Interstellar overdrive goes boink

Paralyzed by inaction.

By any mathematickall reckoning, there has been of late more pictures than words digitized scrawled* on the musty walls of this increasingly loathsome place oh how the cheap laughs fool you insert supervillain chortle here, a formula applied for both your sanity, gentle reader, & mine. Honestly, that's a lie, the first half of that equation at any rate stop it what's with all the references to number crunching I cannot answer, such dimestore topography a wretchedness cousin to having an economic lecture blasted through a Marshall stack whilst lemon juice is daubed on paper cut corneas, lashings continually refreshed like a Space Casino shot glass. & I hate writing nearly as much because I love it & what it represents only to have it fail me as I fail it, acids & bases reacting into a blank artificiality, every time.

*if I could draw, I'd sketch rust & Bear & flowers & amusement & loss & a constellation or two if there wasn't so much industrial glare, though those, too, would be digitized, hey ant, get outta here, too, to, two.

What of that rare hour when it doesn't? You cannot see the imaginary -- perhaps it will someday come, one last ringing of the red star bell, gradient blazing the sky before the nation goes out & to torture the metaphor some more, how come I didn't even get a '60, '62 or '68? Rock and/or roll isn't the only loser's game -- & the stuff that comes (very relatively) close, I cannot show.

Socially awkward is the real awkward.

& what of the issues of the day, no, what of self-examination, what of dissecting faith, such as it is & not that kind simmer down you know who you are, this crutch, grain ever weakening, splitting, leaned upon for how much longer as a casual wave of the hand, a dismissal that unlocks a selfish return inside the shell, sulk deftly parrying each strut & fret of the mask?

First, cohering the scattershot, then, let the snooze begin, for you & for me.

Pass.

The point? I don't know, thinking out loud, & typing it. Again, I don't know.

Au revoir? What else am I going to do at work when not snarking, fueled alchimick by the Kynge's Brewe, over the bizarrerie of humanity sundry, infuriating & comical? The muses -- & let's be clear, not just of art, but also of human interaction, for that too is an art**; fuck, feels like I'm padding, now I know what others suffer when I ramble, apologies -- don't come with a GPS, & how unromantic capital R would that be anyway.

**double fuck, that sounds suspiciously networking & ambitiously careerist upon first cynical glance whereas I certainly with gusto mean an art 180° from such soul-destroying toxins, an art that's neither making & broadcasting a grand creative statement nor a self-aggrandizing manipulation of Calvinball, but hands kneading the form itself, the shapes, colors, textures, &, perhaps most important, vulnerabilities of this planetary existence, & sharing that with other humans.

Alongside yours truly, the air stands at a crossroads, playing the blues. Chalk it up, perhaps, to it being nearly three, partially hungover, & consciously tired of all but the fewest of things, strangely, the ones I have no control over.

That's progress, I guess.

Welcome to our spaceship, mighty Hercules

Posting becomes a herculean task -- how come 101 out of every 100 instances of this trope use the Augean stables? Our undead childish fascination with shit that our adult selves unthinkingly apply to annoyances sundry & spine-powdering because Amazonian girdles are too sexy for this song or my hat* or my cat**, I suppose -- not always when writer's block blocks the noggin, or swampy Helios melts my bad haircut into something worse, or [insert personal experience here].

*I don't own a hat, just a black hoodie of great personal value

**to determine which cat, roll d4
 
The second's a dead issue (the block, not the cat(s), I'd be a basketcase & not posting), the first's currently transient, from hour to whatever hour this ungodly one is ('tis one? spooky noochies) until a word or an image serendipitous or excavated with a detox purpose --

oh sure, you (not you personally, unless I mean you, you know who you are, don't you? Yes, yes, I hear you) use art to celebrate, you shiny happy oddity holding hands (was this blockquoting helpful? I wish to know because, gentle readership, I care)

out of a book (or the confounded computer screen; to satisfy your curiosity, a black background is real dark in the dark) sparks. The puzzle's deciding which incompatible pieces to jam together to-morrow & yesterday no jam to-day though it is now to-morrow, smearing firework cardboard in symbols esoteric, commonplace if I'm feeling frisky (read: blotto or running on a fucking third wind, a mistake never to make, oh, wait;
calm blue ocean
calm blue ocean
calm blue ocean) or, smartly, saying nothing at all, like this.

Whew. Pages bursting with text exist; half of them ascetic wheelie bus repetition that casually morphed into the lyrics of whatever song was in my ear forcing me to deconstruct like a dirty Frenchman; the other half standoffish stanzas; the third half scribblings most wretched including this new batch of the second half, but too often they're as revelatory

including this new batch of the second half x-raying my various systems & finding a malignant naiveté -- I'm afraid it's terminal -- no, he's dead, Jim

as that most famous popcorn flickish finalé. No seven-headed beasts, just radioactive lizards. Does this water taste funny to you?

