Would you like to play a flash?

Kudos to General Cormac for such arcane chicanery,
a pox upon me for the following painful radioactivity.

As far as Jack was concerned, even a field of four-leaf clovers couldn’t turn things around. He was convinced that because he was born in a leap year, that he was under a secret thirteenth Zodiac sign and its symbol was a giant screw. Lucky for him, his middling, psilocybin post-insert favorite here-ism wanderings led him through a soft, rolling field irrigated by abandoned nuclear power plant runoff. Sixty-six- and sixty-seven-leaf clovers had to be good for something other than a future Ripley's curiosity or condemnation by local preacherdom as a great work of the devil. They could use a dom, those subs to sky fairies, Jack chuckled to no one in particular.

Why was it so hot in February?

Ah, yes, Radiation Day, the annual commemoration of when screws turned thumbs blue then red when blood gushed out and there ain't a competent phlebotomist when you need one nowadays. High glucose? No matter, plutonium'll wash that right clean just like it washed all the endorphins, endocrinologists and uxorious urologists away and left the rest of this wretched species some comic book combination of neon purple, orange flake and bald. I was getting there on my own, thank you very much, world leaders, Jack exclaimed to no one in particular.

Humanity had no idea that the cliché apocalyptic plague wouldn't kill millions upon millions, but instead drive them absolutely batty. Think Pee-Wee Herman swaying to his own Electric Kool-Aid Funky Satan Groove. The various shadow governments didn't have a plan in place for such a surprise, of course, and the planetwide fingers-on-buttons were now attached to homo sapiens crazier and more bloodthirsty than the completely hypothetical, genetically-spliced laboratory love child of Dick Cheney and Osama bin Laden. Probably just a rumor, I'm sure. Only scattered pockets of fanatical Muslims or amillenialist Christians or third temple Jews or Buddhists (yes, even they've gone violently loon) or Wiccans (yes, even they're spending less time naked under the moon) remain.

If it wasn't for un, the continued inability of said groups to put aside childish questions of abstract, unprovable dogma and self-righteous scowling in order to band together on some pan-world crusade and deux, roving gangs of murderous nihilist bicyclists shooting the religionists dead at every opportunity, this manic depressive pseudo-civilization on the lookout for the next cache of soothing booze would fall like an inebriated deck of cards. Manic depressives like me, Jack retorted to no one in particular.

The ground suddenly fell like an inebriated deck of cards and Jack found himself no worse for the ware in a dimly-lit (and thankfully cool) tunnel, which was strange because what fool would set up camp in the shadow of such a monstrosity as a abandoned, leaky nuclear power plant? Dusting himself off, the eerie glow seemed to be consciously leading him further into the earth.

Wavelengths randomly shifting from pale yellow to aquamarine to indigo left Jack disoriented. An odd, wobbly sound quickly began to manifest. Believing it to be nothing more than a colony of mutant albino rats, as common as cell phones once were, Jack crept closer towards its apparent origin and instantly recognized it as muffled human speech.

Resting against an outcropping, Jack peered around the edge, discovering a man-sized fissure. Only a sliver of evidence was available from his vantage point. He moved closer, the sound becoming a grinding fugue.

The light, initially blinding, quickly faded to reveal the cavernous scene before him. Realizing at once that he had inadvertently rambled into the Keep Out Zone, he stood in nightmarish awe before a congregation of robed, irradiated acolytes in prayer before their god, a crumbling statue of Charlton Heston.

After After

When you spin a solo platter by the frontman of the sadly defunct Emperor, the greatest black metal band in the history of extra majestic left hand pathing, you pretty much know what you're getting: a darkly stellar trajectory. But After is more than simply the next step in his musical expression, the distillation of influences and inventions. This is a whole other staircase.

Jilting, tumbling, scraped-knee riffs elaborate the irregular, the perverse, The Barren Lands presenting itself, introducing the axiom of isolation; urban, rural, internal, external, no matter. It's tangible, bro. Anger, so often that first strata, finds solace in A Grave Inversed, a feral battering ram in Emperor mode, radical spit speech, lunatic ferocity swimming in a carnival tide, washed over by a piercing, nigh atonal saxophone pre-/post-tastefully warm solo before the reprise of Wagnerian sacrifice.

