I hold your hand so hard my knuckles turn white

Getting used to an academia-fractured schedule is going to take some getting used to, en plus, with coworker corollaries of ja das Nachtbus (in spirit at any rate), urban darkthroning is severely curtailed this semester, thus, before weekly junior offspring pickup campout on my new day off in the almost-middle of the week, a trek through the wilds of Parmastan, & lo, what hath I discouered, Thor vs. the burbs:

Guilty as charged but dammit it ain't right,
there is someone else controlling me.

A little bit postapocalyptic, a little bit rock &/or roll. Seated in the sun -- at that hour, no angle sleeps with angels in the shade -- the heat's but a looking glass for future haruspicy ingredients. Illusions both optical & visceral appeared, in salty beads & ink, respectively. The denouement, lines on a map, garbage honesty better left unseen, as usual, but an uncomfortable gleam alone is sometimes just what's needed. For what, I've no idea. When I find out, I'll let you know.

I hope it's not for looking in the mirror.

Frankie says relax

"It's only a new semester."

Easy for you to say, dealing with the torches & pitchforks of one rinky-dink village, not a freshman flash mob rioting over the unavailability of textbooks.

Or an Emirates full of Arsenal fans.

No matter, for soon nine hours, sweet freedom, soon.

Ode on a Wheelie Bus

Thou still unclean Wheelie Bus of loudnesse,
Thou toy-less child of Noyse and Slow Ride,
Rusty historian, who canst thus expresse
A greasy tale more stench-lie than our glide:
What axle-fringed legend haunts 'bout Euclid shape
Of mayors or workers, or of both,
In near-hoods or the dales of Parmastan?
What dudes or chicks are these? What drivers loth?
What iPod pursuit? What emploiement to escape?
What late timetables? Gotta run to the can! 

The pick-up artist

Being comprised of one single beauty & one married beast offers Peonage Local no. 13 ample opportunity to constructively gloss the richly disturbing psychoses of relationshippery & lo, yester noon, I queried the female half, who had just suffered through a typically weak attempt at patron-employee winking nudgery, if the successful pickup line exists only in a world of make-believe with flowers & bells & leprechauns & magic frogs with funny little hats.

With the Duchess slipping into deep contemplation, or eye-rolling, I'm still not sure which, the Earl proffered, as an illustration of said query, an example of testosterone's proclivity towards the visual, presented to the gentle reader in a one-act-play, which was the style at the time:

Through a smoky Marlboro haze, METAL DORK sees METAL CHICK sporting a Slayer tee, and though low on wily charm like all dorks, metal or otherwise, has imbibed just enough beer to approach Marshall stack romancing with cautionary caution.

[REDACTED]

Needless to say, the humor inherent in absentmindedly choosing Raining Blood as the answer to a fumbled question, an unintentional allusion to menstruation quickly interpreted as such by the sharper (or more straunge, I'm still not sure which) half of the Peonage, & the subsequent face punching, was lost in translation.

[ed. note 1: okay, maybe it was only funny to us]
[ed. note 2: I wasn't actually punched in the face, just METAL DORK]
[ed. note 3: in order to rescue this failure -- to you 'cause we chortled & wheezed all shift though it's possible the Kynge's Brewe was spiked or there was a lack of oxygen -- of a post, here's the usual imitation photo essay]

Practicing his pickup lines.

Relax. My bottle has a cap.

Bunker mentality.

Yet another abandoned storefront.

Has it on tape.

What happens in the sewing shop stays in the sewing shop.

Rainbow connection.

The Boehner is all the rage on campus these days.

You can't get high off that. Trust me.

Bummed, because this was much more neon to the naked eye.

Of course I have spirits piped directly to the Batcave. Connections, baby.

The Towering Slab's seedy underbelly.

Musical chairs

Each time I nearly gut spill, camera obscura comes to Mighty Mouse the day.

One is, indeed, the loneliest number.



















Almost forgot your weekly HoB update.

Will you arrive in style?

♫ Get your motor runnin'
Head out on the sidewalk ♪

We bring the funk zest.

Okay then, Miss Vulgaris Plissken, no zest.
& people say I'm the angry one.

Savor the flavor even if you're the only one drinking

Though unable any yester eve to hath writ a chanson, or to-day, or to-morrow, let alone crunch out more than an A or an E chord -- which reminds me, the cheap copy's (still) crying for a new saddle -- a sermon of Kristin the Magnificent speaketh a veracity I find applicable to my style (do I have one? Sure, vanilla. Oh, I get jokes. Oh, that was no joke? Oh.) of spilling wretched verse:

"I hear them as an instrument of phonetic melody, and when I try to sing lyrics that are wrong, they stick in my throat; I feel like I'm lying and it's not until they spill out that I know I'm telling the truth."

Those that know me or have been exposed to things better left unknown know north, south, east & west of here my fancy for the florid, the purple [ed. note: the tiresome offensive], the plaster of assonance covering yawning gaps of quality or self-delusion or both -- mmm, sprinkles -- but there are those exceedingly rare occasions where, even when the emotion is, as usual, explosively histrionic &/or rich like creamery butter, the truth flows with a fright like water over a bombed-out dam, & what is truth but something we wish we wouldn't have to confront, unless you're perfect yes it's true & I'm betting at least five bucks that you're not.  

The mark of the serendipity beast trumpeted rare occasion #2 the other night, a cataract redacted here so as to not call down institutional repercussions; even a fingerful of words varnished in disguise, what would follow but truth vanishing, confession to an empty box, & that's not the point.

The problem is, for those of us who are cowards, that's the stuff that never sees anything but light of a closed notebook. Why is it a problem? Even if we do the right artistic thing & create for ourselves, we all wish to share our stuff, desiring validation, connection, a bit of "hey, I totally get what you're saying because I felt that, too, once upon a time." Even nihilistic bedroom black metallers let their discount blasphemy slither past the front stoop.

You plant, I plant, we all plant lies, tiny & white. It's just sense & sensibility in the flower garden, ever on the lookout for a rare, honest petal to pluck, soon stuck between the pages.

Alles klar

Alle Grammatikfehler sind Eigentum der Google.

♪ und sie kauft eine Treppe zum Himmel ♫

Englisch? Das ist Deutschland!

Du siehst! Polezei! Straßen!

Amerika wieder? Gott im Himmel! [ed. note: I'd insert one of those Hitler rant gigs but that's as burned out as FAIL or an Electric Wizard roadie]

Das ist mehr, wie es.

Wotan, rette uns!

Hulk zerschlagen.

Baseball ist für weenies, echte Männer spielen Fußball.

Ha ha wir stahlen Ihre Wheelie Bus!

Tod amerikanischen Imperialisten!



















Wir hoffen, dass die anderen Mitglieder der NWA sind nicht in Brand.

Pabst nicht inbegriffen.

Kein Wunder, dass Sie Ihre Trupps schrecklich sind.

Niemand ist zu Hause, im Obergeschoss auch nicht.

Peek-a-boo.
























Wo es immer 1985.

Was ist los mit Ihrer Stadt?

Kommen für den Film, für das verlassene Schaufenster bleiben.

Nachwirkungen einer Schule Vorstandssitzung.

Auf wiedersehen!

Silence is pyrite

Speak? No. Me? Too much, it seems. Wordiness shalt remain
wordless, for today, at least. Snark, quietly sleeping.