Rembrandt Q. Einstein's Seventieth Annual List of the Top Ten Three Classical Albums of the Year!

One would assume that when preparing the packaging for an orchestral CD or DVD, one wouldn't use a shot where the conductor looks like he just stubbed his toe or is dealing with a severe case of constipation.

Anyway, why only three? Because only three of the classical CDs I bought this year were actually released between January 1 and right now. Believe me, there exists an extensive list of stuff I need want, but my sometimes-better-half continually bitches about these things called "bills." I told her I don't know anyone named Bill. Then she, in her righteous anger, chopped my head off. Then I woke up. It's very strange to be staring at your headless corpse from across the room. At least it was only a dream. For now. On to the list.

1. Osmo Vänskä, conductor, Ludwig van Beethoven, symphonies nos. 2 and 7. Harnoncourt's early 1990s take on these greatest of all musical works is still sitting on top of the mountain, but the climax of this series inches these fresh views on The Nine ever closer. Crisp, clear, muscular and, according to the experts who actually know something about musical theory, pretty damn exact when it comes to following the Maestro's markings for tempi and such. All I know is that this bloody fucking brilliant playing stirs the soul. It's so easy to screw up something this involved, this large and Vänskä erases any fears of that within the first measures.


2. Steven Osborne and Alban Gerhardt, Charles-Valentin Alkan and Frédéric Chopin, cello sonatas. Both of these composers, one legendary and one far less known than he should be, are synonymous with the piano. You'll be disabused of that notion after hearing these wonderful works. Don't get me wrong, the piano writing is stellar, but the interplay between the keys and the cello's lower registers in the propulsive, thick Alkan piece and the lighter one of Chopin shows that there was more than high-wire virtuosity to these gents. If there's a highlight in this brilliant disc, it has to be Alkan's weeping adagio.


3. Rachel Barton Pine, Ludwig van Beethoven and Franz Clement, violin concertos. If you've read anything on Beethoven, there are plenty of composers, dedicatees and musicians name-dropped within the text, violinist Franz Clement being one of them. This is the world-premiere recording of his work and if it isn't on the same level as Beethoven's -- impossible, really -- it's pretty goddamn good in its own right. Very lyrical, but not showboaty, certainly a beautiful work that goes far beyond being a mere historical curiosity. And the Beethoven ain't too shabby, either.


Gothic Voices, The Medieval Romantics. One other album that I already have but has long been out of print was happily rereleased this year, and if you dig vocal music, you should definitely pick it up. Don't let the fact that it consists of 14th and 15th century French tunes scare you. That first track is pure ear candy.

Handsome B. Wonderful's Thirty-Fifth Annual List of the Top Ten Rock Albums of the Year!

"Your favorite band does suck, dickhead."

Let me apologize in advance, for here's entry #14,744,536 of The Tunes Some Jerk On The Internets Liked A Whole Lot. At least I'm not a paid rock critic, which means I don't have a failed musician axe to grind, plus I actually paid cold, hard cash for my CDs. Yes, CDs. Fuck you bastards and your internetual downloadery.

As I stated last time out with much fanfare, i.e. used about 92% more words then necessary, this really isn't a top ten --or thirteen in the case of rock and/or roll because thirteen is evil, though not as evil as 666, but I haven't heard 666 new albums this year -- because tastes can, through internal alterations due to often external stimuli, change. Taking 2007 for example, Witchcraft would definitely move up a few notches and I would probably shuffle The White Stripes' Icky Thump to #2 since that's what I've probably spun the most save the Moonsorrow since then. En plus, I didn't pick up the new Deathspell Omega -- hey, The End Records, where's my fucking EP? I preordered that fucker, goddammit -- album until after I posted and I don't know how many times I've gotten my Cosmic Satan Groove on to that platter. My point is thus: #12 -- hell, #23 in a good year -- is probably just as stellar as #2; it's all about the mood, which can transmute at the drop of a wizard's hat or an unmentionable. Anyway, on to the list.

