Invasion of the body snatchers

Sure, the temperature is still a bit cool in Northeast Ohio, but I couldn't place why I began to shudder so, such bodily tectonics strangely allied with a hint of a piquant, vomity feeling climbing up the throat. Arriving at work, I immediately hung ten on the internets to find out if there was some heretofore underreported strain of the avian flu making the rounds.

It was something much, much worse.

President Bush is offering a fresh assessment of progress on political, security and economic fronts in Iraq as he weighs a decision on troop levels.

The president planned to use the National Museum of the United States Air Force in Dayton, Ohio, as the backdrop for his address.

Take it easy, Hangar 18 and put away your ray guns. You want fresh assessments? You got 'em, and just dig that rhythm!

The U.S. military spokesman in Baghdad also gave an upbeat assessment.

"Iraqi operations in Basra also reflect the growing ability of the Iraqi security forces, Iraqi decision-making and Iraqi leadership," said Maj. Gen. Kevin Bergner. He said that the operation wasn't against the Mahdi Army, only against outlaws who didn't honor Sadr's freeze.

Rikabi similarly said that the Iraqi government isn't targeting any political group or party, only "outlaws, the gangs and the murderers."

The situation on the ground suggested otherwise.

Hey, Captain Doom and Gloom, take some pills for your BDS. There'll soon be a new sheriff in town and at the end of his six-shooter is incontrovertible proof that when Al Qaeda blows shit up, you damn well better believe we won't need to stay forever because the Iraqis have things in hand and they can keep their oil because we sure don't want it.

Confused? Don't be! Come January 20, 2009, this twisted intrigue will be given crisp, reinvigorating clarity! Take a whiff. Damn right it's that just-out-of-the-showroom new car smell!























"I don't care what anyone says, but I did stay on the Straight Talk Express last night."

Use Your Carbonation

"To answer your question, no, I don't know if they drink soda in China. But they really hate democracy. See, I'm clever, motherfucker!"

Oh, Dr. Pepper, save us, please won't you save us, from our long national nightmare. Yes, I'm trying to avoid doing a political post. It's that obvious, huh.

Bitter? Sweet as sugar.

Hot damn, kids, few things are finer than drowning in anticipation for a new album -- six long years in this case if you count a soundtrack release, and I do -- having that album arrive and, most importantly, having that album more than satisfy said anticipation. The sultry-voiced Jill Tracy, last heard here, is back with her new long player, The Bittersweet Constrain, and it's as wonderfully dark and mischievous and mesmerizing as I had hoped, the perfect spell to make one forget, even if just for a moment, about superdelegates and crumbling ice shelves.

Her piano still dominates proceedings the way a lover dominates -- oops, that's another story for another time -- but her backing band, The Malcontent Orchestra, has upped the propulsive thrust of the musical backbone in comparison to her debut, Diabolical Streak, leaving the strings to accent the proceedings and bringing to the fore the cornucopia of percussion heard on Into the Land of Phantoms, the aforementioned instrumental soundtrack to F. W. Murnau's silent horror classic Nosferatu, thus luring the songs with an amorous kiss out of a turn-of-the-century cabaret and its table of forlorn green fairies and through the fog for a rendez-vous in a smoky, noirish jazz club caught in the dark cloak of a nearby hotel that's seen and heard everything under the moon.

The lyrics still spin twilight tales of spurned love, untimely ends and thoughts lost in the shadows, slowly creeping unseen and meaning to not merely embrace, but drag us down into those oh-so-wrong exalted states. Go on, wear the masque of shock at their devious plan, but do you really want to fight it? Thought not. I suppose that I could name some 'highlights' -- the hypnotic languor of lead track Haunted by the Thought of You, the sinister longing of Sell My Soul, the sordid delicacy of Room 19, the seductively sardonic Torture -- but I've always been an album guy, so sitting down with nary a weak track and sleepwalking in daydream through all sixty-one minutes is the only way to listen. What a bloody good record. I need a smoke.

[Crappy Blog® posting template 1.0]

[roll d10 for subject]

1. Machinations of Bush administration and/or the Republican horde [roll additional d10 for specifics: 1. lying; 2. cheating; 3. stealing; 4. wide stancing; 5. hypocrisy; 6. apocalyptico-John Hagee-ism; 7. diaper wearing; 8. pillaging; 9. bombing; 10. Bush malapropism]

2. Music

3. Poetry

4. Sports [roll d10 for particular sport: 1. football; 2. basketball; 3. baseball; 4. hockey; 5. soccer; 6. lawn darts; 7. rock/paper/scissors; 8. synchronized swimming; 9. Bocce ball; 10. three card monte]

5. Wikipedia birthday search

6. Democrats [flip a coin to determine fortitude/wimpery status]

7. Writing

8. Goofy album covers [scan if necessary]

9. Potpourri

10. Reroll

The Fine Art of Poisoning

Music by Jill Tracy, directed by Bill Domonkos.

