Welcome burritoeater

disrupsean — Tue, 28 Jun 2005 21:44:18 GMT

Compañeros:

Please join me in saluting the triumphant birth of burritoeater.com, the bible of San Francisco taqueria customers, and its fearless and masterful use of the Moustache Fruit Iconography:

http://burritoeater.com

This joyous news fills my heart with hope and I know you will all welcome the burritoeater associates to our happy family.

Sean
Secretarío de Salud

posted in moustache fruit - 0 replies

My Christmas List.....

Dillo — Tue, 21 Dec 2004 19:52:43 GMT

Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas is some moustache fruit.

I've been good all year.

Love, Armadillo

posted in moustache fruit - 0 replies

moustache fruit awareness

disrupsean — Fri, 23 Jan 2004 10:11:09 GMT

Moustache fruit exist.

posted in moustache fruit - 3 replies

longing

sugarbunni — Sun, 15 Aug 2004 05:53:37 GMT

I miss the days of sitting around the campfire telling tales of the mustache fruit. Alas.

posted in moustache fruit - 0 replies

NYTimes on Moustache Fruit!

disrupsean — Thu, 29 Jan 2004 11:01:57 GMT

"A bag of something edible in the shape of mustaches was passed around." Fifth paragraph up from the bottom of page one:

http://www.nytimes.com/2004/01/29/national/29BART.html?pagewanted=print&position=

(Text of the article below)

Last Car. Geek Party. Spread the Word.
By DEAN E. MURPHY

SAN FRANCISCO, Jan. 28 —The crowd gathered rather discreetly at the designated subway station, 16th and Mission, at the designated time, 5:30 on Friday afternoon, waiting for the designated train, the eastbound for Richmond.

Someone walked by with a piece of paper, an invitation: "The last car on the subway is the party car."

The subway train pulled up, and a man named Marc with a floppy blond Mohawk and a crimson sport coat let out a welcoming call from the platform. He carried an e-flat euphonium under his arm and had a habit of making noise, any noise. He was the nonleader of this nonevent: a "spontaneous, digitally organized" party on BART, as the Bay Area Rapid Transit is known.

BART's tape-recorded voice announced, "Ten-car train for Richmond," setting off a giggling dash toward car No. 10.

The party car was up and running —for dozens of Web freaks, hackers, geeks and others like them —a time and place to meet, mingle, act up, wind down, express themselves, dangle from poles, rage against the machine or do none of that, anonymously, anarchically, all in the cramped, swaying confines of a subway car hurtling underneath this stridently counterculture city, in the direction of Berkeley, where it would be abruptly unplugged.

A clown named Romance the Love Pirate brought a rubber chicken. Two men in trench coats smirked near the back. One heavyset man with pale skin and knit cap came dressed in white. He said he worked in a cubicle and did not get out much. What did he do for a living? "I sell drugs," he said.

They were joined by three skateboarders and a man wearing black leather pants and a Houston Police Department shirt. That man hung upside down from the handrails.

It was a mutinous commute, simultaneously pointed and pointless.

"This is our space," said Earl Stirling, an unemployed computer engineer, explaining the party's philosophical underpinnings. "We own public transportation."

The BART party was not original (subway parties in New York and London have been around awhile), but it had a compelling San Francisco twist: anonymous, virtual invitations to the entire world.

"Join a bunch of hackers and geeks," one of the Web invitations said. "Spread the word," another said. "Bring people, visuals, music. If you don't make the first train, we're also on the second, and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that."

As the car rumbled toward the San Francisco Bay, someone with an X-acto knife cut the Jet Blue advertisements into strips, struggling not to slice anyone's wrists with each lurch of the train. The dissected placards were mounted overhead, giving the car the vague feel of a cheap discoth èque.

A man with long sideburns unraveled a tube of green cellophane, which he used to cover a row of lights with packing tape. Suddenly it was Christmastime.