1. Opeth, Watershed. Hey, I already reviewed this, dammit. Just go buy the motherfucker unless you want me to laugh at you throw rotten vegetables at you send Chuck Norris send Dick Cheney after you. I'm far too lazy to write up a quality summary of a bad review of a great album, but here's a stab if you're far too lazy to click on the link: Yes and Deep Purple play death metal. Of course it's not all cookie monster bludgeoning, that's what makes these Swedes so bloody good, a brilliant usage of dynamics. Oh, and those heavy riffs.


2. Jill Tracy, The Bittersweet Constrain. Hey, I already reviewed this, too, dammit. Failure to buy this one warrants a visit from Kinda Sleazy, where she will expound on the neoconservative worldview in between breaks of her interminably long recital and displays of the fruits of her footwear shopping. Trust me, you'd much rather have Jill playing piano in your living room. Shorter: sultry, noirish tales of love and murder in the dark.


3. Esoteric, The Maniacal Vale. Sludgy, funeral doom at its finest, i.e. fifteen-minute pits of undulating, morbid despair and suffering where everything is tinted black and hopelessness is the coat you wear out into the cold, knowing full well that you're going to freeze to death, regardless of your routine, increasingly faithless protections against the inevitable. And there's two CDs worth of this stuff! Even crazy heshers have to be in a mood for this hypnotic hell, but luckily for you blokes, I usually am 23.5 hours a day, thus spend my American dollars wisely. Something misanthropic.


4. Revue Noir, Anthology Archive. Verily, shall there be anoythere revywedd albume on thy liste! An inviting, sexy tour de oh yeah of jazzy, ethereal cabaret songsmithing that makes you pine for the heady days of Weimar or any cosmopolitan, turn-of-the-century metropolis. And a companion that can belt 'em out like this. Garçon, check, please.


5. Enslaved, Vertebrae. A band that can certainly give the imperial Opeth a run for their darkly progressive money, these psychedelic black metal Vikings continue to expand their sonic palette on this, their tenth(!) full-length, leaving pretenders behind to rot in the sun upon the battlefield. Yes, there are atmospheric, cleanly sung Floydian elements in tracks like Clouds and The Watcher, but you'll always have visceral, monster riffs and Grutle Kjellson's gutteral vocals to remind you just who the fuck you're listening to.


6. Agalloch, The White. I reviewed this, too, way back when winter last had us in its icy grip. I don't know why I didn't get around to reviewing the rest on this list. "Laziness." Ahem, this EP is the furthest thing from the cold; a warm, sombre yet inviting work of neo-folk. So for those of you loathing this time of year, here's your chance to escape to the lands of languid sun and shadow. Unless you're into tepid, summery party music, in which case, have some Clear Channel fun instead.


7. The Raconteurs, Consolers of the Lonely. How to build a supergroup: find one -- not three or more, I'm looking at you, Audioslave, man, were you guys fucking boring boring boring -- famous dude/chick, pair him/her up with lesser known, yet skilled songwriters/players, then rock the fuck out. As good as Broken Boy Soldiers was, that was a haphazardly cobbled freshman term paper compared to the postgraduate rock work going on here. Like The White Stripes, lots of styles are thrown in the blender, and Brendan Benson's classic 70s singer-songwriter voice nicely compliments Jack White's rock god chops. A fun (Hold Up), emotional (You Don't Understand Me), rockin'(Salute Your Solution) record.


8. Moonsorrow, Tulimyrsky. The mighty Finns follow up last year's emotionally crushing masterpiece with the world's longest EP, featuring the 29-minute title track which can only be another primal, pagan black/death/folk prog epic, a cover of Metallica's classic For Whom the Bell Tolls (thankfully not a carbon copy, but done in their own unique style -- follow this idea, bands of the world!), a couple of rerecorded demo tracks and a cover of Merciless' Back to North, all in all totaling over an hour. These fuckers can simply do no wrong, assuming they don't switch to techno.

9. Les Fragments de la Nuit, Musique du Crépuscle. Equilibrium does it again, adding yet another masterful neo-classical ensemble to their label. Where do you find such sullen beauty so redolent of a soundtrack to your own interior film? Copious, yet skillfully woven, amounts of violin, cello and piano intermittently entwined by the human voice successfully marry foreboding cold and voluptuous warmth.


