At least he didn't have his nuts bit off by a Laplander.
Does such a comically grisly fate await Julian the Aussie Apostate, one can only speculate, that rhymes & you know that rhymes, Marge; depends on which nation eventually imprisons the little scamp, I'd wager. The Us of A? As far as I know, we zap sacks, we don't chew on 'em.
Re: the war machine being irreparably damaged (hint: it's not): 'tis irrelevant. Just because you can't stop colonization doesn't mean you still shouldn't tell everyone about the Cancer Man's alien-human hybrid self-preservation gig.
What seer could have predicted that a time known primarily for a rash of couch potatoing that leaves a rash, extraoverconspicuous consumption & the attendant flatulence, belching & other gassy emanations would now become the naughtiest time of the year?
Move over, Mr. Blackwell. My sartorial suggestion, a sexy TSA agent.
You scoff, but my faux bus driver threads keep my junk from being touched by unauthorized playmates. You scoff once again, but just you wait till a public transportationista device blows up real good.
Chumps, you best show some respect & hit your pigskin & charred bird carcass with a Hammer. Speaking of pigskins, I hope The Ohio The State The University's The New Duds look as swanky as these. Question: is the army (& by subtle extension, the entire military, & by subtler extension, the state) still of one or strong or some other mad men slogan of which I am unfamiliar?
In the meantime, have fun painting the devil on the wall.
*Mug was not placed by yours truly or anyone affiliated with yours truly, I'm no charlatan, get off my grave. Behold the awesome power of serendipity.
**First, pardon the grain as I was walking & chewing gum snapping at the same time. Second, yes, that's Jacob's Field in the distance. The city tried a Costner & only ended up with a localized zombie apocalypse. Third, as once we were all hockey fans, patriots, Georgians, kleptomaniacs, we're all future corpses & in the meantime, good luck with whatever system you were cursed to be born under. I've no solution outside of better living through chemistry because, aside from being stupid, I am too much of a fantastic combo of unarmed+lazy to go for that whole blood-soaked rebirth of civilization gig, en plus, given that all (read: ALL) -cies, -chies & -isms contain copious amounts of the most volatile variable known to man, man (& chicks & trannies & neuters & animal-/alien-human hybrids, too), one can only sit back, take a sip & watch the equation's slow burn, hoping that it's at least somewhat entertaining.
Bonus points if you can decipher this ancient pictograph:
Not even the New World ADAMS Family can keep me from post-it noting nothing of importuning, my brother.
Uncle Fester would make a great agent of infiltration, just a past-his-prime old school goth hangin' out with the emo kids, settin' 'em straight, dig it, hep cats.
Know what's a conspiracy? Not the feds with their back-of-X-Men #177 Spy-O-Matic gadgets or their And-Arbeit-Macht-Three, but the truest black helicopter branch of the Bilderbergian Inner Earth Trilateral Illuminati, the *whispers* United States Postal Service*/whispers* who has yet to deliver my replacement USB cord.
I am so taking a shitload of pictures of federal buildings and posting them all over the internets, go on, arrest me, see who you'll get to open the library in a prompt & efficient manner then, victory for the little guy, motherfuckers.
I can't wait until this expands beyond Keeping Us Safe® & goes mainstream.
So much easier to further reduce everyone & their everything to a set of crunchy numbers, a nation of baseball cards. I wonder what my OBP, Overt Bomb Percentage, is. Bet the gum remains stale & sharp enough to slash gums, though. How about spending your bucks on fixing that, heathens.
"One ADAMS-12, One ADAMS-12, we've got a perpsh who just ordered tahini CRACKLE with his falafel. Oversh*."
"Hold -- that's a 4.7% chance of jihad FIZZLE, keep a patrol carsh in the area. Oversh."
*I hope everyone appreciates these little sonic embellishments in the name of realism.
I do when I've got nothing lined up, i.e. every day.
Chives go good with garrulous young gristle!
Whistle while I chomp? Oui, cannibals
brook insolence, so stomp your tender feet --
for they are my next treat! Toes and nails,
a side of kale, scarf, scarf, scarf, yum -- Oh!
