Whip it, whip it good

Last rites, or, metal up their ass

Yesterday, both Roboma & Obomney soiled our already not-that-fair center of this island universe. Today, Cliff Burton became a casualty of the Bus People, twenty-six years in the past. Coincidental time paradox? Methinks not.

Smile time

"A smile can make a friend for you out of an enemy. When death stares you in the face, smile at it and it may leave you untouched, I believe."

"Spring is the smile of the earth. Smile at each other. Do it honestly when you meet. Greet one another through smiles. Talk to each other with smiles."

The devil's dubstep

Ow my nose, ow my face

With the gang (who, unlike the man above, are not affiliated with bank robbers alive or dead) gone to grandma's house, yours truly decided against drunk posting & had some corn flakes instead, while drinking. Advancing decrepitude is a fine safety net; the hangover ain't a crashed flying trapeze artist, but lo, listen, learn, read on: I wrote, thus proving the efficacy of being blotto.*

Take that, scienticians.

*it sucks, thus proving the efficacy of sobriety. Take that, me

About fucking time, or, stuck inside

Mr. Mike may have given up death for '70s smoking jackets, but tra-la-la-ing through winding aisles of crunchy leaves [ed. note: they're still mostly green, so no evidence for thee] still means this nestling in the ears,

this when it's stomp-stomp-stomping, though ignore April, think November because the standings-in-place, the same old song & slight show, & all that other rot will by then be nice & ripe for the annual ignoring. A second though: that ostensibly angry riff's sure a grin-maker, but don't tell anyone I did.

A hefty dose of epic, pungent melodrama, that's the fucking draw in an increasingly fragmentary catalog of specialized electro-mechanical box factories where Irony the Sifter, XIVth Lord Documentarian of Blah-upon-Bah coolly wears the iron crown but ironically, which is probably why my penning's all self-absorbed garbage, but just till I learn that monster verbal riff, then it'll just be self-absorbed. Oh, this is on the first-world, fossil-fueled internet? How ironic.

One dollar bill, y'all$

After all those nature shots, the blog needed some uglifying.

The Duchess tells me Vai lost his locks.
Where that leaves his fan only the roadie knows.

Thou now ravish'd goop of disguiseness,
Thou attic-child of candy -- hey, it's Time,
Gothic thespian, you can thus express
A vampiric tale more bloody than this rhyme

Farmer, tycoon, even artist? Once again, hesher is the redheaded stepchild.

If face punching doesn't work...

Stupid hippies.

Keep watching the skis!

The chamber pot that fits in your pocket!

Joey, have you ever been in a Turkish writing workshop?

Once upon a time, a hack hacked out a hunk of hacked-up hackwork that to the surprise of everyone in the kingdom except the king who was busy being nude, merely bordered the putrescence of a Cannibal Corpse cover unlike the last piece of tripe which, under order of a member of the Underling Order because see above, did belong in a tomb, & was in fact mutilated with snotty glee in the town square before interment.

The cackling hack, after a rousing game of sleep 'n toss, woke up, dumped a bucket of cold water on his head, scarfed down a cold bowl of tasteless bran, picked chaff from twixt his teeth, braved riding with Bus Carriage People, & reread yon eve's pamphleteering, only to find that it was among the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked.














Now suffering the shame of echoing tinnitus, & shame, the hack struck upon a momentary lapse of lack of eureka & embraced sleep deprivation because when you're hallucinating, everything's at least mildly phantasmagoric & the cataract of imperfections becomes a mere dribble that's actually drool but you won't know that until after the crash so, hey, enjoy the ride, wizard scribe.

fin

You don't say

Two moody fuckers don't mix.

Romney loves money.

So does Obama.

The latter's yap received better training.

Everyone loves law & order.

I dig heavy metal.



The real winner.

Please, feel free to add your own obviousities in comments.

First flight

Finally nabbed one of you ninja bastards.

Frequency: common. Treasure type: nil.

It's a bomber.

Can't forget the magic.

Allegory, or, unexpectation sucks

One goddamn piece?

For the last three months, that's it, & a half-scribbled-in-class one at that. Even a serious post-witching hour carcass pick didn't salvage such poemetrick shit.

Perhaps a revisitation, a reghosting, a reapparitioning. Let's go with reghosting; the latter sounds too fiscally gerrymeandering to which Jake says ewww.

