A portrait of the catharsis as a middle-aged man

Space Casino junkies before, Space Casino junkies after, but where's the valet parking for the discerning headbanger, Comic Sans, where, I ask?

The Boys from Sweden parlayed their mood music for mopes into conjuring a joyful sadness. If only they'd fold the electro-noodling in the spaces twixt and bet on guitar runs à la Tonight's Decision or the new platter, they'd be always ace.

Katatonia @ House of Blues: Buildings, Day and Then the Shade, My Twin, Burn the Remembrance, Soil's Song, The Racing Heart, Lethean, The Longest Year, July, Dead Letters, Forsaker.

Dear Mr. Mike, didja notice the crowd, polite nodding for the smoking jacket rock, raging pits and fists of fury for the death man's hand? Take the hint.

Opeth @ ditto: The Devil's Orchard, Ghost of Perdition, White Cluster, Hope Leaves, You Suffer, Atonement, Deliverance, Hessian Peel, Häxprocess, Demon of the Fall, Harlequin Forest, Blackwater Park.

Ebb tide

Was unofficially saving this, the riffyard where I lifted this dump's subtitle, for the final whatever, but whatever. Kinda struck me the other house on haunted hill, mind and matter meeting over reruns and free beer I forgot about: I'm tired, out of shape, dead & bloated minus the dead but the bloat's a boat not far in the harbor, a place to go in the quest for firing negative reactors because doing so saves lives, or so we're told. Easier said when the Surround Silence isn't 'round tick tock.

Should be a bit o' yay honey since the oh-fer's now a one-fer, but you know, so? Brain's still a tumescent sloth happy to pine box space out, too, see above. Leave summer blockbuster clawing for the undead and characters from Poe.

Hell ain't just them but sing song, yingless yang -- hey, I should use that -- Newton's cradle stuck on static. Okay, five minute rule: sucks. Fine line between yabba dabba doo. A wonder anything's scrawled with this screaming quiet.

But hey, that's on you. J'accuse, accuser. You all through two of 'em, base ten. Seems this is how it's gonna be until we're worm's-meat. Yippee.

Maybe it's got everything to do with me.

Fuck the pen! because you can die by the sword!

Jeff, welcome back. 
-- Satan

SHE WAS IS A BLOODY DISGRACE

BLOTTO AND STUCK. UNLESS YOU'RE GIVING ME BOOZE, FUCK OFF.
THIS IS THE WORST DRUNK POST EVER. DAMN CAPSLOCKDOWN.

Black sabbatical

Bored with bitching 'bout the same fucking rot.
Back when there are some new tunes out, or not.

Swing and a miss

Suburbia hole-up tea chug, Stooges on repeat, half oblivion to the FA Cup on the tube & the usual too, the page dirtied by shit verse #752 = ¡Viva la Revolución!

Because I'm easily amused and that trumps one more try yet again at a half of a half-decent post

Commie plots and cardinal virtues

The title always seems to be more beguiling than the post, but at least I finally nabbed that rarest of birds. No, seriously, that's not a ketchup-smudged lens.

Passive aggression

It's taken decades, but I think I'm beginning to get why some, many, most, who knows, prefer clinical cold to that gummiest of monkey wrenches one finds jamming up the circulatory warp and weft so often that of course it was built that way, it's just that I really hate math. Where's that confounded bridge?

Family, religion, friendship. These are the three demons you must slay if you wish to succeed in blah.

I'm sure I've played this a dozen times last week, so here's a dozen and one butchering the baker's count for making candles von too tree ha ha ha make sure they're weird. On second synapse, monkey's tired of dancing. Always tired.

Ergo, stop hanging around and go frolic in the street.

Curse ye and thy ninth-level spell of disjunctive unmotivation!

Rock and/or roll, the only* constant 'fore the mortal coil shuffle.



*yes, yes, the banality of most everything else.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to ignore it, does it still talk to itself?

Blah blah blah.

Clap your hands say fuck yeah that's over

Sitting on the can early [read: early] Friday morning feverishly watching the brine bubble up out of pore after pore, my body's tubing behaving as if I had just downed a fifth and a box of prunes, c'est-à-dire, the Compleat St. Patrick's Day, but without all that pesky socialization.

To celebrate my victory, some select pieces of delicious ear candy. To celebrate yours, that I didn't go into even more detail, feel free to suggest others.

Riddle me this, Adam West

Being around others is exhausting.
Being by yourself is draining.
Solve for x.

CRACK. 



Nod.

This show's overdue for a reboot.

Fuck off and die

Spending spring break at home, the scribbling of my stupid paper and watching stupid footie sandwiching the stupid ham of stupid darkthroning. Sorry, ladies, this hunk of burning excitement's unavailable, though my wife wishes I wasn't. Zing. Thank you thank you, enjoy the veal, because if you saw the kitchen, you'd know it was your last meal. Badoomboom.

Bonus!



Fenriz freaky channels Sean Harris and Bruce Dickinson. 

Dead Early like 1982 early, Cirith Ungol, Diamond Head, Manilla Road. Ain't black, ain't crust, is Heavy Fucking Metal, all the influences us near-, at-, over-forty-somethings scarfed with greasy gusto, The Ones You Left Behind leaving a heaping plate of end rhymes like 22, Acacia Avenue was whoring its rhythm out to every Norwegian hesher.

Six tracks of classic filtered through the warped skulls of Ted and Gylve, but oh so special mention must be made of thirteen-plus minute closer Leave No Cross Unturned, King Diamond Satanic magic carpeting over boundless epic, dynamic speed, and Oxford commafuls of tempos shifting pitch. What the fuck just happened, Darkthrone just fucking happened. If only I could bellow joy like Kim Bendix Petersen and only you could hear.