10. Gojira, The Way of All Flesh. If the weirdos in Faith No More decided to go all metal, all the time, and were serious-minded, dirty fucking hippie tree huggers from France instead of Bay Area loons, Gojira is what they might sound like. Flush with off-kilter, stop/start riffs, double-bass brutality and a melodicism alternating between lilting and jazz-inflected swing, Gojira masterfully document the emotional and physical fuckery that humanity is perpetrating on itself and the only home it knows. The songs are busy, progressive, but everything makes sense, just like recycling. So bang your head with much drunkenness, but when you're done, throw that empty can of Schlitz in one of those blue bags.


11. A Forest of Stars, The Corpse of Rebirth. Progressive, meandering, post-black metal alchemy best suited for moments, not of clarity, but of welcoming opacity, the journeys we make of the depths within. A scent of the flautist, of subterranean percussion layered with the vastness of a crushing riff carries the listener away from the mundane on the updrafts of male and female vocals; this is the soundscape of quite a faraway place. Of course, if you're one of those happy types, you won't like it one bit, but what the hell are you doing reading this blog anyway?


12. Amanda Palmer, Who Killed Amanda Palmer. The Dresden Dolls' frontwoman's first solo work isn't all that much different from her other band, and that's a good thing. Sure, skinsman Brian Viglione's monster chops are missed, but the sardonic textures remain and Miss Palmer can still write a good fucking song. So think a little bit less cabaret rock backbone and a bit more stringy introspection. I refuse to make any Twin Peaks jokes. Okay: why did the cherry pie cross the road? So it wouldn't get killed like Laura Palmer.

13. I said thirteen, didn't I. Some of the following I've heard in their entirety but haven't yet spent enough time with to make an emotionally-informed judgment, or I just didn't have enough loot to buy all the music that I wanted and felt that listing 30% of an album would be wrong, and if I'm against anything, it's wrong. So choosing between the thrash-is-back of Metallica's Death Magnetic, the precision, old-school brutality of Bloodbath's The Fathomless Mastery, the psychotic dark ambience of Darkspace's Darkspace III, the Viking death marches of Amon Amarth's Twilight of the Thunder God, the ethereal yet organic neo-classicism of Arcana's Raspail, the abyss of stark emptiness that is Nortt's Galgenfrist, the violent catharsis of Hate Eternal's Fury and Flames, the black-n-roll of Satyricon's The Age of Nero, the macabre return of Voltaire with Oooky Spooky, the even longer return of deathly tech/fusion-masters Cynic with Traced In Air and on and on and on is nigh impossible.

Yes, I'm cheating.

This, that and the other thing MMVIII

Post about the Browns? And soul-destroying stat lines like --


















-- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I'd prefer sticking to more lighthearted fare, if you don't mind.


















It's always nice to disconnect for a weekend knowing that when you do climb back in the tubes, you'll return to riotous humor:

As the clock winds down on the Bush administration, historians and critics are coming to grips with how little they know about some of the scandals which helped make the president one of the least popular leaders in modern U.S. history.

Imagine how hilariously heart stopping it'll be when they find out just how deep such blasphemy goes and, for the 974,335,418th time, the filthy commie hippies will have been proven right and for the 974,335,418th time, the filthy commie hippies will subsequently be ignored and then the military/industrial/entertainment/pragmatist complex's favorite game will repeat for the 974,335,419th time. I just hope the teevee robots have hair as cool as Rod the Helmet.
















Speaking of hilarity, how 'bout those little scamps over in the Middle East?

Israel continued pounding targets in the Gaza Strip with airstrikes on Monday and Hamas-backed militants fired a new volley of rockets at the Israeli towns of Ashkelon and Sderot as the current round of hostilities entered a third day.

Israel and Hamas, I'm impressed. No, seriously. All we did was clumsily invade a nation -- granted, in order for our best and brightest to make off with gobs of loot, thereby, along with other unregulated shenanigans, sending the economy into a delicious spiral so the best and brightest can make off with even more gobs of loot, so give us some credit -- whereas you two keep the visceral horror going every second of every day of every year because who knows what real or imagined slight, which can descend from above or manifest in front of you at any time, will send limbs 'a flyin' and blood 'a spatterin'. Kudos.

