Washington Avenue
…where the bad people manipulate the fucked-up people

Green Acres

You don’t know the people I have to deal with.

Covers of Darkness

The wife says my demonic transmissions mis-use electricity.

In that order.

There are devils, too.

The Sound of The Police

The sultry succulent vocal Buckshot stylings rendering what will I’m sure become a standard!

All the Afflictions

These buckshot vocal stylings go well with weather.

Jesus Christ Douchebag

Jesus was no douchebag

Contusion, Zik Dwahrgma

More historical entries from the Zik Dwahrgma period. Mike Vaughn and I, and one belabored four-track

Zik Dwahrgma, My Baby Brother

Sometime in the late 1990s, Mike Vaughn and I sat around his room at Kent a lot, making his four track do this.

Epoxy

Giving space, beat once or on about the guitar to induce flavor.

New Hair Do

Jeff Clark sez, “Love is something you can’t remember.”

Her Purple Flowers

The chickadees have completely devoured your seed bell.

Waking Up With You
for Buckshot

It is sometimes late when we wake up. Sometimes the rooms are still dark.

Cuddles, Track 8

The first decade of the 21st Century, early on. With a tiny gray four-track plugged into a long dead computer, and a purple strat.

Ha Ha Barnabas

Vampires in the country can be dispersed with silver buckshot, if needed, or even the ruminants of an old fuzzy barn. How warm!

Minerva\'s Murderer

You wanted to know a bit about my methodology. The rain, like all rain, dented the pavement by hideously minute degrees.

Fuzzy Barn

…and it would seem that we’re back. The eyes are sticky. Grief like the first new world viking. She was worried about her audio settings, and asked if I could read.

09112009
09102009
09092009

Jawas don’t have much formal education; pretty much all we have to learn how to do in order to survive is harvest scrap metal. Sure, some of this involves learning certain safety practices while handling rabid droids, but for the most part it’s all pretty easy.

Autumn is a-coming in, and Jawa Warhol has it on good authority that in this season small ones go “back to school.” He has been told this has something to do with education. To that end, he offers up some synthesizer stylings–as a way to promote the general edification and moral welfare of small ones everywhere!

Confusion is profit

The upstairs rooms here get very hot, and contrary to the popular mythos, jawas are not especially fond of the heat. If you’d ever seen a jawa without his traditional hood, you’d know this. Jawas possess no pigmentation whatsoever; beneath our thick hood (ladies) we have (ladies) absolutely transparent skin.

To cope with the heat, Jawa Warhol succumbs to his intense craving for neo-classicism. Beneath his velvet blacklight poster of Yanni, he dusts off his long-neglected lollipopsichord. a traditional tattooine instrument that measures the variances of temperature in the blood and maps them to the chromatic scale. As another stifling summer night closes over him, the mournful sweeps in the singing of his blood drift through the pitch alleys of Lorain, Ohio. Perhaps, if you visit the city on the lake, you’ll hear him; outside his window, the strays in the neighborhood cluster, half-lidded and dripping slowly into somnulence as he plays…

Hollingshead

William Hollingshead Loomis was the poet laureate of Collinsport, Maine in the late 1960s. He had a fondness for foreign cigarettes, which was how Jawa Warhol met him. Jawas are the e-bay of the universe; they scrounge through the dimmest, dankest galaxies, often gleaning incalcuable treasures that the “Tallies” (for this is how jawas refer to other, more vertically-adept humanoids) often give them good coin for.

The verse of William Hollingshead Loomis is often lauded by scholars for being the earliest example of the Obfuscatorian School, due to its obtuse density and adept meaninglessness. This is often attributed to Loomis’ fondness for Brazilian Dex, another foreign commodity sometimes proferred by jawas. Dextroamphetamines are widely known for tangling cognitive processes; a quick look at Loomis’ work bears this out. His most famous line, “gruff sundays flir wif biscuit ribbonage,” is a favorite of Jawa Warhol’s, and is accordingly tattooed on his withered black scrotum

Many in-depth psychoanalytic critiques of the verse of William Hollingshead Loomis remark on the almost hysteric dread of canes in his texts.