If only marrow was recyclable & nothing more than a quick snack for the ghoul on the go or a key ingredient in either compost or barbarian stew.


I do know what happens when I mix acids & bases, the same thing that happens when blood & brain aren't siphoned off by stanza & paragraph.

If only spontaneous combustion was a contest.

First prize is $500 & a year's supply of melodrama.

$500, you say?

Melodrama, you say?

If only an if only.

Yeah, these guys again, this time with some old Oldham. It's cold [ed. note: slightly cooler that it has been, but I'm ever th'eternal optimist], overcast [ed. note: shit, that's the sun, innit], & nothing's better than these dour Swedes for hoodie weather, but I'm certainly open to suggestions that I'll immediately ignore.

Put that in your pipe & mope it.

Gimme that pretzel or the serf gets it

Experimental jet set, trash, and no star sculptor, or, 99 lilaballons, or, everyone's stupid

Work No. 666: the lights going off and staying off. 

Can't wait for MOCA to counter with a foam show.

What, you thought I was gonna waste valuable electrons posting about the carefully managed clusterfuck that is hypersensitive Muslims, rapacious Westerners, false flag bearers, & the poor shlub in the street? Perhaps a traipse through a room of purple balloons would sooth their troubled souls.

Doom

Since one can't simply stroll down to the local Revco CVS & pick up a BFF Bot, 'tis a good thing someone invented Primal Headbang Therapy.



In more interesting news,

Poor man's Instagram.

I don't know what happened here.

I know what happened here -- DEATH.

WHERE'S THE HEAD?

Here are the shrooms.

& Boris, too.

Watch out for humans.

ALWAYS REMEMBER

que c'est mon anniversaire!

I can't remember which star system he originally hails from, but at least he's not a Zeta Reticulan or a Hollow Earth Lizardman. Their love lyrics are all about getting us to put our guard down, then it's bye-bye bodily fluids. Wait.

Ye Olde Wheelie Busse Tayles

When one's weekend was neither Sammy Hagar nor Fenriz, one has nothing to say. Thus, a gauche photo "essay." No deep meaning here, folks.

That's la lune, Orion, a snippet of Taurus (?), aloft in a web of cloud. Trust me, for flash meant possibly annoying the non-suck neighbors, thus, gauzy spook.

Stop number one.

 

Yours truly before the crash.*

*some moran in a Manly Man Truck of Manliness tried to skip in front to grab some gas station smokes. Luckily for him the crunch was only around 5 mph. 

Last call, before alcohol is required in dealing with The Kids.

If only they were magic

The sense of an ending

'tis better to have waited to review than never to have reviewed before, but that's not never not stopped me yet. That's a lot of negativity. Apropos, no? Post-Viva Emptiness, Katatonia began departing from immediacy -- think I Break, For My Demons, Chrome, riffs that clutched with gusto -- distancing instead into the great cold of texture. Oh, I've got a million of 'em. The just inferred album, after a mountain of spins, has nearly ascended to the height of its three predecessors [ed. note: Leaders always kicked the shins], the melancholy trinity. That should probably be capitalized. As for the last full-length, after an introspection allotted only by time: some hits, some misses, & the template followed still, the weakest of the clean vocal era, still. Now, Dead End Kings, the question being, is the title a Freudian slip?

Soft/loud continues to hold pride of place, but the electro-noodling plague wielded on the last LP by unofficial sixth member Frank Default [ed. note: chortle] has thankfully sunk further into the earth, replaced some by loamy keyboard work that harkens back, though sadly not strongly enough, to Last Fair Deal Gone Down, their undisputed meisterwerk.

Now, upon thirteen new tracks, Messrs. Nyström & Renkse open an old bag of tricks: the wispy patina of The Gathering's Silje Wergeland guesting on The One You Are Looking For Is Not Here, an honest-to-Hanneman metal solo swooping before a classic bridge-n-chop on Lethean, the muffled AM-radio fadeout of The Racing Heart, the low-key carnival gait of The Act of Darkening so sap I wonder how these knuckleheads decided to leave it off the standard release. The shuffling Leech recalls but doesn't clone Viva's quietly despondent One Year From Now, whilst Undo You filters select passagework of mid-period Arcturus, even Black Sabbath's atypical Air Dance, through the band's trademark gloom, an October never painted in bombast but fragments of stanzas, measures (oh, 2:23-3:05 of First Prayer, why weren't you an eleven-minute extrapolation before slipping back into sheet metal chords?), passing clouds that blind foolish Reason with the good stuff.