So, in the spirit of the holidays where all of creation is bound together in some clichéd crap, here's my message to you, brothers, sisters, amoebas:



Oh, and Philly? Thanks.

My love for you is like a truck, berserker!

Between trying to come up with a quality post-Xmas post to post, and all my other important work, I'm simply swamped. Hope everyone got what they wanted unless it conflicts with anything I'd want.

Have a good weekend, ladies and germs, and see you next week.

I hate Christmas

If you know me even a little, and my condolences if you do, you are well aware of my venomous disdain for Christmas. All holidays save Halloween, really, and even that with all those sugared rugrats can get annoying at times. That's why I like to keep all the lights off and let those bastards assume a serial killer lives here, biding his time through sharpening knives and painting clowns. Maybe it's a burnt out parenting thing; everyone either wants to see the mutants or they won't leave me alone. You with kids know exactly what I'm talking about. Or maybe the antisocialism (patriotism!) is simply increasing geometrically with each passing year. It's certainly not a novel sentiment --

"I see Captain Obvious has returned."

-- as I'm merely one of millions who engage in such officially frowned-upon aversion to banality, but for those of you that enjoy such pointless comings and goings draped in tinsel and turtlenecks splattered with egg nog, don't waste your valuable time nor mine trying to convince me, religiously or atheistically, as to why Xmas is numero primo supérieure and I won't do the same, except in reverse. Have you ever tried driving in reverse like a faux Steve McQueen in an over-the-top action movie? Me neither.













I imagine that once upon a time, many a lady and a few dudes would have liked a Steve McQueen for Xmas. I know my wife, one among many a lady and a few dudes, would like one of these:















I wouldn't mind his bank account and house in France, I can tell you that, the fucking bastard.

"Oh, that's fair. Just because he's talented and handsome and you're untalented and ugly is no reason to cast aspersions at the man."

True, as he's starred in many of my favorite movies.

Where was I?

"About to post a scantily-clad picture of what you want for Xmas, no doubt."















Well, yeah, but I'm also well aware of the impossibility of her ever appearing under my tree. I'm thinking something far more plausible: the elimination of Xmas itself. Which is proving more difficult than I had imagined, as my campaign to replace it with what it replaced isn't going too well. No one wants to subvert The Man even if just for a week? Quel dilemme.

A new tack; let's try The Reason For The Season®.














Everyone loves Santa Claus, right? Especially if it's Lightly Painted®, all jolly and drunken as he passes out cheap Chinese trinkets soon lost in a crumpled avalanche of glossy wrapping paper strewn at the feet of wingnut relatives, the ribbons hastily torn off by miniature candy cane fiends as they, in unquiet desperation, try keeping them on their heads while sprinting around the house like coked-up Larry Kudlows chasing after the last hooker but fail miserably because the glue has worn off.

Vomit.

On the flip side, no one loves monsters, and that's where the krampus enters the picture. Whether you were good or bad, it doesn't matter to this vile beast. And don't concern yourself about the receipt of lumpy coal either. You're getting a good birching.














Okay, given our cynical, postmodern age, perhaps a monster is too melodramatic. Those folks don't look too scared, do they. Plus there's that inconvenient notion about monsters not being real.

"Yeah, there's that."

Au contraire, mon esprit, unholy creatures do exist.

Wait, I simply want Xmas to go away, not set in motion a wave of unfettered cannibalism.

Back to the drawing board.

Hmm.

Do I get to choose who gets eaten?

Toxic Garbage Island

"That sounds about right."

Oh, poor brain, you're still out of it, huh.

"Sorry, I couldn't be of more help, slacker."

That's fine, you bastard.

"Hey, I've given you suggestions. Unka Dick, Rickie the Homophobe."

Yawn. Like the Democrats would willingly implicate themselves in their eight year Enabling Act.

"Oh, Godwin?"

As for Hawaiian Shirt Guy, double yawn. Like the Democrats would willingly reward their supporters in lieu of placating extremists, all in the name of bipartisanship which, to my knowledge, is officially outlawed in the RNC bylaws except when out of power.

