The frame of the house tilted precariously on its roof, each of its walls intersecting with the dry desert air as if suspended by an invisible force. Erik stood by the RS50, a rock-climbing rope tethering him to the skeletal structure. The bike’s engine whined in protest, burning rubber against the unyielding ground, pulling the house into a second flip, up onto its roof. The entire scene was a spectacle of controlled chaos—a feat of impossible physics unfolding in the vast emptiness of the Arizona desert.
“Shouldn’t we use your truck?” Erik yelled over the din of the straining bike engine.
Sloan, his eyes fixed on the tipping house, shot back, “Yep, but you’re kinda tied up, and that was before I decided it’s my tires or your tires…”
Erik could only shake his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Why do we do this?”
“The Age of Disappearance,” Sloan muttered, more to himself than to Erik.
The structure teetered on the brink, the sun casting long shadows through the open framework. Sloan sprinted to various points around the house, weaving between the tipping beams, a cordless screw gun in hand. Each movement was precise, his timing perfect as he dodged the collapsing structure, securing the frame into its impossible position. The bike, barely managing to keep up, groaned under the strain, but it held, digging its tires deeper into the sand.
Sloan looked at the bike, a strange look of satisfaction mixed with absurdity on his face. “It’s kinda like a reverse airplane straightner, you know? It’s got the aesthetics of speed.” The words barely left his mouth before the bike let out a guttural vroom, the sound blending with the smell of smoke and burnt rubber. Sand particles whipped up in a sudden dust devil, pelting both men as they worked.
“You think that’s gonna hold?” Erik asked, skeptical but trusting Sloan’s mad genius.
“I put pantyhose on my air filter,” Erik replied, as if that explained everything.
Sloan raised an eyebrow. “I just thought you were kinky like that.”
“Nah, it’s a Vietnam thing,” Erik quipped, not missing a beat. Sloans phone rang, loud and shrill, startling him. The device slipped from his hand, bouncing off a rock before skidding across the sand, the screen cracking in the process. “Fuck… screened out.”
Erik glanced at the shattered phone, the irony not lost on him. “The will to the virtual, huh?”
Sloan sighed, picking up the broken phone. “Sums it up, doesn’t it?”
With the house finally secured, they untied the rope from the RS50. Erik looked at the house, still in disbelief at what they had accomplished. “Well, that’s one for the books,” he said, clapping Sloan on the back.
The RS50 now sat securely in the back of Sloan's truck, the aftermath of their earlier desert expedition evident in the sand-dusted crevices of the bike. Erik, standing beside the truck, examined the broken phone nestled in the ashtray, its screen shattered but still holding the remnants of crucial data.
“You can still get my photos off there without the screen, right?” Sloan asked, leaning against the truck bed, his voice casual, almost indifferent.
“Yep, and when I do, I expect another delivery of the world’s biggest tumbleweed. You gotta do the spastic Lenin on video and post it online, but I get to be the discursive side of the piece for the next museum or whatever lines up with the catalog, or whatever.” Erik answered, still distracted by the list in his hand—a catalog of complaints and strange occurrences involving his increasingly paranoid neighbors. He tried to make Sloan understand just how far gone these people were, his words barely audible over the low hum of the yellow Ford Splash 89 Ranger. The truck, like an old friend, purred along, the sound of its glass-packed exhaust mixing with the grains of sand pinging off the sides as a haboob began to gather force in the distance.
“You ever been in a dust storm, Erik?” Sloan asked, his tone light, almost teasing.
“Not like a big one,” Erik replied, still reading the text, his mind half on the conversation, half lost in the mounting absurdity of his situation.
A few more minutes passed before the storm hit them full force, a city-sized tornado of dust and wind. Erik barely had time to pull up the truck’s windows before the world outside became a swirling mass of sand. “Now, now!” Erik shouted over the storm's roar. “What the fuck is that?”
“Location: 1410 EWING,” Erik read aloud, his voice cutting through the storm like a knife. The list continued, each entry a small testament to the bizarre and unsettling reality he was now navigating, a reality where nothing was as it seemed.