A serene, looking-out-the-window gait carries the title track, apocalyptic in sentiment, resigned in form, but therein lies its diabolical alchemy. It's never the bomb, but the fallout that kills everything. Galloping, fifth horseman abstraction strikes, strikes, strikes, you pendulum strike! Solitude, unlike all else, cannot be destroyed and Frozen Lakes On Mars crack open to burn mountebanks away by a cauldron of guitars that seamlessly mesh his black metal roots and the ever more progressive palette that daubed the final two Emperor albums.

Après et lentement, an architectonic Undercurrent courses beneath ten-minute flesh, sax chords dripping over strings to slip and weave; everything:the world in what web-like subtlely before determined, periodic explosions, these lava bubbles lacerating serenity until the cold locks the river in place, this first of a thematic diptych.

Abstemious beauty 'til turbid rumblings, Austere filaments loom a self-composed gloss and one can only marvel at the aural collage, a secluded gouache that demands exploration. Ground-up Maiden dust transports an Elysian riff to churn precipitate off Heaven's Black Sea, key and sax notes two of the thousand drops sculpting wraiths out of the tremulous yet propulsive waters, human strength and weakness sonically codified.

The second panel at last, we witness the ouroboros crawling On the Shores from Mahlerian sea drift to carve its place, rhythmwork and sax lines twining their vines twixt tail and head -- let me play that bit at five minutes once more -- a wordless ululation speaking the world before devouring itself. Isolated.

Kitchen sinking classic heavy; venomous black; progressive inflections; jazz; haunting single-note measures, the culminating stew is visceral, organic. Some albums work as background noise, others are highly praised, but only the very few transmute into an alien set of erythrocytes carrying, stimulating something as vital as personal thought and emotion. They become part of you, and this is one of those albums. A demanding masterwork.

Conundrum's dilemma

For the record, in case I ever run for office -- vote for me you assholes, for I will keep my campaign promises to grow fat from taxpayer cash and five-sided polygon kickbacks while heroically sparring (with or without tears, I haven't decided yet) the Boogeymen of the Week (I still need to "purchase" a reliable Swarthy-O-Meter) with my Super Magical Jesus Baby Swaddling Shield and Class Warfare Sword of Smiting Combo $19.95 at Wal-Mart -- I am pro-solar panel, yet anti-sun.















Having finished up the final drops of this last evening, I was overcome with a sadly temporary bout of grief, for it was a delicious, hypothalamus-distilled opaline. And then it hit my eye like a big-a pizza pie. Moon panels!

Since I'm back at work, I'm supposed to post something

There. Listen to the purty music.

Tune in tomorrow for even less. Same Randal-time, same Randal-channel!

One bourbon, one scotch, one flash

One bourbon, one scotch, one flash
Well I ain't seen my fiction since I don't know when
I've been drinking language, clauses, verb and noun
Gonna get typed man I'm gonna get loose
Need me a written shot of that juice
Gonna get drunk don't you have no crash
I want one bourbon, one scotch and one flash
One bourbon, one scotch, one flash

As the sixth shot of whisky burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered what I left the house for. The frigid, windy troposphere, an ineffectual balm for the post-cataract wasteland that was my throat, was kind enough to keep me upright as long as I continued to fall forward. The incessant throb in my head provided a steady backbeat for the sweet, angular measures she had managed to wrest from my out-of-tune Fender last night -- no, Thursday -- which was when? -- their seductive souvenirs stringing down my spinal column to the ground beneath my shuffling feet. It was a wonder I didn't end up face first in a roadside snow -- 'drift' really didn't do the scene justice. Imagine a lush, fertile valley and replace green with white, lots of white. Oh, and the arctic blasting, can't forget that.

The whitewash of the town was unyielding in its ferocity, this century's storm of the century, copyrighted Doppler whatever. The nearly month-long directive to stay inside for safety's sake was laughable as no authority figure would dare venture out into this to make an arrest. The authorities stopped pulling bodies over a week ago. No point in clearing out seven feet of snow when eight would come down in an instant. A pale rider, indeed.

