The world of @dogsdoingthings, rewound and remixed for the weekend.
Dogs screening grainy black-and-white footage of a wood chipper noiselessly receiving a heaping pile of instruments, and observing to a bored History of Music class, “And that, everyone, was a remix.”
Dogs swallowing a tablet of ecstasy in the men’s room at the Haçienda, groaning, “Now how do I feel??” and standing in frozen horror as the DJ drags a needle across a record, thus causing distortion waves to emanate across the club, throughout the countryside, over the horizon, and all across the globe, the firmament ringing delicately before the oceans and the continents crack and fragment in glorious fulfillment, crumbling tremendously upon the surface of the void.
Dogs holding a telephone up to a machine-intelligence future populated entirely by sentient steel turntables scratching records with the violent force of their distended, pistoning appendages, and shouting, “Mitt, Mitt, it’s Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin Romney! You know that new sound you’re looking for? Well, listen to THIS!”
Dogs smashing the buttons on a DynaTAC 8000X and listening thoughtfully as the tones from the enormous telephone handset echo resoundingly through all lower Manhattan and summon the eager, disembodied voice of Gordon Gekko calling from the infinite depths of an exploded speculative bubble, “Hello, wealth?”
Dogs placing a record needle delicately on the surface of your flattened, spinning face and taking solemn note as you confess again and again, with every revolution, “I buried Paul.”
Dogs leading the hobbling figure of Don McLean into the basement of a dingy underground nightclub to gesture wildly with an acoustic guitar and insist in confused outrage, “ I did not write the Book of Love!” as the DJ raises an eyebrow and offers archly, “I have no faith in God above,” and drops the bass.
Dogs injecting a little bit of razzamatazz as a flatmate’s prone body convulses under a pile of magazines and observing—as the browning liquid courses through an artery—the complete and utter transition from a fictive narrative world of text to a documentarian filmic world of the real to a fictive narrative world of text to a documentarian filmic world of the real to a fictive narrative world of text to a documentarian filmic world of the real to a fictive narrative world of text to a documentarian filmic world of the real to a fictive*
Dogs taping a Stoeger Condor Competition Combo O/U 12 gauge shotgun to a Red Ryder carbine-action, two hundred shot Range Model air rifle with a compass and this thing which tells time, and shoving the resulting contraption into your face, insisting, “This is a song Charles Manson stole from the Beatles.”
Dogs remixing the notes you don’t hear with a recording of the notes you do hear and explaining to the selfsame unseen inhabitants of a mirror universe of anti-matter, “It’s not the notes you don’t hear.”
Dogs sobbing quietly as Amy Winehouse whispers, “Back to black,” and spirals out into the void and spirals gently, forever spiraling, the silence audibly recurrent, upon the spinning turntable of the universe.