Cathedral

Spire to spire,
millions yesterday, today one
on royal nave flattened by sweat and smoke,
formless grey tracks back and chokes on
black breaking everywhere:
black matte downpour reprise,
black trees and charcoal fused
by smudged plexiglass thumb.
Hitch an armful of ghosts
tangled in bag and wire pantheism
to cross the worshipful bridge, steel rails and eye
swallowed by the letterboxed sky.

A Busmas Carol

In media res.

“You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost, “by Three Bus Drivers.”
Randal’s countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost’s had done.
“Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Dante?” he demanded, in a faltering voice.
“It is.”
“I—I think I’d rather not,” said Randal.
“Without their routes,” said the Ghost, “you cannot hope to avoid work. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls Six.”
“Couldn’t I take ’em all at once, and have it over, Dante?” hinted Randal.
“Expect the second on the next morn at the same hour. The third upon the next morn when the last stroke of Seven has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more for I have to close the Quick Stop; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us despite your copious toking!”

A BUNCH OF POINTLESS AND BORING EXPOSITION.

“Before I draw nearer to that scrapheap to which you point,” said Randal, “answer me one question. Are these the tire marks of the buses that Will be, or are they oil stains of buses that May be, only?”
Still the Bus Driver pointed downward to the boneyard by which it stood.
“Men’s fares will foreshadow certain stops, to which, if persevered in, they must roll,” said Randal. “But if the fares be departed from, the stops will require an all-day pass. Say it is thus with what you show me!”
The Bus Driver was immovable as ever.
Randal crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the nameplate of the neglected bus his own name, Randal Graves.

EVEN MORE POINTLESS AND BORING EXPOSITION, THIS TIME WITH SOME MELODRAMATIC HANDWRINGING.

“Hallo!” growled Randal, in his accustomed voice that was so frightening to little children their heads rang with the horror of the mill for days, as near as he could feign it. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?”
“I am very sorry, sir,” said the Permanent Temp (So As To Avoid Paying Benefits). “I am behind my check-ins.”
“You are?” repeated Randal. “Yes. I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please.”
“It’s only once a year, sir,” pleaded the Permanent Temp, appearing from the Shelf. “It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday with one of the coeds, sir.”
“Now, I’ll tell you what, my friend,” said Randal, “I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, not exactly leaping from his stool because he was lazy and middle-aged, and giving the Permanent Temp such a dig in the clip-on tie that he staggered back into the Shelf again; “and therefore I am about to raise your salary!”
The Permanent Temp trembled, and got a little nearer to the book cart. He had a momentary idea of knocking Randal down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a syringe of thorazine.
“A merry Busmas, Permanent Temp!” said Randal.
And so, as Random Patron observed, Cthulhu bless Us, Every One!

There goes being lazy for four months.

"Independent study, a bit geeky?"
No, listen: merci to my Frenchie teach,
brain train can keep 'a rollin' to seeky
frog wizardry usually out of reach.
"What the fucky are you babbling about?
Dammit!" Serves you right, hubristastic ass.
"Moi? You think you've got clout." Naw, I just shout.
"Seriously, you spaced out on grass?"
Wanker, I'm just high on being alive,
One, two, three, four, yellow dye no. 5!
"Prizes for existence, you'd win the boob;
at least you didn't post one more YouTube."



Randal 1, brain 0, halfway to the Browns' 2009 win total.

Another famous person has kicked the bucket

I worked long and hard on that tribute. Sniff.

Strange Days

When the wheelie bus smells not like stale urine and smokes but blueberries and cream oatmeal, you know you're in for strange days. I'd like to investigate further -- I have a working theory about the cause being the rotting corpse of Wilford Brimley, for do not healthy oats run through his veins? -- but I'm afraid it would be an unnecessary distraction in my quest to reform health care. That doesn't mean I'm in favor of you spying on me, because I'll be damned if I'm held liable for your death via boredomitis.

Incidentally, if you've noticed a sudden proliferation in YouTubes chez Randal, you're not blind. No, they haven't been surreptitiously procreating in the backseat -- at least I haven't noticed any condom wrappers and even electrons practice safe sex -- I'm simply preoccupied with offline writerly endeavors and since my brain cannot multitask, well, witness the numbing coma suffered by this dump.

Well, back to holding the hands of newly-minted freshman. Apparently, computers mutate into flesh-eating monsters when used for something other than OMG!NOOB!LOL!teenageMySpace fucking.

If only the world would get off my lawn.

Check My Brain

High quality! Hi-Fidelity! Hi-C! Oh yeah!

"Who in their right mind would want to check your brain?"

You mean, who in their right mind would want to check you?

"La la la la."

That's what I/you thought. Anyway, scienticians, deranged serial killers, zombies. Preferably the latter, 'cause then you'd finally shut the hell up and I could get some sleep.

Self-titled vocalizing merged with Degradation Trip-style riffing, man, I cannot wait for this album as much as you all cannot wait for this post to end, but since I'm a jerk, it ain't over 'til the new guy sings and unlike that wuss Beck -- some patriot you are, sniff, sob -- I refuse to take a forced vacation, unless I or my brain tells me to.


















