Bad Ass Bass

here is a link to an old speed garage mix, one of the first i ever made. every now and then i decide, usually at the harrasment of a friend to post this, and lately i find myself harrassed. limited time offer! Bad Ass Bass

The Crack Shack

Welcome to a pictorial reference of my first, and only Boston residence known as the "Crack Shack". Here we will reminisce the days past where my humble house became a haven for homeless raver kids, drug dealers, and undercover FBI.

Welcome to the "Crack Shack", where upon entering the Crack Shack mascot will greet you with a roar and a smoke of his bong.


A snap shot of the corner of my bedroom, which was directly adjacent to the 6th bedroom in the house, which occasionally housed our weird landlord who often woke me up at 6 am fucking his girlfriend. Nothing like waking up at 6 am on a Saturday by the groans and grunts of a middle-aged man seeping through the thin glass doors that separated our bedrooms. I couldn’t even escape it in the living room, where the chandelier rocked to-and-fro in time to what I’m sure was some earth-shaking love-making.

Meet Mystery Roomate #1 chillin on the porch; where many a blunt, bong and bowl was smoked, all while under the watchful eye of the FBI, who's white undercover pizza delivery van was parked across the street. Night after night, the white van would drive back and forth watching us and watching the video from the camera hidden in our neighbors tacky choice of outside decoration, a plastic lion.

One day, overcome with irritation from trying to convince my roommates we were being watched, I sought out hard evidence. Upon close inspection, the plastic lion had a large circular mouth with a glass reflection that looked eerily like the lens of a camera, the phone number on the van lead me only to a no such number voice recording. The FBI seemed to assume we were so hazed and brain dead from our drug use we would never think to investigate, either that they were just plain too stupid to use a real pizza place phone number.


Meet Jess, the only other girl of the house (the only other girl who paid rent in the house that is) I will always remember Jess with fond memories, she, who replaced my box of cookies after one of the free-loading raver kids ate all of mine, lied about it and tried to blame it on her.


And here we have roommate #3, "Orange Mike's" feet. I had a wonderful photo of him, smiling, happy from this day, that like my Victoria flier, is now MIA somewhere in the vortex of the universe or a UPS warehouse. Mike has already graced my blog and we will meet him again in future posts.


I'll start this description with roommate #5, Brandon. (I know I’m going backwards but I’m saving the best for last) Brandon hailed from Rochestar NY and we owe our beautiful crack shack all to him, who scouted out this gem of a property. I met Brandon at Victoria in Providence RI, where we quickly became one of those cute little raver couples. Though the romance didn’t last, our friendship did.

Last but not least, the man responsible for putting many people in jail, the Nark, who will remain nameless. He did provide many a joint and bunk e pill to the party, lets remember the good times.

The Smurfs

All those years of fine art school really paid off. To commemorate those little blue pills otherwise known as the "smurfs". circa 1996

It was IT.

It, where Philly brought it, at one of the last great raves of my raver career, brough to you by Special K Productions.

Unlike most teenagers who, on the cusp of adulthood, celebrate that monumental event of high school graduation by attending the prom to either lose there virginity, get drunk, or dance to bad music, I instead, drove 8 hours squished in the back of a 15 person van to go to a rave, get really fucked up on ecstasy, and dance to good music. Virginity being long gone, the awe, wonder, and mystery of a high school prom had no more attraction for me then shoveling the dog shit I did every weekend at my mother’s kennel.

It started on a Saturday morning on a corner in Allston, Massachusetts, where fifteen of us crazy ravers met at the street corner. Some of us took the bus, others the subway, some drove, and some walked. Wide legged pants, rainbow-colored vinyl vests, xxx polo shirts all gathered together, ready to ride.

I remember the night before's rest, or lack there of, vividly. How could I forget, sleeping on a hard wooden floor with nothing between me and the wood but a thin feather bed that should have been on top of me rather then underneath. The pain of the wood in my side, mixed with the excitement of the next day, the satisfaction of the night to come, of arriving after a van ride I was sure to be at least somewhat better then a dentists visit was just too much for me to sleep.

Sitting in the 4-person back seat of the van with 3 men that were the combined size of almost 5 got my trip of to a bit of a rough start. A shy teen, I still thought it rude to openly express my desires and concerns, but I preferred rather to passively aggressively show my displeasure by making grunting noises and sour faces until a switch-o-roo of seats ensued.

We arrive after somewhere between 8 and 10 hours of driving, 3 pee stops, and one bbq. I follow my friend Holly, who proceeds to cut several hundred girls in line, dragging me along with her past the either vacant and lost “I’m already fucked up looks”, or the red hot poker stares of girls who didn’t notice there was one more pat-down line open with no one in it. We approach the pat-down line, pat-down one, two, three, and away we go, out of the night and into the rave.

It is here, I think, where we mutually converge upon that place, where pictures say more then words.