JESUS FUCKING SATAN

GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD OUT OF YOUR FUCKING GAME ALREADY.

Drunken slaughter ought to carry a shorter prison term than wallstreeting.

Broken record

Another semester, another layer of lawn off-getting deposited on the gunk.

I have a really strong sphincter about the badness of really bad stuff.

Forest hermitage.

METAL.

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.

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).

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.

The League of (the same ole) Nations

♪ Predictions, predictions, roly poly predictions, eat them up, yum ♫

The first week of the fall semester: nothing is a finer reminder of just how much I really loathe other humans man you fuckers are annoying. How about doing something for yourself, disorganized space cadets. Now, on to more important things, namely humans I don't have to interact with, ever.

Disclaimer: if you're looking for analysis with depth, I'm sure there's an expert who shacks up with the devil in the deep blue Marianas Trench.

A: Anyone-But-PSG, & all former Yugos suck, thus Porto & Dynamo Kiev.
B: ARSENE! &, since Giroud's gone, a Raul-less Schalke, I guess.
C: Milan is lucky. Them & Zenit, especially if Hulk bixbys over.
D: HA HA CITY HA HA. Fucking Madrid & Borussia.
E: Fucking Chelsea & a sack of cheaters (everyone in the Oakland Raiders of footie leagues cheats)
F: FC Hollywood & Valencia.
G: Celtic, you're fucked. Enjoy the cash. B & B.
H: If Man U fucks this up, time to toss SAF in a peat bog.

This year's APOEL: bet there ain't one.

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.

People get ready, there's a new semester

Dusty, musty, and poorly lit

What else would the playlist be whilst squaring secrets?

Don't be so shallow, circling sea, there's no incongruity.

[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!

Never look a gift otyugh in the mouth seriously don't, or, talk to the hand

TPK dungeon mapping, here I come.
Holy shit, this flick can no longer be trusted.

I'm gonna send you back to old schoolin'

Jesus Hernandez Cthulhu, the Big Cup's Pointless Phase Shift has already begun with shocking! lack o' brass, too bad Dudelange dude lange lagrange a pow pow pow not a fan, but 1963 since a Luxembourgeois squad has, nevermind. Fuck this sack- & vagina-less league shit. See what I did there, genitalia genius. Man, that riff smokes water, fires skies, plus you could churn it out in a lute shoppe without getting a half stack in the kneecap. My copy of this disappeared ages ago, but working in a library has its benefits beyond oscillation twixt hanging ten & spacing out with the occasional sprinkles-on-top of ranting to no one/suckers in the immediate radius as we anathematize all those who oppose us. Guess that reference, win a prize. Hint: 'tis actually post-1980, the year of Women and Children First & joyous Saturnalia receipt of the Alpha-1 Rocket Base. I swear on this book of carpet samples.

The dead zone, or, heavy handed

Ocean's have them, so does this on-rails gig. Ids low & high tiptoe through conscience, the real magnet tar pit trap. Benadryl Nyquil quill, post-sick (an epilogue, not this), sick of this a bit or more. Wotan tomorrow, or not.

What will be is heat, the complaining of yours truly, the eye rolling of ghosts & those that are flesh but it's hard to tell at times, swampy skin & salted corneas, senses adrift like a boat on the ocean, a dead zone. What, too heavy handed?

Find some tulips & get tiptoeing.
♪ I'm a librarian (not really) & that's okay, I sleep all night & I sleep all day ♫
Books checked out to grad students are due on August 20th.
CTHULHU IS WATCHING

If we all human sacrifice real hard, maybe he'll devour NATO.
No, this is not a political post.
An imaginary real beast from beyond the stars eating empire is a chortle.
Please fucking keep your 2012 stuff under ice.
Merci.

