JUNE, 2003 E.V.
For pub queen Faline,
who brought me a Tanqueray Tonic
on a warm afternoon in June.
And for Heather, who picked up the tab for the entire table the other night (Wes, Adam, Camella, Kat, Phil, Willis, 'Iceland' and myself). Thanks again!
Since it says Tool Newsletter at the top of the page, let's see what's been going on with the band members as of late. Maynard (and Billy) have got APC going full tilt, though I doubt that I have to trumpet such revelations to the readers of this fatal chaosphere. But, for all of you who have sent emails saying that you want to check out the restaurant that MJK is affiliated with, for the umpteenth time, it's called the Hillmont and it is located in Hollywood, CA. (4655 Hollywood Blvd). Evidently the place got a rave review in the New York Times, so if you're ready for a "super-communal" experience and for self-service ordering (and who isn't), then I suggest you make reservations. Also, with regards to the April 1st post about the thing buried on Maynard's Arizona property, I received thousands of emails from people who claimed to have cracked the code. In actuality, ONE PERSON got it right. Most people thought the message was "A WARNING FROM THE SILENCERS", but, as several of you observed, there were a few additional 'mistakes' in the text which should have sounded the alarm that the 'silencers' phrase (encoded with Boy Scout manual-like simplicity) was but a red herring. The true message was hiding in plain sight all along. This had to do with the bit about the strange fellow in the black turtleneck who was seen drinking a ("before-hours") Coke and singing to the birds in the trees. Might singing to the birds in the trees have something to do with the Language of the Birds, also known as the Green Language which occultists (in particular, AL-khemists) use to express their secret teachings? I will have more to say about the Nation of the Third Eye later.
What else? Danny has just returned from Europe, where he had a chance to re-visit Rennes-le-Chateau in the south of France. Although he didn't find the legendary treasure (or Michael Flamm's lost wallet, which contained about $1,000.00), he did manage NOT to destroy another European rental car. Evidently the grey gods of twilight were looking over him, and no grey dogs darted across the roadway. He did, however, manage to bring back lots of great video footage which we plan to utilize in a future project dealing with the mystery surrounding Berenger Sauniere and those other players associated with the accused place. Hey, it says so right on the church porch lintel: TERRIBILIS EST LOCUS ISTE! (NOTE: For more information about Rennes-le-Chateau, see www.dannycarey.org).
Adam is also up to something that will be of great interest to many of you, but... it's still under wraps (of course). And Justin doesn't want you to know what he's doing either..
SUBJECT: BLAIR'S SPIDERS
Q: "I just recently borrowed Lusk's (Free Mars' and noticed you play a role on the secret song. How did all this come about and what exactly is the overall theme? Could you explain some of the effects used in making this song?"
A: One day I was just minding my business when there was a knock on my door. It was Chris Pitman and Paul D'Amour (ex-bass player for Tool) of the band Lusk. They were holding a couple of bottles of imported ale and asked me if I'd like to come into the studio and do something on the hidden track. They wanted me to 'act'' like there was a spider in the studio that was freaking me out, so much so, that I spent a considerable amount of time trying to kill the damn thing. Well, I drank the beer and did the song in one take, using a plastic 'spider vacuum' someone had given me as a gift as an additional sound effect. (NOTE: this particular spider vacuum, purchased in a Sky-Mall catalogue, turned out to be a real piece of shit. Every time I used it, I would invariably 'lose' the spider parked on the wall, and have to move bookshelves, etc. The best [safest] method, and the only one that is recommended by Arachnophagous, the official arachnophobia journal, is to use a modified sponge mop with a strip of extra-sticky masking tape drizzled with a fine mist of insecticide). The overall theme is that if you think you've killed the spider, but haven't actually seen the body, then you can never be certain that you've truly killed it, can you?. You've got to have the dead remains of the thing, which should then be quickly flushed down the toilet as an extra precaution. If not, it's time to start moving furniture, etc. The technology used on the track included Chris's Korg MS-20 which was feeding back on itself to create its own rhythm. It was an experimental piece (and no spiders were killed in the process).
