Willy and the Poor Boys

And don't call them Shirley.

"What a clever post title. You're a genius."

Here, put these on. I promise I won't turn it up too loud.

'tis tricky business reviewing an album, this one more than most. We begin as always with the interplay of chords and harmonies; words and melodies; and from the complex web of experience and personal emotional archetypes that can be spoken to with success by select third party creators alone, memories freshly born. All of these attempt to thread this difficult alchemy sans fin into the Great Work of simple pleasure. As for Alice In Chains the band, those of you, like me, that are hardcore fans -- the soundtrack cliché? I like to think of music as the fuel to the mental processes, and I give a fuck about this album's potential capacity to burn -- know the post-Layne historical score. Of the rest of you, 90% don't care, and the other 10% can surf the tubes yourselves. Rehashing old news? What do I look like, print media? The fact that this album ever got made is grounds for celebration. The fact that this album is a motherfucker is grounds for summoning the gods themselves for one crazy bacchanalia, Olympian wheelbarrows full of the finest wines and filet mignon and chips and dips and hot pantsed chicks and partying like it's 2011 before Quetzalcoatl smokes us into oblivion, unless we do it to ourselves first, go, homo sapiens, go.

"Hope, a new beginning/time, time to start living/like just before we died" croons a volume full of All Secrets Known -- and there's a new one or two -- a deliciously somber, teasingly atonal riff slow motion, two steps back in pitching, pitchy sadness, a wonderfully simple compositional legerdemain wielded against the elements, the clouded heavens that sputter and tumble as if stricken by the black sun, yet manage to strive through. A wickedly atmospheric track that immediately conjures up all kinds of long-occulted impressions seen, for the first time, in a new light. Now that's how you introduce an album.

Then a quintessentially grimy Alice hook fumbles along, drunken tendons and sinews Check My Brain, propped up by harmonizing puppets, fuck, this is catchy as flypaper hell, a real craw sticker. Oh, California's alright, apparently. What, no mention of Ohio? Fuck you, Seattle. Fine, all is forgiven, 'cause this album is positively saturated in exquisite vocal harmonies gleefully spattered like self-sacrifice on the studio wall.

A thick swipe of Facelift metal blitzing, Last of My Kind is the first presentation of William DuVall as primary vocalist, a lower register, if less creepy, Layne Staley, and relax, punters. I've seen the dude live twice with Jerry and he brings it, as does the sickly incredible Your Decision, mellow rainy day mood sliced from the veins of Brother, Castaway, No Excuses, Siddhartha, flush with melodic flourishes hither and yon whose crisp, soothing deception bubbles and crashes around stony sentinels that warn of painful downhill whitewater. As much as I worship at the altar of the power chord, when there's an acoustic Alice stunner like this, I must admit, my faith wavers ever so slightly.

Spiraling rabbit hole sludge, rubberband riffs pull, stretch the limit of A Looking In View, so grab that jar of marmalade, Miss Liddell, it ain't empty this time. Some wags have bickered about the meandering coda. Do you dig noodling or no? I do, so gorge and crash. Afterward, When the Sun Rose Again, her gentle sorrow revitalizes, her grey dawn permeates flesh with acoustic, Sap-py ease, tabla grazing, too. I'm glad I don't have an editor, he/she/it would make me rewrite this entire review, but I'm so fucking happy that this album is exceeding even my expectations, akin to the Browns winning three whole games this season, I wouldn't even notice the professionally scathing memo's magical transformation into a makeshift basketball. Three!

Next, Acid Bubble schizophrenia, autumnal intrigue, a textual reading recalling Grind, musically, too, then the 'I can't wait to hear this fucker live' sledgehammer-from-Hades heavy riff -- Sunshine and flip the tempos -- grafted on before the haunted opener reprises, echoes the band's stylistic branches once more under a tasty Jerry solo -- surprisingly, one of the album's very few personal showcases -- and outro rip into Lesson Learned, a chugging, appealing excursion to that damned river by a side trip through a tribe of chemicals. Aren't I clever.

Take Her Out takes an askew, languid yet toe-tapping stab at mutant power pop, something that wouldn't have sounded out of place on the debut, tracked by a Private Hell and her subdued, stealthy construction, the earthbound, dreamy stepchild of Down In A Hole and, lastly, the title track, ladies and gentlemen, Sir Elton John on piano. Yes, it's about Layne Staley, yes, it's a beautiful song. Sparse, surprisingly short, given past extended lamentations such as Frogs and 31/32, but an unqualified success.

Look, righteous skeptics, from a songwriting standpoint, this album wasn't going to suck, and that ain't the label's press release talking. Really, Jerry Cantrell hasn't forgotten how to pen a tune in the years since Alice's golden age. The brilliant, criminally ignored Degradation Trip anyone, or didn't you buy it, fair-weather chump? And Mike Inez and Sean Kinney haven't forgotten how to be a now-dexterous, now-thunderous rhythm section. Granting the issue of whether tune quality matches past imprints on an pure aesthetic level -- supply your own diluting/concentrating turmoil -- it was always going to be the drama surrounding the new guy, and how far up or down the ladder you stand, how much baggage you're toting under the bridge. Would he fit in? Should he even be allowed to fit in how dare you sully misty watercolor memories, what about Layne you greedy, heartless bastards, the band should stay dead and buried, yabba dabba doo, like watching a talking hairpiece marathon on cable, my head hurts. So, is it, in fact, a Great Work?