I wanted to go with something Easter-themed, and what's more topical than poisoning by arsenic chocolate? Enjoy your weekend, Jesusheads -- no, not you of the fundie variety, you can go Cheney yourselves -- and secularists. Don't stay in bed too long and while you're out visiting grandma, be careful parking.

And watch out for exploding stars. It's bad enough gas prices are blowing up.
"Unka Dick, we should get one of those. Kill a lotta turrists, heh, heh."
"Grr, grr, GRR, G-R-R!"

As for me, I'll be in the middle of an all-day ritual to appease Cthulhu so he'll eat me last. Now where did I put those virgins....

I have some horrible, bone-chilling news!

"No reunion for you!"

Unsurprising, but horrible and bone-chilling nonetheless.

Happy 323rd, you crazy German dude

His music is so perfect, even your simple, primitive thoughts will be contrapuntal after you've listened to it. Hell, after one mere spin of the Art of Fugue, my IQ finally cracked triple digits. And everyone should have a copy of this. Depressed? Angry at having your passport files rummaged through? You'll feel fucking groovy afterwards, even if it's a tenebrous groovy. Trust me. After all, it was just imprudent curiosity, and who hasn't fallen prey to that?



Still ungroovy? Then you're more of a misanthrope than I am. Kudos.
Here's the lovingly sad andante from his violin concerto in A minor.



It's nigh impossible to express pure feeling, the things that move us to not merely exist, but to create, to live, but Bach came pretty goddamn close, no?

Workin' for NCAA

Kent State guard and MAC Player of the Year, Al Fisher.

Believe me, I really wanted to pull the trigger on a Kent State upset over Kansas, but I just can't see it. Then again, the Jayhakws have historically choked in the tournament, at least in recent years under Roy Williams, who will probably win his second title since moving to the land of tobacco. Anyway, here's what might possibly maybe sort of could happen. Just don't use these picks as the basis of any kind of wager involving goods, services or cash:

East final: North Carolina(1) over Louisville(3).
Midwest final: Georgetown(2) over Kansas(1).
South final: Texas(2) over Michigan State(5).
West final: UCLA(1) over Xavier(3). (fuck you, Duke!)

Final Four: North Carolina over UCLA.

It appears that I'm not going out on much of a limb, save for the early ouster of Memphis -- hey, some powerhouse has to turn turnovers and cold shooting into a second-round loss, right? -- but consider that in the last ten tournaments, twenty of the eighty participants in a regional final were seeded lower than fourth -- that's 25%, kids -- meaning at least two grotesque surprises should rear their ugly heads this year based on recent trends. Of course, there weren't any last year and only one in 2006 (George Mason). On the other hand, fifth-seeded Indiana made the title game in 2002, as did fifth-seeded Florida in 2000, which was quite the wacky year as five of the eight teams were sub-four seeds. Something else happened that year, but I can't exactly remember. Oh well, probably nothing important. As I said, don't place any bets using the information contained in this post. Watch O.J. Mayo and USC win the damn thing.

Go Golden Flashes!

A political post? Oh, what the hell.

If this isn't proof that our Grand Clusterfuck was worth it, I don't know what is.

Not all anniversary assessments were as upbeat as Bush's. A Washington Post-ABC News poll showed nearly two-thirds of Americans believe the war was not worth waging.

Told about the poll result in an interview with ABC's "Good Morning America," Vice President Dick Cheney, in Oman after a visit to Iraq, said: "So?"

Awesome! Totally awesome! All right, Cheney!

Nature still breathes

Bands toss out EPs between albums for various reasons: to stay in the spotlight with a brand new song, usually paired with some poorly-recorded, studio-enhanced live tracks; a tantalizing prelude of the next platter; fragmented, discarded leftovers to placate the rabid completists, of which I'm stupidly proud to count myself as a member for many acts. With Portland, Oregon folk-metallers Agalloch, it's none of the above, certainly not with their 'brand new' EP, The White. Sort of a companion piece to 2004's The Grey and its noisecape reworkings of tracks off their beyond brilliant 2002 album, The Mantle, the band has released seven mellow, melancholy, (mostly) instrumental tracks recorded in the last few years that wouldn't have sounded out of place on said long player, fit comfortably within their oeuvre and rank among their finest compositions.

