Dark nights and that soul thing

Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. If it's vacation, it must be sick again, though not just flesh this time, and that's the wart of worry. The rewrite's usually harder with each passing line, tricksy 3am wrenches jambed, but that cleansing fire was loaded with extra Nyquil, or Benadryl, some kind of i/yl(l), so either the disturbingly easy confessional's a lie, the noxious seep of a tingle I want no part of (fear being the mind assassin, after all, or is it laughter, as long as it's not irony, and, most pertinent, which I are we talking about), strike while the iron's hot. Or (which) I can sit back, shake my skull like a piñata getting whacked by a bunch of overmedicated children, and wonder what the fuck is going on.

They sent the same fucking card last year

'Twas the night before staycation, when all through the books
Not a patron was stirring, not even that crook,
She tried to hire a hitman without a care
In hopes that workers would soon be buried there;

Said peons were nestled blank in their internets
Exhausted from scowling like Plantagenets
at fools, middle management; how 'bout a night cap
Or five until I get home for an old man nap?

When out in the stacks there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from our chairs to see what was the matter.
Away to the mold we flew like Gordon, Flash;
Not the serial but the camp, trainwreck crash.

The fluorescent lights, yellow like dog-marked snow,
Gave a lustre of wise to bestsellers below,
When what to our wondering eyes did appear,
But a wizard van in a cosmic veneer!

With a stoned, greasy driver that was not Bear,
We wondered how the hell he got up the stair.
More rapid fire than Judas Priest they came,
Throwing horns, he shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Jimi! now, Ritchie! now Tony and Eddie!
On, Harris! on, Burton! on Pike and Ozzy!
To the top of the glass! through the concert hall!
Now smoke away! drink away! burn away all!"

As tokes that before the wild truncheon fly,
When they meet with the fuzz and riff to the sky;
So out of the speakers the music it flew
With the bong full of woo, and every bottle too—

And then, in disbelief, we heard on the roof
A thunderous chord like the fourth horseman's hoof.
As we drew in our heads, and were turning around,
Down the elevator he came with a bound.

He was dressed all in robes, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with opium soot;
A bundle of wands he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a smoker just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they frightened! his dimples, how scary!
His cheeks were like corpses, his wart like a Lemmy!
His marvelous spells he began to weave,
And the beard on his chin was as long as the eve;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his gums,
Whose acrid funk burned like a stomach sans Tums;
He had a gaunt face even Death could not curb
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of herb.

He was skeletal but alive, a right jolly burnout,
Whether corn chips or the arcane, had much clout;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Laying Marshall stacks that would curse every jerk.
And pushing the button, and wiping his nose,
Giving a nod, in the elevator he rose.

Turning the key, the stoner cranked the speakers loud,
And away he flew, barreling through the crowd.
But we heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and don't forget to light!”

The Nut Cracked Suite

While the Wizard Sangfroid transmutes lead into gin, Bear and Rex argue over what to do about Li'l Edgar's Sartre Affective Disorder.

Handsome B. Wonderful's Thirty-Ninth Annual List of the Top Ten Rock Albums of the Year

Yeah, just used this. Wait and see.

Negative plain [see?]: these things, like everything else, are Mohs and Mohs difficult to scribble with each passing suck. Where once we had to sacrifice a goat to Reagan 'neath an eclipse, a comet, and a dragon after walking ten miles in the snow to & from school whilst barefoot merely to pretend hear windy whispers about new tunes, our ears permanently corked by the alchemick residue of burning pungency [read: existence] itself, The Kids get the fucking interwebs smorgasbord, and some of these clownshoes claim to jam to thirty, forty, a hundred platters over a calendar with justice for all. Ye are charlatans, or wizards, or both, ye are. Fuck, I didn't even know Jerome Fucking Reuter put out a new Rome LP -- that's long player, once upon a vinyl, following 2011's equivalent of three long players -- until after it had been out for a month. Someone get me a new telegraph, or fund Chips & Beer to publish weekly. Luck be a lady tonight & help me churn out my first verse in, yeah, a month. Goddamn, there's so much fucking music nowadays, so much fucking argh in my head.

Groove, get snatchin'.

Oh, instead of album covers, easily findable, samples, also easily findable, but much more useful. I love you like lazy Ozzy.