The darkness remains tangible, the mourning bitter, but there's a soft flicker this time, a light accepting of the dark, not solely on the exorcising of one's demons, but a less curled-up and smacked-inward youthful anger and despair (slow tempos dominate, belie the panoramic crawl through this crazy little thing called life), a more assured air. I can't help but conjure up, of all things, the café scene from Before Sunset, Jesse to Celine, "When I was younger, I was healthier, but I was racked with insecurity. Now I'm older, my problems are deeper, but I'm more equipped to handle them." Since the heroin has presumably vanished, I'm sure the problems aren't as life-threatening, yet the bleak sublime has still lost a hue or two.

Is part of that flickering tint, both sonically and lyrically, the absence of Layne's exceptional, eerie voice? He was undeniably, pardon the use of a far-overused word, unique. So yes, you notice; an impossibility not to. But there's a variant consciousness at work that has been glimpsed before, if you chose to pay attention. Lucky for us, 'the new guy' does fit in -- the trademark vocal harmonies remain amazingly seamless -- thus giving the overcast misery corner of the rock and/or roll world a serious effort from a serious band. I suppose a couple of tracks still need a smidgen more growth than the rest to comfortably settle within the shadows of my skull (truly, all are, at worst, excellent), and some more cynical than I, a frightening notion, might conclude that such a harmonic flood is to masque the newbie -- Dirt, I say! This is organic -- but the idea of a half-assed cash-in from these not-exactly-prolific dudes is as laughable as me campaigning against hot pants. Yeah, I mentioned them twice. We've all got our raging Achilles, some of us even have dozens. Hackwork is gleefully absent, and thanks to the internets, I've been listening to this nearly non-stop for a week until my yesterday exchange of cash for plastic goods so I could finally headphone n' darkness the fucker. My informed -- I bought Facelift the day it came out, on 8-track, whipper snappers -- conclusion?

Yeah, it's Great.

Ban, Right Guard, Old Spice, pick one so you don't stink up the joint

With your filthy words, that is. Yes, it's that time of year again and whether or not, as an employee of a book depository -- it's likely one of my "unofficial" tasks, like how a soldier when not on active duty isn't theoretically supposed to go through the town on a bloody machine gun rampage -- I am going rogue and will shout from the rooftops, but not today because it's windy and rainy as fuck, I'm not that much of a rebel, after all, that it's Banned Book Week.

In case you were wondering, yes, that photo is an accurate representation of how we roll in Library Land. You on the other hand, behave yourself. Go read some Glenn Beck.

"Real men don't cry."

Better stick with the Bible?

"Rape, pillaging, incest, murder."

The phone book?

"Listings for adult services."

Don't read at all?

"Amen."

Flash! Aa-ah! He's a miracle!

"Know what would be a miracle?"

"This blog not sucking Vultan's ass?"

Ladies and germs, it's that time again.

There was no respite; the vivid, violent dreams that ruthlessly tormented her slumber had now relentlessly stretched the abyss, to envelop her during her day. In the grey pregnant with growing shadow, whose fathomless shade of rough, irritating November was swallowing the worn hardwood, the corner of the rumpled bed that lay unseen under the sheet disheveled like her hair; was creeping as a malicious vine over the cold spaces onto her warm flesh, strangling the last tears from her weeping mind, she sat waiting, alone.

The maw of the sleeping, unseen pit, its voluptuous breath black as tar burrowing beneath her salty skin -- how she wanted to scratch and tear, praying that the poisonous vapor would leave and never return -- drove her away from the edge, nightshirt breathlessly clinging to her contours, her back haphazardly propped up against the grey headboard. All color had been drained from the room. The rich, scarlet bedspread, the ceiling -- her eyes darted at a most feeble sound. Cornered by the thundering echo, she had forgotten how intoxicating, how relaxing, the shades of the walls were, freshly painted mere weeks ago. It wasn't far enough, never far enough. She heard it again. Louder. Closer.

Brushing dark tresses out of her eyes, a strand caught on a fingernail, she pulled her hand violently away. Things weren't any clearer, only grey. The wisp of hair quickly vanished in the billowing gloom. Out the window, the fiercest scrutiny lain upon the frigid vista, no orange radiance sliced through bruised, purpled clouds; only unending fields of grey. Morning hadn't come. And she heard it again. Louder. Closer.

Managing to find an untapped well of resolve, she carefully ambled to the edge of the bed, her knees stopped as if blocked by an invisible force, and looked down upon the tired planks. Frightened like a child half-recalling the tangible horrors of old Poe, through troubled lips she weakly chuckled to no one. The floorboards lay motionless. The only heartbeat was her own. The nearly leafless boughs, carefully textured with frost, stretched in repose. There was no gust of deep autumn air, no flutter of a wing, slam of a car door in the parking lot that sat behind her property. No sound at all, an unearthly stillness.

