Dick Proenneke. Superbeast.

I'm contemplating making a new tier for superbeasts that go above and beyond the call of duty. Dick Proenneke has definitely earned membership to this select group.

He's the ultimate wilderness dude. A guy who said "fuck it all" and went off the grid to the nether regions of Alaska to live amongst the critters up close and personal like.



Here's some amazing quotes from the man himself:

"didn't want the cabin lookin' like it was built by a boyscout with a dull hatchet."

"fifteen minutes I had myself a wooden spoon."

"it didn't take long... after several casts, it happened with the suddenness of a broken shoelace."

"this lake is kinda like a woman, all smiles one minute, and dancin' a temper tantrum the next!"

American Juggalo.

American Juggalo from Sean Dunne on Vimeo.

If you think the future looks bleak now, just wait until the children born from the polluted wombs of these mongrels start lighting fireworks off on your block. "Whoop Whoop!"

American Juggalo is a look at the often mocked and misunderstood subculture of Juggalos, hardcore Insane Clown Posse fans who meet once a year for four days at The Gathering of the Juggalos.

We went to The Gathering of the Juggalos and let the Juggalos speak their minds.

American Juggalo. Directed By Sean Dunne.

Fuck. You.

I don't know this guy, but he just stumbled into my crosshairs.

Lee Hazlewood. The Nights.

A bizarre song. A bizarre film.

"Bermuda, Bahama..."

When you're a man of leisure, you follow a strict dress code. XXXL Tommy Bahama shirts and khaki trousers/shorts. Ultimate Party Dudes have a reputation to uphold. That have girth to disguise. They have sun-blistered cancerous moles to shield.

Well, I ran into a few of these Relaxation Masters at Hattie's Hat in Ballard on Saturday night. One guy with a ridiculous shirt would get up and leave, and another Silver Fox would fill the empty seat. There's obviously a brotherhood amongst these floral shirt aficionados. I jumped in for the proof.




Thanks to pal Schrein-Time and his lovely wife Allison for the great photos.

Eddie Hazel. Superbeast.

Eddie Hazel may be the most underrated sonic craftsman in the history of rock and roll music. This is off the Jams from the Heart EP. A must have for any guitar fiend.

The back of the album reads this quote from Jim Callon:

"Eddie Hazel came out to my beach house one evening with his girlfriend and his guitar. This was the mid-seventies and Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison had all left the planet. But Eddie was still around and this was a rare treat; just him playing to an audience of three: Me, my wife, and Eddie's girlfriend."

In Eddie's own words about his 1954 Fender Stratocaster:

"Overnight something happened. I started stretching out, grabbing new ideas. Suddenly I was capable of soloing in ways I'd only dreamed before. It was unbelievable what that guitar did to me. It gave me such a vision. It talked back to me. I could feel it, just like I hear my heart pulse."

A true Superbeast indeed.

Curtis Mayfield. Freddies Dead. 1973.

"Don't want to be like Freddy now, cuz' Freddies dead."

Puyallup Fair in Shitty Pictures.

That's not a sock filled with cottage cheese hanging around that woman's waist. That's a gut.



I was hoping this was a food stand.



The "Hobby" section of the fair. I prefer to call it the "Obsession" exhibit.



"I collect My Little Pony dolls." - Said by every pedophile ever.



!!!!!!!

It was a water bottle. Wah wah.

The Hills Have Eyez.

About a month back I headed up to Salmon Le Sac, just out of Roslyn, to meet up with some pals for a little car camping and Yakima river rafting. I arrived in the shade of darkness, and the boys were already about 4 cases of ice cold Coors deep. I warmed my cockles next to the fire, and lit up a cigar kindly provided to me. Might as well settle in and commence maximum imbibing, I thought.

As the beer flowed generously, we made fun of people who rent camping gear at REI. We questioned the fortitude of those that view Airsoft as a competitive and worthwhile sport. We laughed about stuff, and drank more beers. Just as that warm buzz of 21st Amendment IPA was settling in, I realized my dear old dog Kubs was missing from his regular perch. The little bastard is getting up there in years, so I immediately calculated that he likely went wandering off into the woods looking for a place to find his eternal sleep. Turns out the little shit sauntered one campsite over to shack up with a couple of heavy-set girls in sweat pants. I donned my headlamp and went to investigate.

I'll never unsee what I saw.

I grabbed Lil' Lord Fauntleroy, who was in the midst of being coddled by a particularly surly young gal in full comfort regalia. They were feeding him fried chicken and potato chips.

I walked back to our site and approached the fire. The pals were wondering what I had witnessed. "You ever seen The Hills Have Eyes?"

About 20 minutes later, two snaggle-tooth ladies came stumbling towards our site. We exchanged pleasantries and they asked us where we were from. "Seattle," we said.

"Oh shit, we're from Seattle too! Where in Seattle?"

My buddy Dru answered without a hint of sarcasm, "Seattle."

"Oh...we're from Renton..."

We exchanged glances. Renton was a shit-hole hovel about 12 miles south of Seattle proper. As my friend Peezy would say, "it's one of those towns that you'll stop in just to take a dump in a laundromat dryer."

'Nuff said.

As the girls walked back to their campsite, the dudes and I conjured up a plan. As is customary on these rafting trips, a Flabongo was packed. A pink flamingo beer bong. We decided it was high-time we made a peace offering to our neighbors.