Opening with a clip from The Wicker Man, a movie making additional appearances in the final two tracks as well, The Isle of Summer begins proceedings with a haunting acoustic guitar that recalls nothing but verdant leaves fluttering like ribbons in a warm, lilting August breeze, with a short, single fuzzed-out electric enhancing this late exhalation of the season. Twilight begins to arrive with Birch Black, along with a rippling electric/acoustic mix and percussion buried underneath. A sad, gentle, nearly wordless solitary voice echoes in the soundscape of Hollow Stone, a vague hymn to the panorama before us. The murmurs of the flora and fauna and a crisp, rock-strewn stream calls forth the world of the Pantheist, the EPs physical and thematic centerpiece, intertwining lines of guitar, both metallic and unplugged, a veil of drums, the notes wandering as a body and mind purposely lost in the wonders of creation, soon joined, for a moment, by a defiantly sad voice. Now, the rays of dawn, and the uptempo, accordion-accented neo-folk of Birch White, layered below the verse of English poet A. S. J. Tessimond:

The birch tree in winter
Leaning over the secret pool
Is Narcissus in love
With the slight white branches,
The slim trunk,
In the dark glass;
But,
Spring coming on,
Is afraid,
And scarfs the white limbs
In green.

The call of birds, swathed in that green, are the final notes heard before the plaintive guitar and piano of Sowilo Rune, whose whispered vocals and swirling synths conjure up the world of the ethereal, of the magical, all brought back home to the oncoming change with the piano of Summerisle - Reprise, whose notes are that inexplicable alchemy of the happy and the sad, of life and death, the ouroboros of existence that we're all fated to endure.

Sure, these guys take years between churning out full-lengths, but the wait is always worth it. And unsurprisingly, given the craftsmanship of the band, the same goes for 'stopgap' releases like The White, a wonderful collection of songs that explore yet one more shade of the band's deep-rooted interest in the stormy, yet fragile natural world that surrounds us. A request: don't take another four years until the next album, gents. Three will be just fine.

My Song

Actually, it's Jerry Cantrell's song and it's also his birthday, shared with French poet Stéphane Mallarmé. Yes, the poem below is his and not mine, évidemment. Bonne anniversaire, vous artistes que j'aime.

La chevelure vol d'une flamme à l'extrême
Occident de désirs pour la tout déployer
Se pose (je dirais mourir un diadème)
Vers le front couronné son ancien foyer

Mais sans or soupirer que cette vive nue
L'ignition du feu toujours intérieur
Originellement la seule continue
Dans le joyau de l'oeil véridique ou rieur

Une nudité de héros tendre diffame
Celle qui ne mouvant astre ni feux au doigt
Rien qu'à simplifier avec gloire la femme
Accomplit par son chef fulgurante l'exploit

De semer de rubis le doute qu'elle écorche
Ainsi qu'une joyeuse et tutélaire torche.

Boozehound on my trail

"Randal, you look so fine today. Of course I'm wearing my beer goggles, why do you ask?"

I've nothing against the drink, but man, am I fucking glad I'm not at work today so I don't have to deal with the inevitable invasion of drunken, hooky-playing idiots buzzing like bloodthirsty, brain-damaged flies around the tightly coiled feces serpent that is the St. Patrick's Day parade meandering through downtown Cleveland.

"Dude! Where's the fucking bathroom!"
"Your pants, apparently."

Oh, and don't fall in the giant crater, morons.











"Dude, that's the biggest tap I've ever seen!"

At least the little kids don't get plastered, then annoying.
They're merely there to see shiny, floaty things of green.

Let us close on a classy note, with some poetry.
Edgar, take it away.

Lines on ale

Fill with mingled cream and amber
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain -
Quaintest thoughts - queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today.

Fashionable Male

"Of course I'm a slob, ya bastard!"

Mathman and DCup have invented a meme associated with something near and dear to my heart: the t-shirt. Why dress up when you can dress down like a bum, I always say. Hey, if clothes made the man, then evil rich fuckers preening in their sartorial Armanis would be the bestest men ever.

I must also concur with his observation that we're seeing more kids wearing AC/DC shirts now than back in their late 70s/early 80s heyday. Zeppelin, too. Normally it would bring a tear to this bastard's eye if the young people were indeed jonesing for heavy duty power chording, but alas, I fear perhaps it's merely an infection of snarky indie rock-itis. I hate kids, so I don't feel like asking them.

But I'll be damned if I tell you guys what's in my closet. The feds might be watching. I mean, it's just full of shirts, man, I swear. No, that suit isn't mine, I don't know how it got there.