Shaking off the sparks of frayed synapses, she stood up, pacing around the room dormant as a mausoleum of stone and dust. Not even the shuffle of her feet, the ruffling of the nightshirt against her nudity, made a noise. The shadows that danced in a Dionysian frenzy when the wind howled against the panes, elegantly waltzed when she caressed them, now shambled as the living dead, animated by -- she jerked, spinning her body around. Nothing. The house that would always settle in the evening hour, as predictable as the hands of a freshly wound clock, had failed to speak a word. She sat back down on the corner of the bed and, taking a determined breath, stared in silence.

She was no longer waiting, no longer alone.

Drunk blogging isn't as sexy as it sounds

For quality control purposes, I like to limit my posting to one a day and this is the part where I'd normally type my imaginary brain's imaginary lines of grade Z snark such as "back to the drawing board" which is doubly funny because as I admitted in print (electrons?) the other day, I cannot draw. Yes, the title is in fact not misleading because I'm actually a few shades to the shade 'cause it's just me home tonight I think the kids are at grandmas and my sometimes-better-half is probably searching for a rich and handsome man of which both things I am not and after working for hours upon hours at the library today I stupidly didn't recharge the don't-set-humans-on-fire portion of my cerebral kotex -- now that's funny -- when I exited the wheelie bus -- sorry, no tales for thee, fairest lords and ladies, verily I shalt trieth hardereth nexteth timeth keeps on slippingeth slippingeth into the futureth -- but worked some more on my paper but then I said fuck it and am on I don't know which glass of not cheap but not expensive white wine, why does that always sound higher class than it is, years of subconscious societal conditioning I guess I'm not high class trust me. I did this once before, boozing and blogging, not just boozing, and it was a big chart-topping (is that one word usually?) hit I'm not looking for the link find it yourself if you want and I decided to start working on hot flash fiction don't worry it's pretty coherent at least in comparison to this and one thing led to another and I ended up naked while surfing for porn. Just kidding about the first part. Now I have to find a suitable photo as always and correct all the typos, surprisingly not many because I'm not THAT blitzed and I'm still pretty good at typing while fucked up but I'm not picking that famous shot of the thong-ed chick passed out because I'm not a chick and don't wear any underwear. Just kidding, of course I wear thongs. I'm sure I'll wake up tomorrow and go what the fuck were you thinking you doofus, and all the other doofi will laugh but then I laugh at their laughing and since my powers of laughter are laughably bigger, laughably like ha ha ha oh fuck when you throw up that cheap useless defense mechanism in the face of imminent death like by acid-blooded aliens, zombies or Congress, then I will emerge victorious from the battle crown royale but I'm not wearing tights. A cape, maybe, but only if it comes with a matching scepter so I can clock fuckers on the skull. Okay so I lied about the picture but at least I didn't use the morans one so leave your barbs and leers I can take it because I love you all except all of you, that's like a fucking paradox wheeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Gangsta Nation

As painful as it was not having the cute nurse babe on the way to her regular shift at Deaconess this morning, I could live a short while without ogling some eye candy. If you want to call lack of always classy objectification from afar living. No, the nurse isn't Sarah Chalke, but she carries a strong resemblance which makes me happy as a pig in slop.













What I couldn't, and still can't, live with, is the revelation of a new terror on the streets of downtown Cleveland. Oh sure, I've seen the graffiti on the plastic or steel seat backs, E 66th Bitchaz, Kinsman Cunt, West Siiiide Muthafuckas, and elaborate, artistic and quite illegible variations of gang script that appeared more Arabic than any known form of the Latin alphabet. Perhaps it was that, after all. Keep on plotting in the free world, sleeper cell!

No, what terrified me, and still does, was this, in thick, black magic marker:

Final Fantasy XI

No, I am not kidding, so look out Crips, watch your back Bloods, there's a new crew ready to fuck your shit up with spiky hair, oversized boobs, phallic weaponry and microchips full of teenage angst. You ready, tough guy?


















I apologize for the Mario and Luigi shot. I couldn't find any gangsta Final Fantasy jpgs. One last curious sight was this van, or at least a copy of it:














Aside from the Chicago, IL on the door, and professional bowler Billy Oatman himself, this van, nearly a weekly staple of my Saturday walking route from bus to library, was once again parked near Reserve Square. One quibble though, good sir:

"You can make money or make excuses, but you can't make both."

Obviously, you haven't watched a moment of C-Span at any time during the last quarter of a century. Happy bowling!

Creative sanctions

Gasp! I hate when things are unsanctioned by The Man. I'm sure there's an Eiger Sanction joke in there, but I can't find it, and if I did, I doubt it would be as much of a non-stop knee-slapper as Escape From Alcatraz.

Sigh. I just hope no one finds out about my secret underground nuclear facility. Don't worry, I'm not looking to blow anyone up, I merely want some atomic zombies to do my bidding, 'cause I think that'd be cool.








Frightening, aren't they?

Anyone want to write my flash fiction this weekend?

Remember, atomic zombies. Just sayin'.