They pulled in behind an old drive-in theater screen, using it as a makeshift windbreak. The storm howled around them, the walls of the truck shaking with the force of it. Erik jumped out, cigarette in hand, celebrating the small victory of getting the bike covered with a tarp he hadn’t even unwrapped yet.
“Yippy,” Erik muttered sarcastically, “I get to dig sand out of every fucking inch of my bike for a month.”
“It won’t take a month,” Sloan said, grabbing the cigarette from Erik’s hand. “When did you start that?” he asked, taking a drag as if it were a joint.
“Neither of us do this anymore,” Erik noted, watching Sloan with an amused expression. It was like they were playing out some old, forgotten scene from their twenties, despite the fact that they were now 43 and 47.
“Breadlove,” Erik started, referencing the ongoing narrative they’d been discussing earlier, “he’s flying through the air at…”
The stereo in the truck suddenly crackled to life, static filling the cab as the dial spun, tuning into what seemed like a continuation of their conversation about Breedlove. It was almost too perfect, the radio picking up right where they left off, as if the story was meant to follow them.
“Squeltch… static… the little harbingers of speed…” the radio sputtered.
Erik resumed reading, blending his own words with the snippets of the radio broadcast, a surreal overlay of fact and fiction. "So, my place is called the Consulate of Catalonia, and we protect hummingbirds…"
The radio cut out again, leaving only the howling wind and the distant, eerie silence of the desert.
Sloan gave a tug on his dress shirt pocket, pulling out two business cards. He handed one to Erik, who examined it with a discerning eye. “How do you like the new card?” Sloan asked, a hint of pride in his voice.
Erik looked over the card, noting its clean design. “That’s the American Apparel font weight and tracking,” he commented, impressed by the subtlety and precision.
“I know,” Sloan replied.
Erik smiled, nodding. “I know you know.”
There was a brief pause before Erik added, “Can I keep the card?”
Sloan nodded, understanding the significance. For Erik, this wasn’t just a business card—it was a piece of the world they were building, a tangible connection to the life they were crafting amidst the chaos.
As they sat in the truck, the storm beginning to die down, Erik turned to Sloan with a serious look. “You know, I’m always glad when you visit. But when I say ‘we,’ you know that means I’ve got your back. But I’m here in AZ, so what I can do for you is take all these complaints and officially file them. I’ll be the point on that, ‘cause what you’re describing is broker fraud, dual agency, 1030 fraud, 401k fraud… so maybe I’ll run point on your IRS claims too.”
Erik continued, the gravity of their situation sinking in. “So I get a cut of 211—it’s 15%. How about 1% if nothing happens to me or my family, and 5% if I take heat, and 7% if they attack?”
Sloan considered this, nodding slowly. “Deal. You’re for real, Sloan. You willing to be the one friend that’s not some chicken shit piece of too busy, too bad, too late, or whatever?”
“Yes,” Sloan said firmly, “but I need to cover my ass. These people are professionals, cons, and we’re artists.”
Erik nodded, his mind already racing ahead, plotting their next move. “I’m Martha and Mary, but you and I know God is a concept by which we measure our pain. It doesn’t shield you from evil.”
Sloan reached into his pocket again, pulling out the second card. “How do you like the new card?” he repeated, showing it to Erik with a grin. It was the same as before—red Helvetica heavy on white, simple and clean. But this time, it felt more like a declaration than a business tool, a statement of intent in the face of everything they were up against.
Erik took the card, turning it over in his hands. “It’s perfect,” he said quietly, the weight of their shared history pressing down on him. “It’s just perfect.”
missing peice about god is a name witch we measure our pain by.
End of Chapter
The heart of Echo Park beats with a paradoxical blend of rebellion and conservation, where the boundaries between artistic expression, legal resistance, and ecological stewardship blur into a singular mission. As you approach 1411 Husted Street, it's clear this is no ordinary residence—it’s a fortress of defiance, wrapped in the warmth of community and the cool detachment of necessary security.
