Monday, February 28, 2011

3 01 11 LinKs


Torching Bleakwood

Predator: The Musical

The Great Gatsby Video Game

Waiting For Godot: The Video Game

C is for Kooky


Architect Barbie Finally Becomes a Reality

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Torching Bleakwood

"Flame is a tool as powerful as the blade or the horse.  But unlike a weapon which is grasped firmly in the hand, flame, once released, will not obey commands.  It is a treacherous regiment to be sure.  And yet there are times when those unfaithful soldiers must be put to the field."  With that he lowered the torch to the kindling that had been stacked around a cracked and brittle tree, long dead, held upright only by the healthy limbs surrounding it.  Soon the forest was an orange riot of exploding crowns.

By this light we waited for them to come forth in ragged black, their substance no more than silhouettes.

--Steve Kilian
Necessary Measures in Iran, an editorial by Michael Score

Wolcott Pond

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Tiger Meat

Take in a mouthful of delicious tiger meat. I bet you thought it would be gamey, didn’t you? No, we know how to cook tiger. Take off your shoes, and walk barefoot on our luxurious, freshly cured tiger-skin carpet. Feels good, doesn’t it? Please try not to walk on it with shoes; this is a rare item, not to be covered in muck. You see, we don’t just hate tigers, we appreciate them as well.

Now imagine that mouthful of meat was the last taste anyone in the world would ever have of tiger meat again? Wouldn’t knowing that make you savor the taste? Wouldn’t that unique experience make that the best food you’ve ever eaten? It would probably depend on how it is cooked.

The members of the Tiger Eradication Gourmet Society are dedicated to the idea that the last tiger should be cooked with the utmost of professionalism and culinary expertise. We want it to taste as good as the moment dictates. We believe the last tiger will be killed within our lifetime, and we want to do it right.

You see, while we hate tigers, and seek to destroy them, we also respect them, and want them to be enjoyed while they exist, until they don’t. Extinction is inevitable, and imminent. Enjoyment takes effort, and we are willing to make that effort, so that when the last of these great beasts is finally hunted down, it shall be a moment of deliciousness and not loss. Ultimately, we act out of love, not hate; not hunger for destruction, but hunger for food. So eat up, and enjoy while you can.

--Dan Kilian

Editor's note: This was the program for The Ks latest show, on February 4th, 2011.
Simple Roast Tiger


Friday, February 11, 2011

The Rong

The Rite could have been closer to decent if they'd just cut off the first 45 minutes. There's this Priest played by some guy who looks like Martin Landau's face stretched over Freddie Prinze Jr.'s skull. He's a seminarian who wants to quit for lack of faith. So there's a couple scenes with the guy who played Truman Capote in the english version of the Truman Capote story (I believe he was also the "psychologist" sent in to talk Arnold Schwarzenegger down in Total Recall. The one who sweated.) I think his specialty is delivering unbelievable dialogue with credibility. He sends our bland skeptic to Rome, where the guy who plays Snapes has a couple scenes before he sends him to Anthony Hopkins. That's two well acted priests too much. The whole thing could have started at Anthony Hopkins front porch.

There are also countless flashbacks within flashbacks to LandauPrinze's unhappy childhood, just so the devil can know stuff he's not supposed to know.

Hopkins is always fun to watch, and he holds up this dog for a good twenty minutes. When he gets possessed, there's a couple scenes of LandauPrinze and this girl journalist trying to get hold of the Snapesguy, so it's like, cool, Snapesguy and Hopkins in an exorcism scene, but no, that's just another time waster, and LandauPrinze has to perform the exorcism himself.

Prayer prayer snarled revelation of stuff Anthony Hopkins isn't supposed to know, prayer prayer exorcism. And it turns out it's all a true story, which of course means that none of it is true.


--Dan Kilian

Team America World Police: I’m Just Saying It’s a Classic

Ray’s Review of: UNLEASHED-the Fleetwood Mac Hits Tour 2009

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Simple Roast Tiger

This was the introduction to Friday nights show at The Local 269.


From Arthur Kingsley's Wild Delicacies of the Subcontinent:  Field Cuisine of the British Raj, Oxford Press, 1878.