Naked In Front of the Computer

Naked in front of the coffee table, actually. Since you're no doubt curious as to the intimate details of such erotic -- and legal -- nudity (I was in my own home, after all) let me whisper precisely what I mean, sweet things.

Sadly, it didn't involve fucking of any sort, sadly.

"You typed sadly twice."

Sadly, I had *gasp* left my black notebook on my desk at work. Doesn't get much more naked than that, mes amis. You have to understand, my entire rut physical existence consists of being either at home with my lunatic family, at the library with insane patrons or on the way to and from the library with madcap pedestrians and transportationistas, some of whom smell like pumpkin guts n' smokes and this black notebook is in close proximity 100% of the time. Linus had his blanket, John Wayne Gacy had his rotting corpses, I have my black notebook chock full of every poorly-written line of the recent past, uncounted story ideas that do nothing but decay on the page, Goya-esque doodles if Goya was talentless (I can't draw worth a lick). In short, the spilt blood of the self.

Anyway, in the middle of a Simpsons rerun, a terrible line pops in my head and, my hand passing by a pristine stack of loose leaf --

"The parchment of the unwashed masses? Elitist fuck."

Dude, it's a 99 cent notebook. Where the pages can't get lost. Gee, you're dumb.

"Then so are you."



Can't talk now. I have to go clock myself on the noodle.

Hemlock

Apéritif ices this loser’s game
whose gruesome sonata recapitulates,
accommodates variations, ashen, shared.
Alone, under pretense of urgent pretending,
I wipe condensation of repeating lines
upon lines, yours and mine dancing in place,
gazing out-of-time -- time forsaken,
time after time --
line?
These, our best lines.
Scrape and scrape tongue off tongue
whose rough grime leaves behind nothing
but pouring out of our throat
fleshy hallucination
recycling wasted time’s most tantalizing lines.
Fright is staged, licking flame
fools no alarm, nor moan of marionettes
hanging back in glassy-eyed climax.
Tender theatre yells back
ablaze! ablaze!
while we stick in tinder box paste,
ringing gruel is all I taste in your mouth ablaze.
Hands creep,
fingers curl,
pluck, hurl
epiphanies on our bluing lips.
Pick up and put down,
set ‘em up and knock ‘em domino,
ten thousand days standing tall, fall
once moistened by Erinyes’ kiss --
don’t be ascending, be
wet and wailing in sweetest woe.
Swallow glances half-emptied of blood, half-full of bile:
pay and swear, strike the match and forget
consummating with heaven and hell.
Left in limbo to watch features fizzle with dead amazement
under beacons bubbling; bubble, glass, bubble,
our trouble is doubled,
this turmoil that toils so low
caressed by amusement, caught in promising undertow
whose promises recite their lines and, for a time, please
until left checked by pocket conspiracies.

Flash! Aa-ah! Savior of the universe!

"If only I could save this blog."

"Not even you have that power, Flash."

Once again, The Great Escape from having to come up with something. Anyway, I, my face red with embarrassment at being caught red-handed at playing in the card catalog spectacular craptaculism, will try and stem the tide crimson with the blood of failed posts from spiraling ever downward into further depths of banal, probably scarlet or maroon, internets mediocrity.

Nicole’s cataracts have worsened, so I knew she was going to be running late because she had to relearn her way around. She surprised me at the restaurant when she showed up beside our usual table and asked me, ‘wow, what just happened?’

"What do you mean, what just happened? Ever since you went nearly blind as a bat and that third eye sprouted out of your forehead like some compensatory Lovecraftian monstrosity and tell me that didn't make us all puke, that addled mind of yours"-- and here he pointed and shook with the force of a million parents angry and disappointed that their child decided to major in English or, egads, Philosophy -- "so riddled with laughter at our puzzlement at the supernatural jigsaw in which you claim to have expertise from decades of absorbing B-movies which are actually subversive documentaries of the world 'they' don't want you to know about yes we heard you the first billion times, constantly grumbling in your ear so much garbled lunacy that you finally cracked, so what do you decide, you decide that you must grab the nearest flamethrower you can find which means hotwiring my car and jetting to the hardware store to purchase an acetylene torch with the stolen credit card you pilfered from a nattily-clad passer-by (probably a banker) that you subsequently jury-rig to Godzilla-like proportion, the acetylene torch, not the credit card nor the banker but who knows with you, flying back here and burning to a crisp the unholy zombie horde that only your"-- more pointing and shaking, with gusto -- "extra creepy special fuckin' eye can apparently see through this Linda Blair pea soup fog of the Baskervilles cliché, but no goddamn sir Jesus on cheddar, you didn't just burn to a crisp that unholy zombie horde but my fucking restaurant, too, my fucking restaurant full of Rice-A-Roni, the only thing that can placate their insatiable need for human brains, so guess fucking what, Ellen Fucking Ripley, we're all going to die horribly in the next few moments, that's what just happened!"

Naughty by nature

Cleveland. Our teams may be minor, but our corruption is big league.

Now that's marketing. C'mon, you gotta admit that that's my best idea since the last book proposal I had, The Marxist Poetics of 'Yo Mama So Fat.'