The address stands stark against the muted backdrop of Husted Street. The bright yellow mailbox, a symbol of life and communication amidst an urban battleground, is the first sign that this place does not adhere to the mundane conventions of its neighbors. Above the gate, a conspicuous owl box perches like a vigilant guardian, reinforcing the sense that this is a sanctuary not only for humans but also for the creatures of the night. The sign below it, "Wildlife Area Conservation," declares a commitment to preserving the natural world, even in the heart of the city.
The entrance itself is an enigma, designed to deter rather than invite. The chain-link fence, reinforced with reflective tape and numerous locks, makes it abundantly clear that this is not a place for the casual visitor. Just beyond the gate, bold "No Trespassing" signs echo the sentiment, leaving no room for doubt—this is a protected space, its boundaries clearly marked and fiercely defended. The sign on the gate, which reads "Consulate de Catalonia, 1411 Husted St.," insists on the specificity of the location, a deliberate contrast to the surrounding structures.
This address is not 1410—its unique number is a testament to its distinct identity, separating it from the more mundane buildings that surround it. The mailbox and gate announce the consulate's presence with a clarity that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
Inside, the space reflects a commitment to maximalism, where every corner serves a purpose, every object tells a story. The cedar paneling, meticulously installed one by one with a battery-powered nail gun—half hammered in by hand—bears the marks of personal investment, the kind of care that transforms a building into a home, a sanctuary. The interior pulses with creative energy, from the multiple recording consoles and RZ990 Riso presses to the drafting studio where architectural dreams are sketched out and brought to life. The garden outside, with its seed bank and amphitheater, offers a serene counterbalance to the intensity within, a place where the community can gather, reflect, and plan their next moves in the ongoing struggle.
This consulate is not merely a dwelling; it is a living, breathing organism, a symbol of resistance, creativity, and preservation. It is here, at 1411 Husted Street, that the fight against erasure and the battle for ecological and cultural preservation converge, creating a space that is as much a work of art as it is a fortress.
In the vibrant heart of this quiet neighborhood, where the air buzzes with the hum of life, the garden of 1411 Husted Street became home to more than just the human rebels. Among its many inhabitants was a sleek black cat named Trix, who prowled the shadows with the grace of a panther, his emerald eyes always observing, always curious. The garden was also frequented by a tiny, fearless Rufous hummingbird named Holiday. Bold as the sunset hues on her wings, Holiday was no ordinary bird; she defied the norms of her kind, choosing to linger where others would move on.
When Holiday first arrived, darting between the flowers with her signature audacity, Trix was intrigued. Most birds would flee at the sight of her, but not Holiday. This tiny bird, with the heart of a lion, saw Trix not as a threat, but as a potential ally. Day by day, as Holiday flitted around the garden, she noticed Trix watching her from the shadows. Rather than feeling threatened, Holiday found herself drawn to the enigmatic feline. Trix, in turn, was fascinated by Holiday's boldness—the way she would fend off other hummingbirds, practicing her unique "foot boxing" moves, a display of territorial prowess rarely seen in such a small creature.
As summer turned into autumn, their daily encounters grew into something more—a silent understanding, a mutual respect. Holiday, with her tiny, fierce heart, and Trix, with her sleek, watchful gaze, began to share the garden not just as cohabitants, but as friends. Holiday would hover close to Trix, her wings a blur of color, while Trix would sit quietly, her tail curling around her paws, content just to watch.
Erik and Elishba Seidenglanz, the spirited artists who called this garden home, were captivated by the unusual bond forming between their feline companion and the fearless hummingbird. They began to document the friendship that blossomed between feather and fur, capturing moments of playfulness and mutual curiosity on their YouTube channel. The world watched in awe as the videos revealed the beautiful, unscripted story of Holiday and Trix—two beings from different worlds finding connection in a shared space.
Viewers from around the globe tuned in to see Holiday and Trix’s daily interactions. They watched as Holiday, defying the norms of her kind, chose to stay with her newfound friend instead of following the migratory path to warmer lands. And they marveled at Trix, who could easily have been a predator, choosing instead to be a protector, a companion, to the tiny, fearless bird.
The channel quickly became a symbol of the unexpected bonds that can form in nature, where differences dissolve in the presence of mutual respect and curiosity. Holiday’s decision to stay, rather than migrate, and Trix’s acceptance of a tiny bird as her companion, resonated deeply with viewers, who found in their story a reflection of the harmony that can exist even in the most unlikely of friendships.
