lalalandia entertainment research corporation

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lalalandia's Translounge on nrth 6th st brooklyn '93

lalalandia's Game Room on nrth 10th st brooklyn '91

lalalandia's Translounge on nrth 6th st brooklyn '93

lalalandia's Game Room on nrth 10th st brooklyn '91

Once11 developing lalalandia's Translounge on nrth 6th st brooklyn '93

lalalandia's silver walls

lalalandia entertainment research corporation

"is that a chicken in my coat?"

omnisensorialsweepout year 2077. the Ritz_times square 3am.
1800 bouncing bodies to d&b. 77 circus performers. your face on 250 
monitors. racy solitude. ahhh the amazing Gustov underwater, on stilts and flying beside a skateboard ramp. technorganic multilayered soup camp on plush red carpet .

Keep Refrigerated. fall. brklyn. some fri. damn chicken was sleeping in my coat. it ran through the dance-floor and jumped through a hole. punks kick off the cement in the basement strangling their microphones. crackerjack puppetry and analogue free for all upstairs. flaming barbecues in rows. greasy grinning Argentineans choke on there own laughter as they turn the flaming spits and play pool. we get down to acid house. mustard factory. 1am brklyn. watermelons explode. endless little stalls of artistoids. yelping we crawl out of a mustard silo and dodge the hi dive only to get soaked by a bellyflop.

Noiselab. Brklyn. 5am. two feet of fresh snow. inside, bodies bounce like water in a hot pan. cant find or make head or tails from the omnisensorial immersion and butt kikin beats. a table of plastic and gear is entangled in the unpredictable light. steam pours off the dancers. icicles drip in the corners. in the toilet my pees like a smoke machine.

Comfortzone banquet. 11:11, 11/11. Brklyn. twenty-something people 
down one long table. nine courses for $9.99. overhead projector shows jiggling frog legs in quail eggs. on the stage a bazaar drama starring our food unfolds. even the pans are miced. the chopping block is a favorite instrument. quiet village, taboo, and caravan cycle quietly from dangling tape decks. Translounge. Brklyn. 6am.- cant find the bridge. a strobing erosion simulacrum out on the street next to someone bolted into a mannequin mold. inside-mini-wetlands, water droplets wind slowly upwards in the light. skipping Thomas Crown Affair mixed with paprika, and vacuum cleaners with condom reeds. drink seaweed extract and dance on moss. others drive each other crazy with that hypnocapsul thing: a car seat inside a portable phone booth with feathers, fans, lights, curry and a bank of answering machine loop-tapes.

TIJUANNA 2077 omnisensorialsweepout. new years eve. Brklyn. 3:33am. semi occupied building. we register and are given plastic, toxic handler apparel _asked to sign a film shoot waiver. an akai? bumps bodies at us from the other side of inflated black plastic. we emerge to a blinding light obscured by a vertical wall of falling water, trip over a pile of chopped logs, land at the feet of someone in scuba gear. vertical plains of water slip down while intense pointed beams of light project it running across a ceiling of sloppy silver pipes and beams. two fat polish twins ask us where the bathroom is. a bunch of startled giggling latino homeboys step around us. naked in gold, beautiful and angry a woman disappears behind a cliff of falling water and debris. inside warbling rollands, girls from ipanema skips on a distant record player. the gravely sounds of delta blues ooze from a pile of equipment held together with so much duct-tape that at first we dont see the living old man taped inside with his graffitied guitar. dub beets out some triplets. the bar is completely covered by moss. you must reach through rain to receive your drink. inside a clear tube two tall and slender german brothers and a finish friend man a pile of 303s punching out future funk. hips fly in time. a projection is having an unintelligible dialogue with the kiks. we fall sweaty into a relatively quiet corner by a dark closet startling three sleeping ducks.

OMNISENSORIAL SOUP CAMP

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