MOODSWINGS AND MUDSLIDES
The map is not the territory...unless 'shrooms are involved
Darkest hours in the size of years—
Gospel on the radio,
Screeching out the Good Noose,
Which seems to be “I told you so,”
Assumptions and consuming fears…
Cut off, yet not cut loose.
There is dirt caked on my feet,
And the screams of a million unborn
Smeared across my filthy sheet.
Lovers send me photos like fresh porn.
Pieces of the puzzle, puzzling peace of mind…
I seethe, I seethe, I seethe…
As footsteps echo in my ears.
And at the end of every daily grind,
I’m only grinding teeth.
Drama Queen? Nay—Drama Coach
FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROT
"Can't sleep...Dio will eat me..." While I finish constructing my grandiose memoirs of the hurricane and subsequent evacuation, I thought I would amuse you all with a taste of what I do when not blogging, compulsively masturbating, or drunkenly crying myself to sleep. This is one of the numerous reviews of mine that will be posted on the November update of Metal-Rules.com (one of several hard rock magazines whom I contribute to each month). Should you desire to read more of this tripe, you may go to their "Heart Of Steel" reviews section, and look up my reviews by author. My fans seem to like it better when I hate something (Extol, Hollywood Rose, Valkija, etc.), than when I actually like something (Brainstorm, Biomechanical, Mercenery, etc.). Go figure. Lester Bangs or bust, compadres...
TODTGELICHTER – Was Bleibt…
2005, Folter Records
2 out of 5
I am a terrible journalist. When this CD arrived, bundled together with a number of other items, I picked out the two CD’s by bands I recognized, and placed the ones I didn’t in the bottom of the pile.
Aspiring musicians of the world…this is the True Face of the Industry.
As my aging piles towered and shifted, priorities were exchanged like saliva in a bathhouse. This disc kept falling to the bottom, like my career. Why? I’m not sure I can tell you. Maybe it’s because I could honestly never read the band logo, or because the songtitles and lyrics weren’t in English…or maybe it was the album cover, which is, quite simply, a picture of a tree. Not a special tree, mind you…just a tree. Maybe it was an “evil” tree, by virtue of being vaguely Scandinavian…but I’m pretty sure that really just makes it a cold tree, evil or no. Anyway, as I sifted through the discs which I’d been putting off—mostly Nu-Metal and Metalcore bands that I begrudgingly promised to review because the publicists were just so gosh darn nice (there it is again—that cursed True Face of Rock!)—suddenly there is this discovery. Faced with all this spikey-haired and tattooed blight, this CD no longer seemed so bad.
But there was a problem: I couldn’t read the logo; I just couldn’t discern the name of the band for anything. The press sheet? Long gone, of course. And naturally, I’m simply too ashamed to just e-mail the publicist. What the hell do I say?
You sent me a CD, THREE MONTHS AGO, that I kept putting off because the other labels all have cute publicity girls, whom I love to flirt with on the phone; and now that I finally want to listen to it, I can’t figure out the band name. The press sheet is missing, because it probably had my grocery list on the back of it. Anyway, it’s gray, and it has a tree on the cover. It might be an evil tree; I’m not entirely sure. The songs are all in Norwegian. Or German. Or maybe Luxembourgan…I’m a typical American prick, and can’t be bothered to tell. I hope that narrows it down…”
I’ll spare you all the details of how I figured this one out. Regardless, the name of the band was “Todtgelichter,” which, quite frankly, I’m not sure I could figure out even if you typed it in front of me in Times New Roman. I’ll extend it one point because it looks like “Toad Licker,” and because I know that little chuckle is the last that I might have for the next 45 minutes. (Not again—that horrible True Face!)
The vocals on “Wundun” sound as if the singer has been raped—rigorously, with a broom—while his bare feet are being stapled to the floor. Remember Godkiller? This is traditional grim-ass necro Burzum worship. It’s a bloodcurdling howl that might appeal to Count Grishnacht fans, and other aficionados of the Norwegian penal system. There’s a creative breakdown, with some excellent strumming and percussion about four minutes in, but that’s about all you get.
“Asenschlact” was fine. A lot of this CD is fine, if you’re a fan of cold and grim Norwegian Black. On a better day, I might be. Today was not the day. I spent today listening to my girlfriend play her Sentenced CD’s while I drunkenly read my e-mail. (Damn—again! There it is again! The Face! Oh God, the Face!)
