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Blue Lug Stem Bags

$50.00

Color

Look: everything is nostalgia.  As much as we want to move forward, we are stuck looking back.  Glitching, like that CD that lived on the floor of my minivan when I was in high school.  Magnavox 6 disc changer boom box on the floor behind the drivers seat.  Grey carpet stained with chain oil and orange soda.  No back seats.  Why did the parents of my friends allow me to pick up kids and take them to school when there were no back seats?  I picked up Lydia and Willie and his sister, Jen and Nichols and sometimes his sister, Nick (ye of the Van Halen obsession), Konrad and Slava.  It was a 7 passenger minivan with only two seats.  


Look: we played bad music thru cheap guitars, smashed mirrors glued to tin foil, a distortion box implanted in the body, because we thought Lou Reed had a built in distortion box.  No. He just murdered his amp.  We covered the basement in huge rolls of industrial tinfoil.  Bought 5 pound bags of glitter and covered the carpet.  Hung smashed violins spraypainted silver from the ceiling.  When you played a note, the walls vibrated.  Black lights, smoke machine, a strobe that sat on the bass amp and strobed to the time of the throbs.  


You can not fake nostalgia.  You can not write about the first time you heard Red Medicine, after picked it out at random from a walkup record shop, popping it into the cd player at Scott’s house (band name of the month, “Good Little Muffin”, named after the oddly moist, gooey blueberry muffins in little bags at the high school vending machine), slipping into the above ground pool, Scott and Dawn and Starmer varying degrees of fixated on the sounds coming out.  Me and Starmer, first.  It was a sonic earthquake.  Play it today, loud, and be open.  If you have never heard it, and your mind does not melt a bit, reformed by waves of sonic… what is it?  It’s the building blocks of humanity.  A construction site torn from it’s open pit and rendered aurally as a protest against the desire for humans to do harm to each other and themselves.  No effects.  Pure angst.  Your eyes.  Like Crashing Jets.  Fixed in Stained Glass...But no Religion. 


No religion.  There is but one religion.  Looking backward.  Looking to the past for answers today.  Sometimes it works.  Sometimes it’s bullshit.


These bags remind me of my old Rockhopper: hunter orange frame, purple thermoplastic handlebars, acid green Marzocchi fork, teal Real brake levers, mint Michelin semi slicks, red Cr-18 rims, and so on.  A grab bag of the 90’s.  


You can put things in this bag.  Nalgenes, water bottles, cameras, beers, five cassettes recorded on a 4 track and never mixed down.  It mounts near the stem, bar confluences I’m told.   Made in Japan.