This is what I think about your ______

Brilliant idea, Number One, a twenty-fifth anniversary retrospective blathering, 'cause if there's one thing besides the twin titillation of porn & politics that the internets will be short of the next few months, it's posts on Star Trek.

You know you want it. You know I got nothin' else.

Grumble, a half-play in one-fifth act.
Hey, check this text.
Ja wohl.
Thoughts?
'tis good.
Asking receives naught.
fin

Nightcap needs a nightcap after all this weed & mow.
Fuck, I, this, old. N-n-n-n-nobody's fault but tango.

The Dream-Quest of Unknown Wotan

"I hear something."
"Where?"

"It's the heart."
"Damnation!"

"Silence!"
"Perhaps it has stopped."

Off that vast paved abomination leaped the doomed and desperate waiters, and down through endless voids of sentient blackness they fell. Aeons reeled, universes died and were born again, stars became nebulae and nebulae became stars, and still Dante and Randal fell through those endless voids of sentient blackness.

Will you walk into my parlour

Said the spider to the fly.

 

  
CLAP LOUDER

 

 

Or, for a mere $15 a day, clap less.

 
So that's where my $15 really went.

 
 
Space Casino, here I come.

 

Kindly go fuck yourself.

 
 
Not tackling the problem.

Randal's not here, man.

It's all about karmic relationships, baby.

All is not lost.

Man is only air as well

The band's brand new single track, twenty-one minute EP, Faustian Echoes, begins with a sample of Jan Švankmajer’s filmed take on the legend & closes with another. The sound is not as cold as the last LP, though not analog warm, with measures arranged as a hefty bag of Legos upon a board: vicious blasts, placid chord progressions, midpaced tremolo runs, & stretched single-note combinations that, if one were to view the music from the side, & unlike most of their past stabs at extended suites, neither rise to silver mountain height nor delve cavernous pits. After all, this is one mind trapped in a disorder of his own conjuration. To deviate from such a mess under the banner of grasping, or recanting, can only be illusory; the final few minutes' crescendo, the beguiling leitmotif first heard nearly a quarter of an hour ago, teases a crest into illumination, but, of course, never does.

Is it live, or is it Memorex?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gonna suck when we run out of juice & every guitar is acoustic.

Yes, that's the actual setlist, from Aesop.
No, I didn't get it.
Yes, Agalloch proved, again, the existence of magic.

Agalloch @ The Beachland Ballroom: Limbs; Ghosts of the Midwinter Fires; Faustian Echoes; Not Unlike the Waves; Of Stone, Wind, and Pillor; Our Fortress is Burning, Pt. 1; Our Fortress is Burning, Pt. 2: Bloodbirds; As Embers Dress the Sky; Hallways of Enchanted Ebony; You We're But A Ghost In My Arms; In the Shadow of Our Pale Companion; Kneel to the Cross. Encore #1: Dead Winter Days. Encore #2: Falling Snow.

Where's my mind

More than just seeing these heshers Sunday evening, & yeah, this gig's slowly being transmogrified into an imitation tumblr, but you remember your wartime posters. Plus, only dumbasses prefer reading unsalacious crumbs than listening to nine minutes of awesome. Happy moon day, lycanthropes.

A stitch in time saves thousands

Let that mean whatever you wish. I just wanted some riffs. Wasn't I just here? My internal clock is broken. Chronometric fisticuffs. Blood sticking to guts sloshing in entrails. A pile of platters I don't feel like pontificating on. No thanks to waxing chortle on indubitable supervillain symbiosis.

In jet black meditation. Hand me that salvation, will ya?

Danza danza revolución

 
Variety is the spice of nausea.

Think that's scary --

-- get a load of those first few ingredients.

If that's your one-two-three, you've got bigger sweetmeats than I.
Garçon, onion rings, SVP.

Primal scream therapy, or, groundhog day

I figure if a picture's a thousand, a tune's gotta be at least a gajillion. [ed. note: RIP John Lord]

Or I can simply spend the day clicking on this.

Triskaidekaphilia

Sure, Laurie Strode's the final Final Girl -- brains + doobage = booklie discussions + The Wizard -- but Ginny Field's a close second 'cause duh.

Intensity for ten cities.

NO FUCKING CLUE BUT I BET YOU'RE GONNA FUCKING TELL ME

So, good folks, aside from carpet prophylactics, what angers up ye blood? Minus a million points for mention of POTUS, SCOTUS, SCROTUS, WORTHLUS.

Etch-A-Post, or, Brain Spillage #667

Paint, en fait, but not those oils. Too goopy for the low-skilled.

Toke, ne'er-do-wells, toke for the Wizard Van.



Clap your hands, say Ia.*

*if this means I'm, curses, in a mellow mood, at least my unreasonable mind can be reasonably sure that by this afternoon, it'll be pulling up an uncomfortable comfort in the Bleak House of Doom or its non-union, Mexican equivalent.

Just keep telling me this is life and we didn't miss it

Season two is good, lemmings.

We're trudging, scuffling deep in the valley twixt twin peaks of heat. Fire walk with yourself, bub, I'm sweaty [ed. note: figuratively as the Slab's air's conditioned in addition to asbestosed] enough as is, thus, this, meandering rivulets of passivity, all reading + listening, all the time, but the pen remains dry as Charlemagne's bones, assuming of course there's no bathtub mildew wherever his pieces-parts lie; Aachen, the McDonald's in Aachen, Otto's Irresistible Dance Emporium.

[read read read ---> half-ass'd ponder]

This place is vinyl with the needle stuck, isn't it.
Tweaking the tweaks of last month's piece, la belle vie.
Place is more than this place.

Escape from Yorks New, Michael, and that one in Ingerland

Off to that great maximum security prison in the sky.

Moar ye olde scole, now wt monstres

This is just flat out cool. Gashadokuro needs to be on a t-shirt, play sweeper [ed. note: difficult to score sans head, natch], & take my place as Saturday overlord.

I'm gonna send you back to old schoolin'

Jesus Hernandez Cthulhu, the Big Cup's Pointless Phase Shift has already begun with shocking! lack o' brass, too bad Dudelange dude lange lagrange a pow pow pow not a fan, but 1963 since a Luxembourgeois squad has, nevermind. Fuck this sack- & vagina-less league shit. See what I did there, genitalia genius. Man, that riff smokes water, fires skies, plus you could churn it out in a lute shoppe without getting a half stack in the kneecap. My copy of this disappeared ages ago, but working in a library has its benefits beyond oscillation twixt hanging ten & spacing out with the occasional sprinkles-on-top of ranting to no one/suckers in the immediate radius as we anathematize all those who oppose us. Guess that reference, win a prize. Hint: 'tis actually post-1980, the year of Women and Children First & joyous Saturnalia receipt of the Alpha-1 Rocket Base. I swear on this book of carpet samples.

Waiting for Wotan's Korean Vacation

Say you don't know me, you'll burn

Funny not really how precise jumps become drunk buzzed & disorderly drowned. DEATH TO FLYING THINGS. Ends, like days, are weeks that bleed together. See what I did there, Dracula, blood. Symmetric literary genius. I should write a novel, The 0-UP Kid. I'm sure some Very Important Prick [ed. note: no examples, please; different corpse, same embalming fluid] said a thing au moins 42% more HA than the last radio ga ga but I've got a bunch of Hammer reruns to rewatch in lieu of celebrating dead rich fucks' goo goo.

Y'know what Ronnie crooned about listening to fools.