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.

Why don't you make like a tree and get outta here

Because the only revealable thought tumbleweeding through the barrens of my skull is that if Horatio Alger and Alger Hiss had a love child this Horatio Hiss would surely be a down-on-his-luck private dick, here's some autumnal leaving.

Silly rabbit, scratch fever's for cats

Suppose I should post something, or, it's a conspiracy, c-o-n-spiracy

Sure, spun an abundant howl of Alice, Soundgarden, Nirvana, occasionally peppered with Skin Yard, Gruntruck, but the lost 90s grooved much of these yokels as well. Most twentysomethings spend those 3650+ days entangled in some pointless gobbledygook such as "finding themselves" [ed. note: pretend the quotes are fingers accompanied by an unseen, Marty Feldman-esque bulge] but for us morans, 'twas the rusty car diaper shuffle, known in some circles as the magnet tar pit trap, & now that the first party crasher is a recent twentysomething, I feel old. But since I'm old & pop no temporary bliss, the sense of an ending quickly fades as I creak back & mellow to some tunes.

Dream a little dream of me in chains

The lines lay on a screen, & as I begin to read them out loud, a low-key media show flashes behind, each slide synchronized to a single line, but with seamless watercolor movement. After I'm done, I realize the piece is pretty fucking piercing, with, of course, the attendant grumblings of why can't I write like that.

Then I wake up.

So I did write like that, but I can't remember any more than a stray word. If only my subconscious was flesh n' blood, I could kick it in the shins & tell it to get outta my house for beating the dead horse that is my poemetrick corpse if only it hadn't already paid for its n-year lease in full. If only.

I also dreamed that I got arrested by an overzealous cop for taking pictures of the outdoor stage where the pretzeldent's gonna drone on today & then had to call the Duchess & tell her that she was the opener during my indefinite incarceration. Like I wouldn't use my one phone call to ring my dealer.

Knave, get thee hence off my lawne.

It is almost Halloween, after all