Les Mythologiques

What a hypocrite to the end. Not even using his own product, but that's them frogs for you, one minute they're kissing a woman's hand, next their chopping off their heads jeans.

"You know --"

Shut up, I'm hoping enough of them won't recognize that all of my best lines were pilfered with love from a certain animated teevee program. Makes this dump more mythique. Now where did I put that viking helmet and broadsword. Oh, bollocks to you, Thor, it's Roman orgy time. Not you, Burt Lancaster, no dudes. You don't need that toga, babe, pass those french fried frog legs.


















Speaking of orgies, though this one is less sex and more violence, kudos to you, Anthony Sowell, for two reasons: first, for placing Cleveland back firmly in the national consciousness (we're not just flaming rivers, a pustule of a football team and Elliot Ness' torso any longer, dammit) and second, for helping to dispel the myth that only cracker, clown-painting loners with talking dogs grow up to be serial killing wackos.













"Whaddya think's in the sausage?"

"Probably not sausage."

Speaking of murder and mayhem and crimson streams of misery swathed in musical mystique, Slayer, SLAYER, SLAYER, SLAYER, SLAYER!










World Painted Blood opens with the title track gleefully recalling that of Hell Awaits' turgid crawl up from the abyss, with a guitar harmony or three bleeding in the direction of, surprise surprise, NWOSDM. Speedfreak psalms to man's inhumanity to man are spattered throughout the platter: Snuff; the infamous Unit 731 -- silly Japan, atrocities aren't just for Nazis; Psychopathy Red's the Butcher of Rostov, balanced with the creeping slow burns of Beauty Through Order; the apocalyptic Human Strain -- get your flu shots!; the funeral parlor hijinks of Playing With Dolls; the punky, melodic dash of Americon; Public Display of Dismemberment's political puking; Hate Worldwide's and Not of This God's youthful blasphemy.

Ever since the landmark quartet that every headbanger worth his devil sacrifices blonde virgins to, the band has been plagued -- and plagued themselves -- by a classically poor mixing job, some stupid sonic choices, intermittently uninspired songwriting and trying too hard to recapture past fortune and glory. Shooting yourself in the foot is pretty metal, because a bloody wound is the gruesome result, but even moreso is stomping that torn appendage into the grimy filth and letting it get infected so that raging, uncontrollable violence birthed in excruciating pain returns tenfold. Slayer is long past spearheading musical rebellion, or even being included in the discussion of heaviest and/or fastest acts, but for the first time in a long time, one can shred some vocal cords and fucking mean it.



Humanity, you're so damaged.

Key to the (Information Super)Highway*

"There once was a man named enis."
In cthulhu america?
"Chin up buckaroo scooby."
I'm a negative person.
"May I have ten thousand marbles please?"
No.
"Anyone claim to die go to hell and come back to talk about it?"
Jar hitler.
"I drink too much German beer as it is, I ain't drinking German brains fermented in the pit. How much cod liver oil should I drink?"
What is this, twenty questions? Youporn cannibal women eating women.
"Sick bastard, you won't get rid of me that easily."
But that phrase is almost perfect.
"How to relieve ennui."
Are you threatening me?
"Burt Lancaster naked."
What the fuck.
"+18 fuck."
As long as it's not Burt Lancaster.
"30 plus hot pants babes."
Now that's more my gender and age bracket.
"Hot strippers in front of the camera."
They're strippers, too?
"Randall the redoubtable!"
Yes?
"What does a giant cockroach eat?"
Jesus art president soldier lawyer cthulhu.
"Alright, smartass, whats french for love is for suckers?"
Le mariage.
"Comical. How to get off with doppelgangers?"
Are they 30 plus hot pants babe strippers?
"Yawn. Reasons to tip your waitress."
She's wearing hot pants.
"One track mind."
Laura Prepon nude.
"I stand corrected."
Ennui is wasted on the young.
"Going existential?"
Ingo ist mein freund.
"Sartre wasn't Teutonic, genius."
French smut for dummies.
"Now we're talking. How do you say 'that's some good shit' in italien?"
Scrambled eggs magic the gathering.
"Weirdo."
Eat your brains my feet.
"Stop it."
L'ennui nude.
"I'll fucking kill you."
Ennui fuck scene.
"You really sick bastard. Now who's threatening whom."
History of kajikistan.
"I'll take being boiled alive for $500, Alex."
That's Uzbekistan.
"As long as I don't have to see you in your birthday suit."
Funny, my wife says the same thing.

