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.

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.

You don't say

Two moody fuckers don't mix.

Romney loves money.

So does Obama.

The latter's yap received better training.

Everyone loves law & order.

I dig heavy metal.



The real winner.

Please, feel free to add your own obviousities in comments.

Run rabbit run

People dig Instagram, which the above is not, 'cause it's a quick, free, digital sketch of the sepia deceptions we hold most dear, mind becoming a facsimile of a tone poem of a manipulation. Rabbit, you don't know how lucky you are.

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.

Don't come over here & piss on my gate, save it just keep it off

Margarita master, I find happy in that silly anatomy, you know the one, no, not that one, though that one is one woo, I imagine. This dump's turning into a tumblr 'cause what little (read: a lot) I have to say on important shit can't be said here --

unimportant shit
macro: PTBs do stupid, get gold
middle: PTBs do stupid, get a pat, perhaps a poison cookie
micro: PTBs do stupid, get a slap
P = assuming makes asses, 'tis inherent, so squared

-- I swear if this is ♪ printemps fever, ooh la la, printemps fever, ooh la la la la ♫ I'm gonna go hunting for the snark & kill it dead & bloody; there goes my valuable street cred, syncretising Motor City in the previous fragment. Spring = happy = sad, can't be, bien sûr, 'cause I'd be contradicting myself, which would at least count me among the finest (read: all) humans since the thirtieth century BC, I don't remember how to do that set crap because fuck math. Ideas always sound better until they're splayed on a paper table, but that anatomy's still fun to dig into. Wear goggles, galoshes.

Love buzz

Re: below; the new Van Halen, not Bleach, also a fine album.

Cast of characters
Miss Prunella Vulgaris, The Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer, esteemed member of the Peonage
Juan, The Earl of Valdez, less esteemed member of the Peonage

The Towering Slab, interior.

DUCHESS: Is that all you've been listening to?
EARL: Yeah, until das Deutschlandenpackagen arrives.

fin

True story.* This imitation one-sixteenth act play was supposed to lead into something else not the next one-act play I'm in the midst of penning thanks for containing your enthusiasm ingrates, but I forgot what it was since I started typing this post. True story. Also true is me scouring my music files for preferably snarky songs about love, preferably en plus with the word 'love' in the title but that's not a requirement, 'cause said Duchess is in the midst of planning next Tuesday's radio gig & I'm all about homies helping homies & what's more worthy of nelsonmuntzing than naive melodramatics vs. vitriolic burned-agains, opposing civilizations locked in mortal kombat whose bloodshed drowns the feet of us, the charmingly innocent, in a sparkly, rhymed effluvia? 

Dammit, I can't (i.e. I can) believe I forgot what the other thing was which means it was probably the coolest part of this post which means it wasn't all that cool.

*the dialogue has been paraphrased to protect the guilty

Every day is one of those days, or, posting as rote

What I had almost written was almost interesting, almost swear. Almost.