[more crap]

The above is a common placeholder when typing up the post that I sometimes mentally compose on the bus because by the time I get to work, having been distracted by a weird, ambient sound, a strip joint bus in front of a church, the rock and/or roll eviscerating my hearing even further and, last but not least, shambling to clock in on the Orwellian computing machine lest I not officially be here -- just check the security camera for someone flipping the bird, doofi -- the tenets of arcane wisdom that I had planned to impart upon thee have decided of their own volition to merrily float in detached bliss amidst the low-hanging neon purple and orange ether as I wander aimless throughout the black, foreboding landscape of my skull cavity.

What's with the Crowes' version of disco inferno below, you inquire, especially since I just posted some of their stuff not too long ago and it's not as if there aren't fourteen billion other bands --

"Like the Beatles!"

Shut your piehole. Oh, ?. Don't want to neglect proper punctuation and have the top secret paramilitary assassination squads of academia on my ass. Anyway, the diabolical summoner of that putrid devil Kissinger unwittingly gave me in a comment the ending for the next as-yet-unwritten edition of Serial Flasher Friday Fiction and despite the blasphemy against Cthulhu's green earth, one must reward good work, plus I'm loving this fucking album so too bad for you. A word: don't cross Popeye Doyle tonight, he's in a bad mood. If only I had a hat like him, I'd be 47.8% cooler.



BYOgoldlaméhotpants. Now let's dance.

"You loathe dancing."













Not with babes in hot pants, stupid.

I'm (not) the decider

"Can I use The Google to see when Palin was the governor of Guam?"

Actually having an idea more than five minutes before I post something is pretty much a rarity and today, I had two of them. Of course, ready never presages quality and that was certainly the case here and forevermore, but you shouldn't misunderestimate the extreme lunacy of said situation.

Imagine a Cleveland sports team winning a championship.
Imagine a Congress that told their owners to fuck off.
Imagine a zombie who preferred rice pilaf to human brains.
Imagine a man who never used the internets to surf for porn.
Imagine a patron who spoke quietly on his/her cell.
Imagine that same patron speaking with clarity to me.
Imagine Sisyphus rolling that rock down the other side.
Imagine Hitler going back in time to save his own brain.
Imagine a stop to that overrated song ever being played again.

"You know the rabid Beatles' nuts will come out of the woodwork frothing at the mouth and soiling their linen, raging to smite you silly."

Stones were better. Bring it on.

"Going to post either of those *chortle* brilliant ideas?"

Nope.

"At least you didn't post any of your bad verse."

Exactly. No one chokes on their own vomit and some doofi (classier than doofuses, don't you think?) will still end up commenting on this substanceless slice of tripe pie. Randal 1, the rest of you chumps 0.

I say chumps lovingly.

[I'll find a better title later]

Gonna buy me a Corvette.
Gonna buy me a custom ride.
Get de big screen HD teevee.
Get de bedroom full o' bong high.
I gonna buy me a lizard.
Always can I smoke this yard.
Gonna get me the warehouse
With the alligator guard.












Sure, doesn't look too frisky, but neither would you with all of that fine second hand smoke wafting about your nostrils. I actually met Weird Al once as a wee lad at some typically-Midwestern-excuse-to-stuff-yourself fest in downtown Cleveland. He signed my cassette copy of In 3-D, quite a thrilling experience.

"Good job remaining vaguely topical via a week-old news item and an album that came out during the halcyon days of the Reagan death squads."

Believe me, such journalistic excellence doesn't come without nearly a minute of hard work, two if you count picture fishing in Lake Google. Next time, I'll be sure to write a 38th generation take on The Kanye West Automated Diss Machine. Or maybe something on politics. Did you hear? Obama is -- gasp -- an assembly line politician! Teabaggers happily slit their own throats in the temple of their very exploiters! Children use curse words! This blog sucks!

A roller coaster ride on a car that only goes ten feet into the atmosphere is about as thrilling as le lit chez Randal.

I was going to add something else, and sadly I don't remember what it was, but trust me, it was comical.

Oh! Some chick all hot n' bothered with her texting nearly knocked herself over colliding with the electro anti-klepto gate on the way in this morning.

Good times.

Remember gang, keep fucking that chicken.

Finders keepers

They say genius is the ability to hold two contradictory thoughts in your mind at the same time. What do you call a man who holds two contradictory personalities?

The Devil.

Know what's the work of The Devil? That show getting canceled.

"Do you have a point or just more whining?"

What about two contradictory emotions? A pseudo-schizophrenic? One who suffers extreme insomnia? Kids, never fall asleep -- TO THE EXTREME XTREME! Is Xtreme behavior still a hit with today's youth or are they cultivating more of a detached, jaded retina? Screw your contact lenses, there's nothing wrong with spectacles, or better yet, monocles, as you can use them to fool people into thinking you're smart and smart is way sexier long-term than hunkability, which inevitable fades into couch potatoing so why not get started bright and early, right ladies? I suppose I'm happy to see you, but that's only the remote. Anyway, I find that the following keeper elicits hyena-esque guffaws amidst the bloody chunks.














I just hope the fatal confrontation was poorly dubbed.