1. Witch Mountain, Cauldron of the Wild. Motherfucking doom blues. Last year's South of Salem came out of pretend nowhere, a near-decade hiatus triumphantly brushed away like the bones that once held the Sword of Aquilonia. This album's hip-swingers hammer over the enemy's shards like clouds, razor solos feathering over stops & starts, Uta Plotkin's pipes timeshifting between soaring, come-hithering, withering, graceslicking, nwobhming, half the time in every song, four masters having crafted something as rare as a good day, an album grabbing your collar, ordering 'let's rip this gyp joint.' 

The Bloodhound 7" and bringing it live only cements.

Season of the Witch, baby.

2. Katatonia, Dead End Kings. Like the Alcest [see below], this one was a grower, forsaking a batch of instant coffee hooks over textures for a recipe of nearly entirely the latter. Ain't nothing groundbreaking, but so fucking what. Mood music for mopes and I'm a moody mope. No one taps the vein better.

3. Agalloch, Faustian Echoes. The devil's apprentice with the blues dressing his milieu. Venomous & beautiful & epic like only these guys can do, especially since Opeth gave up the ghost for mellotrons & smoking jackets.

4. Worm Ouroboros, Come the Thaw. It ain't heavy, but brother, is it heavy.

5. High on Fire, De Mysteriis Vermis. Call me an old curmudgeon. Rightly so, because modern, desert-dry production, crisp or no, ain't helping. This plate sniper punches on headphones, but live? Everybody's doin' the toxic waltz.

6. Unto Ashes, Burials Foretold. That old gang of mine. Darkness, loss, big-R romanticism, lotta shared aesthetics with the rest of this list. Gravitas doesn't require a stack of Marshalls. Don't tell anyone I typed that.

7. Les Discrets, Ariettes Oubliées.... There's no Song for Mountains, but there are songs mountainous in their craft that lift the gaze from the shoes to the above.

8. Windhand, Windhand. Turn your noodle on, tune in, drop out imagining Electric Wizard fronted by the fairer sex. Slow and murky like a gravestone.

9. Occultation, Three & Seven. So spooky, even the Secret Imam refuses to come back. Negative Plane's Nameless Void hooks up with a couple of chicks, and their ménage à trois thumps as it trumps nearly all the bullshit "occult" metal the cool kids triumph after suddenly discovering their older bro's worn VHS copies of vintage Hammer and Tigon flicks.

10. Alcest, Les Voyages de l'Âme. Started the blurb, stopped, went to sleep help some patrons, read what the Duchess churned, which was pretty much what I was gonna pen, but since she got there first, credit where it's due.

11. Degial, Death's Striking Wings. Death metal these days is either Sominex math-tech or ineffective, borderline grindcore. Once upon a corpse, it was nothing but a vampire circus of fucking morbid riffs that even a hesher's angel could hum. Bless you, Sweden, for your scamps sure are drinking the Kool-Aid.

12. Van Halen, A Different Kind of Truth. I don't give a fuck if it's misty watercolor or not, it's Diamond Fucking Dave and The Maestro, together again. And, some filler aside [this truth is different], the best's pretty vintage.

13. Teitanblood, Woven Black Arteries. Last year's Purging Tongues shorty and a newbie. That's one song each, one long song of filthy fucking riff whorls, just dirty fucking shit, a shift from Seven Chalices to one big cup o' disease & blacked-out alleys, less bestial stomp this time 'round, more a morass of massed sound that'd make Dickens cringe right after he stepped in, what is that, offal, blood, shit? Probably all three and been here for a week. Who knew the Spanish economy had folks this unhinged.

bonus! Deathspell Omega, Drought. Some, not me, expressed disappointment with the last DsO LP, the final panel of a triptych heard less as Dies Irae holy fire and more watered-down, tech-accessible brimstone, & sure, 'twas neither Si Monumentum nor Kénôse, but also wasn't mimicking the incredibly overrated Meshuggah, & yours truly thought the hallucinatory, atonal layers fit the Patmos shroom trip's spiraling denouement. Omega, here's your Alpha, all spit & knuckles, save the legitimately pretty instrumental opener/closer, blasts wedlocking Satanica esoterica to old school, inquisitorial riffing.

bonus! Morbus Chron, A Saunter Through the Shroud. Violent riff blasts that flip the bird to their native NWOSDM melodicism in favor of sweaty American death metal, gleefully aping Obituary before those jerks started to suck.

