Thank you for waiting until public transportationistas such as yours truly were on the public transportationista wheelie bus literally halfway to work in a raging Blizzard of Perpetual Torment when you decided in your infinite housing voucher to pull the plug for it gave me time to fortify myself with a second bowl of Wheaties in order to successfully shovel the eight inches of snow on my driveway uphill in my bare feet.
With kindest unregards,
Randal
P.S. I wouldn't have done any work anyway & if one couples that with my propensity to nein-smile, why not just permit me to slack at home whilst still collecting a paycheck, not all that different from you in fact I think I'm going to go after your job. Any tips on where to pick up one of those plastic spouse dolls, I want to really look the part.
As exciting as French King Kong vs. French Godzilla would have been, I occupied my time away from the Hell of Being Buried Alive By Yellowing Pulp -- told you I needed a vacation I don't bullshit on Truly Serious™ Matters -- by watching footie shockingly not in Venezuela & I have to say, Marseilles & the (real) Damned United (sorry, mate) didn't thrill me as much as the American nightcap, a rematch of last year's Champions League final featuring two of the world's most reknowned self-cannibals, though kudos to Arjen's hammy making an appearance, I believe its second of the campaign.
Baron Davis during his hipster college days.
Speaking of second appearances, Baron Davis' beard is returning to Cleveland, a first round pick stashed inside. 'tis worth over 27 million through Quetzalcoatl+1? The jury's still out but if the Baron ever starts his own religion, he's got a built-in sacred relic.
Does that mean the library is hell? One does detect from day to hour the deliciously acrid scent of weed wafting through the air off of various tweed-clad professors & tracksuited & ugged students no I'm not naming names but ever since that pseudo-renovation the back stairwell is no longer the hangout of choice for either stoners or amateur filmmakers not that kind of film you sick bastards. Rock &/or roll? Books on the usual suspects (DYLAN UBER ALLES ACHTUNG LENNON/MCCARTNEY MACHT FREI) but admin won't go for Darkthrone as closeout in lieu of less abrasive announcing. Wankers.
As for an activity that has pride of place in the loins of many fine & not-so-fine folks, one does occasionally come across a condom wrapper, though that's as rare as un étudiant not declaring, upon hearing the due date, that he/she/it will return the books sooner rather than then 'cause he/she/it's got a paper on procrastination due tomorrow guffaw never heard that one fourteen billion times over the last two decades. Not all oldies are goodies, bubs & bubettes.
I need a vacation. I hear Venezuela's nice.
"I'll let you know, but first, the massacre, then, the discotheque. Bunga bunga!"
The Bank of Hades card. Don't leave the black pit of despair without it*
All Li'l Edgar dances with is Discover & himself.
*not accepted in Tartarus or New Jersey.
Prélude à l'après-midi d'un pretzeldent: I can hear the Cleveland monologuery Q & A'd on the talking picture box -- curse ye, unknown coworker! -- which means I'm well within my right to air guitar to 90 decibels of Negative Plane.
Liberty Tax Relief, Freedom Tax Refund,Liberty Tax Specialists, American Tax Special Ops, Tricorner Hats Shoot Hessians Dead Tax Masters, just once I'd love to see one of these overnights advertise some truth.
Now You Can Fill Your House With Even More Shit 'Cause You Know You Will (of course I did I'm not only the president I'm also a client & you would too can't surf new porn on old machines, right Windows ME?) Tax Service.
Catchy, no?
If it's blatantly obvious (obviouser than your standard, average, unremarkable normalcy) that my innards aren't in it today, very Holmesian of you. Due to a not-that-violent ice invasion from the north, possibly the work of renegade Scandinavian wizards, power auf wiedersehened for a smidge & writing by candlelight's swankier than the cliché you all assume it is & is. Wish I would've had an inkwell, one of those tricorners & a musket to go with these breeches, though.
Funny how all the faux funny ends up here & not hiding in the lines.
Either pretend creativity is Serious, No-Pay Business or I have an evil twin.
Contentment, alien & that's certainly the wrong word as wrong would be any phrase of two or more, but no other lexeme fits as luxuriously. Sure, lux disdained in favor of atra in this noodle, but a burst of words, petite ou grand remains to be observed & correlated by third parties that swim in said noodle bowl. Combination platter (damn, j'ai faim, frogs, food groups, they're pyramidal, lo! serendipitous stream-of-consciousness, sweet inside jokery) of tunes, the above a sampler, & a general vibe of creativity. Sure to end sooner rather than future centuries, but a man can plan even if said Randal recognizes the usual futility. Write, you bastard, write.
