Thanks for the picture...not too shabby. (love the little frog-thing in
Kevin DeMattia wrote: Michael, I must say first and foremost that I recognize you as a genius, secondly I thank you for making the greatest web-page to have ever graced my brain. Thirdly, take into account that I just finished a 24 ounce of this new shit called "211", ghetto-piss malt liquor pre-packaged to look like some new classy Coorsish type beer, maybe the "8.1% alcohol content" blurb on the casing should've steered me clear, but the way I drink that content level drew me in like the proverbial moth to a flame. "211" : 3 numbers that've revolutionized the way I approach drinking: twice the alcohol for half the price. This shit makes Country Club taste like champagne. Anyway, enough about my vices. I'm the fella who accosted you in the street the other day, I had seen you walking up Kearny towards Bush, I stopped you right before you reached the stairs, we talked about my buddy who had tattooed the "cat Snake-Penis Man" on his knee, how much you two look alike, blah blah. I have to thank you for making me a better person. I went to kittyfeet.com for the first time the other night and I was enthralled. From the get-go it was one of the most interesting sites I'd ever been to. Maybe because I identify with all the crazy shit you talk about. My favorite movie is "Gummo", after I saw it I felt cheated by Fate because THAT was the movie that I would've made if I could. Now kittyfeet.com has superseded my Gummo chagrin, but in a good way. I'm not particularly interested in delving into the wide world of film. I am interested in the web. I had one of the few epiphanies I've ever had in my life as I viewed your page for the first time. THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO DO. Not just the web page, but how I live my life. Uncompromising, living for love and beauty and representing that shit to the nth degree. Funny, I'm listening to Bill Laswell's "Painkiller: Execution Grounds", that's wild that he produced Hate Fed. When I saw you guys play the reunion show at Cocodrie, it represented all that life should be. You represented the uberman to me. I remember you coming on stage, all compact, downing water and I thought, "Why isn't he drinking beer? Shouldn't this music be about excess?" and then realizing that you were on another level, one that exists always for you but must be coaxed out by me via alcohol. You were resplendent that night, awash in a glory that few perceive, standing in that stance, and I could tell without meeting you that you could work on cars and at the same time wax rhapsodic on your feminine ideal..your frame suggests a factory worker, stolid, unyielding.. the emotion behind that frame reveals a mind concerned with far more than most would think.. I was jealous without ever having talked to you. I was jealous of the nights spent with the ubiquitous "friend", sharing various "Deanisms".. but that's just me, I tend to observe others to avoid looking at myself. So there you have it: Christmas lights and incense, time held at bay for now by the mind's focus on the present... I have walked around a full city block in NYC naked as the day I was born, the drug Ecstacy guiding me forward. I have climbed construction derricks dead drunk, I have stood on top of the pyramids at Chichen Itza in Mexico, I have kissed a cow's ignorant brow in a verdant field in Ireland, I have seen Michelangelo's "Pieta" with my own eyes, I've worn a "Smoke Crack, Worship Satan" shirt to the Vatican. I love alcohol and pornography, loathe sports and logos. I've had my best friend's dick in my mouth and I fear Death to the point that I lay awake at night and can actually feel my feeble heart beating away and know that every beat is one beat closer to the grave. Sorry for gettin' so sappy, booze tends to make me verbalize life's grandiosity while simultaneously realizing it's utter futility. A short anecdote: Walking down 201st st in the Bronx on my way to the liquor store, early in the year, 1994. It's cold and raining. I pass an alleyway and I hear a faint "Meowl" Look over and see a small, frail, black kitten huddled next to a building, alone. I walk to the nearest bodega and buy one tin of wet catfood, walk back, scale a pointy-posted wroughtiron fence, drop to my feet in the alleyway and proceed to make the kitty a shelter out of some used cardboard and feed it the food I bought. I leave, vowing to myself that if that cat is in the alleyway again the next day, I will take it home. I walk by the alley the next night and sure enough, there is the cat, huddled and alone, cardboard home flattened by an unforgiving wind. And thus I plucked him from hostile surroundings and made him my son. My cat's name is Macio, pure black longhair with a splash of white on his chest. Thanks for lending your eyes to this missive- Kevin
LAURALOHA.wrote: Michael Dean crawls around on the floor like a petulant child. He often wears slips and dresses while nurturing his inner goddess for the world to see. He is the man knows as "blonde hair, black teeth". Michael Dean is a one-man advertising machine. Advertising himself, but advertising nonetheless. He's the guy you want to slap and kiss at the same time. You want to nurture him while kicking him out of your house. Whatever Michael Dean is, he gets your attention and keeps you talking about him. And, that, my friend is the grandest gift of all. To be recognized as a one-of-a-kind individual.
Blessed Be.
Cool Howie Kafka
wrote
Mr. Dean is swimming in a dark sea of retarded sexuality. It is unclear
as to wheather he is swimming or mearly to stupid to exhale.
your part time pal,
cool howie kafka
Leo
Cooper at http://personal.riverusers.com/~thegrendel/ wrote: "You seem to be
very talented, but also in a great deal of pain. I hope you find healing." -------
My own mother told me this week that she wished I wasn't still playing in bands. I love her anyway. She is old and doesn't understand.
and "writing about music is like dancing about archetecture"
--elvis costello.
and
"the reason most music sritics love elvis costello and hate Van Halen is because most music critics look like Elvis costello"
--david lee roth
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(to be removed fro this list, just ask)
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SF Bay Guardian demo tape of the week, page 86, November 4-10. 1998
Michael W. Dean doesn't know whether he's a hippie, a techno-Goth, a frat boy, a metalhead or an indie rocker-his four-song demo pulls from different musical styles to create what would be a decent addition to any open-mic or independent film soundtrack. The first font (no titles given) goes from early PiL to mellower Led Zeppelin. A tabla punctuates the second number as Dean's voice goes all the way from Peter Murphy to Axl Rose. The third song starts with a Nine Inch Nails-ish sample beat and ends up sounding like a Sisters of Mercy cover of an unknown Black Sabbath song. And on the fourth ditty, Dean gets in touch with his inner Beck and Stipe as the mantra "Going to the Grooveyard" is repeated. Sounds derivative? Well, yes, but what isn't nowadays? Info: (Summer Burkes)
There's no such thing as a bad review, as long as they spell your name right."
--Some dead guy
"Writing about music is like dancing about architecture"
--elvis costello.
"the reason most music sritics love elvis costello and hate Van Halen is
because most music critics look like Elvis costello"
--david lee roth
bad cat wrote: Nov 7 1998
I mailed the manuscript off to Masquerade Books in New York last Friday. Today I got it back with a rejection letter from Marti Hohnann. I am impressed!
I got two book rejection letters this week.--the other from black ice, whom I was betting would say yes and have been waiting for almost a year. (one even used the word "derivative" --that's two bad reviews with the same word in one week.) oh well. I am on the computer and trying to drum up business and copying demo tapes etc. an artist works. that's what we do. the money, if any, comes later if ever.
I also recently got one of the more interesting rejections ever Leo Cooper at http://personal.riverusers.com/~thegrendel/ wrote: "You seem to be very talented, but also in a great deal of pain. I hope you find healing."
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David A. Ross (director of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) wrote: