Curse ye and thy ninth-level spell of disjunctive unmotivation!

Rock and/or roll, the only* constant 'fore the mortal coil shuffle.



*yes, yes, the banality of most everything else.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to ignore it, does it still talk to itself?

Blah blah blah.

Clap your hands say fuck yeah that's over

Sitting on the can early [read: early] Friday morning feverishly watching the brine bubble up out of pore after pore, my body's tubing behaving as if I had just downed a fifth and a box of prunes, c'est-à-dire, the Compleat St. Patrick's Day, but without all that pesky socialization.

To celebrate my victory, some select pieces of delicious ear candy. To celebrate yours, that I didn't go into even more detail, feel free to suggest others.

Riddle me this, Adam West

Being around others is exhausting.
Being by yourself is draining.
Solve for x.

CRACK. 



Nod.

This show's overdue for a reboot.

Fuck off and die

Spending spring break at home, the scribbling of my stupid paper and watching stupid footie sandwiching the stupid ham of stupid darkthroning. Sorry, ladies, this hunk of burning excitement's unavailable, though my wife wishes I wasn't. Zing. Thank you thank you, enjoy the veal, because if you saw the kitchen, you'd know it was your last meal. Badoomboom.

Bonus!



Fenriz freaky channels Sean Harris and Bruce Dickinson. 

Dead Early like 1982 early, Cirith Ungol, Diamond Head, Manilla Road. Ain't black, ain't crust, is Heavy Fucking Metal, all the influences us near-, at-, over-forty-somethings scarfed with greasy gusto, The Ones You Left Behind leaving a heaping plate of end rhymes like 22, Acacia Avenue was whoring its rhythm out to every Norwegian hesher.

Six tracks of classic filtered through the warped skulls of Ted and Gylve, but oh so special mention must be made of thirteen-plus minute closer Leave No Cross Unturned, King Diamond Satanic magic carpeting over boundless epic, dynamic speed, and Oxford commafuls of tempos shifting pitch. What the fuck just happened, Darkthrone just fucking happened. If only I could bellow joy like Kim Bendix Petersen and only you could hear.

More monkey dancing

Heavy as a really heavy thing. Not so much were the two local openers which, as usual, didn't match the sonic aesthetic of the headliner, but that's the biz, kidz. Furthermore, Now That's Class, despite being a venue eminently digable for live tuneage, is arctic molasses slow in getting the proceedings a kick in the ass.

So, a late start regifted us some run o' the mill deathy grindcore drone. Capable players, but boring as your favorite band unless it's mine, too. Then even more time wasted by neo-punkish organ-y riffing on the Misfits style that, unlike the Misfits, sucked, but at least they didn't suck as much as the incredibly sucky lead singer/suckiest bag of suck who ever sucked who, in troo anarkee fashion, chucked, randomly or not I don't know, a full beer bottle in the audience that hit a chick smack in the skull.

Thank Odin she was okay, confronting the douchebag after the set who, apologetic like a child stuck playing the "oh shit I got caught" card, evident in the rapid downsizing of his vocal rage after said chucking witnessed by all of us outside the stage grabbing fanboys. According the Duchess, there's at least one other local club they've been banned from. Wonder why.

Full tour opener Ancient VVisdom gave us Agalloch-via-Austin paeans to heathenry and such, so shit I dig. As the cooler half of the Peonage has pointed out before, yeah, the lead singer may veer into rock and/or roll posturing on occasion, but it's only rock and/or roll, and I like it. Theatre. Plus, musically, they're a sparkling spring carrying away the effluvia of the vanquished.

Sans posture is headliner Royal Thunder, but what a raucous ruckus. Drummer Lee Smith, no, the other Lee Smith, beats his drums like CIA goons beat prisoners for useless information, guitarist Josh Weaver, doing yeoman's work for injured second stringman Josh Coleman, pogos up a down like a demonic apple bobber on the Titanic, and singer/bassist Mlny Parsonz is fucking intensity personified, archetyped, and cloned from herself so chew on that stupid paradox. It's intense.

Can't remember the exact setlist because I'm angry and tired, but they played most of their one and only album, encored with the grinding Parsonz Curse off said record, and, because we were awesomely appreciative, encored a second time with a barnstorming Mouth of Fire off the debut EP. Jesus H. Cthulhu were they heavy. A bit o' Zep, a pinch o' Alice, and a truckload of this. Yeah, I'm pointing to the ticker.

Axiom grease

If something's going good, give it twenty-four hours.

Every three months, The Blizzard rages.*

Here's some metal, 'cause monkeys dance.



*not exactly axiomatic, but what is the internet but lies and porn?

His brains are boilin' when he hears the guitars roar

Messrs. Shermann & Denner, young & wild. 

A choice ironically comical or comically ironic, haven't decided yet.

Nothin' goin' on, no gong-banging, no it got-on, just stuck in neutrality like Switzerland. Sans Nazi ingots, of course. Such a stash could fuel serious bootleg acquisition. Since I'm no DaiMon, no Rules, only old shows once too young.

Bunch o' other crap, but who fucking cares. Brain's tired of hearing it, and so would you if you already aren't here, there, mmmm, Cadbury creme eggs.

Thine jaw stands slack 'fore the mysteries of life

As an occasional connoisseur of horror both great & Z-grade, 'tis a wonder numbered among the seven that I've not seen until last night this awful piece of claptrap that commands a furious retch. Hath Plan 9 met its mighty match?

And that was the highlight of my weekend.

I'd tear my own heart out, I'm so Indiana Jonesing for you

'cause I haven't posted metal in awhile, and 'cause you know it, no bitchin', 'tis what twixt is

[an infinity of redaction 'cause imma 1.7 track mind and where I do push pen you can't see and you don't wanna be trust me 'cause it sucks like a Mack truck of godawful fuck sixteen tons and whaddya get space cadetted that's what]

Blah blah big brother blah blah blow em up blah blah

WHERE 
ARE 
ALL 
THE 
FUCKING 
PEN 
CAPS

Because I've got nothing better to do

Browns Super Bowl highlights.

The Fucking Ravens vs. San Francisco: God told me to tell Ray Lewis to fuck off. Not to his face, obviously. I don't want to get stabbed or choke on deer antler. The better team comes from the bay, but the better team brayed 'fore Baltimore the last two final whistles, but I also don't care, nor does the Dutch Wizard. Niners 27-17.

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.

WHERE'S THE POLISH SPAMBOT

WHERE, DAMMIT, KEEP THE RUSSKIES OUT