I assumed that this guy was a love interest to one of the snaggle-toothed sweethearts. He said the gloves were for "choppin' wood." I immediately thought "breaking and entering."



Here's me, the Flabongo and the pride of Renton.



Supersnagglebeast. I think this was shortly after she was lighting her own farts.



This red-faced dude was so stationary in his camp chair, I actually thought he was immobilized with polio or some shit. He sprung up quicker than burnt toast at the site of that Flabongo. Ice. Cold. Coors.



This old surly broad didn't take kindly to a camera up in her business. She gave me the Renton Salute quick like.



You would think this dude just passed his GED or something. Nope, pounding a Flabongo is cause for celebration. Those horns were locked up all night.



The. Best. Picture. Ever.

Ultimate Party Dude Describes Car Accident.

Power Lines Fall on Crashed Vehicle, Driver Trapped: MyFoxPHOENIX.com

"Arcing, sparking, blowing up!"

Something tells me this Ultimate Party Dude was doing some sparking of his own before this accident. Reality hits you hard bro.

Thanks to The Mayor for this find.

We Need More Dogs. #sportz

I don't understand half of what this crazy moonshiner is saying, but I imagine this is what happens at the majority of press conferences for obscure southern coastal football teams.

When you spend a lifetime huffing your own farts and showering with dudes, this is the inevitable outcome.

Ray Barretto. Acid.

Lighten up your load with a little Ray Barretto. You can't deny how much fun he's having playing his conga. He's a Puerto Rican by way of Spanish Harlem superbeast.

War is Hell.

After Schrein-Time's wedding on Saturday, ol' Sweet River and I spotted a full on LARPing battle going on in the soccer field next to the Clise Mansion. There were at least 40-50 nerds playing NERF war with custom made guns, rocket launchers, blow-darts, swords, and dirt 'staches. This little critter was one of my favorites. An authentic 16 year old hesher. He was outfitted with long hair, a sweet moustache, an Iron Maiden shirt, and knee pads. His custom crafted weapon of choice shoots 6 separate NERF bullets up to 40 yards at a sniper's precision. He carried with him 4 separate firearms that were fastened in strategic places all over his body.



He reminded us of the little feral kid from the Road Warrior.

The rules of the game were complex, but essentially it was two teams against each other. Once you've been hit by a NERF bullet, you transform into a zombie and must use hand-to-hand weaponry like swords or staffs. Zombies are a major pain in the ass. The nerds were kind enough to let Sweet River play a round. He claims he shot 6 nerds, but all I saw was a lot of barrel rolls, and kamikazi style theatrics. His age really showed.



As the war correspondent, I have about 300 pictures of the blood-thirsty battle on my phone. I'll post a proper story on the siege soon.

Art.

The Mayor found this poor man's Picasso. Anatomically correct. Could use some help with the spelling, but then again, not everyone is as multi-faceted as da Vinci. I think she's beautiful.

The Dark Side of Oz.

The mashup to end all mashups. Thanks Brian Pugh.

Mad Professor Does Marvin.

The fine folks over at Turntablelab dropped this shiny little nugget. Too good not to share.

Chilis Too. The Tweets.

If you travel a lot you know that Chilis Too opens up at 6 AM at most airports. You're also well aware that Chilis Too is all about fun, family and gastrointestinal bleeding. Here's a selection of tweets I wrote this morning describing the Chilis Too experience. I'm using the hashtag #dippingsauce to keep this shit trending.

Chilis Too is no stranger to "building" things for the community. Their work just happens to start in your intestines. #dippingsauce

Chilis Too: The Colonoscopy. #dippingsauce

The tortillas at Chilis Too make for excellent diapers in an emergency. #dippingsauce

Chilis Too has introduced their own version of the "blooming onion." It's called "Your Asshole." #dippingsauce

Chilis Too serves crappetizers. #dippingsauce

"fart smell" is actually a scientifically created ingredient used in most Chilis Too recipes. #dippingsauce

Parents love Chilis Too for the variety of choices. Of irritable bowel syndrome. #dippingsauce

The Chilis Too daily special is a hot, wet sweatpants fart. #dippingsauce

Chilis Too accounts for 97% of the water usage at America's airports. From people flushing their diarrhea. #dippingsauce

Chilis Too is serving up early onset diabetes, and that unmistakeable malaise of apathy at the airport this morning. #dippingsauce



See how fun that was? Now it's your turn. #dippingsauce

Superbeast Gene Clark.

This has been the Summer of Gene Clark. A summer of self reflection, sailboats, and savage weekends on mountain tops and remote islands. Clark was a sage. The Byrds prolific songwriter from 1964 to 1966, his catalogue of recognized songs is immense.

The song "Some Misunderstanding" is off of the brilliant 1974 album No Other. The album came about behind a second chance effort by David Geffen to help revive Clark's stumbling career (although his solo contributions from the late 60's through the mid-70's are still mind blowing). The production is soaring. The songwriting impeccable. The content dark and brooding.

Spend some time with Gene Clark. A true superbeast.

Sexy Jesus.

How much sexy can you handle? How much sexy Jesus can you handle? I spent half the afternoon admiring these beautiful works of art yesterday over at Art 4 God.

Thanks to the blasphemer Josh Kaulius for the find.