Shit I neither inhaled nor cuddled with enough. Music, man: Rome, Fester. Rome, Hell Money (BEING PROLIFIC AIN'T COOL, PAL). Neurosis, Honor Found in Decay. Conan, Monnos. Winterfylleth, The Threnody of Triumph. Wodensthrone, Curse. Castle, Blacklands. Asphyx, Deathhammer. Weapon, Embers and Revelations. Overkill, The Electric Age. Graveyard, Lights Out. Orchid, Heretic. Ihsahn, Eremita. My Dying Bride, A Map of All Our Failures. BDR's favorite Blunderbuss, Jack White. Evoken, Atra Mors. Greenleaf, Nest of Vipers. Undersmile, Narwhal. Elder, Spires Burn/Release. Adrian H and the Wounds, Debut. Boss de Nage, III. Om, Advaitic Songs. Witchcraft, Legend. Kadaver, Kadaver. Uzala, Uzala. Pilgrim, Misery Wizard. Napalm Death, Utilitarian. Locrian & Mamiffer, Bless Them That Curse You. Ghost Tower, Head of Night. Anaal Nathrakh, Vanitas. 

The plane truth

Sure, the headliner was the Aussie Vomitor fostering their late thrash/early death lager, but we, and I think I can speak for the SBH, were there for Negative Plane, and if you'll permit me to indulge, a word on labels. Black metal: are NP such a beast, are they not, who fucking cares. Spectrally, an amped Mercyful Fate, the number of measures supersized, the falsetto replaced with a diabolic echo. Whatever they be, they're the skull maniacally grinning from atop the pile of bones.

Evul grins were out in force, too, magic mouths on tobacco smokestacks bricked in denim & leather, Angles, Saxons, & Jutes, a lotta denim & leather miniskirts & pants, backpatches from Celtic frosted classics to new breeds, a Bathory Hammerheart purse for good measure. Fetching young lady, whomever ye are, horns, though 'twas straunge to be one of the least metal looking dudes in the darkness. Shelled in a plain black hoodie and shorts -- after all, was nearly 50° -- even my proudly sported Darkthrone tee couldn't keep me from chortling at looking the odd man. No matter, metal's not out, but in the blood, brain, & soul. Look around, you know it when you see it, like pornography.

Negative Plane @ Now That's Class: Angels of Veiled Bone, Staring Into the Abyss, Lamentations and Ashes, Death Mass, The Number of the Word.

Harmony corruption

'twas only a matter of time.

MUAHAHAHAHAHA, etc.

Partial-birth catharsis, or, I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU

Most interesting cat of the night was the long-haired Aesop Dekker -- From the Future! being all gruff bouncer for the gothy photog chick in the black tights adorned with the upside-down crosses & her blonde companion, more petite than even the SBH and who threw mock face punches inside the pop-up pits that I'm not entirely convinced were one-hundred percent mock but being a petite thing, the burly dudes, to their credit, did nothing more than the required push-back, all while the long-haired Aesop Dekker -- From the Future! landed scowls with the marksmanship of a veteran sweet scientician.

If Matt Pike is the Pope of Saudi Arabia Metal, and he is, then Des Kensel is his secret ecclesiastical weapon. Kudos, too, to Jeff Matz and his bong-rattling bass. Straungely, didn't inhale a single whiff of weed but did on occasion an unenchanting musk. Old Spice, dudes, Old Spice.

Yeah, it was loud.

High on Fire @ The Grog Shop: Serums of Liao, Frost Hammer, 10,000 Years, Devilution, Last, Fertile Green, Speedwolf, Rumors of War, DII, Fury Whip, Madness of an Architect, Snakes for the Divine.