Hot potato, blind me with your science!
Operate an appliance? Nevermore,
and e'en wheels on the bus round and round,
thrown to the ground as I misjudge all sound.
All Cthulhu's creation's pow'r chord loud,
evr'y cricket a crowd. I'm bound to starve.
Hark! The herald devils will sing ditties
I bring, sarcasm and sugar-free, part
of a well-balanced diet of cruel glee.
Now, bastards, where is my goddamn money?
My eyesight is poor, historically awful sans glasses. Some would say, given my musical choices, my hearing is equally poor. To those of you who harbor such offense, silently or no, I humbly retort with the immortal words of a legendary monster of screenland
"A low-carb diet of third world children keeps me fit & trim."
& now that we're all friends again, a particular, too familiar, passage from a tome I'm currently reading on the wheelie bus to & from work caught my ever-vanishing vision:
In the end, wearing spectacles is really not so difficult. Without them, life is a blur. My field of vision is restricted in all directions by the frames of my glasses; in low light levels I find it increasingly hard to read; swimming in the sea is a form of sensory deprivation. A rock might be a shark for all I know. This inability to see objects in focus unaided, or really understand subtle fluctuations of light, must accentuate the other senses and reconfigure an imbalance in the socially constructed hierarchy of the senses. In certain circumstances it can heighten feelings of interpersonal distance. Over time, I believe this has sharpened my sonic focus.
I suppose that one could classify it as mere variation on a (cliché) theme -- other senses compensating for the weakening or loss of another -- but given the book's argument of hearing being of more relational & experiential importance than the place given it by society, I feel it's more a deepening of an already inherent predisposition towards this sense in contrast to the dominant visualcentric norm, the way one, after discovering an affinity for working with his or her hands, becomes a potter or a carpenter, or those who get a kick out of number crunching become math teachers, technocracy cubicle jockeys or professional fantasy baseball players, all low-paying gigs.
Tune in to next week's episode of Obvious Theatre where Randal discovers his enjoyment of a musical poetry, flush with assonance & scattered rhyme in contrast to those composed in heavily discordant tones. The point of all this is, looking back on stuff I've written, stuff I'm writing & stuff still on the drawing board that's tucked away in some dusty corner of my skull, vast gobs (i.e. 98.6% of it, +/- 3% error rate) are made of this. I've tried varying styles simply to see if anything sticks, but finding I've less facility there than I do here, dropped it like a hot baked potato with butter, sour cream, bacon bits & chives.
Thus, the actual actual point: is message (too global kumbayah, I hate people) sentiment (too sappy, but probably what I'm guiltiest of) content (now there's a nice, normal, vaguely critical term) being sacrificed, consciously or subconsciously, for a journey into sound?
A word in or out of context; the way it's voiced; that way to which person; in each case, a tiny variation in the aural quality of the recited letters can convey a subtly different meaning, especially if the out-loud reader isn't the original alchemist. Think sarcasm on a micro scale, minus the sarcasm.
Is there a 'danger' -- define that -- in taking it too far, a mirror image of an obscure, Mallarmé-styled hermeneutics -- which is only one way of reading him, especially since he's often sonically alluring -- that's nothing but presumably attractive sound structures poorly mimicking song?
If so, so what, as long as it's good. Now I just gotta get good.
Payday's Friday, hope good's not too expensive.
À mon avis, orthodox black metal howls for an unorthodox crispness, the buzz of dead leaves & bones under marching feet. The past efforts of said genre's favorite sons were pierced by high frequency peaks in a chain of trebly chaos; that self-requisite remains, but Paracletus glares out from the choking, Stygian smoke of oxidizing souls & audible bass. Re: structure, see Si Monumentum Requires, Circumspice: sides split into four; this time, two, the choirs of First, et al Prayers (mostly) silenced, the spaces twixt tracks obliterated until left with a suite of noise canalized towards the approaching end point.