It's raining, it's pouring, the slacker's snoring

This semester's scheduling, as convoluted as the reasoning behind the Clowns drafting Chris Weinke, Jr. as the next last Winner of the Future, has kept yours truly out of the Towering Slab on Tuesdays, & though the ruby of an extra St. Drogo skull session this week has me giddy as strychnine in the bloodstream of a mortal enemy, & because I plan on spending the rest of the day conjuring the most bestest Wotan installment ever since everyone's favorite troo kvltist tiptoed through the electrons probably my most bestest post ever thus spake volumes, & because I fear a toxic avenging underground revenge scenario from a certain hazmat master, here, at last, is some tuneage. 



Less than a week till the Space Casino, feel the taser sunlight on your face!

Wilkommen in der bibliothèque discothèque

People don't come here to study for finals check out books, they come here to live out their fantasies & dance the night away, unless they're Falco, in which case it's all that & death by Bauhaus.






Each time a student comes in wearing Victoria's Secret Pink, you have to do a shot. Shit, there goes my liver. My liver! Praise the Lord & pass the onions.

Egads! 'tis almost the



so only time for one more

Ask the Duchess, my Axl wuoaaaahhhh is fuckin' ace, one of three things I do quite well along with harrumphology, & a third thing.

It's dark outside, mes suckas,
beware baby C.H.U.D.s --
I gotta do this again tomorrow? Fuck.

Now that's poemetry.

I can feel the wheel but I can't steer

The summer before the first video game war, yours truly was browsing at Peaches, later to become Coconuts then FYE then abandoned, ready to blow whatever hole-burning scratch my meager shit job threw in my pocket when the craziest, acid-fuck cover caught my four eyes & I was smitten before I heard a note. Filed in the metal section, so no Bell Biv DeVoe danger, Facelift lifted them; not tearing as thrash, but a creeping, painful rip. Pulling the Band-Aid slow always hurts more. Never getting as much love from the gatekeepers as other acts only added to the fuck you, plus it was & is good brooding & bike-riding music. Cue time travel: blind date success, the U of Akron, Clash of the Titans, far too early domesticity, & a sickly haunting curveball of solace in the form of Sap. 1992 was my K-T Boundary.

I want you to scrape me from the walls

North of the future Via Popearosa, I strolled to then fro from Disc Connection & its proprietor who bore an uncanny resemblance to a brutal Skynyrd or 38 Special roadie but was actually a swell guy beneath the perpetual shades. 55° that late September day the papers say, remember it being warm, was 82° as close as the 17th & hit the high 70s the following week. What's with the heat mapping of doddering memory? 'tis more than its cracked orange cover image. Heat births sweat which in turn births conscious acknowledgment of something awry, at least for me.

Here, i.e. then, I was 19 with no skills save a local Tecmo Bowl mastery & hashish-less heshering & I haven't expanded my repertoire much since, no loot past meager "work"-"study" [ed. note: verily, quote marks are apropos to both] scratch, & a new wife whose oven was bunn'd. Stupid adults aren't ready, so stupid kids sit behind the 8-, 9- & 10-balls. Despite having no first-, second- or third-hand experience with the ravaging stampede of white horses, Dirt became a security blanket.

To the non-idealist drowning in a sea of sorrow stupid with no island in sight though if there were it'd be populated by a cannibal holocaust, all is melodrama. Being predisposed to emotion over reason, like eating ten too many poem-stuffed pizza rolls with a cough syrup chaser & regretting the paralyzing numb when I should know better, Layne was singing my song. Now who's stupid, you query? Contraceptive failure rates exist as numbers on packaging & who hasn't always wanted to feel that special joy of existing as a statistic. What of Roe v. Wade, you inquire? A dozen nanoseconds, & nein. As with everything, until you're wearing the clogs, you ain't dancing. But this isn't about that divide & conquer bone so fuck off, but the whole I feel so alone/gonna end up a big ole pile of them. Like I said, melodrama, much preferable to the Sominex of coolly detached irony, & I haven't even hit on the still-omnipresent shadow: Brother, but not, from the aforementioned EP, chorus, first line.


