got for
Christmas which didn’t fit
“I shall return”.

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 http://www.MichaelMoore.com 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 http://www.alternet.org 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