"You're an angry man. At least you aren't posting any bad verse."

Go Cheney yourself.



Because that's pretty much what Xmas In Murka® is.

Blogger® Post Construction Template: Slacker, 3rd Edition

1. Commence with pleasantries

Greetings and salutations, fellow travelers,

2. State reason for your extended absence

please excuse my extended absence as I was [sicker than a dog/copulating with the spouse/watching eXtenze infomercials] which completely threw a wrench into my plans to [read/further expand world domination goals/stare into space] so I decided to [lay on the couch all weekend and watch Millennium/dabble in Satanism/practice paper football accuracy].

3. State how you will rectify the situation

In the future, I promise to [do nothing/log on and engage in deep research for a hard-hitting political post/log on and praise your greatness]. [insert deity here] bless you all.

I'm still feeling a bit under the weather, as opposed to over it, which would be kind of cool because then you wouldn't have cloud cover and the artificial light of human civilization blocking stargazing, if one is so astronomically-inclined. Anyway, it's a special moment here chez Randal as I'd like to present to you gentle creatures the first ever guest blogger at this woefully unimpressive site, so put your hands together and pray, no, clap, for Captain Obvious!


















Thank you, Randal!
Pie is good!
Ice cream is delicious!
The Browns suck!
Up, up and off to some other location!

The World's Shortest Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, the end.

A Conspiracy

I could use a good conspiracy as I've got zip.

"Still?"

You guys want to band together and take down The Man?

"It will ultimately depend on citizens, and whether they will remain silent in the face of a crime that's been committed in plain view," Turley concluded. "It is equally immoral to stand silent in the face of a war crime and do nothing, and that is what the citizens are doing. There's this gigantic yawn."

Out of sight for us, out of mind for suits. Pant or double-breasted.

Comfortably dumb

Childish scribblers, let me summarize --
no, I'm not here to proselytize,
but sprechen sie truth
and that's the honest to Satan's tooth!

Barack Hussein Obama
-- oh, save us from the drama! --
gave the bird, 'bout it, no maybe,
to the Super Magical Jesus Baby

by playing with the DNA
of his own and Rod the Helmet.
Crazy, ridiculous, mad, you say?
Here's a real scandal you won't soon forget:

one mutated stem cell sandwich,
a failure? No! A winner? Yes, victory!
Vilsack, you Monsanto bitch!
good job brewing zombie mobs of insanity

refusin' to disclose what they're hidin':
Hussein and Rod, twin fathers of Osama bin Laden!


















Talking hairpieces, how 'bout that Kennedy chick?
Makes you wanna flic your Bic
and set fire to your toupee, teevee,
the house burnin' far as the eye can see!

What's the scourge of the nation?
Terrorism? Masturbation? No! The worst prestidigitation,
plastic gossip for your amusement:
diabolical, insidious infotainment!

You're either with the networks or agin' us
in this, Our Great Country!
Sorry, just tripped over the Stumbling Colossus --
being eaten by American nobility?

"Yeah, but what can you do or say?"
Oh, narcissistic fairy in the sky,
bringing freedom to Iraq was child's play.
So instead of Afghanistan, let us numb up Dubai!

So dance your happy dance, and when you're through
don't move a muscle, gonna throw my shoe.

AAARRRGGGHHH, etc.

Spend all your time alternating between watching the good local sports team get infected with the stupid virus of the bad local sports team, reading and domestic bliss --













"My friends, I know all about 'domestic bliss.'"

--and you miss the vital news of the day:














"Al-Qaeda tasty! Grrr!"













"It's not like crimes were committed, heh heh."

And most importantly, this:














I've got nothing to add to this historical piece of comedy, so I'll just echo what Frederick said. In the midst of sharpening the angry a bit further, I realized it's the birthday of The Man --



--and then I felt a little bit better because I finally had something worthwhile to post about.

Really officer, she forced me to eat her, er, virus!