Go on and cut that sucker up, exotic Hawaiian, I support your independence 100%. Shocked at my nonchalant acceptance of such a blasphemous mortal sin, are you, filthy hippies? Don't be, for once they're out of the union, that'll finally disqualify Hussein X -- ah, Pretzeldent Biden, good times -- and, even more important, no more hearing about the greatness of Spam. Oh, don't worry about having to buy new flags, Texas can count for two. Or we can simply occupy Canada or Mexico.

"Aside from the Alice, that was quite possibly your worst post ever."

Shrugs.

Scrambled eggs

No, I'm not here to sing the praises of breakfast -- All Glory and Honor to Breakfast, Amen -- but scramble for something to throw against the wall. Eggs aren't as good as one would think, for they're far too runny; nature's creepy crawlies they are not. So, let us harken back to the Golden Age of this blog when I used famous birthdays as a posting save because of insidious brain drain, an affliction working on Black Death hyperdrive this week. Wikipedia, ho!

Let's see, Philip II Augustus of France (did a paper on him once upon a time en français, big A, but what do you expect when you slip the prof a twenty), noted limey pervert and artiste Aubrey Beardsley, famous conqueror and hooptician Wilt the Stilt, and a bunch of other people, most of them also dead. Speaking of corpses and blood, Countess Bathory did the mortal coil shuffle way back in 1614, the commies rained on Prague this day in The Year of the Hippie and in 1831, Nat Turner said 'fuck you cracker' and got his rebellion on.

One more thing. Since Americans, like the NCAA, are self-deceiving hypocrites, I suggest that we as a nation adopt one of their practices. The University of Memphis, for using an ineligible 'student-athlete' -- vaguely similar to saying I was hired for my looks instead of my vast repertoire of people skills -- must officially vacate their 38 wins and 2008 Final Four appearance and give back all the loot they earned for such on-courtery. Sure, I know it happened, you know it happened, but it didn't happen. We should do that with the BFEE. Sure, I know there were eight years of fuckery, you know there were eight years of fuckery, but if we officially say there weren't, everything will be fixed, and Hussein X is off the hook for that whole justice gig.

Harboring doubts? Watch and learn, chumps: no, the Browns did beat the Broncos. The Drive never happened, nor did the Fumble. Oh, sweet memories of my youth, how I love you so. See how easy that was? Thank you, NCAA!

Let's celebrate!



If that doesn't make you want to relive those days, you're beyond help.

Dear Mr. Fantasy Graves:

A personal invite to me, your friend? Of course I would love to be part of your fantasy football league! A dream come true! I should email you right now so that I may receive the League ID# and password and begin preparations to draft poorly in order to contribute to your well-deserved victory in the championship game because without it, your life is devoid of meaning!


Sincerely,

The Internets

[ed. note: c'mon fuckers, we're stuck on five players. Don't make me start bringing my assault rifle to the blog. The tree of football must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of players and coaches.]

The power of Christ compels you to listen to this album, dammit.

Like satanic clockwork, that merry band of Polish pranksters better known as Behemoth are back to spill forth yet another blood-stained platter (their ninth!) of tenebrous, death-laden occult dirges from the depths of those extra spooky places that always put a devilish smile on my wretched face. Too much purple prose? Fuck off -- if you haven't already since I'm reviewing something that very few of you (thanks, Tom) wouldn't spin, even for cold, hard cash or a competent and affordable health care plan -- I ain't Hemingway. Let's compare:

See Mephistopheles run.

See the Blakeian emanation Mephistopheles run, bursting through the poorly circumscribed magical protection of the pitiful human prey, banishing them to unspeakable torment, their screaming pleas for mercy heard by none but eternity.

See?

Since I'm in a charitable mood, let's address the needling cons and save the pros until the end, on both album and post. In grimy metal circles, Behemoth is known, despite their brutally efficient professionalism and impressive musical chops, by some wags to bear the virtue of consistency, by others, the dreaded sin of sameness. These latter charges have also been leveled at more popular outfits such as AC/DC and Motörhead -- hell, recall Vivaldi or Telemann in comparison to Bach. The former are masterful, often memorable notesmiths. Then there's the freakishly otherworldly Johann Sebastian. Are such accusations without merit? Since 1999's blistering yet hooky -- yes, death metal can have hooks, wankers -- Satanica, still their Churchillian hour -- and aside from the stray track here and there, for all of the subsequent albums' collective quality, has there been a full-length moment of transcendence? A couple did indeed howl at the door with wolf-like ferocity. Little pig, little pig, let me in. A string of year-end top tens? Without doubt. But for every three-to-six minutes of evil genius such as Slaves Shall Serve or Horns ov Baphomet, there's an In the Garden of Dispersion or Prometherion. Excessive, primal rage often slays the wrong target. Is complex, sinister sentiment saved from being collateral damage on Evangelion?

I pause in deep, Neoplatonic contemplation, then say you betcha.