The production is standard, and actually a bit better than what you generally get with “old school” efforts. The musicianship is quite alright, and certainly the passion is there. “Schlachtenruf” sounds particularly vitriolic, with a kick-ass Dark Throne groove that sounds positively punkish out of context. It’s no Craft or Sargeist, mind you, but it works. It was one of two tracks I deemed worthy of repeated spins, though it sounds suspiciously as if it was recorded separately from the remainder of the album, due to the mix. The vocalist just sort of shouts and gargles incoherently at invisible assailants towards the end, and I suppose it doesn’t get much more “kvlt” than that.
The sad truth is, this CD is far from terrible (“Wundun” aside), but it really isn’t special, either. At the end of the day, this was hardly worth the time it takes to remember how to spell the band name. At the end of the day, I’m left with something that I might listen to once more, months from now, when I forget what this one sounded like. At the end of the day, I’m left with something that only vaguely irritates my cats. At the end of the day…I hope that kind and trusting publicist never sees this.
Sorry, man—really, I am. I’ll try harder to like the next thing that you send (Damn! Damn! Damn! I did it again! Face! Cursed Face! Arrgh…).
I wonder if they go through this at Revolver...
THE RELIEF EFFORT: ROUND FOUR
If I told you who today's guest poster is, I'd have to kill you. YAWNING ANUS reports from deep within the bowels of a "secret" Federal Agency. Though his origins in the agency are shrounded in mystery, rumors of a young, impressionable Yawn being hired as a jizzmopper for the CIA during Operation Midnight Climax are entirely false...I think. Wait...sorry...my signal is fading out. Yes sir...I understand sir...tomorrow. Where were we? Closely aligned with the miscreants behind the legendary Daily Dirt, Yawn is a horse of many colors, and largely because of MK-ULTRA, I assure you. I also assure youthat with post titles like "All the Yawning Anus in China" and "Yawning Anus of The Beast," you've never quite read anything like this site. So here you go.
This post will self-destruct... Enjoy. )+(
Several commentors have gone so far as to accuse my agency of using weather control technology to influence current events and the approval ratings of various public figures. As proud as I would be to take credit for the marvels of Katrina and Rita, alas, we can only take credit for setting a goal, going in with a plan to accomplish that goal, accomplishing the goal, and setting up social conditions for more effective control of behaviors.
Various sub-branches of the Army Corps of Engineers are behind most foul weather. I imagine they, like my agency, have lucrative contracts to test drive these creations on the domestic poor before unleashing them in an African cleansing campaign in the coming years. After all, the Sahara was expanded using nondescript windtrap devices in Chad, Niger, and Sudan, and have been operating since the 1940s.
Indeed, Katrina and Rita were milked for their social engineering properties. Part of our contract with the Republican party involves moving- or eliminating- largely democratic voters from Red States. Now that the Katrina refugees have basked in the glow, hospitality, and charity of others for the past couple of weeks, going back home to struggle and live in poverty isn’t very appealing. Therefore, Louisiana bleeds redder than it ever has.
Our goal in the aftermath of Katrina was to make the city as unlivable as possible while getting the psychotronics back online and fresh vegetables in to the city. Mind control chemicals, when sealed in cans or plastic, generally weaken in 4-6 months and are not as effective as the fresh chemicals in farm-picked vegetables. You may have seen images of antisocial behavior in the few New Orleans survivors. I point at these looters, rapists, and degenerates as exhibit A in the case for using as many drugs and psychotronic broadcasts as it takes to keep these animals from reverting back to the behaviors of our ancestors.
Therefore to buy time, we monkeywrenched FEMA and stifled local authorities in the restoration of order. By eventually allowing the sending in of the National Guard, we improved the images of various members of the Republican Party.
Rita, on the other hand, disrupted the poor, but as we predicted, did nowhere near the damage Katrina did. Therefore, our goal was simply to evacuate the citizenry to areas with healthy levels of chemicals in the food, air, and water so that as few as possible would suffer the symptoms of withdrawal in areas with potentially downed psychotronics.
I am proud to say that we never lost a single broadcast in Texas during the hurricane and were able to get chemically-treated food into Port Arthur, Galveston, Houston, etc. quickly enough that Houston did not go into the chaotic state that New Orleans went into after Katrina. Lake Charles, etc., on the other hand, saw our transmitters mangled and the area cleansed of mind altering chemicals. We were able to evacuate those residents, like the Texas residents, to safer areas where they would continue to receive the chemicals and broadcasts necessary to behave within acceptable parameters established by a composite model of our contracts.
Look for similar population control strategies in California and the Midwest along the Mississippi river in the next few years. Both these areas present unique challenges for which we already have adopted multiple contingency plans for maintaining control of human populations with 99.95% accuracy in turnout vs. planning.