*all phrases in italics are actual keywords that drug-addled and/or chemically-imbalanced insomniac lunatic hermits used to find their way here.

Flash is still dead, rot in hell, Flash!

"I may be dead, but I can still eat your brains."

Sorry, it's not pumpkin-stuffed crocodile, but it'll have to do.

Warning: choking hazard, small parts, not suitable for children under 3 years was what the Li'l Edgar Allan Poe Posable Figure box said, but Johnny didn't listen because he was almost thirteen so he ripped off the head and ate it.

The head of Edgar Allan Poe got lodged in his esophagus, as anyone knew it would, but that didn't stop Johnny, who nearly passed out in enlisting a third-party Heimlich from his neighbor, Crazy Uncle Gus, who, incidentally, wasn't his uncle, from subsequently managing to crack a molar in splitting the head in half. Hours passed before he felt the first of many strange sensations in his stomach, the cosmos conspiring against his afterschool snack be damned.

Was it lead poisoning? Once Johnny heard mom and dad complaining about cheap Chinese trinkets. He always got picked on for having filthy hippies for parents.

Was the plastic having an adverse reaction with his stomach acid, creating a new, dangerous substance that would slowly and painfully rot him from inside?

Was the head infused with magic?

That was the most plausible answer in light of Johnny's wholly unexpected, prodigious and macabre writing talents that began to bloom mere days after the waves of tingles in his gut vanished.

The rebellion disappeared, the waste of teenage land disappeared as did Johnny to the basement, not to fire up the PlayStation and down cases of carbonated beverages, but to write all through the night. Churning out such masterpieces as MS. Found on a Flash Drive, The Balloon-Boy Hoax, The Fall of the House of Bush, The Tell-Tale Kidney, The Masque of the Yellow Fever and The Black Dog: Hey Hey Mama, the next few years saw Johnny become somewhat of a local celebrity, with an endless stream of visits from college English professors who wanted to satisfy their curiosity, and their jealousy, if truth be told.

With his childish play on titles by the master himself, the curious branches of worshipful yet humble pastiche and modern, morbidly comic sensibilities soon bore the dark fruits of a fresh, grimly different prose. Something shadowy was growing in that damp suburban dungeon, and even the gothic flock of sultry admirers sneaking in beer, controlled substances and selfish pleas for illicit love while his parents were at work couldn't stem the tenebrous tide of terrifyingly beautiful text flowing from his pen.

What could, was madness.

Challenging the myriad laws of literary theory, deconstructing the postmodernists into their component parts, a dust easily carried away on the updrafts of his own, well- deserved hubris, Johnny's transformation was frightening. No longer a skilled author of the dark arts, he metamorphosed into the blackest wizard, wielding linguistic spells heretofore thought beyond the grasp of mortal men. With each step further down into the darkness, one less college English professor visited, one less Suicide Girl groupie groped, one less parent fussed, for even they feared venturing into that bleak, poorly lit pit, the playground of the mad.