Belyeve I cannot that thou hadst the audacité of hope to re-infect me, and aftyr Bubs and thee made outsyde insyde with that tubbe of I Shant Belyeve It's Not Butter! Hast thou been forgettynge alreadye of my slaying of the Dragonne of Dordogne for thee and the lusty half-assed blog proposall? Sob, sob, sob. Verily, by the grayce of Ower Lordd and Right Kynge, I shall proceede nonethelessère.

[Okay, I'm pretty drunk right now -- a toast to you, Beach Bum, and the rest of us assholes who had a shit week and even you fuckers who had a good week, so I want all you fuckers to take a step back and appreciate the fact that I cleaned up quite a few typos above and below, that means a lot, especially above with that made-up Anglo-Norman-English fuckery. Wait, A-N uses a bunch of Zs and Ks I think. Just be happy because it's harder than you think when you're all fucked up.]

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

I couldn't believe my eyes. Surreptitiously, I tried to establish, without giving it away, if anyone else had seen what I had. For ten years I had been looking for that box. What looked like an ordinary cardboard box to most contained something most precious. Only by the small golden "P" was I able to identify what I was looking at. (Freida Bee)

How the box got here, or how I happened to be on this bus with it now--these questions were immaterial. I just had to get that box. The bus slowed to a stop, so I steadied myself. Just as I was about to make a grab for the box, however, it moved. Someone else was picking it up to take it away! I had to stop her! (Dguzman)

What? This couldn't be happening--to get this close and watch some quick-footed little dwarf just up and snatch it away from me...no! I got up and just as I did the sweaty hillbilly in front of me stood up and stepped into the aisle. Moving like a bad mime imitating a man in a box he extended his arms and stretched, looking up at the ceiling as he did so. The dwarf with the box--I couldn't be sure if it was a man or a woman, but something about her seemed feminine--slipped out the front door and off the bus. I took a deep breath and slumped back down into my seat. (Bubs)

I sized up the chances of getting bodily fluids on me for a few seconds before I decided to risk it. I needed to get that box back.

"Sir, do you think I could get past you?" I ventured, standing stiffly, hoping to move near the front door to catch a quick exit at the next stop.

"Ah's gettin' off a' tha nex' stop," he said as he wiped his brow and placed his hand squarely on my shoulder.

"Well, fuck," I thought, getting more and more irritated each second his residual touch seemed to burn itself permanently into the fabric of my sweater. "I need to ask the bus driver about the next stop, really quickly. Do you mind?"

I could see he was challenged. His size alone made the bus an unfortunate place for him to endure, but I was concerned I would not be able to catch up with the thief who stole my box this time.

"Ah know these parts real good-like an' kin tells you anythin' you wants ta know."

"Sir, I really just need to be ready to step off the bus as soon as it stops," I said irritatedly now, as the bus jerked to a stop in its typically abrupt manner. I fell forward smack dab into his chest, catching a whiff of a strange smell that simultaneously made me gag and feel groggy only moments before I felt my head spinning as he caught my fall, grinning knowingly. (Freida Bee)

A maelstrom, an undulating circle of dwarven moustaches twirling faster and faster, was the last thing I saw before I passed out. Or at least that's what I seemed to recall upon waking up -- and it had to be the truth for I hadn't taken a hit of acid since the Great Acid Scare of '78, which later became a major made-for-television event starring Christopher Plummer, Fred Gwynne and a young and vivacious Halle Berry.

Upon regaining my sense of direction, I directed my eyes directly around the room. I saw neither the ordinary cardboard box with the golden "P," the miniature thief nor Halle Berry.

What I did see in the wretched gloom that would have otherwise been black as pitch if not for the faintest light whose source I couldn't locate despite using the entire repertoire of my faculties was a series of immense, framed images on the wall whose dull sepia tones were so reminiscent of a daguerreotype yet were obviously painted -- painted with violent, erratic strokes as if applied, not by a brush, but with a quivering tentacle.

I also saw that I was lying on my back on something large, flat and comfortably plush. And that I was tied up. And that I had been stripped of all my clothes.

"Admiring the Order's past presidents, are we?"

