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It’s been a little while since I posted up some muzak, and indeed, Def Jux founder El-P’s Weareallgoingtoburninhellmegamixxx3 could easily be what you would listen to while on hold with your insurance company, or riding the elevator to your office, in some far flung, totally awesome version of the future that’s absolutely never going to happen. Although I guess it wouldn’t be that awesome if you still had to deal with insurance company goons, or even still had to take elevators for that matter, instead of just, you know, teleporting everywhere. Man, even in the cool versions of the future things still suck. It’s hard to get excited about shit when you view the world with pessimism-colored glasses, I guess.

Nonetheless, I’m not convinced that we are all actually going to burn in hell either. After all, hell is just the evil, entirely black licorice version of Candyland that you go to if you don’t follow all of King Kandy’s stupid rules. And the logic of pessimism doesn’t really apply to the illogical world of fairy tales, or religion, whatever term you prefer.

Moving away from that particular train of thought, as its sole destination is the township of heated arguments and hurt feelings… if there’s anything that could easily distract you from an uncomfortable conversation about religion, it’d be El-P’s newest monster of an instrumental album. Known for his method of throwing equal parts boom-bap and Blade Runner in a blender, and seeing what kind of electronic hip-hop mutant comes out, Megamixxx3 is probably El-Producto’s most refined work to date. Paranoia and menace run thick throughout the album’s 46-minute run time, as entire dystopian cityscapes throb in your mind. This is a soundtrack for the type of sci-fi that’s drenched with smog and sin, providing the impeccable bassline behind the urban sprawl’s evil, mechanical heart.

However, this is far from an ambient album — lush walls of sound are constructed with meticulous care, dripping with synths, strings, and the chirping of small robotic insects. All the while, truly inhuman, lumbering beats march out of your speakers, keeping your head bobbing and no doubt inspiring some genuinely mean bass faces across the nation.

Staying faithful to his own ultramodern microcosm, El-P’s tracks have the attention span of a future raised on streaming video and smart phone apps. Most of the segments clocks in around the two-minute mark, masterfully evolving into the next section to create a relentless, ominous atmosphere with loads of sci-fi swagger. Highly recommended for that last post-apocalyptic themed pool party of the summer.

When you work from home, it’s really easy to procrastinate since, you know, nobody’s gonna catch you. I remember a time before YouTube’s prominence, a time when streaming video was not nearly as commonplace as today. And all I can think is that back then, working must have sucked even more than it already does.

Still, no way working sucks as much as this. Although from the looks of things, it could have gone a whole hell of a lot worse. Amazing that the dude just gets up and walks away, but I guess the love between a man and his scooter truly is that strong.

What with Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin teaming up to put some more theocracy in America’s democracy, and anti-Islamic sentiment at record highs since, like, The Crusades — all because we elected a black president — our country’s looking a little backwards these days.

If this was on a t-shirt, wouldn’t you look super cool in mirrors? Just thinking out loud here. You’d be like an ambulance — people might see you in the rear view mirror if you were chasing after their car, and think “huh, cool shirt,” or more likely, “why is this crazed man chasing after my car, is this guy a Terminator or something?” …since that’s pretty unusual behavior, after all.

Come to think of it, I better register gelbeb.com…

Although it wasn’t so long ago that I posted up my first Ode to Heath Kirchart, I’m afraid the unkindness of time has mandated my next one go up regrettably soon. The skateboarding Internets are all atwitter about the announcement that Heath will retire after his part in Emerica’s much anticipated Stay Gold. It just came out today and I have yet to see it for myself, but if Heath goes out at all like his part in the last Emerica video, This Is Skateboarding or better yet, his most recent part in Mindfield, it’s going to be a hell of an exit.

Unfortunately, from the sounds of it, he’s only got a handful of tricks — fortunately, a handful of Heath Kirchart tricks go a long way.

I seriously think this is one of the best video parts I’ve ever seen. But Heath Kirchart full parts tends to have that effect on a viewer.

