By Travis Fristoe, April 2008
Heretic Pride, 4AD Records
While a shocking number of my friends wrangle over Bob Dylan, a more relevant subject — John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats – gets overlooked. Or, like Fugazi, ignored as some sort of separate, unattainable mountaintop. Not that Darnielle seems to care. He’s been too busy touring and releasing recording after recording for the past 15 or so years.
by E.M. Squires
In July, Satellite got you up close and personal with the folks at Indigo Greenstore in Gainesville and their mission to bring sustainable, earth-friendly building and cleaning supplies to the average consumer. This month we feature another hometown visionary expanding our access to the recycled and organic stuff we need for sustainable lifestyles: Mosswood Farm Store in Micanopy. Read the rest of this entry »
by JB Roe
When it comes to this time of the year, and horror movies in general, there’s a certain accepted gamut of films that usually get regular viewings by those looking for a quick scare. But, for the avid film lover looking for more than the usual fare, there are literally hundreds of curious horror gems that are neglected by casual movie viewers. Sadly, The Satellite editors weren’t too keen on a 74-page article, so I’ve narrow down my list to a top five frighteningly overlooked horror films that are guaranteed to give you generous doses of Halloween terror and dread. Find them for rent at Video Rodeo.
survived by Kent Russel
I volunteered to write a story on the haunted places in Gainesville because I believe in ghosts. There was no pretense either journalistic or specter-elucidative. I just wanted an excuse to try and scare myself.)
by E.M. Squires
A hometown visionary store expanding our access to the recycled and organic stuff we need for sustainable lifestyles: Mosswood Farm Store in Micanopy.
By Rocco Castoro
“Cześć zdejmij majtki.” That means, “Hello my beautiful rose,” in Polish. Or at least I though it did. It really means, “Hi, take off your panties.”
You see, I moved from Gainesville about half a year ago and the editor of this publication e-mailed me a couple weeks back asking if I’d contribute something about my transition from the maternally comfortable loins of Gainesville to an overpriced stretch of concrete and dog shit better known as Brooklyn.
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You may not know Patrick Hughes, but you know people like him. He’s what they call a party storyteller.
You know the type: the guy whose drunken friends pester him endlessly until, with everyone at the party encircled and silent, he tells the gathered audience his stories of shame.
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