Half-expecting -- for when can one fully expect anything when faced with a frightening yet alluring oddity such as the situation I found myself in -- that broken voice spewing forth its hideous patois, deeply stirred were my loins when I heard instead the sultry sound of a woman. The nauseating stench of greasy, sweaty hillbilly was nowhere to be sniffed either, in its place a lovely, yet understated perfume reminiscent of wildflowers on the steppe.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, so sorry dearest," said the sultry voice from an unseen mouth in the darkness engulfing everything save the taper of a single finger and its radioactively neon nail drawing blood from my bare chest.

I blinked. And there she was, her unnaturally green eyes piercing me, her breath rolling over my mouth as she moved to speak, causing me to shiver despite its warmth; whether from fear or arousal, I was afraid to know.

"You really must save every last drop of strength." Her lips brushed against mine as she languorously formed each syllable, moving away as quickly as they came. A kiss from this strange woman, for that is what I now wanted, along with an answer as to why, would have to wait.

"For the wild, cosmic sex orgy?," I nervously deadpanned in a feeble attempt to avoid solving my unspoken query.

"You watch too many made-for-television movies. If you had watched too many made-for-cable movies, my sweet, sweet morsel, you'd know that you're destined for something much greater." (Randal Graves)

Some of you have been tagged 73 times already -- and I'm trying to miss those who've recently been; you're welcome -- but for the lucky few listed below, here's a 74th. Muahahahahaha, etc.

Madam Z, dusty, JNRR (because you need something to do when you get back home), LBR (here's your chance to Cthulhu-ize L.A.), and Freida of the Bees (you didn't think I'd pass up a chance for re-re-infection, did you?)

Image from here.

Reverie

Tried writing last night while listening to some Robert Schumann. That remains a deceased end -- the writing, not Robert, as he's been a corpse for a good while already -- like everything else, so here's a couple of legitimately talented dudes, Heinrich Neuhaus playing parts one and two of Schumann's Kreisleriana.

Dear Mr. Miss Fantasy

Like I want to discuss fantasies with a dude.

"That's what Mrs. Graves says."

Hey, that's only with me. And surprisingly, this isn't that kind of fantasy.

"You're right, it is surprising."

Normally, I'm not a fan of burning things, though kindling is okay. And despite the overt misogyny displayed up top, I can actually cook and generally don't burn things on or in the oven, even if the result is nowhere near Michelin quality.














"I bet some of it tastes like tire."

But when it comes to blue books, pass that gas can.












"Hey you kids, get off my lawn outta my library!"

Of course, the sexiest part is when I have all you millennials too fucking spaced out to carry not even one pen or pencil even though you're ostensibly college students but I wonder about that because you cannot tell me what the name of your class is or who's your professor despite the fact that classes ended last week but lo and behold, listen to that hark! you've got a dozen credit cards and iPods and iPhones and Blackberries and Borg earpieces and wires linking all of them with the subcutaneous entryways of your central nervous system topped by Luke Skywalker haircuts and naughty punk pixie bobs clean up the smouldering, ashen mess.

Lysol is over there. Oh no, please, let me get it, for I want to pass by the television which is tuned to CNN yet thankfully muted -- praise Cthulhu -- so I can watch some talking hairpiece engage in pointless blabbery with The Esteemed and Honorable 87-star General Colin Powell, A Very Serious and Credentialed Person just look at those Medals none of which are for Typing, and wonder why that freaky gaff of a motherfucker, along with the rest of the Traveling Brigade of Freaks, Gaffs, Motherfuckers and Associated Blockheads, will never see a nanosecond behind bars for being war criminals but some lower class pothead will.

Oh, and $14 billion is far too much, but $700 billion plus another trillion for overseas romantic adventuring, graft and fully-vetted and approved chicanery is just peachy, raspberry and mango. If only the Army were unionized.

And this shit? I hope every single one of you who gets a fuzzy feeling in your special area at the thought of laws like this dies a horribly painful and agonizingly slow death by a minion of nature such as perhaps getting a leg ripped off by a bear but you've seen enough bad made-for-TV movies -- but I repeat myself -- to know you have to stop the blood flow and you do but you're stranded out in the middle of nowhere and after getting sick and tired of the taste of frozen earth and the occasional worm you are barely able to dig out of the ground, you resort to eating yourself alive, finally expiring from the fright of having bitten off a chunk of your own flesh and then some poor kid from a nearby reservation steals the money in your wallet that was destined for a high-class call girl after your impassioned pro-family speech on the House floor.














