Slowly we rot, or, better late than never

Greatest DM (death metal or dungeon master, listener's choice) album ever?

Don't sleep on Altars. Seriously, don't, or you'll wake up the not-that-secret ingredient of a pentagram stew. Mmmm, stew. Bunch of crazy crap happening in meat world, but fancy gizmodic contraptions aside, new shit same as the old shit YEEEAAAARRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH. 'twas vaguely Daltrynstic no? though I'm more skilled in the Axl arts, not the paparazzo face punching bit 'cause I love you all like Ozzy. Reference your own frontdude/chick for three easy installments of 39.95, please allow 6-8 weeks for delivery.

Been cleaning [read: attempting to maybe possibly try] out the house 'cause like every firstworlder, got too much garbage even for Oscar, and came across a shot of the fam post-arrival of the alien known to interwebzians as Offspring the Elder, mom classy in a Justice tee, yours truly nattily clad in a Seasons, both sporting giant glasses which was, along with onions on the belt, the style at the time.

No, I didn't wallow in any of that stupid "woe to you o earth and sea what a world what a world we leaveth with thee" shit because are you fucking kidding me, life expectancy and an end to feudalism aside though I hear that's making a comeback in select markets, see above.

In the past, you couldn't ignore what was stabbing you.

Thanks to cheap anesthetic hawked by the real Satanic cult, now you can, but you're still gonna end up as someone's meal.

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.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Before.

After.

No, I'm not that fat, yet. Before we proceed, if you hate this post, blame the Duchess; the kernel's hers. If you love it, credit yours ugly. So, lopped off the long(ish) because I was tired of it & thus sliced my morning prep time from 45 to 15 seconds thus tripling productivity thus tripling my winning the future winnings here I come Space Casino, which led to a smarmy yet presumably good-natured barb from guess who about whether the power of Metal [ed. note: but not power metal, that stuff sucks, & no, Maiden doesn't count 'cause they fucking rule. More on them later] lies in the coiffure.

All groups, cliques, drone operator knitting clubs, anarchist chimney sweep brigades, even if there isn't a heavy social element due to many of us being borderline nihilists who love life, an awesome paradox if we had all bought pot from Donald Sutherland, have a uniform that we at least piecemeal gravitate towards when not shackled by The Man, everyone au moins a little unless you don't in which case congrats Mr &/or Mrs Three Piece Pantsuit Grindcore teach me your imaginary iconoclast wisdom.

The residue from tribal conditioning's youthful birth still lingers; blame my hermetic tendencies, but 'tis vaguely straunge when mine eyes see The Kids of the Campus wearing Maiden & Cannibal Corpse shirts that picture albums released before they were born [ed. note: no one wears Tomb of the Mutilated ironically], & on females no less. [ed. note: shit like Let It Be threads doesn't count since that's as mainstream as Muzak in a shopping mall]. My concert going has run the gamut from nearly all-testosterone shows in the late 80s to now where the same, if not heavier, strains are a solid mix of dudes & chicks, so the world has indeed changed for the better for once you fucking hippies, because let's be honest, we hairy lumps ain't pretty.

Now, what of the workplace? Given that I, a 38-year old guy who on occasion still wears band shirts to the Towering Slab (which, according to the interneterati, means I've yet to become a grown-ass man), some properly assume that I've been grandfathered in; newer hires whose job duties also include a solid dose of public interaction do not arrive as if preparing for Wacken, troo. Et bien sûr, when the kvlt of darkthroning occurs during a full moon sweltering Clevelandia summer, buttons it is; I ain't TD Jakes, but due to sweat the rock tee morphs into a gooey second skin right quick.

So, what's my point? None beyond fulfillment of today's posting quota.