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.

His brains are boilin' when he hears the guitars roar

Messrs. Shermann & Denner, young & wild. 

A choice ironically comical or comically ironic, haven't decided yet.

Nothin' goin' on, no gong-banging, no it got-on, just stuck in neutrality like Switzerland. Sans Nazi ingots, of course. Such a stash could fuel serious bootleg acquisition. Since I'm no DaiMon, no Rules, only old shows once too young.

Bunch o' other crap, but who fucking cares. Brain's tired of hearing it, and so would you if you already aren't here, there, mmmm, Cadbury creme eggs.

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.

'cause I haven't posted metal in awhile, and 'cause you know it, no bitchin', 'tis what twixt is

[an infinity of redaction 'cause imma 1.7 track mind and where I do push pen you can't see and you don't wanna be trust me 'cause it sucks like a Mack truck of godawful fuck sixteen tons and whaddya get space cadetted that's what]

Naval lint

The oceans are full of sailed ships.

You, 61° in Cleveland on January 30th, I hope you die of heat stroke.

Doing the right thing can be incredibly unfulfilling.

Each time I think I might want to make an actual friend, I thankfully remember that people are terribly overrated.

Responsibility [and X-Files reruns] keeps me from being a woodland hermit.

This post was paragraph after paragraph, surprisingly poetic -- not grandiloquent and moving, more easy flow rhyme-ish shit never there during actual tries.

Ergo, should turn discards into verse, or chuck this writing gig altogether.

Hey look, a shiny thing.

Hell is other semesters

No fucking wall so the stupid public can stare while I sit at my desk is one very annoying gig, but a fucking presentation, too? The third thing is icing on the poison cake. Eat it, eat it, don't you make me repeat it.

365 364 more days of the same old crap

"Are you open on Saturday?"
"Nope!"

It's the little things. And it's the big things that counter them through a sledgehammer attack so surreptitious that you don't realize until after the fact that you've spent gobs of Time Oodles picking up powdered shards and put them back together, malformed like a post-Krazy Glue Humpty. Dance? Not even in the Burger King bathroom. Any further cusp-of-grunge requests? No?

Aw yiss.

Plus I've got that shiny new abstract bauble to distract for awhile.

The new year's already an improvement, though the day is young(ish).

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.

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!

Carmageddon

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

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.

Masks

Masaka is waking.

Lock up, clock out, scour European scores, predict who's getting nodded out of the pile of part time outfielders & corner men for a league I'm doing terrific in but care very little about, the exact opposite of black notebook stuff. Non, black codex stuff 'cause each page holds alchymick formulae -- that sputter, fizzle, & a bunch of other adjectives for frustrating incompetence.

Nyet, today (Saturday to thee & me) I'm going to clock out then kill the time twixt (un mot juste) the Slab & the Wheelie Bus that won't get back to Parmastan till past seven by sunning the carefully-placed cobwebs away, curbs tattooed with grimy perspiration as I get the gun get the gun shoot shoot shoot. I'm no TD Jakes, but I do sweat, which is why I would love Oslo whether it was full of snow & darkness & Neseblod Records or not but I'm glad that it is, not that I'll ever get there but at least it's on the shortlist which is more than most cities can brag I'm looking at you, Los Angeles.

So this new move, as small as it appears, is the first, likely temporary if I know me & I do much to my chagrin, crack in the big black monolith of routine, soon to reveal no new life signs, HAL. The air sags with moisture, concrete, & the incontrovertible fact that the self is the one person we cannot escape.

Comfort, cold or an étant occupé, isn't always gold but is the only thing that is always. Silence isn't either. Beyond this wall of sleep, speak dead speaker, beyond dead city centres, though I much prefer their funnier, kvlter old stuff, folk kveldssanger, too, smoking just like those bookend scours about wolves.



I blinde gaar jeg/Redd meg, ikke/La natten føre meg/Bestandig? Ha. I'm not fooled. As for new developments the lizard Shelley childishly perceives as brazen, I wait to hear a distracting pop song, people pinballing past, people about whose carnival I wonder, whether their frolic & shield is dis/similar to mine, yes even those feline-chapeau baroque off in the distance, forgetting that not all ears get one.

These posts, so grandiloquent in the synapse, quickly peter out like a dying Perseid you know is still there but that naked glass can no longer see, its wretched end forgotten the moment beautiful sparks evaporate in a city's overwhelming artificial light like a house in the Nevada Proving Grounds after a hundred kiloton test. (This image would work better later in the year when it's actually dark this early, I know.) The corner of the eye, having cocooned something terrible flapping in the breeze, readjusts. It turns out to only be the circle, recoiling. Stretching it to gather contact only leads to further getting burned.