In the quiet moments of dusk, when the garden was bathed in the soft glow of twilight, Holiday would rest on a branch while Trix lounged below, both content in the knowledge that they had found something rare and precious—an unspoken connection that bridged the gap between species. And so, in the garden of 1411 Husted Street, amidst the ongoing struggle against forces that sought to erase the unique character of Echo Park, Holiday and Trix continued to write their story—a tale of friendship that soared on wings and padded softly on paws, reminding all who watched that sometimes, the most extraordinary connections are the ones we least expect.
This is the paradox of 1411 Husted Street—a place where defiance meets preservation, where art and nature coalesce into a singular force of resistance against erasure. It stands as a testament to the power of place, the importance of community, and the unexpected beauty that can arise when we protect what we love.
2003? or somthing Momus Tour Avant-Garde America
The Geo Metro, that tiny titan of fuel efficiency, rattles down I-80, its frame vibrating with the weight of artistic ambition. At the wheel, Nick Currie—better known as Momus, Scotland's enfant terrible of avant-pop—navigates the vast expanses of the American West with the precision of a man accustomed to charting unexplored territories of sound.
In the backseat, Erik Seidenglanz—the human incarnation of the Seahorse Liberation Army—floats in a Vicodin haze, his consciousness expanding and contracting with each mile marker. Beside him, John Talaga, aka John Fashion Flesh, the maestro behind Oscar Tennis Champion's remixes, mumbles chord progressions in his opiate dreams.
Up front, Roland (or is it James?)—the analog baroque wizard featured on Momus's "Isebel"—hunches over a tangle of wires and knobs, coaxing sounds from the ether that oscillate between Renaissance courtyards and alien discothèques.
This is no ordinary road trip. This is a mobile art installation, a rolling challenge to the status quo, a tin can odyssey through the heart of America's weird underbelly.
The landscape blurs outside, a watercolor of truck stops and forgotten towns. Each locale is a potential stage, a blank canvas for their nightly performances that defy categorization. They are Beowulf in the wilderness, slaying the dragons of conformity with every mile, every note, every chemical alteration of their consciousness.
Nick Cave's "The Thief of Love" crackles through the Metro's tinny speakers:
"And I was gripped by that deadly phantom
I followed him through hard jungles
As he stalked through the back lots
Strangling through the night shades"
The lyrics become a mantra, a soundtrack to their phantom chase across state lines. Are they the thief of life, moving "onwards and outwards to love"? Or are they the phantom itself, elusive and ever-changing?
In nameless motel rooms, Roland/James sets up his equipment, transforming peeling wallpaper and stained carpets into baroque cathedrals of sound. John Fashion Flesh emerges from his Vicodin cocoon, fingers dancing across laptops, remixing the very fabric of reality.
And the Seahorse Liberation Army? Erik Seidenglanz leads the charge into uncharted waters of performance art, each show a surreal blend of aquatic imagery and avant-garde provocation. The lines between audience and performer blur, much like the highway lines in the Geo Metro's rearview mirror.
Momus documents it all, his keen eye capturing the sublime and the ridiculous in equal measure. Each blog post, each photo, becomes another piece in the grand collage of their journey, archived for posterity on iMomus.com.
They are the lovers who "never had met," the "guns dying at sunset," the grown men crying "like a girl." They are everything and nothing, artists on the edge of revelation or oblivion, their Geo Metro a liminal space hurtling through the night.
As dawn breaks over another anonymous town, they unload their gear, ready to challenge another unsuspecting audience. The Vicodin haze lifts, replaced by the natural high of creative fervor.
They are the Seahorse Liberation Army, Fashion Flesh, Momus, and the analog baroque maestro. They are the vanguard of a revolution that exists only in the spaces between notes, between heartbeats, between states.
The Geo Metro awaits, ever faithful, ever ready for the next leg of a journey with no clear destination. Because in the end, it's not about where they're going, but the art they create along the way.
The road is long, the night is deep, and they are transcendent.