From his last (ever?) interview in Thrasher about his decision to leave the pro ranks:

I can’t take it anymore. I’m sick of hating skateboarding, and that’s what all this filming was coming down to. I couldn’t do it at the level I wanted to anymore. I’d just be out there struggling. You don’t skate as much ’cause you’re constantly sore. And then you’re not as good, ’cause you don’t skate as much, meanwhile the tricks get harder and harder. It’s a vicious cycle downward as you start getting older and older. At some point it’s got to end. You either lose your fucking mind or you walk away. 

Skateboarding could learn a few things from Heath’s approach to skating — sticking below the radar and then every few years, suddenly coming out with a savage assault that leaves jaws all over the industry decorating the floor. But skateboarding can learn a lot from his retirement as well. Not content to milk dry the spoils of skate victory won from so many brutal battles, he’s choosing instead to etch his legend status in the concrete forever. I picture him riding off into the sunset on a Harley, like a mysterious skateboarding cowboy in search of that next adventure… and that’s probably exactly what he’s going to do.

Not that it matters to most of you, but goddamn is it hard to find a good slice of pizza in Chicago. At least it is if you’re coming from the East Coast and your version of pizza isn’t quite a six-inch-thick disc of flaky bread stuffed with sausage, mozzarella cheese, huge chunks of tomato, and enough marinara sauce to make your lips burn for days. Although, to be honest, Chicago’s signature deep dish isn’t even the problem — while vastly different from a slice of New York pizza, deep dish still does have its admirable qualities. It’s all of the pizza in between, your “normal” slices here in the Windy City, that are essentially useless for anything except illustrating just what exactly a mediocre-headed-towards-crappy slice of pizza tastes like.

Fortunately for me, and any of the other displaced New Yorkers living amongst Chicago’s millions of heart-attack-craving locals, Santullo’s in Wicker Park serves up some thin crust pizza so perfect you’d almost believe they’re importing water straight from the East River. However, that thought is less than appetizing, so let’s just imagine they were told the secret of the ‘za in a dream from an ill-mannered, overweight cupid with a Brooklyn accent and chest hair. Come to think of it, that’s not terribly appetizing either.

Regardless, it’s food so good it’ll make you shit your pants. Just one slice is enough to leave even a seasoned pizza fanatic in a near comatose state. And I know that doesn’t really sound like a recommendation but… it actually is.

Bonus points: they also sell water that comes in 100% plant-based, commercially compostable bottles! My inner smelly guy who wears slowly disintegrating plaid pants and knows how to play a handful of Grateful Dead songs on the acoustic guitar really appreciates that. It’s enough to make a jaded dude think the world might not actually be ending after all, and that’s worth way more than an incredible slice of pizza.

It’s mind-boggling, no, unfathomable, to imagine the, heh, depths of what we don’t know about the ocean. It might as well be another world! James Cameron’s 1989 documentary, The Abyss, proved as much. And now the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration just finished a mission in Indonesia, using a robotic vehicle and a sonar mapping system to explore nearly 21,000 square miles of sea floor off northern Indonesia, at depths ranging from 800 feet to over two miles. And they found some mighty strange — some might even say alien — shit down there.

That, for example, is a carnivorous sponge. A carnivorous sponge?! The deep sea is a fucking nightmare, apparently.

Scientists predicted that up to 40 new plant and animal species may have been discovered during the three-week expedition. 40 types of horrors we didn’t know about before.

Further proof: this is a Chimaera. For fuck’s sake, it’s named after a monster from Greek mythology. Which it might as well actually be considering the looks of this thing. Their evolutionary lineage branched off from sharks nearly 400 million years ago, and they’ve been growing all the more freakish ever since. The lines running across its body are used to sense pressure waves, like ears, and the dots on its nose detect electrical fields produced by living organisms. So yeah, crazy.

And this Octopod’s head is looking way too much like an alien on a t-shirt from the 1990s for me to be comfortable with. 

Not to be outdone, here’s a fish with feet. You need to decide, motherfucker. Just like Ariel in The Little Mermaid.

Been playing around with a lot of t-shirt design concepts lately. Not too sure about any of these in particular, but it’s a sentiment that belongs on the chests of a generation all the same.

Not saying I’m not included. That’s kind of the point.