Doom-n-gloomers of all stripes, believers or no (hi there fellow Cthulhuians! punch & cookies after the show), short of a field recording of Ragnarok, you'd be hard pressed to spin a more appropriate soundtrack to worldwide fuckery.
The invocation, Epiklesis I, chords bubble, tap in the blood, recalling Matthew 12:32: 'Anyone who speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but anyone who speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this age or in the age to come.' Bubble, bubble, toil in the rumble. Tap, tap, tap.
On Wings of Predation, though more so elsewhere, inchoate violence is, given the album's subject matter, surprisingly lessened the merest of a smidgen. But consider, taking into account the folly of a strict chronology of mythic time, whether all this is pre- or post-Antichrist (going by the last EP's commentary, I subscribe to the latter), a vision of the future, or Armageddon at your door. In either case, 'It is a dreadful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.' Witness our Abscission, the bait-n-bludgeon blisters subsisting for a deftly placed handful of classic metal measures, the vine split in a pressurized denouement.
'Et la solitude du jardin de Gethsémani en partage!' Everyone share in the hypnotic suffering, a Dearth of escape routes. 'Thy pomp is brought down to the grave.' Hark, the trance goes black, in the blinding Phosphene, spitting venom, celebratory mocking of the vine's failure; & a messenger: 'He breathed on them and they were all filled with the Holy Ghost,' as the film of voices from works past play a gorgeous fin du premier acte.
Where there was once abscission, there is now recession, the second fall in another boiling Epiklesis, the end beginning with the Chaining the Katechon-esque riffwork of Malconfort, 'in fire and hail, in fire and hail,' a grinding, serpentine second death. Have You Beheld the Fevers? I've beheld its bursting, neo-death metal chop & its lyrical anticipation of Devouring Famine, all points swallowed by shadow, a kernel of the band's orthodoxy found amidst the musical detritus of apocalypse: 'I am an accomplice and my disheveled laughters and moans/Are of the same essence as the fervour of a Saint/It is senseless to fight against this infinite stream.'
'L’exclusion inconcevable d’une seule âme serait un danger pour l’Harmonie éternelle.' Thus, the final restoration, Apokatastasis Pantôn, the sound up above (lit. & fig.) the source of the grace of salvation in the form of Origen & Gregory of Nyssa's cleansing fires, a now famously Dantean notion (but not that lovable little scamp & (ex?)perv, Augustine), turned on their heads. Whom you leave behind leads to what you find; not what you thought: 'You were seeking strength, justice, splendour! You were seeking love!/Here is the pit, here is your pit! Its name is silence.' Good times.
Building, but rarely climaxing, the edifice, Deathspell Omega's trademark sprawling harmonies of discontinuity flower tension, tension, tension, yet, whereas past works (for the better in Si & Kénôse, for the worse in the at-times brilliant, at-times forced Fas – Ite, Maledicti, in Ignem Aeternum) skewed their time- & lyric-signature tendrils like an acid-saturated octopus, the groaning textures of Paracletus are built upon a more unbroken path, the final thrust of creation into the fires of the end. Though here, there's no return to paradise, only ash. Perhaps Augie was right about the punishment, but fell short on just how many get to burn.
Look man, when I'm Tribal Warfare Day channel surfing, I expect a fresh batch of brand new Hitler Nazi extraterrestrial reptile occult UFO jazz, not staid & obvious Americanish herotastic programming whose commercial breaks repeat said Americanish herotasticism of The Greatest Country In The World Ever MotherFCC® brought to you by Freedom Isn't Free Corporations Pay For It Not Responsible For Inadequate Distribution All Rights Reserved, agitprop drooled forth by a parade of John McCain lookalikes at least they don't crash, an AIM-7 sticking out the back of your torso. So next time, less jingoism, more Nostradamus Swap Believe It Or Not in between hawking some Time-Life DVDs or Viagra or Ritz or life insurance don't make me watch the Food Network or cable access schwing or *gasp* read a fucking book is that too much to ask?
