Doing the right thing

Frogger, deconstruct D)all of the above*

*did jam ninja-ly** to a stack of Darkthrone discs this weekend so hail hail rock and/or roll for truth in advertising for once

**sans air guitaring and/or neck wrecking***

***one wreck's good n' plenty****

****do "they" still make these?*****

*****I know "they" still puke out the great taste of Charleston Chew******

******66, the number of the beast, ******66, the one for you and me

Swing and a miss

Suburbia hole-up tea chug, Stooges on repeat, half oblivion to the FA Cup on the tube & the usual too, the page dirtied by shit verse #752 = ¡Viva la Revolución!

Clap your hands say fuck yeah that's over

Sitting on the can early [read: early] Friday morning feverishly watching the brine bubble up out of pore after pore, my body's tubing behaving as if I had just downed a fifth and a box of prunes, c'est-à-dire, the Compleat St. Patrick's Day, but without all that pesky socialization.

To celebrate my victory, some select pieces of delicious ear candy. To celebrate yours, that I didn't go into even more detail, feel free to suggest others.

Thine jaw stands slack 'fore the mysteries of life

As an occasional connoisseur of horror both great & Z-grade, 'tis a wonder numbered among the seven that I've not seen until last night this awful piece of claptrap that commands a furious retch. Hath Plan 9 met its mighty match?

And that was the highlight of my weekend.

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.

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

Tyre! Tyre! burning bright in the suburbs of the night

The piece of shit can't actually traverse Routes 66, 666, or n.

A nail, nay, a screw, lay deep inside the rubber.

Lest ye thinketh this post is très sexy, 'twas only the catalyst for dropping off the wizard jeep, trudging with the SBH back chez Randal, waiting for five lousy minutes for the workingman to herald a fresh, shiny finish at least I got the dishes done, & trudging back, the damn sun out the whole time I hate getting all sweaty & grimy but verily, a necessitie in shewing evasion to both this shambler from beyond the stars

& the interwebs which saveth me from being the 14,346,193rd comment on [insert Issue of the Hour here] because if I can't convince you to spend valuable time listening to Emperor, what chance do I have with anything unimportant?

Go forth & multiply slack.

Have your cake and choke on it, too

'tis her birthing day, start gifting, nothing from Ronco, thanks, but some reading comprehension for uploaders might be nice.

Stupid un-troo 80s hats, a shield wall against listening, though with Reflective Powers comes Spidey sense. Example: post-Tanya's the better material. Sorry kids, & better late than never, thanks, homie.

Issue number six: now available, the old leather comfort (& excuse, & crutch) of routine, now with a dash of oregano those pesky morals! Rumors of a purple lotus ring have been greatly exaggerated. Supplies are unlimited!

Normally, this is where I'd place the navel lint, but today's batch looks suspiciously like the last batch, all frazzled & silent screaming like a vine strangled charcoal.

At least the local sports teams still suck. Wait.

You win again, gravity!

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.