Only the stench of Johnny's corpse was powerful enough to bring them beyond the forbidden portal into the barely legible legacy of the genius, the insane. The ghost of the extraordinary man of letters, obsessed to compose the one, last masterwork that had eluded him in life, had spent one more kindred, lost soul in fevered, merciless monomania and dispersed into the ether, ready to bide his time, waiting for another opportunity in the next Li'L Edgar Allan Poe Posable Figure.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Randal Graves

Not you, you're the best. And not me, either, shut your piehole, peanut gallery. While my nukyular family and I -- since it's implied that I'm part of said communal unit, did I just square myself and if so, does this mean I now have super powers or at least put an end to the receding of my hairline? -- were watching the stupendously wonderful It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown the other day (don't look so surprised, any show that praises that darkest and most pagan of our festival days is very metal), Doodily asked me what the origin of the slang term 'blockhead' was. Since you're no doubt curious, too, here you go, courtesy of the OED:

1. A wooden head, a wooden block for hats or wigs; hence, a head with no more intelligence in it than one of these, a blockish head. Obs. (This would now be written block head or block-head.)

2. Hence, One whose head is blockish or ‘wooden’; an utterly stupid fellow.

1549 COVERDALE Erasm. Par. 1 Cor. xi. 14 A blockheade that hathe loste the judgemente of nature. 1593 NASHE Christs T. 69b, Bee he the veriest block-head vnder heauen. 1668 CULPEPPER & COLE Barthol. Anat. I. xxiv. 59 Block-heads and dull-pated Asses. 1712 BUDGELL Spect. No. 307 {page}12 Being dismissed as an hopeless Block-head. 1875 JOWETT Plato (ed. 2) I. 222 He might think me a blockhead, and refuse to take me.

Thus, I asketh of thee this All Hallows E'en, that verily thou beest not a blockheade that hathe loste the judgement of nature & thus trusteth in the Lorde & limite thy partakynge of sugare lest ye vomitt up thy innardes for if thou durst, thou canst slawter thy ennemies in colde bludd.

Please, just take one

"Why are you being such an ass?"

I knew mom was pissed. Anything beyond 'darn it' was ample warning for impending disaster, a burst blood vessel or even a stroke. At least that's how I interpreted the ashes and sackcloth she always seemed to wear during such imaginary crises.

"Because I'm fucking tired from midterms and I want to hang out with the gang. You know, a little mindless fun? Without my sister?"

"Frank, watch your mouth! Janie is sick, all I'm asking is for you to take Melissa out trick or treating. Two hours, you'll be done by eight. Then you can hang out with your friends all you like."

I sighed, one of those perfectly constructed sighs that, while announcing capitulation, rang with the bitter tang of adolescent defiance. We all have our own martyr complexes.

"C'mon, sis, hurry the hell up."

"Frank!"

Shooting my mother a disapproving glance, Melissa grabbed my hand the second she bounced around the corner. With room and board costing too many body parts that I could ill afford, I had convinced my parents to let me stay home for a semester or two in order to bolster the coffers. I hadn't counted on being drafted into babysitter service as often as I had. Muttering my naive displeasure to no one in particular, my sister and I left for an evening of free candy and ample practice avoiding scattershot, sugared-up rugrats.

Stories abound about how Halloween is becoming a holiday for adults, but with the influx of younger families into our neighborhood, it seemed that more lights were on now than even when I was a kid. I didn't recognize most of the faces, nor did Melissa, but when the only objective is candy, it didn't matter whose rubber claws were passing out such delicious gifts.

One thing that hadn't changed was teenagers out and about trying to score a high fructose fix amidst telephone poles and railings lashed by cornstalks, everything awash in a flickering orange gleam and boy, did I sure recognize a few of these faces. And a few legs, too.

I felt a tug on my jacket.

"Alyssa wouldn't give you the time of day last year, what makes you think she will now?"

Caught off guard by my sister's astute commentary, a response eventually stumbled out. "Because I'm in college. And when did you become so smart?"

"When you were busy looking at girls."

"C'mon midget, only a few houses left, then it's back home," I said, continuing to be busy until Alyssa and her companion disappeared into the darkness.

"I bet I'll be taller than you," she said as she ran towards a brick bungalow. The porch light was on, but there was no one attending the plastic jack o' lantern resting crooked along a gentle crack in the top step.

"Frank, it says 'please, just take one.'"