Oh where, oh where has my little lunatic gone?
Oh where, oh where can he/she/neuter/extraterrestrial/hollow earth moleman be?
With his/her/its/what sense cut short, and his/her/its tail/claw/raygun cut long,
Oh where, oh where is he/she/it/thee?
While you all drone on about the wonders of near-printemps warmth, some of us have to suffer the stench of filthy parkas flush with stale cigarettes, cigars, armpits & sweat. At least there was no urinal aroma.
The world's a negative place, & that's the plane truth. Chortle. Stained Glass Revelations takes the formula of Et In Saecula Saeculorum & enriches its potent orthodox hex, creating a work that, if equal in midnight headphoning efficacy, exceeds in catacomb depth.
A macrocosmic spiral rattle, The Fall is falling, high on an organ hit, the bells, the bells, a gothy Bathory (the late Quorthon's birthday today, spin Blood Fire Death you bastards) trudge n' tumble before you're slapped & stabbed wide awake. Sure, Lamentations and Ashes black metalizes with classic panache, but look, pal, with a clarity Possessed by few. The murk is never the static moss & sediment but the acrid, turbulent gusts above, a gritty, tactile obscurantism often shunned &/or poorly plundered by this genre. One moment toes tap, the next they're grist for Hades' mill, check out that doom groove, accelerate, O roller coaster of hate. Hell's kitchen licks licked the greasy floor to catalyze this bit, voiceless opera 'til, I swear, a half-life measure of an Orbison fret ring. You didn't hear wrong, Angels of Veiled Bone, but you've only time to hear the echo quickly smothered in a relentless fusillade of galloping, Teutonic stop/starts.
The Third Hour, carefully excised soundtrack innards from a long lost Expressionist flick, marks the archaic majesty of The One and the Many, whose flagstone riff carries mad alchemist rants aloft, nearly lost in the cavernous architecture, defiant. A quick wisp of that breezy Charnel Spirit & I swear, All Souls is Ligeia's labyrinth of choice if she were a metalhead & not also a fictional character. Tragedians, you're conquered, for the reaper waits at summer's end. Subtle pall's the key, hitting where the riffs ain't. Purgatory's all gloom & tomb, but there's wizardry in The Number of the Word, sentiment hidden in between the lattice of text & sound, how about that finalé, fooled you, boom. Bach's brought in for Stained Glass Reflections' spooky church worship whilst the title track spills liquid ascension over descending lines, pick up this, did you hear that, over & again till the vintage climax. Remember when bands knocked the edifice down like that?
Busy without being a hive, beautiful without being beautiful, Negative Plane's filled an entire dimension with acres of discernible yet inscrutable sorcery à la early Mercyful Fate, a relentless dyad waiting to be explored, transporting the listener to somewhere better. Sure, better's a vision of the grave & all that jazz, but that's the point & if it's not, then what the hell are you doing here? Go play in the sun.
On a talking picture box at two, hiding from Barça Chameleon. The library doesn't have a talking picture box -- that's not true, the library doesn't have a talking picture box with Fux Soccer Channel as a selection, nor do we have any outright lizards. A lizard brain or three, perhaps, & a few assorted tomes on lizards or lizardry. Now & then we have cockroaches. Speaking of those who eschew the light, Winning the Future™ begins next week! here! in Cleveland! Why am I not using any of my collectively bargained couch vacation time, no, for that spectacle, not that spectacle? I guess I simply care about the future Winners of the Future beancounters who shalt count all the beans sailboating overseas too much. Once the Sword of Austerity™ hits, plenty of time to watch footie till the bill gets not paid then its off to woodland darkthroning, careful with that axe, Fenriz. Sniff.
Very true, as they then had to drop hilarity like a hot anthracite & finish their homework including the old school social studies packet of Offspring the Younger that included a map containing both Gaul & Yugoslavia who isn't a fan of dystopian ancient Cold War civiliziations & who printed that shit a psilocybin junkie with cataracts that's who oh, don't forget the dead & bloated Austria cowgirled by Poland all while mom & pop donned the XL cloak of invisibility for some Valentine's Day non-sex. At least the Cadavaliers didn't lose their 47th though even more disturbing was the only-partially-in-jest coworker suggestion this morning that yours truly start charging since said me is the visible bibliothèque opener.