SUBJECT: ESHTRAYAN RANTS
"As a long time listener/first time caller (ahem) I just wanted to say I particularly enjoy yer eshtrayan rants. Personally, I name each Huntsman in the house, awarding respect to those who gulp up the most flies/mozzys/lethal prawns etc. Some of them are pretty big now..." Also, as someone involved in a three year relationship with a genuine Norse goddess, I've never been subjected to lamb's balls, but plenty of Gravalax with Dill butter mmmmm...."
As for naming each Huntsman, I just want to let the rest of the civilized world (including America which has the biggest bombs, the true measure of a civilized nation) know that NOT EVERY Aussie has such a personal relationship with the spiders that adorn their walls like paintings do in other countries (but it seems like a lot of 'em sure do). As for the Norse goddess and the sheep testicles, for this year's abominable Porrablot (February/March), might I suggest something a bit more palatable to all you Icelandic beauties out there. How about our guys instead, Vikingettes (and I'll even marinade mine in vanilla Kamasutra massage oil for the special occasion). Actually, I'm currently looking for an Antarctic chick, so I'm not worried about the horror of the Porrablot. Maybe some Neuschwabenland babe who likes to take the Flugelrad out for a spin. Any takers?
AND SPEAKING OF THINGS ARACHNOLOGICAL,
I found this little gem in the Paola newspaper archives. On page Five, under the PAOLA POLICE DEPARTMENT'S, 'FOR THE RECORD', Thursday, June 14, 1979, it reads:
CAR HITS SIGN
"A car driven by a Paola resident struck a loading zone sign Friday morning at North School on Oak Street. Dan E. Carey told police he was driving his 1972 Buick south on Oak Street when he took his eyes off the road to remove a spider from his arm, colliding with the sign. The sign's pole was damaged, but Carey's car received no damage. Police said Carey will make restitution for the sign upon the city's request." The same police blotter also reported a "gasoline skip" and "car antenna that was vandalized by a juvenile." Goddamn, Paola, Kansas sounded like a dangerous place to live in the 70s. Having hunted down this notice in Danny's hometown paper , I would just like to add for those who give me shit about my irrational fear of things eight-legged that at least I've never crashed my car because I had a spider crawling on my arm. That's right - because I do thorough 'sweeps'' of the vehicle before even starting the engine. A bit of sound advice for Danny.
SUBJECT: ON THE WAGON
Q: "... I've read in a couple of books that after their arrest on Friday, 13, 1307 the legendary treasure of the Knights Templar disappeared after it was removed from the Paris preceptory and was smuggled out at night in a hay wain to the Order's fleet at La Rochelle (France). Where do you think it was taken to?.."
A: According to many, Oak Island in Nova Scotia (New Scotland) or, eventually, Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh, Scotland. However, there is another more esoteric version of the legend of the Templar's hay wain (wagon) that is known to certain members of the P.U.P. Lodge. One of the earliest names for the constellation Ursa Major (whose more familiar name is the Big Dipper), was the Wain, the great wagon that circled the sky (i.e. being a circumpolar star-grouping). In the middle of the handle of the 'Dipper'' is the star Mizar. But next to Mizar is its companion, a faint star called Alcor, which, although it can be perceived with the unaided eye, the ability to do so was regarded by the ancient Arabs and others as a test of good vision (Alcor = the Forgotten, Lost, or Neglected One). Now, the double stars are respectively, blue and yellow in color, which when mixed together produces green. Might not this green color symbolize the emerald stone fallen from the crown of Luzifer? If so, then what does this tell us about the fabulous treasure of the Knights Templar which was/is concealed in a (celestial) wain or wagon? (NOTE: In Poussin's 'Shepherds of Arcadia', the painting most often associated with one of the coded parchments allegedly discovered by the priest of Rennes-le-Chateau, the garment of the shepherdess is half blue and half yellow).
Dear Pigmy Love Circus: I just wanted to share an experience that I recently had in trying to "get the girl" and the role that your band played in my eventual winning her over. This wasn't exactly 'the girl next door'' unless, that is, you lived at PT's (a local gentleman's club here). You see, this girl I was so hot for was an erotic dancer (what my father's father would call a stripper) at the Diamond Cabaret in Sauget, Southern Illinois. The problem was that she was nice enough to me in the club, but outside those plush red carpets and well-shined poles, she wouldn't have anything to do with me.