Speaking of sleeping, dreamland, darkness, all that good n' cliché stuff us depressed writerly hacks swear by, Sweden's finest, Katatonia -- them or Opeth, flip a bloody coin, just no death matching, I'd hate for these gents to be out of commission thus putting the kibosh on a fucking US tour you lazy socialized health care bums -- will be kindly gracing us with another disc of unfettered melancholy come apropos cold and grim November. I'm so excited, I nearly smiled. In the meantime --

"Gee, didn't see this coming."

It's been seven days, listen to the unwashed masses clamoring for riffs.

"You don't consider yourself part of the unwashed masses?"

I took a shower this morning. In the meantime, I find this moody keeper from an album near and dear to my circulatory system to be beautiful sadness.

Flash! Aa-ah! King of the impossible!

"The idea of this blog being good is what's impossible."

"A site as merciless as Ming himself."

Via Cormac via Freida Bee via dolorosa. Don't scoff, you'd be feeling some Semper Dowland, Semper Dolens nailing through your flesh all the way to the marrow -- watch out for infection -- after reading this tripe, natch, noob. Leet lute!

Stop me before I date again because g-string fantasies habitually stripped away by g-rated routine only leave me with an x-rated mouth and catching Zs alone. Hey, masturbating is hard work. Didja catch that, wink, nudge? I could go for a hot fudge sundae, except for the fact I've no lady to lick the whipped cream off of. It's my flash fiction and I'll end a sentence with a preposition if I want to, end a sentence with a preposition if I want to, end a sentence with a preposition if I want to, you would end a sentence with a preposition too if not having mindblowing, orgasmically earthquaking sex happened to you.

What, you thought there'd be more? What do I look like, a guy who's not married? I've got weeds to pull and lawns to mow and garbage to drag to the curb and laundry to fold but don't worry, I always wash my hands after getting splashed by dirty garbage water so those whites will stay their brightest.

The End?

The Frightener

I had planned on skipping work to attend the local 9/12 Taxes Are For Socialist Reds/Killing An Arab/White Power/Mispeled Postur/Make Baby Beck Cry rally*, but the Merry Old Land of Nod remained naught but a faraway illusion last night and now my skull, full of icky consciousness, is screaming in silent terror, all thanks to a certain person who shall remain nameless for her own protection not from my inaudible yet righteous scowling clear across the continent which, though considered quite formidable in most circles, is mere fluffy bunny child's play compared to this black pit of blasphemous horror, but from this black pit of blasphemous horror, so utterly blasphemous and horrible, it should be said twice, which it was, nearly thrice, as it were, so good on me:

Every time I see Kissinger I think of what I heard Mami VanDoren say about him. Supposedly he wore stinky and holey socks to bed. The mental image of Kissinger naked with foul socks is enough to make me wish you had a picture of Chimpy and his pet goat.

Wow. What did I ever do to you?
















"Two hundred an hour for two girls is the most I'll pay. What's that? Oh no, that is acceptable. I've got a pocket full of napalm and I'm not afraid to use it."**

*Did you see how I posted this at 9:12 on 9/12? Solidarność!***
**Pretend you can hear my bad Kissinger accent. Merci.***
***Let these foreign words be a warning, patriots! Ever vigilant!

Remember the good times

Now that's my kind of 9/11, understated, classy.

Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here*

In the midway of this our televised life,
I found me on a gloomy couch, astray
Gone from the path direct: and e'en to tell
It were no easy pizza roll, how savage wild
That September, how robust and rough its games,
Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bowls of chips not far from my picks.













"You lie!"

They're right here. Sheesh.

AFC East: New England. Why? The All-American All-Pro of Professional Allness is back from horizontally bopping supermodels -- knee injury, right -- the Dolphins are a nothing but a mirage from a genie's bad acid trip, the Jets, even with Snarlin' Bart and the 385th attempt at Broadway Joe II (oh, Kenny O, how close you were), are a work in progress and Let's Go Buffalo are a submediocre collection of has-beens, never-will-bes, role players and The Narcissist.

AFC North: All Pittsburgh has to do is keep Roethlisberger upright -- but please stop calling him Big Ben, a misguided token of esteem, unless you want to ignore his perennially, um, bad, bad decision percentage. Look, Jim Plunkett won two rings as well, just sayin' -- and they'll cruise on the back of their monster defense. Baltimore is Pittsburgh, Jr. (where else but here can you get such stellar insights?), the Bengals are processed chicken with the part of the Colonel played by My Arm's In A Slingin' Carson Palmer. There's a sick rumor making the rounds that Cleveland has an NFL team, but I've seen no proof.

AFC South: Indianapolis, because they have the best quarterback in the division, by far. Watch former THE Ohio State University receiver Anthony Gonzalez blow up. Sure, losing Stampy will hurt, but talk about regressing to the mean; no way the Titans go 13-3 again, too much has to go Jesusy. Jacksonville got blistered by injuries last year (by December, their o-line was gum, rubber bands and MacGyver's mullet) and that won't happen again (noticing a theme? Just playing the odds) and poor, poor Houston, destined to win 7-9 games when they could win 10 or 11 if they played in the shithole known as the NFC West.