THE RELIEF EFFORT: ROUND THREE
She and her brother, Strider, practice the fine art of leftist rantology which, quite frankly, I don't always agree with, but generally always read. And you just
know she's gotta be cute--c'mon guys, just listen to her. Ah, but dream on, dear brethren...dream; for hers is a shoe which shall never scratch your ceiling, but might, one day, crunch with firmness, swiftness, on your toe.
People have sex. People enjoy having sex. People will continue having the sex they enjoy.
As a matter of fact, i n Australia having sex is considered a "patriotic duty". And in China they take sex so seriously, they've dedicted a satellite program to monitor sexual behavior and aren't opposed to showing sex education videos to encourage fornication.
But sex is filthy and should only be done missionary style in the dark to procreate. Right? Apparently our conservative leaders think so.
Until recently, the federal government provided funding to a group called The Silver Ring Thing, a nationwide pro-abstinence program, related to a Christian ministry based in Pittsburgh. Since 2003, Silver Ring Thing received $1.2 million from federal funding as part of the Bush administration's initiative to expand abstinence-only education. The funds went towards shows at churches nationwide that include "Saturday Night Live"-style skits, music videos and a message of abstinence. Young people were given a silver ring to support their pledge to abstain from sex.
I'm sorry, but what a crock of shit. Really, I'm hard pressed to believe a hot blooded American guy, especially a hormonally driven teenager, would WANT to abstain from sex, let alone pledge an oath and wear a ring advertising it.
Now before you all go and get your panties and your tighty whities in a bunch, I'm not advocating careless recreational sex. I advocate care in all recreational sex. Seriously, with all the diseases out there, I don't think anyone can afford the luxury of opting out of the love glove. But again, I differ with the our conservative leaders who actually cut federal funding for condoms.
So here's what I suggest. I say turn the lights on, be as kinky as you want to be, and get your freak on. Following the love glove, of course.
THE RELIEF EFFORT: ROUND TWO
Today's guest poster is Doug of WAKING AMBROSE and DOUG DRONES ON. Doug is a tad classier than the usual dregs and mutants who enjoy this site (you reading this, Roger?), and I've become somewhat of an embarassing drunken uncle at the dinner table of his comment box. Truthfully, if you're one of the few hardcore hopefulls that come here every other day, you'd do just as well to check his site--you're almost more likely to catch me there than here on a given day. Fans of Robert Anton Wilson's more bizarre pseudo-celebrity plays will likely find this a hoot. Admittedly, it was a lot of fun to watch Doug be naughty for a change; if you read his site on any sort of regular basis, you'll understand. It won't make the voices go away, but hey, that's what Xanax is for. Down a few, pour a musky glassful of whatever gives you the poutiest whiskey face, and read this. Neither Doug, nor myself, take any responsibility for any instances wherein the reader's liver attempts to escape, crawling out through their navel.
Thanks to Gabriel, for giving me this opportunity to work blue.
Here is Act I, Scene I of my new screenplay: The Thin Man Out West
Nick Charles, Sophisticated former detective
Nora Charles, San Francisco Heiress
Ambrose Bierce, Columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle
Asta, Fluffy dog
Sgt. O'Herlihy, of the San Francisco Police Department
Gabby Hayes,Toothless old cowpoke
Scene: Nick and Nora's penthouse apartment overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Nick Charles is standing by a prodigious bar mixing a Manhattan. Nora stands next to Nick not touching him. Asta's on the couch, in profile, staring at Nick and Nora.
Nora: You say a friend shall be dropping by for a visit? You must have forgotten the art gallery opening at seven.
Nick: So sorry, my dear, but you know I hate seven o'clock events. The hors d'ouvres soak up the cocktails. Besides, I believe you'll enjoy my friend, Ambrose. He's nearly aboriginal. Do we have Bourbon? [doorbell rings, Asta yaps] Ah that must be Ambrose now.
[Enter Sgt. O'Herlihy and Gabby Hayes. Hayes has his hat in his right hand and repeatedly spits in his left which he uses in a hopeless attempt to smooth his beard ]
Sgt O'Herlihy: Sorry to impose, Mr. Charles, Mrs. Charles, but we need your help.
Nora: I do hope if it's a murder, that it occured somewhere near the new gallery.
Nick: Now, Nora, it can't be helped. No-one ever kills an artist. Villainy and philanthropy are so rarely joined these days. Tell us, Sergeant.
Sgt. O'Herlihy: I'm afraid it can't be helped, Mrs. Charles. Nick's right. A cowboy was poisoned over in the Tenderloin.
Nick: Poisoned? Are you sure he isn't just drunk?
Gabby Hayes: Drunk? Why you fancy-boy cocksucker! They killed my pard!
Nora: Why, sir, I'm sure my dear husband meant no offense. He rather admires the drinking habits of the dustier classes.