This is the end, my friend, a play in one-half act

Characters
Miss Prunella Vulgaris, The Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer, esteemed member of the Peonage
Juan, The Earl of Valdez, less esteemed member of the Peonage
Captain Single-eye, Sovereign Grand Inspector General of the Island of Heretofore Unaccounted Knavery, relation of Ivar the Boneless, who had both eyes until the day of his decease, unlike his descendant who had only one, as previously mentioned
Dog-bird, hideous laboratory creation and anthropomorphic hench-creature
Alexander Nevsky, part-time Russian folkhero & full-time spectral entity
Benito of the Hamlet, anachronistic blackshirted blackguard
Just Like Che, noted motorcycle enthusiast & muse of hep cats everywhere
Ivan, Russian Bear & camp guard
Wojtek, Polish Bear & prisoner
Lady Herefordshirebroke, The Marquess of Upper Silesia, esteemed member of the Peonage
Noman, background scenery
Master Baytes of Tampa, dread piratical buccaneer
Jack the London, noted Western wildman
Jack the Kerouac, noted Neolithic hipster
Jack the Ripper, noted English arch-slasher
Mysterious Stranger, chapeau'd
Lemmy, noted baritone bassist & collector of blow-em-up baubles
Fryer Bungy, English conjurer & skillet gourmand
The Potato Witches of the Caucasus, pastiche weirdos who know a big secret
Baba Yaga, dancing Slavic sorceress
Otto von Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor, made not of iron but of duh
Aide-de-camp, NPC & Hessian
King Diamond, King Diamond
Hannibal, no-star general & playboy son of a noted Tripolitanian fashion plate
Fadades, Gaulish misanthrope, pretend musician, & sky pie aficionado
Zardoz, freshly served serf who in fact wasn't eaten by Bear but your humble playwright is too lazy to retcon an explanation
Erich Zann, noted viol player, concert master, & lunatic
Zombie Johannes Brahms, famous composer & corpse
Zombie Clara Schumann, famous pianist, keeper of the mad, & corpse
Kid Darkthrone, not-very-noted local misanthrope, reformed
Good King Wenceslas, Duke, not King, of Bohemia
Krampus, legendary dread purloiner of joy & stuff various & valuable not that your playwright still humble is saying that joy isn't valuable only that it's fleeting & you shouldn't get too attached
Michael Buffer, egomaniacal microphone
The Infant of Prague, Our Lord and Savior
The Christmas Goat, Swedish Wicker Man knockoff
Snowpocalypse, noted archfiend
Children, children
Stagehand, stagehand
Cashier, cashier
Bear, bait, & lovable ursine scamp 

When we last left our intrepid Peonage, well, your humble playwright doesn't remember. It's better to burn witch burn but let's try that fading away gig instead because it's less work. Anyway, a bunch of dread piratical buccaneers, led not by the dreadest, most piratanical buccaneer of the hairy palms, but CAPTAIN SINGLE-EYE himself because someone said he was the supervillain told you I didn't remember, have abducted, no I don't know how, probably magic or some crap, most, if not all, of the characters from past one-acts and brought them to his mysterious island, new and improved with extra knavery.
 
DUCHESS: Are we fucked?
EARL: Probably.
NEVSKY: Veer are vee?
BENITO (to NEVSKY): Communist!
JUST LIKE CHE (to BENITO): What of it?
IVAN (to no one in particular): Growl.
MARQUESS: [in Polish]
WOJTEK: [growling in Polish]
NOMAN: Huh?
MASTER BAYTES: Wha?
JACK THE LONDON: Bah?
JACK THE KEROUAC: Bah?
JACK THE RIPPER: Black sheep?
LEMMY: Historically inaccurate.
MYSTERIOUS STRANGER: So this is what it feels like when Lemmys cry.
FRYER BUNGY: Food soothes the savage bassist.
POTATO WITCHES: Tubers!
BABA YAGA: Wait! Where's --
OTTO: -- my Fabergé Potato?
AIDE-DE-CAMP: Where's his Fabergé Potato?
KING DIAMOND (singing): It's for the Peonage, so lay off the doobage!
HANNIBAL: Veni vidi arrivederci!

HANNIBAL exits, gets eaten by a cannibal. See, extra knavery.

FADADES (screeching): SCREECH!
ZARDOZ: Do I have to work?
ERICH ZANN: Tentacles from beyond!
ZOMBIE JOHANNES BRAHMS: Clara, I love --
ZOMBIE CLARA SCHUMANN: -- my brains?
KID DARKTHRONE: Speaking of brains --
WENCESLAS: -- how are we going to get out of this?
KRAMPUS: You aren't! Nor are your children!
CHILDREN: No!
MICHAEL BUFFER: Let's get ready to rumble!
INFANT OF PRAGUE: Waaaa!
CHRISTMAS GOAT: Bleat the halls!
SNOWPOCALYPSE: So, what's the deal, Single-eye?
STAGEHAND: Yeah, I still haven't gotten paid for last time.
CASHIER: Don't look at me, this economy's a bitch.
DOG-BIRD: Caw!

CAPTAIN enters, brandishing a rick derringer.

CAPTAIN: You tell 'em, Dog-bird!

BEAR enters. 

BEAR: Growl.

