SURVIVAL BOLESKINE LABS
Nessie gets down to Led Zeppelin III:
Two months ago Tyson and Cara and I were discussing Boleskine House over Peanut Butter and Jellies and whole milks, of the Crowley variety, incidently, at the Pub. I mentioned having read a particular account by a lodger/thrill-seeker (when the place was/is? a bed and breakfast), in which he described having been awoken in the middle of the night by a ferocious, snarling beast rattling his door hinges. He was too terrified to even turn on a light. "I knew it could only be the sound of pure evil" or something like that. So it goes: we were talking about great feral black hounds roaming the Scottish moors, when Tyson, being quite knowledgable indeed on such subjects, assured us both that the howling was most certainly just Robert Plant on a coke binge bleating out "Immigrant Song" and scratching at all the doors, upping the property value and occult appeal of the manor for his buddy Jimmy Page.
Remote Sensory Dolphin Cum Cetaphil Sculpture for Atrium Space,
"A Scenic Harvest from the Kingdom of Cum,"
Hotter than the Hot Wax Solar Rebliztkrieg Foreplay Flamethrower:
In the wake of gallery-patron-inflected minimally-interactive art such as that of Angela Bulloch's "Pushmepullme" and Rebecca Horn's "The Lovers," in line with Jean Tinguely sub-cock-for-pathos, and most especially considering the post-punk parking lot massive robot intergalactic satanic armageddons of Survival Research Labs, launching 2 x 4s 800 feet at other robot bodies, outfitted with flamethrowers, water cannons, and percussion bombs, borne of the California rhetorically macho machinic super destroy music culture pro-gun leftist scene, Gavin and I have recently been discussing the fabrication of a large, lubed, grey and smooth sex dolphin robot kinetic structure-sculpture. It will hang under the Heimbold lightwell, above the atrium space, from a hydraulic mechanism such that it may rotate quite freely as to perfectly hit its moving, bewildered targets. When students and faculty coalesce for a retardataire easel painting show, for instance, the works inexpressive, representational, and non-transcendental, the remote sensors in the dolphin trigger an interaction between the machine and the gallery patron. The dolphin "paints" the viewer with his drip-fluids in response to the viewer's movement in the gallery. A small motor begins the movement of a bottle of Zazz between the dolphin's breasts, tumescing the dolphin's member with Cetaphil, given its analogous appearance to particular bodily fluids, as well as its sophisticated emollient and humectant qualities, neutral pH, and non-irritating residue. The dolphin sounds his alarm bells, warning the patron with A Count of Seven, real-life dolphin counting sounds provided by "Sounds and the Ultra-sounds of the Bottle-nosed Dolphin," a 50s-era Smithsonian Folkways recording. The patron is shot in the face or chest, Cetaphil pearlnecklacing, the incredible force of the dolphin's emission knocking him back several feet, and perhaps even to the ground. The dolphin snickers a chortled, water-blurred and sea-mammalian sort of laughter, ludic and tauntful.
Two months ago Tyson and Cara and I were discussing Boleskine House over Peanut Butter and Jellies and whole milks, of the Crowley variety, incidently, at the Pub. I mentioned having read a particular account by a lodger/thrill-seeker (when the place was/is? a bed and breakfast), in which he described having been awoken in the middle of the night by a ferocious, snarling beast rattling his door hinges. He was too terrified to even turn on a light. "I knew it could only be the sound of pure evil" or something like that. So it goes: we were talking about great feral black hounds roaming the Scottish moors, when Tyson, being quite knowledgable indeed on such subjects, assured us both that the howling was most certainly just Robert Plant on a coke binge bleating out "Immigrant Song" and scratching at all the doors, upping the property value and occult appeal of the manor for his buddy Jimmy Page.
Remote Sensory Dolphin Cum Cetaphil Sculpture for Atrium Space,
"A Scenic Harvest from the Kingdom of Cum,"
Hotter than the Hot Wax Solar Rebliztkrieg Foreplay Flamethrower:
In the wake of gallery-patron-inflected minimally-interactive art such as that of Angela Bulloch's "Pushmepullme" and Rebecca Horn's "The Lovers," in line with Jean Tinguely sub-cock-for-pathos, and most especially considering the post-punk parking lot massive robot intergalactic satanic armageddons of Survival Research Labs, launching 2 x 4s 800 feet at other robot bodies, outfitted with flamethrowers, water cannons, and percussion bombs, borne of the California rhetorically macho machinic super destroy music culture pro-gun leftist scene, Gavin and I have recently been discussing the fabrication of a large, lubed, grey and smooth sex dolphin robot kinetic structure-sculpture. It will hang under the Heimbold lightwell, above the atrium space, from a hydraulic mechanism such that it may rotate quite freely as to perfectly hit its moving, bewildered targets. When students and faculty coalesce for a retardataire easel painting show, for instance, the works inexpressive, representational, and non-transcendental, the remote sensors in the dolphin trigger an interaction between the machine and the gallery patron. The dolphin "paints" the viewer with his drip-fluids in response to the viewer's movement in the gallery. A small motor begins the movement of a bottle of Zazz between the dolphin's breasts, tumescing the dolphin's member with Cetaphil, given its analogous appearance to particular bodily fluids, as well as its sophisticated emollient and humectant qualities, neutral pH, and non-irritating residue. The dolphin sounds his alarm bells, warning the patron with A Count of Seven, real-life dolphin counting sounds provided by "Sounds and the Ultra-sounds of the Bottle-nosed Dolphin," a 50s-era Smithsonian Folkways recording. The patron is shot in the face or chest, Cetaphil pearlnecklacing, the incredible force of the dolphin's emission knocking him back several feet, and perhaps even to the ground. The dolphin snickers a chortled, water-blurred and sea-mammalian sort of laughter, ludic and tauntful.