Surgeon blogger's warning: don't attempt to operate heavy machinery or formulate coherence under the influence of insomnia.

Thus, the recent (& foreseeable) preponderance of the snapshot -- & the occasional bit of ponderous humor but I repeat myself -- these from Supermoon Storm of Doom a quarter fortnight ago or so not that you can tell due to obscure camera failings & the lack of precision Olympian thunderbolts. But they seem to fit where my gooey insides are at, hubris & cowardice fisticuffing over the opportunity to throw my sorry ass in Lake Erie so I can wake up, cool off.

Love is the drug from hell

Anita the Presumptuous demanded that I open up another can of worms, quite possibly the largest and most destructive can in both the known and unknown universe. Don't ask me how I know about the unknown; ancient French secret. If I did open up said can, and I'm stupidly leaning towards doing so because I've got zip lined up comme d'habitude, they wouldn't be those those cute, fuzzy annelids, but a mutated, flesh-eating variety, 'cause nothing can chew you up into a sticky paste and spit you out like the worthless sludge of crap that you are comme l'amour.

How's that for romantic?

Before we go on any further, I'd like to state, for the record, though I understand the reasons why we name ourselves the way we do -- easier for the monolithic police state to maintain full dossiers upon its subjects and other fine points of tinfoil hattery -- but c'mon; Aethelred the Unready? Louis the Spider? Charles the Bald? Ivar the Boneless? That's just groovy stuff, so much better than, say, oh, Randal Graves. I could be Randal the Long-Winded or Randal the Annoying.

"Randal the Stupid."

Hmm.

Before we go on any further, partie deux, why is everyone a fucking moran today? Not you, dear readers, the fucking idiotic fuckers in the real world. Gonna be a long ass day.

Can asses be long?

"Are you done?"

Yes, now fuck off.

So, the statement, by some, of the hour: l'amour n'existe pas.

Millions of theories have been written on this by people far more intelligent, experienced and edumacated than I; billions of poems, most of them bad and most of those mine, so which illegal substances is the 10,374,442,683rd person ever to exist -- or wherever I am on the list -- possibly smoking when he thinks he can add a fresh take on the subject? Well, I couldn't no matter how hard I tried, but through the ancient Art of Bullshit, with a little help from The Google, I've managed to craft a post without too much work -- while duping at least two or three of you to read this far, ha ha ha! -- thereby freeing up more brain energy to ponder the eternal questions surrounding this beautiful hell and if and when I come up with any answers to placate my fragile sanity, quietly keeping them to myself to save another embarrassment of foot-in-mouth-itis because though I could pen -- well, type -- thousands upon thousands of scattered, nonsensical words on this eternal torment, it's better that I don't.

For me, it comes down to this: through various methods, emotional or otherwise, and their assorted corollaries both tangible and abstract as we explore reality and dream, each of us invents some archetype, our ideal, and then we hope someone out there in the ether will match most of the characteristics of said ideal. That's the easy part. Now go find someone and hope they reciprocate. Bonne chance, sucker.

Of course, there's an inherent danger that one isn't in love with anyone at all, but with love itself and that we merely project that sentiment onto a flesh and blood human, adjusting the toxicity of the lies we tell ourselves up and down depending on new discoveries and/or fluctuations in our ideal and/or just how much this living, breathing human does indeed match due to their originally encountered composition and, later on, new discoveries and/or fluctuations in said human.

Man, that sounds too fucking scientific. Now I'm even more depressed.

"Is that a pheromone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Ha. Nice try, brain. And on top of that, I don't even know what the point of this post was. The world's longest prologue to an open thread? At least it's an overcast, cold autumn day. That makes me a little bit happier. So does not being clear on anything. Where's the fun in having everything sacred and profane spelled out, because if there's one thing love is, it's fun, right?

Hello?

The Folly of War Joint Partnerships

Each morning and afternoon on the way to and from work, I pass by the outdoor reading garden situated next to the main branch of the Cleveland Public Library.














With plenty of shade, it's quite calming and thus very easy to get lost in the pages of the tome resting upon your lap. Well, yesterday afternoon, after an arduous yet rewarding day of helping my fellow humans to the best of my meager yet eager ability, I witnessed a young couple accompanied by an entourage of friends and relatives, everyone celebrating the momentous occasion of their wedding by taking photographs within this picturesque garden, precious and eternal memorials to their undying love.