Time to shit or get off the pot. Nobody likes a faker. Authenticity is…

There comes a time in any independent person’s life, when, in the absence of a boss, or parent, or other authority figure, they must hold themselves to an exacting standard simply because nobody else is. Choose not to, and willingly fade into obscurity in the land of lost potential. Conversely, hold yourself to that standard, and you may still fade away, but it will be as the last embers in a blistering bonfire do — with great effort and time, and only then, because there’s simply nothing left to burn.

Peter Ramondetta is one of those veteran pros who keeps a bit of a low profile and lets his skating do all the talking — I respect that in a skateboarder. Nothing against the loud mouths out there, after all, huge personalities are one of the most entertaining things in this culture. Not to mention, the kind of wild, outlaw in the streets nature of skating creates and attracts those types of personalities anyway. But quiet dudes who handle their shit in a huge way, like Peter Ramondetta, are a perfect contrast to the Rob Dyrdeks, the Brandon Biebels, the Brad Stabas. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Staba, but lately it’s been for everything he’s doing but his skating, and that, like Brad himself, says a whole lot.

Peter’s greatness has been solidified long before his latest interview in Thrasher, but the sequences and throwaway footage they posted along with it did good things to stoke the flames of my burning man crush on one of San Francisco’s most cherished satanists. Gnarly with a heaping side dish of technical skill, what’s there to complain about?

All sequences and video courtesy of Thrasher.

Real seems to attract these quiet killers, with an impressive lineup of super-talented silent cowboys like Ramondetta, Dennis Busenitz, and Max Schaaf — even Justin Brock and HUF to a lesser extent. So you know the full video’s going to be gnarly with a heaping side dish of technical skill. Yup. Nothing to complain about there.

In light of yet another summer weekend flushed down the toilet, I thought some photos as dark as Friday and Saturday’s black out attempts would fit the bill.

Thought this little piece of wall art might help increase our apartment’s resale value.

In other news, the arachnid invasion of Chicago has really gained momentum in the past month. At first I kind of liked having the little guys around, but the thing is… now they’re not so little anymore…

Maturity flows like beer at most bars. Bodily fluids do too, apparently.

Speaking of “oh shit!” moments… act cool — it’s the fuzz.

Thought I’d share this preview from Dedleg’s upcoming Fall/Winter 2010 lookbook.

And big ups to my man Justin for helping us out with the shoot — you’re a natural on that board, homie!

Generations of America’s children have squandered their youths parked in front of television sets, while their parents worked to afford said television sets, since those are still cheaper than actual nannies. Regardless, it seems inappropriate to use the word “squandered” when talking about Looney Tunes — or Merrie Melodies which, for all intents and purposes, were the same fucking thing — perhaps the most benevolently violent caretakers I ever had.

I cherished those 15 minute blocks of time with Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner — if “cherished” can be considered sitting wide-eyed, motionless, with drool dangling perilously from my bottom lip. And Foghorn Leghorn was always a sure bet, but my absolute favorite, no doubt propelling me into the depths of dorkdom at my most impressionable age, was the retro sci-fi-inspired cartoon featuring Daffy Duck and Marvin the Martian — Duck Dodgers in the 24½th Century.

Despite its futuristic setting, the cartoon first appeared in 1953. Its first (and only true) sequel, Duck Dodgers and the Return of the 24½th Century was released in 1980, and it’s amazing how the two seem plucked from the exact same time period. Amazinger, I suppose, is the fact that all Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies cartoons seem to exist in a kind of limbo. They are impervious to time. Perhaps that just speaks to the classic nature of these cartoons — they are everlasting, ever-relate-able. 300 pound triple OGs can be seen wearing leather jackets embossed with Daffy Duck’s image in the Bronx, and meanwhile, NASA put Duck Dodgers on mission patches for 2003’s Mars Exploration Rover missions.

Not saying both groups of people would be able to sit down and have a conversation that made any amount of sense, but the timelessness of these cartoons is undeniable. In all likelihood, our children will sit, wide-eyed, motionless, with drool dangling perilously from their bottom lips in front of Duck Dodgers, just like we did. Assuming we don’t follow his lead and blow up the planet first.