Not that most of the past compositions didn't breathe -- which is where the menace comes from; Sabbath taught us that from day one -- but having all the raw materials you desire at your disposal means nothing. Architecture is always key. The lungwork here is subtle, and on a sickeningly vicious tune such as Transmigrating Beyond Realms ov Amenti, these spaces can get washed away on a cursory listen swamped in ambient sound, but that's what headphones in the dark are for. Witnessing more dynamic yet manifestly rampaging excursions like He Who Breeds Pestilence and Alas, Lord Is Upon Me, it's overt, but the pinnacle comes with the album's magnum opus closer, the flagstone-by-flagstone crawl of a majestically dark homage to the Miltonic hero, with its trackless, blackened alchemy, bubbling sulfur solos and lyrics composed by former Belle Epoque poet and current corpse Tadeusz Micinski, thanks for the lack of translation you bastards. I'd ask my 82-year old grandma for foreign language assistance but I don't want her devoutly Roman Catholic heart to spontaneously combust and then it's a case of no presents for Christmas.

Album of the year material? Depending on the supremacy of the as-yet-unreleased Katatonia, I'd lay a Lincoln or two down in Vegas. Transcendental? Did not Asia once croon in many a Gremlin that only time will tell? Venomous, sinewy, catchy, brutally imprinting its message upon the psyche, 'tis everything a metal album should be. Kudos, gents. Now be on your way, corrupting the innocent is a thankless task without end.

Cross Road Blues

The fifth person, whomever he, she or it is, dropped out of my French class, thereby dragging all of us below the minimum required by the university to hold the class in the first place, thus, no class, thuser, my edumacation is at a crossroads and being a linguistic autodidact is for smartypants far above my pay grade.

So, unknown assailant on higher learning, may your eyes melt while you sleep and the runny, ocular goo stream down the angles of your skull, plugging up your ears and mouth with a concrete permanence. Good luck communicating in any language now, frog hater.

What, you thought I was going to bitch about Hussein X or M-16 toting lunatics or Michael Vick finding an employer? Like anyone with a quarter of an egg noodle didn't see that shit coming. So just listen to Robert Fucking Johnson and shut your piehole until I can come up with a better post. I could use the aeons of silence.

America's Favorite Game Show

"Come on down, you're on the Price Is Right!"

Bach to basics

So, basking in the glow of misguided hubris -- is it good practice to start a piece with so? Perhaps we should ask the authority on grandiose opening statements -- I had decided to try my hand at some narrative verse, a retelling of the Irish myth of Clíodhna (it sounds more epic than the piece of future kindling actually is, trust me). Why that one? Well, for starters, there aren't six point oh two two times ten to the twenty-third versions of it, like there are of more culturally ubiquitous ones, I'm looking at you, Tithonus, you old bastard. Be happy the Hussein X Death Panel didn't Doc Brown its way back to ancient Athens.

"Um --"

As if immortality would be an obstacle to the

Awesome Power of Made In The USA.

Kneel before Zod!

Ending the first digression, for there will surely be a few more, thus, my subconscious is freer from worry about living up to the works of real poets of talent. For seconds, I'm quite classic (ed. note: boring as plain white toast) in my poetic taste which leads to the final 1/3, that there's a love & loss angle, and I'm pretty much a one-track pen (ed. note: monotonous) when it comes to that maddening crap, not counting unseen, pro-booze doggerel scribbled in the margins.

Anyway --

"Another stellar segue, genius."

Merci. After a few hundred amazingly poor lines, I'm at the point where I'm introducing, from one version of the myth, three brightly-colored birds -- the breath of black bird/black sun alchemy inconsistently tinting notwithstanding. Feeling even more hubristastic, I thought to myself, what a horrible world. Then I thought to myself, hey, three birds, three voices, subject and answers taking the form of hues both primary and secondary, let's make some pretend contrapuntal stanzas. Sadly, delusional theory is always more clever than practical application. Guess how many discarded jellybeans are in the jar, Waldo? Hey, where are you? Carmen Sandiego is not to be trusted! Those awful faux lime green ones are the extra poor efforts.

Oh well, back to uninterrupted blank verse.

Please, no jokes about the content being blank, as if I'm not already painfully aware. At least I have a jar full of jellybeans to ease the misery. And to show what a stand-up comic I am, in lieu of subjecting you to reading the fucking thing, such as it so far is, here's someone who's actually skilled at shooting fugues out of a canon.

Gas, Grassley or Ass

"I'd never pull your plug, sweet thang."
"Don't get fresh with me, young man."

Come up and angioplasty me sometime.

Turn your head and cough, big boy.

Yes, ma'am.

I spent many an hour last evening contemplating payment options for my next doctor visit, and these are what I came up with as actually feasible:

• teaching the physician how to play fantasy football
• showing her how to beat Contra without using the Konami Code
• explaining the slacker way to compose bad verse
• demonstrating a proper metal face
  

The free market solution at work, filthy hippies.

Bonne santé à vous!

Mr. 3000, Or, I Don't Feel Like Writing A Goddamn Thing Today, You Bastards

"Trust me, sir. The beer nuts are in aisle five."



















"In America, you crush communism. In Belarus, communism crush you!"
















"Another joke rewrite? Being a freshman sucks."