All of your favorites, in one place.
200 copies. Black vinyl, white cardboard sleeve with postcard attached, stamped white labels, insert. Plays at 33rpm. Two six-minute montages of reversed mitosis episodes, in which scaly pods, ruptured eggs, and clumps of partially digested hair smush through one another and glom together in unstable strains of S-Glass-spanktified dad-noise. 'Backlit Colander With Holes Shaped Like Numbers' crawls with bacteria from munched electronics, murmurs of a chimney-entrapped Frampton (plus camel, but that should go without saying), tape yoont teetering on the lip of a magnetic abyss, and piercing splats from tiny automatic paintball guns. “High” and “lonesome” are the operative descriptors of 'Bok Choy Festival': Barbara Manning’s guitar loops backfire and self-annihilate in private spritz-overdose orgies; avian-constructed effigies of Annie Hayworth curdle; narration on the topic of body dysmorphia is provided courtesy of thrift store cassettes and a Sister Rosetta Thorpe quotation.