"Then just take one," I said, walking towards my sister. "Don't be greedy." I paused for a moment before my hand snatched two Milky Ways from the pumpkin.

"I thought you said don't be greedy."

"This one's for Janie and this one's for me. Besides, you know damn well some punkass kid already grabbed a handful."

"But you aren't wearing a costume. You can't have any."

"I'm going as a college student. Now, hit these last two houses and then we're done."

Still seeing Melissa in the corner of my eye collecting her last pieces of candy, my sight began to shift its focus back on the brick bungalow, completely dark, save for the soft glow of the illuminated steps. The muffled sound of worn soles on concrete getting louder, I instinctively held out my hand, which my sister promptly took in mid stride and we sprinted back home.

Hours passed in a blur and I eventually stumbled back some time after one, sober enough to keep mostly upright. Everyone was asleep, the only noise a crumpled candy wrapper under my shuffling feet and Janie's labored, congested breathing. Exhaustion began asserting itself and I all but crawled up the stairs to my room. Scratching my forearm as I haphazardly pulled off my watch, I dropped it on the table, simultaneously flopping onto my bed like a dying fish.

My eyes opened upon a ceiling still under the fading, yet potent, thrall of night. I tried turning my head to look at the alarm clock, but it wouldn't move. Nothing would move, as if my entire body had been dosed with Novocaine. I couldn't recall having that many shots. Whatever I had, it must have been something nasty. 6:33. My eyes still worked. That was a good sign.

Slouching upright proved to be too difficult, as did swinging my legs off the bed. Now I began to worry. What was wrong with me? I looked at the clock again. 6:36. Too much alcohol, too empty a stomach, all on a brain too tired to properly direct my faculties. Yes, that had to be it, the simplest explanation. 6:40. I'll just lie here for awhile and everything will be fine. 6:42.

Am I paralyzed? 6:56.

Then how the hell did I get home? 6:59.

Pain shot through my arm. Tears began to well, a strong cocktail of physical reaction to this fresh agony and a joy that I was feeling something. God, how it fucking hurt. Mustering all the energy I could, I scrunched my back and managed to force myself upright. Stretching out my arm to grip the table for balance, the sheet fell off my limb, and I fell to the floor, in shock.

Disbelieving, I looked again, and vomited.

The alarm clock was wrong, it had to be. I was still asleep, stuck in a nightmare. Equilibrium trickling away, I battled for my watch, and read the typed note lying next to it.

I just took one. You should have, too.

Numb, I gazed at the sewn-up stump where my right hand used to be.

Chuck Biscuits Flower Hour Ain't A Corpse Yet

On your grave, dude. R.I.P. (eventually)

Rust

The fucking Cavs better shake theirs off. Andrea Bargnani, really? 28 on 11-15 from the floor? C'mon, he's eye-talian. Yeah, you heard me, Miss Canada, bring it on, I'm in a bad mood.


















I think I'm gonna stab things until they bleed profusely and then set them on fire and then inject the charred remains with a virus concocted in a secret, underground government facility so I will have a zombie army to do my bidding and my bidding is for this zombie army to scrimmage the Cavs the theory being that these millionaires will be so fearful of having their skull bit into, convulsing in horror before expiring in a pool of gooey innards, that they'll show newly rediscovered offensive and defensive prowess deftly avoiding the chunks of burnt flesh covering all 94 x 50 and go on to capture the city's first professional sports championship since 1964 and if that doesn't work I'll just release the zombie army on an unsuspecting nation and then no one will win any championships ever again.

Wednesdays of Woe!