Come on black death, we need you to put the fear of the Flying Spaghetti Monster back in the world. Start with all the politicians, the Nazi stooges on the right -- yeah, I said Nazi, fuck you, Nazi Nazi Nazi Gestapo achtung sieben lieben fascist assholes -- and their spineless candyass pussy cunting enablers on the cough cough left. Then you can move on to the rest of us.

One more sexalicious thing: HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!

Hmm.

"Don't feel better?"

No. Got any booze?

What a delicious wrap, but with sports instead of chicken or hummus

Frankie may have gone to Noo Yawk, and the Metropolitans may have landed themselves a Putz -- imagine how annoying it must have been growing up with that as your name -- but we got Joe the Everyman!

"Smith."

Same thing.

"And he throws side-arm, no doubt reminding you of Bernie Kosar, the quarterback the last time the Browns didn't suck acres of smelly ass, which will certainly help be the salve to the painfully venomous sting of the inevitability of The Fucking Yankees signing A.J. Burnett."

I hate you. Now, onto to the best part of the wrap. Yum!











This is what I see on my teevee.












This is what the other 29 teams see.

Speaking of things that look like death, can you believe what's happening to Skeletor, a man who has single-handedly protected our borders from hordes of Mexcans, flocks of Canucks, gaggles of geese, Osama bin Laden, Osama bin Laden's driver, Osama bin Laden's tailor, Ayatollah Khomeini, Dr. Doom, Hitler's brain in a jar, those aliens from Independence Day and Roland Emmerich? I know what my gut says, but let's ask a real gut for its opinion:
















"I think somebody spit in this."

Empty as a really empty thing

For you fellow creative types, whether skilled or unskilled like your host, you're no doubt intimately familiar with that numbing sensation that comes long after having temporarily halted whatever project you were working on and now that you've waited too many days, weeks, months, the word stuck doesn't do anyone justice, certainly not the blindfolded lady with the exposed rack. Sorry, John. Look! Even more boobies! Boobies! Boobies!

Yes, the above paragraph was a flimsy excuse to put that picture of a scantily-clad naked Greek babe over there. You should know by now just how much of a predictably predictable monolith of duh I can be.

Anyway, that sensational numb has crawled its way into my blog the way a Lovecraftian beast from beyond the stars would shamble out of Old Whatley's decrepit, rotting abode, over the rolling hills creeping hither and yon, through the gnarled, ancient backwoods concealing evidence of the darkest arts and, after gnawing on the flesh-and-blood world and getting its fill, into the computer itself to murder the creative impulse through some heretofore unknown electrochemical cosmic, yet invisible, death ray.
















"It's the hair, isn't it. Jealous?"

I was actually leading towards something else but now I can't remember what it was, though I can say with much confidence that it wasn't political. Nevertheless, I will admit to getting a chuckle out of Rod the Helmet -- best porn name ever? It's close, but it's no Schnapps Monticello -- getting so much Dem grief while Bush --

"Really? You're going to write political gobbledygook?"

Fine, sports, it is.

Just perhaps, Yankees manager Joe Girardi suggests, Sabathia is warming up to New York, after all.

I'm sure the $140 million over six years $160 million over seven years had nothing to do with it. Fuck The Fucking Yankees, the Dick Cheney of Murkan sporting life. Oh, and Apu's favorite squadron, good luck with K-Fed. And I mean that facetiously and sincerely, simultaneously.

More incoherent ruminations on a bunch of other crap should probably go here, but I can't come up with anything thanks to frogtastic brain drain and other, arcane, offlinery, so I'll let you all get back to joining my sometimes-better-half in blaming me for everything.

Oh, and don't ask to buy one of these --























-- no, not that kind, you didn't see anything, this kind --
















-- or I'll cut your fucking head off, carve all the flesh away and dance a minuet around the skull while screaming at the top of my lungs. And then I'll sell your seat, motherf***er.