Tomorrow at 4:30, ringing will reawaken reanimation.

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.

Blah v aw yiss, or, is this thing on?

Ye Olde Ænglisc footie starts in the morn [ed. note: en plus, the Slab is closed, not permanently, sadly, not that my bank account heralds future world traveler], a boon for this bane of sociability. I should just fatten up & grow a mountainous beard already. No peaks 'round here, though plenty of valleys badoomboom, & since I can't swing that local abode graced with a Wizard Tower, murky meditation 'tis twixt ventures midst sky & wilderness masquerading as steel & glass. If I play my sorcery right, perhaps a foray into grass.

No, I'll wait for the obligatory pot jokes though I don't mean that at all.

Done? Good. Title tip: don't lay any quatloos on West Ham. Mmmm, ham.

[find a title, nothing too clever]

 





















Not pictured: the Towering Slab.

Mission accomplished. Nephew's getting his baptism on this Sunday, thankfully after footie 'cause I'm selfish like that, which would probably prompt vapors from certain faux Springsteenian working class technocrats who fear Pagans of Distinction catching the Jesus bug yeah I'm looking at you; 'tis about time for a new one-act demanded by no one save yours truly & the Duchess who, being out of towne, cannot assist said truly with working out said interior guffaws in the classroom we call the Slab; & a third thing, a Bloody, inexorable Thing of sepulchral blackness v. rapturous white so unmentionable & unkillable that I cannot mention it here, there, & everywhere except on a Saturnian satellite, probably not Titan because I can't skate.

On the other hand, tomorrow is a holy day of obligation, i.e. "free" food.
On the other other hand, Worldcat is a steaming fecal landfill.
On the other other other rapidly hydra'd hand, look outside. 



Rain! Gloom! Yippee!

And to all the corruption in my hands

Caution: contains electric guitars.

No Beard of Wisdom? Fret not, mon frère:

Spouting out some philosophy like it means a damn thing. 
-- Jack the beardless barkeep 

Anyone can be s-m-r-t. Anyway, replace philosophy with phantasm -- not this one, scram, Scrimm, but cavalcades of soporific F sounds that dream of landing oft in Nod, F off. Those who are lavish in happiness: the abnormally lucky, the terminally oblivious. For the rest, we float where the waves aren't relentless, nor even choppy. Still the boat bobs & weaves & you can even pick out moments of old leather comfort: paying the controlled lightning bolt bill in order to type this crap & spelunking in the freezer for the fabled pizza roll. Reflective powers, activate(d)! Alter a word or a line of a long-dormant corpse, & see it in a whole new necromancy, at least until it's dragged into the light. Brand spanking fresh is just a trick of the Kafka.

Banalities foreign & domestic, notebooks & pathways of mock Technicolor explosions of those few hundred tubes of the same hue; clearing away this logarithmic logorrhea is the Chance card to clarity. These last few pages are a motherfucker, though, blank & ogling me with a sneer as I try to collect & Go away. Once upon a time I think I composed over a photo of berries. Displacing the beast of gawked hack, that was nice. The possibilities are as endless as my easily distracted zest for legerdemain -- for is not the blood the phantom zone to the intellect's General Zod?

[ed. note: those of you inclined towards prayer, tear someone's heart out for the Duchess, who, as the only other permanent member of the Esoteric Order of St. Drogo's security council, is cursed to occasionally be within earshot of my outerweb self-absorptions; you fools can simply stop reading & furthermore, if you parse this only literally, you know what you are. Qualifications are long-winded, thus, boring; ask the members of CONCACAF]

Complexities are birthed in fictions' bubbling trouble, yet attempts are increasingly too tired to design anything of candor; think 4e v. the elegant simplicity of old school stat blocks. So, an overdue reevaluation: if here & there weren't just charades -- driving, a driver, dancing, no, diving underneath flying clots of darkness, no, it's hopscotch, stupid -- & the lint don't forget the lint, maybe it would mean a damn thing but like the Important Things, it's unimportant. I blame Loki, you measured bastard, you.



Caution: contains really loud electric guitars.

Instead of Vertebrae on the Ruun, I'd rather be on Eld.

Badoomboom, tumbleweed. HUMOR IST KRIEG.

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!

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.

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.