Knowing that Blair from Toolband.com has a thing for such ladies, and especially if they're blondes of Nordic descent (as this girl is), I wrote to him seeking his advice. At first he emailed back that "this wasn't Dear Abby", and that "I should just be happy in this day and age that I could see her naked (with her cute little throw-rug and all) in a place that sold alcoholic beverages." That I should just be content with my Busch beer (you know the old bit about one rather having a warm Busch than a cold Hienie). Be he then agreed to offer some help because he, himself, was from Southern Illinois, and knew how fine of a job those dancers did. He told me that he'd even spent a fair amount of time in PT's, and had a friend who ran a barbecue kitchen out of the place. "Sloppy barbecue sandwiches and five-dollar lap dances under the same roof, or was it five-dollar barbecue sandwiches and sloppy lap dances?.. it couldn't be beat (well, actually it could, but that would have to be in another room" he said). The first thing that Blair told me was that it was going to be tough to get this chick, unless 1) I played in a heavy metal band, 2) had a damn good Charlie connection or 3) was a chick myself. Well, I emailed him back that I didn't meet any of these requirements. So he wrote back to tell me that I was going to have to resort to magick. And not just any magick, but to a very potent type of Icelandic sorcery. In a lengthy email, he told me that this was the Vikings' secret to getting their prized women ("both the virgins with the silver and those who were slightly less than cherry nirvana"). That the "stereotype of the tall, muscular, ax-wielding, tankard of mead-spilling, horn-helmeted (never wore them), blood-dripping, dirty wolf-skin clad barbarians was just that, a stereotype perpetuated by others who were getting pissed that these guys were the preferred choice of English women and other maiden types across the European continent."
So after this brief history lesson, he instructed me how to construct a stave called an Aegishjalmur. This, believe it or not, was an Aegishjalmur "To get a girl." I was to make the cross-like sign (which he called a sigil) in the palm of my right hand with blood from the top of my left thumb (Blair added that "I was fortunate that this particular stave called for thumb-blood as opposed to that from my septum", as I had already informed him that I didn't have a good Charlie connection), after which I was to gently take the girl's hand and recite the following words:
"My hand I lay in yours, my will in yours. May your bones burn lest you love me as much as I love you. These words shall be as passionate and powerful as eternity, all magic and sorcery turn your mind towards love of me and may all those who inhabit subterranean abodes assist me in this."
Well, I followed the instructions to the letter, but nothing happened. I emailed Blair and told him that I wasn't making any progress with the girl, and that she even seemed a bit colder (outside the Diamond Cabaret, that is). He quickly wrote back that I evidently had no business practicing Icelandic sorcery, but that there was one last thing that I could try. I could buy a Pigmy Love Circus tee-shirt, and wear it the next time I attended the club. At first I thought he was f***ing with me, but he insisted that he wasn't.
Blair said that these shirts had an effect on women that was, to use his word, "uncanny." So I got the Pigmy Love Circus shirt, the new one, and guess what: IT WORKED LIKE A CHARM (in fact, better than a charm, as you can see from this email). To make a long story shorter, I now live with this girl (amazingly, she had to move from where she was living with her old boyfriend who just happened to be a guitar player in a local heavy metal band ), and decided (that day!) To move in with me. And guess what else? I'm now starting to play the guitar (turns out that my new girlfriend had bought the guitar for her ex-boyfriend, and took it back when she left) and... I also recently found "a damn good Charlie connection" (thanks to her!). But besides all of that, even better is that she brings her girlfriends from the club over ALL THE TIME... and even lets me watch! So, thanks to your band... AND MY PIGMY LOVE CIRCUS TEE-SHIRT, well, let's just say that I don't need to go to the Diamond Cabaret any more (although Blair wrote back saying "that wasn't necessarily a good thing"), but if my new girlfriend ever lets me go there again, I'll bet you can guess what shirt I'm going to wear. Sincerely, Anonymous.
Although I thought I'd felt and seen something in the so-called vortex, evidently I was wrong. And, apparently, so was the girl with me (mistaken)...
... Still, I was never quite able to figure out what this tiny picnic table was doing there...
Real men bring picnic baskets!