It ain't easy being -- "green?" -- no, dumbass,
a serial killer. Guts, gore and grass,
no detergent can erase all these stains.
"That sounds like a cry for --" your fucking brains
will splatter red if you finish that line.
Right, time to sharpen this, an edge so fine
for slashing, spilling intestinal tract.
Try, hide; epic fail and that's a fact.
Shh! Listen! Mumbling psychoses, my friends,
demand that hands, feet, sweet meats, tips and ends
become the mmm yummy in marrow soup --
but guzzle 'fore that creepy skin of goop
droops stringy off your spoon. "Rambling bullshit
is your trade, our own Braggadocchio --"
Great, now the rhyme is broken. "Socio-
economic state, too, yours, wasn't it?"
Don't change the subject! I'm a bad mofo.
"Who only wants love." I've scary mojo
something fierce. "But you'd rather be tame as
a tabby." Bah! Try this satanic jazz:
Michael? Amateur eliminator!
I'm the real prestidigitator.
Freddy? Just one more low rent gardener!
Moi? High class artiste, penthouse murderer.
"Yet, a basement full of bodies in rot --"
sigh, cannibal stew is all that I've got
to show for seasons of prowling alone --
"don't forget, silent mounds of human bone."
Sniff. Enough of this Halloween disguise.
Guess I'll watch the game, melonball some eyes.

Thank you

"Looking this swanky, how can we lose?"

"True, but shouldn't we thank the little people first?"

Thank you, Aaron Rodgers, for carving up the hapless Cleveland defense. (Honestly, you led one of my fantasy teams to victory)

Thank you, horror ezine, for rejecting my story. (Honestly, it is quite, er, horrible. Given what else is up there, I don't blame you a quarter of one bit)

Thank you, Killer Tomato, for after over a decade, you finally decided to rot. (Honestly, better now than in the dead of winter during a blizzard on the way to pick up you lazy kids I walked 75 miles in the snow without shoes to schzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..............)

Thank you, Cleveland Indians, for having both C.C. Sabathia and Cliff Lee starting World Series games. For other teams. (Honestly, I can't wait for the minor leaguers we received to help lead yet another team to the World Series)

Atlantic: Sure, Rasheed may be a volatile knucklehead, but he can be a quality volatile knucklehead (or maybe Big Baby deserves that sobriquet a bit more these days) and Old Man Garnett does need to rest those creaky knees now and then. Philadelphia should be on the unhappy, drunken (it's Philly) side of .500; Elton Brand can't be that much of a DNP-INACTIVE again, can he? Toronto will score, thus an entertaining evening diversion. New York will try to score (lest we forget, D'Antoni the Alchemist is stalking the sidelines) and New Jersey will try.

Central: Barring extraterrestrial intervention, we'll win the division in back-to-back seasons for the first time in franchise history which sounds exceedingly lame, I know. Sure, the Bulls have some of that abstract 'talent,' but if you want to trust the consistency of their frontcourt, well, it's a free country. Joe Dumars' brain has melted in his cranial cauldron, though check back in a couple of years to see if he was playing fifteen-dimensional chess and actually has a plan ha ha ha, Indiana is floundering midst rebuilding (but there are some pieces -- Danny Granger is a sumbitch -- and they could surprise) and the Bucks will probably trade their last few useful players by February.

Southeast: Fucking Orlando. Yes, it still stings. Atlanta, destined to be first round fodder again. I don't care that they made it to the second round, the East has three teams and various orders of suckery. Sorry, DC, stay 100% healthy and you still won't get out of the first round either no matter how much of a tough guy DeShawn Role Player thinks he is. I'd almost feel sorry for Dwayne Wade and his Merry Gang Of Nobodies if he didn't already have a ring. No one in that city cares about anything but tans and expensive cars and being seen draped in glitz. Fuck you Miami, you deserve nothing, go cheat on your equally vapid soulmate with an equally vapid soulmate-of-the-evening on South Beach. Charlotte is about the most offensively inept team in the league and they just added Tyson Chandler, garbagetastic in a Ceballos-esque way. Good thing they play D.