Hayes: I don't give a good goddamn what he meant. [to sgt. O'herlihy] How in the fuck is that white-tie-wearing gravy-eyed sonofabitch gonna he'p me git the no-good stinkin' polecat that kilt Roy? [doorbell rings again- enter Ambrose Bierce]
Nick: Ambrose, dear friend, do come in. We were just receiving a commission to investigate the intentional misfortune of a visiting cowboy.
Bierce: The murder of a cowboy in San Francisco is euthanasia, if you ask me. I hope the bastards didn't get your bourbon.
Nick: We have it warm and ready for you.
Hayes: Why that's just swell, another silk-crotched cocksucker to the fuckin' rescue.
Nick: Tell us Sergeant, how do you know the gentleman was intentionally poisoned?
Sgt: Well, when we found the unfortunate...
Hayes (interrupting): Because he was stiffer'n a billy-goat's pecker in the morning and he ain't a fuckin' armadilla, you tit-twistin' sissy. He was a fuckin' cowboy. Probably ain't a decent ten-cent whiskey in that whole fancy bar of yours.
Bierce: Cowboy, the politician of bush and beast.
Nick: Sorry, friend. I believe I have whiskey of your refinement right here. Sergeant?
Sgt: I'm on duty. Please.
Nick: [to Gabby, handing the whiskey]There you are my friend, and when did you last see Roy?
Hayes: Last night, we come in on the train from Fresno. Around midnight he was chatting up a fuckin' dancing girl.
Bierce: Ah, the Dancing Girl. On the waterfront, the object of a man's illusion. In the tenderloin, the subject.
THE RELIEF EFFORT: ROUND ONE
Due to my momentary displacement much thanks to Hurricane Rita, this week will feature all guest-sadists, posting in my absence like they own the friggin' place.
Want a shot? Post a comment or e-mail your intentions. My intentions are generally malevolent; I expect no less.
I should be back up and running on my own by Monday; in the meantime, give a warm round of applause and devil horns to our first guest-poster, PIKKEL WEEZEL.
Pikkel stradles the delicate balance of Libertarian machizmo, and good ol' fashioned dick and fart jokes. Stradles it like a five-dollar Roxy's dance, he does.
He and I share some similar hobbies. And you know what? It's more fun than eating a box of communion wafers at a Catholic tailgate party of the semi-sorta-damned. Enjoy. )+(WELL, NO SHIT
As I was driving to Tampa last week, I saw a sign hanging on a tree along the interstate. It simply read "Hell Is Hot", well no shit. Of course hell is hot, we've been told this for many years. Of course we know this to be true because well, we've been told this for many years.
Of course this got me thinking about two other homemade roadside signs that are common in the south, "Jesus Is Coming" and "John 3:16".
Let's start with John 3:16, although I'm no bible scholar, I can definitely boast 12 years of being dragged kicking and screaming to church, which I think clearly proves I know a little something about something. John 3:16 is obviously some sort of ratio, there's the something I know about something, the something I do not know is what the ratio refers to. At first thought you think hey, this is the south, that's probably the gear ratio in John's ol' pick up truck, or maybe, it's the ratio of
people who understand why these signs are hanging all over the place vs. the amount of people who don't know or care, if someone knows for sure, enlighten me.
For some reason, I have spent a bit more time lately pondering the Jesus Is Coming signs that are so prevalent around these parts. After all, we have been told for many years that he will return, and we know this to be true because well, we've been told this for many years (can you see where I'm going with this). For two thousand years, give or take a few for stopped watches and misprinted calenders, we have been told that Jesus will return. 2000 years! It seems to me that the son of God would be able to move a bit quicker than that, I mean with all the shit goin down lately I would like to think he could at least see the need to strap on some roller blades and pick up the pace.
I guess my point is this. Nowhere is the fact that the more you tell a story, the more people will believe it, more obvious than in religion, any religion. For 2000 years we have had this story beat into our skulls. Each time something bad happens, we are all told that it's a sign that he is on his way. Lately, it's been the hurricanes, before that, 9/11, before that, Elvis.
Sorry Elvis, I didn't mean to drag you into this.
To prove my theory, as of today, I am telling everyone I know that I am thin, fit, good looking and an absolute animal in bed that can last for days. Tomorrow, I will tell them again, the next day again, so on and so on. In about 2000 years I will have every hot chick on earth (minus the few typical non-believers) begging for my
attention, showering me with gifts, throwing their panties at me and offering me
large amounts of cash for a little bit of lovin.
Stick around, I'll tell you if it works.
SO LONG, AND THANKS FOR ALL THE FISH
Victim to the Pimp Hand of the Great Beyond...
WHERE AM I?!
I'll see you in time.---)+(---