Simple Roast Tiger


One juvenile tiger, gutted and skinned


2 pounds Spanish onions

Assorted fresh herbs – thyme, coriander, and/or curry leaf


Rub carcass with oil and season liberally with salt and pepper inside and out.

Stuff cavity with onions and herbs.  Truss well with heavy wire.

Spit-roast over raked coals until well cooked, 1 to 2 hours, rotating slowly, replenishing fuel as necessary.


Serve hot, with . . . the Ks!

--Steve Kilian

The Tiger Eradication Gourmet Society: T.E.G.S.

The Melancholy Viking

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Here are some linKs.

Staten Island Muck Ks MC Steve’s third annual take on Groundhog’s day!

Cat adopts a squirrel! I call it a “squat!”

"Thunderball" Opening w/ theme song by Johnny Cash. Thanks Tom!

Fealtish: The K Word Also has some thoughts on Joan Jett.

Lost In The Slush

Using farts as rocket fuel.

Bad Fruit, Revisited

Weird Soviet Psych-Folk. Thanks Rob!

Friday, February 4, 2011


Not to sound too much like ICP, but shoelaces are pretty fucking amazing.  If I had to come up with a method for attaching leather to my feet, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be as elegant as the shoelace.  I'm envisioning all sorts of straps and individual loops of string - a total mess.  Even if I did come around to a single cord, I doubt I'd be smart enough to tie it in a bow.  I'd be hacking the knot open with a flint sherd every night.

Thanks, cavemen!

--Steve Kilian

Virgin No More

The Great Wyrmm of the Sea

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Staten Island Muck

He came to the mouth of his burrow, sniffing the air.  He could hear tree limbs creaking and the occasional crack as one split and fell to the ground, overburdened and exhausted.  As am I, he thought, and shuffled backward into warmth and darkness.

As am I, he thought again, turning to the others in the cavern, knowing there would be no rest until his task was done.  "Fellow warriors," he cried out, rising up on his rear haunches to be seen above the assembled masses.  "The humans are addled by snow and ice.  The sun is hidden by stormclouds.  Our shadow-brothers are untethered and may march freely over the land.  The time as come."

And so, without their ever leaving the burrow, an army was sent forth.

Happy Groundhog Day!

--Steve Kilian

Dispatch from Gobbler’s Knob

Staten Island Chuck

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Lost In The Slush

To the slushy depths they went.  Tunneling from corner to corner they traveled across the city.  Each puddle was a window into the bright world above, noisy interruptions of the silent blue cloisters they had made in the mounded snowbanks that linked their domain.

Their network avoided the bicycles and street signs that had been trapped by the formation of the world.  They guarded their privacy and only their fiercest academics would explore the bizarre archaeology of the upper world's recycling middens.  Some claimed that those mysterious figures had created the world in the distant past, making life from cloth so different from their own flesh and blood.  Others rejected this, claiming to have organized themselves from the threads of lesser beings, that their race owed no debt to surface dwellers.

Rage those these intellectual battles might, all sides of the argument were forced to expose themselves as they moved across each intersection of their linear realms.

And move they must:  the world was shrinking, voids collapsing, the very stuff of the caverns turning to liquid.  And so they crossed the quadrant seas as they traveled to the northern shadows, diving down and racing across the exposed wastes as fast as possible, blocked by Styrofoam cups and abandoned umbrellas, twisting to avoid the looming presences that came crushing down from above.

How many died in each passage?  They could not stop to count the dead, let alone mourn.  Only when they reached sanctuary would they allow themselves to think back on their journey.  The light, the noise, the awful brown fluid that was not the stuff of their world, nor was it part of the upper world, but some transitional state of matter that exposed their people to the boots of those who came before.

But I remember, even as I swim through another gauntlet.  My lover, three feet of cotton and polyester, purple shot through with gold, impaled by a heel, writhing and then still as she drowns.  I can not stop, nor even turn to comfort her in that last moment.  I burrow forward, hoping to honor her as we build a new society in a new place.  A new home that will last forever.

--Steve Kilian


Confession to Rassilon