Southwest: Hope everyone stays healthy, Alamo, this is probably your last chance before the old folks' home comes calling to steal the contents of your wallet while you snooze. As for Mark Cuban's T-Shirt, the Shawn Marion of old might have helped, but Jason Kidd is, well, a year older. Noticing a theme amidst many of the contenders? Chris Paul is bad mofo/shut your mouth, but one could say, the Atlanta of the West. Which is funny 'cause I bet Byron Scott would love Marvin Williams and/or Joe Johnson in this gang of thinning ranks. Houston will scrap like Scrappy the Hero Pup, but without Yao and an increasingly useless McGrady, forget it. Lucky Mike Conley. With all those ball hogs, he could make a killing on taking bribes for passes. Or kneecapping Zach Randolph, but I doubt coaches pay all that well.

Northwest: If, if, if, Iffy McIfferson, Oden is healthy and angry, these dudes have the talent to knock off the Lakers. Seriously. They could also lose in the first round again. Seriously. Sorry, K-Mart and Co., talk all the pseudo-trash you want, too much went right last year and you still lost to La-La Land. Weren't the Jazz supposed to be the next big thing? Oh well, just trade Carlos the Traitor so Ronnie Millsap can get more minutes. I've got him on my fantasy team. Oklahoma City is Portland, Jr. and now we just need to see if they'll graduate out of the lottery or be stuck wearing Vitters. Even the Timberwolves are slowly climbing, but Kevin Love's busted hand is a setback.

Pacific: The Lakers, then everyone else, in varying states of on the border and suckitude. Phoenix is that Eagles song, though I'm still trying to figure out how to fit Amare's, oops, sorry, Amar'e's, wonky eyeball in, the Kings are anything but (well, maybe The Greeks Don't Want No Freaks, though Kevin Martin and Jason Thompson aren't all that bizarre), the Clippers have *gasp* talent, but good luck not eventually asking for a trade or a straitjacket, Blake Griffin, already out six weeks, and the Warriors are a walking, talking DSM-IV casebook and I love them for it, too bad Baron Davis now plays for the previously mentioned team 'cause that would make this squad super extra fun.

Eastern playoff teams: Cleveland, Orlando, Boston, Atlanta, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington, Miami.

Western playoff teams: L.A. Lakers, San Antonio, Portland, Denver, Dallas, Utah, New Orleans, Phoenix.














NBA Finals: Yes, we'll get back to the finals. Yes, a city's heart is ripped out and shown to us once more, yet somehow I'll manage to not stick my head in the oven for one more year. Sometimes, I wish I didn't care for sports, I really do.

Thank you, sports gods. (Honestly, fuck off)

Gag reflex

Do they make me barf? No, for that would be a grave disservice to the often useful practice of barfing. The Browns are so bad, they make me


















Now if you'll excuse me, I just remembered the second half.

Where's that fake toilet?

Flash is dead, long live Flash!

"Chica chica blog chic!"

Told you bastards this place is good for you.
Just look at all that fresh fruit.

The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda walked into the bar and demanded to know who had taken his pet iguana.

"I wanted some barbecue," said the strange woman dressed as Stan Ridgway in between bites of something slathered in red.

Feeling a hot wind on his shoulder, the strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda lurched forward like an old gunslinger, mumbling.

Staring at hairy knuckles on the table, the strange woman dressed as Stan Ridgway nonchalantly swallowed. "I can't understand what you just said."

The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda pulled out a derringer hidden beneath his garter and fired. "Good thing this isn't a Mexican radio soap."

The strange woman dressed as Stan Ridgway slumped in her chair, dead.

The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda took the plate of unfinished barbecued iguana and buried it at the side of the road, signing the cross under the light of the Tijuana moon.

I Wanna Rock and Roll All Nite And Ride the Wheelie Bus Every Day

Don't get me wrong, I fully support cougar-dom. If consenting adults of any age want to get their proverbial freak on without freaking me into straitjacket madness by making me shell out $9.95 on pay-per-view, yay. But it strikes me as odd to see a chick obviously pushing blue hair status via flecks, nay, clumps, of grey perusing a copy of, all things, Details. I assume dudes check out Cosmo in order to theoretically increase their score quotient, thus Occam's close shave: this lady figured the feminine version could help her land a young buck. Godspeed, granny, godspeed.