The biggest difficulty in reviewing albums, albums by these guys most notably, is that nearly every past release has corresponded to a specific dilemma/upheaval in a particular point in the four dimensions, i.e. separating the music from personal context is nigh impossible & that cannot but help to color the impression one way or the other. True of any piece of art, but the final arbiter is, again, time. In another three years, who knows, but at this point on the clock, Dead End Kings isn't a dead end, the slow start to too many tracks notwithstanding, but an exploration of endings that, hopefully, will harmonize with the beginning of something better out here. I doubt it, but at least the doubt has sound.

The society of the spectaclest bunch of spectacles that ever spectacled

Posture, QB, posture.

Yeah, it's that time again. Yippee.

AFC East: Every year The Fucking Patriots play a slate the '72 Dolphins would be jealous of. Every goddamn year. Too bad not really they always blow it against inferior teams who also share the The Fucking partial sobriquet. Miami sucks, The Fucking Jets suck on offense which is why they traded for the Human Distraction, which leaves the incredibly average Toronto Bills sloppily second.

AFC North: Who do you think. As for the bottom half, the Bungles can't but regress (9-0 vs. non-playoff teams, 0-7 vs. bonus money), & HA HA HA HA HA.

AFC South: General Zod's favorite squadron lost some folks, but Take the Money and Run, the clusterfuck Jags [ed. note: is this a Florida thing?], & the Heir Apparent are just fodder for radio ga ga.

AFC West: Philip Rivers is the reincarnation of Dan Fouts. Not sold on The Fucking Broncos pieces parts as a whole, but all they really needed was a real quarterback. It remains to be seen whether Peyton's neck is Memorex or not. Don't count out the Chiefs, seriously, stop giggling. Speaking of giggling, I wonder who's been tasked with wearing shiny 70s tracksuits around 1 Raider Place.

NFC East: Andy Reid successfully hides from the Turk for one more campaign. Anyone who wears baseball caps backwards unless they're a grade schooler playing catcher is a douchebag, but Romo can throw. So can Eli, but The Fucking Giants' coming is going: they were 9-7, outscored, & lost to Washington. Twice, which means they'll go 10-6 & miss the crapshoot. At least the 2001 The Fucking Patriots are no longer the shittiest champion in the Super Bowl era. Let's go footie style, one big league, best record at the end gets the shiny trophy.

NFC North: They learned their lesson, though it remains to be seen whether Chicago did. If Cutler's upright, an easy 10 or 11 wins. If not, they're the Lions. Yes, I'm predicting that Stafford's going to have a series of boo-boos. Wasn't Minnesota one classic Favre playoff fuckup from the big one a mere few years ago? My, how time flies when you're buried under delusional ownership.

NFC South: Speaking of flying, you thought I was going to segue into Atlanta. Nope. So the masterminds behind Murdergate or whatever shockingly heinous directives of violence in the most physically debilitating sport this side of buzkashi won't be strutting the sidelines. The Saints have Drew Brees. The Falcons don't, & more importantly, a defense I'm not sold on until I see the notarized affidavit. Cam's fantasy league pinball machine Halloween costume aside, chic pick Carolina is also a chic sieve, & lastly, it is a Florida thing.

NFC West: The Cardinals have Kevin & Thompson behind center, the Rams have no supporting cast, the Seahawks will be dealing with a quarterback controversy & uniforms too ugly even for the Arena League, thus, the Niners by the two greatest words in the English language.

AFC playoff seeds: The Fucking Patriots, The Fucking Steelers, Planet Hooston, San Diego, The Fucking Broncos, The Fucking Ravens, though don't discount the Bills whose stretch run schedule is a bloody joke.

NFC playoff seeds: Green Bay, Philadelphia, New Orleans, San Francisco, Chicago, The Fucking Cowboys Giants Who Cares. Yes, that's only three new teams. Everything dies.

Super Bowl: Green Bay over The Fucking Patriots.

The aforementioned suckiest bunch of blah blah blah: three bums toss passes, two wins, & one Trent Richardson torn ACL. I wish I hated sports.

Labor of love

In lieu of a gut spill on a thing that gnaweth both hart & soule that you & your children & your children's children don't need to ever read, for three months, here's a timely guffaw whose commie spirit embiggens the capitalist man.

вернуться к работе, ленивые задницы!