If you missed the 2013 DDB Annual Report live back in April, you can listen to the whole thing (sans visuals, but use your imagination) over here:
http://davewoodyllc.tumblr.com/
Remember to wipe when you're done!
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Philadelphia Lawyers
I'd swear that like six straight people in this bathroom line, single bathroom line, have taken dumps. Myself included. Where are the pee-rs this time of year?
Friday, May 3, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
NE biscuits
It's time to hear once again from our correspondent BM, currently on tour and with a colon full of thoughts:
While playing a show in a Poughkeepsie pizza place I happened to meet a former financial manager for the Deep Listening Institute. He seemed a little bitter about everything, especially the fact that now he makes pizza for a living. His pizza was a little dry and bitter as well.
I am now pooping that pizza in a bar restroom in Lowell, MA before playing at an art Gallery.
Life on a road is always interesting, never thinking of things in terms of "I'm going to be here for a while" but rather taking all situations and conversations as they come is calming to me. And though this particular poo is somewhat of a workout (as I always find to be the case with meat product, in this case pepperoni), the smells are not offensive and the fan in here is blowing quite sweetly in a rusty pink noise kind of way.
The bartender who doesn't drink is also a cancer and is pelting us with questions about our music and what it's like.
I think my biggest regret/non-regret is a refusal to nail down specific definitions for how I talk about my art. I want the work to speak for itself, but for people to want to come that doesn't cut it.
"what's your work like?"
"my work speaks for itself"
"oh...asshole"
While playing a show in a Poughkeepsie pizza place I happened to meet a former financial manager for the Deep Listening Institute. He seemed a little bitter about everything, especially the fact that now he makes pizza for a living. His pizza was a little dry and bitter as well.
I am now pooping that pizza in a bar restroom in Lowell, MA before playing at an art Gallery.
Life on a road is always interesting, never thinking of things in terms of "I'm going to be here for a while" but rather taking all situations and conversations as they come is calming to me. And though this particular poo is somewhat of a workout (as I always find to be the case with meat product, in this case pepperoni), the smells are not offensive and the fan in here is blowing quite sweetly in a rusty pink noise kind of way.
The bartender who doesn't drink is also a cancer and is pelting us with questions about our music and what it's like.
I think my biggest regret/non-regret is a refusal to nail down specific definitions for how I talk about my art. I want the work to speak for itself, but for people to want to come that doesn't cut it.
"what's your work like?"
"my work speaks for itself"
"oh...asshole"
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Doo Down Buster #9
And here we have one final squeeze from the intrepid BM. Looking forward to more poopy dispatches from wherever he may roam.
3.18.2013
My little brown notebook has served me well on this trip to doo doo down under. Pooping has been for the most part enjoyable and when not that, revelatory.
Our last night in "Oz" was fun, we had free food and drinks all night with the crew and staff of the festival. Tostada with meat, veggies, and delicious sauce, these things called "Torpedoes" which somehow made cottage cheese delivious, lettuce wraps with many meats, venison, chicken wings. . . did I mention free drinks?
Upon waking up (my hotel door had been left open) once again in my clothes and looking into the calm warm eyes of Beowulf telling me "it's time to go home," I was glad I had already packed and noticed a red wine stain on my hat which I had just purchased the previous afternoon. After that it was cereal and milk on the place to Sydney with some fruit, then beef ragu on the way to LA.
This long backstory is to give you the context for my GREATEST airplane BM. I didn't wait in line for the bathroom as the TSA and Homeland Security apparently now forbids "gathering in small groups by the bathrooms." Luckily I had an excellent view of the bathroom from my seat and was able to watch a tattooed man, my friend Molly, a kid whose short hair had spots dyed into it, a lady with crazed eyes (his mother, I believe), and what appeared to be the Australian Liza Minelli use it before getting up to use it myself. An older gentleman stood behind me and I felt a twinge of guilt for the time I was about to spend, but didn't dwell on it.
I can't tell if it was the quality of the food, the insane amounts of wine, or just relief at relieving and finally returning home (after running through Sydney airport at full speed earlier that morning), but really, this was not strange smelling, difficult, or bizarre. Just a poo, a doo. A zen poo which I imagine was sucked out toward the cesspool but ended up diverted to the plane's jet and flung out over the Pacific, dangling in the air like a gorgeous brown cloud before gently sloping downward into the water and, after striking the water with an extremely satisfying slap, continued its descent past unimaginable and amazing forms of aquatic life who (swimming in their own shit already) paid it no mind but simply let it pass as effortlessly and easily as it had dropped from my butt, through the layers of ocean into the soft spiny arms of a deep sea crab who rocked it sweetly to sleep next to the giant red and white tube worms sucking on gas gushing from the sea floor.
