A COMPELLING AND FACTUALLY INACCURATE GUIDE TO WHO WE ARE: 

Insurgent:  Aaron

RESIDENCE:  BEHIND JAY'S SALOON, IN THE UNCOMFORTABLE PAUSES IN CONVERSATIONS.  BORN IN MICHIGAN, GREW UP HARD.

PROFILE:

Aaron is truly singular. This is not always a good thing. Sometimes he says things so subversive and subtle in their brilliance that his words sneak under your skin and slither about. If you have ever had a protracted struggle with a parasite, you might get what I mean. But if you are strong and unafraid of getting your shit f'd with in gentle but vicious ways...then Aaron might just be the most charming alien to have crashlanded into the dingy bathroom of your ramshackle heart.  He is the most like flotsam of all of us.  Happy, happy flotsam.  Weirding out all the other flotsam: "So......Floating....."

Aaron drew us all to Capitol Hill and then into this entrepreneurial nightmare/wet dream.  He is fond of sudden and baffling experiments: a month without bread, 365 straight days of work.  Aaron gets a great deal accomplished for being someone who would likely grin and joke and be just as content locked in a dungeon full of rats, filling their heads with his long-legged conundrums.  He has been making Michigan proud since 2003.  Before that, Michigan deliberately mispronounced his name and tried to avoid making eye-contact.

Aaron was once thought to be the Dark Matter of the Insurgency, but for now we will refer to him as the "Jim Henson of the Insurgency," though not for any particular reason.

Insurgent:  Justin

RESIDENCE:  SUBJECT TO MUCH DISPUTE, SEATTLE OR PORTLAND, LIKE SCHRÖDINGER'S CAT.  BORN IN CINCINNATI, NO STATE.  PRETENDS SOMETIMES TO BE DEAD IN THE BOX.  SOMETIMES YOU CAN HEAR HIM PURR, DEMANDING PASTRIES OR DEATH.

PROFILE:

Justin has the sort of musculature that inspires young fascists still formulating their message. He sees things that others overlook and then tells us about them and makes us laugh till milk comes out our noses even though we haven't had milk for several years.....if we had to be stranded on a desert island inside one man....it would be him.

Justin has the skincolor of a jellyfish, but speaks like a squeaky Cicero, if Cicero was only interested in pretzels and oral pleasures and following the zigzagging vein of absurdity back to its winking heart.  Justin has crazy veins in his legs too.  It is possible that this makes him a superhero. 

Justin is good to sit on a porch with.  He is an anthropologist, but rarely wears shorts.  Justin's heart has crenellations by now. But it has a big keep and always has a massive shank of soy-cow spinning over a spit in his hearth.  Justin has just recently left us for another city.  We are currently advertising for replacement Justins, but so far none of them have passed the wiffle-ball acid test. 

He was our inside man, our jittery sniper and our master of disguises.   Now he is the Insurgency's scout in the field.  We are uncertain who the enemy is, but Justin is no doubt feeling his way towards them even now.  Using his cilia.

Insurgent:  KYLE 

RESIDENCE:  IN THE VORTEX.  RIGHT OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW.  BORN IN MISSOURI, SOMEWHERE SMALL LIKE BUCKETSVILLE.

PROFILE:

Kyle stands like a statue and moves like a well greased griffon.  His eyes are armies and if you say something stupid or fatuous and he flashes you SCORN, it is like those armies have just finished slaughtering all the universe's angels and you are the last one left, trying to defend yourself with a halberd made of custard.

Kyle doesn't make the rain, but it is unlikely that it could rain without his permission.  Kyle has played one on one with Latrell Sprewell.  Watching Kyle skyhook over you eight times in a row while muttering about how "everything has a hollow sound in the simulacrum," might lead to some coach-choking breakdowns in your future too. 

Kyle contains untold irascible oceans, but his humor is notoriously dry.  Kyle is constantly surprising us with things from his past:  spilling crepes all over Sartre, that stint working as a car counter for the Peruvian Ministry of Transportation.  You do not want to bet him anything beyond a light snack.  Kyle can hit a golf ball farther than the average medieval peasant ever traveled from his village during a lifetime.   Kyle probably has truth on his side; Kyle might dispute that.  He is the dark matter of the insurgency.

If Kyle glides, then aaron gallops, and justin clambers like a monkey trying to snatch your cookies.

Insurgent:  MATT

RESIDENCE: SOLE RESIDENT AND KING OF HIS OWN ABSURDISTAN.  BORN IN VIRGINIA, REBORN EVERY MORNING INTO ANOTHER TECHNICOLOR HELL.

PROFILE:

The Artaud of the T-shirt insurgency,  Matt enjoys chasing long swallows of Evan Williams with taurine laden energy drinks.  He is apt to fasten random acts of affection and violence upon passersby.  At parties where he is in attendance, the first priority must always be to hide the machete.    

Matt's abnormal sleeping habits allow him to occupy a terrain not available to those with normal circadian rhythms, and from this territory he gesticulates all wild and shamanlike until his nembutal reality begins to act as a corrosive to all socio-cultural pretensions. 

Matt is perhaps the only stocky, shaven-headed, long-goateed man who can look and act very natural in a skirt.  He tips the insurgency's ideology over into a quivering undecidability that makes the megaliths upon which the establishment rests tremble and crack. 

Think of a brash Heraclitus with an unhealthy death wish and you're approaching the drawbridge that leads to the palace of Matt.