come to the good hurt
drink a rusty nail with moxy p.

bring this flyer or one that looks like it and get in for $7

bimbo.
she took herself to a party tonight.
a social gathering.
somewhere on the outskirts of the city.
deep into the heart of the suburbs.
supposed to be a cocktail party, but she's got nuthin cocktaily and she feels like shit so why dress like she doesn't? Catherine Zeta-Jones doesn't do self-help or therapy: "I'm a warrior." sitting there, her legs toned and tanned and frosted, a fan blowing her long dyed raven tresses around, chin lifted and staring down her nose into the camera, at bimbo, at the world.
'yeah, what the hell would you need therapy for? you sound like a conceited jackass.'
she puts her beer on top of her face.
catherine's face.
on the magazine cover.
yeah, take that.

you can also find moxy phinx cooing and sawing on a track on asymmetrical head's sweet new album 'feeling sorry for inanimate objects'
a collection of fascinating and far out electronica that will have your brain spinning all sorts of images
check it out
available now.http://www.myspace.com/asymmetricalhead

LOVE HERTZ EP DROPS WORLDWIDE


Following on the heels of the techno flavored "Roll By Design" Remix
The Milkman drops a 6 track EP as the first release on his new label
"Milkmoney".

August 20th, 2009 we can all get down any way we want to the diverse
tracks on this release. The title track "Love Hertz" features vocals from
one of L.A.'s secret weapons, Moxy Phinx. Her singing style has been
compared to Beth Gibbons of "Portishead", but with a decidedly more
soulful tone to it.

The Milkman keeps it deep, dark and dubby with the somber "Would
Die", using samples straight off an Alfred Hitchcock record. Not pulling
any punches he brings the Bassweight with "King of the Dots", recently
played on "Music Box Radio", which airs on Diversity FM in the U.K.

Just when we thought we had heard The Milkman loud and clear he
emerged with a whole new sound."Disrespect" is impossible not to
move to. This tune has been shaking up dance floors in Tokyo with
support from resident DJ Mood. Razor sharp highs invade your aural
space while your chest vibrates to the reverb heavy bass. From Dubstep
to Techno this EP will keep you guessing what's coming next.

Rumor has it all the tunes on this release are getting the minimal techno
treatment and will be released in a few months as a variation to the
original EP. It's clear that "The Milkman" hasn't forgotten his 60hz roots,
but knows what it takes to get people moving as well.


You can find this release at more than 30 online stores worldwide,
including Beatport, iTunes, Juno, Napster, and Digital-tunes beginning
July 20th, 2009.http://www.myspace.com/lunarmoduleseattle

bimbo is an idiot.
she's done somethin real careless and can't seem to get out from under the weight of it weighin down on her like 100 cans of mason sardines. no, not 100. 1,000.  and no, not careless. black, yeah. crooked, yeah. but not careless.  her heart is comin out of her chest. she tries to stuff it back in. cut it out. strangle it. but it don't shut up. it's screaming at her and hollaring two things at once, like it does, and the stupid thing led her into a goddamn beartrap.

so she's gonna knock herself out.  all the lousy shit she's done! she shakes her fist at herself as she's sitting there, in the bermuda sand in her likewise dubbed shorts. she's gonna punch herself in the kisser ala fight club. that seemed to work all right for ben stiller or martin short or lou ferigno or whoever the hell that was in that thing. she stares at her chipped rotten orange nailpolish. 'why am i wearing this goddamned nail polish!?' she hollars up into the listerine sky and POW.
down for the count.

Moxy Phinx on iLike - Add iLike to your MySpace

moxy phinx music video la pipe

christmas in bermuda ain't the same.
for one good luck finding a pine cone.
and jingle bells sound really weird in front of the ocean.
or a tiki hut.
and there's something brewing in bimbo's heart. maybe it's a nut. nut stew. stinky, salty sweet nut stew. like grape nuts. the kind that expand when they're hot and wet.

she's sitting at the ermuda inn. the bar there. she's done her hair up to one side. like maybe judy garland would have, if she'd had a pony tail holder with a green plastic grinch on it.
she's got a yellow purse from the goodwill
nuthin in it but 15 bucks,
three toothpicks,
and some hokey prayer card that was in the side pocket when she got it and shut up about it she just hasn't thrown it out yet

she raises her hand, slightly, to the bartender
'rusty nail,' she says
and it sticks in her throat
like grape nuts

and what is barney doing, while bimbo has been away, fucking in dumpsters and skipping town and whatnot?