Would you take my advice? Me neither, at least not while sober.
Keeping it real. ONE @HosniMoobie Sulei da man!!!! Go army!!! http://tinyurl.haha #OMGsuckers #torturepartytonite
TWO New metal's decibelling (one L or two? Curse ye, imaginary words) eardrums into oblivion, I know you're all jonesing for a review. Soon, sharpen those barbs, that snark.
THREE Weekend with football @ weekend with no football: a classic mismatch of such unmatched misses, I'd be remiss in mocking making a mockery of this un-bliss. Weekend with football, 529 to negative 7 through three, but, lo, a Unitarian Unitasian comeback of potential meatworld literosity/gatekeepers-guard-this-bird with fellow yokels gives me a non-oh-baby happy, so enjoying the Pyrrhic victory.
Remember the three key words for any Slayer paranoiac awaiting the inevitable Sword of Austerity™ nip of the nape: preparation, preparation, preparation. Gold-plated advice to be sure, but concerning the (newest) Savior of Cleveland,
"If you don't go through formal training programs it will not exclude you from opportunities in the casino," he said. We want people with great attitudes who want to come in and deliver a great guest experience and customer service."
What a surprise, those of us with poor attitudes get the shaft.
Commiserating with the beautiful brutality of suburban backyard nature, I was struck down by serendipity, soon reborn from the sarcophagi of doubt, a blood-stained soul toting an idealistic totem & off I marched to spread the word.
The offspring scoffed, Doodily especially, when I revealed the divine suggestion of a metalized Partridge Family to help cope with slo-burn economic apocalypse even though none of us are quite tall thus us future coffin stuffers & yet-to-be-pilfered equipment (past the dust-in-the-basement Strat copy) can easily squeeze in the ever-rusting jeep; my sometimes-better-half merely scowled. Microcosmic & quite metal, 'twas. Now we just need matching corpsepaint, & though sad, at least I'm not as sad as Li'l Edgar, set adrift on the river Styx.
You should feel guilty for not digging this, jerkface.
Tales of long-entombed Jackson Victory Tour posters, trainwreck Super Bowl halftime shows but I repeat myself & the brilliant backstory farce of the unbrilliant farce Kid Rock prompted parle Pynchon (must be something in the air) that soon permutated into whether the concept of the guilty pleasure even exists wherein I admitted under gunpoint duress (kidding -- maybe, I'll never tell) that once upon a yesterday upon hearing a bouncy Duran Duran track over & above the lifeblood catacombs of diabolic dirges, coffee-stained pearls flashed a moment of weakness. Fifteen-year old Randal just kicked thirty-seven year old Randal in the nuts & Californistan just chugged a whole celebration of some overpriced Napa Valley swill.
(O ancient gods of death & dismemberment, verily I shalt cleanse this unworthy soul with Mayhem, now that's a riff, sons & daughters)
We can train disdain for X, Y &/or Z, hex a curse on some verse, but rest assured, what tugs at the hearstrings or the berserker rage of the individual hunk of flesh & bone high on select biochemicals remains a magical mystery tour that must not succumb to Madison Avenue Will™, or worse (because the worst of corporates is the default setting), the evil eye of acid-tongue subgenre gatekeepers. Do we fear engaging in the blasphemy of failing to sacrifice on the altar of (today's) high art, thereby overcompensating in falsity, defying the self? Do we cringe at having a range outside the hermetically-sealed norm, hiding from the inevitable smashed face from acceptable taste's hammer? Do we care? Should we? Fuck no.
Par exemple, black metal, once the obscure, grizzled den of middle-class Norwegian disconnection stabbing & burning through the land of ice & snow, paeans to troo kvlt underground ideals & all that vikingjazz that garnered nothing but mainstream scorn, is now a mere fifteen years later meriting Village Voice pieces, Pitchfork column inches & scholarly symposia.