The grinding hum of plows bisecting the city via its main road was the only discernible noise within the wash of the howl from the north. But I had to go, only because it had taken so long to remember why.

How I managed to not end up one of those bodies left buried until the snows ceased, especially in my inebriated state, only the indifferent cosmos can answer and she never picks up her phone. But I know he will.

Fate's toothy grin cast a welcome Klieg upon a workable path. Wiping my eyes, I carefully trudged through the snow. The warm, comforting glow of the whisky was fading; I now began to understand just how frigid and death-haunted the world had become. As the last knock rung into silence, plow-driven powder and opaque blades of ice circumscribed my frozen, tingling soles. I looked back, their replacements falling from the sky with prodigious speed. The tumbler moved, and the door opened.

"Yes?"

The shoulder-to-shoulder collision keeping me upright just enough to track slushy gunk over the poorly-aged, pancaked carpet, I sloughed in the nearest chair I could find.

"What the hell? Who are you? Get out of my house or I'm calling the cops."

My boots, disembarking upon the edge of a dark brown futon, began pooling their melt in the buttoned depressions as I whipped out my cell and dialed.

"Look, Mac, no mumbrusfuckng copsagonna comminthiswether."

"I, I've got a gun."

"Noyadont."

It wasn't a game of who would blink first. My lids were still frozen open.

"I'm gonna get --"

"Yeahshme. Hestilalive."

The soft, velvety crumple of a blundering, sock-footed sprint up the stairs only added to the gloom of the poorly-lit chamber. A loud report broke it.

I guess he did have a gun.

Do do that voodoo that you do so well

Since I'm as prognostastic as Smooth Jimmy Apollo these days (any betting blame lies squarely with you, the viewer; never listen to me about anything except that one thing), I should play it safe and go with the favorites this weekend, right? Read on to see if I do.

Football!

N.Y. Jets @ Indianapolis: Don't mind the Prohibitive Favorites, they aren't doing anything new (read: 1995 *gasp* Indianapolis! Ooky spooky) except playing The Real Colts for 60 minutes. Well, 55 since it should be out of reach by then. Sorry, city, county and state of Noo Yawk and fuck you, too. Colts 31-13.

Minnesota @ New Orleans: As much as I'd love two whole weeks of continued Favre deificiation leading to spiteful columns written by self-righteous brickwall headbangers -- ooh, all that blood and cerebellum matter splatter, yum -- gotta go with Sean Payton, Head Coach/Voodoo Priest and his 75 quadrillion formations, decidedly non-formulaic. Plus, after titles by The Fucking Lakers and The Fucking Yankees within the last nine months, ain't it about time something good happens in the pro sporting world? (Yes, I'm very much speaking of this upcoming June, basketball gods, ahem, cough, wheez, sacrificial stone, I keeeeeel you) Who Dat? Dis Dat. Saints, 30-20.

Clash of the Titans

Why wouldn't I put up this famous and wondrously captivating still of the lovely Ursula Andress highlighting a role that came from a flick far removed from said movie when referring to tonight's throwdown between The Mighty Cavs and The Fucking Lakers? It's all very logical if you think about it, dumbass. Don't make me force you to watch C-Span.












Thou shalt be slain, The Fucking Lakers! Do it for Ray's near-corpse!

Braaaaaaiiiiiinnnnnnssssss, Or, Being the Beginning of Yet Another Semester.

Stop, thief.

No, I need that.

Really, I do.

Do you have this book?
Do you have this books?
Do you have this bookss, gollum, gollum?
Do you have this brokss?
Do you have this brakss?
Do you have this braiss, trumpets, strumpets?
Do you have this brains?
Do you have thir brains?
Do you have thur brains?
Do you have tour brains?
Do you have your brains?

No twelve-stepper for me. Pass that manuscript spill.

Oops, off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Gaul.

Flash-Flop Battle For Respect

A three-way (tie)? Who knew flashing on Fridays could be so lascivious?