barney has locked himself in his room and is staring at his dartboard. he has been for hours. days. years. trying to calculate the perfect throw. his house has fallen into ruins, his beard has grown down to his knees. he has no idea that bimbo has even gone anywhere, let alone set the whole town afire with gossip. he hasn't wiped his ass in days and please kindly hold your nose would you be a-visiting.
he's turned into a homeless man, trapped in his own home.

and what about his knife-selling career?
it was getting harder and harder to sell knives door to door, what with the internet being what it is, you know.
so, frustrated, he lets his knives sit in the corner, glinting and sneering with that horrible 'p' word. ignores them. staring at his dartboard instead.

if he could just get the perfect throw, if he could master all the infinitesimal movements! and recreate them just once! no twice, no three times! all his problems would disappear, he is certain. in the glory of that perfection! how could there be a problem when he has just mastered the perfect toss of that imperfect dart?! how could he be a failure then?!

bimbo doesn't think barney's a failure.
even sitting with her ass in the hot sand in bermuda, she doesn't think so.
she just can't remember his address to send him a postcard.

uh oh.bimbo has made it to the pub.
some guy in a tropical shirt bought her a beer. one of those pisswater coloured beers that don't do much and make you feel cheap. but she's drinkin it. leaning over the bar. trying to smile with her newly sand scrubbed teeth but she can't.
she's glad for the beer but she can't.
something inside her pops
cracks
cracks
breaks.

she steals a cherry stem from the pile of sticky bar fruit, dips it in the tangy gone-off mole sauce left on tropic man's plate, and writes with it ala 'quills' on the back of one of those free postcards from the bathroom. this one has a gay man on it. why are gay men always shirtless? she wants to ask somebody but the only one around is tropic man and he's had it with her anyway. she was supposed to be witty and charming in exchange for the beer but she failed so he's moved on to the asian girl at the other end of the bar.
that asian girl looks cold.
why do they always look cold?
whatever.
that's fine.
she feels like writing a letter.
and falling over.
that second one's a little risky.
so's the first but hell she ain't never gonna show nobody.

"i got nuthin," she scratches. dips the cherry stem. scratches. how damned tedious. who cares. what the hell else she have to do?
"i done left you
and i feel alright
i should be cryin
i suppose
but i got nuthin.

i thought my heart would be jumpin
and laughin
and flyin
but it's quiet
and heavy
and wide
and blank

all this truth
done left me numb
all this truth
done left me numb.
numb.
numb.
numb"

'hey cutie pie, whachoo writin?' tropic man returns. it's been 3 hours. for some reason her beer never got empty.. but she kept drinkin it who was filling it what the fuck? she's sufficiently tipsy and hallelujah it's better than that lump in her throat
'nuthin' she says and her lips move like sloppy banana peels
'well if its nuthin then i can see it' he belches like an old whale and grabs it off the bar
'that makes no sense if it's nuthin you CAN'T see it' she raises her hand to push him away but instead she falls backwards off her stool, and ass onto the goo and stick and piss that is the floor of everybar and bermuda ain't no different.
tropic man laughs.
the bartender laughs.
she doesn't get up though.
doesn't wave her arms around and tell 'em all off
she just lays there
on the floor
its familiar, even if it does stink
and stares up at the ceiling fan
clicking round and round and round
'this is real stupid' she thinks.

way to make an entrance, bimbo.

but before the lovely and charming bimbo goes into that bar across the street, she feels like she should brush her teeth. you know, be presentable. but with what? she didn't pack her goddamned toothbrush. she can picture it sitting on her sink, the bristles frayed at the top like an old porcupine, the base crusted white and red from toothpaste and lipstick.. sitting there. grinning like a whale and waving some skinny cartoon arm at her from a thousand miles away.
"fuck it i'll use some sand."
she heard that from her mother once. or was it her cousin? the one that goes camping and knows how to escape from things like alligators by running in zig zags... yeah, yeah it was probably her.
"she knows stuff. so it must be true."
plus flouride ain't natural. that's what tyler that new hippy bartender had told her, with his hair all dred-locked and surrounded by an ever-so-soft halo of fruit flies. "it's poison. they use it to kill shit."
well, sand doesn't kill anybody. ever see anybody die in the movies cuz of sand poisoning?
so bimbo scoops a bit of sand into her left palm, spits on her right index finger, sticks it gingerly in the sand like she was gonna taste cinnamon, and proceeds to saw at her teeth with her finger covered in gritty, walked on dog pissed on children spat on crab crawled on seaweed activated bermuda sand.
tastes kinda good, believe it or not.
makes her think of barney.
he kinda tasted like that.

barney.
barney.
she thinks, while scrubbing off her enamel.
barney.
fucking jerk.