CAPTAIN: Enough of this hoochie koo! All of you! I've got your precious Fabergé Potato, and as for the Krypton Stone, let's just say I had to call in a few favors of the congressional variety. Oh, the Third Thing, oh, that Third Thing, one and two and three makes true universal power you were born to be my baby and I was born to be your man, but since Captain Single-Eye couldn't find it --
DUCHESS: What a diva.
CAPTAIN: I've decided to blow you all, but just you and no one else especially not me, to that third-rate Zeppelin knock-off, Kingdom Come!
EARL: What, no Trixter reference? Who writes this shit?
KID DARKTHRONE: Use your allusion.
DUCHESS: Don't feed the fintroll.
EARL: Ahem. Single-eye, it's Doomsday, Single-eye, the end of the world. Can't you understand? For God's sake, help us!
CAPTAIN: Stay away from me!
EARL: You damned animal!
CAPTAIN: Don't touch that!
DUCHESS: Help us! Help us!
CAPTAIN: You asked me to help you? The Peonage is evil, capable of nothing but destruction!
EARL (confused): What the fuck.
DUCHESS: Shush. He's on a roll. The sooner he's done, the sooner we're outta this off-Broadway train wreck. Um. (leafs through the script) Ah, here we are. You bloody bastard!
CAPTAIN: Evil!
KRAMPUS (to CAPTAIN): Fire! Fire!
NEVSKY: Foor Good's sock, eetz the Doomsday bomb, zee end of zee vorld!

KRAMPUS takes gun from CAPTAIN SINGLE-EYE, shoots EARL, whose body falls on the button.

In one of the countless billions of galaxies in the universe lies a medium-sized star. And one of its satellites, a green and insignificant planet, is now dead.

EVERYONE exeunt. Except EARL who is woken by a pinging noise.

EARL (waking): You won't believe the dream I just had. Damn golf balls. Wait.

EARL gets up and looks out the window.

EARL: Oh. Well, this suc --

In one of the countless billions of galaxies in the universe lies a medium-sized star. And one of its satellites, a green and insignificant planet, is now dead. No, really. Go home. Don't forget to stop at our gift shop!

fin

The last acts of a not-that-desperate man, or, do not, there is no try, or or, I'd rather be flying a kite than fucking around with this crap

 





As a famous man often types, *deleted bleggalgazing*

No Longer Waiting for Wotan

"We'll shoot ourselves tomorrow. Unless Wotan comes."

Battle for the Planet of the Night of the Lepus

Woulda coulda shoulda

Woulda seen those guys last night, save for a litany of rust-adjacent couldas & shouldas both short & long term and since I don't lay out my entrails for the zero haruspices I've got in meat world, no fuckin' way I'm gonna for you jokers and hence furthermore since my head still throbs, here's some fuckin' High on Fire, here in less than two fortnights, so pictures the following morn, or something.

Rust never sleeps?

Oh, you'll sleep, don't think you won't sleep!

Secrets

There's a rumor, not of gold nor Herodotean bizarrerie, but of a rare kind of joy, easy to experience, yet ineffable, chiefly due to no one knowing its origin story though there are plenty of quack theories. Advice: save your stack of mystical tricksy and psychological symposia 'cause my innards are busy spending their waking hours spirographing inside both chord progressions and unproductive [ed. note: who says?] daydreaming.

This joy has nothing to do with a "job well done" whose specifics are dictated by The Man, members of his cabal, or favor-grasping, middle-management initiates; the simple pleasures oft cultivated by the complex personality; nor young springtime love, the kind of overcooked slop that balloons the heart of a sap until the chest cavity is left melodramatic with cracked ribs and a buckshot of muscle, aorta, vena cava, caves and seeing and shadow and all that philosophical bullshit of Ideas and Forms, the ideal form wink nudge, ad infinitum vomitorium. So, this unexplainable thing: an illusion?



For three minutes and twenty-six seconds hell no, and then it's gone, like the leaves I yesterday raked & bagged. No, no, no, not mine, I like the crunch, and it has nothing to do with Van Halen or Indian summer or the club days, theirs or mine. This joy from out of nowhere just is, no Slick Willie allusions, thanks, and its emanations could be a striking passage in a book you're reading for the first time, the Beatles (doubtful), a shared guffaw over a string of dumb, your favorite brand of yogurt, a plane tree, plain pizza, a field of green, greenbacks, green jeans, a Route 66 roadtrip, Polaroided just like we used to do a long time ago because 35mm was a pain in the Fotohut.

Touch your wrist; no sparkly fizz, no blood in a tizzy, nothing but runny emulsion, as if a picture of a ghost, someone call Nimoy. No scary here, only a deep calm, and this is about the worst articulation job you'll ever read on anything I can all but guarantee. This is why I'm not a writer.