It's not just a bad SciFi Channel movie any longer. En plus, once the water wars commence & a Joint Chiefs of golf clubbing retirees & their private army march across the fruited plains to steal our precious Lake Erie, we can use these killer electric aquatic vertebrae with scales for good, scare the Ben Gay right off their desiccated gooseflesh & then we get drunk on that sweet, sweet H20.
Keep watching the seas!
P.S. Apologies (not really) for the lamer-than-usual (not really) air of recent electrons. Not a single solitary hardware store, big box, technobabble shack, head shop or apothecary seems to carry a USB cable that fits my camera's oddball jack, so until that arrives via post, instead of pretty (not really) pictures, more meaningless verbiage, plus ça change, et ceteroony, neighborino.
Ronnie, I blogged about Vladimir Putin, I knew things about Vladimir Putin that I read somewhere, Vladimir Putin was a friend of other ex-KGB agents until he garroted them in a dark alley. Ronnie, you're no Vladimir Putin.
No, no, today's entry isn't the latest in a long line of examples proving the maxim gorky that all posts can be improved with Putin. If you're in the moniker market for your brand new hip rock &/or roll combo -- apologies that the coolest one is probably already taken & by the way, translating isn't a job, it's an art form don't any of you fucking 'professional' douchebags understand the poetry inherent in language? -- help me help you by choosing from among the following:
Summer Entropy Commandos
Morning Sabotage Group
Conspiracists for the realization of insecurity
Immoral City De-Structuralists
Organizers of Night Entertainment
The rest found here. Sure, a bit creaky in this instantly gratifying coffee, what have you done for me tomorrow, ADHD-addled age, but I rarely crawl out of my Bat Cave & it's still better than anything you could come up with, I'd wager.
Yikes. Now I feel bad for not calling in the other day that bomb masquerading in the middle of the road as a sack of discarded McDonald's. I hope no one died from cholesterol shrapnel.
When Chuck Norris films cell phone commercials in the Czech Republic, space-time is warped into a paradoxical reverse mirror so the Warsaw Pact never invades, Munich never happens, Lenin falls in a ditch & dies from infection, Hitler's killed at the front delivering his lieutenant's censored love letters, Metternich's late to the conference having fallen asleep listening to an oratorio, Napoleon is teased so mercifully about his accent he decides to become a hermit vegetable gardener, Robespierre embarks on a career as a professional lothario, the Sun King embraces an affair of the poisonous mushroom & becomes the Moon King, the frustrated Huguenots sail to conquer Sicily, forcing the once & future mob to flee to the Asian steppe whereby, through carefully negotiated deals & bare-knuckle thuggery, discover the presumably lost grave of Genghis Khan, hire a Lapp shaman to perform his people's most nefarious necromancy to resurrect the long-dead tyrant who, having learned from past mistakes, embraces settled agriculture & new technologies and builds a planet-spanning totalitarian empire that lasts down to this very day where the masses are so desperate for a savior that they steal, at the cost of wave after wave of their comrades' corpses, the 33rd Khan's personal time machine to send back the world's foremost practitioner of the martial arts who proceeds, upon arrival in the ruins of 1263 Samarkand, to punch Genghis in his skeletal gut thereby setting the timeline back on it's proper course the end.
At least until our merciful death at the hands of a Jesus-helmed Quetzalcoatl.
Not all is doom & gloom, true believers. Obama's 72-dimensional chess mastery will now move into the 73rd, lulling a split nation to sleep through the soothing excuse drone of ♪ If I only had 60 senators ♫ a heart ♪ the noive which will now be the theme for not just every presser, but the next silly season cycle which begins now*; the Cavs got Mo Williams back, who was key in a thrilling victory; & there's a rumor that Spider-Man will be appearing at the local grocery store for pictures.
One last thing, before you start bagging on my state for Speaker Sunny Delight, consider the plethora of cheap laughs &/or low-grade snark he'll inspire over the next two years. You're welcome.
When chalking this graffiti upon neighborhood walls, make sure the last letter is clear. You don't want to be responsible for people doing the wrong thing, do you?