But Vladimir Putin will always permit break dancing. Don't question! River, Don your Brezhnev hat with fashionable Eastern flaps or suffer more gulag smack: dance until your femur snaps. Further! Charm all collective worker, collectivnost! They don't need stand to scoop potatoes out of dirt!

You there! Dance, Bolshevik, dance! Here workers are now, entertain them!

*grumble grumble*

Kamchatka! To Siberia! You think Ivan was Terrible? I Terrible!

Dig!

Vodka will not be Chernobyl swill, will be swell.

More potato!

*muddy road rustling closer*

Gasp! Prime Minister Putin! I swear on Orthodox Bible hardy proletariat work hard for you! Don't look at me like that, Prime Minister Putin!

"Break a leg. Both of dem."

42

Save your Douglas Adamsisms, I've never read the book, and save your you-should-read-its, I've got a fucking stack of lists of codices of ofs I'll never get around to due to inevitable croakery, but I did see the Mighty Cavs surrender that many points in the fourth quarter last night this morning. If you're in the free market for defense that abysmal, which apparently you are Mike Brown since I found Delonte on the back of a milk carton, I'm a short cracker ready to hitchhike up and down the court, and I'll work cheaper than a gangly, overpaid towel-waver from Real America. Losses always burn, but against Carlos the Traitor's squadron? Go fuck yourself, jerk.

Football!

Arizona @ New Orleans: The future Hall of Fame extraterrestrial performed precision surgery on Green Bay's pretty decent, albeit thinned-out secondary. What's he going to do to that of Who Dat? Once again, poor N'awlins gets the shaft. Shaft! Who's the white quarter B that's a pass machine so all receive? WARNER! Cardinals 36-31.

Baltimore @ Indianapolis: Cut me some slack, how was I to know that Derek Anderson had secretly mastered the forbidden art of soul transference and took over Tom Brady? Why does this game strike me as 2005 all over again? Why, I hate both teams, but the one I hate more shall prevail, much to the chagrin of Bill Polian, subject of this song. Oh, fuck it, despite the effervescent allure of a potential Manning-Face sighting. Colts 23-20.

Dallas @ Minnesota: Man, I fucking loathe the Cowboys, especially their rediscovered ferocity on defense but I love love love the give-me-a-happy idea of the skulls of talking hairpieces and childish scribblers exploding rancid brain matter all over their wrung hands from another week of Favre deification, so this is a bit more of a callous heart pick than anything else. Vikings 24-17.

N.Y. Jets @ San Diego: Philip Rivers' throwing style owns nothing but jesteresque guffaws, but his production owns you, Prohibitive Favorites. C'mon, Sanchize can't not be Derek Anderson (yes, I'm picking on Derek Anderson, apologies for my obviousness) for a second consecutive week. Chargers 34-20.

Pimpin' ain't easy

Especially when it's me I'm pimpin'.

Check out this fine, fine story. What a set of knock 'em dead linguistic threads, leggy chords up to here. You can't see my hand, but it's very high, trust me. And all it'll cost is your first place vote. C'mon sweet young thing, you know you want it.

Since there are so many entries, just read my sexfully luscious one.

Don't force me to make a pact with the devil.

MacArthur, parked

Yours truly returning to his blog. Not shown: scraggly, living beard.

For what plausible reason, I don't know, you tell me, but at least I'm parked in this vaguely comfortable chair ready to pretend to work. According to all the doctorticians, everything is yet again hunky and mostly dory with Mrs. Graves, and we even traveled overseas to have a noted holistic specialist further check out vital innards sans use of invasive surgery.














Traditional medicine. Not shown: placing heart back in chest cavity.

Repeato is stucco
ad infinito. Oh, hello ignito
Mr. Roboto and selfo too-o
bango heado hi ho the derry-o
skillo hide-o
like fruito in jello not bado
buto that dryo non-undead turkey, oh,
Miss Mayonnaise. Oh, -o.

Oh, late Flash:

It was an honest mistake...or it was honestly stupid. Either way, I didn't mean anything by it. Look on the bright side. Better your throat slashed by me than by some stranger. Of course, now my shoes are sticky like buns. Next time, I'm using gasoline.