Is art then unworthy of judgment, its only task to bide its time until acceptance (or canonization) à la Impressionism? Again I say, fuck no. There's plenty of crap I loathe, chthonic & big box, & plenty of crap I love that others would nelsonmuntz if lured off an imaginary cliff whilst holding an Acme anvil & vice versa. To hell with kumbaya bullshit. A billion in sales or five, Zeppelin rules, Ottonian encomium or no. Whether the art's garbage or treasure is in the eye of the beholder, the entity actually not/touched emotionally, intellectually, thus, inform yourself chumps, speak your mind, chimps, explore each human condition niche, figure what moves your entrails & save wretched guilt for the imprisonment of whistleblowers, acts of droning unwashed masses, not what you listen to, look at, read, groove on, even if you end up digging Duran Duran for three minutes that I'll never get back.*
As is divine right, Sir Comic Sans shalt own ye pocketbook.
Gambling, one of the Manly Arts, is at last rolling into Cleveland.
Inside the casino, Rock Ohio’s architects are working on designs that should harmonize with the Art Deco plaster details inside and with the Horseshoe brand, which Forbes described as "masculine," "contemporary" and "elegant."
Note the manly emphasis. Let us pray. O Lord, smiter of all teetotaling non-Plutons, in faith this newest Unfailable Regional Economic Development Corporate-Citizen Partnership Downtown Project shan't prove as fleeting as the previous 752 Unfailable Regional Economic Development Corporate-Citizen Partnership Downtown Projects including Medical Mart, the Chinese Democracy of Unfailable Regional Economic Development Corporate-Citizen Partnership Downtown Projects. Amen.
One play is indeed fleeting, but...
Speaking of Manly Men of Manliness, The Fucking Steelers contra The Little Town That Could: look, everyone knows that Ben Roethlisberger moonlights as a life coach, James Harrison would punch a blind, paraplegic child in the skull if it would help Pittsburgh win, B.J. Raji will be voted off Celebrity Survivor Dancing post-retirement, Aaron Rodgers robs from the Favre to give to the poor & that the proper way to dump the The Fucking Steelers in an out-of-the-way ditch on Route 66 so they rot under the sun & in the stomachs of vultures is to bomb bomb bomb IranMcCain their secondary. If the Packers do that, they win. If they don't, they don't. Simple. Now if you'll excusez-moi, I'm off to sacrifice a blonde virgin who will return from the dead within 24 hours in order to seduce Troy Polamalu &, whilst he sleepeth, cut off his hair then eat his brain. Because I'm sick & fucking tired of watching the Cavs lose their last fifty-five, Jennings, Driver, Nelson & Jones 28-24. Joy to the world.
[ed. note: backstabbing's hard work, I know that. I also know that this pointless state (mini ed. note: not State™) was postponed & altered from tomorrow due to yesterday's half-imaginary, half-beast Storm of the Yeti & dude, there's the title of my prog-stoner-death band if ever I start one.]
Yearning to be a part of something bigger than yourself, proletariat scum?
Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings or Mikoyan-Gurevich not cutting the mustard?
Cthulhu is the solution to your self-esteem problems!
[even more ed. note: look man, as I type (mini ed. note no. 2: typed) this, some jackass is power drilling the latest in grindcore riffs in either subterranean confines or Arctic Blast We're All Going To Ice Cubify Doppler Five Trillion™ (mini ed. note no. 3: see, I told you) while I'm trying to YouTube even more shit for this overflowing poubelle so turn it off you unknown bastard, everyone sing with me, nyet to disentertainment, disintertainment if you're an already-frozen hepcat corpse. Some of this is written tomorrowyesterdaytoday I can't recall, seriously, must've been all that ice I didn't inhale, guess which sentence(s) & when & win my unending scorn or a nickel, whichever comes first. We now return you to your regularly-scheduled foolish comedy.]
ИА!ИА!
*yes, I did in fact unknowingly provide hospitality to a woebegone traveler from said locale (thus proving the maxim gorky that bad taste flourishes in all climes), according to the internets an abundant source of mail-order brides but if you think I'm going down that road, you're mistaken. One hitching's quite enough, Ola.
Rage against the iterative machine, Norway, join these billion Away All Synapses floating & darting & tacking about the gaps like some acidlogged Hitchcockian ornithology, to all the memories I've loved before. Run run run, act now & have sensible insanity slashed direct into your brain for one easy installment of 2000 gold pieces, three rolls of Treasure Type Q & a quietus heard by no one, somnambulists are standing by.