If you could crawl in my head, and thank Cthulhu that you can't, some of you hippies might collate these scattered bits into some Buddhist freeing from desire & thus cause for celebration, but I still want, believe me; think more along the lines of a cool, Dale Cooper need for coffee and a slice of that cherry pie. Emotion brandishes an iron fist, but on occasion drops its guard, bounding off black entropy onto one of Technicolor, and fires smooth.

The coffee and a slice of cherry pie ain't sat in front of me, so I wonder what the secret is; bet I can find it. That's the illusion.

Helen Lovejoy approves this message

Only a dumbass wouldn't check out this merry cavalcade of acid straunge.

Carmageddon

The rust bucket is tottering on its last good leg, thus,
time to commit a random act of senseless capitalism.

Oh yeah? Well, my tapeworm was this big*

*of course this is a carefully constructed allegory of our political system. Duh.

Vote by rote gets my goat; stick it in a tote, row row row this boat, toss it in the moat, or, fuck that shit, here's some nature of note

I, for one, welcome our new insect overlords.

666 rpm

In honor of the dark half, the most interesting half, of the human condition, I'm off to watch this for the billionth time once I escape the Slab. Whilst I'm stabbing my heart with knife-wielding doom, spookify your life with this fake radio show if I had a radio show which I don't, hence fake, the perfect apertif to your candy scarfing or your rage at having to wait to scarf due to Gaia's rage, that's like rage squared and one of 37 reasons the gods invented metal, another one being raging at certain forms of slackerdom that even slackers scowl at but mostly a righteous rage contra zombie bigwigs and their crumbled up cookie days.

Frankenstorm meets Frankenberry and Frankenhooker 'cause Abbott and Costello are dead

Yeah, not so much

Verily, a day about to be wasted vomiting up an on-rails high school paper for a rumored college class. Oh, the gutters we willingly dive into for that shiny bus pass. I feel so dirty, but not very sexy which is probably true of most middle-age hitched dudes but in order to stave off every else's burgeoning vomiting, let me quickly change the vinyl and spin ye something both Halloweenie & oh baby.

Crazy from the heat

I'm a moper, a mental joker, a cold-weather toker who ruminates on a single thing for a day, a week, a month, cocooned in lands of ice & snow both real & imagined, the only synaptic interruptions being eat some food, dude, go to sleep, jackass, ain't gonna happen, moron.

But once upon a decade or less, heat meets feeling good -- no, not good, nor contentment, nor a simple abdication of responsibility, nor some Kerouackian booze n' asphalt-to-nowhere quackery, I don't know what it is since I'm not very California Zen -- and it's gonna be 80° in the shade today, and I'm feeling that whatever, that thing, dreaming about a sanctum without boundaries, windows down, Van Halen blaring, waxing idiotic about fuckeries & joys poetick & sundry, voices ever louder to contend with the wail & squeal.

Take advantage of Venus transiting the sun? Oh sure, I've got oodles of collectively-bargained noodling time, but I've also got a rusting gas-guzzler unfit for highway starring, & the notion of three hour roundtripping whilst I talk to me myself & I doesn't fill yours truly with lusty glee, plus Doodily might be pissed at having to trudge home from evening class, so I'm sticking myself inside work's allotted sixty minutes box of legal slack, propositioned by an evening of hello mirror universe me before I watch game two of the World Series.

If not for tunes & a semi-functioning imagination.

Welcome back, Kotter

Alack, a dearth o' pre-show & twixt-act verbal thrust n' parry? Sigh no more;
a beautiful cure, & the only side effect is a ring-a-ding-dinging the next morn.

Witch Mountain @ Now That's Class: The Ballad of Lanky Rae, Beekeeper, Shelter, Bloodhound, Wing of the Lord, Veil of the Forgotten, Never Know.

Cemetery gate crashers

They're coming to get you, SBH.

Shadows taller than our corpses.

Mellow yellow.

Sky leaves in flight, afternoon delight.

Unbagged carpet.

We all wing it.

The smart consumer's place to go sledding.
Plots half off with each cracked skull.

Can't you ask a little more sexfully?

So I came across this at work:

Which led to the Duchess cruelly reminding me of this blasphemy:



Which, after scrubbing my brain with some sonic-only Slayer, led me here, a posting of some of my favorite hyperkinetic sweaty makeout rumpbusters:





Whew, is it hot in here, or is it -- nevermind, the heater's broken.