The rockin' rules:

1. Link back to the original post.
2. Describe two t-shirts that you own.
3. If you design your own vanity t-shirt what would it say?
4. Where would you wear your vanity t-shirt?
5. Tag three of your best blogging buds.

Le premier t-shirt:















Because they rule, fuckers.


Le deuxième t-shirt:








Damn right I'm proud to be an alumnus of such a prestigious institution.

No, I don't have gills, stop staring, dammit.

There's not much to describe aside from the above photos. The top shirt is black, the bottom one is a dark green. They've held up well through repeated washings, so the stitching seems to be top notch, an important factor when one browses for such a wardrobe cornerstone.

As for my own vanity t-shirt, perhaps something like this:











Since there's no vulgarity -- or anything -- I can wear it anywhere, even work. I suppose I could try and come up with something clever, but that would require thinking on a Sunday morning and later on lead to people trying to converse with me when I wasn't wearing headphones, and why the hell would I want that?

Becca, FranIAm, Function of Time, consider yourself tagged.

Beware the Zips of March

"Oh, hey there Mister, uh, Brown Shoes! How about that local sports team, hmm?"

Yes, Monty, how about them.

Since Obama apparently decided to not leave some Technicolor rainbow jumpshots or sports-minded Care Bears behind after the debate back in February, my hometown Cleveland State Vikings proceeded to lose the Horizon conference title game on Tuesday. Goddamn fucking David Robinson. Oh, sorry, I was having flashbacks of 1986.

But I'm presented with a nice consolation prize, today's MAC title tilt between my almost-alma mater University of Akron Zips and the Kent State Golden Flashes. Hopefully, one of these teams can at least duplicate what Kent State did in 2002. Or better yet, what George Mason did in 2006. Or even better, this.

Needless to say, the Buckeyes, sans current NBAers Greg Oden and Mike Conley, will not be returning to the NCAA-keeps-all-the-profit-so-eat-it-'student-athletes' tournament.

My question to you, loyal 1.3 readers, is whom will you be cheering for once the big show begins? I need to start compiling my list of whom I should be rooting against. Ha, I say, ha. Don't worry, Fairlane, I've already written Louisville down. Better hope they don't meet up with Pittsburgh along the way.

Worst. Meme. Ever?

"No, don't play that!"

How could a man such as Splotchy, who, once upon a time, had created this wonderful meme whereby us goofy denizens of the internets each added his or her own personalized piece to a living, breathing cultural puzzle of laughter and violence and joy and outright weirdness, come up with this bloody thing?

I must admit that my soul is torn over this particular instance of taggery. On the one hand, a meme provides an avenue of escape, especially on days like today where I don't feel very political and would rather finish working on some poems -- only during lunch hour, of course, most gracious and forgiving employment overlords -- than post about why Bush and his neocon puppeteers suck vast, unending fields of toxic bullshit.

They do, in case you were at all curious.

And on the other, well, The Name Game was obviously an insidious communist plot to indoctrinate American youth so that when they grew up into fine, patriotic astronauts, they'd travel in their Apollo: The Next Generation spacecraft and land on the moon, whereby a double-secret, special ops branch of the KGB would activate their diabolical gamma ray signal, making the astrodudes and astrochicks slice their near-zero gravity golf shots, an embarrassing international incident of the first rank. En plus, it's one of those musical and lyrical combinations that no matter how much one loathes it, there's an inherent catchiness that's unavoidable, that sticks in your craw until you wash it out with some rock, roll or Drano.

Oh, Splotchy claims it'll save the lives of innocent puppies, but I think that's merely a front to hide his love of that evil Cold War relic. Now, the pain.

La Belette Rouge, La Belette Rouge, Ba-Belette Rouge,
Banana-fana fo-felette Rouge,
Fee-fi-mo-melette Rouge,
La Belette Rouge!

Marjorie, Marjorie, bo-barjorie,
Banana-fana fo-farjorie,
Fee-fi-mo-Marjorie,
Marjorie!

Mathman, Mathman, bo-bathman,
Banana-fana fo-fathman,
Fee-fi-mo-Mathman,
Mathman!

Susan, Susan, bo-busman,
Banana-fana fo-fusman,
Fee-fi-mo-musman,
Susan!

Mary Ellen, Mary Ellen, bo-barry Ellen,
Banana-fana fo-farry Ellen,
Fee-fi-mo-Mary Ellen,
Mary Ellen! (all of you Ms are fucking things up! good!)

Je m'excuse, mes amis.