The first thought that popped into my head as I strolled through the sharply-dressed crowd filing out onto the sidewalk was this:



Surprisingly, my sometimes-better-half didn't laugh when I told her.

Wanker.

Oh the pain, the pain of it all!

Once upon a time, I waxed stupid on some things that I love. Maintenant, I can do nothing but let that sentimentality pass into the overflowing dustbin of history and, in the grand and majestic tradition of dour romanticism nearly choked to death by the commercialized, shining gunk of the upcoming holiday, drown in abject misery now that The Church of the Ellipsoid Orb* is discontinuing worship services for a few months.

Oh, sure, through streams of painful tears I hear their claim that they'll reopen soon enough, and indeed I know they will, but -- and yet -- sniff -- sigh. No, I will remain strong. In fact, stronger than strong. Stronger than Army Strong®. Stronger even than Chuck Nor -- oh no, no fucking way I'm going there. Every Sunday, I'm going to settle in my Homer-esque ass groove and be zombiefied by something nearly as groovy. Pass the chips. Hey, don't use all the dip! Greedy fuckers.

One last thing: Messrs. Anderson, Winslow, Cribbs, Thomas and Edwards, please, please, please, please, please, please, please don't blow out a knee today. Thanks.

*coined by tomcat, patent pending

The _______ I love

"Buy my CD!"

"Fuck you, crossover bastard!"

Suffering from Bush Bashing Burnout Syndrome, and without the Divine Miss M(+E) regaling us internets sexaholics with any Naughty Nunnery Stories - put the Excommunicate-O-Matic® away, Ratzinger, I'm kidding! - I was at a loss. Distraught. Directionless. What to pointlessly prattle on about? Come on, Randal, think. What's the one thing that you're actually quite skilled at?

Complaining!

Having listened to rock and metal for nearly a quarter of a century, being an acquaintance with enough guitar players and personally knowing enough chords - you know, two or three - I think I'm well within my musical bounds to offer informed and expert criticisms of said musical genres, although I try my damnedest to refrain from discussing such critiques in the style of a linguistic Varangian Guardsman. I want others to dig this stuff. Just go listen to it far away from me. Farther. No, keep walking.

Thus, would it not also be bad form to be a classical music snob - or a snob of any variety even if you do indeed know your shit, because then you're just an asshole - when you don't know thing one about theory and structure? On the flip side, George W. Bush is president while having no interest in reality and no apparent knowledge of the difference between right and wrong, so my decades-long amateur classical music affliction certainly passes muster, no? Which brings me to my ethical dilemma. But first, fuck you Bush for finding a way into a post that's not even remotely about you. Words in any language cannot express the pure, distilled hatred I have for you and your neocon handlers. Je vous déteste tellement !

Okay, I'm better now. A swig sip of wine always does the trick.

Sweet Jesus Sandra Lou, I loathe crossover shit. Find some reasonably talented individual or individuals, preferably those of the comely lass variety - I'm looking at you, Bond - have them record Danny Boy or some Viennese waltzes or Für Elise - which is very pretty, so fuck off, said snobs - in an appropriately schmaltzy way et voilà, instant Xmas gift for your friendly neighborhood soccer mom. And then there is the sickening commercial skirmishing by record label compilations: The Most Beautiful Classical Piano Pieces In The World For An Exquisitely Lovely Brunch! The Most Romantic Adagios For A Very Special Evening! The Greatest Baroque Album Ever, Volume 9! Quoi ? And don't forget - wait, here's the booming voice of the announcer now - Massive Classics! with the Schwarzeneggerian arm wrestling cover. Shudder. Look, true believers, there are brilliant and complete works out there written by geniuses and those who reside in the compositional neighborhood, recreated by hardworking orchestras, ensembles, individuals, engineers and producers that are dying to be heard.

Now, don't completely misjudge me, for I too have my favorite pieces and movements within particular works. But come on. Instead of buying Grandma or Cousin Johnny a disc with the largo from a Vivaldi violin concerto coupled with the 'Coffee' Cantata, or Creation O. Marketing - or an apparently all-rocked-out Rod Stewart - crooning some American standards, why not buy them the complete Brandenburgs? Or the Mass in B Minor? Or a disc of Mahler? Or some Alkan wizardry on the ivories? And to wax idiotic even further, why must these companies always utilize the same works? The first movement of Beethoven's fifth is required by law to be on any compilation - you've honestly never heard even a whisper of the shadowy, iron-clad manifesto written by Thomas Edison himself at his Menlo Park desk back in 1878? While it has certainly earned its place on the short list of the finest that music has to offer - despite it's imprisonment in cellphone ringtones and Muzak, it remains the Mount Everest of all motifs - what about the symphony's fourth movement, for example?