Northern Hospital-ity

In the midst of helping Mrs. Graves search for a fancy new hospital gown, we came to the conclusion that we were never going to find one quite swanky enough for our refined tastes. At least the turkey, though a little dry, wasn't from a zombie turkey so, luckily, we were able to leave to fight another day back through an impending blizzard of decidedly non-apocalyptic proportion, yet the lunatic offspring are off springing here at home, thus for your edselification, some short, yet sexy predictionary footballerie and see you yokels next week sometime, whenever I decide to go back to work to work on run-on sentence structure.

Football!

N.Y. Jets @ Cincinnati: Ignore last week. Mark Sanchez will fuck up. Bengals 17-16.

Philadelphia @ Dallas: Fuck Dallas. Cowpokes 27-20.

Baltimore @ New England: Sure, the Great White Receiver is down and out, but Tom Brady ain't. And for you yokels still blathering on about his semi-pedestrian, non-Tom stats, check out the slate of pass defenses he faced all year. Mr. Supermodel is fine. Patriots 23-17.

Green Bay @ Arizona: Ignore last week, but which Warner shows up (the 5 INTs or the 99.9% completion guy) will determine this, pretty please be a highly entertaining shootout, I better pick the former or a certain Wisconsinonian will send another three feet of snow my way. Packers 34-31.

Phtagnsslwoijvottqwertybleorg

"Alkosocjklzjl?"

"Nososljlsn! 695!"

"695? Byoplkjiog! Slklkiii ohojoj AND sljslkzjkl!"

"Sljslkzjkl? Are you fucking mad?"

"Fslk ypl!"

Spot the terrorist in this post and win a free trip to the bathroom.

Flash or Flasha

After such a wondrously inspiring speech, all you get is this four-quarter, six-touchdown textual trainwreck of a beatdown. I apologize.

He/she saw the orange Necco wafer on the counter top and started to cry. He/she remembered fondly the orange his and her towel set Rudy bought him/her ages ago during pomegranate days ablaze with worry; how it burned so beautifully, perfumed their his and her blacklit bedroom, Ed Wood bust draped with bustiers.

Then Rudy stole his/her Necco wafers.

"Haberdasher, is everything alright?"

"Hmm?"

"Haberdasher, your change."

"Keep it. I've got all the Necco wafers I need."

Haberdasher, defiant in the face of regurgitated tragedy, reached into his pocket, only to immediately slump in the nearest chair, huge, weeping tears salting Mrs. Wingle's short stack, a pack of Mentos rolling out of his sweaty palm to rest against the carafe of syrup.

"Necco..."

And he died. The end.

December's children (and everybody's and January's, too)

Check out the Manly Run of Manliness at 2:36. I said check it, neanderthal flex grumble grumble Solomon Grundy! Four wins since December 1, none sucky (okay, the D against KC and we still have no QB and that rhymes with wheeeeee and you know that rhymes, Marge), the one loss a tough, competitive smackaroo against the possible eventual champions of Super Bowling, the Ex-Ryan Leafs. Fuck if I know.

Which means Noted Offensive Guru®, The Walrus, will likely choose Sam Bradford or Jimmy Clausen and either will septic up the joint like everyone else on the frigid shores since Todd Philcox Bernie Kosar.











Save us, King James, save us and me, three. Anyone ever try to put together a manuscript of versification and in doing so realize just how awful and unlikable it all is? Holy fuck my brain is four-day toast minus the sexy butter and space jam. I'm going to call The Walrus and have him choose. Koren Robinson! Jerramy Stevens! Lamar King!

New Year's resolution: recycling old posts

If I may be permitted to alter the words of the late, great Jose Chung:

"Well, all's well that ends well. Though that's easy for Shakespeare to say -- he'll be around for another year. But what of our own year? Will it all end well? No one can know, but that of course doesn't stop anyone from guessing. And the nature of those predictions always revolve around the usual suspects: salvation and/or self-satisfaction. With that in mind, I humbly add my own prophecy of what the dawn of the new year shall bring forth: three hundred sixty-five days of the same, old crap."