While at work, and before the mass of unwashed masses stomped in to bleat and bellow and blaspheme, a coworker, a former coworker/fellow civil servant clown and myself waxed stupid genius on potential band names.


















Us latter two have been for years championing Frescoes of the Skull, swiped from this book about Beckett. Pretty fucking metal, huh.













But I think my coworker won the day with this tasty triumvirate: the recently posted Dr. Dre and the Drano Bombs -- if Andre Young ever decided to stop hawking carbonated beverages and instead give his best Lemmy impersonation, that is; Glass Grapes, for the tragically mellow artiste; and last, but certainly not least, Macrame Owls, for the über-ironic hipster indie rocker. Feel free to chime in with your own wondrous suggestions, the loonier/more putrescent, the better.

Shut your piehole

More pampered rock stars whining about something they couldn't possibly ever never in a million years understand, but even though I share Kent Brockman's cogent view of democracy, because I'm such a nice guy, I'm willing to give these yokels the floor.

"I think every musician should be involved," said Rosanne Cash in a telephone interview Wednesday. "It seems so obvious. Music should never be used as torture."

Bullshit. Why do you think I toss up Belial's favorite tunes? For childish kicks? Because I enjoy it? I don't hear anyone (besides Übermilf) clamoring for them. Do you?

"The fact that music I helped create was used in crimes against humanity sickens me," Morello said in a statement.

I'm with you there, Tom. Hearing Audioslave was a crime against humanity.

"Sound at a certain level creates sensory overload and breaks down subjectivity and can [bring about] a regression to infantile behavior," said Suzanne G. Cusick, a music professor at New York University who has studied, lectured about and written extensively on the use of music as torture in the current wars. "Its effectiveness depends on the constancy of the sound, not the qualities of the music."

If it's too loud, you're too old. Now go away. Go go go! Now now now!



National security!

Please excuse all the blood

Now that's Halloweenie.














That, not so much. Mel Gibson, you lied to me.

You should hear my smooth baritone croon (How much is) that savior in the window? Before you ask, and I know you will, yes, that is a real photo of a real Scandinavian seppuku, though to be truly Samhainesque, his ghost would have to haunt the mean streets of Oslo and since ghosts don't exist, too bad for this post but pretend that they do, ooky spooky.

Misty radioactive memories

Red and blue flash, the Fourth of July out of time, in miniature. The bus moves closer. Perhaps a water main break, a semi-annual sales event along the burning river. Or is it the thin white line, the splattered pink and crimson of a corpse crisscrossing yellow chessboard patterns. No, the northbound lane is still open. Elephants. There are elephants strolling down E. 9th. No, not Limbaugh and Beck and Spray-On, but actual honest-to-Cthulhu elephants that almost made me late this morning. That speedwalking correspondence course really paid off.













I don't have any particular memories of the circus, or even clowns, save the fact that some people are terrified, or, at the very least, greatly unnerved, by the latter, which always brings a diabolical smirk to my mug.

What also brings a diabolical smirk to my mug is loud music about stuff blowing up. Part of the fabric of growing up Brady Reagan. Sure, there were dozens upon dozens of tunes about global thermonuclear war, but one of my absolute favorites has remained so because 1)it crushes and irradiates like a motherfucker and 2)these were the pre-internets days, so the discovery of underground acts was a much more labor-intensive, therefore satisfying, process, word-of-mouth, leafing zine after zine from the big shining cities on the hill, even from the limeys and the krauts, you spoiled whipper snappers with your The Google and MySpaceTravel, this is my space. Hard to believe it's been twenty years. Fuck, I'm getting dessicated. Anyway, for your listening displeasure, Brazil's second-greatest export:


















Don't worry, my lovely, you'll always be number one.



















"Ahem, I was pretty good, too, or have you forgotten the Cosmos?"

Sorry, Edison, you're not a babe, and as far as I know, you never wrote any spine-melting riffs. Good job in the World Cup, though. Oh yeah, the tune.



That's beautiful, man.