Nearly five minutes in - 30 seconds, if Toscanini is conducting - is arguably the most sublime musical moment that I have yet to hear created by anyone born on this planet. The strings shift up what seems like uncounted octaves, an aural expression of the purest joy; the triumph of having overcome pain, loss, the shackles of remorse; the stubborn defiance present within each of us shielding our unlocked potential from the battering winds of fate. For the briefest of moments, someone as dour and as cynical as myself feels that humanity can surpass its natural flaws and live in boundless peace and art and creativity and happiness. What a soulless hack you must be if, upon hearing those notes, you aren't moved!

Anyway, go on and buy that crap if you feel it'll help the economy. And I do admit to a tinge of remorse as I rag on the classical labels because they're simply trying to make a buck just like the rest and since more people listen to cheapass pop songs about lip gloss and bling and angsty angst, I suppose they have to resort to such prestidigitation in order to pay the bills. Sigh. Just give the Große Fuge a try for your old pal Randal, okay? And spin the Für Elise again, too. Inconsequential in the grand scheme of things I suppose, but since we're all going to die in a fiery, nuclear conflagration caused by the diabolical machinations of Chimpy McBushitler or President Rudy! soon enough, I wanted to get this irrational pet peeve off my chest. Anyway, here's some stuff that I love, none of which is actually about love. How ironic.

For, as we all know, love sucks.

I love that it's now dark going to work and near twilight coming from, the evening edging ever closer. There's something magical, primordial about the movement from light to darkness. Certainly a natural yet perhaps unreasonable holdover from the earliest days of man when superstition and a fascination with the unknown was de rigueur, but there is a poetry in watching the sunlight fade into a thick mist, almost sublimated, the emerging shadows playing with the colors, everything a soft cool, a companion to the November wind soaring off the lake and onto your skin.

I love that my cable company - finally! - seems to have come to their senses and added the NHL Network, and that I'll be able to see teams besides Columbus. Sure, I'll continue to root for them - hey, Pascal Leclaire might be legit after all! - but it's the same feeling as rooting for the Buckeyes. They're not Cleveland's teams, which means I have none. Sniff. Plus, variety is the spice of the ice.

I love the fact that the French can sometimes be as bizarre as the Americans. Although in this case we must certainly blame the nefarious influence of the Japanese. It's obvious that one of the marketing types employed by Orangina is a big hentai/tentacle porn fan:

Le poulpe boit la pulpe ?

If I had Photoshop skills - or Photoshop - there'd be something clever

[here]

Since I don't, and there isn't, just go watch that wacky-ass commercial.
Oh, vous Français, vous êtes si fou !

I love when this very attractive woman, always impeccably - but never over - dressed, a regular on my bus trips to and from work, curls a lock of her hair around her finger. I have the distinct impression that it's not from vanity, nor does it appear to be a conscious affectation, but a genuine, subconsciously-directed physical action, perhaps some OCD-fueled gesture. And I want nothing more than to keep the mystery intact. I don't want to know her personally nor engage in conversation. She might be a Republican for all I know. Plus, I've got that whole angry jeans n' sneakers man ensemble working for me, and why mess with a good thing? Oh, there's that gold band on my finger, too. Almost forgot. But the way she curls those dark strands into something wonderful, a stunning bloom birthed from the union of natural physical beauty and the erratic human condition, a lovely mix of the innocent and the alluring in such a simple thing, is a sight to behold. Of course, being a male, I'm a sexist pig by default so perhaps I'm only looking at it from the latter angle. In any case, it's as inevitable as the sun rising and setting each day, and this, I love.

Memory

The sense of smell may be the most immediate and reliable conduit to memory, but a combination of any of the other four runs a close second. Walking towards work this morning beneath the trees in the direction of the rising sun, the leafy branches shielding me from her heat, a strong breeze whipped itself into a frenzy and pushed some of the leftover moisture from the previous evening's rain onto my skin. A torrent of feeling came rushing back. Yet, though reawakened by a real physical event, one we've all experienced to some degree, those dormant feelings were the product of so many daytime reveries; even if populated with real places and real people, do they qualify as legitimate memory?

They're certainly false, they never occured in any dimensional sense, a measureable, quantifiable experience on this planet; they never happened. But I remember, nonetheless. Perhaps not the madeleine itself, soft on a spoonful of tea, but the hard crumbs that careened off the edge of the cup onto the hardwood table. I see them. They do indeed exist. I don't want to brush them away just yet, for they are more vital than what passes for real.