It is with this poo-spereince I bid you and the doo. . . ado.
Pleasant plops, everyone.
Previously pooping pickled platypus parts,
Brian
3.18.2013
My little brown notebook has served me well on this trip to doo doo down under. Pooping has been for the most part enjoyable and when not that, revelatory.
Our last night in "Oz" was fun, we had free food and drinks all night with the crew and staff of the festival. Tostada with meat, veggies, and delicious sauce, these things called "Torpedoes" which somehow made cottage cheese delivious, lettuce wraps with many meats, venison, chicken wings. . . did I mention free drinks?
Upon waking up (my hotel door had been left open) once again in my clothes and looking into the calm warm eyes of Beowulf telling me "it's time to go home," I was glad I had already packed and noticed a red wine stain on my hat which I had just purchased the previous afternoon. After that it was cereal and milk on the place to Sydney with some fruit, then beef ragu on the way to LA.
This long backstory is to give you the context for my GREATEST airplane BM. I didn't wait in line for the bathroom as the TSA and Homeland Security apparently now forbids "gathering in small groups by the bathrooms." Luckily I had an excellent view of the bathroom from my seat and was able to watch a tattooed man, my friend Molly, a kid whose short hair had spots dyed into it, a lady with crazed eyes (his mother, I believe), and what appeared to be the Australian Liza Minelli use it before getting up to use it myself. An older gentleman stood behind me and I felt a twinge of guilt for the time I was about to spend, but didn't dwell on it.
I can't tell if it was the quality of the food, the insane amounts of wine, or just relief at relieving and finally returning home (after running through Sydney airport at full speed earlier that morning), but really, this was not strange smelling, difficult, or bizarre. Just a poo, a doo. A zen poo which I imagine was sucked out toward the cesspool but ended up diverted to the plane's jet and flung out over the Pacific, dangling in the air like a gorgeous brown cloud before gently sloping downward into the water and, after striking the water with an extremely satisfying slap, continued its descent past unimaginable and amazing forms of aquatic life who (swimming in their own shit already) paid it no mind but simply let it pass as effortlessly and easily as it had dropped from my butt, through the layers of ocean into the soft spiny arms of a deep sea crab who rocked it sweetly to sleep next to the giant red and white tube worms sucking on gas gushing from the sea floor.
It is with this poo-spereince I bid you and the doo. . . ado.
Pleasant plops, everyone.
Previously pooping pickled platypus parts,
Brian
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Good Old American Cat Shit
No offense to the fine continent of Australia, but I would like to bring you back to North America for a report. Not about my own feces, but about some feces after which I look, specifically the shits of my cat, Sofa. Sofa has for some months done a thing where while taking her little turd in a box, she panics, hops out of the box with some poo still dangling, and then drags her butt all over the floor in an effort to scrape it off. Things haven't been pinching off too good. She seems really stressed out and ashamed about it, but other than swear quietly and wearily clean it up (often first thing in the morning), I thought there wasn't much I could do.
Some friends mentioned that their dog had to have some build-up scraped out of her behind, something I hadn't known about as a possibility. My partner in cohabitation, wise in the ways of many things, pointed out that we could perhaps alleviate the strain on the cat from her inability to pinch off and our own aggravation at having to clean it up if we visited our local vet to consult on such matters. So we did. The vet said one of her anal sacs (which apply a carnivorous mammal's signature scent to their scat, same thing that skunks & stink badgers discharge) was backed up, had started to turn more solid, and was blocking things up. The vet, a man of thick fingers, could not personally get in there and clean things out, but some other unknown and kindly soul at the vet did just that, and after a freaked out 24 hours and three or four oddly shaped solid emissions, Sofa is now pooping just like any happy cat should.
So if you don't want your pet to wipe their crap all over the place, maybe you should get a friendly veterinary professional to clean them out.
- D
Some friends mentioned that their dog had to have some build-up scraped out of her behind, something I hadn't known about as a possibility. My partner in cohabitation, wise in the ways of many things, pointed out that we could perhaps alleviate the strain on the cat from her inability to pinch off and our own aggravation at having to clean it up if we visited our local vet to consult on such matters. So we did. The vet said one of her anal sacs (which apply a carnivorous mammal's signature scent to their scat, same thing that skunks & stink badgers discharge) was backed up, had started to turn more solid, and was blocking things up. The vet, a man of thick fingers, could not personally get in there and clean things out, but some other unknown and kindly soul at the vet did just that, and after a freaked out 24 hours and three or four oddly shaped solid emissions, Sofa is now pooping just like any happy cat should.
So if you don't want your pet to wipe their crap all over the place, maybe you should get a friendly veterinary professional to clean them out.
- D
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