AFC West: San Diego in a laughter-filled laugher. The other three teams should be glad the NFL doesn't have relegation.

NFC East: The Giants because they still have the most talented group of 53 in the NFC. The Dog Whisperer will mostly be a non-factor, but even with Jim Johnson's retirement to the cold, cold earth, they'll still blitz like motherfuckers. Sure, Plastic Surgery's Team is playmaking at running back, but they always choke in December on both sides of the ball. Always (at least since 1997, which was an entire century ago). Washington, good job with Five Year Plan no. 3.

NFC North: Green Bay because Aaron Rodgers will throw fewer picks than Favre. If only the Norsemen had the current Packer QB, then I'd be saying enjoy South Beach in February. The Bears? Sure, they have a shot if the receivers can 1)hang on the to ball and 2)put up with Cutler's whining. The Lions are the Lions, but rest easy, Detroit, at least they're not the Browns.

NFC South: Every year one of these fuckers goes from worst to first, but I say this year, dammit, New Orleans shoots that trend [brain note: "they did finish last, you moron."] [ed. note: oops] in the skull with a twelve gauge and finally plays stomach-churning defense (it's been the vomit-up-blood variety, so this is an upgrade) to help out their serial killing offense. Who doesn't want to see Drew Brees flinging it 40 times a game? Atlanta isn't a fluke, but look for Michael Turner to suffer The Curse of 370. Did you see the Panthers' defense down the stretch last year? That's their big problem, not the annual Delhomme meltdown. As for Tampa, when does Freeman start, week seven, eight?

NFC West: Seattle, because some sacrificial lamb has to take the division. Transmuting into such a gooey pile of torn ligaments and cracked bones won't happen again, but neither will the Cardinals' otherworldly run. Talk about an extraterrestrial flukeworm. They gave up four hundred twenty-six points and I'm not seeing LT time traveling to town. En plus, Kurt 3.0 is due for his semiannual deprogramming. The Niners and Rams suck until contrary evidence comes to light.

AFC playoff seeds: San Diego, New England, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, Baltimore and, someone crazy, why not Jacksonville, though don't sleep on the Texans.

NFC playoff seeds: N.Y. Giants, Seattle, Green Bay, New Orleans, Philadelphia, Minnesota.

Super Bowl: fuck if I know. New England over, oh, the Giants. Belichick's revenge. He might even shake hands this time unless blinded by basking in his own hoodie hubris.

*especially you, Utah, since it's a sports post. Just remember, suffering builds character. So start building. Don't forget your hardhat, I don't want to get sued.

Totally tubular

Thou shalt not suffer a YouTube-less post to live!


















"You're not even trying anymore, are you."

Nope. Enjoy. Or not, I don't care.



If you think that's spooky, imagine if today was turned upside down!

Satan blearrrrrrgggggghhhh, etc.

To Google Read makes our speaking English good

Okay, so I'm a dirty, dirty liar. I simply didn't feel it was appropriate to avoid the internets until Wednesday. All those posts in the reader, coupled with all those requests and periodicals and patrons to process -- oops, I didn't say anything about soylent green -- would only result in a bloody conflict with the historical importance of Actium entre my primitive, lizard desire to slack under the sun and my edumacated, modern-day drone programming to attend to the agendas and subcommittee-forged goals of the monolithic state.

At least a few things haven't changed:
1. The Browns still suck.
2. The Indians still suck.
3. Hussein X still hates options and Vans. What a major league asshole. Okay, I hate 99% of the music on the Vans Warped Tour as well. I'll give you a pass on that one, puppet.

Wait. Does this post constitute labor? Did I just throw the proletariat under the bus, on today of all days? But the bus is public transportation, which is what many of us working stiffs take along with our medication, so if I'm going to throw them under anything, it should be that and not a fleet of limousines, right?

















Try the vodka, it's made collectively!

It's pay day

Work that swanky monocle!

Actually, not until next Friday, International How Does It Feel Day -- if you're going to get righteously indignant, be ready for a month-long death metal jihad, just sayin' -- but since this is my last post until after the long holiday weekend unless I die then I hope to materialize enough ectoplasm to type from the beyond the grave, ooky spooky, I had decided to begin concocting brilliantly subversive plans to anatomically --

"Dr. Frankenstein, I presume?"

--shut up, Stanley, I mean, atomically and paradigmatically shift the chemical bonds of blogging molecules, conjuring such an ingenious orbit of various digital and prose media that you'd swear dark age alchemy was indeed as factually true as the leprechaun, but then I realized that I'm me, which means I am required by law to put up a picture of a scantily-clad chick and/or something stupid, accompanied by some mildly humorous verse, but then I realized what the fuck do I care, then I realized I really should get started on at least pretending to care about this research paper, then I realized this paragraph has, despite staying in the same ballpark frank, become the mustard, which I'm sure a lot of you don't like, but I love mustard -- much better than ketchup, even moreso than catsup -- so I'm going to sit here dreaming about mustard while you all do whatever it is that you do on weekends, just wipe up your own bodily fluids. Oh, that's right, a lot of you are also in long-term relationships. Wipe up your own cheese doodle dust off the couch cushions during commercials.
