A bag of something edible in the shape of mustaches was passed around. An assortment of small paper cups with Champagne drifted by. When asked, the man hanging from the ceiling volunteered a few thoughts about acts of "urban reclamation" and "space hijacking."

"People need to find more interesting ways to have fun," he said.

The man with the mustaches, who identified himself as a graduate student in computer science, seemed irritated when questioned. But his idea: The point of the party was that there was no point.

"There doesn't have to be a reason," he said. "We're reclaiming public space and showing people that they can make things happen. It is not evolved from corporations."

That was the first clue for the reporter on board, who would soon appreciate what it must feel like to be in the employ of Bechtel or Halliburton and wander into an anti-globalization demonstration. Because as much as this party car was about impulsive revelry in a place open to anyone, there was some anger, nastiness and anxiousness about this person from outside the virtual clique.

A round man named Michael with a shock of tomato-colored hair sneered and pointed his digital camera at the reporter. Later, he posted the photographs on the Internet, with commentary. "Fight the real enemy," it read above one photo of the reporter. "Damn the man," it said on another.

When the reporter approached Marc, the party's nonleader who was described by others on the car as both a chef and hacker, Marc asked to see proof of employment. He looked disdainfully when handed a New York Times business card, refusing to take it. Marc then declined to speak further.

After about half an hour, the party took a general turn for the worse when two transit police officers boarded the last car in Berkeley.

It was there, with everyone required to assemble on the platform, that Romance the clown joined the reporter on the party's island of misfits. The police were threatening her with a citation for boisterous behavior. More than a few commuters simply wanted to read a book after a long week at work, the officers explained, suggesting that she just shut up.

But Romance did not, for the longest of times. Most of the geeks scattered as she endeavored to remain in character, even when her rubber chicken slipped from her belt and an officer ordered, "Don't drop your chicken, ma'am."

Once back on the train, with the party crashed and the last car again as quiet as the first, Marc sought out the reporter. He let it be known that the reporter had been an unwelcome partygoer and the events of the evening did not belong in any newspaper, especially one interested in profits, he said.

"You are stealing our art," Marc said in what became a long lecture about corporate journalism. "You are commercializing our culture."

The spontaneous party car had become unfun for those who could not command its spontaneity. When the reporter got back to his desk that night, the phone rang. It was Hallie, the caller said. Remember? We met on the party car?

Hallie had called to pitch a story. The island of misfits was growing.

The next day on the Web, center stage for activist clowns and angry hackers alike, Romance wrote of her disappointment.

"If Shakespeare was correct in his belief that we are all players, then we are all outlaws, too," she said on tribe.net. "I refuse to be afraid. Let silliness prevail. Children are watching. We must set an example of ridiculousness and play."

posted in moustache fruit - 1 reply

a humble devotee speaks

Mari — Tue, 27 Jan 2004 01:13:07 GMT

Of the I of the Moustache...

One may ask - "Surely mustache fruit exist, but what does mustache fruit taste like?"

When you have transcended the fruitness of the fruit, the mustacheness of the mustache, the inextricable intertwining of these by the nature of their being ~ & the very flavor and experience they impart to those who would merge their own essence with that of the fruit...

When the flavor, the substance and the appearance of the mustache have become as one & yet as nothing ~
& from this void spring into being all over again by their very essence~

& you have transcended all time and all form, and you and the mustache fruit have merged and become infinitely your selves all over again & yet of one essence.

It is then you will realize that nothing has changed, & yet everything is in a constant state of change.

& particularly if you've eaten the mustache fruit ~ throw up

Such is the infinite reality of the mustache fruit.
In the presence of the fruit, all is ever beginning & ending to realize that most pure form; we can no longer question any essence, but within the mustache find, as within every now - the infinite present, a fleeting & yet unchanging glimmer of the infinite.

posted in moustache fruit - 3 replies

moustache fruit's topics - tribe.net

Welcome burritoeater

My Christmas List.....

moustache fruit awareness

longing

NYTimes on Moustache Fruit!

a humble devotee speaks