Got me wrong

This was the original pressing with the proper song order, i.e. Down in a Hole as penultimate track. Such scene cred was important, I imagined, for those carousing & chording in a scene. When Bowling Ball Keith (liked to & looked like) & Rabid Mike whose woman done him wrong like a country music song [ed. note: no joke, crazy attracts crazy I guess] refused the shape of things to come, the former high school scene shrinks to two though feeling more like one, oft darkthroning before I knew what the hell that was. Candles pissed upon, proof of who's a fake. Exaggeration? For a time, just a time, the river was dammed indeed, comfort found in claustrophobic spite spackled over with its sonic expression & a predominantly forest green flannel & USC sweat pants [ed. note: beats me, so don't ask; wish I still had that Marijuana Pickers t-shirt handed down from gramps], the ensemble a walking vomitorium that I of course wore on my first day of student employment inside the Towering Slab.

I wasn't high on that chilly October afternoon, merely gorging on inattention to surroundings & others, a theme recurring to this day. Selfishness or safety? As with all things, a bit of both, & part of the problem.

Shocks to the system make one feel like a fly trapped in a jar, & those ghostly tracks plus the slow-burn death spiral on the self-titled a few years later sealed the hermetic deal. Frogs still pierces without remorse.

So, ten years later give or take, today in fact & the reason for this post, Layne's a syringe masquerading as a corpse, & ten after that, I'm still here, the bun out of the oven & into the frying pan-on-low-heat of misleadingly-labeled higher ed, just like yours truly was when Dirt first spun, a timely coincidence of marking out invented miles along an artificial road.

Looking back on all that, the causes of antisocial behavior, characters tuning in, dropping out as a tree's April buds (some have stood out, still do, & will because they're the rarest of creatures), wondering whose fault(s) was/is this spooling aftermath lip to silent lip, a thousand words for every one, more than one supporting or no, I've my suspicions which are probably less fault & more it is what it is, what shall I do, rooster snuffed yet animate?


If I would, could you?

To mope, to mope, sawed-off shotgun riffs choking dead meadows, fetal in the curling smoke of primal brooding, necks arcing, whipping, bending in the wind of dissolution, never breaking in time, this kind of crumbling takes time, rebuilding even longer. I have never felt such frustration/Or lack of self control. Aural scrawlings on repeat about drug addiction & darkness & the attendant figurative holes left after each step on a mine still harrow twenty years on in their hallowed comfort. There are other kinds of addiction, of that I'm versed well. So, desert island gaming at gunpoint, the works of this band. There can be no other choice, because there's always something to rebuild, preserve, & put off till later both home & abroad & what better fuel for hopeful lungs than an air of destruction?

We humans are storytellers, sure, & most are boring, mine included. But it's the only one I know well. & Down in a Hole is still the most beautiful song ever. Thanks, Layne & Co. Could've done it without you, but it would've sucked a little bit more.

Nine consecutive hours of cracker jazz sprinkled with micromanagement, or, damn it's hot in here & not in a good way

Saturday night's alright for fighting for comp time

As a few of you know from previous messaging out, I think outside the box, facilitating la bibliothèque every Saturday whilst others are doing nothing to push the envelope. FYI, that's my win theme contribution right there, where's yours, you want to be a part of the team, dontcha, not eat our own dog food?

Anyway, the campus is soon opening its doors to various & sundry future cubicle jockeys & greasy, sad food second shiftless. Chez Towering Slab, a certain social climber in middle management & ancient arch-nemesis of the Peonage has shifted the paradigm of the rabble's perspective. As always, don't pass the baton; embiggen & you too can succeed.*

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Conclusion: pardon me, I seem to have caught a case of the chuckles.

*apologies for the lame. Actionable, game changing brandgagers who synergize aren't my thing. Ow, my head. I'm gonna doom out, think of Byzantine empresses tossing water balloons out of flying cars. See ya.