Picture of a scantily-clad chick.


















Picture of something stupid.

This verse is mildly humorous
If your funny bone is humongous
Like a 1950s sci-fi man-eating fungus
That is trying to live among us
By abjuring chowing man, woman or pet.
Good luck with that, but don't hedge your bet
For after chomping the hedge -- roughage! -- oh, the table he'll set
with knife and fork and gooey innards, um, as dead as a New York Met.

P.S. Does anyone else get spam for Dish Porno?

"Read it again."

Oh. Dish Promo. That's decidedly less sexy, even with big savings.

Be sure to tip your waitress.

Of course I take requests, overt or otherwise (apparently), you bloodthirsty --

Hey! Here ya go, Nunly, just for you!

















Hmm, this might come in handy.

Not tonight, dear, I have no head to ache.

Dance, monkey, dance?


















Oh, you can't -- 'cause you're dead!













Speaking of the dead, are you here for my brains, Mr. Zombie?

"Hussein lull kids teevee Hitler sleep, chomp, chomp, chomp!"

Children are the future, only that of your intestinal tract.

Ingenious!

Frozen in time

All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.

Combustibly golden -- relax, I'm not going to axe murder anyone; no axe -- is the new Crowes, Before the Frost...Until the Freeze, aural late summer afternoon, likely their finest since Amorica. You know, that drugged-out genius of a platter with the American flag bikini crotch shot. Recorded "live" up at Levon Helm's sprawling ramshackle compound (don't sue me, Bubs, I can't compete with cop cash), the sweaty, grimy consistency of a veteran band aimed for and only partially hit on the pre-hiatus Lions and post-slack Warpaint is slathered over all twenty (eleven on the physically groovy and rockin' hard copy, nine on the mellow, sporadically countrified free download) tracks, extra crisply produced; good job, Stacey. Rambunctous opener Good Morning Captain is the closest they tread to head-knocking, bar band riffery, but there's a sly playfulness -- helped by Chris Robinson's vertically-shrinking, horizontally-expanding range, thank ye, old age, you ain't so bad -- that carries over to Been A Long Time (Waiting On Love) which, after barreling in and out of a rumbling organ furrow, wraps up with a slick Allmans/Thin Lizzy lick flicking duel between Rich Robinson and Luther Dickinson. Hell, son, I Ain't Hiding doesn't even try and conceal its thumping, cosmic disco core, but don't fucking ask me how, it works. A couple of tracks on the second 'disc' venture a bit too far into hillbilly land for my tastes, most notably Roll Old Jeremiah (but that's quickly offset by the beautiful Lady of Avenue A) but these are confident, skilled players at the height of their personal zeitgeist. Bring on the cryogenics tube, this is potent stuff and I wanna soak in it for awhile before going back to pretending I'm working.

Conceivable!

Can't see that --



-- without being reminded of that.















Managing to single-handedly ninja your way past the neverending WND-sponsored wingnut candlelight-n-moonshine vigil after Cheney's death to dig up the sinister corpse and salt and burn said putrefying remains before they have a chance to reanimate into an unstoppable flesh-eating ghoul? Inconceivable!



















Finding out that the Dums are indeed not hacktackular sellouts to the military/industrial complex that most assume, but are in fact actual spineless jellyfish creatures -- from beyond the stars! who crashed in New Mexico over 60 years ago and are kept upright and mobile through plutonium-powered nanotechnology gravity implants controlled via the radiowaves of a mother brain housed in the Nevada underground? Conceivable!
















Calling into work on Tuesday, February 9, 2010 to use eight of the billions of hours of sick time I've accumulated because I'm still vomiting my insides out because of the naked, drunken revelry in the wake of the Browns improbable Super Bowl victory over the two-week long Brett Favre love fest known in other circles as the Minnesota Vikings? Inconceivable!


















Continuing to redefine the term "shitty blog" day after day with such off-putting, unfunny tripe? Conceivable!

The power of pasta compels you!

Sure, he's a pointless buffoon, but if I'm about anything, it's being a champion of searching for pointless buffoonery to post about:

Catholic League President Bill Donohue presented a paranoid side of his personality to Fox News Monday morning, declaring that “militant, dogmatic” atheists are “out to get” Catholics

Just the naughty Catholic school girls, Billy Dee.

A few sly .45s. Works every time.

No, that's not spaghetti in my pocket, I really am happy to see you.


















Speaking of cans of RC, Ted Kennedy died? When did this happen? Did someone liveblog his funeral? I hope someone remembers to liveblog mine. I'll have a special brownies, looping DVDs chock full of Cleveland's finest sporting chokes and, to lighten the celebratory mood even further, the song stylings of Motörhead. I figure Lemmy is a member of the cockroach/Keith Richards family; they'll all outlive me and the inevitable zombie apocalypse.

Speaking of rock and/or roll, in honor of the new Black Crowes album which I'll be snagging after work -- try and contain your excitement, youthful hipsters, you might rip a skinny jean and drop your iPod flush with crap down a sewer -- here's some old Crowe.